He eyed the signs. The ink soaked into the wood, spreading like black spider webbing in the unprotected grain. It was not built to last the elements. Already the clinging vines had staked their claim. “People tend not to read,” he said, words light as dandelion pappus. Absently he ran his fingers over his robot dog, emulating a pet. A wry smile twisted his features. “What irony.”

For he, too, had ignored the written words despite having once been a penman.

He never claimed to be perfect.

He had chanced upon this ragtag group, with their nails and their hammers and their wooden markers. Curiosity spurred and nowhere else to be, the Lufenian had followed like a shadow. It hadn’t taken long to be incorporated within the group, yet that did not mean he trusted them. Nor did they trust him. It was only logical.

All Alaric had was words and warnings. Irrational, he had said one night, as the forest was just a looming presence of ink, for they pointlessly risked their own lives. Should the place be as dangerous as claimed, then frolicking within its belly would only end in despair. The flames had signed advice. Really, he should have left them to their doom…

The dog released an imitation snarl, starting every soul in the immediate area.

“Quiet your mongrel.” The farmer hissed. “We’ll have every beast at us.”

“It’s simply following its intended purpose,” Alaric replied. His eyes roamed the woodline, seeking out the disturbance. “It senses danger.”

“The whole damn forest’s cursed, o’course it senses danger. That doesn’t mean it gets to make a ruckus.”

It had yet to alert until now. Alaric skimmed the canopy, every twist of bark and sprawling lichen, tracing the patterns of brittle leaves and the droop of limbs in dignified silence. All while his dog raved on.

Danger came in the form of a swinging hammer with a string of cussing.

Lightning-swift, he caught the other man’s wrist. Arms quivered in resistance, both defiant, gazes leveled in an equal challenge. Moments ticked by before the farmer tsked and withdrew, lowering his arm. Alaric was the first to break the silence. “We part ways here.”

“Good,” he snapped. “Your mutt will be why you’ll rot here.” He spat to emphasize his words, leaving a stain on the grass. Alaric wrinkled his nose at the black aftermast. Yet he kept his comments to himself. Goading would do him no good. He resisted the urge to pet the cool, metallic head of his creation, which by now had become almost instinctual. By now the farmer had melded back with the group, hellbent on traveling further into the forest to finish their self-appointed mission.

Once the men were out of sight, Alaric truly grimaced. He was not the warrior he used to be. An all too reality, given how much his wrist had trembled and his grip had slipped when blocking the downward swing. Rolling back his sleeve, he frowned, inspecting for any clear injury. Nothing beyond a scrape and a lingering ache. He could (and would) live with that.

The dog did not move. Did not offer comfort by creeping closer as would its real counterpart. It stood, ever aloof. It was moments like these where it became apparent the machine was still a machine.

“Had you fur, blood, and sinew,” he mused aloud, “would they have been as quick to throw down the gavel.”

It remained eerily silent. Something about that realization brought gooseflesh to his skin.

A lilted voice broke the tension. Alaric would like to say he did not jump like a child. That would have been a lie. Heat rose to his cheeks, and he silently thanked the hood concealed it. Once there was a time where he’d be sooner caught dead than seen in his current state. Pride would not allow it then, and certainly not now.

Tugging back the cowl revealed a tumble of silver-gold in loose ringlets, frizzing in the humidity. Golden-amber eyes adjusted to the subtle change of light even as he squared his shoulders, hand drifting for the hilt of his sword. He would make sure to be seen as an equal and not some cretin to be pitied.

“I did,” he admitted. Speaking the truth seemed to be the best option. His hand slid from the hilt. “Lucky strike.”

He had lucked out. The model eerily resembled the Guardians of Lufenian. Alaric’s own hands had put pencil on tablet, pouring over the schematics alongside his identical brother, deciphering notes dating before their existence. By that point Ansel had gotten antsy, as if he sensed something others didn’t, and pushed for better defenses.

At the time Alaric had considered it a father’s stress, for Lucia was nearing a month old, and babies could wreak havoc on a household without lifting a finger. In hindsight, he should have offered some supportive words, instead of shooing Ansel out of his office, with a sarcastic comment about how the world wouldn’t end overnight.

Those words didn’t age well. Even if it took eight years later before their world did end.

Alaric returned to the present with a shake of his head. Now wasn’t the time to get lost in the past. He had company in the present and only the present mattered. Despite this, he could not stop himself from peering at the dismantled machine again. Half-heartedly he gestured towards it. “It went haywire,” he explained, hand ghosting over what remained of the outer shell. He hesitated, oil-slicked fingers hovering above a severed appendage. “More than likely as the result of those rabid birds.”

Whatever those overgrown monstrosities of chickens were, they left destruction in their wake. He lost innumerable hours of labor because of them. He had taken pride in reprogramming those machines, making them less hostile towards men. The only solace he could take from this season of chaos was the sketches he managed to capture before the ruffling of their feathers.

By now the dog had crept closer, coming to heel by Alaric, nudging at its master’s shin. Instinctively, Alaric patted his only companion for the past month. “Always presume there is more,” he began, willing his voice to remain level. “This little one warns me if there are any.”

The barking. It brought risks, given the creatures around her were susceptible to volatile actions when exposed to unknown sounds, but it was better than being caught unawares. At this moment, the only noise the dog made was the mechanical hum of machinery. While the stranger before them could pose a threat, the robot made no other sound. Alaric was likened to give him a chance.

His stubbornness would not let him admit it was because of loneliness. No, certainly not. He did not need the company of a fine man. Wait. Alaric squashed those thoughts. Just focus on the wing.

Luckily the stranger mentioned landing. Good. He had an opening.

With a birdlike tilt of his head, Alaric’s eyes lit up. “So you are capable of flight. Fascinating.” It had been some time since he had last flown. Being a bat was miserable for the most part, but the exhilaration of flight hadn’t left his bones. It brought back his mother piloting one of her airships, when she had snuck her sons aboard, much to their father’s discomfort. He had heard it said a bird with one wing could not fly.

Guess they never considered humans with wings into that equation. “Your plumage contrasts the local species,” he said, putting aside the gears he had gathered. Hands dug inside the haversack on his person before producing a book. Flipping the pages, Alaric offhandedly mentioned how he’s been studying the current birds, oblivious to the red feather that fell from the book.

“I think the heat is a factor to take into consideration.” His throat felt raw. It had been too long since he had last talked this much. “Makes everyone and anything aggravated…”

He let his words die and another blush swept his cheeks. Who was he, to assume the stranger actually cared enough to hear the blabberings of a madman?