A Picture of the Heart

Nameless cautiously worked his way from branch to branch back to the signpost. The journey was painfully slow; several times, he’d nearly tossed the torch and abandoned the human to his fate. And each time, the thought of Leadbelly’s wrath kept him moving along until his destination. Scanning the area, he ensured no prying eyes were watching before dropping from the canopy and thudding to the ground.

I don’t believe it! Dropping the torch, he haphazardly spread the bush, ignoring the potential for remaining vines—a death sentence in most cases—and peered inside. “He’s gone,” he screeched and took to the air. And to think I struck a deal with that idiot Dungspitter for nothing! When Leadbelly's done with the human, I'll kill him myself!

His wings flapped furiously as he set out on the western path. If he was really lucky, the man hadn't come this way. After flying halfway, the thought of encountering a hidden patrol caused him to turn back. The Archers of White Chair were generally no threat, but a few could pierce a dragon Fruit from a 100 yards. If the man had chosen this path, he was likely too close to White Chair to be turned back.

If the man hadn’t gone west—and there was no way to know for sure other than finding him elsewhere—that only left north toward the village or east toward the Vale. Of course, he could have backtracked to the south, but Nameless couldn’t see what good that would do, and even if he had, that was the safest possible direction. If he’d gone eastward toward the Vale, Nameless would have plenty of time to track him down and devise a plan to turn him back. Whereas, if the man had turned north he could already be close to the village. Suppose one of his worthless brothers happened to spot the man first. If anyone delivered the news to Leadbelly other than himself—he shuddered at the thought. In that case, it'd be worse than when Dungspitter nearly caused him to drop a flaming gourd on Leadbelly’s head. The beating he’d taken for that debacle had left enough physical and mental scars for a lifetime. With renewed purpose, he shot out toward the north, and luck was on his side, as it turned out.

The man was hiding in the bushes atop the hill outside the village. Nameless’ sudden elation deflated as he remembered he had to report to Leadbelly. Shaking the thoughts away, he ascended into the canopy, the only safe place to avoid his worthless brothers at night.

As he neared the massive fire pit where Leadbelly often sat, heated air rattled the leaves. In other circumstances, it’d be an inviting place to have a nice long nap, but he had work to do. Peering down, he spotted his big-bellied leader reclining on one of the enormous stumps, and he wasn’t alone. Weurgen, Nameless spat. The repulsive smell of wet, matted fur reached his nostrils even from high above. Weurgen and Wiggletwigs were never seen together, other than at the Master's orders, which seldom brought them face to face. And yet, Leadbelly was entertaining two of the filthy mutts.

“I can’t focus!” Leadbelly cried out. “I'm practically wasting away. Are those lazy roasters trying to starve me! How much longer before the grubs are ready?” he bellowed and threw himself back against the stump like a child throwing a tantrum.

If those dirty mutts thought we were weak before, seeing that idiot act like a big fat baby certainly isn’t helping.

“It’s torturous,” Leadbelly whined.

Unbelievable! You’re making Wiggletwigs look weak!

No! Nameless yelled into his mind, forcing back the intrusive thoughts. Suddenly, he became aware of his racing heart and his talons sinking into the branch. Have…to…keep…control. Although he couldn’t see them, he knew his yellow eyes were likely streaked with red. His heart raced, and his breathing was shallow and fast. Shaking the inciting thoughts away, he filled his mind with thoughts about delicious grubs, beating Dungspitter for fun, or getting a proper name; anything other than the Weurgen and Leadbelly.

“I want to rip them apart and suck the juice,” Leadbelly continued. “You maggots, hurry and get those grubs roasted, or you’re gonna be sorry,” he yelled over his shoulder.

The only thing Leadbelly had a more challenging time controlling than his bloodlust was his gluttonous appetite, hence the potbelly. The leader of the Wiggletwigs was unpredictable at the best of times, but he was even worse while hungry. Therefore, it was best to try a more tactical approach. Scurrying along a long branch southward, he stopped over a small fire at the edge of camp, where two roasters sat on the ground, holding long sticks full of grubs over the fire. Suddenly, the smell hit him, and his mouth watered uncontrollably. Turning away, he closed his eyes tightly and took a few deep breaths. Why am I here? Right, the human. I need to hurry. The thought of the man entering the village before he warned Leadbelly instantly quenched his greedy appetite. Refocusing, he dropped to the ground near the roasters.

“I’m here for Leadbelly’s portion.”

“That’s not your job, Nameless,” one of the roasters said.

“Didn’t you hear him yelling? He told me to get him some grubs.”

“You think we’re fools?”

“You arguing with Leadbelly’s orders?” Nameless asked. “Especially when he’s hungry for grubs? Fine, I’ll tell him you refused and enjoy the show as he smashes your beak in the dirt,” he said, making a show of turning and walking away.

“Wait,” the roasters called.

Nameless walked a little farther.

Nameless smiled to himself and turned back.

“What are those Weurgen doing in the camp?” one of the roasters asked as he placed a few grubs into a wooden bowl.

“How am I supposed to know?”

“You’re the one delivering grubs.”

“Unlike you, I’m not stupid enough to ask questions about things that aren’t my business. Are these all the grubs you have?”

“And those,” Nameless said, nodding at the full bowls near the fire.

“Our portion, you nasty newt. You know the rules: roasters serve themselves, Leadbelly, then everyone else.”

“You want to send a half-full bowl of grubs to Leadbelly? You two are asking for a beating, but it’s no skin off my hide.”

Even if they suspected him, they couldn’t afford to be wrong. Of course, they could ask, but while Leadbelly was hungry, they couldn’t guarantee how he’d react. Not to mention that no Wiggletwig in their right mind—other than Leadbelly, apparently—wanted to be anywhere near a Weurgen. So, choosing the safer of the two options, they filled the bowl.

“You will tell Leadbelly that we were the ones who gave up our grubs?”

“Of course,” Nameless said before heading off. Once sufficiently away, he stopped in the shadows, snickered, and munched the extra grubs. After sating his greedy appetite, he shook the juice from his beak and approached Leadbelly.