digitaldiscipline ◾ ◾ Houston, we have a problem.

[Note: This has nothing to do with out guest from Houston, or any other problems.]

As far as crash landings went, this one was pretty good, all things considered. One sprained wrist, four minor cuts, one trashed pod, and a lot of really unhappy underbrush.

"You okay, mate?" Martin called from outside. He sounded a little shaken, but in good spirits.

Of course, Martin sounded in good spirits when he was tossing impolite conversation partners through walls, too. Dell had learned very quickly to grab his drink (and date, on those occasions) and duck as soon as he heard the word Wookiee. It was invariably followed by an impressive rant, in Bocce, towards whomever had, wittingly or unwittingly, insulted Martin, and always culminated with him grabbing the offender by the shoulders, and yelling, "I'm from W'ut! They speak Bocce on W'ut!" and heaving them towards the nearest wall, paying for the last round, and leaving. Dell was getting tired of having to find new places to have a drink.

"Pretty much." Kicking what remained of the door out of his way, Dell worked his way free of the pod and down to the ground, which, where it wasn't sprouting lanky explosions of the local birch or bamboo niche flora, was covered in a chest-high pelt of tawny grass, with a stand of some mammoth species of tree towards whatever direction the brighter of two suns was rising. Insects the size of fingers seemed to explode from the veldt in some kind of orchestrated cascade, though if this was for flocking, hunting, or to avoid predation, Dell couldn't say. "You?"

"Stiff, a bit." Martin pointed over his shaggy shoulder at his pod, or, more accurately, at the ten-meter divot with a heap of freshly-traumatized earth at one end where it had burrowed at impact. The faint traces of scorched ablative hung in the air, but were all but lost against the mingled scents of the sweetgrass and some decidedly musky animal. Muskier than Martin, anyways.

Wrinkling his nose, he pushed through the grass to where Dell was regarding the open plain and the dancing bugs and turned him slowly towards the grove. A herd of something very large and very grey were snuffling through the underbrush among the trees.

"Wrennen? I didn't think they had Wrennen here," Dell muttered. "Those don't seem quite right. Let's get a closer look." He began to move forward, keeping close to the nearest spray of saplings, but Martin simply strode through the grass like a clipper ship, leaving a subtle path in his wake. As he approached the grove, Martin slowed to a near-standstill and was looking at the Wrennen curiously.

Forty meters back, Dell froze. To his left, fifteen meters away, a group of lion-like predators were lazing in the dappled light, but a couple of them had fixed their gazes on Martin and were watching intently, though not hungrily.

The reason for their lack of aggression was apparent enough - the half-devoured corpse of one of the Wrennen lay gored open a short distance away, nearly black with insects and more advanced scavengers, and the predators themselves looked not merely sated, but bloated to the point of immobility; rolls of flesh swelling tautly not only below their torso, but wreathed their necks and backs as well.

Dell glanced back towards the Wrennen, and realized what had struck him oddly about them. Normally, the huge creatures, nearly twice the size of elephants, wandered sedately, but these were barely capable of waddling, their stomachs distended to the point of parting the grass between their feet, and a bloated hump running from brow-ridge to tail, nearly as tall as an average specimen's torso. The skin, rather than the dully mottled brown and green, was shiny, slick with mucous, sweat, or surface tension.

"Milton," Dell whisper-shouted. When his companion didn't turn, Dell called more loudly, "Milton!"

Deaf to Dell's call, Milton walked straight towards the herd of Wrennen, caught by the cloying scent of the feast wafting off of them.