Night Bivouac

I loosened the harness and stepped down onto the deep weave of the armchair cushion. The dark wool held firm beneath my boots, completely silent. Fang circled once, pressing his claws into the coarse knit before tucking his limbs inward. He curled his segmented tail tight around the ridge of a folded wool throw, closing off the open flank. From this elevation, the dim floorboards below remained quiet. Fang rested his lower jaw against a polished brass button stitched into the fabric, his wings locked close against his flank. Sector clear. We hold this ground until dawn.