When your injured friend Stolas sends you on an errand to the Wrath ring, you meet a roguish imp who offers to work as your body guard during your time there. Taking place after the events of the season 2 episode "Western Energy".
A she-fell-first-h...
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"Striker, will you help me with my schoolwork?"
Striker looked down at his sister with a raised eyebrow. "Why can't you ask Momma?"
"'Cause she's busy," she retorted.
"Well, so am I." He slipped his foot into the stirrup and pulled himself up into the saddle strapped to a young Bombproof's back.
"Goin' to see Cora isn't bein' busy, stupid," she argued, placing her hands on her hips. "And didn't her pa say you can't go over there when he's gone now 'cause he caught y'all in your skivvies or somethin'?"
The heat rose in Striker's face, and he shot a flustered glare at his sister and sputtered, "Just do your work your damn self, Lillie!"
"Fine! But if my teacher gives me a bad grade, I'm tellin' Momma you wouldn't help me!"
"See if I care," he griped, lightly smacking Bombproof's rear with the spearhead of his tail and causing the hellhorse to start off down the dirt road.
The trip across town was significantly quicker on horseback, and Striker was thankful that Bombproof was finally old enough to ride—and he was so well-behaved that training him had turned out to be a breeze. After only a few minutes of riding through the small mining town, he reached a small wooden house with a broken weathervane spinning haphazardly atop its tin roof. He hopped to the ground and tied Bombproof's reins to a post outside, then stepped onto the front porch and knocked on the door.
A few seconds later, the door was opened by a tall imp with a long ebony braid and soft doe-like eyes. She smiled cheerfully at him and said in a sweet, wispy voice, "Hi, Striker."
A small smile tugged at Striker's lips, but it quickly dissolved at the sound of a masculine voice calling from inside the house: "Who is it, Cora?"
The imp bit her lip for a brief moment before answering, "It's Striker, Daddy."
When she didn't receive a response, Cora gestured Striker to step inside, and the two walked into the living room to stand near a stout, middle-aged imp seated in an old recliner. He looked up from the newspaper in his hands to eye the young man standing next to his daughter.
"What can I do for ya', Striker?" he drawled cynically.
Striker removed his sunhat and clutched the brim in both hands. "Evenin', sir," he said. "I—I was wonderin' if Cora would like to join us for supper tonight."
"What's the special occasion?"
"Daddy," Cora started, "does there have to be a reason for me to have supper with my friends?"
