Howell had seen many crabs in the Overgrown Caverns before, but never one wearing a courser’s chanfron. The tarnished metal scraped on the ground as it stalked in his direction, leaving streaks of rust on the flagstones. Its small, invertebrate eyes gleamed only dully in the gloom. There was hardly any intelligence in them.

Ever cautious, Howell merely stepped out of the crustacean’s way. Surely it wasn’t after him. What need had a crab for a courser? He was hardly a threat. He was only subject to his gnawing curiosity, creeping into the Buried Kingdom’s bowels for knowledge—not for glory in battle. He would leave crab-stomping to the more bellicose dungeoneers.

Sure enough, the crab continued on its path, chanfron-shell scraping wretchedly, until it had crawled past Howell.

Keeping his hoofsteps carefully quiet, he followed it for a time, wondering about its habits. How did it hold the chanfron to its body, for instance? He had seen one denuded once, switching from one moss-snail shell to one larger, and the coiled vulnerability of its abdomen could be conjured in his mind readily. When it outgrew the chanfron, then, what would provide a suitable upgrade? A breastplate, perhaps? A bent, discarded shield? Did the crabs grow without end?

When the crab had reached the edge of a small pool, Howell halted, keeping his distance. (This one had large claws, which he did not intend to introduce to his pasterns.)

He thought it might reveal to him some feeding habit, or dig a burrow in the sodden sand—but no.

It merely slipped into the water, chanfron and all, leaving Howell to his wondering.