[b]Lucien, Ailee![/b]

In a different sort of story, the broom closet would be full of awkward, blushing movements; you’d press one hand against his chest, you’d let her press herself into your negative space. The air would be thick with things left unsaid up until this point.

This is the sort of story in which the broom closet is cramped, handles are jamming themselves into unmentionables, it smells like dead fish, and there is a sack over Ailee’s head. Presumably once the “town’s mage” was fetched, the closet door would be opened and the sack would be removed.

But at least the terrier is not also in here.

Lucien, you’re sitting next to an explosive which just hasn’t gone off yet. Once Ailee processes what just happened, she’s going to unleash her dread powers on everything around her, and you are at ground zero, as it were.

Ailee, a minute ago you were preening and then someone pulled a sack over your head and shoved you into a closet where a dustbin is trying to assassinate you, given its insistent thrust against your ribs. Are you going to take this lying down?

***

[b]Coleman![/b]

The handful of children don’t quite look like catfish. Maybe not yet. Maybe not ever. Maybe by the time they grow up, the Flood will have impressed otterishness upon them. Or turtleness.

Not like you! You grew up under the auspice of a train, from the moment you (one assumes) hatched. You’re Claimed, and the Heart works its changes on you slowly. When the powers of the Heart seek your heart, they find steel and fire and steam there.

Do the oldest members of the crew change to be more like the train?

“It came from the water,” Rufftuff says, stroking his whiskers. “That was a good day! Positively bedragglement it was.” He leans in close. “Silas tells me this is for crushing drinks out of things. How does it work?”

***

[b]Jackdaw![/b]

A Beast lights out of the settlement’s tavern like he has a fire lit under him, and scampers past you over to the shrine-wagon, where he rings a bell. Curiosity provokes you to linger and watch.

“There’s a rat-queen in Silas’s place,” he burbles to the wizened figure who slides back the door. (From the shape of her tail, she used to be a vulpin like you, once.) “She’s challenging you! You have to come!”

“Let me get ready,” she croaks, and shuffles back inside. And this is when you put three and one together. Uh-oh.