POTS

Dundee gave a snarl as only a devil can when the earthen fae came close and Star shushed him lightly. "It's fine," she told him. Both he and her falcon were used to warning her in advance of approaching wolves and Dundee in particular liked to keep them away from her. She didn't think this woman, who seemed so friendly, would want to touch her for any reason.

The fae asked what she was looking for and Star's cyan gaze cut back to the rolling, barren hills. "Looking for veins of clay to make pots with," she informed the woman. "The name is Star, by the way." She introduced herself with a smile, then motioned for the woman to come along.

There were stripes in the land from time and erosion. Many different textures and colors rippled across the land. "There we go," she pointed out a stretch of greyish blue. Moving to it, Star began collecting the clay with scrapes of her claws. Dundee had a little bucket between his sharp, pointy teeth and he carried the clay back to where the wood burned in the makeshift kiln.

"Starchild Dunamis"