a diet of whatever calorie dense sludge pony express had to offer, and straight mouthwash, wasn’t good for anyone on this cursed ship.

in the tulpar’s living area, only you and anya sat, faces illuminated by the artifice of moonlight in front of you. she felt like she could breathe, at least when it was just you and her.

not that you’re any saviour, mind.

her downturned eyes, cast at her socks and sandals, rise to look at you when she hears a sniffle.

you’re not crying, thank god, but there’s something else pressing - a small trail of blood, running down your philtrum.