In the early summer, when storms were at their most severe, the rains made a habit of washing away the kingdom’s protective blanket to reveal her intimate bones underneath. The remnants of citadels poke through the mud, their decaying ruins offering brief respite from the downpours; back then, he was small enough to fit through these fissures, but now he is much too large. He mourns what may be on the other side and can only hope to revisit the area in the future once he has the means of getting through.

From the weathered leather of his hip traps comes the incessant yapping of a small object no bigger than the width of one of his hooves, mourning the treasures they’re leaving behind with clacking latches that echo off the cavern walls. Mammet, she calls herself, is a harmless mimic his parents had brought back from the kingdom long before he’d been dropped on the grass; she was there with him when he opened his eyes and she insisted on going with him when he returned to the ruins.

He hushes her with promises of a bounty far more valuable that what’s on the other side of the rotting wall but she doesn’t stay silent for long, and though many of these corridors have been pilfered already, the kingdom would be smart to hide her spoils where so many would come through. No one would expect valuables this close to the surface; it would make much more sense for riches to be stashed away further down in the dark caverns where most would not go.

Curiosity gets the better of him and he turns back towards the ruins, much to Mammet’s chagrin, and sets to examining the loose rock in hopes he could pick his way through with a few well-placed kicks. A few bricks are easy enough to dislodge with just a nudge of his shoulder, so he turns away, brings a hind leg up, and strikes out at the crumbling wall. His foot does not come back with him.

“Great, you idiot!” Mammet clacks at him, sounding like she’s going to start laughing any moment.

He gives a few futile shakes of his leg in an attempt to free himself, but the stones only grip onto him harder, cutting into the tender cartilage of his ankle until he’s wet with blood. Mammet spits up a weathered leather pack filled to the brim with herbs which she’ll fashion together into a soothing salve once she unhooks herself from his hip straps, and he attempts to hurry her along by shoving at her until she tumbles to the ground.

Before she can mix up a salve, the clickclickclick of animated pottery tinkles from the other side of the wall. They chatter together, laugh at the stupid courser, and tickle at his sensitive ankle until he gives one final desperate yank, if only to escape their torture. The force of his retreat crumbles what’s left of the wall and the animated pots scurry away with startled squeaks.