“You are not cutting deep enough,” he sends, matching the thought with a little image of my gourd as a stubborn rock he’s about to crack in half with his bare hands.
“Gentle,” I mutter aloud. He flicks the fiber away and leans over, setting his palm over my hand on the bone knife.
“Like this,” he murmurs, guiding the blade through the gourd with more pressure.
“Show-off,” I send, projecting an image of him with a mountain on one shoulder and a tiny gourd on the other, flexing dramatically.
His answering thought is a picture of him standing up, scooping me onto his shoulder instead of the gourd, and walking straight out of the main cavern with me like a stolen snack.
I feel my lips twitch. I fight it and lose.
“Don’t you dare,” I hiss under my breath, stabbing at the fibrous strands.
Amusement ripples toward me. “I am only husking,” he sends back, but under the words is that image again, sharpened.
Desire curls low in my belly. I bump his knee with mine.
“Later,” I think at him, making my mental voice as stern as I can manage.
In my head, he shows me an exaggerated, soulful image of himself staring longingly at the cavern entrance like an abandoned beast.
I have to duck my head to hide my laughter.
This is what I mean by “normal” now.
The shared WiFi is kind of cool. Alright, it’s hella cool.
And with that comes the fact and the realization that I…am not baseline human anymore.
If I close my eyes, I can sense the rough outlines of major tunnels by the echoes of footfalls. If I inhale deeply, I can pinpoint which direction the freshest kill is being prepared.
Sometimes, when I’m very still, I can hear Xiraxis itself, deep and slow. Like a weather system.
None of that feels as strange as it should.
Haroth passes behind with a load of meat skewers, muttering in the mindspace.
“If I eat one more strip with firebloom dust, my insides will be hotter than the central hearth,” he projects for everyone to hear.
On the other side of the fire, another Drakav perks up.
“Good,” he sends, deadpan. “Come stand over here. The drying racks need more heat, and I am tired of feeding the fire.”
Haroth grumbles something deeply uncomplimentary but doesn’t quite hide his amusement.
I set my now-husked gourd aside, wipe my hands on the jagged hem of my skirt—what’s left of my actual Earth clothes after I sacrificed the rest to create a proper loincloth for Sarven’s modesty—and lean back on my palms, stretching my sore shoulders. Muscles pull and complain.
Sarven’s attention flickers over me immediately.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.
“Later: furs. You will not move by yourself for a while after I am done.”
I swallow, my pulse doing a small, traitorous leap.
It’s ridiculous how easily he can fluster me now, when we’ve already done things that would make my past self’s brain melt out her ears. But this is different. I exhale on a half-laugh, half-sigh.
“All this,” I say aloud, mostly to distract myself, “and still no coffee. Tragic.”
