The building bears the symbol of a cross, known as a symbol of truce and sanctuary. It is clear that those who were here gave neither. A half dozen bodies litter the steps and entryway, and more can be seen within. Flames flicker from inside, but the blaze has not yet taken hold. A push of a foot opens the door. Two of the mouselike creatures lie on the very threshold, one large and one small, riddled by multiple projectiles and many more ragged wounds from edged weapons. Then something breaks the silence: speech, unmuted and growing nearer, and with it, laughter. There is a single low snarl, followed by a jingle of a chain as No-Hands leaps up to the roof.
No-Hands held the carbine at ready as he entered the ruin through a half-fallen archway six times his height. He froze at the sound of a strange, almost buzzing voice behind him: "Leave 't b'hind or leave thiss plaze, creature of blude." He looked over his shoulder and beheld a large owl, perched in the shade of what remained of one corner. Its gaze was baleful yet disinterested. Beneath it, a group of quail foraged, wary but unhurried.
"If you would tell me what to do," the marsupial answered, "then tell me what you eat." As he turned away, there was a hooting that quickly rose to a crescendo of manic laughter. When he looked back, the bird had taken to the air, its silhouette briefly visible against a lowering sun as dull and red as the rocks of the plateau. No-Hands sneered, but slung the carbine over his shoulder as he approached the altar, carefully avoiding a spot where the dirt was far too fresh.
The far end of the ruin was almost intact, with not only the standing facade but portions of the walls and even a pair of supports for the long-vanished roof. Still, the original altar was long gone. In its place was a rough but carefully constructed sanctuary big enough for a small group. Soot and blackened rock marked where fires had been lit, though it was evident the last had been decades earlier at least. On the inside of the facade where the residue was thickest, a silhouette had been scraped away, of a profile much like No-Hands, with the mane bristling like a mohawk and the lower jaw dropped almost 90 degrees.
More creatures gathered around the altar, including another group of quail, a pair of boney rabbits, a handful of small rodents, and a single old and fattened snake. None had ventured into the sanctum. No-Hands stooped to peer inside. He drew back with an expression of consternation. Hanging from his hook by a pair of suspenders was a small child of the townfolk's kind, alive and seemingly unconcerned. His facial muscles contracted in a grimace as the youngling poked his nose in curiosity. "Tio," it said.
No-Hands set down the child and drew back at a sound from just beyond the sanctum. His own mane shot up in spiky bristles, and his jaw dropped as if unhinged as he roared. He tracked the motion more than the form of a creature that dropped down from above, crossing from one end of the facade almost halfway to the other with each terrific leap. A chorus of cries rose up when he raised his weapon, but he held his fire. Finally, he lined up his scope with the still indistinct shape, only to have his view blocked by a hurtling chunk of rubble. He lowered his weapon just as it struck him in the chest, knocking off his feet and into the patck of earth he had avoided before. It caved in immediately, and his roar echoed up as he dropped into the darkness below.
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