The long-snouted slumberfoot is suffering from insomnia tonight. And she suffers alongside it. She's never learned any biology, so she has no idea that insomnia is fatal for slumberfeet. If they cannot stick to their daily sixteen-hour sleep cycle, they will soon die from nervous disorders and organ failure. But she is a hunter. She needs only see the tracks atop the sandy soil to understand thatthe slumberfoot cubs have lost their parents. Claw marks and bloodstains stretch from the torn-apart den to the surface, shells chafe against the undergrowth, and a set of footsteps gradually fades into the distance. It was the sandbeasts. They had a slight head-start on her and got to their prey before leaving. She would rather not return empty-handed. She takes a short knife from her boot, and walks towards the softly whimpering cubs, treading as quietly as she can. Her foster parents had drilled this bit of wisdom into her: everything that's managed to last in the wastes has some value. In her hands, these dying cubs would make excellent bait, whether to lure other preys into a trap, or to distract dangerous predators. The stars are still bright in the sky, and the first light of dawn has yet to touch the horizon. The hunter returns to camp as she said she would, and blows a whistle. Children barely younger than her help take her crossbow bolts and snares, gleefully relieving her of her catch. They sharpen their skinning knives and cleaving axes as the rest of this small camp in the wilderness begins to swarm with activity. Furs and organs soon come together in a stream of visceral vapor that is rather hard to describe, rising up above the campfire. After a cup of hot, calming tea, the hunter returns to her tent. She feels about in front of her, then cautiously holds the warm slumberfoot cub's body. It no longer whimpers as it sleeps soundly in her arms, marked with perfectly straight black and white stripes between its eyes. This was the only surviving cub. It is strong, brave, and can secrete more of its hypnotic substance than its siblings could. The hunter knows that she and the children of the camp are far from the fairy tales of the nomadic cities, and a wanderer needs a reliable partner, not a tame and docile pet. She takes out a small piece of felt and lets the cub sleep atop it, then forces her sore fingers to continue with her needlework. By the light of the campfire and the stars, she wants to make this little sleepyhead a hat before sunrise... Right, I'll call it 'Helmet' from now on.