Cascading jowls, plaited. Beastly fangs sewn into a mouth. Or is it a mustachio, my dear Padulweis? Three ridges of animal fiber over the pate. On this luna incognita, who could wot the provenance of the organico-mechanico visage? But wot I did! The Hesh are, naturally or unnaturally, susp. of the stranger and traveler, with little sympathetico for the curious interloper. It was meet, then, that I assume the disguise of a lipid monger to crawl through the flapping entrances to their burrows and strike a bargain. A cask of regem butter for a mask - a cask for a mask, Padulweis!! - and a place on the hunt. The Hesh, like the beasts whose pelts they don and whose musks they smear upon their skin, are crepuscular. Energetic at nightfall and nightrise, hunting the hunter, tracking the loping cagweir by its loggy turds and the screeching panic of its prey. And I too wore the Darksight, which opened my old eyes to the thermal properties of this moon - the heat of the cagweir and the Hesh, who were little patient when I stared at the heat of mine own body through the mask. And I too saw the heat depart from the doomed cagweir that we encircled in our snares - though its face ensorcelled me. And I too feel colder now that the mask is in a cask for our little gallery. Mine own body looks colder now, and stranger for my time with the Hesh.