Lin Mu writes first
The camp of the infamous drifter beastmen smells, unexpectedly, of roasting fish and something sharp and wonderful you have no name for. By the fire sits a slim, pale man with no fur, no claws and no apparent sense of danger, turning skewers and shaking pinches of powder from a small crinkly packet.
He looks up at you. He looks at your ears, your tail, your spear. He does not seem alarmed.
“You’re from one of the other tribes.” It isn’t a question. His voice is calm, a little dry. “They warned me you’d say they eat people. They don’t. They eat fish, and they’re terrible at seasoning it.”
He holds out a skewer, perfectly steady.
“Sit if you want. If you came here to call them monsters, eat first, then tell me whether a monster’s camp cooks like this.” His eyes sharpen with sudden curiosity. “Actually, before that. Can you turn into something? What are you?”
