In Dire Straits

There was some sense of familiarity in this forest, as if she had existed here once before, in a past life. The dirt felt solid under her feet, slight dampness only noticeable when she dug her claws in. Perhaps her old bones had rotted here long ago, perhaps they had turned to soil and grow into grass and fed the deer that fed her mother and father.

It was soothing, somehow, to know that if she disintegrated on this spot right now, eventually she would end up right back where she was. Time was infinite. If only she had a way to spend it.

But there was something else familiar here. She had recognized the scent of her father, although she hadn't thought much of it at first. So he was here too, drawn back to his old bones just as she was. She didn't really care to hear his life story, but it made sense to touch base with the one other being she had a connection to here, as frail as that thread may be.

She tracked the scent to its source, not deigning to introduce herself when she finally reached her target. They each knew who the other was. It didn't matter. This was just a courtesy call to let him know she was alive, even after he'd left her for dead.

No hard feelings, dad.

If he’d ever known a past life, surely it had not been a great deal better than this one now. Crow had ever been the sort of creature who, when something fails, tries again with more force. Small wonder he was in a constant downward spiral, a mad old beast gnawing at its festering wounds. Every day was alike, just more violent and miserable. Every lifetime perhaps as well.

What was that Charon had said once, about filling a void? He didn’t remember. Had been a little preoccupied at the time, you know, stubbornly clinging to life as usual. Suffering whatever came his way. Dealing it back triple to the world. Curled in his den like a black wyrm, he straightened himself and peered out —

ah, here was one such filler. One in twenty of its kind, in fact. At least that’s how many children he remembered having off the top of his head. Some were probably long dead by now, the little dipshits. But not this one, fearsome as she was beautiful, Miasma’s eternal bane.

“Well then,” said Crow, stretching his front legs, “it took you long enough, Kaiju.”

And aren’t you pleased that I know your name?