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The bird was returned to its roost, its feathers dried and its belly filled with seeds. Malta was not so lucky - she had been late, and Yisette hadn't been happy with that, or the quality of what she'd managed to get for her as she'd hustled back. Malta knew the second part wasn't - couldn't be - her fault, but she took the yelling anyway, and the extra chores, and the complaining.

Because overall, she'd had a good day. She'd met an acolyte, who had been so nice to her, and the rain had stopped and what did that mean. She wanted to make sure the spirits knew how grateful she was for even that change in her fortune, even though she would probably never see Zekiel again.

But was that so bad, if her fortune was changing? Her mind caught details, so she'd never forget him. No, that was not bad at all.

It poured upon the swamps of Yael that day, and the rain would likely continue long into the night. Malta couldn't remember if it had ever rained this much in the city, though surely the weather patterns wouldn't be that variable across the island. It didn't matter – either way, there was work to do in the rain, work that the farmhands eschewed. Malta didn't exactly like it herself, but she knew she was much less likely to be harassed in it.

Malta finished carrying the manure to the pile out back. That would be bagged and sorted later to be sold, though gods knew why someone would want the rank-smelling stuff. Malta had heard that it was used in gardens, and some of her books said so as well, but she couldn't believe it. How could she? Plants, after all, smelled sweet and woody. Not at all like... that.

Next up in her list of chores was preparing the feed for Detty – Detraeus, the monstrous Janarim from the mainland. She hesitated before entering the commissary, peering into the door warily. Sometimes, in the rain, the ranch hands lingered here, taking their pick of the animal's food. It was not for them, of course – never for them – and if Yisette caught them she'd have their hides. But they weren't worried. And they worried her.

And there they were, rough sorts of men and women, eating from cut fruit and vegetables and drinking from flasks at their hips. They laughed and Malta shivered at the thought of going near such threatening people, but Detty needed his food, as did other animals. These workers certainly would not do it. They didn't do anything unless they had to. Malta swallowed her nerves and strode in, picking up an empty bucket into her hand as she walked. She chose quickest path she could manage to reach her goal – the meat larder and the cutting table. Perhaps, she thought, if she moved fast enough, no one would notice her.

“Hey, it's the girl,” she heard – so much for that hope. “Hey, girl!” She tried to ignore them.

“Hey, chubby!” She moved faster.

“Lardy-girl, we're talking to you!”  She winced as a projectile was flung into her back – a fruit pit. She glanced looked back at their smirking faces, and moved faster.

“Don't you know it's rude to ignore your betters?” One of them spat on the floor. “Come over here, let's see your face.”

Malta shook her head and grabbed a piece of carcass and the old, sharpened carving knife.

“Still ignoring us, huh,” one of them said. She didn't look up, but she could feel them moving over to her, a presence like shadows on her soul. She focused on cutting the meat, trying not to shake too much. “Busy little bee, aren't you.” She could feel them close, now.

“Look at us.” Malta refused. A callused hand grabbed her chin and forced her to look up at one of them – a man with a scar on his face like the mark of a claw. Her knife slid at the force of it, narrowly missing her own hand. “Ooooh, hey. She's actually fair' pretty, look!”

Malta managed to free herself and focused on the meat, her ears burning. She did not resume cutting.

“Really? Then what's she doing here in this dump?”

“You think the missus is using her? You know, in that way?”

“Nah, she's into the menfolk.”

“Not you, ratty.” Laughter. Crude laughter.

“Not fair,” one of them grumbled, Ratty, Malta presumed. She didn't know them, and she didn't want to know them. She hastily moved the meat scraps to the bucket, trying not to shake.

“You know, I hear she's an orphan.”

“Yeah, so?”

“From the city.”

“So?”

“Well, if she's this pretty, maybe she were a whore before this, eh?”

Malta blushed deeply, a fluttering fear building in her gut even as she developed a queer awareness of the knife in her hand. That awareness scared her even more.

“Would make sense.”

“Well, girl? Are you a whore?”

Malta shook her head, and she knew that was a mistake. The better plan would have been to stay there and take the ridicule. Quietly. But now they knew they had her.

“No? Really?”

“I think she's lying, Sorek,” said one of them, his voice leering.  “Maybe one of us should take her for a spin and see...”  He grabbed her arm and Malta froze, terrified. She could feel every bit of the knife's handle in her palm. Thoughts of its sharpness crossed her mind. She resisted the strange urges that touched her instincts like vile whispers, her heart pounding like a small creature. She grit her teeth, listened, and waited for whatever came next. His grip tightened – she dared not look at him, at any of them. “Ooh, she's soft. Soft and fleshy. Pretty and young... I wouldn't mind...”

A slap rang out, and the pressure on her arm fell away.

“No,” said a female voice.

“Aww, come on Cinth. It was just going to be a little fun, and she's probably not much good for much else any...”

“No. Friends, that's a little too far. Look at her – she's but a child. Pick on girls your own age, Rat.” Malta didn't dare to breathe, sighs of relief or no, even as the tension began to ease.

“Eh.” Suddenly, they were moving away. She glanced up and watched them move back to their spot in hr peripheral vision. She finished cutting the meat with haste, filling the bucket and covering it with a dirty cloth. She hurried out of the door, tensing as she moved by them. She tried to pretend that the feeling of hands on her rump didn't happen as she passed them, and that she didn't hear the jeers that followed her into the rain. She let the pitter-patter of raindrops block them out.

In the outside and the rain, everything was grey – grey and strangely safe. Animals huddled in their shelters, watching her dully as she moved briskly past towards Detty's paddock. It was the biggest one, and he was in it all alone. He watched the rain glumly as he curled up in his own shelter, but when he heard her he unfurled himself and roared, stomping in the mud.

She laughed, feeling the muscles of her face relax. “Hello there!” she said.  “I'm sorry I took so long!” He huffed and snarled, pacing impatiently as she ducked under the fence with her bucket. She waited until his pacing slowed and he stilled. She knew he watched her as she came closer, and she watched him, ever aware of his might and sharp claws. She also knew that he had allowed her close before, and would allow her close again. She feared his sharp claws far less than she feared the ranch hands.

She tossed him the meat. “I was delayed,” she explained. “There were people, and they wanted to... um...” She hesitated. “Talk to me.”  He picked the meat up off of the ground and swallowed it with ease. “But they got bored of me.” She hoped.  “You don't get bored of me, do you?” His stance was stiff as he waited for the next scrap of meat, but it relaxed slightly as she spoke. He liked the sound of her voice, she'd found.

She threw him another cut of meat. “I'll try to stay interesting, Detty,” she said.  “For you... ah!” She held back her yelp as the next meat scrap slithered slimily out of her hands to the ground. “Let me just get that...” she said, crouching.

Suddenly, there was a loud, crunching sound and a sense of something massive and warm near her. A wafting smell of beast and blood and something foreign – sandy and dry like nothing on Yaeli – reached her nose. She looked up to see that Detraeus, this massive predator who could eat her whole, was right there, looking at her from barely a foot away. She picked up the meat and stood slowly, feeling his warm breath on her hands. She stood there for a moment, heart pounding, before gingerly offering him the meat. He took it from her hands daintily and then wolfed it down. She could smell the blood and meat on his breath, could see the yellowed ivory of his fangs in intricate and brutal detail. “U-um...” Nervously, she offered him more. Again, he took it. Again, he did not eat her. Another emotion joined her (perfectly reasonable) fear – awe. He was so beautiful up close, and he was so terrifying. But beautiful, still.

She fed him slowly and carefully, too wary to turn her back on him. Too wary, and unwilling. “Oh... I'm out,” she said, showing him the bucket. He sniffed it, sticking his nose inside as if it might be hiding secrets, still. “D-do you want more?”  He huffed, once and lay down, looking at her for a moment. The shelter was inadequate, and both were soaking wet. She felt that wetness like she felt his eyes staring at her, and into her, and through her. The cold and the wet and the eyes all pierced her, and she felt like she was being judged.

He leaned his great head forward, and nudged her with his nose. “O-oh!” she said, blushing a little. She held out her hand, carefully, gently, following a compulsion she knew was a terribly great risk. He did not move.

Her hand touched his nose, the palm settling on the soft flesh. She felt the moisture of his nose, the heat of his breath. He watched her steadily.

She pet his nose, timidly. “Don't b-bite my hand off, o-okay?” she whispered, as he began to rumble softly. “I-I like my hand.” She stroked his nose, but didn't dare go further. His skin was rough and scaly, moist only at his nostrils. The water belonged there, she thought, and not on the scales surrounding. He was a creature of the dry places, a monster of the mainland, a warbeast born to kill and rampage... And he was letting her pet his nose.

She felt... happy.

“Well, well well.”

Malta jerked her hand back and tensed at the crooning voice, though she tried to calm herself – it would be bad if she showed fear in front of Detraeus. But he was distracted, his body tensing as well even as he stood with deadly, liquid grace and moved to Malta's side.

Yisette was watching them from a fence, hood up against the rain and a drink in her hand. “Looks like you have some kind of rapport with big ol' beastie here.”

Detraeus growled at her, all rumbling and restrained power. Right next to her. Within reach, though Malta dared not touch him now.

“That's good. He's a hard one to train, you know. Really willful.” Yisette shrugged in exasperation, “Won't take the whip well, won't follow my commands...” She smirked, a nasty expression blooming on her face.  “So it looks like you'll be good for something after all, girl,” she said.  “Come over here, and we'll talk about it.”

Malta didn't think she had a choice. She took a step forward, only to feel Detraeus's large bulk blocking her. He rumbled, not quite a growl, and stared at her with his inky eyes before turning them on Yisette.

“It's okay,” Malta said, pushing at him gently. It may well have been foolish to do so, but it seemed the right thing to do at the time. “I think... I think things will be okay.”  She looked at him and tried to sound convinced. “I'll be back soon, okay?”

The janarim looked at her a moment, and then pulled back, watching every step she took out of his pen, his eyes never leaving her until she was fully out of view.