Page 17 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

“He enjoys exploring. Grumbletoads are very tactile-driven. He’s enjoying getting to know his new home.”

“Ah, okay.”

Fred hit the window, the wall, and the corner where the wall met the ceiling in quick succession, purring his approval with each impact.

Shaking my head, I followed Traig outside, though I glanced back once. Fred had lodged himself in the corner where two walls met the ceiling, fluttering his wings to hold his position. His grumbles echoed in the entryway.

When I turned forward, Traig was watching me.

Not Fred.

Me.

He blinked a moment, then waved for me to follow.

The enclosures stretched across the back of the property, separated by gravel paths and reinforced fencing. Some of the large pastures had shelters built into the far corners. Others were smaller, more contained, with climate-controlled sections and plexiglass panels.

Traig led me down the main path, past a pen where something with too many legs was sunbathing on a rock, though it looked much like a moss-covered rock itself. A moving one, that is.

“A pebblet,” Traig said, pointing. He nudged his chin toward a crow-sized bird perched on a post ahead. Its feathers gleamed like brushed steel, catching the light as it preened. “And that’s a clatterwing.”

The bird launched into the air, and a cascade of chimes rang out, like someone had shaken a chandelier.

“They’re made of metal?” I asked.

“The feathers appear metallic, but the core structure is organic.” He tipped his head back as the clatterwing circled overhead. “They’re drawn to reflective objects. We’ve had to reinforce all the hubcaps on the facility vehicles and make sure all tools are returned to the shed before we leave for the day. We painted all the doorknobs black.”

“I’d wondered why.”

The bird landed on the roof of a nearby shed, tilting its head to study us.

“They steal things,” he said. “Last month, one of them collected eight spoons from the break room.”

I laughed.

The corner of Traig’s mouth lifted.

We kept walking.

The path curved toward a wide pasture where two creatures grazed near the fence. Goat-sized, they had leafy vines trailing along their backs and clusters of flowers blooming in rows between their shoulder blades and tails.

Bloombacks. I recognized them from the photos in the break room.

“Rue and Fern,” Traig said, stopping at the fence, resting his arms on the railing. “Rue’s on the left.”

Rue lifted her head, and the soft pink petals speckling her back opened and relaxed. She took three steps toward us, paused, and glanced back over her shoulder.

The second bloomback, Fern, stood motionless near the far fence.

Rue waited.

Fern’s flowers were paler. Muted lavender, the petals half-closed.

Rue turned back toward her.

“They do that often,” Traig said. “Check in with each other. Rue moves, Fern watches her. When Fern shifts position, Rue adjusts.”

“They’re aware of each other’s locations? Isn’t that normal herd behavior?”