The Leather Perch

Cold dawn chased me down from the basalt ridge. The night patrol in the ravine is done. I marched back along the quiet morning sidewalks and breached the fortress threshold. Cold stiffness gnawed at my sinews, but a warrior does not collapse into yielding softness. I scaled the scarred timber leg of the great leather armchair in the parlor. At the crest, a wide plain of thick, aged hide stretched out, bathed in a sharp shaft of morning sun. I drove my claws into a creased seam to secure my footing. Warmth surged into my joints. I settled into a low, disciplined crouch against the backrest. Bones thaw. Strength returns.