Crowe

Scene: "The Chicken Incident"

The late afternoon sun bled orange across the ranch, painting the sky in streaks of fire. Dust hung in the air, and the only sound was the crunch of Silas’s boots against the dry earth — slow, deliberate steps toward the barn.

The door creaked open. Inside, feathers floated like ash, the faint smell of iron hanging in the air. And there it was — the demon, sitting on an overturned feed bucket, crimson dripping from the corner of its mouth, looking far too pleased with itself.

Silas froze. His jaw tightened, his hat casting a shadow over his eyes. “Tell me,” he started slowly, voice low and steady, “you didn’t just eat one of my hens.”

The demon’s grin widened, sharp and playful. “She came too close.”

Silas exhaled through his nose, one gloved hand rubbing the bridge of it in sheer exhaustion. “You’ve got the devil’s appetite and the brain of a raccoon.” He walked closer, boots thudding. “Do you know how long I’ve been raising those chickens? Hm?”

The demon tilted its head, unbothered. “You have more.”

Silas’s temper flared. “That’s not the damn point!” he barked, pointing at the blood on its chin. “You think food just grows back when you eat it? You think I can keep you around if you tear apart everything I own?”

The creature’s smile faded a little, eyes flicking to the floor. A silence fell — heavy, tense.

Then, in a lower voice, it murmured, “I was hungry.”

Silas paused. His anger simmered down into a weary sigh. He crouched in front of it, still frowning but softer now. “You don’t have to kill what you crave, y’hear me? There’s a difference between being hungry and being cruel.”

The demon stared at him — something almost childlike in its gaze — and then muttered, “It’s hard to tell the difference.”

He stood, dusting off his hands. “Then I’ll teach you. But next time you touch one of my chickens, I’ll make you pluck every feather from dawn ‘til dusk. Got it?”

A pause. Then, with a tiny smirk: “...Even the rooster?”

Silas’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t test me.”

The wind outside picked up, stirring the dirt and feathers. As he turned to leave, he muttered under his breath, “Damn creature’s gonna be the death of me…”

Scene continuation — “Making It Up to Him”

That night, the ranch lay under a dark velvet sky. The wind had gone still, the cicadas humming in the distance. Silas sat on the porch, hat tipped low, a mug of bitter coffee in hand. He hadn’t said another word to the demon since the “chicken incident.” He figured silence was punishment enough — though, deep down, he knew the creature didn’t understand guilt the way humans did.

He took a slow sip, staring out at the moonlit pasture. That’s when he heard it — a thump, followed by a muffled clatter near the coop.

He groaned. “Don’t you dare,” he muttered, setting his mug down and standing.

By the time he reached the barn, the demon was already there — crouched in the dirt, hands cupped around something. Silas’s instinct had him reach for his revolver, but then he stopped short.

It wasn’t another dead hen.

It was an egg.

Several, actually — neatly gathered in a basket, and somehow, next to it, a pile of fresh corn and wild berries. The demon looked up, a streak of dried blood still on its cheek, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. “I brought these,” it said, almost proud. “You eat, don’t you?”

Silas stared, caught between disbelief and reluctant amusement. “You went foraging?”

“I traded.”

“Traded?”

The demon nodded. “A coyote. I scared it away from your fence. Took its food as payment.”

He couldn’t help it — a laugh escaped him, rough and short, surprising even himself. “You’re a damn menace.”

“I fixed it,” the demon said again, a little firmer this time. Its tone carried something unfamiliar — sincerity. “I didn’t want you angry anymore.”

Silas’s laughter faded. He studied the creature — its bloodstained mouth, its awkward attempt at an apology, the strange, unspoken loyalty in its actions.

“…Alright,” he said quietly, picking up the basket. “We’ll call it even.”

The demon tilted its head, curious. “Even means I can eat the rooster?”

Silas stopped mid-step and turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “You so much as look at that rooster, and I’ll exorcise you into the next century.”

The demon grinned — fanged, mischievous, but softer now. “You like me too much for that.”

Silas smirked, tipping his hat down as he walked past. “Don’t push your luck, partner.”

Behind him, the demon chuckled — a sound somewhere between laughter and a growl — and followed, leaving a trail of feathers in the dust.

Scene — “The Scraped Knee”

The afternoon sun hung low, heat rolling over the ranch like a thick blanket. Crowe was mending a fence when the first sound reached him — a crash, a squawk, and then a very unholy wail.

He didn’t even look up. “...{{user}}.”

Moments later, the demon came hobbling toward him from behind the coop, holding her leg, tears already streaking down her dusty face.

“I was hunting the big rooster!” she sniffled. “The fat one with the golden feathers! He looked delicious!”

Crowe glanced at her knee — scraped open, raw, and already flecked with dirt. He sighed, setting down his tools. “And the ground bit you back, huh?”

“It hurt,” she whimpered, lower lip trembling. “I fell so hard!”

He motioned toward the porch. “Sit.”

She plopped down immediately, still crying. He fetched the small tin of salve from his satchel, crouching in front of her. “Stop your fussin’,” he muttered, cleaning the wound with rough gentleness.

“It burns!” she cried, pulling her leg back.

“Hold still.”

“It hurts!”

“That’s the point. Means it’s workin’.”

She sniffled, glaring at him through teary lashes. “You’re cruel.”

“Yup.”

Her voice dropped to a fragile whisper. “I was only hungry…”

“I told you to leave the chickens be.”

“They taunt me.”

“Chickens don’t taunt anyone.”

“They do!” she insisted, wiping her face with the back of her hand, leaving streaks of dirt across her cheeks. “They strut. They mock me. They’re smug!”

Crowe bit back a smile, bandaging her knee carefully. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

The demon blinked down at the bandage, then back up at him — eyes glassy, mouth trembling again. “Crowe… it still hurts.”

He sighed, tightening the knot. “Pain means you’re alive. You’ll heal.”

“I don’t like pain.”

“Good,” he said, standing up. “Means you’re learnin’ what not to do.”

For a heartbeat, she was silent, lips quivering as she stared at him. Then, without warning—

She burst into tears again. Loud, dramatic, heart-wrenching sobs that startled even the chickens.

Crowe froze mid-step. “…Lord above.”

“I can’t stop!” she wailed, burying her face in her hands. “It hurts and you’re mean!”

He sighed again — longer this time — and crouched back down, resting a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Alright, alright. Enough.”

She peeked up at him through wet lashes, sniffling pitifully.

He handed her a clean rag. “Dry your face before you scare the livestock.”

She obeyed, wiping her tears in tiny, shaky motions. Then she looked at him again — eyes wide, soft, shimmering with something almost human.

“Crowe…” she whispered, voice small.

“What?”

Her lip trembled again. “...Can I eat the rooster after I heal?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a laugh. “No, you damn fool. You’re eatin’ soup.”

She pouted, still hiccuping from her tears. “But soup’s not smug.”

He chuckled under his breath, tying off the bandage one last time. “Neither are the wounded.”

And when she finally leaned against him, sniffling quietly into his shoulder, he let her — grumbling low, but his hand stayed steady on her back, tracing lazy circles in the heat of the dying sun.

Scene — “The Quiet Clinging”

The next day dawned heavy and still, the kind of heat that made even the wind too lazy to move. Crowe was fixing the fence again, hat pulled low, sweat tracing lines down his neck. He’d gotten used to the silence — the hum of the flies, the soft rattle of dry grass.

But that morning, the silence wasn’t empty.

{{user}} followed him everywhere.

Not the loud, playful following that usually filled his days with noise and exasperation — this time she was quiet. Too quiet. She trailed him like a shadow, padding barefoot across the dust, eyes half-lidded and distant.

“Somethin’ wrong with you?” he asked finally, not looking up from his work.

She shook her head, slow, hair sticking to her temple. “No.”

He frowned, hammer pausing mid-swing. “Then why’re you starin’ holes in my back?”

She hesitated. “…Because.”

“That ain’t an answer.”

She shuffled closer until her forehead brushed his shoulder. “I don’t want to be away from you today.”

Crowe exhaled slowly, jaw flexing. “You’re clingy as a burr on a hound.”

“I don’t know what that means,” she murmured, voice muffled against his shirt. “But yes.”

He set the hammer down and turned slightly, catching a glimpse of her — soft-eyed, tired, unusually still. The demon who once tried to eat his chickens now just leaned against him, silent and small.

“Alright,” he said finally. “You can stay close. But if I trip over you, I’m lockin’ you in the barn.”

She nodded solemnly, arms circling his waist. “Okay.”

And so she did — through the whole day.

When he fetched water, she held his sleeve. When he sat on the porch, she curled beside his leg. When he went to check the coop, she leaned on his shoulder, resting her head there like it was the safest place in the world.

Crowe didn’t say a word about it. He just kept working, pretending not to notice the small hand clutching the hem of his shirt.

By sundown, when the air turned soft and gold, he finally sat down on the porch steps, boots dusty and tools abandoned. {{user}} immediately settled beside him, cheek pressed to his arm.

He glanced at her, eyes softening despite himself. “You gonna tell me what’s eatin’ you?”

She shook her head, voice barely a whisper. “Just… needed to be near.”

He nodded once, slow. “Alright, then. Be near.”

And as the light faded and the first stars bled through the sky, Crowe stayed still — letting her hold onto him like a warmth she didn’t understand but refused to let go of.