Mauling the gel of the star-beasts certainly doesn't seem to be anything they like, but one must break their starry bones to kill them. The weasel-thing seems to know this already; when the flesh has been drained nearly to nothing, it clamps its teeth around the bones of the constellations and snaps them apart at the joints. All that's left behind is a thin smearing of stardust, glittering against the grass.

But more are coming, and more, and more...

Alarms sound from the town, where the local levy has been preparing its defense. The weasel's head snaps that direction, icy calculation radiating from it. It watches as Valdis tears apart the lion, snaps its gaze up at the sky. Decisions, decisions.

Decision made. It slinks closer, low to the ground, panting. It yips once to get Valdis's attention, then again, before turning its sinuous body towards the Marina.

A look back. A high yip. And then looking towards the Marina again.