Lone Star Mountain þreir

Edith's home was a place of stone. The roads smelled of tar and burning trees; they were sidelined by smooth rock upon which busy feet clip-clopped as the tall ones scurried. Very rarely was Edith taken to any place more rural than an underground station, or perhaps the green of a park where she often saw children of her own kind running rampant. If she were to compare this mountain to anything it would be that, a park. Except it was the largest and most irregular one she had ever hiked.

Point being, she was out of her element in some ways. The stranger who emerged looked to be better suited to this space — but also smaller, and narrower, and as they locked eyes with one-another a further narrowing occurred. The voice that cut across their tongue made Edith's ears twitch as if focusing forward towards it. Here implied there was a there, and so she could conclude that this one, whoever and whatever this creature was, knew of the handlers, and the loud paths of burning trees, and perhaps it was because of shared blood.

I am here to learn, she recites, as she had told the last of the wildkin she had encountered; except in this moment she is more guarded, her tone defensive. I am here where I belong. Why do you climb? Perhaps he was a stray. Those were commonplace everywhere.