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Bruised-Eye Dusk

Rugg was ready to turn back and try to make Ganvill when a bright dot of light appeared through the churning murk of the storm: a campfire. Never trust a light too bright in a dark hole, the speaking goes, but then he smelled roasting meat. And then he heard the flute. A sweet, sad little song, a flutter of music. Bone flutes had a tone distinct from those carved of wood or reed; lonelier, somehow. A sweet breath of music sighing out to the wild.

Rugg kept finding his eyes drawn to a tattoo on Win’s hairless taut belly: a broken circle.
Autumn Still Has Its Migrations

Lungfish clambers across the beams, working his fingers like centipede legs. Descent is more of a problem of logic than it is physical, finding the right angle to seek out the grip points in the stone. This hidden room is his alone, the door locked and unopened for years—his space, away from Priest and bibles and hauntings. On first discovery, the walls had been bare except for the curious scrawling "here I dwell with Onan" above one of the cracks, but Lungfish has improved the space—birds of North Africa fly in coloured chalk around each slant of light black storks trailing their twig legs behind them.

Lungfish knows this story. As he cowers, his skin sticks and unsticks from the window’s frozen panels.
From the Archives:
A Once and Future Reckoning
The “dragon” was not what Artur had expected.