There is something here, Nonaa'.

Nonaarama glanced at Ryruraan at her whisper of sending. She caught his eyes on her, and continued.

Something like Rane, I think.

He turned his glance on the dragon, who had one head avidly listening to their guide, one head staring past the glass partition separating them from the medical-looking room beyond, and one head keeping Ryruraan in the corner of her eye. They had managed to secure a tour, with some elfin-looking underling dispatched to show them around and tell them about the places they weren't allowed to actually visit. Rane seemed to be enjoying herself, despite her residual nervousness.

Nonaarama couldn't imagine what there might be in this place that was like Rane. She was... fairly unique. At least in his experience.

Not like her, like that. Something-- broken. Hurting. Nonaa, will you look for me?

He blinked dark eyes at her, puzzled. For her?

I can't leave Rane. She'll worry that I won't come back, and she'll stop enjoying herself.

Ah.

I'll make sure the guide doesn't notice you're gone. And I'll make sure you don't forget what you're looking for.

Aaaaaah. So that was how she wanted him to look. Well, he might be less likely to be turned away, locked out, or even seen, like that. He caught her eye again, and nodded faintly, his answer. He would go, seek out her broken one. He hadn't changed in a long time, and as Ry' always managed to convince him to change back-- always found him, if he ran away-- he didn't even need to worry about doing so.

When she looked back at him and nodded, back, Nonaarama let go of the shape he usually wore and flowed into another, one of her favorites. It was painless, his own wild magic making the change smooth and easy, muting any sounds there might have been of shifting bones and reordering muscles. It was unobtrusive, no flashes of light, no pop of displaced air, nothing to announce that a change had been made.

He shook himself vigorously, settled into a new shape, and tested the air instinctively. He immediately found the familiar and beloved scent that was Her, but a pale gray hand waved him subtly away when he approached to lick the fingers there. When he butted Her hip instead, She obligingly stroked his forehead briefly, but then gave him a gentle shove away. She was busy. There were others with Her, and so She couldn't scratch him or let him put his head in Her lap. He very nearly whined.

But that was when he remembered. She wanted him to find something. He wagged his tail eagerly at the idea of a hunt-- a play hunt, though a strange new place, with new smells and new quarries. All he needed to know was what he was hunting.

And then he knew. It filled his mind like a scent, but not a scent. It was a sense, but he couldn't wrap his mind around that. He didn't hunt senses, he hunted scents. But this scent-not-scent was enough to hunt. He cast his muzzle from side to side, looking for the source of it. It was somewhere in this canyon of clear stone and chemicals. It was wounded, but there was no blood. It was alone, and tasted of salt and water and serpent scales. It was-- it was--

There it was! He took off at a lope towards the scent-not-scent, leaving Her and the others swiftly behind.

It took a long time to track this scent-not-scent. He kept getting distracted: led off track by a real scent he couldn't resist investigating, avoiding the various people and creatures that roamed the corridors, getting lost in the maze of tunnels. He was even once bombarded by a scent so sharp and heavy he had to flee, pawing every few steps at his burning nose, to recover his sense of smell. But he kept coming back to the hunt, reminded of it by some unquestioned and unquestioning instinct. Still, by the time he actually found what he was looking for, he was tired, he was thirsty, and he wanted to go back to the pack.

Even so, he couldn't help but be curious when confronted with the source of the scent-not-scent. Now, there was a scent to go with it. He could smell it, easily. It smelled like the bigger one who was with Her, but not. It smelled like fur and serpent and plant and salt. It smelled like pups and dens. He had no idea what it was.

Whatever it was, it was making sniffly noises under a-- an embankment of some kind? A soft and furry embankment, smelling distantly of a bleating kind of prey. The source of the other scent was flattened out beneath it, barely fitting, its muzzle buried under its forepaws. It was sniffling and whimpering to itself. It sounded like misery and lonely howls away from the pack.

He padded forward and nudged it in the shoulder with his nose. It jumped, very nearly overturning the thing it had wedged itself under. Then it blinked dark eyes at him, sniffed once, and went silent and very, very still. He could smell a faint bite of fear, and a sudden wash of sorrow, and, not wanting to scare an obviously miserable pup, or make him more miserable, he dropped to his belly non-threateningly, tail wagging just slightly. He even added a friendly whine, just to prove he meant no harm.

The pup-thing poked its head out cautiously, dark eyes watery and dripping. He wagged his tail a little more, and it stretched out its nose a little farther. "Um," it said, its voice thick. Maybe it was sick? "Are you-- um, does someone need me for something?"

He just wagged his tail and looked up at it amiably. The pup was, really, almost as big as he was, but it was obviously still that: a pup. There was something unfinished about it, young and still to be completed.

"Well, if not, you can just go away," the pup said miserably, then heaved a heavy sigh and put its head down on its paws again.

Confused, he crept forward on his belly, tail still going hopefully. The pup turned its face away and shut its eyes. He regarded it for a minute, then stretched forward to give its cheek a reassuring lick. It tasted like salt and it was wet. The pup rubbed at its cheek hurriedly. "Stop it." He licked his muzzle to get the taste off of his tongue, then licked the pup's forehead, instead, taking up a steady, pup-comforting rhythm. It squeezed its eyes shut again, then seemed to relax, letting out a shuddering sigh.

"I guess it's not your fault that you're--" It sniffled again. "--you're like Elera was." Lick lick lick. " ... only dumber," it added with a hiccoughing, almost-giggling sound.

Pleased at the slightly less sad-sick-sounding tone, he settled himself down for a good grooming. The pup smelled alone; it probably didn't have anyone to wash it. He might never have had pups, himself, but it was instinctive.

That was where She found him a few minutes later, nipping at a tangle halfway down the pup's neck. She came jogging down the tunnel, the larger packmate bounding awkwardly along behind Her, the native they'd been with before trailing along behind her. Startled, he leapt to his feet with a protective growl, and they all stopped. The pup scrambled to its feet, too, and She held up her hands soothingly.

"It's all right, Nonaa'," she crooned, approaching slowly. "It's all right. Come back now, beloved."

While the pup's words had been nothing but unintelligible noise, with nothing meaningful to be gleaned from it but the tone it was spoken with, Her words made sense. He whined, confused and still bristling protectively between them and the pup he'd found, but let her put her hands on him, smooth down his fur, scratch around his ears, until he forgot why he was angry.

And then he forgot why he was a wolf, and found himself blinking up at Ryruraan from the floor. She dropped her hands with a reserved smile. "You went running again."

"Would someone mind telling me what's going on here?"

The unfamiliar voice made them all turn, and Nonaarama saw a stranger in blue scoop up the pup-- dragon-pup, he realized now-- and glare lightly at them all. Himself, in particular. He wasn't at all sure what to say.

Ryruraan, who seemed to recognize the blue, scaled woman, smiled shyly and suggested, "Why don't we sit down somewhere and talk?"

"That," said the stranger, "sounds like a good idea."

Chapter Thirteen

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