Nico found Daaren cleaning the kitchen table, and placed a little metal disc on it with a click.

“What’s that?”

“Tax plaque. Has our telephone number, too, so if you get caught again some other full moon, the pound calls.”

Daaren didn’t touch it while working through the implications. “I won’t wear a collar.”

“I can fix it to a bandana. Which still goes round the neck…”

He sighed. “It works. Do me a favour and don’t use a red one, though.”

“What is it with you and red?”

He was wound up enough to snap. “Red is for targets!”

Paell picked his way along the wall of the cave. The floor formed of gravel and debris was treacherous in the gloom. He had not seen the sun for days, the only light filtering indirectly through the entrance, a tunnel that was neither straight, nor reachable. Besides a faint echo of light, anything that entered either flew or fell. What Paell was after was something that fell. He had discovered a thin trickle of rainwater, and salvaged a dinged but sound tin pot from the debris. If he had done it right, water should have accumulated while he had been sleeping.

The rustling of leathery wings the size of sails made him freeze, even holding his breath. The dragon veered straight towards him regardless, gravel crunching under its feet, here and there a bigger stone or something worked of metal cracking or snapping.

It made a low murring sound, deep enough to make Paell's breastbone vibrate in resonance.

"Yes, I'm awake," he babbled, "and not going far. It's not like I could get out of here."

The dragon prodded him with its nose, throwing him forward and against the wall. Its hot, dry breath washed over him; it exhaled prior to starting to sniff him.

"Look, if you want to fatten me up, you're going about it the wrong way. I'll just grow less of a treat, believe me." The dumb animal didn't understand a word. And if it did, would encouraging it to eat him now be wise?

It took another step, and the huge head turned. A faint highlight danced across the smooth surface of the dragon's eye, embedded in a face or rough scale and wrinkly skin, just an arm's length in front of Paell.

"What do you want?"

The dragon did not react; it only continued to stare at Paell. It unnerved him to look back, but he could not look away. The dragon did not blink at all; there was only an occasional twitch in its lower eyelid. Was he making it angry? Was he imagining that the dragon came closer, very, very slowly?

Paell tried to increase the distance between them, but only had the rock of the cave wall dig into his back. The dragon moved its head closer, not far, but perceptibly, and gave a more quiet version of its murr. Paell raised his hands, reflexively bracing them against the dragon's cheek, but the dragon lowered its head a little, bringing Paell's hands to the skin of its lower eyelid, rather than the scales he had aimed for.

Dragonhide was thick and tough, Paell had learned when he had tried to cut the dragon's throat while it was sleeping, but at least here it was not hot enough to burn. Feeling utterly crazy, he rubbed and scratched the skin, side to side, following its folds. The dragon half-closed its eye, bulling the lower lid up but not moving the upper lid at all. Something came off when Paell continued scratching. The dragon did not seem to mind. Loose skin flakes that had been itching? If I ever get out of here again, no-one will believe me, Paell thought, continuing until the dragon gave a strangely melodious snort that he giddily decided had to be a contented sigh.

The dragon prodded him again with its nose. With the cave wall right at Paell's back, it turned into a blow that pushed the air from his lungs. While he caught his breath, the dragon climbed out of the cave, using foothold several manslengths apart. Paell watched the shadowy form move against the grey background of the entrance, and wondered if that big lug would even noticed if he held on to its tail, and if he would have the nerve for trying.

---

Based on a prompt by Royce Day ("A conversation between Paell and his dragon.")

When she did not keep herself occupied, nightfall in Muirha nearly tore Sylvie apart. The settlement being snugged into a valley between high mountains meant the dull, purple shadows blanketed it early, while the sky was still a bright blue, and the light on the mountaintops started changing colour from the almost-white of day to golden yellow.

The principle was soothingly familiar; the same happened in the narrow streets of the city she had been born in, with the sun still lighting the tops of the higher buildings. But none of the towers of Yrn, even built on the island-mountain as they were, could match the splendour of those wild peaks.

In the east, the light gleaming from old snow slowly turned from yellow to orange, looking even more brilliant against the darkening sky. To the west, dark teeth had swallowed the sun already, and blocked the sunset proper.

Sylvie missed the wide horizon over the ocean, a view only a few sets of stairs or ladders away back home, the complete rainbow of colours each sunrise.

Twilight had never felt like a purple shroud at home.

---

The title was a prompt by Ellen Million
This is a duplicate of Twilight Colours so I could include it in two "books". Please leave any comments there

When she did not keep herself occupied, nightfall in Muirha nearly tore Sylvie apart. The settlement being snugged into a valley between high mountains meant the dull, purple shadows blanketed it early, while the sky was still a bright blue, and the light on the mountaintops started changing colour from the almost-white of day to golden yellow.

The principle was soothingly familiar; the same happened in the narrow streets of the city she had been born in, with the sun still lighting the tops of the higher buildings. But none of the towers of Yrn, even built on the island-mountain as they were, could match the splendour of those wild peaks.

In the east, the light gleaming from old snow slowly turned from yellow to orange, looking even more brilliant against the darkening sky. To the west, dark teeth had swallowed the sun already, and blocked the sunset proper.

Sylvie missed the wide horizon over the ocean, a view only a few sets of stairs or ladders away back home, the complete rainbow of colours each sunrise.

Twilight had never felt like a purple shroud at home.

---

The title was a prompt by Ellen Million

The trap was prepared. Father had placed the metaphorical cookie jar in comfortable reach of the children, whom he knew to be curious as well as yet unable to tell good from bad. He had told them to keep their hands off it, threatened dire consequences.

He had given the Snake some ideas to hurry things along, so it was just a matter of time.

Doling out punishment was so much more fun when the children might think they had brought it upon themselves.

---

Prompt by ariestess ("Eve was framed")

Polishing the library’s outer gates was not Gwen’s favourite job, but it beat fixing a jumped elevator chain, to pick one random example. She would have preferred replacing the iron bands that both strengthened and decorated the portal with stainless steel, which did not require careful oiling to guard against rust that often, but, well, tradition.

Gwen was nearly finished with the right wing when she noticed she had company. One of those little fancy automatons. After a moment’s observation - the angle was not that good from atop the ladder - she noted it was humanoid, with spindly legs. That kind of built always needed extra magic for balance, which seemed like a waste of effort to her.

The robot was carrying a paint can and brush. It looked up at her before turning its attention to the door.

“Has anybody sent you to help?”

It did not answer, which was no surprise, and carefully applied some of whatever was in the tin to the iron bindings near the lower hinge. Gwen grinned. Someone had to have cooked up a varnish that the Guardians of Relics deemed sufficiently clear, or some other rust retardant.

Her eyes nearly fell out of their sockets when she saw the iron turn orange-brown and puff up lie pastry dough.

“HEY!” She flung the polishing cloth. It went straight through the automaton, which disappeared a moment later like a mirage.

Gwen climbed down the ladder and touched the blotch of corroded metal. Some flakes came off, most falling, the smallest sticking to her fingers.

She would have to start believing in the Rust Gnome.

---

Based on a prompt by Herm Baskerville ("The equivalent of Jack Frost who delivers rust (or verdigris if you prefer).")

The first losses of life on my survey ship were... absurd. Absurd is the only word for it.

We had found a more or less derelict generation ship - the Leif Erikson, last contact about 300 years prior - in orbit around a star not on its route. No working communications or clear signs of surviving crew, but life support systems were running. There had been unusual changes to the hull: additional windows.

We, that is, I sent in a small team to investigate. According to their running reports they found gravity and life support intact, kept in working order by likewise still functioning maintenance bots.

Our team, hah, followed their noses to the gardens, which had completely overgrown, vines spilling over into the access corridor so that the safety door was blocked open. A bundle of cables stood out because it had not been overgrown. When the team followed it, they found its end embedded into a tree. Grown in.

Weird, but not helpful, so the team wanted to look elsewhere.

When they tried to leave the garden, a flock of maintenance bots cut them off. If you think the small ones could not do damage, remember they have welding tools. None of us took it as a dire threat even so, but it turned out that the little critters had been buying time for heavy guns to arrive, the models involved in wall restructuring and the like.

I listened to my crew dying.

We’re no kind of army, so I'll leave further investigations to people more used to being attacked, and better equipped for dealing with it.

If you want to know what I think happened... in the files about the Leif Erikson I found the profile of one of the original crew, someone into trying to communicate with plants. Hooking them up to computers via electrodes. Fits with the cables ending in the tree.

So, maybe the maintenance bot network teamed up with the plants.

And three of my crew ended up as compost.

Absurd, I said.

---

Based on a prompt by rhodielady-47 ("What happens if the garden on board a spaceship becomes intelligent and decides to take over?")