A bat stretches it’s wings wide in a magnificent flex and ponders the cool night air. It’s ears twitch. Hunger. With a screech, it flies.
"You are a bit late tonight, Mortimer! I was worried," the old witch giggles dryly, letting the creature in. A small plate of food is ready, piping hot. The bat squeaks heartily in greeting. It listens to her stories until she dozes off, then leaves with a quiet flapping of leathery wings.
Later, elsewhere: “Noir! Hungry?”
"Harper!" "Bean!" "Belladonna!"
A dozen homes, names, and meals. The bat makes it’s way around town, delighting in the adoration and attention.