The dogyard is quiet in a way the rest of camp never is. The constant clatter of metal, the hiss of wind through rusted fencing, the voices of the other cats moving through their wreck of a home—none of it reaches here. Only the slow panting of the hound and the creak of its chain break the silence. Ambrosi lies half-curled in the shade of the dog's flank, their breathing syncing with the rise and fall of its ribs. The ground beneath them is packed dirt scattered with old bone fragments and the faint reek of oil. It should be uncomfortable, yet here it feels different—muted, softened, almost safe. The dog shifts its great head, snout brushing the earth close to Ambrosi's paws, and the chain rattles faintly.
They open one eye, studying the beast. A creature others call a punishment, a threat, a reminder of teeth that could split a cat in half with one snap. But to Ambrosi, its voice is rough with something else—exhaustion, loneliness, a hunger that is not just of the belly. They'd spoken with it before—halting, imperfect, but nonetheless. "Not today," Ambrosi murmurs, words so quiet they might dissolve into the dog's fur. "No fight. Just sleep." The dog huffs, a low rumble that vibrates through Ambrosi's bones. They take it for agreement. With a languid roll of their shoulders, Ambrosi stretches, then presses their back against the warmth of the hound's belly. The smell of hot fur and dust fills their nose. Their mind drifts. The junkyard fades.
There is a strange comfort in the risk—dozing beside jaws large enough to swallow them whole. The RustClaws call the dogyard cursed, dangerous, but Ambrosi finds it simple, almost honest. The hound has no masks, no hidden teeth beyond the ones in its mouth. Its presence is immense, grounding, a reminder that trust can exist even where it shouldn't. The chain creaks again, a reminder that their companion is never truly free. Ambrosi shifts in their sleep, tail flicking lightly against the dog's side. Perhaps, in this pocket of silence, they can both pretend the leash is gone.
They open one eye, studying the beast. A creature others call a punishment, a threat, a reminder of teeth that could split a cat in half with one snap. But to Ambrosi, its voice is rough with something else—exhaustion, loneliness, a hunger that is not just of the belly. They'd spoken with it before—halting, imperfect, but nonetheless. "Not today," Ambrosi murmurs, words so quiet they might dissolve into the dog's fur. "No fight. Just sleep." The dog huffs, a low rumble that vibrates through Ambrosi's bones. They take it for agreement. With a languid roll of their shoulders, Ambrosi stretches, then presses their back against the warmth of the hound's belly. The smell of hot fur and dust fills their nose. Their mind drifts. The junkyard fades.
There is a strange comfort in the risk—dozing beside jaws large enough to swallow them whole. The RustClaws call the dogyard cursed, dangerous, but Ambrosi finds it simple, almost honest. The hound has no masks, no hidden teeth beyond the ones in its mouth. Its presence is immense, grounding, a reminder that trust can exist even where it shouldn't. The chain creaks again, a reminder that their companion is never truly free. Ambrosi shifts in their sleep, tail flicking lightly against the dog's side. Perhaps, in this pocket of silence, they can both pretend the leash is gone.