"I'm telling you, Ren, the dog is weird. He's looking at me like he knows I'm hiding the extra bacon in my left boot," Tybalt muttered, flicking the reins of the mountain ponies.
The wagon groaned as it hit a particularly deep rut in the road leading out of Silver-Port's outskirts. We were officially in the foothills now, where the salty breeze of the ocean was being replaced by the sharp, pine-heavy air of the low mountains. The city was a distant silhouette behind us, a cluster of white stone clinging to the cliffs.
I looked back at the dog. Cerberus—or "Tri-pod" as Red had already started calling him—was currently sprawled across a sack of grain in the back of the wagon. His one floppy ear was twitching in his sleep, and despite having only three legs, he'd managed to hop into the moving vehicle with a grace that put my own Level 15 agility to shame.
