Àiyǔ's Home

Spoiler:

Àiyǔ stood back, paws on his hips, and stared lovingly at his creation. Jutting out of his mouth were a few spare nails; all stolen from the world of the living. In fact, since he hadn't the supplies in this desert wasteland, everything that had gone into this masterpiece was from the world of the living. He spat the nails into the white sand beneath his paws, and as a breeze passed by they fading into the world; maybe he'd see them later.

For now he could do nothing more than stand and stare in awe of his craftsmanship. Its painted wood, violet like him. Decorated with delicate etchings; golden and intricate like his. It was just like the caravans he used to feed on hundreds of years ago, but the size of a house and the quality of fine art. If one walked inside they'd find eight floors, connected by a maze of ladders and balconies, each with their own carved railings. On these floors they'd find books and hooks and rooks and things; even things that didn't rhyme with each other. All of his treasures, his trophies, and everything in-between.

Of course, the caravan was on wheels-massive ones the size of cars- but those were just in case. After all, what if he had to get out fast? He wasn't about to leave two weeks' work behind him in the sand. Nor would he leave over a thousand years' treasures for his fellow vultures and crows to pick at and divide amongst themselves.

Bangles and earrings jingled as he took a step forward, into his home. Up three steps and through a door larger than any other he'd come to witness in his dozen-or-so centuries of life. He was at home.