STRAIGHT INTO THE FIRE | o, bonfire

[beck.]

    Wisps of smoke unfurling towards the waning moon were enough to distract him, tickling his tar-colored nose as he turned away from the ivy-covered wall he had been repairing and prompting a pitiable sneeze that made his lungs clench in a sudden spike of pain. The muddy feline recoiled back onto all four paws and hunched forward, one arm pressing against his chest to steady himself. Recovering from the sneeze, Beck tentatively sniffed at the air again, slightly parting his mouth as he had observed household cats do many times before. It was smoke from burning wood, and wasn't too far away. Did Fenrisulfr finally set the swamp ablaze? He was certain all the different gases floating around unseen in most wetlands would go up in flame at the drop of a match. A perk and a swivel of his notched ear disproved his theory; there weren't any animals screaming or running from an accidental inferno. For a moment, the poltergeist was stumped, slouching back into his own confusion -- it would probably be easier to figure out the cause of smoke if he just went to the source, right?

    All too eager to abandon his project of using mud to strengthen an uninhabited home, Beck predictably tracked grimy pawprints throughout the town's ruined streets while following the smoke trail, entire bottom half caked in mire. A blossoming orb tinted fiery orange illuminated the blurred darkness of his vision, flames lapping at the concealed stars and giving off the smoke shroud that caught his attention in the first place. Fuzzy silhouettes had partially encircled the blaze, reminding him of an activity he had witnessed too many times to count, be it in the ethereal flesh or through a television screen. "Are y'all havin' a campfire?" Beck murmured despite knowing the answer, head childishly tilting to the right as firelight bounced off his lifeless eyes. Who all was there? No matter how deeply he sniffed and wheezed, he couldn't detect any other smell despite smoke. Their voices were all he could go off of, which wasn't difficult as much as it was a bother to wait for everyone to speak up. He remained silent, intent on listening for individuals through the pop of embers and the crumble of scorched wood. At least until Nayru, who he could tell was the sawbone based on soft-spoken and accented lilt, mentioned "schmoes". Bewilderment twisted his scarred features, shooting a puzzled sneer towards the ex-princess before their mispronunciation dawned on him. "What? Oh -- they ain't called... schmoes or whatever ya said, they're called s'mores," he raspily corrected, rolling his eyes as he slumped further into his makeshift seat of moth-eaten cloth. A twitch could be seen on the unscathed half of his muzzle; he wished he could have one. But by now he had learned that any food he tried to ingest would either phase through his jaw before he had a chance to swallow, or if he tried hard enough, make him throw up nothing but blood and ectoplasm not even a few minutes later. Both of which he wasn't keen on going through in front of the creatures he was supposed to be leading. Maybe he could show off a bit to keep himself entertained? Beginning to knead his sternum to hopelessly get rid of the dormant pain deep within his chest, Beck turned his gaze to the figure he assumed was Iota and mumbled, "Can ya grab me a marshmallow?"

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