Caliban

Cevin leans out over roughly-hewn guardrails. The pine needles above and around him rustle as wind passes out of the Golden Fields into his tree line. Yes, it was his. It had been weeks since anyone he knew had left to investigate the pillars of smoke. The smoke had since

Caliban backs away into the twisted facsimile of Greenwich Village, losing sight of whatever creature is pretending to be Antwohnette. “Why are you trying to abandon me, Caliban?” A voice behind him asks. Caliban slowly turns around. Standing in the middle of the street, one arm crossed to hold her

Antwohnette… the name sounds so familiar, like the memory of dream you can’t remember. The young woman’s extended hand emerges from shadow, a harsh line of darkness slicing across her wrist. “Caliban, come. We’re looking for a new home. I think we may have found it.” Home.

Caliban slinks through nighttime city streets — a warped facsimile of Greenwich Village. He stands a full story high, only remaining concealed due to his black fur which seems to absorb any light that touches his frame. How did he get here? Was he supposed to be this large? Wasn’t

Antwohnette’s feet fall heavy in the snow. Ka-chunk, Ka-chuck — each step has two points of impact: the initial step and the sinking as the snow gives way. Caliban, meanwhile, effortlessly trots along beside her, weaving among the trees. His black feet offer harsh contrast against the white. “How do

“Fox, do you think there is a place beyond these fields?” the phantom had asked one day, a time long before Reapers had dominated the Golden Fields. “I’ve spent my entire life here and haven’t found an edge,” the fox had answered, eyes glinting with something sharp and

Caliban darts between golden stalks. He knew it would come to this, he just knew it. His small, agile frame is hard to track in the dark, but he still worries the rustling grass will give his position away. Not much farther now, he thinks to himself. He bursts into

“What d’you think’s out there?” Antwohnette sits on a rickety porch propped up on makeshift stilts, staring out across an endless sea of amber grass. Caliban curls up next to her. “Trouble,” he says. Antwohnette runs her hand through his black fur. “You think it’s worth it?