Porcupine Ridge [m] So light your matches, and I will rise

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Not dead, perhaps, but as Ptolemy neared he understood that she would not suit his purpose. The woman was a ruin; shattered by her fall, by whatever had brought her to it. He crept nearer, keeping to her back now so that she would hear but not see who or what had come upon her. She reminded him of Minuet.

She was beautiful.

A cruel idea, then; a cruel want. Ptolemy stepped over her, smiling pleasantly even as she cried in fear. The Speaker leaned down to brush his muzzle over one gilded ear. Shhh, He murmured, one paw snaking over her shoulder. Shhhh. And he lowered himself to press against her, to feel the warmth still lingering in her tattered body. She started to scream, then. But he didn't mind.