Caliban

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?