The nearest town is hidden by sloping hills on either side, though they half-quality as short mountains. Their slopes are so intense that much of the innards of the valley are little more than rock, and in the same way that the idyllic, flower-adorned heads of the hills give way to stone, the kind demeanor of the local packs passing through give way to the grim nature of the valley's inhabitants. The town has many names, most of them lies designed to misguide and keep the poor place off maps, but most of the scoundrels in the area just call it Weltva (an archaic method of shortening 'Zwella's trove') or Zwella's Guild. Most guilds are mobile, but you'd just as soon convince Zwella to leave as you would coerce the hills about her to move. Regardless, Zwella's fills all the criteria of a guild save for mobility--it is a group of highly dedicated workers committed to their field.

(Said field so happens to be crime, particularly swindling and occasionally but not often assassination.)

By the time we're limping down the narrow byways into the town, stone looming over us on either side, it's close to morning. We can't see the sun, but the faint pink streak of sky overhead assures us we are coming close to the new day, and the pale white body of Procyon, shimmering with the summer heat, tells us we don't have much time to get in and out of Weltva. The trinkets bag, which is practically hanging off Altair's underbelly, jingles merrily, signifying that one of the bells has come loose, and in my fog-laden mind I'm more concerned about how it sounds on my ears than the ears of everyone listening. I can see the gaunt, bloodshot eyes of our peers watch us as we trail through the city towards the one inn in Weltva, which is half-engraved into the nearby rock face. The mixture of splinter-ridden wood and stone makes the place more intimidating than any inhabitant (and I assure you, there are threatening inhabitants), and still I beg to enter, just for the relief of sleeping.

I'm almost delirious by the time we hit the lobby, which holds bars on either side. Even the one we stopped in yesterday was nicer-- this is practically just some open kegs with a few bartenders who will bite your throat out if you don't pay up. I notice, even half-asleep, that dozens more crystals have been strung across the ceiling for magical defense, all of them in such dull shades that they almost resemble stalactites. The Canis behind the counter is around the same color, his pelt just as rugged, with none of the obvious smoothing of our earlier victim's. He has crystals strung up around his horns, decking down in ornate weaves, and a good few bones. The counter behind which he sits is a messy amalgamate of ribcage and wood, which strikes me less as a defensive measure and more as showing off.

"Don't gawk. We've always had them in the backrooms. There's just no need to be so shy anymore." he says, noting our distaste. "It's a dragon's, for decoration. No soul in there."

Then why... Just as soon as I've had the thought, a voice in my mind booms, Power. Prestige. You should take it. I narrow my eyes further, headache growing in feverish intensity. I couldn't move it. I've done nights this long before, but the descent into Weltva is awful at any hour and it does things to my head.

"As for the others..." he says, shaking the little paw bones in his weave to let them hit his horns.

"We're not squeamish. You don't need to justify you do with bones." Altair snaps.

"Not as if I'd need to. They're everywhere. The legal cities, the packs... I'd heard rumors Defenders had 'em, painted over or worn down to mask the shame of it. S'the best way to fight anyone augmenting their own powers with 'em, anyways. I understand it must be hard for you, though, given... eh, well, I'm sure they'd make you look threatening."

That's the thing about coming back to towns where everyone already knows you. There's not one Sentient in the area that doesn't know too much already.

"Not that I'm opposed to friendly talk at this hour, and what an hour it must be by the looks on your faces, but if you want to get a paw or hoof upstairs I'm going to need your collateral already." he says.

"We've got a feather," Altair suggests, "from a bird." He can barely jostle the bags on his back, and when I loosen the strap of the trinkets bag, it slides to the floor and we both jolt a the sound of valued merchandise breaking. Still, when we bring up the feather, in all its ragged glory, the counter Canis nods. He takes it telekinetically, rubs the tongue over it, and, still holding it by the tip in his mouth, holds it up towards its horns.

"Off-world," he says, "Looks like you're not lying, this time. Fancy that. Now, if the two of you could smuggle in a bird..."

"We're not travellers. Well, we're not... Travellers."

"But you have feathers. Where's the bird?" The counter Canis's tail sweeps the floor, lazily.

"For a night at the inn? I don't think so," Altair says.

"Y'might be surprised," he says.

I draw the feather back towards me, which is unfortunate, because it's already coated in his spit. "Would I?"

"I'll have you one day." He tosses us a key, and I manage to nab it by the chain just as the cold metal to the face jolts me awake. Altair lowers his head and yanks the bag strap around his flank so that it at least isn't swinging between his legs, and we move on to our room, far in the back.

"S' the last one," he warns me.

"We'll be careful tonight," I assure him.

"We could always go back," he says. Lowering his voice, he adds, "You know. For bird feathers. I bet Aunt Engreaves keeps them lying around in a pile for you."

I tense. Knowing he's been thinking about home as much as I have makes me inexplicably uncomfortable. Road's your home. They're disappointed in you. No reason to go back now. "Bet she doesn't."

"She likes your spunk." Altair says, idly.

"Oh, sure." I fidget with the chain, trying to draw it back into my mouth with my tongue before giving up and passing it to a paw. "That's about all there is to like." With my limited dexterity, extending my dewclaw, I manage to get a fair grip of the key and affix it into the lock. It clicks and we enter the dingy room, half stone and half wood, lodged so far in the back that it is devoid of windows and instead faces a vista of rock and more rock. The bed is a large pillow half filled with feathers, deflated on either side, and a thin layer of dust flakes off when I fall down on it. I cough, tentatively looking up at Altair as he lies down besides me, stripping off the bags, and we shuffle to make the sparing support of the bed comfortable. My bleary eyes catch the orb of light in the distance, glowing in our bags, and something about the dim light is an odd comfort. Sleep takes me like a river, fast and steady, and I don't resist.

---

I'm awoken by the weak sound of a door whining, my eyes darting about in the dark, but Altair is up long before me. A pair of shapes, little more than silhouettes, stir in the foreground as they close in on our bags. The orb's light exposes chest fur, and I leap to my paws. The trinket bag is woefully far across the floor, but the herbs are close to me and Altair has the weapons bag beneath his rump. He stands, kicks the bag my way, and I pull out a roundgard, a bladed weapon held in the mouth. The trinkets bag rises from the ground and I move to slam the door shut with my back leg.

"Stand down," Altair says.

"As if you can do a thing." mocks the Canira.

"I never said I'd do anything." Altair says, innocently, and I dive for the Canira closest the bag. Her fur, a soft, vibrant crimson, shudders in the light as she swings to the side.

She cries, "Mallow?"

"Busy, busy." responds her companion, still holding the bag aloft. Several daggers levitate around his head and his expression is one of utter nonchalance. He flings one at Altair, who ducks down effortlessly. Another nearly strikes his throat, and he falls to the side. The next one lands mere inches from his neck...

I bound off of the Canira and strike the next blade aside with my roundgard, surprising myself. Mallow struggles to withdraw his daggers from the wall and Altair looks my way. Right. We'll need some means of incapacitating them. A plume of fire scorches the fur at the back of my neck and I roll to the ground, just grabbing the herbs satchel as the roundgard leaves my neck.

The Canira is closing in on me, fire brimming at her mouth. I dig for the proper pocket as Altair declares, loudly, "I'd be wary if I were you. The next few moments are bound to be embarrassing for you both, at best, and deadly at worst."

The Canira swings her head around. Unfazed, Mallow sneers, "As if you have any kind of sight, you cracked-horned, sorry--"

"Oh, I see more than enough. You might want to look up."

He does, and a bag of powder hits him in the face, golden particles shimmering in the air before he falls right to the floor, silent as death (don't worry, we've got a clean record--it's sleeping powder). I wave my tail and Altair repeats the gesture with his stump. Grabbing the roundgard, I brace myself, as does Altair, who raises a pole from the weapons bag which extends in his grip. It is awkward in his mouth, long as it is, and unfit for his flat Fauna teeth, but the intent is more than clear enough.

"Dammit, Mallow, you stupid mutt." The Canira hisses beneath her breath, the distinctive smack of sympathy making me sick. I can get behind companions in crime, given my own background, but when the victim of the crime is yours truly... well, I'll let them off easy. The Canira perks up as if she's still winning this fight.

I lope over and push her over, holding the roundgard against her throat. "Who sent you?" She breathes smoke right into my face, clicking her teeth to warn me of the blaze inside of her belly. "Try it and I take your head."

She scoffs, "No need. You've won this one, any'ays... we'll be off your tails."

"Who sent you," I repeat. The black blade trembles over her head, close enough to shave fur.

"Vade," she admits, finally. Her face is vaguely familiar, her bright eyes and cloying expression reminiscent of several thieves I've met prior. "Vade sent us."

"Ah, it's been a while since we've seen him."

"He thought he'd send you two a welcoming party. Heard you had Bliss 'n ya."

"We'll have to pay him a visit, then. In the meantime? Leave and we'll pretend we never saw you."

"You never did," she says, and as I withdraw the blade, she nudges her companion.

Mallow bolts up, looking around in confusion, and then eyes the packet on the floor. He grits his teeth, sneezing out dust. "Vade won't like this."

"Ah, well, he told us these two are tricky." sighs the Canira.

"Has he ever told either of you that you can't hit a target?" I ask.

"We were informed not to kill you. Next time our orders might not be so kind." she warns. Turning to her companion, smarting from the several times she was thrown against the floor like the common thief she is (as a con artist, I am close to a thief, but rest assured I am far from common), she spits, "Let's go."

As they leave, Altair remarks, "Unusual."

With a luxurious roll of my eyes, I respond, "Night attacks? In Weltva? That's far from surprising."

"No, Hawk... it's mid-morning." Altair says.

"Ay. You sure?" I say, squinting towards the wall, which is still impervious stone that gives no indication of the current time of day.

"If a Fauna knows about one thing, Hawk, it's time," Altair says, forcing a weak smile. "We came in here early, so now it should be... significantly less early. There's no way we've slept through the whole day." Altair says, assuring himself. "And thing goodness for it, this close to Procyon's setting."

"Fair," I grunt, tightening the bag of powder with a paw and holding it far from my face as I return it to its cozy pocket. I then rustle up the rest of our spilt goods, which seem to have incurred minimal damage. "They've grown ambitious. First the bones on display, then this..."

"No need to be shy," Altair agrees.

We step out together, passing the same Canis at the counter. In spite of myself, I feel a tremor work its way up my tail and between my shoulders before dropping like a stone and becoming something cold in the pit of my stomach. I swear he watches us out, sizing up the real part of Altair's horns, and out of the corner of my eyes I catch him run his tongue along his yellowing teeth.

In the same vein of utter disregard for furtiveness, Vade is hanging outside the town bar. His two companions slink past him when they see us, disappearing inside. Loud enough to stir every blade-sharpening, contraband-exchanging, brawl-loving aberration against the law clustered about in the middle of town, he yells, "Ay, you snippy mongrels!" He lumbers over to us, and I catch a single, well-worn bit of suspicious material hung like a holy pendant around his heart.

Half beneath my breath, I say, "Bad news, Vade. This place's an utter cesspool of crime right now."

He laughs, throwing his head back. I can see every one of his teeth. "I've bad news as well. This place has never not been a cesspool of crime." A Felis looks up from selling what looks like ambrosia to a stocky Canis. Other inhabitants of the town look similarly disturbed and cease their own illegal activity to gawk at us. Must he be so loud?

Altair's tail flicks. "Is Zeke here?"

"He's out. Has been for months. How fares the north?" he asks.

"Colder than Hawk's heart." Altair murmurs.

"Oh, come off it." I snap. Well, he has you there. My jowls twitch, half from the unwanted intrusion and half from the other unwanted intrusion. "We know you sent thieves into our room. We just saw them pass you."

Vade shakes his head. "We know you had Bliss on you. Anyone with half a nose could smell it for miles. I'm sorry, brothers, but that's the worst kind of ameteur. Those who can't make the right preparations deserve to have their problems taken off their paws."

Hadn't realized the Bliss would be that potent. The neutralizers in our bag must not be able to handle it. "Try swiping it again, and unlike your lackeys, we won't miss." I say, drawing myself up tall as I can.

"They're friends, Hawk. Friends. To prove there are no hard feelings, come to the Underbelly tonight for a round on me. I promise you'll find it... most enlightening."

Altair whips my side with his tail. Rule eighty-seven: Nothing is ever given for free in Weltva. Not drinks, not suggestions, and certainly no favors. I don't like the look of him.

You going to tuck your tail and run?

"I'll see you there." I promise.

Vade smiles and turns into the bar, his tail held high and his every step teeming with smugness. Altair and I watch the coast, seeing the rest of the city has settled, but everyone knows that someone is always listening in Weltva, from the boarded shacks to the half-set structures that seem to lean in when you pass. A sign of weakness and we become fodder for the beasts of the hills' stony teeth.

"You have a plan," Altair confirms.

"Do I?"

"Rule-"
"You get into it, you get out of it." I finish for him.

"I was going to quote eighty-seven, but fair. Fair enough." he smiles. "We were thorough when we were young."

"We're thorough now, as we are still young," Altair adds, head high.

"No need to deify ourselves, Al. We've broken rules."

"Not lightly!" Altair says, taken aback. "Ay. Speaking of rules... what do we say about wasting daylight?"

"But look how beautifully it filters through my paws," I say in a hushed whisper, reaching out a single paw and flicking it as if to convey my desperate longing. The single strand of sunlight that breaches the bit of cavern not shadowed by the hills or gouged into them reflects off my ice-white fur.

"Let it never be said I don't appreciate great beauty." Altair says. "Speaking of great beauty..." He nudges, with a twitch of his developed back muscles, the bag holding our well-earned light orb.

"I get it, I get it. We're stalling." I smirk. "Not that I don't enjoy Zwella's company, truly."

"Who wouldn't?" he says as we pass through the wooden porch. Zwella is the worst kind of hoarder and an even worse kind of miser. She would receive comeuppance for this only if there were to be someone who could shame her for it, or find her, or be stupid enough to come looking for her with malintent. Her shack as it exists has not a single board that is not older than time and broken in several places, and it all smells like pine sap, grime, and blood. Wares hang outside the door, dangle from the ceiling on thin thread, stock up from the floors... there are the usual offensive magics, for the ambitious; an impossible array of crystals stacked in ten cupboards in the corner; all sorts of nicknacks whose only value is to make the place even more oppressively small; and our puny orb's dying, swollen cousins, who occasionally light the way between mountains of garbage. On one pile lies a tapestry of Suvi, Auspicia and ruler of the land, surrounded by infernos. Her eyes are like ash, and the artistry is impressive, but she is still small and leans against hundreds of similar artifacts, soon to gather grime.

Zwella herself lies in the back, idly flinging things about in the air. Her fur is like a thousand dust bunnies congealed into the shape of a Canis. Her eyes are squinted close with age, though their darting irises convey a hidden, dangerous intelligence. "You've chosen a bad time to come back, Hawk and Altair." Like most of the denizens of Weltva, she pronounces Hawk Hock, snarling as if about to cough up something. I haven't the time nor the patience to explain to everyone the origins of my name, so I go by the name of no more than a decent meal.

(Let them try their best to taste me.)

"We have a lot to discuss," Altair says, unfastening his bag. He takes out the Canis's share of our recent hauls, including some of our less practical weapons. Anything that needs telekinesis to operate falls out on the table. Every spherical, carefully woven magical amplifier, used, unworking... that goes too. If I am to be barren, let me be proudly so.

When Zwella shakes her head, I take out our great gems of the north, one by one, and roll them across the table: "See, this, this, is a bottle of bile strong enough to chew through any metal, here are the most luxurious kaanin pelts you've ever felt (give them a touch if you feel so inclined), and this! This one's the Catcher's Eye, it's a seerstone of unprecedented quality. You'd make good use of it, Zwella, as I'd imagine you have enemies. Why not check up on them?" We're not doing a thing. Zwella's face remains squinted an unimpressed. Her nostrils dilate, and we both take in the scent of Bliss. I slam the light orb onto the table. "Now, this... this is a potent light orb, few days running from the looks of it. Got it in a legal town, so this thing'll stay stable on you... unless you chuck it. Explosive? Light source? Well of magical power? It's an incredible defensive token and quite the color to boot. Always been fond of the modest white-golds..."

She leers at us and the orb both, pushing it back away. I put up a paw to prevent it from rolling off the table. Zwella snarls, "I don't want your petty trinkets-- I want your flesh."

"Ay, we charge for that." I snap.

Zwella, who is too old to be interested, glares at me. I assure you the sentiment is entirely mutual. Her menagerie of trinkets jingle on the walls, and her muzzle curls. "You know well what I mean."

"And we're not trading our own bones off for your inventory." Altair states, leaning in.

"In that case, I suppose... eh, not much I'd be willing to trade," she says. "P'raps enough to make it worth your while."

Willfully misinterpreting the meaning of her words, I say, "Gold?"

"Gold only holds inherent value because of dragons and towns. Take the dragons out... towns are legal, friend. All legal. They won't do a thing with us."

"What d'you mean, take the dragons out?"

"Those were not found bones in the inn. I had my differences with some merchants. They were hoping to juice some more political favors out of us, and we handled them the Weltva way. The sun has set on gold, my friend. The currency of Suvi's reign is blood and bone."

"That's a cruel way to treat the dead." Altair says. "You deny them the chance for their souls to join the earth."

"Dragons don't have souls."

"Those weren't all dragon bones," I chip in.

"Two other parts of the spirit. They can afford it." Zwella counters.

"Then may their hearts return to curse you."

"You, too, may be cursed if you wish." Zwella grunts. "They're staging a real heist in the heat of the Dog Days. Planning's tonight at the Underbelly. I know you two are soft, but I can't deny you the outstretched olive branch."

I swing to Altair.

"Oh no." His ears flatten.

"Oh yes."

"We'll take this up at a later date."

"Like hell we will." Altair snaps. "We'll peddle our wares somewhere else. Somewhere legal, if need be. We might have our share of suspicious goods, but we will not deal in bones."

"You might be the dealings one of these days." Zwella rolls the paw beneath one paw, shrivelled with age. "Or you could come to the pub, get on board, and make something of yourselves... lest you spend the rest of your lives as prey?"

"We'll go," we say in unison, and I question, not for the first time, how our rampant egos have managed not to impede our chances of survival. Altair's legs shake.

"Thank you for your time," Altair says, scraping our things back into the trinket bag. Zwella releases the ball, cruel light in her eyes. "You're not involved in all this, are you?"

"It'll come back to me," she promises. The orb rolls back into the bag with a comfortable plunk and Altair fastens it up.

We exit together, side by side, hoping to force the other out of this by sheer intent. Go ahead, you chicken out first. Altair stares back, dropping his gaze to the dead-eyed Fauna look he loves to pull on me, and I roll my eyes and give up. Outside, the strip of sky is a single bolt of blood which casts its judgement down on the town as twilight sets in. Other travellers settle in, decidedly nervous as they look side to side, their own backs borne down by their wares and sins. Amateurs.

They're filtering in towards the Underbelly. Zwella and Vade... as much as I distrust the two of them, especially combined, I can't deny my own curiosity.

"Shall we?" I ask, surveying the pub.

"Get killed? Absolutely. You don't have plans for the rest of your life, do you?" Altair asks.

"You can say the word right now and we won't go," I promise.

"You say it first." Altair says back.

"Am I going to say it? I don't think I am."

"We don't..." he pauses. "We're not going to kill anyone, are we?"

"Rule one," I say. "Rule number one."

He looks skyward, then, resolutely, shakes his head. "Lead the way."