True North

A small brass pocket compass sat forgotten beside the anchored map, its needle trembling against internal friction. Leaving the glass paperweight holding the charted folds secure, I looped my length around the compass's heavy metal rim. With a deliberate, sharp tap of my forward claw against the clear casing, I broke the needle's hesitation. The slender steel arrow spun cleanly, catching a glint of the noon glare before snapping into alignment with the horizon outside. I settled my coils around the cool brass base, watching the plotted transit grid below harmonize with true north.