Gallery

… Drew's less okay with the newcomer's attempts to ingratiate herself to her— as if she's a great paragon of the Stagecoach Lot's ideals. Any other strangers have been keen to either pass her over or share tongues and stories in passing, and yet April— dear, well-meaning April— in all her overwhelming, bubbly energy, insists upon reaching out solely to her. Both of her partners are too good at deflecting that energy onto a better reservoir (like a task...

It was the coolest summer that MOTHER had suffered for years, when Drew was born the littlest— yet the roundest (and both Fleet and Rhubarb would be so pleased if they could've seen for themselves how darling their beloved third had been even back then)— of her litter of ten. Each and every one of the kits had fur that sparkled like pure gold; and some like her bore dark little saddles that were hardly an imperfection in the eyes of their doting mother. All of the...

April doesn't really know where she came from. But, don't you worry: She has lots of ideas for cool stories for what came "before" all of this business about this "MOTHER EARTH" that she lives on! Her favorite to tell the Stagecoach Lot's youngsters is that she formed from the first frost of the first winter many, many moons ago; fully-formed from just a little glimmering sparkle of water fallen from the heavens. With the adults, it's not a particularly popular taleâ€...

The Stagecoach Lot is a band of vagrants— outcasts and holdouts scouring a warming Earth for the last dregs of safety and comfort and joyous, guiltless existence. Even outside of smoggy cities, their home is being suffocated beneath the weight of an ever-growing machine infestation as if SHE, MOTHER EARTH, is the invader to the hive that hasn't always been. Strong as their belief in their dear MOTHER to hold on just a little while longer is, it will never be enough ...

The Stormbringer came into this world as a static-cling little ball of dark fur, too young for any of his stripes to be distinguished from one another; a tiny, fuzzy lump among squirming, nameless others that shied away from his "poking". His parents were adoring, doting. They were a warmth that could smother any darkness, any other light— and perhaps that is why he came to be in the little band of misfits that call themselves the Stagecoach Lot. It was a tempestuou...