Altair's legs stop shaking once we've entered the pub proper. It's a shame, too, because the sight of it makes me want to shiver. It holds the same orange, diluted light as the legal pubs back in the legal cities, but everything in the room is just a shade darker. There are more stains on the walls, more places for whetting weapons (as opposed to none), and at the center of the room is not the usual spare space for greeting but more tables, so that the entire place is so packed that it would be claustrophobic when empty.

At the far end of the room is a ramshackle podium, where three Sentients are standing so that their mouths are at each other's ears and necks: on the sides are a vaguely feline creature with gray, striped fur and a set of draconic wings and a burnished orange Canira who is missing a couple teeth, half a paw, an eye, and yet still looks remarkably sleek. The pair of them are threatening guards, practically smothering the third Sentient, but even so an air of unspeakable assurance radiates from her. She-- no male of our kind or any other has a magical prowess like that-- has a ring of mismatched teeth around her neck and scars across the muzzle, the flank, a long one up her front leg... there is not a place she has not been hacked to bits, and yet she bares her wounds better than anyone could bare the fur itself. Her coloring is like a dusty plain at midnight with a clear night sky cast over it, scattering stardust through the dirt. Her scars themselves seem to have their own luster, like cut rock... could that be Moonwalker blood in her?

Altair lowers his head. "I'm seeing some family resemblence."

I grit my teeth. The Moonwalkers, canine kin of the deserts, are not and will never be my family, even if half the blood in my veins is theirs from birth. If they have left me as lacking in magic as my Canira ancestors, they have renounced their claim to me. "As much as any of the Canira in the room are, Al. As much as any pitiful half-bred Forhaga mutt."

Altair huffs. "Stop that."

My fur bristles and we settle down by a table within view of the main event. The room is bustling with all sorts of unsavory characters. A few are focused on their brews, but more are looking towards the stage with anticipation written in their clenched jaws and dark expressions.

Altair lowers his head close to mine. "Next time we're in a nice town, remind me to find somewhere better to stay."

"Like what, a bakery? A legislative building?" I snipe back, close to his ear as I can get.

Altair's large, watery green eyes flick up, pretending to consider it. "We could always sit in on town halls."

"They don't let travellers sit in on town halls."

"Maybe we could settle down, then?" suggests Altair, but he can't mean it. "Never mind. Think they have any drinks in this place? I'm parched."

"'Course you are," I say, placing my front paws on the table and lifting myself up to scan the room for a waiter. There are none of the smaller Canira who usually fill the role, and it strikes me that an Underbelly waiter probably looks about the same as an Underbelly client: that is to say, nasty. Instead of catching the eye of anyone who might be able to pass me a cold one, I meet the gaze of Vade, who still has that self-righteous feigned kindness on his face.

Vade barks, "Looking for a drink, swiftpaws?"

"You're not that tall of a glass of water yourself." I say beneath my breath.

Good-humoredly, Vade says, "You couldn't afford me. On the other paw, I make good on my word, and I'd be happy to treat you tonight." Two drinks in wooden bowls slide across the open air of the room and hit the table with all the grace of an angry fledgeling bird, scattering drink everywhere. I catch Mallow standing by the bar, eying us warily with his head above the crowd.

Sniffing the brew, I catch the slightest whiff of grape. Oh, drink of the damned-- in small enough doses, an intoxicant, but in large quantities, one of the more fatal poisons, up with the interdimensional import of cacao. I tip the bowl back to Vade. "We could be amateurs by any count, Vade, but we're not that stupid."

He smiles. "Glad to see you two are wising up a little. I'd be really sorry to see such promising youngsters taken out in their prime, but well... admittedly, you two are carrying certain assets that I'd rather hold in my own paws."

"Joke's on you. We just talked with Zwella. That orb isn't worth a damned thing." I say, teeth barred with feigned confidence.

"I don't want the orb." Vade says. His nostrils flare.

Altair flicks his right ear three times. I swish my tail back and hit his side. Altair says, "Procyon's setting. We have somewhere to go for the Dog Days."

"The presentation is starting," The Canira from earlier appears from behind Vade like a red-hued shadow, Mallow at her side. Her crimson fur spikes as she turns behind us, cutting out the exit. "You don't want to miss this."

"I concur." Vade suggests. "Well. Ruby? Mallow? Why don't we go settle down?" The two of them nod, and come to rest at a table within eyeshot, just between us and our escape. Altair shivers, looking at the bowl beneath him.

Someone is always watching in Wvelta. It doesn't help when you know exactly who that is.

Leaning down to my side, he says, "Get out the Snitch Powder. Betting a half-half chance we make it out, providing we play it just right. Be prepared to lose the orb. Be prepared cover our tracks."

"Aye." I slide the bag out and widen the drawstring of the powder into something I can toss over my neck. The stench is already too much for me to smell through, but it isn't as if I miss the scent of filthy malignants (like myself) mixed with something just past fermentation.

Ahead, the Moonwalker-Canira mutt takes the stage. "I know you are all busy--if the recent protections on the legal cities mean anything." She pauses, and a round of harsh canine laughter fills the room. She is not expecting it, nor does she need it. Soon as the crowd fades back to hungry silence, she continues, "So I won't waste your time. I am Andulas, member of the Blasted Tooth, whom you might know as one of the most dangerous guilds in Opphemria, and by extension all Omnia."

(A few more excited barks here.)

"They're really eating her up, huh?" I ask Altair, and he hits my side with his rump.

"My companions, Reynard and Dominic," they slip from her sides like knives as she names them, "and I have regularly been Zwella's best customers, and to pay back her generosity, we'd like to give her little town a paw in the greatest heist this petty little world has ever known."

This, too, is greeted by riotous yips and cheers, though she's said next to nothing we didn't know walking in the door.

"The Dog Days set in on Procyon's setting, in little under a day. When they do, the cities may as well roll onto their stomachs. The average civilian has no clue how to control themselves during the magical spike or decline, but our kind never let their guards down." More roaring. Someone throws a bowl of cider upwards, probably for a toast, and it hits the ceiling. Unfazed, Andulas continues, "Well prepared as we are, we can sneak in at night when the magic runs low and loot cities, turn graves, feast on what we like. Most importantly, we will go for bones. Every bit of sediment in the body of a Sediment turns with magical energy, even long after the heart has stopped beating. We would be rich on souls. Powerful as demigods."

My throat clenches, imagining rivers of blood welling out of bodies as they are picked clean.

"My party is more than capable, but with your assistance, we will be an unstoppable force and a great scourge upon this land." She dips her head, letting several more rows of teeth show around her neck, formerly hidden by fur. The audacious display exhilarates the crowd.

"We're out," Altair rises. I look to the table where Vade and his crew sit, and a shiver passes through me. I swear he still has his eyes on us.

"Sit down." I say, still imagining the two of us at the bottom of a pile of bodies. "Vade is right there."

"I- I don't care. A few more minutes in here and you can consider finding yourself a new partner," Altair stutters. "This is direct defiance of Rule One--"

I shake my head. "No, but it's about to be... 'no killing' also means 'no getting us killed', and if we move now, we're as good as--"

I scent mint at my back, mixed with something sharp and hard, like ice or spirits. As I turn, I see Andulas standing overhead. Her amber eyes peer inquisitively into my very spirit, and I get the odd, numb feeling that she is looking for someone through the window of my face. "Quite the conversation you're having here." she says. Even when her voice is low, it has a hissing, echoing quality, like ice placed on a hot rock.

"Hawk and Altair. Applicants for your heist." I lie through my teeth. Until we leave the room, after which we will be applicants for getting out of Weltva and the surrounding area.

"And what would your magical talents be?" she asks.

"Incredible wit and unfair charms of appearance." I suggest.

"We certainly have a talent for not dying." Altair adds.

"So nothing, then." Andulas says, almost disappointed.

Ruby raises her head as she walks our way, primly. "Leave 'em be. Those are the cretins I told you about--they don't kill. The white rabbit over there is a Forhaga and the Fauna, as evidenced by that atrocious buzzing noise, has a broken horn."

"I'm not interested in his horns. Well, not while they're on him, anyways." Andulas lowers her head. "As long ago as the Second Auspicia, there have been stories about Fauna taking teeth in bones in return for a glimpse of the future. Now, I know you're busted, so I won't ask for a peek... but I must say I've never been a stickler for convention, either, and I like my teeth." She is dangerously close to his neck, her massive jaws wide and the yellowed teeth gleaming against her black jowls. "Would you be interested in joining us for a snack later?"

Altair's horns seem to buzz-- it's not a question. The room fills with dangerous, belligerent energy. "We'll do no such thing."

Her companions close in on either side and she notices my paw drawing close to my neck. In a voice one could almost mistake for drunk, she slurs, "Thas'a pretty pouch around your neck, Hawk. You wouldn't mind handing that over, would you?"

Everything seems to move in slow motion as the next few seconds spray out in a field of powder: I draw the string on the bag and use it to throw the newly detached article directly into the trio's faces. In the chaos, I use the fifth pad on my back paw to pull open a pocket of the trinkets bag, then kick the orb back towards Altair, who bucks it upwards, into the center of the room. The orb explodes as all the energy contained within blasts into being in a dazzling display of light and noise. At the same time, a smoky scent fills the room as the powder takes its effect, blocking the nasal packages of everyone there. Through the calamity, we bolt.

The town is desolately empty, but it won't be enough. We swing between two shops and out the other side of town. The air hums with energy and the area around Altair's cracked antler, where the cast replacement was fit, and the cast itself begins to fizz as the energy grows. We race through the slight valley between the hills, ever accelerating, and Altair lowers his head, the aching pains overtaking him.

"I think-- I think my prongs are going to explode." Altair cries.

"Don't hold back," I yell.

As I pass him by, the cast finally gives way and the built-up energy welling inside him floods out. It's unlike any other Fauna magic I've seen before, no passive feat of time-sight. Altair's energy is just this furious, unformed gush of substance, and it's powerful enough to bring both sides of the hill collapsing down. As the rocks fall behind us, the rumbling intensifies and we just leap out of the other side.

"You were right." I say, tongue lolling as I slow up. "We really do have a talent for not dying."

And hiding. You have incredible talent for hiding.

Altair doesn't stop running, moving from his usual Canira-mimic pace into the springing rush of the Fauna and their wild deer kin. I dash after to keep pace, watching him tilt from side to side as his head lowers, still sparking off. His head tilts and he loses all balance, almost falling, and forces himself to slow. He shakes himself like trying to swing something out of his body. We make it through the underbrush together and past the river, which he almost falls into, but past that is safe. Safe enough.

"Al?" I pad forwards. "Are you alright?"

"I need to lie down." he says. "I can't feel anything."

I spot some undergrowth nearby. With a nervous glance back, my paws cold as death, I say, "Why don't we settle down for a second over there?"

Altair gratefully follows me and we settle side by side in the thickets, hardly concealed from the harshness of the night. The world is still, save for the bustle of small, nocturnal rodents and something much larger in the distance, its heavy footfall and mournful baying audible for miles. As I watch through the cracks in our shelter, I see a dark figure rise above, familiar from the earlier stage-- my breath catches as Dominic soars overhead. He lands above, snorting in air he can't taste, and curses beneath his breath. I lean behind Altair's mottled dusty brown fur, and wait for all of this to be over. When my eyes have opened, the shadow in the branches has disappeared, but the fear remains.

You shouldn't have left without their heads. They all know you're prey.

"Stop talking," I mutter.

"Hawk?" Altair asks, weakly. "Who are you talking to?"

I shake my head. "I have no clue. The heat is getting to me."

"It'll get to all of us soon." he says, trying to stand. He pushes branches out of the way and stands on shaking legs, eyes closed in tremendous pain. Despite this, he pushes past me, accelerating as we continue. "We need to leave. Get as far as we can. We're meat here."

My ears fall back as I continue. "Here's the plan. There has to be somewhere we can keep our heads down until things smooth over. Half of my bag is full of the Bliss flowers-- they'll sell no matter where we go, everyone's desperate to have their magic muted when the Dog Days get bad. When those are over, we'll... we'll work something out."

"Alright," Altair says, timidly. "It's just fourteen days anyways. We just have to--" he stumbles forwards, breath short. It takes more out of him every time.

"I'm coming. Are you sure you're fit to walk?" I ask.

"Fit enough." he says.

We can almost disappear into the shadows, but the humid, air curves around us, holding our forms. We are cold and wet up to where the creek took us, and my underbelly is covered in leaves. Not only is our physical condition miserable, but I want to jump at almost every noise, and I know Altair must be equally scared, because his ears keep swinging about in the darkness. I never mention a word of it to him. I keep seeing, at the back of my mind, the glint of his irises in the tavern, the fear in his voice in the forest, remembering everything we've tried to beat out of ourselves. I can't stop remembering who's in more danger here.