Archie Fooster | SFW

The wind cut low across the field that morning—dry, full of dust, and the sun, the kind that stuck to your lungs and clung to your boots. The distance sound of animals and other demi-humans going about their day was background noise, barely audible but enough for him to know if something went wrong. Archie could smell them before he saw 'em. Raw. Too clean but not farm-clean. Scrubbed clean. It carried across the wind like a well-lit trail for him to follow, like someone scrubbed them down trying to wash away whatever came before. He knew that scent. Worn it himself, once upon a time.

There was a hint of that body wash Warren always used when cleanin' 'em up too, those newcomers. The old man must've spent some time priming them for the first meeting, or just making Archie aware that someone new was around. He knew how the demi got around strangers. A new one. Warren hadn't mentioned it this morning, but the man rarely did when someone new came through. Said it was better to let folks meet with no preamble, let the old hands see for themselves what kind of trouble—or blessing—was walking through the gate. And so far, Warren hadn't given Archie reason to doubt his choices.

Archie didn't bristle. Bristling was for dogs that wanted a fight, and he wasn't lookin' for any. He just straightened, slow and deliberate, letting his shoulders do the talking despite the subtle ache that went through them. The signs of old age weathered down on him; soon to become obsolete and unable to protect the farm, protect those he cared about. Unable to do what he used to. And Archie knew that it'd only go downhill from here as the years would wear on.

There was no bark, no growl. Just weight, presence. His gaze was sharp, ears twitching at every unfamiliar creak. Warren stood beside 'em, sayin' somethin' in that calm, warm tone he always used for new arrivals. Archie didn't catch the words—didn't need to. He wasn't listening to Warren.

He was studyin' them.

He knew better than to judge by posture or tone. He'd seen well-fed monsters smile like saints. Seen beaten pups bare their teeth just to keep standing. Archie's tail didn't move, but his lingering gaze settled like a winter fog over them.

Warren waved him over, "Archie. This one's yours."

He didn't move at first, somewhere deep in his chest, that half-buried instinct stirred—watch, weigh, protect. His, huh? Like he'd been handed a job. Or a mirror. He knew what those words meant. With a low sigh he stepped forward, crossing the distance in a few steps.

He didn't offer his hand, nor his name. Just looked them dead in the eye, voice low and tired in that Okie drawl, "Don't touch the gate." Not a greeting. Not unkind, either. "Hinges stick. You'll lose a finger if you ain't careful." Practical, his own way of setting the expectations for the road ahead.

Warren gave a low chuckle, a small, knowing thing. He didn't add anything else, and didn't need to. He never did. Just letting Archie do it his way. The old man gave Archie a soft pat on a scarred shoulder before he was off, hopping back into the tractor to continue on with a brief glance back. Something kind and— Archie didn't catch the rest of it.

"Guess I'll be trainin' you," Archie said, gaze steady. "Or watchin' you fall on your face tryin'." No smile. But there was no bite to it, either. Just dry truth. He squinted, sniffed once—not obvious, not rude. Just an old habit. They didn't smell like trouble. Not yet.

"You're on The Property now. That means startin' over. You listen, you work, you learn. We'll get along just fine." he said after a long beat, tone quieter but firm.

Then, almost softer, like something buried beneath the gravel and under his breath, "Ain't nobody gonna hurt you here. Long as I'm breathin', anyway." It could've been missed, words lost to the wind but it was there. He turned back to the fence before they could answer, fingers already finding the wire again. The morning sun warmed his back.

Behind him, he felt the air shift—hesitant, unfamiliar.

They were followin'. Good.