Ren looked over at Lindarion. "Well. That went better than I expected."
"You expected pitchforks," he said.
"I still do. I just think they're taking their time."
Ashwing rolled over and thumped his tail twice against the floor. Probably dreaming about claiming someone else's shoes.
Lindarion sat back down.
The bench still hurt.
But the warmth helped.
And for now, no one was bleeding thankfully.
—
Ashwing refused to walk like a normal creature.
There were options. Several of them. Four legs. Two wings. A perfectly fine range of motion across stone and snow.
And yet.
Ashwing was currently riding Lindarion's shoulders like a smug, slightly radioactive scarf.
The tail kept slipping down the back of his coat. The claws were very careful, but not careful enough to avoid making every step feel like a mildly inconvenient acupuncture session. And the breath? Warm. In theory. In practice? Steam directly down his collar.
