The beast below

There hasn't been many visitors near the wagons today. I can understand, for there is probably much to get ready for this big undertaking of movement. Sometimes I think I hear a voice nearer than usual, or maybe the scritch of sound against the boards of platform. The beast beneath the wagon is a pretty good alarm, alerting me long before my inadequate ears catch the sound. He and I have settled into an agreement of sorts. I stay pretty much where I am supposed to and he doesn't feel the need to snarl at me. He suffers my conversation pretty nicely too, hardly cracking an eye while I tell him all my tales. And I can tell when an unfamiliar face steps a little too close to the imaginary circle that surrounds the grouping of wagons. It is a low growl, hardly noticeable, except I have found myself listening for it.

In the past days, quite a few had come by, leaving things for the Brave Warrior. Food, jars, packages wrapped in pretty cloths. At first I brought them in and set them on a crate that served as a sort of table. Last night I packed them all inside the crate, keeping out one jar of honeyed, spiced nuts. It was a few of those that I wrapped up in the strip of cloth to send with Dee this morning. We spoke briefly, for she was in a hurry, but still promised to see that something was taken out to the Brave Warrior. In exchange, I asked her to bring something that I could help her with - mending, or packing, or anything she could think of.

Sometime in the afternoon I heard the beast below pacing. Not even the low unpleasant tones of sound came, just a slow pace, and then the pause of silence. I grew curious, and wary, lifting up the links of steel to minimize my own sounds as I crept closer to the split of canvas. The hair at the nape of my neck lifted, as did a prickling sensation along my arms. I peeked through the flaps, only to blink in the brightness of the Central Fire. It would take more than just that little slit for me to be able to see. Below, the sleen was still silent, and I thought perhaps my imagination was creating all this spark and snap of anticipation. I tugged open the flaps and stepped out, only to hit face to chest with an obstruction, and the sudden loud demanding snarls of the beast from below rose into such a racket.

The sleen was no longer below, however, but snapping at the stumbling retreating form I had just collided with. I had gotten hardly a look at him, for it was definitely a him, much larger and stockier than I. Dressed no different than all the other Tuchuks I had seen so far, nothing was distinctive about him. I did get a passing glance at his face. Squat, as if someone had hit him on the top of his head and compressed his features. Small eyes sunk into bone beneath a prominent forehead. And a shock of strawberry blonde hair capped his head.

The rest of my view was of him trying to evade the snapping jaws of the sleen, who had easily diverted the interloper's path from the wagon itself and over the edge of the railing. In our crash of bodies, I had ended up on the platform, landing hard on my butt. The last leg of the sleen clipped my boot and sank a claw through to tear my skin as he tore over the perimeter of wagon space. A few moments later he returned, ambling back to his space below. I could almost see a smug look on his face this time. I asked him what in the world that was all about. He just slid his tongue along one fang.