SEE DESC FOR SPECIFIC WARNINGS

Mara named the cat-dragon ‘Hazel’, after the golden-flecked brownstone of its scales, and the luxurious green of its eyes. She’d thought she’d be free of the beast come spring, and was surprised to find, as she took her first fawn-shaky steps above the winter’s chill, the strange beast which saved her ventured above, too, shaking wet snow from its feline ears, and pulling faces at the cold between its paws. It had occurred, sometime over their winter-deep cohabitation, Hazel had become quite fond of Mara, and Mara-- loathe as she was to admit it, given her general distaste for… everyone else, really-- felt slightly the same in return. It was the beginning of a friendship which, quite frankly, shocked her, and though she would never admit it outright, she was grateful for Hazel’s company.

She still didn’t know, exactly, what Hazel was. Originally, Mara thought it was some kind of dragon-- which remained incredibly likely, but it had padded paws and rounded ears; it did not breathe fire and could not fly, and it had scales, save for a ruff around its neck, jagged and hard as stone, which matched the armor-like plating along its front limbs and chest. As Mara spent more time with it, and saw it more and more, the more it looked like some kind of gargoyle, come to life: a statuesque chimera of cat and dragon, mundane and monster, more at home standing, still and lifeless, atop a sprawling cathedral wall, looking down on all the miserable creatures below, guarding the structure with its presence-- or, you know, just accruing pigeon poop, and moss.

Less beloved were the entourage of kitten-sized dragons which followed them everywhere. They dropped from trees and clambered over logs, ran through Mara’s legs, crawled up crumbling stone walls-- it was unclear to her whether they were Hazel’s offspring, a non-dominant example of the same species, or something else entirely. Mara didn’t care to know, and Hazel, it seemed, never intended to explain.

By far the most annoying part was the noise. They were constantly hissing, chirping, or spitting, growling in a garbled, animalistic language which had grated on Mara’s nerves for quite a long time. By means of proximity she had begun to tune out the ceaseless noise, though she didn’t even notice it until the world around them genuinely fell silent.

This put her at a disadvantage. She’d never been, say, an outdoorsman; she’d never had to track prey or follow scat trails or interpret the potential growth of fruit trees by the speed of the wind and the brightness of the stars. She knew enough about navigating through nature to get by, and the only person she was interested in, and knew how to track, was her sister, which was a skill she’d honed to a level of needlepoint accuracy. It was second nature to her-- so much so, she actively had to fight against the urge to do so now, and it felt, a bit, like ripping off her own skin.

There had been moments of bright epiphany, sitting in the dark and muttering like a storybook witch-- a role she may have resented being cast in, once upon a time, so long ago she didn’t remember, because you spend enough time checking all the boxes for something you do, eventually, begin to accept the obvious truth over the comfortable, pillowed armor of delusion-- where the obsessive wheel of finding Mel, hurting Mel, killing Mel had dug a painful rut in her brain, only to be soothed by the balm of her sister thinking she was dead. It was, she’d realized, exceptionally freeing, but overcoming lifelong obsession was a bit like wind and rain weathering down a large, ancient mountain. To wit: it was really fucking hard. It was a long process that tenderized her brain almost as much as the arduous process of fighting the obsession in the first place.

If anyone were to have asked, Marakorum would have strongly recommended not becoming deeply, murderously obsessed with your adopted sister in the first place.

Still, even if this strange, pseudo-peaceful lifestyle was a coat that didn’t quite fit yet, she had to admit, this whole being dead thing was pretty nice. It was even nicer knowing Melinoe thought she’d killed her, which certainly was driving her mad and sick with guilt. Which was astounding in and of itself, and, Mara thought, another reason why she hated her goody-two-hooves, god’s gift to earth, pure soul of a sibling. Any pain she could cause Mel was good pain, satisfying pain, and this was particularly sweet given all she had to do was actually continue to be alive. Keeping a low profile had never been difficult-- the only two people whose attention she’d ever wanted were cold bones in the ground-- and she didn’t care enough about much of anything else to really… put herself out there, in any way.

More to the point of the moment: garnering unconscious experience in the skill of ignoring Hazel’s followers (‘kittens’ or ‘littles’ in the rare moments she was fond, ‘rats’ or ‘rodents’ 90% of the time) caused her to tune out a lot of things.

For example, Hazel had been walking along the rough, gray surface of an old, worn-down building, the stone bones of some long-ago fort, or castle, or simple foundational dais that stood the test of time better than what had been set upon it. A soft path of sandy dirt, once traveled and packed down so strongly the encroaching green could not puncture it, led them in a winding road around the outskirts of the ruin. Ahead, a decrepit retaining wall shot-through with clinging ivy was crowned by one-third of a derelict turret tower, the once winding stairs jutting out like shattered stone rib-bones of a long-slain troll, turned monolith by the cursed sun.

The key word out of that long-winded description being had.

Mara blinked, and the air next to her was empty; Hazel was fast, cat-like and nimble, and Mara had barely enough time to see its long, prehensile tail slip like a snake over a high guardwall and disappear beyond. Like moths to flame, the rats followed. Moments later, a horrible, raspy yowling split the air, sounding much like Hazel did when it was hurt or irritated, but much rougher around the edges. It was, Mara realized, a cry of pain.

For a brief moment, Mara thought it was Hazel’s; maybe the beast had run off on the smell of prey or something glittery (Hazel had assured her it could scent glimmering objects from a mile away) and injured itself; maybe it landed funny, maybe it fell on a spike, maybe it ran into something bigger and meaner and, in a fit of startled reaction had been struck or attacked.

Mara was fond of the creature, but what she was not fond of was needless risk, and wasn’t entirely keen on following Hazel into danger. For a long moment she intended to just keep walking, but after a few paces she was struck with the uncomfortable sensation of loose ends. She knew exactly what it was like to become a living ghost, haunting the narrative, whose existence was a question to the rest of the world. It was the same noose-like feeling she gleefully tossed upon her sister, so she was familiar with the opposite side of it. This side of it was chilling, and her blood spiked with anxiety.

With a huff of annoyance, she kicked up and over the guard-wall, landing on the overgrown soil beyond, and trotted off in the direction of the noises; they had continued, helpfully assisting in triangulating the location of their source. As Mara grew closer, she realized: they were not simply cries of pain, but the agonizing, weakening knell of death.

A shallow step of worn stones pushed asunder by dirt brought her up into a clearing not covered by trees, the strong sunbeams heating the world around her.

A few yards away, behind a curtain of dustmotes floating in the late-afternoon sun, Hazel sat on its haunches, its back to Mara, still but for the very end of its tail. Another raw, mooing cry, crinkled on the edges, weakly graced the air. Coming closer, Mara could smell the iron of blood.

Resting beyond the tips of Hazel’s curled paws was… Hazel. Or, another creature like her: a reptilian creature the size of a leopard or lion, with a ruff of jagged stone-like scales over a sleek body, this one flecked with azurite accents. Shards of stone crawled up its cheeks in sunbursts, and its brow was a fierce and sturdy ridge. It, too, looked like a gargoyle given animation-- though gargoyles, Mara thought, didn’t die quite like this.

It had garnered a terrible wound in its caudal abdomen, blue-shaded blood leaking out onto the ground. Its breathing came in ragged gasps, chest heaving with effort. It no longer had the strength to lift its head, but its visible eye was rolled towards them, bloodshot and strained, whites close to full moons.

Hazel tilted its head and watched it. Mara couldn’t see its expression, but it did seem… almost somber. The kittens had made themselves scarce, giving the dying creature a wide birth, popping in and out of tufts of grass and from behind stones with quiet hisses and chirrups, maybe curious, maybe nervous.

Mara exhaled, feeling a little awkward. She knew she had an odd relationship with mortality, as in, none of it really bothered her but her own. Still, she worried Hazel was affected by its dying kin, and caring about that was definitely a new feeling. Day for almost firsts, it seemed.

“We should… help it,” she said, swallowing down the word ‘kill’ for some unknown reason. Hazel was an animal. It probably understood the concept of killing over helping. The only reason it had ‘helped’ her was because of the shiny, reflective bits on her pelt.

She snorted, then, feeling unreasonably idiotic in sentimentality. “It will take a long time to die, and be very painful through it all.”

Hazel didn’t respond, save for tilting her head the other way, ears flicking. The beast on the ground lowed again.

Mara made a frustrated noise at the back of her throat. In a spontaneous moment, the source of which was unknown, she lowered her head and slipped the sharp point of her horn into the creature’s chest, between the dull scales and under the rocky, statue-like crest, and felt the strike hit home in the muscle as it tensed, shook, and grew still.

Its breathing stopped. Its eyes sat open, lifelessly turned towards the sky.

“There,” Mara said, thankfully putting a pin in the whole thing, and quickly kicking those feelings of mercy and sorrowful kinship under the proverbial rug. “Now we can continue on our way.”

Hazel still hadn’t moved. It gave a little prr-up, sounding, for all the world, sad.

Mara felt restless. She wanted to keep moving-- because moving did a hell of a job for keeping askance of her thoughts-- but she also didn’t want to hurry Hazel if it was mourning (a credence she’d only just discovered she’d had, right in that moment). She cleared her throat and raised her head, mentally counting seconds and completely unaware how much time sentimentality like this usually took.

She was just about to speak again (torn between asking if Hazel was okay or if Hazel could get on) when the creature leaned forward--

-- and stuck its teeth into the meat of its dead relations leg.

Like a tide freed, the rodents swarmed out of the woodwork, falling in upon the corpse like the rats Mara had likened them to in her head. They tickled her pasterns and squeaked and hissed, scrabbling amongst each other as they indulged in their most animalistic instincts.

Where they truly animalistic if they were animals, to start?

Mara lasted about two seconds in the vicinity before she turned to walk away, somehow not disgusted and not willing to unpack why she lacked the thought. Hazel would catch up once it was done with its… meal. And if it didn’t, well, that was on it. Mara had blood to wipe off of her horn, and the sickening feeling of the squeeze of dying cardiac muscle to file away with all the other unseemly things in her head; true to form, they ended up firmly in the corner reserved for when she found her sister.