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“Keep your distance from those red-flowered vines." Azacoatl pointed to the leafy mass choking an enormous adohi tree. “Their flowers have tiny, barb-like seeds that can grow anywhere — and they love to grow while embedded in flesh."

“A curious trait," said Walter, still close behind the skink. “An adaptation that allows them to propagate over great distances, presumably?"

Azacoatl let out a throaty laugh. “No, they simply wish to punish foolish warmbloods who cannot help but touch pretty flowers."

“I guess every rose has its thorn."

“Are your ears clogged? They are vines, not roses."

“Oh, apologies," said Walter. “That's another one of our sayings. It means something that appears beautiful or positive hides something unpleasant." The human's voice sounded further away. “I feel that may be a common trait in the Tlax'ki jungle… with you as an exception."

“What was that?" Azacoatl spun around. The human had stopped to scribble in his notebook. The skink stomped in the mud and snarled. “For the fifth time, put that away and pay attention!"

“Right, sorry." Walter swished his quill with sudden speed before returning it to his cap. “The fifth time? I was quite certain—"

“I have been counting. Be aware that each time I am forced to stop, I ponder which hazard would cause you the most suffering whilst still allowing you to live." Azacoatl flashed a toothy smirk. “I am very close to deciding."

“Is that so?" Walter made his way back to the skink, crisscrossing his steps to avoid the pools of mud. “What are the current frontrunners?"

“Do not ask such foolish questions!"

“I can't help it, my friend. Everything here is so bloody interesting." Just before reaching Azacoatl, Walter sidestepped to the nearest tree, leaning to rest his shoulder on it.

“Stop!"

Walter jumped away from the tree and stumbled, landing on his knees in the mud. “What? What did I do now?"

“You… foolhardy fool! Turn around and tell me what is on that tree."

“Let's see…" Walter wiped the mud off his pants as he turned. “Vines — I guess the collective noun would be a tangle of them — with some red flowers… Oh, right."

“The Old Ones must be looking over you," said Azacoatl, tearing down a tangle of vines — the harmless variety — blocking the path ahead. “They spared you until you met me, and are now conjuring forth a seemingly bottomless pit of empathy I never knew I possessed."

“I am certainly blessed to have met such a kind soul."

“I am NOT a kind soul!" Azacoatl spun and jabbed his spear, slicing the air beside the human's neck. “I am a hunter. I patrol Tlax'ki for intruders. I kill."

Walter didn't flinch. “All to ensure the safety of your people, I assume. You kill so that others can live."

Azacoatl glared at Walter, waiting for that irritating smirk to form on his brainless face. But he didn't smile. Nor did he chuckle. He only met Azacoatl's eyes.

“Pah!" The skink turned and continued walking. “Believe what you will, for I tire of arguing. Is it another flaw of humanity to manufacture benevolence where there is none?"

“It's usually the opposite," said Walter.

“Then you must be defective even amongst your own kind, for you still fail to accept the jungle for what it is — a malevolent force of nature that cares not for the lives it consumes."

“I'll try to be more careful."

Azacoatl croaked with laughter, but said no more; Walter's lie didn't deserve a response.

The two continued their trek for quite some time, surrounded by dense greens and browns, damp and dim in the shade of the never-ending canopy. Azacoatl maintained a cautious pace, concerned that the human's clumsiness would cause disaster should they move any quicker. The skink also worried about his own missteps, for constantly glancing over his shoulder to confirm the fool remained in one piece left less time to spot the hazards ahead.

Azacoatl's snarling rants must have had some impact, at least; Walter distracted himself with his notebook only twice more.

After many blissful minutes of silence, Walter just had to end the peace. “What's that noise?" he asked.

“It is a most unnatural sound," said Azacoatl. “A bane that blights with misery all those unfortunate enough to hear it." The skink restrained a croak. “Your voice."

Walter chuckled, much to Azacoatl's annoyance. “I guess I don't need a weapon after all. Jokes aside, is it something we should be worried about?"

Azacoatl stopped and listened. Above, the melody of birds roosting in the canopy calmed his nerves. Around them, the insects chittered and chirped, and somewhere behind them, a family of frogs croaked without end. He turned to scowl at Walter, but softened his expression at the sight of his ears. Indeed, man's love for vulnerable extremities also extended to their hearing. Did they let Walter pick up sounds beyond Azacoatl's range?

“Explain the noise," Azacoatl said.

Walter crooked his head, angling one ear higher; was this how humans used that odd extremity? “It sounds like… splashing. Flowing water, perhaps?"

“Curses!" Azacoatl whirled and swung his spear at the closest tree, cleaving a deep gash through its moss-covered trunk.

“Is it something bad?" asked Walter. “Are we in danger?"

“Pah, no. It is not a danger that will charge at us, but one we must confront of our own volition." Azacoatl gnashed his teeth as the wind stretched his wounded frill. “A danger I had foolishly assumed would not be present."

“Well… when you're done being indirect and imprecise, mind sharing what it is?"

Azacoatl spun around, glare at the ready, but Walter had cleverly hidden his mouth behind his balled hand. With a scoff, Azacoatl turned back and continued walking. “You will see… soon enough."

Before long, Azacoatl heard the sound too. His chest tightened as it grew louder and fiercer, soon consuming the cries of bird and critter alike. Just before it became deafening, the thick canopy gave way, treating them to the rare warmth of direct sunlight. The delight was short-lived for Azacoatl, however, for his fears were confirmed.

Ahead, water cleaved the jungle in two. The stream, ordinarily sluggish, gushed with anger. White spray spewed forth as rushing water battered the rocky outcrops separating each change in elevation. The stepping stones his kind had placed to allow for easy traversal had vanished, submerged in several feet of froth.

“I assume it isn't usually like this." Walter struggled to speak above the stream's roar.

“Of course it isn't!" His frustration building, Azacoatl made a raspy hiss. “There must have been heavy rainfall upstream, but no word of that reached me. The next crossing is two hours away, and that may be no better than here."

“Crossing? We're going to cross it? Didn't you say—"

“Our piranhas thrive in basins. They do not live this far upstream."

“Are you sure?"

“Am I sure!?" Azacoatl smacked his tail. “Are you trying to make a fool of me? We have used this section as a crossing for longer than your kind's natural lifespan."

“Sorry, it's just, you really put the fear of them into me earlier." Walter began pulling out his notebook, but a sharp glare from Azacoatl put an end to that. “Right, so… what do we do now?"

A good question — for once. Crossing wasn't impossible, but it was a risk Azacoatl would hesitate to take alone, let alone guiding someone unlikely to have endured a current stronger than a puddle. One mistake, a momentary loss of balance, and the rapids would swallow you whole. Even if you kept your head above the swell, all it would take is one bad blow against a protruding rock. Or several dozen.

In Tlax'ki, death is often sudden, and always unceremonious.

“It is too dangerous at present," Azacoatl said. “But taking a longer route would carry us through the night, leaving us exposed and far away from any of our scouting posts. Let us use this moment to rest; the stream may calm before too long."

“Fine by me." Walter glanced around the circumference of a tree before leaning against it. “My legs are starting to ache. I don't think I've walked this much since I was a young lad."

Azacoatl wanted to chide Walter for his whining, but, admittedly, the human possessed impressive stamina for a scholar. He hadn't complained once during the walk, and navigating Tlax'ki's muddy and uneven terrain for half the day was no easy task, especially for a flat-footed species. Even a skink would struggle without scout training.

Walter rummaged through his satchel. He pulled out two cream-coloured bars — his rations — and held one out to Azacoatl. “Want one? They taste okay, a bit like dry coconut. You have coconuts here, right?"

“No, we do not." Azacoatl took a step closer and sniffed, but he couldn't pick up any flavours other than the human's gentle musk, already familiar to him. Warmbloods always had a smell to them, making them easy pickings for hungry predators. But they were all so varied; compared to a skaven's stench, Walter's was pleasant. Soothing, even.

“Should I take that smile as a yes?" asked a smiling Walter.

“N-no! Don't waste your supplies on me."

“You sure? I guess you've got your own, though." Walter pointed at Azacoatl's tail pouch.

“I do not. Scouts forage and hunt while on patrol, so we have no need for rations." Azacoatl was thankful for that; those crumbling blocks looked as tasteless as bark.

Walter wagged the ration through the air. “Then why not experiment with something different?"

“I do not want to experiment. But…"

“But…?"

But if he did, Azacoatl would have another chance to touch Walter's hand, feel his warmth. Only to sate his curiosity, of course; in the open, the sun heated his back, so he could compare and determine which was warmer. A simple experiment, nothing more.

“Experiment, you say?" Azacoatl forced out a sigh. “Very well. However… it is customary in our culture to join hands whenever we exchange food."

“Really?" Walter tilted his head. “Why's that?"

“Because… it is a sign of trust. A pledge! Yes, a pledge that it is done in good faith, without ulterior motive."

“Oh, that makes sense." Walter nodded, reaching for his notebook before stopping himself. “Though if you're concerned about me poisoning you, I could always take a chomp first, show it's safe."

“T-that's not necessary. The joining of hands is enough."

“Alright, simple enough." Walter tucked his ration between his legs and held out both hands, palms facing up.

Azacoatl, clenching his jaw to avoid making any expression, stepped forward. His tail stroked the grass, back and forth, as he connected his hands with Walter's. That wondrous warmth radiated through his scales in mere moments, filling his cold hands, then rolling up his arms. He stared at their fingers, not daring to look at Walter's face.

“Do I… squeeze?" Walter asked.

“Yes."

Walter shifted his hands sideways, then curled his fingers over the top of Azacoatl's hands. Blue vanished into pale white. Heat built on both sides. It was better than the sun. A gentle blaze. A crackling campfire late at night.

An odd thumping sounded above the rushing stream. Distracted, Azacoatl took a moment to realise his tail bounced against the ground. His chest tightened. As much as he wanted to interlock their fingers, never let go, Walter would grow sceptical, and Azacoatl would squander any chance for future contact.

And so he slid his hands back, slowly, basking in the fleeting moments of warmth, before he disconnected from Walter. The skink still couldn't raise his head.

“What a pleasant custom." Walter grabbed the bar between his legs. “Here you go."

“Mhm?"

“Your ration."

“A-ah." Azacoatl jerked his head up, meeting Walter's gentle smile. He took the bar. “Thank you."

“You're welcome, my friend."

Tail wagging, Azacoatl paced back to his spot. He squinted at the bar, sniffed it, and after a glance at Walter — who had an expectant look in his eyes — bit into the ration. The bar crumbled like charcoal. As he chewed, tasteless crumbs lodged themselves between his jagged teeth. He spent more time trying to force them out with his tongue than actually eating, and even longer trying to swallow the specks stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“How is it?" Walter asked.

Azacoatl swallowed. “Terrible." Still, its revolting taste and texture was all worth it for that wonderful warmth.

“Ah, oh well." Walter took a bite of his bar, still speaking as he chewed. “At least you know for next time."

Next time? Did Azacoatl just ruin a future opportunity to bask in the human's heat? He couldn't help but grit his teeth, cursing his stupidity for not holding his tongue this one time.

“Also, I'm curious about something," Walter said between mouthfuls. “What happened to your head frill?"

Azacoatl flinched. Anything but this topic. “Have you no shame, asking such personal questions without hesitation? And how are you so perceptive of pointless things, yet still fail to recognise the most blatant dangers?"

“That tear's hard to miss, to be honest." Walter took another bite. “You were really showing it off earlier."

“I was doing no such thing! Unfurling our frills is our natural response when enraged, so it is only natural one as infuriating as you has witnessed it countless times."

“Is that right? I thought you were just trying to look taller."

“What was that?" Azacoatl clenched his hands, crushing the remaining quarter of the bar into powder.

Walter, still chewing his bar — noticeably slower — pointed at his mouth. “Mmh, can't talk." The corners of his mouth trembled.

“Hah!" Azacoatl threw the bar's crumbled remains into the mud. “How deceptively clever you can be when it suits you. Well, you should know that your aggravating stupidity causes me not only mental anguish, but physical pain as well." He puffed out his chest, trying not to smirk. “I hope you feel immense guilt for the rest of your days."

“Oh, you poor thing." Walter shoved the rest of his bar into his bag, then leaned down to Azacoatl's eye level. “What happened?"

Genuine sympathy? Much like the excessive praise, it made Azacoatl uneasy. He was undeserving of both. Why couldn't Walter worry about himself for once?

And yet Azacoatl's silence didn't dissuade Walter from seeking an answer; he held his stare, his softened eyes, his look of care. “It is a private matter," Azacoatl eventually said. “No concern of yours."

“Will it heal?"

Azacoatl looked to his feet. “I… don't know."

“I'm sorry," said Walter. “I know how it feels."

“Hah!" Azacoatl tensed his tail. “A naïve simpleton like you? Even here, you are shielded from the consequences of your own mistakes. What could you possibly know of hardship?"

Walter tapped his left shoulder. “I've got a scar running down my back, from shoulder to waist. It never fully healed. Even a decade later, I still feel the ache."

“Oh."

Azacoatl clamped up. A wound that large on a creature so delicate would have spilt so much lifeblood. Azacoatl's bloodless injury didn't compare; he only had a torn membrane, some flayed nerves, foolish self-consciousness. And regret.

A lot of regret.

What had happened to Walter? How could he face life with such innocent resilience after coming so close to death? Azacoatl wanted to ask, but he couldn't, not after his earlier bluster.

“I can show you, if you'd like," Walter said gently. “It's only fair, given I've seen yours."

“Show me… what?"

“My scar." Walter began unbuttoning his vest.

“S-stop!" Azacoatl tensed, both flustered and gripped by sudden panic. That clothing, though thin and most certainly ineffective, was Walter's only defence — the smallest barrier between the dangers of Tlax'ki and his precious lifeblood.

“Sorry," said Walter, re-buttoning. “I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

“I was not uncomfortable. Should you wish to shamelessly parade your injuries, as if your shortcomings are some mark of pride, wait until we reach the safety of your dig site."

Walter leaned back, blinking several times. “Injuries aren't shortcomings. They speak nothing of your character."

“Perhaps." Azacoatl turned away from Walter. “Perhaps it depends on what failing caused the injury."

“And you believe your injury resulted from some personal failing?"

Azacoatl spun around, baring his teeth. It was undeserved, for Walter looked austere. He had a rather refined appearance when not grinning like an imbecile.

Azacoatl scoffed and turned back to the stream. “Deceptively clever, indeed. Perhaps you really are a spy."

“I'm just worried about you."

“Don't be."

“But—"

Azacoatl slammed his tail into the mud. Their discussion was over.

---

Much time passed in noisy silence; Azacoatl had quickly become used to the stream's unending turmoil. It hadn't waned in the slightest, even as the sun sank behind the canopy of the far shore.

That left him with few options.

It was too late to change their course; taking the longer route now would require them to travel deep into the night, at the mercy of Tlax'ki's many unseen predators. They could go back the way they came, deeper into the jungle. They would reach the closest scout camp before nightfall and could try the trek again the next morning. He would have to deal with Walter for another whole day, but the human had proven less excruciating than he once thought.

No. Azacoatl had a far larger concern; other Lizardmen would not be so welcoming. Walter was a trespasser, and a mighty foolish one at that. While Azacoatl wasn't a kind soul by any stretch — despite Walter's insistence — others of his kind were far less merciful.

And they still hadn't forgiven him for last time. Rightfully so.

“It will not calm," said Azacoatl, finally breaking the silence, “but we cannot tarry any longer. We must cross."

Walter nodded and shouldered his satchel. “Time to see how waterproof this thing really is."

Azacoatl led Walter to where the stream changed elevations. The spray nearly concealed the sudden drop, but two jagged rocks, emerging from the depths like a sabre-tooth's canines, marked the fall. He jabbed the handle of his spear into the white waters, feeling for the first stepping stone.

“Stay one step behind me," Azacoatl said, his voice hoarse as he tried to speak over the current. “When I move one foot to the next stone, you move one foot onto my current stone. That way, you will never misstep. Understand?"

“Yes."

“If you feel your balance slipping, stop and call out to me. I will wait. There is no need to be hasty."

Walter nodded.

Azacoatl took a deep breath, steeling himself. He lowered one foot into the water, flinching as its chill bit through his scales. He leaned in, lowering himself onto the first step, but his chest tightened as he sank deeper and deeper — he hadn't appreciated the full height of the water level. When the rushing waters crashed over his shoulders — and panic truly set in — his foot finally met solid comfort. He shuffled his leg forward, tightening his claws over the edge of the stone. Once confident he had braced as best he could, he brought his other leg down, away from the safety of the shore.

But with over half his body submerged, Azacoatl found his legs locked to the stone. He couldn't move. He had made a grave mistake. The waves hammered his side, doing their best to shove him downstream. Worse, he couldn't tilt his body to turn back; he would catch the current like a sail in the wind and be dragged to his death.

But Walter could help! Azacoatl opened his mouth to speak, but sputtered as the splashing swell slipped down his throat. Without turning, he threw his arm back, hand outstretched above the waterline. Walter just needed to pull him to safety.

Azacoatl felt his firm grip, that comforting warmth. He relaxed. Until Walter pushed his arm forward. Before Azacoatl knew what to do, the human's body rubbed against his back. Walter had stepped in!

“Alright, one foot on," he said, shouting above the stream. His grip on Azacoatl's hand stayed strong. “You can step forward."

How did he always act without hesitation? Where did all his unearned courage spring from? Did he not fear death?

“Azacoatl? Are you okay?"

The skink squeaked, unable to sound much else without swallowing more water. With the bulkier Walter serving as his brace, Azacoatl jabbed his spear ahead, searching for the next stone. As he raised a foot, his whole body trembled like a leaf in a monsoon, doing all it could to hang on to its mother branch. But Walter, Old Ones bless him, gripped his hand tighter.

He would be okay.

Azacoatl's foot landed on the next stone. Walter took one step forward. Azacoatl squeezed, confirming Walter still held him firm. Then, with a brief fight against the current, Azacoatl brought his other leg forward.

It was slow. Holding against the swell was exhausting. The far shore seemed an insurmountable distance away, but whenever Azacoatl needed courage for the next step, he squeezed Walter's hand. Even when a splash submerged their hands in the water's chill, Walter's heat never faded.

Bit by bit, step by step, the two forded the stream. For Azacoatl, what took an eternity passed, strangely, way too quickly; only a few stepping stones remained, and then he and Walter would unlink. Their connection brought comfort to the terrifying. Azacoatl didn't want their hands to part.

Alas, upon the last stepping stone, Azacoatl had to break away to climb ashore. He pulled his hand free from Walter's, held out his spear, and leapt onto the muddy slope. His talons dug into solid ground at the top of the ridge. As Azacoatl clambered up the slope, he looked upstream. A branch, an ordinary branch, one that likely travelled downstream from many miles away, jumped from the roiling waters — and struck him in the head.

Pain pulsed through his skull. Land and water blurred into one. His claws slipped, and he slid down the slope.

“Azacoatl!"

His name screeched over the water's roar. Then came clarity. And terror. His body, half-submerged, dangled over the drop. White froth rolled over his face and rammed him past the edge. He thrust his spear towards the stepping stones. The tip snagged a rock, then loosened, then slipped into the air, and then he sank.

Then came a scream, but not from him. Waves battered his face, poured down his throat, tore him downstream — except he didn't fall. Red swirled through the water as he rose from the depths. He gasped for air, thrashed the water from his eyes. Walter, waist-deep, had both hands clenched around the head of his spear. With Azacoatl hanging onto the other end for dear life, the human dragged him towards the shore. Azacoatl clutched the slope and let go of his spear and scrambled up the edge, wheezing as he pulled his legs from the vicious swell. He crawled over the wet grass and rolled onto his back, his heart pounding in his skull.

What had happened? Where was Walter?

Azacoatl's mind had lost itself to the rapids. His last few moments were a foamy haze.

Clarity returned only when Walter pulled himself from the stream, holding the skink's spear from the wrong end. A red gash severed his palm from finger to wrist. He dropped the weapon and clutched his bleeding hand to his chest, his face broken in an expression Azacoatl hadn't yet seen.

Though everything hurt, Azacoatl lurched to his feet. He spat out water and ripped open his tail pouch. “Sit, sit," he said between coughs.

Walter said nothing as he collapsed on his side, eyes clenched.

Azacoatl grabbed a vial and hurried to the human's side. He gripped Walter's arm and gently pulled his reddened hand away from his chest. The cut was deepest at his fingers — it sliced through the skin between his index and middle. Lifeblood spilled down both sides of his arm. The length, the depth, how Walter grit his teeth — the wound looked agonising.

But not fatal.

“How… reckless," Azacoatl said. “Impulsive. Stupid." He stopped himself from continuing. He couldn't chide Walter, not when the human's lack of hesitation might have saved the skink's life. But then why did he feel so much anger at Walter's actions? What else could the human have done?

Walter took a shaky breath. “I'm sorry."

Azacoatl flinched. “It's… it's okay." He focused his eyes on Walter's wound, unable to hide the tremble of his lip. “Thank you."

“For what?"

“For…" Azacoatl swallowed. “For apologising."

Walter huffed; his smile started to return. He looked away from his wound and pointed to the vial. “What's that stuff?"

“Wyrmwood sap mixed with ground helomil buds." Azacoatl poured the oily goop over Walter's hand, wincing when Walter grunted. “The sap seals, then the helomil heals."

“Wyrmwood again? Truly a miraculous tree. I'm rather glad you know of a few more plants than just the dangerous ones. Speaking of…" Walter flinched as Azacoatl kneaded the substance across the tear between his fingers. “You don't happen to coat your spear in poison, do you?"

“Hah. Sometimes." Azacoatl smiled, wanting to put Walter at ease. “Not today. For once, absent-mindedness has saved your life."

Between pained groans, Walter managed to laugh. “I've lost count. How many times now have you saved me?"

“Don't ask such foolish things." Azacoatl spread the paste over Walter's wrist. “This one doesn't count. It's otherwise at four."

“Four, huh?" Walter rolled his head back, looking to the sky. “Could have sworn it was more."

“Perhaps your memory is faulty. Try moving your fingers."

“Maybe, maybe." Like a breaking branch, Walter's fingers curled in sudden twitches. He eventually brought them to his palm, grunting only once in the process. “Though my ears are what feel faulty."

“Your ears?" Azacoatl tilted his head and glared at them. They were awfully large. Had water got into them?

“They're just… buzzing."

Azacoatl scoffed. “How could a hand injury affect your ears?"

But then he heard it too. Beyond the water's roar, the faintest drone, as constant as the stream, echoed through the clearing.

“I'm probably just dizzy," said Walter. “I'm sure—"

“Keep quiet." Azacoatl closed his eyes and strained his ears, trying to place the sound. The buzzing came from above, all around, and grew steadily louder. Closer. Enveloping all else. What sort of noise could deafen even a rampaging stream?

Azacoatl shivered. His stomach knotted. He grabbed Walter's arm and shouted, “Get up, now!"

“R-right." Walter hobbled to his feet, took a step, then stumbled, almost knocking them both down.

Walter was in no state to run. Azacoatl shoved him back to the ground — “Stay down!" — and leapt over him. He snatched up his bloodied spear and spread his stance near the water's edge. He jerked his head every which way, trying to follow the buzzing's source.

As he feared. It emerged from the far-end of the stream, its four wings blurring against the treeline. Compound eyes as blood-red as his spear's tip, and a tail-length stinger equally sharp. Without a moment's hesitation, it rose above the stream and zipped towards them.

“What is that thing?" Walter grabbed Azacoatl's tail. “A giant mosquito?"

Azacoatl hissed and jerked his limb from Walter's grip. “Celzidor."

He had been taught to evade celzidors, lose them between the trees, for one mistake — a missed lunge, a moment's hesitation — would have their stinger plunged through your chest and pierced out your back. Holding one's ground was a pointless risk taken only by fools.

But Azacoatl couldn't run. He was Walter's only shield.

He readied his spear as the celzidor closed the distance. The insect's monstrous buzzing blared through his skull. Its grotesque, hairy body blotted out the sky as it darted to Azacoatl's left. He shifted his stance to follow it. Then it shot to his right. Azacoatl held his breath, but that didn't steady his arms.

The celzidor thrust out its abdomen as it neared striking distance. Its stinger oozed venom. It zigzagged every second, shifting left, up, down, right, coming closer and retreating, moving without pattern nor reason. Each time Azacoatl aimed his spear, the bug lurched in another direction. It wanted to bait an attack, and if Azacoatl missed, then he'd die. And Walter would die next.

From right behind, Walter grunted. There came a blur in Azacoatl's periphery. A stone struck the celzidor's left wings, and it teetered to the right. Azacoatl led his strike and thrust his spear. With a burst of gunk, the tip pierced the insect's lower abdomen.

The celzidor spasmed backwards, dragging Azacoatl towards the stream's edge. He screeched and swung his spear to the right, bashing the skewered monster against a tree. A solid crack. He then swung the other way and struck another tree. A wet splat. And with a mighty swing back to the right, the celzidor's head slammed against the trunk and collapsed into green mush.

Its six spindly limbs thrashed as its abdomen twisted into itself, stabbing its own midsection. The piercing drone of its wings fell silent. Its body finally went still several seconds later.

Azacoatl gasped for air. He could breathe. His shoulders sunk back into their sockets, and his arms burned as the celzidor's lifeless body weighed down his spear.

“Bloody great jab there, lad!" Walter smacked Azacoatl's tail. “You sure showed that bloody bug who's boss."

Perhaps, just this once, praise was warranted — though Azacoatl couldn't take all the credit. “You… hit that throw," he said, still catching his breath. “A flying target, with an injured hand."

“Well, I obviously used my other hand." Walter chuckled, sounding far less winded than Azacoatl. “But I suppose it was a tad impressive."

“Hah. I suppose… modesty is another failing of yours."

“I'm just accepting your compliment, my friend. You should try it yourself sometime. Shame about the bugger's head, though."

Azacoatl looked over his shoulder. Walter was on his side, tucked underneath his tail, notebook out and quill in hand — his uninjured hand. He pointed the quill to the pulpy mass at the end of the spear. “Mind holding it up? I can finesse the head from memory."

Azacoatl shot him a glare, then turned to the stream and slammed the bug against the rocks. He scraped it off his spear tip and watched its mangled body roll downstream. Once it sank beneath the froth, Azacoatl turned back to Walter, smirk readied.

“Oh well." Walter stuck his quill into his cap. “Maybe the next one."