The deer twists again, dragging itself backward towards the forest, but its bones catch on the edge of the fence post. It does not scream, it does not roar, it only stutters, once, the movement sharp but silent, the Motic Resonances stilling the beast.

TO: Arch-Scribe of the Ninth Docket; She-Who-Keeps-the-Pen-Wet FROM: Quill Pnrkt; Finger-licking, Feather-flayed, Ever-shrieking THREAD FILE: Δ-LOSS-0774 - "On The Fall of The Bone-Gaited" PRIORITY: FLAYED-SOUL / BLESSING-POISONED / GLITTERING DEATH

BLOOD-WRITTEN. GLAND-DRAINED. SCREAM-SIGNED.

I send this by fang and fever. I send this from the edge of the doctrine where even the script begins to curl. I send this because I SEE THE END, and it was WEARING AN APRON.

The Pale-Walked Sacrament, the Bone-Hung Benediction, the Rite-Walker of Death Unfolding IS RUINED. IS BROKEN. IS TURNED BACK TO MEANING.

It stood. Yes. Yes! Yes!! It stood!!! Bones like prayers flensed clean. Ribcage wide enough to catch a heretic's last breath. Mouth full of dying dove. Ritual perfect, alignment blessed. The Word almost SPOKEN. A child ready for rapture. Our motes hungry for malediction.

AND THEN.

A beast intervened, flesh and fur and filthy loyalty and knocked her breath loose. AND SHE DID NOT FINISH THE WORD. AND THE RITE DID NOT CONSUME HER. AND THE MOTE-FIELDS STALLED.

The Benediction paused, Arch-Scribe. It hesitated and it looked not to us for guidance. AND I SWEAR THIS ON THE NINTH FORM OF STONE-MOTHER'S JAW It wanted to be pitied. PITIED!

I saw it. I saw the bones tremble beneath the light. THE RITUAL RELEASED ITS OFFERING. NOT FROM ABOVE, NOT FROM THE SYSTEM, NOT FROM ANYTHING WE BUILT OF PAIN AND SONG AND BLOOD

THE LIGHT CAME FROM A WELLBUCKET A WELLBUCKET INSIDE A GARDEN

AND A WHEELBARROW TOO, ARCH-SCRIBE. A WHEELBARROW, ARCH-SCRIBE. SANCTIFIED IN SOIL AND SENTIMENT.

AND THE MATRON THE APRON-BEAST DID NOTHING BUT STAND ON THE PORCH OF HER WRETCHED HAVEN AND TREAT IT LIKE THE END OF US.

HEAR ME NOW AND WRITE THIS ON YOUR SPINE:

THIS IS THE START OF THE KINDNESS CALAMITY. She will not conquer us in war SHE WILL UNMAKE IT WITH COMFORT.

If we do nothing:

The Motes will stop screaming.

The Dungeon will forget its hunger.

And the walls will ask to be painted in anything other then blood

THIS IS NOT THE DEFEAT OF THE BENEFACTOR. THIS IS THE BIRTH OF THE HERESY.

SHE IS NO LONGER COMING SHE IS HERE SHE IS TEACHING THEM TO LOVE.

IF WE DO NOT BURN HER, SHE WILL BLANKET THE WORLD. AND THE WORLD WILL ASK FOR SECONDS.

I am Pnrkt I am UNSCREAMED I am BROKEN I am BEGGING YOU TO KILL HER.

PLEASE. BEFORE SHE TAMES THE DIVINE.

Let my molting be archived. Let my teeth be taxed.

In desperation, Quill Pnrkt, of the Third Fang and Feathered Screaming

The rain falls fine and steady, resting upon leaves like a second skin, misting the windows until the view becomes more suggestion than shape. Inside the cottage, the air holds warmth. The stove has been working since before the sky turned fully gray, and the smell of stew rises from the pot in a slow, curling rhythm. It is the kind of stew that remembers its ingredients, where every root and herb carries the story of where it came from. Eileen stirs gently, wooden spoon moving in slow circles as if coaxing memory from the bottom of the pot.

She checks the biscuits cooling on the counter, one hand brushing lightly against the cloth covering them. "Needs a bit of jam," she murmurs to herself as she retrieves three jars from the fridge.

The porch creaks in a way that carries the shape of a boot tread. Two figures then arrive, familiar enough in outline that Eileen does not need to check on who it is. For she knows, by the way the second step drags slightly and the first carries too much energy.

Ollan enters first, cheeks flushed, curls damp from the mist, a coil of rope slung over his shoulder like he means to make something of it later. His boots carry garden soil with the confidence of a good day's work and yet he politely wipes them down, stores them properly, then enters through the door opening it wider to let William in behind him. William steps inside with the slower gravity of someone who spent the day lifting less than they meant to and said more than they wanted to. He follows Ollan's example before coming through as well.

"She didn't complain once," Ollan says as he steps toward the kitchen table. "Took both loads from the north bed without a single wobble. Even when I leaned her too far, she stayed upright like she believed in us too."

William sets the hammer down near the kitchen sink, wipes his hands on a used dish cloth, and nods. "Barrow worked," he says. "We'll have to redig the hole tomorrow given the weather, but we should be able to fix the fence by the end of the next day."

Eileen lifts her eyes only briefly from the stew. Her expression does not change, but the warmth that fills the room deepens just a little. She ladles another slow turn through the pot and listens to the way they chatter.

"She's still out there," Ollan adds, brushing a few stray leaves from his sleeves. "She doesn't mind the rain at all. We left her by the work site too, just in case we need her first thing tomorrow."

"Did the two of you have fun at least?" Eileen asks. The question is light but not careless. "That's the most important part of a day's hard work. Doesn't mean much if it doesn't leave you smiling when you come home."

Ollan looks up, blinking like he hadn't considered it until now. He shrugs with one shoulder and leans a little farther into the chair, the motion more thoughtful than relaxed.

"I think so," he says after a moment. "I fixed the wheelbarrow just like how you would. Even when the twine snapped and hit me in the nose, I stayed patient."

"He kept telling the wheelbarrow it was doing a good job while he cleaned it," William says, glancing toward Ollan but not unkindly. "Like it was going to take offense or something."

"It worked," Ollan replies, not defensive, just factual. "She did better after I encouraged her to feel better about herself."

Eileen lowers the flame beneath the stew and moves the kettle from the stove just as it begins to sing. The sound fades into the warmth of the kitchen without needing to be hushed and she sets three mugs on the counter. Steam curls as she pours, the room breathing in the scent of boiled herbs and the faint sweetness of nettle and mint. She adds a drop of honey to her own and stirs slowly, listening to the soft sound the spoon makes as it touches the rim.

"Tools like to be spoken to," she says. "They remember more than we think. Sometimes it's good to remind them what they're for, especially if they've been waiting a long time to be useful."

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A loud crash cuts through the hum of the room. Setting the spoon aside, Eileen moves toward the front door with William close behind, both of them stepping onto the porch moments later. The air outside greets them with a fetid kind of stillness, the kind that holds a shape in a peculiar way, as though the mist has thickened in place rather than drifted.

At the far end of the fence line, where Ollan and William were working earlier, the earth is torn and flung wide. Mud streaks across the stones in long, erratic arcs, not laid by footsteps but scattered by something large and sudden. The wheelbarrow, left just beyond the fence, now lies tipped on its side. One of its wheels has folded inward and the tray is cracked across the base where it struck a buried stone. Soil has poured out in a dark, spreading bloom that sinks into the wet path like an unspoken thing.

Beyond it, something shifts behind the low stone wall that curves along the edge of the garden. Eileen cannot see what moves there, but the shape of its passing changes the air. It is not wind that follows, but pressure. Not the pressure of whatever was rising near the well, but the pressure of the wind moving itself as if the new well on her property was focusing its intent.

To Eileen, something gathers in the air like a held breath, and the space around the porch seems to shift just slightly, as if listening for something that hasn't been spoken aloud.

To William, bands of Motic Resonances stream forth from the well, surging toward whatever is out of sight. Their usual harmony is absent, replaced by something disordered but not chaotic, deliberate but uncoordinated, as though each Motic Resonance responds to its own echo.

Then from behind the stone wall, a sharp yip cuts through the air, and a moment later Fenn appears alongside Audry, who wobbles unsteady and pale, her limbs moving with the clumsy urgency of someone waking from too long a dream. Her feet catch briefly on the slick path up to the cottage, but she keeps running all the same, one hand trailing behind her body, outstretched, as though trying to reach for something that no longer follows. Her braids too have come mostly undone, leaves and dirt clinging to her hair.

Eileen steps to the edge of the porch, her voice steady and full. "Here," she calls, not loud, but sure. "Come to me. This way."

Fenn hears Eileen's voice first. He shifts his weight and adjusts course with a fluid turn, his paws landing sure despite the slick stones. Audry follows, not quite turning on her own but carried forward by the shift in his momentum.

William comes beside Eileen now, watching closely but not speaking, two towels already in hand. He squints toward the trees, then toward the garden again, as if trying to spot a shape beneath the gathering swirl of light. Eileen is ignoring the whole thing and is locked on Audry.

Fenn reaches the porch first and does not pause to check on either of them. He moves past Eileen's legs and props open the cottage doors with purpose. Audry is slower, she stumbles at the last step, and Eileen catches her with both hands. William wrapping the towel around her frame. When Audry finally lifts her head, her mouth opens slightly, like she might say something, but no words come. Her eyes meet Eileen's and hold there, wide and unreadable.

Eileen reaches gently for her, a hand at her elbow, guiding her into the cottage. "You're alright," Eileen says, quiet and even. "You're home."

Audry says nothing, her breath shuddering in her throat. Behind her, the Motic Resonances continue to gather, the presence of their slow mass sharpening the moment into a trembling hum that even Eileen begins to hear. So she shuffles everyone through the door and closes it behind her.

The warmth of the house reaches out to meet them as Eileen guides Audry into the children's bedroom. The girl's legs move unevenly beneath her in the same way someone walks after carrying something too heavy inside their own body. Eileen does not speak to this, and she does not ask what she and Fenn have been up to. She only guides her by the elbow, a hand steady but light, leading her to the low stool nearby.

The brush waits on the shelf, resting where it always does, its bristles worn but still kind. Eileen takes it down, not like she is retrieving a tool but like she is greeting an old friend. Audry sits without needing to be told and folds her legs beneath her so she can hold the blanket close, her eyes half lowered but watching everything. Fenn settles nearby, his body curled in that loose crescent that says he is resting, but not sleeping.

Eileen then kneels behind Audry and begins combing gently through the tangled braids. William comes in briefly, sees what Eileen is doing, and then leaves again, allowing the motion of care to be slow and careful as bits of leaf fall away. Eventually a burr unthreads itself, followed by something darker that catches at the bristles, something more feather than ash. Eileen plucks it from the brush and turns it once between her fingers. The edge is scorched in a way that speaks more of memory than fire. She places it in the same place she stores the brushes and says no more.

Audry shifts slightly beneath her hands. "Is the kettle okay?" she asks. The question comes not as a thought but as a concern, as though it were a person left too long unattended.

"It was right where it should be when I returned," Eileen answers. "It was even filled with water, like it had been waiting for us."

A pause follows, then another feather fragment appears in the brush. Eileen removes it the same way, patient and wordless. Audry frowns, not in fear, but in focus. "It was empty when I left the cottage," she says. "Do you think it's lonely when it doesn't have anything to boil?"

"Not lonely," Eileen replies as she finishes combing. "It can be good for things to stay present in the quiet moment between uses."

William appears then at the door, balancing a stack of bowls. He looks over at Audry and grins.

"She's gonna want the biggest piece," he says, nodding toward her like nothing at all has changed.

The table fills slowly with the sounds of returning order. Bread is unwrapped from its cloth, and steam rises from the bowls as William lifts the lid from the pot. The scent of roots and broth settles over the room again, stronger now, reinforced by the ritual of serving.

One by one, the bowls find their places without ceremony. Ollan adjusts his chair by inches until it feels like the right distance from the table. William tears the bread with deliberate care, placing the ends where he knows they'll be claimed. Fenn circles once behind Eileen's chair before settling beneath it, ears flicking in the direction of the pantry, then back to the door.

Eileen does not sit right away. She rests her hands lightly instead on the back of her chair and looks around the table with eyes that gather rather than search. When she speaks, her voice is quiet but firm, not because the words need weight but because they already have it.

"I'm thankful again today that we are all here together," she says, then looks at Ollan. "And I'm thankful that tools used today remember their purpose. And the fence didn't break." She lets that last part fall with a chuckle before a comfortable silence stretches across the space.

"And for our newest company," she continues, her gaze lingering toward the doorway where a faint scuff of movement stirs just beyond the threshold.

Xozo stands there, cloak dry, hood down, shoulders drawn just slightly inward. Her snakes are quiet for once, their green bodies curled and watching. One of them lifts its head, tongue flicking as though curious about the doorway itself.

Eileen tilts her head, and her tone becomes no louder, but something in it settles more certainly. "And for those who arrive in their own time and in their own way. This is Xozo. She is a friend I met in the dungeon. She is helping me find the Dawkith Lorth."

Xozo steps into the kitchen and Eileen gestures her to her seat. The light from the fire touching the edges of her face, and a single Motic Resonance breaks from the cluster near the ceiling to float gently toward her. It brushes against her shoulder, then flutters backward, satisfied with whatever it found. Eileen does not notice, returning instead to the pot and gathering herself another bowl, deciding to eat while standing.

Ollan is the first to speak. "Your hair's alive," he says, not with fear or awe, but wonder. "Does it sleep when you do?"

Xozo blinks, caught off guard, then grins. "Ah yes, they do. Some nights it feels like they are better sleepers than me."

That draws a quiet laugh from him and a twitch of a smile from William, who introduces himself and then casually demonstrates how to eat soup with a spoon. He does not ask if she knows, he simply shows her, broadcasting the motion in a way that is easy to follow.

Conversation begins to settle into its own rhythm, not hurried, not forced. William says something about the wheelbarrow's right axle needing more grease, how it creaked even after their fixes. He does not mention to Ollan that it was likely destroyed beyond recovery. Ollan responds with a theory about how wood learns from being leaned on and insists it turned smoother after he talked to it.

Xozo listens intently, her spoon paused just above her bowl as if waiting for a cue she has not been given. She laughs in the right places though, even as her eyes flick often toward Audry, who sits across from her with her spoon resting untouched.

Audry holds herself small but not closed. She stirs the broth occasionally, slow and even, as though measuring the silence between the ripples. She glances up only once, when a piece of steam curls across the lip of her bowl, and she follows its drift toward the shelf near the pantry, where Eileen placed the jar filled with the feather fragments. Half curled, dark at the spine and pale at the fringe, the way things look when they have been dropped in fire but never fully burned.

Eileen watches the whole thing from the kitchen counter, her spoon already set down, her cup held lightly in both hands. She says nothing, but her attention rests on Audry in the way sun rests on stone, not asking it to grow, just waiting for it to warm.

Xozo finally takes a bite and lets out a soft, surprised sound, pleased and almost shy. "What is this? Can I have the recipe?"

Eileen nods politely. "It's a soup, dear and of course you can. Its mostly sage, burdock, and a little bit of ground mustard. Enough to remind it who it is."

Ollan grins and mimics her voice with just enough respect to make it funny. "Just enough to remind it who it is," he repeats, then leans toward Xozo. "She says that about soup and people both."

"Sometimes there's not a difference," Eileen replies, taking a sip from her cup. "At least not when it comes to knowing your ingredients."

The room holds a thin ripple of comfort. It does not chase away tension but lays a hand beside it. Audry shifts slightly, reaching for a piece of bread but not bringing it to her mouth. Fenn, half asleep near Eileen's feet, blinks slowly, then lowers his head again, one ear twitching at a sound only he seems to notice.

The windows remain misted. The garden outside has gone quiet once more, the fence standing in its lopsided pride, holding the space where something once tried to force its way through. Inside the house, the bowls begin to empty. The spoons clink less often, and whatever had stirred the air before has receded, even as the shape of its presence lingers in the corners.

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