Phezznibbet tucked his tail away from the edge of the bell tower. The market below rang with the clamor of eager merchants and haggling buyers―plenty of noise already without the ineludible racket of Big People spotting a Xintixa. Between those cheering for some exploit and others screeching in confusion at the sight of him
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“I can’t believe her!” Dr. Null paced at the lair’s front door. “She said she thought this lair was perfect for us, but she forgot to mention the colony of warmongering squirrels?”
“Calm down, Your Emptiness,” Inferno quipped. “We’ll just evict the Xintixa and the lairs is ours. No wonder the price is low;
Given his lifetime as a master chef of interplanetary travel, Gurfin knew there was always magic in his ingredients. But this time, he did not know, nor did he really care, where they would land after the wormhole eventually opened.
Some recipes required mastery—others he created simply to taste. The stew before him
Phezz patrolled the forest’s edge, searching for ingredients. Er… trespassers. A welcome respite from the training grounds, where he spent endless hours instructing kits and running melee drills. After Acon—the runt of the litter—had nearly skewered him today, he decided to end the session early.
Phezz crouched low against the forest floor
Crouched in the underbrush, Phezz sniffed the stagnant air. The stench hung like a poison. It even crowded out the musty scent of the old dog behind him.
He clasped the longest of his antler-handled knives, secure in the bandolier around his chest, but ready to fly free at the flick of a paw.
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