The Bishop of Sourdough and Bone

They played a strange game of chess across the altar-stump, though neither of them moved the pieces. The little girl watched the creature's ear twitch, a ragged, pink-veined thing torn at the tip from some forgotten fence line.

"Do you know the prayers for the road back?" the creature asked, its bristled jaw shifting heavily with every syllable.

"Only the ones that hurt," she replied.

A long, dry chuckle rattled inside the beast's chest, smelling of autumn orchards and old straw. "Those are the only ones worth carrying across the border. Drop your coin in the basin, child, and let's see if the gate remembers your name."