4338.210 · July 29, 2018 AD
The First Walls
Beatrix delivers the first caravan, and Paul assigns it to Kain — his injured leg means he won't be running from anything, so he might as well have walls between him and whatever comes next. Henri claims the bed before the door even closes. The scent of detergent fills the air, aggressive and clean, promising something that feels almost dangerous to believe in. For the first time since arriving in Clivilius, a lock clicks into place. It's not home. But it's closer than canvas ever was.
The caravan appears like a mirage made solid — white panels catching the afternoon sun, chrome fixtures glinting, windows reflecting a sky that never stops being blue. Paul delivers it with practical logic: Kain's leg won't carry him far if something attacks, so he might as well have walls that might slow down teeth and claws.
Inside, the space is compact but complete. A kitchen with actual burners. A refrigerator that hums with potential. A double bed that Henri claims with three circles and a snort of satisfaction, apparently finding the accommodations acceptable. The smaller dog has been grieving his brother since the attack, but something in this new space seems to ease him — familiar smells relocated to unfamiliar territory, a fresh start neither of them asked for but both desperately need.
The scent of detergent hangs in the air, sharp and chemical, the smell of someone caring enough to scrub surfaces clean before handing over the keys. It speaks of preparation, of intention, of the possibility that civilisation hasn't completely abandoned them after all.
Kain moves through the space opening empty cupboards and drawers, vacancy waiting to be filled. When Paul confirms it's really his — this caravan, this shelter, this foothold — something in his chest unclenches for the first time in days.
The door has a lock. Such a simple thing. Such an impossible luxury.
He won't have to sleep wondering if canvas is enough to stop what hunts in darkness.
