nside a way station, on a seldom than oft traveled trail, an old man cleans a well kept, oak-top bar. It's not the busiest of places. The road outside is not exactly the Silk Road. It's more a Burlap Drive constructed in a gravel similar to murram. The nearest village it runs through is small and pretty much self sufficient. For the most part. Any merchants that hap this way are either infrequent suppliers of fine goods, just passing through, or those with regularly scheduled delivery, like animal feed or packages and post meant for a particular address. Still, there's enough traffic that passes by to keep him busy. And the locals like it, for a good sit down or a break in the hunt.

All in all there's worse places to eat. The food here is hearty. The place itself, clean enough. If you ask any locals to describe the place they'd probably give you a short retort, "It's dark and it's quiet and the roof doesn't leak." Upon entering ones first impression may be that there's a musty, yet hospitable, air to the place. Similar to what you might get from an older, loved relatives abode. It's a scent that hits you in a physical way. Stale beer and wine intermingles with an aromatic smokiness. Hickory and cherry with a slight hint of applewood. There's a slight tang of mildew or maybe just really old wood floors. Overpowering all of that, is the thick, sweet, gamey scent of freshly cooked lamb. That, thankfully, lingers longer on the senses than the smell of swamp, leather and sweat, left wafting behind by the previous crowd.

The heavy ebony door opens with an aged creak and a forceful rush. Tiny airborne flecks flitter on the sudden gust, sparkling to life in a tunnel of light.

The man behind the bar hides his eyes from the encroaching glare. Squinting to catch a look at the sudden interruption. Whatever it is, it's big. And a little imposing.

He realizes just how tall, when the visitor's standing right before him and he needs to strain his neck to look them in the eyes. 'Weird eyes,' he thinks, 'nice, vibrant, different colors, but odd.' But he's seen stranger things in his days.

"Welcome to the Bye," The old man greets, "I'm Jasper. What can I do you for?"

There's a downward movement followed by a solid thump, as eighty five pounds of deer meat are, unceremoniously, dropped on the counter. "How much lodging will this get?" The traveler asks.

"Hmmm. Three days, with meals."

"How much if I sleep out back, just meals?"

"I could do... seven days. Maybe eight."

"When's dinner?"

"You gotta name?"

"A name, Yes. Manners, apparently not so much anymore. I'm, Em'a."

"Well Em'a, dinner should be up in an couple of hours. It's fish and potatoes. Fresh caught."

"See you then," she says cordially, then, as if hearing a mother ask, 'what do you say?'... "Grazie."

"Prego." the old man chimes.

She makes her way outside, shutting the door behind her, following the cart path around to the back of the inn. She gets her bearings and searches for just the right perch.

There. About twenty feet up.

Perfect Y in good thick branches.

Nice branch above.

Moderately thick canopy below.

Good visual field.

She climbs her way up, rather easily. Lays out the netting and starts tying it off. A proficient dance ensues as she assembles her roost. And in just a few minutes she's giving it final looks. The netting is taut, her bedroll unfurled. Her pack lashed to the tree. There's a canvas roof suspended three feet up, with rope guides to the trunk and branches above and below, finishing off her bedroom of the next seven days. She lays out her blankets, finds a place for her bow and does a quick scan. Satisfied with the view, and the cover, she retrieves her mother's journal and sits for a read. She's home. But then again, she's home anywhere she goes.

With the worst of the set up done and a light skim of the journal complete, she decides on a bit of a nap.

Her memories reshape and play. The pictures remind her of who she is, what she's seen and who she's met. The Rangers who where going 'that way'. For three years. Her Mother. Always her mother. Still there, right where she said she'd be all those years ago. The people she helped protect from dangers, be they animal or human, or some combination of both in nature. The wind shifts. Something gently pulls at her. Her stomach awakens as the scent around her changes.

It's dinner time. She opens her eyes and gives a quick look and notices Jasper, sitting on a small table out back, with a couple of mugs and plates and a platter full of food. Out of the tree she bounds, like a gazelle across the savanna. Landing quietly, but surprisingly deep, in the loam. She stretches and shivers a life into her bones and makes her way over to the quiet old man.

"Figured you more for an al fresco type eater. Have a seat. If you don't mind the company."

"I don't know the company well enough to mind him or not."

"Well, looks like I've got that going for me."

"Or not." she jokes.

The conversations they have over the next few days run the gamut between personal histories to recipes. Em'a reminisces about her mother and quips about a few of the, more slapstick than earnest, adventures of a certain group of oddballs, that she had the privilege to share in the making of. She even imparts how she came to be. Which Jasper considers to be a distinct honor. He, outlandishly, tells of some of his adventures. With dramatic aplomb. She gets the feeling that, even though he may be over embellishing, the stories are not too far from the truth. Just more colorized and animated in their telling.

They find themselves, more and more each day, working side by side. Fixing up the inn, gathering wood for the smoker and kitchen, or just generally mending things that need a bit of tinkering. Or requiring some extra muscle. They even leveled the path to the entryway and laid down some new slabs of stone.

Dinner turned to breakfast. Breakfast became days. Days drifted passed with a steady flow. And still, she didn't mind the company.

In the twilight of the fifth day, while gathering firewood, something catches her eye. And garners her attention. Foot prints. Not just any footprints though. These are long and wide. Around two feet, by eight inches. Heavy in the dirt. Three long clawed toes extend up front, the back pad is long and thin and a fourth almost talon like protrusion extends off the back. She follows them, as they ess their way away from the road then back towards it. The sun's breaking as she's pulled across to the other side. The pattern repeats. After feeding her fancy, for almost an hour, she makes her way back to her tree. There's a decision to be puzzled. She already knows the answer but she's not going to miss out on breakfast.

She puts her gear by the table and goes to the well to get a bucket of water. She's filling the second glass when Jasper walks up, two plates in hand. Pork and potatoes. A good breakfast fare.

He notices her pack, sitting by her chair, looks up to her roost and sees it gone.

"You're leaving."

"It's what I do."

"And what exactly is that?"

"This."

"You bring food to people you don't even know, help them out, fix things up and then leave."

"That's one way to look at it."

"And another way would be?"

"Finding a place to rest my head and some food in my belly. And not being a skritback by abusing somebody else's hospitality. Getting some exercise. And keeping busy... Until my credits done or in this case, something 'Interesting' comes along."

The old man leans in, rubbing at a two day old growth on his cheeks. "And I guess it found you."

"Second time actually. First was about two, three months back. There was a bit of... mayhem, left behind. Methodical devastation really... Might be a story there. Might be a fight."

He smiles at the playful tone in her voice. "And which one do you want it to be?"

"A good story, would be nice... Ah. Who the hell am I kidding, I'd be happy with either one. I just won't know which one it'll be til I get there."

"So. What makes this thing, interesting?"

"Reptilian footprint, with a rear talon. Serpentine track-line. Following the road. In an S shape. Then, nothing. Then they reappear, in the weirdest of places. Eats off the vine. Buries it's waste."

"Doesn't sound like anything I've ever tracked. Makes me wish these ol' bones could keep you up."

"I'll tell you the story, about the story or the fight. When I return."

"So you're comin back?" he asks, with a tinge of hope on his words.

"Well, I do still have two days of food coming."

"Three or four actually, Good. Let's eat... A fare thee well, a good journey and a welcome return... If you do this all the time, how many other places do you have credit?"

"A few. But only a couple I wish to return to."

Twenty something miles, or thirty five klicks if you're so inclined, south of what used to be Innsbruck, in the high passes of the alps, she lost her track. This creature is cunning. But she has an idea which way its heading. And she likes this game of big cat-little cat. Without hesitation she climbs up a tree, to better see the landscape ahead. Her eyes follow the path of the road, she finds an end to the bend and changes course. A short cut. 'Should make up an hour's travel.' A few minutes later she quietly leaps from a ledge, alighting on the edge of the road. Between the hardpack and the high grass.

Particulates of red still dot the air, flitting along on even the gentlest shift of the breeze. 'Somebody else is on this road too. Hmm... Is that what you're following? Or are you just migratory? Nomadic?'

She makes her way back into the thicker growth. Paralleling the course set in the absence of trees. It's an easy enough route to see. This path here is wide enough for three wagons to ride side by side. She climbs up several more trees along the way. Looking for changes in the roads direction. Finding the shortest routes from one bend to another. Noticing the air getting thicker with kick up the neare she gets to her chase.

The sun is taking on an amber hue. The woods break. There's a valley on the right side. The air ahead is still heavy with dirt but it's settled to just below the knees. The winding red road smooths out and turns east. Disappearing back into the forest a good distance ahead. Looking further to her left she can see a trace of it, as tiniest bits of color tint the horizon, just above the treeline.

'If I head for that second bend I should just catch up by nightfall.'

'Best not get too close yet.'

'Just make that ridge. Get ahead of them on the straight. Looks like good vantage.'

She makes a beeline, south easterly, toward a ridge just around and passed where she thinks the convoy is now. As she makes her way across a fairly wide stream something in the mud, on the opposite bank, catches her attention. A disturbance in the leaves. More footprints. Not the ones she's following but definitely skulking in the same direction.

Six. Bipedal. Shoddy footwear. Too deep to be human.

And there you are my friend.

Wonder who's following who.

Or who's following who who's following who?

Well Em, this just got a whole lot more fun.