The stegoceratops traveled with the magician for several days. She did not like this arrangement , because she was forced to assume the role of his prized triceratops, or stegosaurus, because there was not a single person along the road who knew what she truly was. At night, she was made to stay in common stables, which was humiliating, because she was not an animal. No more than the humans, anyway.
The stegoceratops dreamed, one night. She could not recall what the subject of her subconscious musings was, exactly, but she did not like what she was imagining. She drifted between consciousness and slumber, chained to both states of being in a purgatory of thought. She longed for one world and one world only, for doleful certainty was better than neutral ambiguity.
But she wished to stay sleeping, because she was remembering her past. Her real past. She could tell because on several occasions, she called out a name. Well, almost. She came close to uttering that sacred word she had forgotten, but every time it formed on her beak, it would dissolve into a mumble. She longed to know who she was calling out for, if he existed at all, but she was pulled from her sleep quite suddenly by the thundering of triceratops feet.
Lowery the magician was being carried away by bandits, it seemed. The stegoceratops lifted her head, peering into the gray drizzle that shone through the stable window.
She had better go after him, she thought.