There was a dark figure crouched at the far edge of the clearing, cloaked in shadow despite the pale blue light. It was impossibly thin, with limbs far too long to be normal. The creature’s skin was mottled and bumpy, almost fungal. Its bulbous head and flat face suddenly tilted with a jerking motion—zeroing in on him. “You hate them,” it said in perfect Standard, its voice harsh and unsettling. “So proud. So sure of themselves.”
Chekhov's Gun fired again
