Rattleskin Redoubt I'll cry at the end of the day. Not with fresh makeup.

Dusk brought the critters scurrying from their burrows, but silence followed Skips. It echoed along the path he took, as deafening as thunder shaking the sky. His nose was low to the ground. Hot breath scattered the sands. In the dimming orange light he cut a stark figure, a shadow passing through a papermade world in endless dreary sepia. Surreal. Maddening.

But he followed, oh, he followed. He found the snake. He curled its limp form around one foreleg, smiling to himself. Oh, @Aquillius. Scipio tucked his nose between the cold coils of its body. It still smelled like him. Blood and venom and him. It suited him. Growing bored quickly, Skips cast the dead snake back into the sands and picked up the trail once more. The spires threw long shadows which he stepped under, wary of the other scents littering this place. He never strayed from the trail. Not once.