Pets (items)

A spark of the old light that never went out. It likes you, for reasons of its own.

Small, warm, and very sure of itself. It will grow, the dragon-keepers say. Not yet.

Heavy, and warm from the inside. Something is knocking. Use it, and see what comes out.

A spark of the Ember Sea that would not go out. It warms your hands and burns your enemies a little.

A bell no bigger than a thumb, on wings you cannot see. It rings true when your blow will.

Half drawn, half rubbed out, all mischief. Blows meant for you sometimes land on the part of it that is not there.

A puffball of the Fungal Vaults that decided to follow you home. Its spores mend what they touch.

It leaves a line of ink wherever it walks, and reads it back later.

A flower of the Magma Gardens, potted. It blooms when you fight.

You can see through it, and it can see through everything else.

A little reader of the Hollow Library, its back all pens. It writes down everything you learn, in case you forget.

A sprout of the Bloodroot Tangle. It drinks a little of every wound you deal, and shares.

It swam out of the Silent Sea into the air and found it just as quiet. Sound bends round it, and so do blows.

Born in the Last Dark, where nothing shines. It is the one thing down there that does not need to.

The Flame did not go out. It hatched.

Speckled, and warm in the hand for no reason. Use it and see who has been waiting.

It is mostly pebble. It does not mind, and it will not be moved.

Fast enough to be a rumour. This one has decided it likes you, and is trying to hide it.

Its belly is a little lamp. The Wardens say moths that burn too bright do not last. This one has not been told.

It follows at a distance of exactly one step, in case you drop something.

It came out of the pond and nobody asked how. It dislikes being dry and puts up with you.

Everything about it says it knows something. Everything about it is three weeks old.

A bit of the dark that learned to glow. It is not lost. It is following you on purpose.

A scrap of the Skyreach that did not want to be left up there alone.

It swims through the air as though it had forgotten it was not water. Light goes through it and comes out kinder.

It slipped out of a rift behind you. The rift closed. The riftling stayed, and acts as if that was the plan.

It takes only what is shiny and brings back only what is yours. Nobody has worked out its rules.

The Ossuary Gardener planted it once, in a hedge of bones. It remembers being tended and would like to be asked.

A makers’ clock the size of a thumb. It counts your steps and sings when you get them right.

The Pale Queen’s. It watched the White Flame go out, and has not forgiven the sky.

A drop of Ashgrave’s ink that would not dry, and decided it would rather be yours.

The Herald’s hound. Its master is ash; it looked at you for a long time, and then it came to heel.

It hatched in a pipe of the Starless Organ, to a note nobody plays any more. It hums it.

Its scales frost over when it sleeps, and it sleeps on your shoulder. You will get used to the cold. It will not let you.

It crackles when it is happy, and it is always happy. Do not pet it with wet hands.

Green as a marsh, and it smells of one. Its bite is worse than its breath, and its breath is bad.

Half of it is rock and the other half is stubborn. It sneezes gravel at whatever comes too close.

It hatched in the dark and has not quite left it. What its breath takes, it brings back to you.

Born gold, from an egg of any colour. The dragon-keepers say it happens once in a long while, and that it always knows.

Heavy, and cold to the touch. Something is knocking. Use it, and see what comes out.

Heavy, and tingling to the touch. Something is knocking. Use it, and see what comes out.

Heavy, and clammy to the touch. Something is knocking. Use it, and see what comes out.

Heavy, and rough as a cliff to the touch. Something is knocking. Use it, and see what comes out.

Heavy, and darker than it should be to the touch. Something is knocking. Use it, and see what comes out.

It smells of cut grass and it leaves petals where it has been. The bees think it is in charge.

Its wings are frost on a window. Blows meant for you find a lace of ice in the way.

It comes out at the hour when the light is the colour of a bruise, and it points at the weak places in things.

Quick, warm and never still. It runs ahead of you and comes back to say you are too slow.