Chapter Text
Something is following her.
Wary, but not overly concerned, Hornet pauses in the middle of a large open space and turns to face the rustling patch of foliage behind her.
The rustling immediately stops.
Something reasonably clever, then.
Fully aware that she may simply be calling out to some cunning animal, Hornet lifts her voice enough to be heard clearly, hand on the hilt of her needle. “If you have some business with me, come out and make it plain, lest I be forced to consider you a threat.”
A moment of silence. Then two white horns pop out of the foliage, followed by-
Ah. The little hunter. Slightly larger than she last saw them, but still much, much smaller than their mother, if no less keen-eyed. Emerging from hiding just enough for her to see them fully and absolutely no further, those sharp eyes fixed on her blade. “Not eatsss us?”
“I will not,” Hornet returns, removing her hand from her needle’s hilt as obviously as she can, “I do not hunt speaking creatures for my meals. Nor do I have any desire to see you slain, small one; I did mean it when I wished you well.”
They tilt their head a little, hissing “not eatsss us” under their breath, and say nothing more. Including nothing to explain why they were tracking her.
“…did you need something of me?” she tries, watching them eye her and not-quite-fidget.
A tip of their head to the other side, and they take a single step towards her, their cloak swishing oddly. “Usss grows from feast of meatsss, clawsss sharper… but not much. Sssmall, still. Thin shell. Not large and sssstrong and hard-shell like siblingsss,” they say mournfully, twitching again, “only sssmall. Usss not strong enough to be like siblingsss, like mothersss. But-“
A rub of their claws together, a shudder of their cloak, one hand coming up to scratch hard at the back of their neck. “-usss remember. Red Hunter is strong, is fiercesss, is huntsss enough to give us prey. And Red Hunter is ssssmall.”
Another step, just close enough to look up at her. “Red Hunter was kind to usss, before. Helped. Usss has no clawsss long to give now, but- isss some other thing we’sss can trade, for Red Hunter to show us how to be fiercesss? How to live, with ssssmallness still?”
Oh.
Hornet had been too busy, before, to spare much thought for how they might fare, but it had not escaped her notice that them being denied the meal their other siblings had claimed seemed to be a result of them hatching at a smaller size than the rest. With them hatched already undersized, then denied their first proper meal for however long it took her to meet them, their next molt was never likely to gain them much size- and the rest may not as well.
Is that fear she sees in them, in their eyes fixed on her? Some understanding that their lot in life has denied them the safety that their mother’s size, their siblings’ hard shells, would have bought? They should still be holed up somewhere quiet and safe, not tracking her across this poisoned place to ask for her help, so perhaps it is.
However. She cannot possibly accept their request. No matter that Pharloom is no longer actively falling to pieces, she is hardly equipped to be- whatever it is they mean to ask of her. Nor does she suspect her skills at mentoring a hatchling to be particularly adequate.
Perhaps someone in the growing little town? If anyone there would be willing to take in-
They must take her momentary pause for something other than what it entirely is. Edging the slightest bit closer, they prick the inside of their wrist with a claw, then hold out their arm as a drop of bright blue wells free. “Usss has blood?”
What.
“Why would I want your blood, child?”
An odd twitch, arm still held out, other hand at the back of their neck once more. “Usss is strong-blood creature, even with thin shell. Isss good meal for hunter. Iss-“
They break off with a raspy growl, shaking their head, cloak shuddering in a way that reveals it to be something more like wing-covers than any fabric. Showing a hint of something not-quite-right underneath. “Grubs is wantsss our blood.”
Not logic she can entirely fault, Hornet notes distantly, pushing the entire topic aside for now in favor of something more urgent. “Are you well, small one? Let me see,” she murmurs, slowly holding a hand out, and carefully nudges one cloak-wing aside slightly. Noting, as she does, the layer of grime coating just about every inch of them; they look to have burrowed at least once on the way here, without fully managing to clean off the mud afterward.
Their shell is damaged. Strange little scrape-marks, almost like punctures, at major joints, some of the marks still oozing faintly. When she moves to expose their back, aware of their eyes tracking her warily, several of the culprits are still attached. Albeit ones she would not have expected to draw blood.
“Ah. Muckmaggots. You fell in the water, I take it.”
“Cling-jawsss thing pulled usss in. Usss not good at swimming,” they sigh, finally lowering their arm as though registering that she does not want their offer. “Grubs-maggots hard to reach, to takesss off.”
“I had noticed that some of them bite,” she muses, prodding at one of the distasteful things, “but none of them quite managed to inflict this upon me. I would attempt to remove them for you, child, but I hesitate to simply tear them off- to do so with blood-sucking things can leave their jaws buried in one’s flesh, or have them regurgitating their stomach contents into one’s bloodstream.”
She rarely has to deal with such creatures at all, her shell and even the soft parts at her joints resilient enough to ward many of them away and her blood distasteful to those that manage it. This, the slightly darker-toned maggots latched at the little hunter’s shell-seams, jaws shoved inside, is- hm.
Simply having them fastened onto her had been bad enough. To have them actually biting, and stealing blood the little hunter can ill-afford to lose-
Hm.
She had been on her way to the Fleas, after all.
Stepping away, she turns slightly, careful not to put her back to them entirely- creatures born to fend for themselves immediately can be particularly fierce to any seemingly vulnerable things around them, including anything simply looking away, before they learn to rein that instinct in. “Come. I know of a solution.”
There’s a moment’s pause, a visible hesitation, before they follow.
When she starts walking, they settle into a place not-quite-behind her at first, then hasten their steps to trot at her side where they can look up at her. “Red Hunter doesss not want our blood? Sssome other trade, then, for usss?”
“…no, child, I will not require you to reward me for showing you a way to remove pests,” Hornet sighs, “and- truthfully, I may have given you your feast regardless of what you had to trade. I took the tool you offered because I needed any strength I could find for my next battle, but I had already gathered the meat on your mother’s request, and I had no need for it. Denying you that, when I did not need it myself, would have been cruel of me.”
“Cruelsss,” they echo, soft, eyes landing on the ground in front of them, and do not say anything further.
-
They do speak just past the entrance to Fleatopia, though. Eyes coming up, head swiveling, tracking the motions around them. Eyeing, in particular, a ball of the small Fleas thrashing about in wrestling. “Isss food? Doesss not run like food.”
Perhaps she should have discussed this with them beforehand, Hornet registers, carefully restraining another sigh. “Please do not eat the Fleas. They make for good allies,” for the most part, “and speaking creatures are best not eaten regardless. This kingdom is not lacking in other prey, little hunter- and it would be wise not to suggest that again, lest they overhear and we be asked to leave.”
Now. Where…
Ah. Good. Kratt appears not to be present, judging by the lack of him immediately making himself known rather too close to her. She would prefer not to deal with him at the moment. Or in general, but particularly not with a hatchling in tow, sharp-clawed little hunter though they may be. He seems a bad influence.
The little hunter has stayed next to her as well as they can through the entire short journey here, save lagging behind on jumps and scrambling out of the way whenever some small thing darted at them both. At seeing her look around, though, they press even closer, all but running a horn into her.
Did they take her awareness as looking for danger?
They certainly hesitate at the sight of the spa-carriage, staring up at it as she pries a newly-applied lock off the door. “Isss cage?”
“I suppose it could be used for one, but that is not its current purpose, no. The creatures clinging to your shell dislike clean water, and,” pausing to swing the door open, “this is clean water. It should remove them, and the rest of that grime as well with a little effort.”
They seem distinctly unconvinced, eyes flicking from her to the space inside, fidgeting harder in place. Hissing “isss cage” under their breath.
Simply picking them up and setting them inside is, for a moment, deeply tempting; she doubts they weigh much, and the quick results would surely make for a very convincing argument as to why this is not something they need to avoid. But that would also surely frighten them, at least at first, and she has no desire to learn how sharp their fangs are. Or to learn how readily, or if, they forgive such liberties. Instead, she opts to step into the carriage herself, hopping into the water in demonstration. “It is not a cage. And it would not hold us if it was- the door-hinges are not strong enough to trap me. Now come in here before the maggots drain more blood than you can stand to lose.”
A long, long stare at her, still visibly skeptical- then they twitch all over, making a high, strained whining sound, and claw violently at the back of their neck exactly once before plunging headlong into the water. Where they promptly jolt, hard, almost spasming, hands jerking up to their face.
When Hornet hauls them partly up out of the water by their horn, they hack up a worrying amount of said water, sputtering, shaking their head.
“-you need to hold your breath if you mean to do that,” she sighs, draping them gently over her arm- they do indeed not weigh much- to pat firmly at their back. “Be still, see if you can- child-“
With another strained whine, they promptly shove themself off her arm, ducking underneath the water again.
They do not come back out, despite their entire body all but seizing, until the squirming shapes of the maggots pop free of them.
This time, they let themself be picked up without protest, slumping almost worryingly limp save for a tight grip on her arm. Managing, between coughs, to get out a few raspier-than-normal words. “Grubs-maggotsss not likesss water.”
“Indeed they do not,” muttered half to herself, patting them between their shoulders once more. Directly below a half-diluted trickle of blue, a larger wound than that left by the maggots; one looks to have anchored itself just barely below where they could reach, and their last attempt at scratching it off, able to reach only the back of their own neck, has drawn blood.
They are also filthy. Sloughing a layer of mud and blood into the water around them, and not all the blood is the same shade as their own. Have they killed prey and not thought to clean themself off?
“Not being able to remove the mud I do understand, child, but you must try to keep fluids from other creatures away from any wounds you may have. That is an easy route to infected wounds, and infections can fell even the strongest creatures,” she warns, swishing her free hand through the water to circulate some of the muck away. “They are one of the few concerns I still have for myself.”
She is exceptionally resistant to infections of any sorts, including these- but she is not entirely immune. And any illness that manages to take hold of her is a ferocious one indeed, a challenge for even her nature.
Almost without thinking, she pulls a clean cloth from one of her pockets and dips it into the water at arm’s reach, away from the spreading muck, then sets to dabbing at the back of their neck. The grime will need to come away from every little wound on their shell, the slime most certainly should not remain, the blood should be removed before the scent attracts something-
And, she realizes too late, the little hunter has gone very, very still under her attention. Shoulders hunched slightly, head tilted just enough to eye her, claws gone tighter on her arm. Perfectly silent until she lifts the cloth away, then far quieter than before when they do speak. “Whatsss doing?”
Oh, she does not like that. Does not like the thrumming she can feel against her arm, their suddenly-racing heart beating hard enough to feel their pulse through their thin shell, and does not like how shallow their breathing suddenly is. Like something run to ground, trying desperately to escape notice.
“Only cleaning your wounds,” she replies quietly, “to aid in preventing infection. I apologize if it hurts.”
They do not move. Do not so much as turn their head further. They only continue to watch her out of the corner of their eye, small and motionless and still far too quiet. “Whysss help?”
Why-
Hm.
Before she can grasp that question well enough for an answer, they continue, claws curling a fraction tighter against her shell. Just short of digging in properly. “Isss for sssomething? Usss has nothing to trade… unlessss Red Hunter knowsss something? Wants sssomething we’s don’t know?”
Oh. Ugh. She deeply does not like any of the possibilities that question sparks to life in her mind, flashes of what someone might demand of this little creature if given such an open-ended opportunity. Of-
Oh gods. Styx.
She had wondered, briefly, whether he might be the same sort of creature as Huntress. He certainly sounds much like Huntress did, with the differences in their forms being relatively minimal, and this little hunter bears more than a slight resemblance to him as well. If they are the same species, and if any of his behavior is based in instinct as she suspects it might be-
“No, small one, I do not ask anything from you in return,” she whispers, then, a little sharper, “and- listen. That is a dangerous thing to so much as imply, such an open offer with no restrictions imposed. There are those who would take far more from you than simply your blood, child- you must not give them the opportunity of a trade where you do not know what your side will be.”
They manage, somehow, to go even more still at that. And no wonder; this is perhaps the least calming thing she could have said, short of threatening them herself.
At a loss for anything else, Hornet settles for dipping the cloth into a cleaner patch of water once more, carefully wiping away some of the blood still welling up at the back of their neck. “Not something you need to be concerned with at the moment. I do not ask anything of you for this- I simply do not wish to see you felled by a septic wound before you have a chance at a life. Allow me to clean these, and tell me if it hurts overmuch.”
The little hunter gives no answer of any sort, but their grip slowly loosens as she continues, and they neither flinch nor pull away at the first stroke of the cloth directly over their wounds.
Gradually, some of the tension leaves them. Drains out, slowly, the stress-flutter of their pulse easing, their narrow chest expanding properly on each breath once more.
When their eyes finally leave her, drifting around the carriage instead of watching her so intently, something of it feels like a minor victory.
She doesn’t bother trying to stem the bleeding. The wounds will clot over soon enough without tiny biting jaws keeping them open, and allowing them to bleed until they do may remove some of the potential contamination. Better to simply clean the grime away.
Abruptly, they lean a little further over her arm, head tilting, then dart a hand down and grab at something.
She only recognizes it as one of the dislodged maggots after they shove it into their jaws and seize another, clearly not intending to stop at one.
That doesn’t seem a particularly safe choice in food, she registers, given the habitat and diet of the writhing things. That water is foul, and parasites may well be made unsafe to eat by the blood in their digestive tracts if they aren’t already an ill-advised meal. “Child, perhaps refrain from-“
The instant she shifts the arm they’re draped over, pulling them a little further away from some of the maggots, they whip around and hiss at her. A long, sharp sound, their entire chest heaving with the force of it, their fangs flashing open in threat.
Ah.
She likely should have known better than to in any way attempt to separate them from food, potentially unsafe or no.
“-fair enough,” she concedes, resisting the urge to toss them away before they bite. “I do understand the urge to reclaim what was taken from you, and if you insist upon it I will not stop you, but I do not recommend eating those. They may well make you sick, likely in such a fashion as to remove their meat from your gut alongside whatever else you may have recently eaten.”
The second maggot is already gone. They do, though, hesitate with the third still in hand, eyeing her with something like wariness. “Isss food, ssstill.”
“I would question that,” Hornet mutters, gently nudging their horn to coax them into putting their back in easy reach once more. “And I have a method of quickly accessing creatures I know are safe enough to eat. Ones likely more palatable, as well, if only in their lack of slime. Easily found after you are no longer filthy.”
They hesitate for a moment, then snap up the maggot still in their hand.
They do not, however, reach for another.
Three is better than the entire set, at least, and distinctly lowers her chances of being bitten for interfering.
Now. The grime.
There are layers to the filth wedged up under the bases of their wing-covers and into their joints. Mud and blood and some other nameless substance, in an amount that suggests they haven’t been properly grooming at all. As if they lack the instinct, or have somehow not had any chance whatsoever to sit and do anything more than wipe their face clean now and then.
They have a den, left to them in their mother’s absence. Have they not made use of it?
Perhaps something else has taken up residence inside and driven them out. Unfortunate, but hardly surprising.
Whatever the case, they’ve managed to coat themself in enough muck that simply cleaning their wounds feels like leaving a task thoroughly incomplete. Once the areas around their wounds are clean enough, Hornet tucks the cloth away and instead pulls out the little stiff-bristle brush she carries for use on her own shell, setting to work around their shoulders. Too roughly at first- they squirm a little, ducking their head with a wordless noise of complaint, until she shifts to far less pressure than she would use for herself.
This does make a good opportunity to inspect them, once they stop wriggling. To size them up, both for signs of ill health from the circumstances around their hatching and for any indication of her suspicions as to their species.
Their horns are very like their mother’s. Rather more than she would have expected on such a young creature. Their build is far less so, though that could simply be age or part of their stunting. The little mantle around their slender neck and shoulders, though, and the distinctive cloak of round-tipped wing-covers…
Momentarily, she considers trying for a closer look at Styx. He seems entirely disinclined to attack her, and would likely be willing either to come down to the ground or allow her to perch in his odd web to inspect him closely. It would certainly aid in her comparison between him, the little hunter, and Huntress, and she can only imagine him being pleased to be of any help.
…perhaps too pleased, as it happens.
Maybe she will not do that. He’s large enough for her to have a good idea of his form already. She also recalls his scent well enough to note now that it suggests him as male in body as well as in introduction, making the differences between him and Huntress -distinctly female in scent and context- potentially a matter of sexual dimorphism.
Or she is entirely wrong and he’s a different species outright.
She would rather prefer to be wrong, in this case. Or, failing that, for his behavior to be something other than what she suspects it to be, something other than strong remnants of wild-thing ancestral instinct turning themselves to this fixation on serving another.
Or for the little hunter to be female. That would work also.
The little hunter who is now slowly going limp against her, slumping with a horn tucked over her shoulder, claws kneading lightly at her arm. Not the most conducive thing to her attempts at cleaning them.
It is, though, rather charming. Doubly so when they start making a quiet sound in the back of their throat, a raspy little croon.
Cute, she notes distantly.
And still filthy.
Far more scrubbing is required.
First, a quick once-over of the outsides of their wing-covers, then something a bit gentler down the insides.
Next, their flanks, careful around the not-quite bleeding marks of them trying and failing to reach the parasites lodged on their back.
Then their chest. Their shell is thicker here, though not by much- not enough to hide, if she brushes her fingers directly against that shell, the thrumming of their heart. Much faster than hers, despite them being of a relatively similar size, and she does not remember the normal resting pace for a creature of this size and build for comparison. Perhaps something else to test, after she finishes with this.
How do they have so much grime still on them, to make removing it such a lengthy task.
-
It is, at least, satisfying enough, and there’s a strange peace to it almost like she finds in assembling her tools and machines. Something she can gladly sink into, arm around a bundle of warm shell and fingertips thrumming with the vibration of the brush, with the undernote of that raspy crooning-
Until the croon cuts off abruptly into a startled silence, the little hunter tensing all over.
Until she realizes that she has sunk too far into the task, and has very thoroughly forgotten herself. Enough to have, without thinking, put her jaws carefully to work in cleaning their horn a little like how she grooms herself.
Mildly embarrassed, she lets go immediately, muttering a “-pardon me,” and opts to simply continue scrubbing. With only the brush, this time.
What under earth had possessed her to do that?
Something to consider later.
Their startlement fades quickly, at least. Before long, their frame is relaxed against hers once more, and the pleasant little sound starts up again. They even move obligingly with her rather than simply leaning on her, lifting their hands one by one as needed, fingers spread to make scrubbing them easier.
Lingering confusion as to precisely what she had meant to do aside, she is, somehow, still rather enjoying herself.
Though she is going to need to figure out what to do with them after this. Leaving them to likely fall into the maggots again seems unwise, but she can hardly take them with her- she is thoroughly ill-equipped to deal with a child, even this sharp-edged hunter. She should likely endeavor to see them somewhere safe, with someone who has at least some reasonable chance of taking care of them.
Save that the list of those she would fully trust with this responsibility, with a child who expects to be required to trade for the slightest kindness, is… short. Particularly when she removes those who would likely be well-meaning enough, but would fail to be adequate protection against those with ill intent.
And. They did not go to someone else, someone better equipped. They came to her.
…well. She’s hardly using the ceiling of her home for anything at the moment. She may as well offer them a spot on it, at least for a time.
Only a little time, though. Absolutely only a little.
