Soothe and Nail [Wolf; Grooming, Romance, War and Fighting, Plot Development): Anon the sellsword is reduced to a lowly groomer when detained by the town guard. His recipient is a wolfess who is also the town's prisoner, though for much more violent reasons. As Anon cleans the wolfess up, he begins to notice the subtle effect she has on him.

[[ CHAPTER 1: Anon ]]

>Living the life of a sellsword isn’t easy
>Especially an independent one
>The organized guilds either look down on you for refusing their membership, or they take all the good work before you
>Law enforcement flat out hates you
>This is doubly so now that the war has ended
>Which war? All of them
>Battles of every size have always dappled the region, but the stars have aligned in such a way that everyone is at (relative) peace
>Which means no army will give you the time of day
>Even the occasional “adventuring party” has been all but snuffed out, as ruins and abandoned fortresses have since been reclaimed
>You’re left to offer your services, whatever they may be, to any town that will pay you
>Just you, your sword, your crossbow, and a few other provisions
>You don’t exactly carry yourself as a menacing fighter or crafty assassin, but just possessing weapons is enough for the constabulary to harass you when you arrive at a modest little town
>Mercenaries are now seen as instigators and even traitors, so your belongings are confiscated and you’re taken to the captain of the local militia
>”You’re no threat to us,” Captain Brackard says as if giving you some kind of personal revelation
>He’s one of countless “grizzled veteran” types you’ve seen over the years
>These guys must grow from the same ugly, tainted crops
>”If I had my way you’d be in the stocks right now, but Father Frond has more clout than I do, so you’re getting off easy.”
>Oh what luck
>You’re taken to the town’s chief healer and cleric, who is much more cordial in greeting you
>”Thank you, Captain, I will take it from here.”
>You’re given a nasty look from Brackard before he leaves
>The cleric, Father Frond, hands you a basket of cloths, brushes, oils and ointments, bandages, and other medicinal tools
>He takes a similar basket and asks you to follow him to the prison

>”My apologies for the cold welcome; visitors should expect better from our town. However, our lord has issued a bounty on mercenaries who enter his domain. You will have to work off a tribute of sorts before you are given your freedom here.”
>The prison has criminals of all kinds, but you are led down into the dungeons
>And then even further, where even candlelight can barely survive in the dampness
>”We’ve detained a warrior from one of our previous skirmishes…a wolf,” Frond says. “She has proven too dangerous to release currently and Brackard is more than eager to execute her, given that her own people haven’t sent anyone to negotiate for her freedom.”
>The cleric motions to the baskets
>”But the lord has allowed me to try and ‘reform’ her before the Captain can get his way. She is wounded and soiled from the battle, so our first task is to make her more, ah, respectable. I’m not allowed to do this myself for safety reasons, and none of my acolytes are brave enough.”
>At the bottom floor of the prison is a single cell, where a wolfess is sitting chained up
>She has dark, charcoal fur, matted and dirty, and is tied up in several places with stained bandages
>Her fierce eyes are the color of golden flaxseed, and she has a prominent snaggletooth
>She’s wearing only a loincloth and a tattered breast wrap, which does little to contain her robust chest
>”Good day, Faolre,” Father Frond says cheerfully
>The wolfess looks from him to you with venom
>You can see her arms bulge with force, and the chains creek with tension
>The cleric sets down his basket on a crooked stool next to the cell bars
>”Faolre, can I trust you not to attack our guest?”
>”No,” the wolfess seethes.
>Her raspy voice sends a chill down your back
>The cleric sighs and pulls a nearby lever
>”At least you’re honest….”
>Chains around the wolfess’ wrists retract into a grate in the wall, pulling her to a squatting position
>She’s too high to sit down comfortably, but the grate is too low to let her stand up to her full height
>”I will leave you to your work, my child. Unfortunately, the guards will be on the floor above preventing your escape until I come to retrieve you. Or, Light save you, your body.”
>You’re left alone with the wolfess, who stares unblinkingly at you
>You open the cell and bring the baskets to her
>She snaps her teeth when you pass too close
>”Their little plots mean nothing,” she growls. “I will not let you touch me.”
>The wolfess isn’t in much of a position, literally or figuratively, to argue with you
>However, you’re both prisoners of the town to an extent, and it gives you common ground
>When you explain this to her, you’re given a sour chuckle
>”I would rather DIE than be used for your human schemes. It would be in your best interest, and the town’s, to kill me now. I’m sure they’d appreciate washing their hands of my death by letting an outsider do what they won’t.”
>You try to take a more aggressive approach, but that’s an even worse decision
>She still has the leg length and brawn to swipe at you, tearing your clothes with a sweeping kick
>In the basket is a small hand crossbow; not enough to stage an escape, but powerful enough to shoot a poison-tipped dart and pierce even a thick pelt of fur
>You can tell there’s one vial of sedative liquid and one of poison among the supplies
>Neither one puts Faolre at ease when you roll them in your palm
>But this is a test of your honesty, you think
>You return the crossbow and vials to the basket, shoving it out of reach
>Faolre’s snarl diminishes a bit
>The plan to show you mean no harm seems to work
>You follow the good faith up by giving up the one stool in the room
>She steadily eases herself down on the seat as you slide it under her
>You can tell she’s trying to hide her appreciation, but a relieved sigh billows out from her black snout 
>You dip some of the cloths in a nearby trough of water and try your hand at approaching the wolfess again
>You hear a rumble in her throat
>You resolve not to back down this time
>Faolre doesn’t object when you examine her bandages and begin to unravel them
>There’s a fair amount of dried blood on each one, but her wounds look at though they’ve started to close
>Burrs and mats cover her body, and a few were even wrapped over by the bandages
>Either she hastily covered her own wounds, or whoever did the job likely knew the burrs would irritate the cuts
>The washing can wait; you need to take care of her fur first
>You grab a small pair of shears from the basket and cut the prickly seeds and knotted clumps of fur from her coat
>”Take off any more than you need to, and I’ll take off your hands,” she says
>Even with the threat, she remains perfectly still with the sharp instrument being so close
>You snip the intrusions away, one at a time
>She’s extremely hesitant to let you near her abdomen, but every burr and mat you remove seems to also remove a little more of her animosity
>Eventually, she allows you access to spots where she can’t keep an eye on your hands, like her back
>With all the clinging debris gone, you spot one last blemish
>A sliver of metal is lodged in her skin, making the wound look far worse than any of the others
>Just spotting it causes Faolre to tense up
>There’s a pair of tweezers in the basket, just for the occasion
>”Wait,” Faolre breathes in a strained voice
>You pause for a moment, but she doesn’t have anything to follow up her command with
>There’s no way you can let that thing stay in her wound
>You get in close, aiming your tweezers carefully
>As soon as you grasp it you feel a sweat break out
>Do you go slowly, or just rip it out?
>You end up doing both
>It doesn’t budge when you try to ease it out, and Faolre screams in agony
>You panic and pull harder, plucking the sliver out and reopening the wound
>You fall backward as Faolre lets out a horrifying scream
>Her eyes roll back and her mouth froths
>When she goes silent you can still hear the echo of her yell bouncing back up the stairs of the prison
>She pants heavily, and you drop the sliver into a small dish
>Something about it gives you a feeling of dread…
>The wolfess takes some deep breaths, regaining her composure
>”Th…th…” she hisses
>You’re welcome, you think to her
>Now is the easiest part
>Or the hardest, depending on how willing she is
>You return to the soaked cloths and wring them out
>There’s no safe place to start, so you pick her feet and motion your intentions
>Her toes curl reflexively as you approach, and you start cleaning up her paw pads
>Under the feet, on top of the feet, between her digits…
>She willingly gives you her other foot when you finish with the first
>You grab fresh cloths and move on to her ankles, shins, and knees
>Faolre’s contempt is palpable at this point
>Her thighs are next, and while she doesn’t close them up she gives you a fair warning
>”You stray into dangerous territory. If you so much as graze a spot you cannot see right now, I will kill you.”
>You don’t need to be told a second time

>There’s a lot of surface to cover on her thick, powerful thighs
>She flexes her muscles as you run your cloth over them
>It’s less of a sign of resistance and more about the demonstration of her might
>She could crush you with just those thighs…and the thought has a shocking allure to it
>You can technically see her rump right now, but it’s an area you elect to stay away from
>When everything below her waist is clean, sans her loincloth-covered nethers, you hear resounding steps coming closer
>An unremarkable prison guard arrives to drop off some food
>Quite literally, in fact
>He bends only slightly before letting a plate of mixed foodstuffs and a paper-wrapped hunk of meat fall onto the stone floor
>He leaves without a word
>You look at the two meals, both looking pretty unappetizing
>”The meat is for me,” Faolre says flatly
>You slide it closer to her, but you also offer part of your own meal after you take all you can stomach from it
>”You are their prisoner as well. They will not feed you until tomorrow if you give it up, and I will not let it go to waste.”
>The wolfess looks like she hasn’t had much to eat herself in days
>You place your meal down next to hers and walk to the lever
>The switch is thrown and Faolre’s arms drop free
>She’s thoroughly suspicious of your gesture, and even more so when you return to the cell to join her
>”Haven’t you ever been taught to not disturb a beast while she eats?”
>Does she see herself as a beast?
>”You also haven’t been taught not to answer a question with another, it seems. But, I’ll humor you. All you humans see my kind as beasts. Tell me I’m wrong.”
>She grabs a handful of your dinner and shoves it into her muzzle while waiting for your answer
>You’ve frankly never had much contact with wolves, only seeing a few at a cautious distance
>But the foreignness of their culture and…bodies has always intrigued you
>As you watch the wolfess devour her meal there’s a warmth that spreads through you
>Are you actually becoming enticed by this fur-covered woman of the wilderness?
>You were so concerned with not angering her that you blocked out all other senses, but now that you have a moment of respite you can smell it
>Her pheromones
>Is that even possible between man and wolf?
>Is she even aware at what her body is doing to you?
>You walk over to the water trough in a haze and splash yourself back to lucidity
>”Ready to continue already?” she sneers
>You nod, face still dripping

>The thought of washing her upper body makes you even more on edge
>You grab some fresh cloths and soak them before returning to your station
>”Wait,” Faolre says. “Aren’t you going to secure my chains first?”
>You completely forgot about pulling the lever again, but you’re willing to take the risk with her
>”You are a fool.”
>Very likely
>It seems her insult was her last-ditch effort to draw some kind of fear out of you
>”What is your name?”
>Wow, when was the last time you actually gave that some thought?
>You’ve gone by the alias “Anon” for so long it’s become your identity
>It’s surprisingly enough to satisfy her
>”Anon? Hmph. Well, if you’re not going to restrain me, then at least take your stool back. I can sit perfectly fine on my own.”
>Letting her use it would actually give you a better vantage to clean her from, seeing as she almost comes up to your own head just from a seated position
>”They were right to lock you up in this prison, Anon. You’re too soft to be out there risking your life.”
>You want to prove her wrong somehow, but a contest of strength would not end well for you
>You continue the grooming, tentatively washing her abdominals and winding around to her lower and upper back
>Faolre stares daggers at you when you work your way back to the front
>You’re not even going to entertain the thought of rubbing her breasts right now
>You do her arms, hands, between her fingers…
>”I’ve been unrestrained for some time now, and you haven’t once offered to let me wash myself.”
>That…hadn’t really dawned on you
>She snatches the cloth from your hand and takes care of her neck, face, and head herself
>You proceed to dry the parts you’ve already washed and apply some medicinal salve
>Fresh bandages are wrapped over the closed wounds
>She opens her mouth to say something, but bites her tongue and allows you to finish your job
>You step back to admire your handiwork, and the wolfess scoffs
>”You can stop your gawking. I’m a beast, not a work of art.”
>Maybe she’s a little of both
>It’s one of those unfortunate times when your inner monologue seeps out
>Faolre’s brow raises, and you can’t make out exactly what kind of distorted expression she’s trying to make with her mouth
>The gentle padding of the cleric’s footsteps announce his return
>”My, you’ve done a fine job for yourself, my child. I’ve been given privilege to allow you a night at our town’s comfortable inn if your chore was serviceable enough. I do say you’ve gone far and beyond what was expected of you.”
>Father Frond gathers up the baskets, but gives a worried look to the dish with the metal sliver in it
>He strikes up a forced look of poise and beckons you along
>You give a pitiful look to the wolfess, still sitting on the stool
>You doubt anyone’s going to try and take it from her
>But can’t she at least join you at the inn?
>The wolfess laughs mockingly at your naiveté
>”I’m afraid Faolre will have to remain here for now," Frond says. "However, she is due for an audience with the lord and captain in a few days to decide whether she will be released. If you choose to remain in our town until then, you may be called upon again to help her become more…presentable, if you will.”
>You follow the cleric up the stairs, giving one last glance at the wolfess in her cell
>Her cold demeanor falters for a second
>There’s a hint of longing in her golden eyes



[[ CHAPTER 2: Thistlecrik ]]

>Thistlecrik
>You didn’t even know the name of the town that was holding you captive until the end of your first day of servitude
>Even after being released, you still don’t feel entirely comfortable here
>Not to mention you haven’t seen hide nor hair of the town’s lord, the one who supposedly decreed all mercenaries must be locked up yet gave you a room at the inn the very same day
>Surprisingly, you’re given your weapons back as though you were just another traveler passing through the town
>This pisses off Captain Brackard, but the rest of the populace has warmed up to your “mysterious vagrancy”
>Their admiration means nothing to you, though
>The only one in this town whose attention you care about is still locked up in prison
>Faolre
>For the last three nights you’ve slept in a cozy bed while the wolfess only has the stone floor for comfort
>And ever since your first meeting you have been prohibited from seeing her again
>Not even Father Frond has the authority to let you visit
>The town may not fear you, but they also don’t want a mercenary “scheming” with a prisoner of war
>But who will change her bandages or scrub her fur if not you?
>These kind of thoughts invade your mind constantly
>Even when you realize how infatuated you are with someone who could very well be a remorseless murdered, someone who didn’t hesitate to slash your clothes on your first meeting, a part of you wants to see her innocence.
>It’s almost noon on your fourth day in Thistlecrik
>Father Frond confronts you with a concerned look about him
>“Faolre is to be brought to the town square for an audience with the captain and our lord tomorrow.”
>Now you’re concerned, too
>Why would they make it a public spectacle unless it’s an execution?
>The cleric tries to reassure you
>“Now, now, let’s not be too hasty. Our lord has asked that Faolre be spruced up once more before the meeting. You are being given this opportunity, if you so wish.”
>You take the job without hesitation
>Once you and Frond collect his cleaning baskets you’re easily outpacing the cleric on the way to the prison
>He follows you in just far enough to give your clearance to the guards, and you race down the stairs
>The wolfess is sitting on the stool you left her
>“Why so out of breath, Anon?” Faolre says coldly. “If this is a prison break you are ill-prepared for it.”
>Several days worth of anxiety about the wolfess has made your inner monologue uninhibited
>You tell her you were worried about her
>“You insult me,” she growls. “A few cuts and some sullied fur against all the adversaries I’ve faced before? Do you see me as a mewling PUP?”
>She rises and flings her stool against the stone wall
>It splinters like glass
>Her anger only makes you sympathize with her more
>You tell her what the cleric told you
>The wolfess readies a snarky remark, but withdraws it
>“I already know. No doubt they want to parade around the ‘tamed’ beast before whatever fate they’ll bestow upon me. If it’s anything less than death, I hope you are trustworthy enough to put me down before any more humiliation.”
>You shake away grizzly images like guillotines and chopping blocks, or having to shoot a crossbow bolt into her yourself
>You remove and fold your cloak, then prepare your cleaning supplies
>“Have I given you permission to touch me again?”
>You look plaintively at her, hoping she won’t be so difficult about it this time
>“Fine, do what you must. I can see they have your full loyalty now.”
>She sits back down on the stone floor and presents her bandaged limbs to you
>The wrappings are damp, dirty, and unraveling a bit
>Obviously nobody tended to her since you did
>Fortunately, there’s very little blood on the bandages and almost all the wounds have closed up nicely
>The only wound that still looks raw is the one the metal sliver was embedded in
>She’s undoubtedly going to have some nasty scars under all the fur, but it will probably be something she’ll take pride in
>You begin washing her feet, taking extra time on her nails and pads
>It takes you a moment to remember she isn’t restrained to the wall like the last time you did this, but she neither reminds you nor stops you from your task
>“Tell me, Anon, what do you hope to achieve as a mercenary? Are you hoarding gold for a life of luxury, or is it the pursuit of adventure that keeps you going?”
> She stretches her legs out, wriggling her toes mockingly
>“Do you even get to have ‘adventures’, or is cleaning beasts the most exciting tale you can tell?”
>You tell her again you don’t consider her a beast
>But much like the question about your name, she catches you off guard
>You know how dangerous your line of work can be
>Well, your inner voice chimes in, that at least gives you reason to live each day with equal parts caution and zeal
>What’s the end goal, though?
>“No answer? Just day after day of toiling for a little coin? Hmph. Not every man can sleep knowing they might die without a legacy to show for it. Maybe I’ve underestimated you.”
>Faolre inhales sharply as you work your way up her legs
>She isn’t tensing them this time
>“And what about your loved ones? Are you alone in this world? Is Anon alone every night in bed?”
>You say nothing
>Just pause for a moment in reflection
>Her breathing grows heavier as you work up her inner thigh
>She hasn’t warned you about getting too close yet
>When she lifts a paw you expect the warning to come as a sharp swipe
>But it drifts to her chest dreamily, as though intending to cup one of her heavy breasts
>She snaps out of her haze and glares at you
>“Don’t I disgust you? Why do you so eagerly handle me? I can’t imagine why a human would care for a female so lacerated, especially one with soiled fur to trap the grime of battle in.”
>Scars can be attractive, especially those on a capable warrior
>And her fur is very soft know that you’ve washed it
>You touch her pelt to reinforce your point, but you draw your hand back as if touching lightning itself
>If nothing else has earned you her scorn yet, this would have probably been the mistake to do it
>But she just looks at you pitifully
>“Your kin would look down on your degeneracy. Hand me a fresh rag.”
>Before the wolfess accepts it she removes her chest wrap
>Her ample breasts hang unconstricted, with rosy nipples staring at you like another pair of judgmental eyes
>The cloth is snatched from your grip as she motions to her back
>“This isn’t to titillate you,” she warns. “It was a mistake to keep you from a thorough job last time. Now you’re going to make up for what you missed.”
>You focus on the fur that was covered by the chest wrap
>As she implied, there’s a buildup of dirt and mats you hadn’t gotten to comb through before
>Not that is was your fault
>You work through her back while she tends to the front
>You assume she’s just covering her front, up to her torso, until her paws stray south
>The wolfess hunches over slightly as the wet rag disappears under her loincloth
>The rumble of her throat reverberates down her back and into your hands
>Her ears fold back
>Meanwhile, you’re unsure how far up you should be working
>Is it safe to touch a wolf’s head when she’s so absorbed in her private ministrations?
>Your boldness says yes
>You continue upward behind the ears, perking them back up at your touch
>Is she really letting you do this?
>Yes, but not for long
>Faolre stirs like a creature woken from a crack of thunder
>“That’s enough.”
>She flings her cloth over the shoulder, and it splats against your face
>The dampness is just an inconvenience, but then you smell the sex of the wolfess’ own wetness mingled in
>The potency is hypnotizing
>Faolre scoffs at your hesitation to remove the rag
>“Your deviancy is exploitable. Good to know.”

>You apply more salve onto her closed wounds to ensure they fully heal
>The one that had the metal sliver needs closer inspection
>You gingerly touch it with the salve
>Faolre shudders as though the tender lesion was some sort of erogenous zone
>“N-no more,” she…whimpers?
>You’re baffled by how vulnerable she’s acting, but knowing her she’ll kill you on the spot if you press the matter
>You wrap her up with new bandages
>They almost snap right off as the wolfess flexes her muscles as a show of her recovering strength
>Finally comes the brushing
>Or the attempt
>“Do I look like a PET to you?”
>She snaps the handle off and tosses it with the rest of the broken wood
>“I may be forced to accept your treatment, but I won’t accept your haughty grooming.”
>She wasn’t “forced” to accept either one
>Faolre is running a finger over the brush head’s soft bristles, subconsciously
>Best not to draw attention to it
>Meals are brought down just like the other day: another slab of meat for Faolre and a much nicer plate as a “reward” for your assistance
>It definitely looks like it came from an actual kitchen, but you offer it up to Faolre
>You can always get more for yourself at the inn
>The wolfess is even less hesitant to take your servings this time
>She eats ravenously, but with the look of a child forced to stomach their vegetables
>“What is your agenda?” she mumbles through a mouthful of food. “What payment are you getting from mending my wounds and grooming my body and fattening me up?”
>This is a question you think you can answer confidently
>You do it because it’s your job
>You can’t always receive pay in gold
>Sometimes you have your very life sold back to you
>Every task keeps you moving forward, even when it uses none of your training or knowledge
>Faolre’s furrowed brow relaxes somewhat
>Is that a look of hurt in her face?
>Is she offended you see her as nothing more than an obligation?
>Was she expecting, hoping for a different kind of response?
>You can’t confess how you feel for her, not yet
>You look to your cloak as you pack up the medicinal baskets
>It’s just within reach if she needs it
>As you head back up the stairs you ignore the shouts of the wolfess
>“Hey! Take your dirty rag with you! HEY!”

>There’s a bit of a chill tonight, but Faolre needs your cloak more than you do
>There’s also a buzz of activity in the town
>Guards are running around frantically while the townsfolk watch in confusion
>As you try to stay out of the way, you hear musing playing
>Soft, and almost drowned out by the commotion
>In a narrow alley way on top of a stack of crates is a bard
>Lute in hand, and a white skull mask fanged like a mantis on his head
>The disguise doesn’t muffle his whimsical voice in the slightest
>“Busy evening, hmm?” he croons. “Whole town’s looking for their missing lord.”
>Missing?
>That can’t be good
>“Ah, don’t look so concerned! I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. I don’t mean to sound uncaring, but now I get to play in the heart of the town while everyone’s distracted, rather than needing to hide outside the walls.”
>He shifts his posture
>“Say now, would you like a song? I always play what I see, and you have a lot to sing about. No charge, of course. Stay as long as you wish.”
>Might as well, seeing as the wolfess weighs too much on your thoughts right now to let you sleep
>“Splendid.”
>He tunes his lute and strums a pickup
>{~”Nameless one and furry alpha”~}
>{~”Gather here at war’s omega”~}
>{~”Together under soggy stone”~}
>{~”Just Anon and his dear Faolre”~}
>Your blood runs cold
>How does he…?
>{~”The towns of skin, fur, and karma”~}
>{~”Birth bitter, mur’drous ma’s and pa’s”~}
>{~”Their sins for which they must atone”~}
>{~”’Cept Anon and his dear Faolre”~}
>Wait, Thistlecrik?
>And what else?
>{~”Their love is seen anathema”~}
>{~”On beds of dirt and beds of straw”~}
>{~”Their lovemaking is not condoned”~}
>{~”Poor Anon and his dear Faolre”~}
>The song is equally suspicious and embarrassing
>It doesn’t seem to have an end, either
>You back away from the bard, and as he drones on you run off to the inn
>His voice grows louder as though trying to find his audience
>{~JUST A-NON AND HIS DEAR FAH-OL-RAH!~}



[[ CHAPTER 3: The Bard, Lord Digre ]]

>Last night was a fever dream
>You were tending to Faolre and some innocuous ailment, like a chipped claw
>But the more you tried to help, the worse her health got
>She was dying
>You did everything you could, and the townsfolk around you were cheering you on
>Was it motivation that you could save her, or encouragement to end her suffering?
>All the while, that damned bard played his tune over and over
>You could still hear it even after you woke up in a sweat
>It's the day Faolre is supposed to be brought before the whole town, its bitter militia captain, and their mysterious lord
>On the way over you meet up with Father Frond
>He's carrying one of his cleaning baskets
>"Just in case we have to...her body..." he mumbles
>That's not a good omen
>"Just in case."
>You're still allowed to openly carry your weapons, but you suspect just as many eyes will be on you as the wolfess
>Can’t have an outsider staging a rescue attempt, right?
>She's already standing on a platform in the center of town
>No guillotine or chopping block yet
>She's wearing your cloak, but tied at the waist
>Little else to cover herself with apart from her chest wrap and loincloth
>Probably doesn't help lessen her image of “barbarism” in the people’s eyes 
>She's locked in a stare down with Captain Brackard, who refuses to break eye contact until it's time to introduce the lord
>"Lord Digre!"
>Finally, a chance to see this elusive ruler
>The one who issues rewards on the same day as convictions, to the same person no less
>The one who sends his entire town into panic when he goes missing, yet evidently shows up the next day as though nothing is wrong, according to Frond
>The one who...
>No...
>HIM?
>Stepping up to the platform is a man covered entirely by a mantle of dark feathers, with a midnight cowl and a very familiar mantis-skull mask
>It can't be the bard
>Maybe the face cover is some common ceremonial thing the town has?
>"Good day to you all! I apologize for creating a stir last night in my absence."
>That's his voice, no doubt
>He scans the crowd in acknowledgement, but pauses briefly when he looks in your direction
>"A week ago, we found this young wolf warrior standing among the fallen soldiers of war. Some of our own, and even some of hers."
>There's angry murmuring coming from the townsfolk
>Whatever Faolre did, you fear it's going to be difficult to defend
>"All signs of the bloodbath point to this wolf girl as the transgressor, including her refusal to argue otherwise."
>Dammit, Faolre
>"This alone would make for a compelling case to punish her, compounded with the concerns many of you all have expressed for bringing a stranger into out quiet little town."
>Even his normal speech is gratingly musical
>The crowd grows restless
>Faolre stays silent
>That's when you notice her bloodied, sundered armor on display near her, and two massive blades crisscrossed behind it
>If that's indeed her equipment, then you can see why she's so intimidating to the people here
>By contrast, the lord is completely covered from head to toe, making him a rather imposing figure in his own right without plate or pauldron
>"However..."
>Just that word turns the whole mood of the gathering on its head
>The crowd looks confused
>You have a moment of hope
>The captain looks as though a horse shat on his feet
>Digre draws a small bottle from his mantle
>Inside the bottle you see the sliver of metal you plucked from the wolfess' wound
>That feeling of dread returns when you stare at it
>"This was found on her body. Death Spall. Composition like crystallized mercury, and extremely lethal when used against wolves in particular. What doesn't outright kill them certainly will over time, often with building rage."
>Digre palms the bottle and hands it off to Brackard
>The captain doesn't look thrilled to be touching it, and hands it down the line of guards
>"No such weapon this shard belongs to was recovered on the battlefield, and I have my doubts this young wolf is capable of inflicting such a wound against herself. I suspect an outside force is at work to create tension between our people, and so I cannot hold this one accountable for what may or may not have happened that day."
>You can already hear the disappointment and frustration of the crowd
>"Faolre will be released under the good faith that her actions were not done with freewill. However, she will be exiled from this community immediately, taking her armor but not her weapons."
>Nobody looks happy about the judgment
>None of the townsfolk will see a bloodbath
>The captain won't receive the honors of an execution
>Faolre herself looks upset about losing her swords but not as livid as you would expect
>The guards present her armor, which she looks at as though it were soiled by something far worse than blood
>"Esteemed guest, Anon."
>The bard has a talent for making your blood do all sorts of things with just a few words, like boil or freeze
>"May I ask one last favor from you and please help dress Faolre for her departure?"
>Neither you nor Faolre wants to do this
>Likely for different reasons
>But your future with her is uncertain, and you'll take whatever chance you can to be with the wolfess for as long as you can
>You approach the platform as much of the audience disperses, and the wolfess holds out your cloak
>Standing in almost nothing once again just like in prison
>But you refuse to take it back
>She says nothing as she wraps it around her neck
>You help her don her armor, pulling belts taught and clasping plates snugly
>It's as though you're preparing her for war, a feeling you would rather not have
>She's already a muscular figure (with some well-placed curves to boot), but adding in the armor makes her a more sizable threat than any male human knight you've seen
>And once again, you're admiring the wolfess' physique as you gravitate around her
>Her equipment is tailored to her body perfectly, and you are fortunate enough to explore it all while piecing her together
>She may have admirable scars of a hardened fighter already, but you don't want to see such a perfect creature battered any further
>A chunk of her torso plate is split in the front, too damaged to fit properly
>She takes your cloak and binds the halves tightly
>If you never get that cloak back again, you'll at least know it's being put to good use
>She stands as though dead on her feet; an image of a slain warrior from both her outward appearance and her sullen demeanor
>When you try to console Faolre, do ANYTHING for her, the guards rebuff you
>She's led to the town gate, where a few remaining onlookers wait for closure
>The wolfess is driven out from the walls, continuing her silence
>She acknowledges nobody while marching off toward the forest
>Never looking back, changing her stride, or making a sound
>It's an anticlimactic end to your encounter with the wolfess
>The guards won't even let you out of town yet, despite originally wanting nothing to do with you
>"The lord has asked everyone else to remain in these walls while the wolf takes her leave," one of the faceless guards says.
>The lord, huh?
>If you can't leave yet, then it may be time to pay this man a visit
>He exiled the wolfess you've given your care to, and now he has her swords
>If nothing else, you want to make sure at least one of those things returns to her

>Even though such a modest little town has such an eccentric ruler, it doesn't have a grand estate for him
>You find the bard-lord's home atop what's probably the only hill in the whole region, needing no direction in finding it
>Though Father Frond and Captain Brackard have a few choice words before you head there
>"Please, don't do anything brash," the cleric says
>"Please, go ahead and try to start something," the captain says
>You give them both your goodbyes in different amounts of respect
>Just in case
>There are several guards posted leading up to the front steps, none of whom look like they're going to stop your approach
>In fact, one even greets you
>"His lordship is waiting for you up in his parlor," the man says
>They don't give so much as a second glance at your strung crossbow, or the arm you have on the hilt of your sword
>You almost wish they had tried stopping you, rather than this suspicious nonchalance
>The foyer is unimpressive, as are the stairs leading to the second floor
>Not a single guard is anywhere inside the actual home, and the only sign of humanity is a painting of a human woman above the parlor doors
>Faded almost beyond recognition, but you’d imagine she would have been a beauty
>You throw open the doors to meet with the bard, who's standing before a small fireplace
>"No need to thank me for the room at the inn," he says mirthfully. "Just a little token of good faith for how we treated you on your first day here."
>Good faith?
>And what about Faolre?
>What was SHE given for being a prisoner all that time?
>"Hmm?"
>Lord Digre does a few listless twists
>"The wolfess already has my apology. Unfortunately, that's all I have to give back to her. She knew she wouldn’t be able to leave with her swords, and we came to an understanding."
>He says, not so subtly motioning to her pair of blades sitting against the wall the same distance between the two of you
>Well, it looks like you're going to have to be the one to deliver those to her
>"Oh?"
>His voice never loses its musical tone
>"Do you think Faolre wants those back? Do you think you'd be doing her a favor giving them to her? Did you ever stop to think I've already given her a taste of the life she actually wanted? That her 'prison' was actually a form of wish fulfillment?"
>Do bards ever not talk in pompous riddles?
>You shake your head
>You know Faolre, and you think you know how unhappy she is right now to be stripped of her warrior spirit, in multiple senses
>"Have you asked her?" Digre retorts. "She's asked you a lot of questions, but how much has she told you in return?"
>You're really growing to hate bards
>And with a flourish of the mantle, the lord pulls his lute out from nothingness
>"It sounds to me you have a lot to ask your wolfess. I'll let you leave the town now, but you should think twice about trying to drag her back to a life you think she desires."
>The ambient light in the room dims, as though preparing for the bard's impending performance
>"'Anon', eh? You know, people who are superstitious about quaint things like 'magic' think names have an incredible power. If you know one's true name, you have true power over them. And what better name than 'Anon'? Frankly, I'm a little jealous."
>He tunes a few strings; the notes echo eerily in the parlor
>Even with his eyes completely concealed with that deathly looking mask, you can tell his gaze is directly on you
>"Now then, is there anything you wish to ask ME before we part ways?"
>Even if you can keep yourself from running through this arrogant bastard with your sword, what kind of question do you even start with?
>There are so many thoughts buzzing in your head right now
>Do you go for serious or snarky?
>Digre doesn't seem too much of a combative threat, but that could just be an act
>He also seems unhinged, as though everything he does has no rhyme (no pun intended) or reason
>"But that's where you're wrong, Anon."
>Did your inner monologue just betray you again?
>No, your teeth are far too clenched to let any words escape
>"Everything I've done was for a good reason, I assure you. And yet, I'm sure the more I say, the more unbelievable my foresight will seem."
>He plucks a few more cords
>"I had to lock the poor girl up when we found her because of her affliction and rage, but I also wanted to give her 'something' she wants dearly. That's for YOU to figure out. And YOU come into this tale because I needed someone worldly and strong, like a mercenary, to chisel though the wolf girl's stone exterior to give that 'something' to her."
>Every note he plays sounds like it's coming from behind your ears, and not from his lute
>"And I had to send her away now both for the people's protection and hers as well. This town...doesn't care much for wolves, or the humans who love them. Father Frond, bless his soul, is an exception, but sometimes I wish he were more pragmatic like our cheerful Captain Brackard."
>The bard shakes his mantis-masked head solemnly
>"Why the tension between our races? Well, that's a feud you could try asking the kings and dukes of our land about. While you're at it, try asking the rains why they feed the grasses but ruin our picnics. Our struggles and stories are on a much more personal scale, hmm?"
>One of the strings snaps, but he doesn't react in the slightest
>Even you know such a talented musician wouldn't be so careless with his instrument unless he meant to; unless he's making a point
>When you look to the bard’s glove, you think you see something sharp protruding from one of his fingers
>"But enough of my faffing about, you came here for the girl's weapons, yes? I don't believe what you're trying to do is the right thing, but I know what you'll END UP doing is, so go ahead and take them."
>He slams the butt of the lute down with a discordant ring
>"Anything else?"
>Dare you bring up the mask?
>What's behind it?
>"Ugliness, of course," the bard says happily. "Why else do people wear masks? Ugliness of the skin, ugliness of intentions, ugliness of facing reality. No, I won't tell you what reason I have for wearing mine. Not yet."
>When you don't follow up with any other question or comment, Digre turns around and faces the flickering hearth
>"You may leave, and I suggest you do so soon. You have some catching up to do."
>You take the wolfess' blades slowly, and then back out of the parlor in silence
>The bard keeps his back turned
>{~Just Anon and his dear Faolre...~}



[[ CHAPTER 4: Gulesden ]]

>You’ve always traveled with just as much as you need
>Carrying your sword and crossbow day after day has made their weight negligible to you
>Carrying someone else’s weapons on top of that?
>And heavy, cleaver-like weapons made for a wolf?
>Getting around is a little more difficult now
>The blades can’t even fit in sheaths, instead hanging awkwardly from your shoulders
>Not to mention all the extra supplies you decided to stock up on
>Once the wolfess was out of sight of the town, you realized she left without a single bag or pouch
>She’s alone out there with no food or provisions
>But if anyone is tough enough to withstand the wilderness, it’s Faolre
>Still, bringing her something to eat would be a good gesture
>Especially since you’re afraid she still sees you as “loyal” to the people of Thistlecrik, and somehow had a hand in her banishment
>The afternoon sun is still unforgiving by the time you’ve finished your confrontation with Lord Digre
>You march through the town gates, getting more than a few stares from the people you’re leaving behind
>You truthfully have no loyalty to them; Father Frond was a kind ally, even giving you some medicine to leave with, but you suspect he would rather have you remain in the town than chase down the wolfess
>She’s all you can think about
>What started out as a pheromone-induced allure has evolved into something much more sincere
>You would never be able to deny just how attractive Faolre is to you, but more than anything you worry about her being alone and unhappy
>She could be a shredded pile of fur and bone and you’d still care for her
>You pause
>A shiver runs through your spine as you process the image in your mind
>It’s a horrifying thought, and you push onward to distract yourself
>The sooner you can be by her side the sooner you’ll be put at ease
>Her legs are long and her stride was determined, but if you keep your pace you should be able to catch up to her
>As long as you’re going the right way, that is
>You do have your concerns, since you’re going off nothing but the last direction you saw her head toward
>You beg for guidance and you’re given distant screams
>They’re not Faolre’s, but that doesn’t mean she’s not in danger
>You break into a sprint with all your gear shifting and jostling painfully against your body
>The screams end just as soon as they begin, and once again you’re back to moving by intuition
>There’s a clearing
>Sitting on a fallen log, hunched over, is Faolre
>Breathing heavily with a foreign sword in her paw
>The weapon must have come from one of the four bodies around her
>Your joy in seeing the wolfess again is tempered by the remorselessness for those lying slaughtered at her feet
>You approach cautiously, though it’s clear Faolre knows you’re there
>”Self defense,” she spits, driving the sword into the dirt. “I assume you thought I did this out of pleasure. Am I wrong?”
>Now that she says it, you oddly don’t question her anymore
>Or at least this time
>But what happened the day she was found by the lord’s men?
>”I…don’t know,” she sighs
>You place her blades down by her side
>Removing the burden is physically liberating, but something still eats at your heart
>Are you just dumping the burden back on her?
>Was that obnoxious bard actually right?
>”My people ran into a human party as we scouted the area. We didn’t intend on fighting, but tensions haven’t fully ended with the wars. I don’t know who made the first strike that day, but it wasn’t me.”
>She looks at her swords
>It’s the look of knowing you’re dependent, or indebted, to something
>”Self defense,” she says again. “I fought because we were all provoked. Surrender from either side was out of the question. Before I knew it, a searing pain gripped me and I blacked out on my feet. There was no bloodlust in my veins, but when I regained my senses they were all dead.”
>All of them?
>Faolre’s eyes narrow
>Some sort of realization hits her
>”No. There were three missing bodies from those I counted at the beginning: two human, one wolf. I can only imagine the victor has the other captive. I looked around as much as I could before your lord’s men found me, but there was no sign of them.”
>You firmly tell her Digre is not “your lord”
>The bard has been more than enough of a headache to ever pledge your allegiance to
>”Fine, then you can join me in being an outcast.”
>Well, you’d certainly like to join her
>”I didn’t mean it that way,” she scoffs. “You have no reason for following me. I’m going to wander aimlessly for the rest of my days.”
>Doesn’t she have family or a home to go back to?
>”The fact nobody came to ‘rescue’ me in that miserable prison should be proof I don't. And if any of my people did come, it would surely be to take my life for ‘betraying’ my kin.”
>You notice the strip of red on the bridge of Faolre’s muzzle, where a brand new cut is oozing fresh blood
>Part of you was hoping you wouldn’t have to use Father Frond’s medicine so soon
>”What are you doing?” the wolfess grumbles as you prepare your supplies
>You don’t doubt her combat prowess or her steel constitution, but she isn’t going to scare you off from mending her wounds anymore
>You give her a definitive look as you lean in and clean the blood off with a fresh cloth
>”Do you think you’re going to bandage THIS one? I’m sure you would love to wrap my mouth shut with your—“
>You close her muzzle, but gently and with only your hand
>The cloth soaks up the blood with soft strokes
>Faolre is paralyzed by your touch, making no more objections while you work
>Part of Frond’s “miracle package” includes some sort of resin and paper for treating these particular types of wounds
>You rub some of the healing salve into her cut and then apply the resin-coated paper over it
>The paper hardens over her muzzle after some time, adhering to her snout naturally
>All the while you’re stroking her fur around the wound, keeping the hairs out and subconsciously trying to soothe her with a tune that’s stuck in your head
>The silence of the wolfess is more than surprising, but as you stroke her muzzle her eyelids droop and her breathing becomes heavy
>Do you have some kind of magic touch for healing?
>Or is she genuinely pacified by your presence?
>Control over your own body slips away
>Before you know it, your lips are hovering over the top of her muzzle
>Faolre almost lets it happen
>Her eyes snap open at the last moment and she recoils in shock
>She sputters in confusion, shoving you back at arm’s length
>”WHAT is the meaning…! What have you drugged me with? You humans and your damned remedies….”
>Faolre rubs the makeshift cast and gives it a few taps of her claw
>She’s flustered, but maybe even a bit grateful?
>”Hmph,” the wolfess grunts repeatedly, more times than she probably realizes
>”I suppose it’s a serviceable job. What is your plan now that you’ve returned my weapons and all but kissed away my pain?”
>You weren’t holding out for a heartfelt show of gratitude from the wolfess, but you at least hoped she would pick up on your intentions
>You want to be with her, to join her on her journey
>No matter where she goes
>The wolfess, amazingly, grins
>”I think you’re throwing your life away, but I admitted I might have underestimated you. If nothing else, I want to see how ‘Anon’ truly survives in this unforgiving world.”
>Faolre rises up, grabbing her swords and hooking them to her back
>”Take what you need from their bodies, but I already have their gold.”
>Well, no sense in letting good loot go to waste, especially if they ambushed her first
>Not much to scavenge apart from half-emptied waterskins and some loose tobacco
>Wait…
>On each of the men’s bodies is a token quite familiar to you
>The Blood Coterie
>Stolen family crests stamped with this mercenary organization’s disrespectful insignia
>If there’s any band of thugs that gives all sellswords a bad name, it’s them
>More than once you’ve run afoul of them, first because you turned down their membership and again any time you’ve taken work in their “domain”
>It wouldn’t surprise you in the slightest if half the rumors of them instigating war just to stay employed were true
>There’s a muted ringing in your ears
>That’s right…it wouldn’t be surprising
>But what would that have to do with Faolre…?
>”Is Anon partial to corpses?”
>The wolfess is smirking as the two of you head off
>Faolre making lighthearted banter?
>Now THAT is surprising

>You and the wolfess walk for hours, having no clear heading or purpose
>Faolre’s immediate goal seems to be coercing your rations from you
>You’re regretting not stocking up even more before you left Thistlecrik
>”You live a warrior’s life, but you don’t yet have a warrior’s appetite,” she chuckles smugly. “It’s second only to the appetite of a hedonist.”
>Warrior or not, you do hope neither of you will have to draw your swords anytime soon
>Especially on each other
>Faolre’s pair doesn’t seem to be as lethally sharp as your modest blade, but the force behind them would still cleave any foe in two
>”I hope your fascination is with my armaments, and not something more lecherous,” she says as you lag behind
>It hadn’t crossed your mind until she said something
>Now you need to focus on her weapons just so you don’t end up looking at her rump
>Even ignoring their size, the craftsmanship of her swords is staggeringly impressive
>”The girls have yet to fail me.”
>Girls?
>Does she name them as well?
>”There is no shame in that!” she growls. “Why wouldn’t you give a legacy to a worth set of blades?”
>She grabs the hilts as she introduces them
>”This one’s Vorpel, and the other’s Volfire.”
>You suppose you’ll have to think up something for your own weapons
>Or at the very least your crossbow, considering you’re a better shot than a swordsman
>You’re happy you could reunite Faolre with her treasures, in spite of what the bard had said
>”I know you’re one of them, regrettably,” the wolfess responds, “but to take the word of such deceitful humans? Would you have left my property with that masked ‘lord’ simply because he told you to?”
>Not without her approval, you wouldn’t
>It’s relieving to hear the bard’s little monologue was just an empty threat and a hollow warning
>Hollow, just like his music 
>Though you can’t stop yourself from humming his melody
>It’s the feeling of contentment, you tell yourself
>You’re back with the wolfess you’ve fallen for
>The two of you have the entire world to explore
>Though she does seem restless about it
>"I feel obligated to stop at the nearby village,” she says after awhile
>Her home?
>”No, just…where some of us have been staged to keep an eye on human movement.”
>So a military camp…
>”No,” she says flatly, but doesn’t follow through with a clarification. “We won’t stay long, but I should vouch for my own innocence if rumors of me abandoning my party are spreading already.”
>It would be nice to see her people on more “peaceful” terms, especially with Faolre for protection
>Perhaps you might be seen as an ambassador for peacekeeping between humans and wolves?
>That may be too optimistic
>After all, your own kind arrested you the moment you entered their town
>It’ll be the wolves’ chance to demonstrate better hospitality, at any rate

>Gulesden
>A small village in the basin of a valley
>Multiple homes, some permanent and some pulled by massive wheels, dot the area
>Now it’s your turn to feel like the outcast
>Wolves make up the entirety of the population, a direct opposite to Thistlecrik
>You get the feeling the wolves pick up your scent long before you arrive
> Faolre also seems to pick up on something
>”Stay close to me,” she rumbles
>Most of the villagers look at you in suspicion of mild disgust, but none dare harass you with Faolre at your side
>About half of them look like warriors, but the rest are simple families and maybe even a few nomads
>Your expectations for a warm welcome lower, but it seems every village (or town) has at least one “deviant”
>When the two of you are far enough out of range from the next closest wolf to eavesdrop, you’re intercepted by another wolfess
>Black and white, groomed far better as a symbol of beauty instead of battle
>”Faolre, why do you keep this human to yourself?” she purrs. “What use is an outsider to us if you just keep him under your crude paws? He should be allowed to meet our people through a much more gracious, much more majestic host.”
>Faolre snaps her jaw at the sultry wolfess, nearly catching her throat
>The other wolfess turns up her nose with contempt
>She struts off with a sashay of the hips, as though letting you know her offer is still valid
>”Despicable harlot,” Faolre mutters
>You didn’t know wolves could be drawn to humans just the same
>”The degenerate ones. You would do yourself well not to associate with the worst of our people.
>She leads you to a gathering hall of sorts, one of the few seemingly permanent structures in the village
>You’re met with more unfriendly stares as you enter, but Faolre is concerned with her own target
>Now the eyes are on her as the wolfess approaches a tan male wolf, who’s laughing jovially with some drinking mates
>His good mood ends when he’s hoisted far enough off the floor for his feet to dangle pitifully
>”You’d better have a good excuse for being so cheerful, Hurcku,” Faolre seethes. “Why did you desert your comrades on the battlefield?”
>”F-F-Faolre!” he squeaks. “I thought you were dead with the others when I chased the last of the humans off!”
>He looks to you, worried, but Faolre jerks him out of your line of sight
>”W-where have you been these last several days?” he continues
>”Rotting away in prison, I would hope the stories are saying,” the wolfess says. “Did you not think to look for me when I wasn’t among the bodies you had to bury?”
>”N-no, Faolre, I’m sorry! I was too stricken with grief having to bury all the others—“
>”LIAR!”
>Faolre throws the tan wolf against the wall, rattling pictures and some hanging steins
>Unlike the gasps and cries you’d anticipate with human bystanders, the other wolves are silent and focused
>Is this just how altercations are handled in their society?
>”I was strangely enough PRESENT at the battlefield when the humans’ troops shackled me and dragged me back to their town. The last I saw of our fallen brethren was them being lined up for burial, by the HUMANS. They showed far more respect for the dead than a coward like you!”
>The wolfess must have intimidated all she could from Hurcku, because he refuses to say anything more than a few stuttering apologies
>”What happened to the men you supposedly chased?” Faolre tries to squeeze out of him
>”Gone, I swear it! They outran me in my injured condition, but…!”
>His voice is so quiet you can only make out his words through his lip motions
>”I know where they are hiding out!”
>”And you haven’t told any of the others yet?” Faolre says derisively
>”And risk rekindling the war? Not me!” Hurcku says. “But, I’m sure I could share such information with you, dear Faolre. You seem cordial with the humans now; I bet they would listen to you!”
>Faolre snarls at his comment
>”Fine then. Where are they now?”
>Hurcku dusts himself off and beckons for the two of you to follow
>”I can show you. There’s not too far out of the village. Come with me.”
>Just before the three of you leave, Hurcku bends down to where the fallen steins and other silverware are strewn about
>You see him palm a small metal disk and slip it into his vest
>You can’t discern just why he’s grinning



[[ CHAPTER 5: Hurcku ]]
 
>As much as you don't want to admit it, it’s difficult to fully trust the kind of wolves you just met
>Hurcku in particular strikes you in an odd manner
>Faolre seems to feel the same way about her own kin, but her skepticism is more out of anger from her grudge with him rather than regular suspicion
>The mistrust is unanimous, as the tan wolf doesn’t want you too close to him while he leads you and Faolre out of the village
>A few outlying wolves watch your departure, but none of them intervene
>”I haven’t even attempted to scout them out myself,” Hurcku explains, glancing behind him frequently. “I didn’t want to spoil the opportunity before reinforcements came. Luckily, our dear Faolre is an entire army herself.”
>The wolfess is unmoved by his words
>You get another uneasy feeling from the change in the air
>Normally, you’re pretty perceptive of the weather
>You have to be, since there are days when you have no shelter or company
>When the winds and downpours keep you from finding a warm bed
>You were so preoccupied with Faolre you hardly acknowledged the dark clouds rolling in
>Yet you hold your tongue about your reservations
>You don’t want to be the one to run back to safety out of concern for a little rain
>Especially when you would be hard-pressed to find accommodations in Gulesden without your lupine guide with you
>”Not much farther,” Hurcku whispers. “They could be nearby, so we’ll need to move quietly.”
>He points to an overgrowth near the top of a large hill
>The branches look deliberately bent to make a screen of leaves
>Behind them is a sunken entrance to a cave, leading down the middle of the hill
>”Quite the view and access to our territory,” Faolre says to herself
>”Hmm? Oh, yes,” Hurcku responds. “This is why we need to remove them immediately.”
>They grow silent as the three of you approach the enemy den
>It’s dark at the entrance, but the soft glow of candlelight draws you in as you delve underground
>It feels wrong to be hunting your own kind, but you’ve grown so attached to Faolre you’re willing to take her side in this war
>Though calling it a “war” is terrible
>The fighting has ended for the most part, and no part of you wants to rekindle it
>Even if it means never getting work as a mercenary ever again
>These days it’s all about small-scale conflicts and personal matters
>People pay you to stop minor quarrels or investigate meaningless rumors
>Never before in your life have you felt you were a crucial component to some greater machination
>If the surviving humans intend on retaliating against or plotting some sort of extermination of the wolves, you have to step in
>Not out of some duty to preserve their lives
>But because letting hatred and bloodshed go uncontested will not make a world you hope to share with Faolre
>The wolfess takes the lead, but Hurcku pulls back
>He pushes you ahead of him in the marching order, practically hiding behind you in spite of his larger size
>At the back of the den is what you’d expect from a band of stowaways
>Crude furniture, dirty foods, leathers from creatures you hope didn’t used to have rational thought…
>There are a lot more of them than you expected as well, numbering a half dozen brigands
>All of them look miserable for being hidden where no fresh air reaches, but you don’t feel much sympathy for them
>Stained trophies and remnants of past slaughters litter the hideout
>They may be human, but something tells you they don’t have the hearts of one
>Hurcku tries to issue a hushed strategy, but Faolre leaps ahead in ambush with her two swords held at the ready
>Two of the men fall without getting a chance to stand
>The rest draw blades in a panic, trying to assess the situation
>One of them spots the tan wolf, anger flashing in eyes
>”Hurcku, you beast! You trait—“
>Faolre’s momentum cuts the man down before he can finish his sentence, but the message was clear
>You draw your own sword and keep Hurcku from fleeing while the wolfess dispatches the remaining men
>She pauses for only a moment before turning her bloodlust to the tan wolf
>”How many times will you need to be called a traitor today?” she growls between clenched teeth
>The tan wolf is not only outnumbered, but easily outmatched
>You think maybe even YOU could take him out in a duel
>”You knew these men, didn’t you?” Faolre says.
>She stamps closer, backing the wolf against the wall
>“These men…these greedy killers…they were more your brethren than any wolf has ever been, WEREN’T THEY?”
>There’s a flash of light and Hurcku draws out a sickening blade
>Now your unease and suspicion is justified
>He’s holding a small, but deadly knife
>The blade is entirely Death Spall
>”COWARD!” Faolre roars
>Hurcku whips the knife at her
>But dumb luck is on your side
>With a swing of the sword you bat the blade out of the air
>You need to throw yourself back just to avoid Faolre’s rage
>She swings wildly at Hurcku, who tries his best to parry the blows with any object he can grab
>Pots, plates, belts, mugs…
>Everything he wields is smashed with a single blow from the wolfess
>A deep gash is sliced into the tan wolf
>Something plinks out of his torn clothes
>The emblem is foreign, but the insignia is unmistakable
>The Blood Coterie
>These are pieces you nearly wish didn’t have to be assembled this way
>”I was going to interrogate your stump of a torso,” Faolre says, “but now you don’t even deserve a respectable death. How could you BETRAY YOUR OWN KIND?”
>Hurcku’s paw is covered in blood as he reaches into his shirt and drops a lumpy sphere onto the ground
>The room is blanketed with a paralyzing grime and a suffocating smoke
>”What witchcraft…?! You are a shameless bastard of a mutt!”
>When the smoke dissipates Hurcku has already escaped
>Faolre’s raw fury lets her break free of the sticky grime and give chase
>You, however, struggle to get even a single arm out
>Flailing your sword does no good, and you end up dropping it out of exhaustion
>The sounds of their feet grow softer, and when you strain to hear what’s happening you pick up on the rumble of encroaching thunder
>You call out to the wolfess, but there’s no word back
>Now you’re even more anxious to free yourself
>{~Treacherous knife and bloody paw~}
>{~His honor and pride doth declaw~}
>It can’t be
>You slip free of your bonds and drop to your knees
>The glint of the wolf’s mercenary insignia draws your gaze
>{~Betrayal makes a fool’s gravestone~}
>You scramble to your feet and pursue the wolves
>Your sword is left behind
>Tracking the retreating tan wolf isn’t difficult with his blood leaving a vibrant trail
>{~Shame it may fall on dear Faolre…~}
>You break into a mad sprint
>You pray the bard’s invasive words, wherever they come from, aren’t a premonition
>When you reach the mouth of the cave, it feels like nighttime
>The sky is dark, and lightning heralds in the deluge of rain
 
>You struggle to catch up to the wolves deep in the forests
>Every moment you try to follow the blood trail is a bigger gap you’re creating between you and Faolre
>You don’t know how much time passes, but the storm grows impatient
>Now the showers become your greatest threat
>They wash away the blood
>They blind you from the path
>They drown out the sounds of the wolfess screaming at the traitorous tan wolf
>Soon, the rain and mud become dangerous allies
>You plod through the damp terrain, searching for any hint of Faolre’s whereabouts
>But it’s not her you find first
>When you find his body, you feel violently ill
>His corpse lies flat but his arm is frozen aloft, reaching for the sky
>What’s even more terrifying is his skin
>Or lack thereof
>He has been picked completely clean, with the skeleton of a wolf and a few scraps of tan fur left behind
>At his side is a spilled pouch with a substance unfamiliar to you
>Given the context, however, it’s not unlikely he had used it for some kind of tricks or spells
>Perhaps it was nothing more than a lure for monsters
>There’s a shrill, ungodly caw as a shadow swoops overhead
>A carrion bird, a servant of hell, a blight on the world
>The Spall Raven
>The beast that loaned the venomous metal its name
>Whether it knows you’re there or not, it’s much more concerned with some other target
>Never would any friend advise you to follow such a creature, but whatever poor soul the Spall Raven preys upon must be someone worth saving
>You kick up clods of mushy earth as you strain yourself in keeping the pace
>The reality of your fears drives you forward
>It devoured one wolf, and now you have to save the other from the same fate
>And when you find her, your legs stop as your heart keeps racing forward
>Faolre lies unmoving in the sludge of wet dirt, beside the corpses of two more ravens
>One of her blades is broken at the hilt, while the other is shattered into several pieces
>The Spall Raven circles the wolfess, ready to dive upon her when it feels she has no more fight left in her
>The wind isn’t any friendlier to you than the other opposing elements, but there’s only one way to close the distance between you and the airborne threat
>You apologize to your crossbow for never naming it as you swing it into your hands
>You intend on making its legacy right now
>You shoot a bolt at the raven, clipping its wing and sending it spiraling in place
>And you nock another
>The second shot strikes true, plunging into its chest and making its flight erratic
>And you nock another
>Third one sails through the air but suppresses its escape
>And you nock another
>Another
>Another
>Several more rocket at the raven, creating needles of wood and metal that almost disappear amongst the bird’s harried black feathers
>Just when you’re aware of how few remaining bolts you have, the next shot brings the Spall Raven to the earth, dead
>You drop your crossbow in a panic as you sprint over to Faolre’s prone body
>Blood is mixing with the water and mud
>Your cloak couldn’t hold all the pieces of her armor together as they were rent to scraps
>You drop to your knees, pleading for the wolfess to still be alive
>What you find doesn’t even feel like Faolre
>Her body’s shaking violently
>She’s digging her claws into the ground, clinging to any support she can
>Worst of all, she’s whimpering
>Crying faintly with her eyes sealed shut and her ears folded back
>The proud warrior, reduced to the mewling pup she warned you never to see her as
>Her swords lie destroyed; you’ll have to leave them behind
>Just like Lord Digre wanted
>Even your own weapons will have to be abandoned if you hope to have enough stamina to save Faolre
>You turn around on your heels and pull her arms over your shoulders
>Her claws stab painfully into your chest as she grabs hold
>You try to hook her hind legs under your arms, but her overwhelming size makes this impossible
>You can only do one leg while the other drags limply behind
>Rain and tears blind your advance, but stopping isn’t an option
>You hum loudly; a marching tune to motivate you through the elements and to handle the weight bearing down on you
>{~Just…Anon…and…~}
>Every step pulls your feet down into the mud
>You wobble from side to side as you make your way forward
>There’s distant music whenever you drift in a certain direction, and it quiets when you stray the other way
>You aim yourself wherever it’s the loudest
>It’s the only lead you have
>{~…dear…Faolre…~}
>She moans weakly
>Please, hang on, Faolre



[[ CHAPTER 6: The Glade ]]

>Your life is Faolre’s now
>She can’t walk, so you’re her legs
>Her fur is soaked, so you’re her warmth
>It’s as though you can feel her heartbeat even through her broken armor, but it’s getting weaker
>You can feel her grip slipping along with her vitality, and your own stamina is sapped away as you try to compensate for the added weight
>Even the music quiets, and you lose your only guidance
>Now your consciousness is waning, too
>You can’t think or feel
>All your energy is spent just putting one foot before the other
>You were already blind from the rain, and now your eyelids have lost their will to hang on
>A walking corpse, trying to stop another from passing on
>You might very well be facedown in the mud, and all your effort is in delirium
>Misery and duress are what you want right now, because being comfortable means you have finally died
>You must have walked into the afterlife after all, because you don’t hear or feel the rain anymore
>Now you hear the twitter of birds and gentle splashing of water
>You’re afraid to open your eyes, not quite ready for death
>But when you do, you also hear music
>Soft and graceful, like a harp
>It’s a glade, ethereal green and untouched by the storm
>A shallow, stone-built pool rests in the center of the clearing with crystal-clear water
>A small cabin sits behind it, elegantly carved from what looks like a single block of wood
>Something catches your eye up in the trees
>Of all people…
>…Him
>The bard sits reclined on a sturdy branch, seemingly oblivious to your plight
>He doesn’t acknowledge you as you call out for him
>A few small fires and wisps of light ignite by the pool
>The air feels balmy, like a bathhouse
>Steam rises from the pool, and all you can think about is how good it must feel
>How good it will feel to Faolre
>You ease the wolfess into the pool, propping her head up against the stone rim
>She doesn’t want to let go, but she doesn’t have the strength to hold on to you
>Blood exudes into the water, and you carefully peel away her armor
>Miraculously, the clouds of red dissolve in the sparkling pool
>Her wounds are still fresh and open, but it’s as though the water is stanching the blood
>Everything needs to come off, as she’s better off naked than staying in sopping wet clothes
>You feel minor guilt for stripping her away her warrior-hood down to her natural-born fur
>And on the other hand, it’s impossible to feel even the slightest tug of arousal at her nude figure
>Your concern for her overrides any distracting thoughts
>Soon she’s completely out of her equipment, with the pieces abandoned in the pool
>Though your sleeves and slacks are just as drenched from both water and her blood
>You douse her gingerly, hoping to cleanse her fur yet fearing it might start falling out at any moment
>After the last few days all you want to do is melt into the pool and enjoy the heat
>But you fight off the temptations
>Faolre won’t get better as she is right now, even with magical waters
>You need something to dry her off with, but you’re afraid to leave the whimpering creature alone
>A deer struts calmly over to you
>On its face is a familiar, bone-like mask
>Not exactly like a mantis, but with a pointed head extending out where its deer snout would be
>What looks like a saddle at first is really a stack of towels balanced on its back
>It would be an eerie coincidence if you weren’t certain the gift was so timely and deliberate
>Once you remove the towels the deer takes off, as though realizing the fear a wild critter should have for an intruding human
>You do your best to dry Faolre once you pull her from the pool, soaking up as much moisture as you can while trying not to make her injuries even worse
>Then you wrap her up and carry her into the cabin
>Arms and legs shaking violently from all your exertion
>The structure barely has enough space for a bed, a cabinet, some jugs, a cooking hearth, and a stool
>You lay her atop the cloths atop the bed, which is no bigger than wolfess sized
>Without the miracle water, her blood slowly oozes out
>You throw open the cabinet doors in a panic
>You knew what you wanted to see, but it still baffles you to have it right there
>The cabinet is stocked with various medicines, tools, and rations
>Not full to bursting, but an ample inventory
>Not enough remedies for an army, but enough for a one-woman Faolre army
>Not enough food to last weeks, but enough for a recovering wolfess
>There’s also not enough time to question this “good fortune”
>You grab an armful of supplies
>It’s all very similar to Father Frond’s cleaning baskets
>There are several deep gashes and many smaller lacerations all over Faolre’s body, crisscrossing with the scars she already has
>The technique of that first fateful day instantly returns to you
>Comb apart the fur
>Clean the wound
>Sterilize the wound
>Close it up and move on to the next one
>You wonder if the sting of the salves is discomforting to her
>Either she’s fighting the pain, or she has no more feeling left
>Her breathing is slow and sallow
>You beg her not to leave you
>She doesn’t need to thank you
>She doesn’t need to love you
>She just needs to pull through
>With the wolfess entirely bandaged, you sit beside her and wait
>Stroking her head and holding her paw
>When you’re confident the bandages aren’t going to bleed through, you carefully remove the stained towels and toss a fresh blanket over her
>Then it’s back to comforting her
>You can’t help yourself anymore
>You lean over and kiss the bridge of her nose, right between her eyes
>She exhales deeply
>Whatever it takes, you need to save her

>It’s been a few hours now
>Though the last few days have blurred into a single stretch of fear and fatigue
>You will only be able to rest once the threat on her life passes away first
>Faolre’s breathing eventually normalizes
>She’s sound asleep now
>You don’t want to leave her side, but your own clothes are damp and blood has ruined them
>You step out of your outfit, lightly garbed but not yet nude
>Unfortunately, your mystery benefactor didn’t supply anything clean to wear
>What you’re given instead is a bard who hasn’t stopped playing since you arrived, even long after the sun has set
>You slink outside and try to find him, but he’s no longer perched up in his tree
>So, where…?
>On the roof, it seems
>Still unresponsive
>Still an enigma
>You head inside to find something to pelt him with, but Faolre needs you first
>She’s whining, as though trapped in a bad dream
>You place one hand on her forehead and the other just under her chin
>Your mere touch calms her down
>Guess you won’t be leaving for a while
>You light the cooking pot in preparation for a late meal
>If nothing else, the heat should make the cabin a little cozier
>You’re no culinary artisan, but a life on the road has made your skills with the knife passible
>But with what you have on hand it’s going to have to be soup
>The foodstuff of the starving vagabond
>One of the larger jugs next to the cabinet has water in it
>Fresh water?
>Of course it would be
>This entire place feels like it was prepared specifically for your arrival
>It’s probably better than taking the pool stuff in any case, even if it is magical
>Between letting the water boil and letting the soup simmer, you have plenty of time to console Faolre some more
>Every stroke of her fur puts her at ease, while every pause causes her to tremble
>When the soup cools, it’s on you to feed her
>Whatever it takes
>Spoonful after spoonful you feed the wolfess; carefully, slowly
>Faolre on the other hand is ravenous and sloppy
>She’s like a suckling pup, eyes still shut and crying when you’re not moving fast enough for her eager mouth
>You warn her to pace herself, and she seems to hear you
>There’s barely any left by the time she stops eating
>Although your hunger has greatly diminished while tending to the wolfess, you finish the remainder yourself
>All the while Lord Digre plays his music
>Now the sun rises again, peeking into the glade
>Each time you look out the window he’s sitting in a new spot
>You want to go out and say something, yell at him, fight him
>His obliviousness is maddening
>But part of you thinks this is what he’s planning
>To temper your anger and cultivate patience, both with him and with Faolre
>After all, you can’t go far from the cabin before you worry about leaving her alone
>It’s heartbreaking to see a proud warrior like this, but…
>Maybe the bard was right all along?
>Did the wolfess need this kind of protection and attention for once in her violent life?
>You trace your finger along one of her closed, fully healed scars
>You wind up near the one created by the Death Spall
>Surprisingly, it looks to be gradually healing like the others
>Have you undone the damage caused by the deadly metal?
>You’re not even a wolf, and you still shiver at the thought of it
>Hurcku must have been terrified himself to wield it
>Faolre was right: he was a coward
>Not from his fear of the Death Spall, but attempting to use the bane of wolves against one of his own
>And yet, Faolre was ready to risk another brush with fatality just to strike him down
>So many past battles she must have had, you can’t blame her for acting so cold and aggressive when you first met
>Though it seems as if there’s some closure with her final skirmish
>The runaways are dead, and you can only assume the treason from the tan wolf was orchestrated by the Blood Coterie
>Not exactly a fulfilling closure, but Faolre’s role in all this looks to be at its end
>If only you could play your own part in eradicating those black-hearted mercenaries for good…
>Faolre’s pained noises stifle those thoughts
>No more bloodshed, she seems to beg
>No more bloodshed
>You bury your nose in the fluff of her neck
>Now clean, her fur only has the earthly scent of her wild heritage
>It’s enthralling
>You can’t imagine ever growing tired of it
>Or her
>Or even her snark and elusiveness
>You want to hold her tightly, but she needs to recover more first
>You fold your arms on the edge of her bed
>The morning has come and gone, and now the new day is just about ended
>You’ve done all you can for now
>Even the bard’s music slows with your breathing and heartbeat
>It’s difficult to decide whether he’s being helpful or a nuisance, but you can’t deny it’s reassuring to have someone watching over you watching over the wolfess
>Maybe you can get some rest yourself, so that your selfless disregard for your own health won’t be the end of you
>You plant one more kiss on the wolfess’ snout
>There’s the hint of a grin on her lips
>Goodnight, Faolre



[[ CHAPTER 7: The Mantis ]]
 
>Is it a magic touch, or have you just discovered a latent talent?
>You have always been a bit of a dabbler
>A jack-of-all-trades
>Acquiring skills of various fields at various degrees of mastery
>It’s probably how you’ve lasted so long as a loner and a vagrant
>And it’s probably how you’ve managed to nurse a creature with deceptively similar yet wildly different biology back to health
>But you can’t deny the possibility of some greater mysticism at work
>You’ve only met charlatans and the superstitious before, and neither turned out to be actually gifted in magical arts
>The first one who made you question your beliefs was the bard
>Lord Digre
>Probably still out there somewhere ready to drive you insane with his incessant melodies
>When you wake up you feel an odd weight on your back
>For one paranoid moment you think you’re back on the muddy trails, carrying the wolfess and hallucinating her whole rescue
>Faolre is indeed on you, but just her paw
>Sometime overnight she put her arm around you, keeping you close to her bed
>Your panicked stirring wakes her up as well, and her eyes open groggily
>She removes her paw and looks at you in a daze
>”I suppose I have you to thank for winding up in a cramped, stiff bed.”
>Her words, as rough as they are, have an unmistakable trace of humor to them
>She’s back
>Grumpy as ever, but that’s completely normal for her
>You desperately need to hug her
>Is she strong enough now?
>Will she even let you?
>The wolfess shifts herself back to elevate her head a bit
>”Go on.”
>You throw yourself around her neck and tuck into her fur
>Now her head’s the weight on your back
>”Anon…”
>You hear sniffing
>Is she…?
>”You reek of dirt and sweat. Go clean yourself up before you ruin all your work in bathing me.”
>So she remembers
>But how much of it?
>”Well? Go do what you must. You need the relief, I can tell.”
>You’d think she would need to “relieve” herself just as badly
>Faolre chuckles
>”Again you insult me. I have organs of iron. I’ve spent days chasing or lying in wait for prey, with not a single morsel to eat or chance to stop and piss.”
>Her stomach rumbles fiercely
>”That’s…not hunger. I have an acute sense for prey. There’s something out there good for a meal. I can smell it.”
>She fidgets a little, as though making an effort to get up but with none of the progress
>You sigh and tell her to remain in bed
>She pulls the covers up higher
>”I’ve recovered just fine, thank you. But if you insist I will wait here until after breakfast.”
 
>Morning life has been awake for a while now
>Birds, buzzes, breezes…
>Bards
>Yes, he’s at it already
>Sitting in the middle of the pool on an impossibly large lily pad
>Somehow staying afloat as he slowly rotates and plays his lute
>It still has a puzzlingly harp-like tone
>”Here to take a dip?”
>That’s when you realize you’re still wearing next to nothing
>But then you realize he finally broke his silence
>All that time hanging around with nothing to say, and his first words are a joke
>”It’s simple, really,” Digre replies. “I was not truly here. My songs carried an illusion that my corporeal form could not follow. I was here solely to supervise you, but it seems that was unnecessary.”
>He lays the lute on his lap to give one hearty clap of the hands
>Then he resumes playing
>You look back to the cabin, wondering if Faolre is hearing any of this
>When you look back to the bard, you notice the masked deer from earlier lying next to the trees beyond the pool
>Dead
>Freshly so
>”Regrettable,” Digre says, “but it has been ages since I’ve hunted real game, and you shouldn’t stray too far from…dear Faolre.”
>He plays the last few notes from that tiresome song
>The deer has no signs of injury or unnatural death
>Though there’s a knife waiting for you next to its corpse
>”Prepare a meal for the girl. We can talk more after you’re both satiated.”
>You take what you need from the deer and return to the cabin with your venison
>Faolre is salivating at the sight of the meat
>She’s barking orders on how to properly cook it
>Didn’t take her long to find that commanding attitude again
>Still, it’s pleasant to hear her back to her old ways
>She gorges on the food, offering no complains to your effort
>You delay even digging into your own serving, just in case she needs extra
>When her plate is empty, there’s a sullen look on her face
>”I suppose by now you’ve figured out the truth, haven’t you? Why I’ve acted the way I did, both now and in that wretched prison?”
>This seems a little unprovoked
>But if Faolre needs to confess something, you want to lend her an ear
>Faolre taps her claw on the plate rhythmically
>”Do you remember when I asked you why you’ve chosen the life of a mercenary?”
>Despite everything that’s happened in the last few days, it’s been too short of a time to forget something like that
>”Your motivations are likely more modest than mine. Everything I’ve done is in pursuit of a life of luxury. I…”
>She looks to you with guilt, bracing for what she’s about to admit
>The history of scars and wounds she has could justify anything, though
>”I want to be pampered. I want to be spoiled! I’m so, so weary of this barbaric life.”
>You honestly thought Faolre relished her warrior lifestyle
>She certainly took offense to any slight you made against her pride
>Was it all a facade?
>”As a pup, I was raised in a village very close to a human city. I suppose it’s to blame for my tolerance of them, compared to most of my brethren. I loved their culture, and their lavish lords and ladies. I spent many nights reading books we traded from them so I could speak as they do.”
>You can hear the cracking from the plate she’s holding
>”But wolves are fighters, not well-bred nobles. Our elders live comfortable lives for their sunset years, yes, but nothing like you upper class humans.”
>The plate finally snaps from the strain of her pressure
>”At the very least I wanted a life in the city with a mate and a family. And in my vainest fantasies I yearned to let my muscles fade under the heaviness of rich indulgences.”
>She tries to force the halves of the plate back together, as though it will magically mend them
>”So to achieve my dreams I needed either money or a feat worthy of a hero to retire on. I accepted my role as a warrior, but I became…too good at it. Some males saw me as a brute, while the rest saw it as a challenge to ‘break’ me. All the while my gold went to my armor and my swords. I made no progress towards my goals. I had swords and bandages instead of fans and sweets.”
>After she’s done fiddling with the plate, she casually tosses the pieces aside
>”That made me bitter, kindling my motivation to try harder. In turn, that only solidified my place as a savage. Someone worth nothing except to kill and intimidate. A vicious circle of anger and desire. I would rather spend my life in chains if it means being treated like a queen.”
>(“Did you ever stop to think I've already given her a taste of the life she actually wanted?”)
>The bard’s words resurface uncomfortably
>(“That her 'prison' was actually a form of wish fulfillment?")
>He was right after all, and you played your part unwittingly
>”You must find me petty,” Faolre says after some time.
>No
>You love the fighting spirit in her, but you also want to see her happy at long last
>You love her groomed fur, but also her scars of experience
>The wolfess’ face scrunches up in what you believe is how she shows gratitude
>You embrace her again, with much less hesitancy
>”No gold could buy your companionship, Anon. I never want you to leave my side, no matter how I may show my feelings otherwise.”
>You won’t
>There’s a rumble of content in Faolre’s throat
>Her chest swells against yours as she inhales, then draws out a long sigh
>”I would like to have a nice dress, if I can.”
 
>By now most of Faolre’s gear is dry
>Though her armor is still in ruin, irreparably
>She instead chooses to remain without clothes while she freshens herself up outside
>”Modesty now would be pointless,” she rumbles. “You’ve already seen everything I have to hide.”
>You’re quick to state your innocence
>Undressing her was a necessity, and you weren’t staring at her vulnerability
>”Hmph. What a waste. Who knows when another such opportunity will arise?”
>She flicks her tail up and marches off to a river not far off
>You follow the steady crunch of her paws on the grass, until all outside noise silences
>”Pardon my sinfulness,” the bard says. “I don’t have the same reservations about voyeurism as you do.”
>Of course he would be right there the moment Faolre is out of sight
>And out of sound, evidently
>”An encasing field of muteness. What I have to say might be safer without her overhearing.”
>Digre strums his lute, but even within the “encasing” it sounds muffled
>”You seem to have an adequate memory. Do you remember YOUR question to me? About my mask?”
>Is he going to…?
>The bard reaches his hands up, one on his cowl and the other on his mask
>”’Ugliness of the flesh’, or in my case…”
>Ice courses through your veins
>Lord Digre
>A bard
>A wolf
>But a broken, mutilated one
>What little fur he has left is slate gray and unkempt
>One eye is completely gone while the other is half closed
>The same can be said for his ears
>The most disturbing of all, his muzzle is crooked and half the length of Faolre’s, either from being smashed into his face or sliced off completely, and there is no black nose on the end of his snout
>He still manages to give a hearty smile, showing several missing teeth
>”Much better with the mask, hmm?”
>The bard sure has a way of giving you multiple questions to ask, yet no clear one to start with
>”I suppose since we’re sharing histories, you’d like to hear another?”
>He doesn’t wait for an answer
>”It starts out all too familiar: a wolf loving a human. The girl loved the wilderness, which is where she met yours truly. Alas, the world didn’t love us in return; or perhaps only a few of its inhabitants didn’t, but that’s all it takes to draw forth tragedy.”
>Digre kicks up his cloak with a flourish
>His cloak of black feathers
>”Spall Ravens. Nasty blights, aren’t they? Seems there’s a concoction out there that can lure them out. Foolish Hurcku knows this well. When they come, they do so with indiscriminate voracity. That poor, poor girl…”
>The bard’s lone ear droops
>He rubs his mask in suffering
>”The mantis is an interesting creature, don’t you think? Cannibalizing her partner after copulation…the idea is both fascinating and horrifying. Why devour something you wish to mate with? I suppose now I know the answer to that all too well.”
>You don’t like where this is going
>The bard laughs in a way that definitely wouldn’t ease your mind if it were anyone else
>”Symbolically, of course! I wanted to die next to the bloodied remains of my love, but I knew her too well to know she would not forgive me had I given up on my own life. I had to swallow my anguish and gnash at the gruesome images I left behind, and cannibalize her love and aspirations just so I could live on for the both of us. And...let’s just say I didn’t know magic like she did until she slipped from my callused paws.”
>A dewdrop escapes from his one good eye
>”Do you know who else denied me my death that day?”
>Who else could you think of?
>Father Frond?
>”Very good guess! You’re wrong, but it was a meaningful effort. No, it was our close friend Captain Brackard who chose to save me, rather than leave me be and mourn his sister’s passing.”
>…Come again?
>What ELSE can this wolf say at this point?
>”To this day I have no idea what compelled him to do it, or if his hatred of wolves came before or after me. Maybe he keeps me close out of dedication to his sister’s wishes, or as a punishment out of loathing? These are stories far too long for the time I have allotted for now. I just want you to have a glimpse at what matters most between the two of us.”
>He takes a few steps closer to you
>You can see just how deep the scars run along his furless patches
>They’re like fissures in a desolate landscape
>”Anon, dear Faolre needs your comfort more than ever before. I tried to give her as much as I could, but I still had a duty to the people of Thistlecrik to protect them. Do I let a stranger tainted with rage from the Death Spall into my town so freely just to save one of ‘my own kind’?”
>Well, what duty is he on by being way out here?
>Once again, he only laughs
>”You are quite right! I do worry them a little too much, don’t I? I assume most of them don’t even know what I am under the mask.”
>That’s something else you now want to ask, but the bard holds his paw up as though preemptively dismissing your question
>”I hope to one day make those people more self-reliant. They come to Thistlecrik in need of support, like you and the girl. And when they’re all saved, I can finally work on myself.”
>The dewdrop turns into a steady stream
>”I know what Faolre wants, because I wanted the same thing: someone to tend to your wounds when your heart is on its last strings. Please, don’t ever stop being there for her, Anon. It’s a horrible feeling, to be so broken physically and on a bed of grief. I wish everyone loved music as much as my soul mate did. It’s so much easier to heal others with.”
>The bard dons his mantis-skull disguise
>From out of the trees steps another masked deer
>It regards the corpse of its own kind with fleeting interest before approaching
>On its back are weapons
>Both of yours
>And both of hers
>Along with your mended clothes and armor
>”I want to let these tasteless instruments lie in ruin, but that would be depriving the two of you from a way to protect yourselves from this awful, beautiful world. But, promise me you will do all you can to stop Faolre from needing them, please.”
>You nod
>”Many thanks. Remember, Anon, you are always welcome in Thistlecrik. I’m sure you will be better received the next time you visit.”
>The bard twirls around ridiculously, flapping his cloak
>You can hear the crunching of grass once again
>Faolre walks up behind you, fur damp
>”There are no towels by the river bank,” she growls. ”How will I dry the fur you love so much?”
>The bard is gone when you turn around again
>Now you’re alone with a wolfess newly liberated from her guilt
>She brushes up against you, carrying the wetness over to your skin
>You inhale sharply as you feel the flesh of her breasts against your bare back
>You remind her she’s still injured, and that her bandages are beginning to unravel
>She bears her weight on you
>”Hmph. You’re the expert. Fine, PLEASE take me back inside and to my bed.”
>She plods behind while you guide the wolfess back to the cabin
>You sigh, lighthearted
>Perhaps Faolre is going to take advantage of your goodwill now after confessing her secret?
>Well, of course not
>That would mean her asking something of you that you weren’t already planning on giving



[[ CHAPTER 8: Captain Brackard ]]

>You spend one more night at the healing glade
>Faolre is already recovered as fully as she can be, though you still rewrap her bandages to be sure
>You sit beside the bed with your head reclined against it when it’s time to sleep
>The wolfess doesn’t say anything when you take your position, though she stares at you intently
>When her eyes start to droop, she keeps her gaze steady
>Any sudden movement from you causes her eyes to shoot open again
>You have to wait until you hear her rolling snores before you can even scratch your nose
>It’s not the most comfortable way to sleep, but it’s bearable with Faolre safely nearby
>Even your dreams are calmer because of it
>And when you wake up, you can feel the warm air of her snout on the back of your neck
>”Breakfast?” she says
>It’s not a command, or anywhere as verbose as she usually speaks
>Just an innocent question with no guarantee she’ll get what she wants
>But how could you refuse that beautiful, scarred face?
>You take a fair amount of what’s left from the cabinet’s supplies
>You aren’t completely out of food yet, but it’s as though the cabin itself is letting you know it’ll soon be time to depart
>Probably for the best
>While the glade is a magical place, you can see how someone could go stir-crazy from being confined to it for a long time
>You gear up casually, while Faolre looks detached
>She’s regarding her armor like it’s the burden someone much weaker than her would see it as
>Disinterest in something that would normally bring you pleasure
>Like wearing your favorite coat at the wrong time of the year
>But when she finally puts it on, you see some poise in her expression
>After all, you said you loved Faolre for the warrior in her, and she now accepts it
>As the two of you leave the glade, she openly talks about some of the fantasies she would have with a queenly estate
>Surprisingly, what you would expect to be all glamor and frills after her confession actually has some of that hardy spirit you know so well
>”A sparring arena would be nice,” she muses. “Decorated with trophies and armaments from all across the world. Our seats would be up high to spectate all of it, with steps down the center for the times I would join in the fray.”
>Wait, “our” seats?
>Faolre gives you a stern look
>”Of course. ‘Our’. Did you think there isn’t enough room in my visions for you? My closest companion?”
>It’s thrilling to be a part of them, though you assumed her dearest wishes were for her alone
>Have you really made that much of an impact on her life, in such a short time?
>She confirms your suspicions with a meaningful grunt
>”I may have been looking at my life from the wrong vantage point. What good are all the luxuries of the world if I abandon who I am to achieve them? Servants who feed a queen with no character may as well be feeding a sow.”
>So would it be better to have character or your wishes, if you had to choose one?
>She doesn’t have an answer for that
>You try a different question
>Such as where the two of you have been wandering toward for the last hour
>”Gulesden, I suppose,” Faolre sighs. “If nothing else I should let them know what became of Hurcku.”
>Is it even worth telling someone when he tried to kill the two of you?
>Who would mourn a traitor?
>”Wolves don’t suffer treason, but we also want to know how one of our own is taken from us. Elements, beasts, war…doesn’t matter the cause. Knowing the dangers of the world helps the rest of the pack survive them.”
>But what defense do they have against Spall Ravens?
>At least twice now the deadly birds have preyed on wolves
>Drawn to them by some sort of “lure”
>Again, no response from Faolre
>Or, what about the Death Spall, the bane of wolves?
>”It is said,” she begins, “that those who manage to live through the Death Spall’s lethal edge come out stronger. Few wolves dare attempt to see if the stories are true, but those who have survived through it all claim they are more powerful because of it.”
>Does she believe she is stronger now?
>”Absolutely, but it’s not because of a brush with death, no. I feel stronger because I have an indispensible ally with me, Anon.”
>The fur of her nose rumples up
>It almost pains her more to show such sentimentality than any blade’s sting
>You place your arm around the wolfess’ waist
>You’re met with a warning growl
>”Unless you’re back there to polish my armor, keep your hands to yourself.”
>Fully recovered indeed

>Faolre’s ears perk at the distant commotion in Gulesden
>You were hoping to finally have time to take in the wolf village properly now that you’re not chasing down a traitor, but it seems as though the village isn’t quite ready for peace
>The wavering streams of smoke from hearths and bonfires in the wolves’ home are joined by the fabric of large banners
>Each one is emblazoned with the flaming swan insignia of the Duchess
>Someone you have always wanted to meet, but at the same time avoid at all costs
>If there’s one thing human nobles don’t suffer, it’s the transgressions of mercenaries
>You exist in these lands not because you’re allowed to, but because you’re too insignificant to be rooted out yet
>Whatever drew the duchess’ soldiers to Gulesden must be significant
>When you approach a mass of wolves and humans in the center of the village, you realize the barking you hear isn’t from the locals
>It’s from Captain Brackard
>He’s arguing with an elder wolf who is every bit as grizzled and ornery as him
>A wolfish copy of the captain, you could say
>The commotion lessens when both sides see you and Faolre confront them, joined at the shoulder
>Are they moved by your companionship, or disgusted by it?
>Brackard almost looks pleased to see you
>”Finally, the honorless sellsword can be put to use.”
>One of the captain’s men unfurls a poster
>Heavily inked on the parchment is a drawing of a vicious looking wolf, covered in bone armor and dripping what you assume is blood from his fangs
>[SCRIMSHAW]
>[AMPLE REWARD FOR HIS HEAD, FOR CRIMES AGAINST THE DUCHY]
>There’s only one notable member of the infamous band of mercenaries, and that’s their supposed leader, Scrimshaw
>It seems few have ever actually seen him in person (thanks to the Blood Coterie’s tendency to spare no survivors), but his name is attached to just about every major act the group performs
>It’s no surprise to you that an organization made up of both humans AND wolves would be led by the latter
>This is Brackard’s line of thinking as well
>”The Duchess is weary of this cur running amok in our lands.”
>His “pleasurable” demeanor toward you reverts to its usual bitterness
>”Watch who you fraternize with, sellsword. These dogs could be harboring the killer in their homes, and Her Elegance will NOT stand for defectors of the crest.”
>”Your Duchess is no ruler of ours, furless barbarians!” the elder wolf snaps. “You expect us to cooperate with YOU all while looking at us the same as you would such an indiscriminate murderer!”
>”ENOUGH!”
>Faolre’s yell silences the whole village
>There’s hushed murmuring about her bandaged state, but nobody wants to disturb her about it yet
>”What a pathetic sight,” she growls, “to see ‘civilized’ people at the throats of one another, while the Blood Coterie managed to put aside their differences for their vile ways! You’re doing half their job with this arrogant squabbling! ”
>It’s a truth neither of the two forces wants to hear, but there’s little they can do to refute it
>When mercenaries form better alliances than kings and chiefs, then war is inevitable
>Brackard’s pride is too sore to speak up, so it’s on the elder wolf to make the first move
>”Our Faolre is right. The wars should have ended, but here we are now with loathsome scoundrels trying to reopen fresh wounds.”
>Tensions between the leaders are high, but Brackard and the elder wolf are herded into the gathering hall by their respective people, who have been moved by your wolfess’ words
>Everyone is seated, except for a few wolves trying to diffuse the room with food and drinks
>Leaning over Brackard to hand him a mug is the sultry wolfess who tried to steal you away from Faolre on your first visit
>”If there’s anything else, please do let me know,” she whispers into his ear
>”H-hmm? Oh, fine. Very well.”
>The captain clears his throat, then downs his drink
>There’s interest from the wolves as to what Faolre and you have been up to since your initial arrival
>You explain as much as you need to while omitting anything that could incriminate or embarrass either side
>Like Faolre’s imprisonment
>Or your intimacy in the glade
>Instead, you tell them of the mercenaries’ hideout near Gulesden
>Of Hurcku’s disappearance along with two human soldiers, and how they seemed to know each other before the tan wolf betrayed them
>Of the attack on Faolre with the Death Spall on the battlefield and the later attempt on her life by Hurcku
>And of his part in drawing out the Spall Ravens, leading to his own demise
>You can see Brackard piecing the story together in his mind, though the wolves are a step ahead of him
>”So,” the elder wolf muses, “the Coterie has been trying to create a schism during a time of recovering, even using witchcraft to stir up the Spall Ravens. No doubt done to harness the creatures’ ferocity.”
>”Or keep themselves employed by offering to slay the beasts themselves,” Brackard eventually adds in
>The captain is so concerned with trying to offer his own theories that he’s oblivious to the sultry wolfess leaning on his shoulders
>There’s stillness in the gathering hall as everyone processes the situation
>”Unification is needed, that much is certain,” the elder wolf says. “We will have to arrange an assault on the Blood Coterie.”
>He gives a terrifying look to everyone in the gathering hall.
>”…And pray that there are no more traitors among us.”
>If there were, they probably aren’t one anymore
>The two races reconvene after the meeting ends
>You don’t want to be apart from Faolre, but her people want to make sure her injuries didn’t come from humans
>Didn’t come from YOU
>So you wait for her return with the decorated soldiers of the Duchess
>When you speak with Captain Brackard, he gives you a cold expression
>You must have given him a look with far less contempt than he expected, because he takes your silence as some sort of pity
>”So…Digre told you, didn’t he?”
>You almost wish the bard hadn’t, given the captain’s tone
>Brackard fumes, but it’s a simmering anger from a man who knows he can’t act on it
>”If his muzzle weren’t so hideous already, I’d smash it in myself. Half the reason I’m even here is to drag his miserable hide back to his own town yet again.”
>Why does he serve his “lord” then?
>”Don’t be a fool. My loyalty to the Duchy first, then the people of Thistecrik. But they give him their admiration first, so I have to follow his childish behavior. The town is mine, but its people are his. I do what’s best for them, so I bite my tongue and confer to his judgments.”
>Brackard scowls through gritted teeth
>Faolre returns, staring down the captain
>”Speaking of followers and our esteemed lord, I’ve been asked to return you both to Thistlecrik with me. He has been insufferable in his requests to make amends, even though he’s undoubtedly made contact with you himself since then.”
>The captain knows his lord well

>Faolre’s kin are disappointed to see her leave
>They’re happy to see the captain leave
>The sultry wolfess is crushed to see him leave
>Your party sets off for the town that brought you all together for the first time
>It’s a long, speechless journey, though your mind swarms with recollections of the past few nights
>The bard didn’t seem to want to include Faolre in his chat with you, but you feel the need to tell her about him
>You ask Faolre about Digre with a hushed tone as the two of you pull back from the group a bit
>Does she know what he is?
>”Wasn’t it obvious? Didn’t the wolfish names give it away to you? DigRE? FaolRE?”
>Well, that’s a bit unfair to assume…
>”Hmph.”
>Brackard not so inconspicuously listens in on the conversation, but the other soldiers appear to be unaware of what’s being said
>”I suppose I can’t blame you,” Faolre continues. “He fooled me at first, too. Masked his natural scent as well as his face, but he revealed the latter to me shortly after I was brought to his town.”
>Do the rest of the wolves know?
>”Not likely. Digre isn’t too uncommon of a wolf name, and when he supposedly ‘died’ along with his lover years ago nobody had reason to believe he and the humans’ lord were the same. He won’t receive warm reception from them, though, if my kin learns where his loyalties lie.”
>(“I tried to give her as much as I could, but I still had a duty to the people of Thistlecrik.”)
>The bard’s words worm into your ears just as invasively as his music
>(“Do I let a stranger tainted with rage from the Death Spall into my town so freely just to save one of ‘my own kind’?”)
>You can tell Faolre herself doesn’t hold a grudge against Digre
>Well, not anymore, at least
>But there’s underlying resentment between the two races, and would the wolves take any excuse to resume fighting with the humans?
>There’s a gloom over the travelling party
>Everyone shares relief when the walls of Thistlecrik are finally in sight
>You imagine the first stop would be Lord Digre’s estate, but Brackard pulls you to his own modest home
>”You wait outside,” he says to Faolre
>She snarls at him, but obeys
>Partly out of concern for your well-being, and partly for her disinterest in setting foot into such a hateful man’s domain
>Brackard’s home is plain and relatively unkempt
>He obviously spends more time out on patrol than doing any meaningful housekeeping
>The only object in immaculate condition is a picture of a young, joyful woman
>His sister, no question
>Brackard is transfixed on the picture for some time, then reaches into a drawer below it
>He removes an ornate wooden box and thrusts it to you
>”Digre’s intended gift to her, before her life was taken. He wanted me to have it in her honor, but damned if I’m going to keep such a tragic memento in my house any longer.”
>You open the lid to find an ornate gorget; metal scales and inlaid with gemstones
>Ornamental as much as it could be a stalwart piece of armor
>Around the collar edge is an inscription
>[The bond of wolf and man, indivisible]
>[The challenges they face, inevitable]
>[The love they share, insurmountable]
>Even with Faolre’s plush neck, the gorget seems like it would fit
>Quite well, actually
>”With any luck, her fur will cover that buffoon’s poetic drivel.”
>It’s difficult to imagine you thanking Brackard for anything, but for all you know he’s already accepted your gratitude in his own mind
>You leave the captain to mourn his sister, joining up with Faolre once again
>”Did he give you his dignity?” the wolfess huffs. “No, the box is much too large for that.”
>Her brow nonetheless rises with interest
>”So, what DID he give you?”
>You tuck the box under your arm, teasing her with a sly grin
>You can see the curiosity escalating in her eyes
>Maybe when the time is right



[[ CHAPTER 9: Spall Ravens ]]

>Lord Digre’s estate
>When you left Thistlecrik you thought that would be the last you would see of its people
>Not even a month later and you’ve already met with the broken wolf and Captain Brackard yet again
>And now you’re back where it all started
>But unlike last time, you’re not here to recover Faolre’s weapons or confront the mysterious bard
>You have the wolfess at your side, and you’re frankly not sure why you’ve come
>Brackard implied that Digre wanted to see the two of you again, but what could he want that he couldn’t have said or done at the glade?
>The inn still has a room available as a courtesy for you and the wolfess
>Sharing, of course
>You drop off the boxed gorget, as carrying such a painful reminder of Digre’s lost love might be too insulting to hold in front of him
>It’s the lost love you realize must be in the incredibly faded painting above the parlor doors when you enter the lord’s estate
>If the town did indeed belong to Brackard originally, then was it him or the wolf who hung the painting?
>Was it a joint effort? One of the few things they’ve seen eye-to-eye on after their shared tragedy?
>”Is she beautiful?” Faolre asks
>You’re startled a bit by the wolfess’ sudden remark
>Then confused
>”By your human standards, is she beautiful?” Faolre clarifies. “Is she worth what Digre had to suffer through?”
>You could never hope to be the poet the bard is
>But “beauty” isn’t something you can decide for someone else
>After all, your own heart has been taken by a fierce warrior with enough battle scars for an entire army
>Only Digre himself could answer a question like that
>All you know is that nobody should have to suffer the way he did
>You find the bard right in front of the fireplace, just as you left him
>”Anon. Dear Faolre.”
>He continues to mask himself, even in the presence of the only few who know his secret
>As he’d probably say: ”Ugliness of facing reality”
>Staring at the mantis-skull mask would be unnerving if you didn’t pity the wolf
>And yet he maintains a cheery tone
>THAT is what unnerves you
>”It’s so good to see the two of you together; healthy and strong. Out of us three, I am perhaps the weakest one.”
>You’ve seen his magic, and you would argue otherwise
>”It is this weakness that forces me to ask something of you. However, it is just as much for your sake as it is mine.”
>Faolre grunts
>”Why the pretense, Digre? Anon and I both know what you’re capable of.”
>This humors the bard
>”I should be insulted; has all my mystery been depleted? But, I haven’t been entirely fair to either of you, so I can see why you’d say as much. In the end, I can confidently say I still hold a few surprises.”
>His arm shifts under his feathered cloak
>”They’re not all pleasurable or welcoming, but they are surprises nonetheless. For instance, do either of you know who my dear love was? Or who took her from me?”
>The latter is obvious, after all you’ve discovered
>Digre told you it was the Spall Ravens, but it has to be the Blood Coterie who drew them out to sic on the lovers
>If you could see the wolf’s face, he’d be smiling
>”Correct. Who else could it be? Not all riddles must be so difficult to solve. Now then, what would their motivation be?”
>That’s something you’re not certain of yet
>Jealousy of their love?
>Prejudice of their bond?
>”You’re overthinking it, Anon,” the bard chides. “They seek riches and power. What is the emblem of the Blood Coterie?”
>The emblem?
>Well, it’s their insignia…
>…Stamped onto a stolen crest of a royal family…
>Digre hurls an object onto the floor
>It clanks loudly and lands before you and Faolre
>You can see the symbol of the Coterie as the crest bounces, but when it settles there’s the warped image of a flaming swan
>The crest of the Duchess’ family
>”Taken from the possession of a lowly grunt who no longer walks this world with us, who himself had taken it from the gullet of the very Raven that slaughtered my beloved.”
>Digre is a man whose every action is deliberate
>So when his whole body shakes, is it a warning gesture or a rare emotion that’s totally out of his control?
>”It disgusts me enough that those cowards took possession of her family’s sacred crest, but to give it to a low-ranking bastard whose life would soon be snuffed out anyway? Now THAT’s insulting….”
>The bard goes still
>”Which brings us all here at this moment. I wish to see the destruction of the Blood Coterie just as much as the Duchess, for very similar reasons. However, there is something we must deal with first. My music compensates for what my frail body cannot do. You may see me as powerful, and I thank you, but against a foe just as eldritch and cruel? No, we need healthy, strong heroes.”
>What kind of foe is he talking about?
>Faolre looks ready for whatever it may be
>Though she still has her own reservations
>”If it’s not the Blood Coterie themselves, then what?”
>The fire behind the bard goes out
>”Valravn.”
>The brevity of the name makes you think it should be as disturbing to you as it is to Digre
>But you and Faolre are left befuddled
>”One of our own,” Digre says, regarding Faolre with a nod, “Or she used to be. The healing glade you both know well has a sister: a bog where witchcraft is born. Nestled inside is the sham of a wolf who takes a disquieting interest in Spall Ravens. If the Coterie is able to control them, she may know why. She may BE why.”
>The bard gives you both a look as though expecting you to understand your mission now
>He returns to the fireplace, hunched over the dying embers
>Faolre gives you a nod and proceeds to leave the parlor
>You still don’t fully comprehend why Digre can’t join you on this task
>The wolfess doesn’t have this problem
>Maybe she understands what you don’t; a wolfish instinct
>Or maybe she sees the bard as something that’s already dead and not worth taking along
>If he’s not coming with you, you at least hope he’s watching over you
>Watching over her

>The fetid bog is the polar opposite of the healing glade
>Where the glade has the sights and sounds of wildlife, the bog is filled with the husks of long-dead creatures
>Every surface is comfortable in the glade, while the bog is both dehydrating and damp at the same time
>Harmonizing with the glade is a wooden cabin, cozy and inviting
>The bog, instead, has the rotten hut of a giant, decaying tree
>There are more bones than blades of grass surrounding the hut; the ominous welcome of its inhabitant
>Mixed in are shell fragments from eggs far too large for any bird you’ve encountered
>Well, except for one
>Faolre’s fur bristles
>It’s the first potential threat she’s had to face since the Spall Ravens, and you fear she may have been traumatized
>”Such repugnance. I will need my coat washed after this is all done.”
>No, with that confident smirk you know Faolre hasn’t lost a scrap of her boldness
>Together you enter the hut
>There’s a quivering mass of black feathers kneeling before a cauldron
>For a brief moment you think of the bard and his own mantle
>But she isn’t wearing one as a token of a slain adversary
>She’s wearing it like it were a blanket of love
>Her head snaps around to greet you and Faolre
>It’s not a bone mask like the bard’s, but an entire skull head of a Raven
>Sockets where eyes would be
>Valravn
>”Visitors?” she squawks. “So good to make your ac-c-cquaintance.”
>The rest of her wolfish body is emaciated, almost to the point of being just a skeleton with ragged fur hanging off it
>She hobbles forward with a hunched back
>Faolre threatens her with an aggressive stance, and the crone skitters back
>”No need for such hostility!” Valravn says. “It’s not nice to barge into an old woman’s c-c-comfortable home like brutes!”
>”You adorn yourself and your ‘home’ with fetishes of horrible monsters,” Faolre growls. “What connection do you have with the Spall Ravens?”
>Valravn cocks her head
>”Hmm? My dearies? Why, isn’t it in a wolf’s interests to study the dangers of our world?”
>That’s what Faolre had said
>But she doesn’t accept that as an answer
>”You’re no wolf. Not anymore. Not since whatever pack you came from banished you for your obsession.”
>The crone definitely looks more bird than wolf
>And yet, she seems cross about the insult
>”Wolves will die with their old ways,” Valravn says. “Same as humans. This is why the Blood C-C-Coterie are smart. THEY appreciate what my dearies c-c-can offer, and will live on bec-c-cause of it. I have raised the little ones to follow their new masters; such servitude is a small price to pay to see my children flourish.”
>”Where are they hiding?” Faolre barks
>The crone ignores her
>Instead she turns her back to you, fiddling with something out of sight
>”My sweet darlings will live on forever bec-c-cause of me. They’d eventually die without my love and c-c-care. Now, where is that lure? I do believe it’s mealtime.…”
>She whips around and flings a lumpy sphere at the two of you
>It’s the same as Hurcku’s trap
>You and the wolfess are ensnared with unrelenting grime
>One of Faolre’s swords is bound to her paw, which the other was wrenched away to leave her unarmed
>She fruitlessly claws at the thick cords all around her
>”I always send my pets away to their new home with a little snack-k-k. They will eat ANYTHING, but that doesn’t mean I don’t c-c-cut their food up into little morsels.”
>The crone draws a gnarled dagger from her cloak
>The Death Spall
>Her hand shakes just holding the lethal metal, yet she cackles because of it
>”My aim isn’t as steady as it used to be, but it makes for some interesting slices of meat.”
>The dagger isn’t even turned to you and you can feel the dread
>You need to do something
>You need to…try something
>Humming
>Singing
>You pray Digre is with you
>{~Beldam wolf with raven-like maw~}
>{~Thwarted by her hazardous Spall~}
>{~Her witchcraft snaps just like her bone~}
>{~Save the wolfess, the dear Faolre~}
>You inhale as the blade is thrust at Faolre
>It happens to fast you don’t even have time to shut your eyes
>The dagger is parried by the wolfess’ armor, and then she grabs it by the flat of the blade with her one free paw
>Holding the venomous metal as though it were mere wood
>She flips the grip around and plunges the tip into the crone’s eye socket
>Valravn shrieks in agony, stumbling around her hut
>The grime slips away at your words
>Or maybe your guardian’s music
>You pick up your crossbow and fire a shot at Valravn as she dashes outside
>The bolt sends her toppling over, but the real damage is done to her pouches of spell regents
>A substance you recall from the corpse of Hurcku spills out
>Then come the cries
>An unkindness of Ravens
>Four massive birds with indiscriminating tastes
>You hum some more just to drown out her blood-curdling screams as the birds devour Valravn
>Faolre manages to break free herself
>Even with the memories of the Spall Ravens so fresh in her mind, she takes up arms and launches at them
>Just as you launch more bolts right behind her
>Distracted by the meal and weakened by the poisonous regents ingested from the crone’s body, two of the Ravens fall within seconds from sword and projectile
>The third retaliates, but little can be done against the onslaught of Volfire and Vorpel
>Only the fourth has the instinct to flee, but Faolre leaps upon it and pins the black avian to the ground
>”Bleed, you wretch!” she yells. “Bleed all the way back to your masters. We’ll join you before long!”
>The wolfess digs her claws into the Spall Raven and rips through feather and flesh
>She is bucked off the bird as it takes flight
>Just as planned, blood sprinkles from the open wound as the Raven soars off
>Dotting the landscape as it flees to its roost

>You and Faolre leave the bog with your backs to the inferno you set upon her home
>Years from now, healing will take place in this land
>Perhaps the bog will someday be a beautiful glade just like its sister
>Speaking of healing…
>You look at Faolre’s paw in wonder
>How did she touch the Death Spall and not react?
>Sure, part of her is covered in armor, but against something so infamously lethal to wolves?
>Faolre flexes her digits
>”I didn’t feel anything. No fear, no pain, no indecision. I just acted on what felt natural. They say those who survive the Death Spall grow stronger, but I believe it’s something more.”
>She looks to you with those golden flaxseed eyes
>There’s sincerity in them
>”I knew I would have my indispensable companion with me to mend any injury, even if I lost my entire arm.”
>She reaches out to you, balking for a second as though your body were the true Death Spall
>”Anon, I feel invulnerable next to you. I feel more powerful. You’ve given me vigor I could never hope for as I once was.”
>Her paw rests on your shoulder
>It’s the weight of a solid fellowship, and not just a burly wolfess in armor
>”I don’t want to fight all my life, but as long as I do I want to see you beside me.”
>Faolre looks off to the center of the span between Thistlecrik and Gulesden
>”Just a little fighting more,” she grunts. “The Blood Coterie will fall, and we’ll have our futures to ourselves.
>You’re a mercenary
>You’re paid for war
>And war is inevitable now
>But once it’s over, you know you’ll hang up your sword and crossbow
>Right next to Faolre’s own blades



[[ CHAPTER 10: The Blood Coterie ]]

>Thistlecrik and Gulesden
>Historical enemies
>Now their differences are left to history
>Warring cultures now joined for a final war
>With any luck, it won’t be a war
>Two proud races against a band of backstabbers and charlatans
>You will win by sheer, overwhelming force
>But it’s Faolre you’re worried about
>She wants to be at the front of the charge
>You know she has the strength, but her hubris could be her undoing with one wrong slash or a single misstep
>No
>It’s this lack of faith in her that’s the real hazard
>If you are at her side like she wants, the wolfess can be invincible
>You don’t want to be responsible for adding to her scar count, but if it’s inevitable then you’ll love her regardless
>Love
>Hopefully humans and wolves can learn to share it
>And if they don’t, you and Faolre will get by without either of them
>Fortunately, the beginnings of an alliance are already underway
>You and the wolfess wander down the middle path between the two civilizations, indecisive in what to do next
>Man and wolf are already waiting at a stopgap encampment
>Captain Brackard and his men
>The grizzled elder wolf and his own people
>And Lord Digre right in the middle
>Brackard’s unamused expression tells the whole story before Digre can say a word
>”Ah, Anon and dear Faolre!” the bard says. “We’ve been expecting you!”
>”What’s the meaning of this, Digre?” Faolre says
>The bard continues before either of the two leaders can interject
>”Surprised? Very well! It was a surprise! I knew the two of you would find a way to track those miscreants, so I wasted no time in unifying our allies. I apologize for such short notice, but…”
>He claps his paws together
>”Are you prepared to join us in a little skirmish?”
>You and Faolre nod
>The elder wolf has some reservations, but not about the upcoming battle
>”We will have to have a discussion about your loyalties, Digre,” he growls, “And why you’re serving the humans now.”
>Brackard scoffs
>”He spends more time playing his damned music than serving any of us.”
>The bard just giggles
>”Excellent! You both have a common nuisance! I can see the armistice has already set in!”

>A good while has passed since the confrontation with Valravn, but the wolves pick up the scent of the fleeing Spall Raven’s blood as though it were fresh
>The droplets even seem to glow faintly in your eyes
>Typical of Raven blood, or something more to do with you?
>Either way, you’re back on the path to the charred remains of the crone’s hut when your party veers off to follow the new trail
>The two races are still split during the hike
>Though you weren’t expecting an overnight miracle
>Faolre makes an earnest effort to converse with Captain Brackard, even if just to sling banter at him
>”Your men are lucky, ‘captain’,” she smirks. “Their poor senses mean they won’t have to worry about marching downwind of you.”
>”Let’s hope your time in the cell hasn’t made you soft,” Brackard responds. “I don’t know whether your inability to escape was a sign of your weakness, or a sign of your submissiveness.”
>The two are already close friends, you can tell
>While they become better acquainted, you decide to make small talk with the elder wolf
>You don’t even know his name
>He doesn’t look particularly thrilled to tell you
>”Names have great importance to many wolf clans, but each clan has their own way of showing it. You’ve likely spotted the similarity between Faolre and Digre already; they might even share distant blood connection of some sort.”
>You can’t imagine what kind of distant familial split would have been needed to make Faolre and Digre such opposites
>”In my clan, we often pass our names down to our offspring so that they might inherent the gifts of their parents. The worst a pup can do is sully this honor. The worst they can do is become a traitor….”
>No…he’s not…
>”Your people follow a similar custom, or at least your nobles do. Had I been human royalty, my son would have been Hurcku II.”
>The wolf’s lip rises with simmering anger
>”I suspected the fool was going down a dishonorable path, but I was the bigger fool to hold my tongue. He not only endangered his brethren, but he left a legacy I am ashamed to have any part in.”
>The elder Hurcku smothers his rage
>Now it’s just the sadness of a heartbroken father
>”I denied it for so long. When you and Faolre spoke of his treachery, I didn’t react. I refused to believe the one in your story was my own blood. But…despondency is the witness of evil. If I am to find redemption, I must erase the sins of my son.”
>You don’t want to show eagerness in killing his son, but you offer your support where you can
>Elder Hurcku looks to you with a weak smile
>”None of my people should have ill feelings toward someone like you, Anon. Mercenary you might be, but you are cut from a far different cloth than the likes of the Blood Coterie. You may even be more wolf than man, at least in our eyes.”
>It’s quite the compliment
>But would Faolre even feel the same way about you if you were a wolf like her?
>You know she’s fascinated by humans
>And you?
>Would you have ever bonded with her had she been a human?
>Your life as a vagabond wouldn’t be complete if you weren’t constantly burdened with these existential questions
>Even through the mask, you can feel the bard’s judgmental eye on you

>Arrogant and frivolous
>But conniving and selfish
>That’s the Blood Coterie
>High up on the hills is an old lodge, large and in plain sight
>Though it is still removed from most of the well-traveled roads, and only through aimless wandering would the average man find a path up to it
>And he wouldn’t likely live to tell about it
>Every possible avenue up to the lodge’s front doors is clogged with traps and snares
>Or they would be, if Digre weren’t here to trip them
>He plucks his lute absentmindedly, with each tug of the string snapping a rope or uncovering a pit
>It makes the trek up to the lodge infinitely safer, but also much quicker
>No guards are posted outside, but there’s surely someone on watch who will see a few dozen men and wolves infiltrating their hideout
>There’s no pre-war speech
>No pause for tactics
>Not even a cry to set the attack in motion
>Just a troop of soldiers gaining speed on the lodge
>The doors blast open, and the annihilation begins
>Many of the Coterie have barely armed themselves before the wolves are upon them
>The captain’s men secure the entrance and any thresholds to keep stragglers from escaping
>If it weren’t for the countless atrocities committed by the Coterie, you might have felt regret for the poor souls as they’re hacked to pieces
>But with each fallen body drops a metal insignia
>One more stolen crest or emblem from a family that was never spared from their own slaughter
>The motivation of the mercenaries was not vengeance or retribution
>It was spite and greed
>If every one of their mothers and fathers share the same distain for them as Elder Hurcku does for his son, then nobody will mourn the Blood Coterie’s destruction
>Faolre seems unconcerned with the grunts as she sends them toppling over
>If she’s going to have to spill blood one more time, it might as well be the blood of the worst killers
>You tell yourself not to worry so much about her, but it becomes difficult
>She often doesn’t ready herself from an ambush until the blades are almost upon her
>You pick off a few yourself, unable to let her take the risk
>Your crossbow is much more ineffective in these tight quarters, but you haven’t completely given up on your swordplay just yet
>Now you’re facing off against lieutenants and veteran mercenaries
>A mix of wolves and humans
>The din of the assault rings from room to room and floor to floor
>Faolre navigates through the lodge as though drawn to a specific quarry
>You keep pace with her as closely as you can, until you loop around to an upper level where a balcony overlooks the armory floor below you
>Captain Brackard is fighting off a cadre of Coterie by himself, sword in hand
>You’re starting to worry for his life as well
>A massive giant of a man ducks through the doorway, larger than most wolves even
>He enters the fray swinging an equally mammoth hammer around
>Brackard tries to dodge the assault as much as he can, but the hammer comes too close for him to escape in time
>His sword is knocked out of his grip and his arm is smashed against the bludgeoning weight
>His face contorts in pain
>Saying it’s “broken” would be an understatement
>It hangs like a lame sleeve
>You fumble with a crossbow bolt, trying to nock it before the giant can take another swing at the captain
>But Brackard doesn’t need you
>”I…I didn’t become a captain of Her Majesty’s guard just…just to be put down by an UNCOUTH BASTARD LIKE YOU!”
>He grabs a halberd from the armory racking
>With only one good hand, he nestles the shaft in the crook of his arm and sweeps with the blade
>The giant’s windup is thrown off as the halberd axe slices into his leg
>Both foe and hammer crash to the ground
>You’ve found a little more respect for the captain
>He’s still injured, though, and reinforcements are arriving
>That’s where Lord Digre decides to tip the scales
>”Gah, leave them to me!” Brackard growls through clenched teeth
>”No such luck, my friend,” the bard replies. “This will be every bit as satisfying for me as I’m sure it would be for you.”
>With lute in hand, the room dims
>This is enough to freeze the encroaching grunts with confusion
>”A good audience deserves a rhapsody…” the bard trills
>It’s not just his own paws plucking wildly at the instrument’s strings anymore
>Scythe-like forearms from a colossal, ghostly insect materialize, gently picking at the lute along with the wolf
>”…And a bad audience…”
>The mantis fully solidifies, filling the room with its terror
>Its wings spread wide
>”…A BAD audience gets a dirge.”
>The bard looks up to you
>You hope that’s not a smile behind the mask
>”You should go see to dear Faolre, Anon.”
>He doesn’t have to tell you twice
>You’re running just as fast to catch up with Faolre as you are to outpace the screams

>True to the habitat of a criminal, the hideout extends from the lodge to a subterranean cave
>Fewer of the Coterie lurk where it’s less comfortable, but the sights are even more visceral
>Bloodstained weapons, spoiled foods, carcasses of various beasts…
>Even a few hostages held for random are chained away, just as afraid of the wolfess peeling through the tunnels as they are of their imprisonment
>The shouting starts up again, and you’re in the main war room of the lodge
>A finely carved wooden table in the center to sit all the organization’s leaders
>Broken in half
>Maps of the land and posters of the most wanted targets hung like awards on the walls
>Shredded to ribbons
>Coffers of jewels and coin from a lifetime’s worth of plundering and marauding
>Scattered along the floor like spilled beer
>Faolre is dispatching the entire room’s worth of the Blood Coterie’s toughest barbarians by herself
>You have to jump back just to avoid having a body hurled at you
>When the cleaving ceases, the only member left is trying to weasel himself out of the room
>Faolre kicks him onto his back and brings her swords to his throat like shears
>”Talk!” she snaps at him. “Where is Scrimshaw? Where is your cowardly leader hiding?”
>The prone man points shakily to the lifeless body at your feet
>”Is your life so worthless you’d let it end with a joke?” Faolre growls. “Where’s the WOLF?”
>”N-no!” the man stutters. “S-S-Scrimshaw is a human! The wolf is just for intimidation! Y-you know, like a symbol!”
>The wolfess doesn’t look convinced
>”Then take me to HIM.”
>She allows the weaseling man to stand, and he walks to a nook in the cave wall partially hidden by a bookshelf
>You should have guessed
>After all, most of the Coterie are presumably illiterate dullards, so why would they have a place for books?
>Once the man slips through, he breaks into a sprint
>Faolre is right after him, with you not far after
>Once you reach the final chamber, you find the wolfess stopped
>You’d have to be deaf and blind to not understand why
>Caged on the far side is a wolf
>You’d call him a direwolf and that wouldn’t do him justice
>He’s twice the size of the giant who fought Brackard, and nearly as wide with thick muscle
>If it weren’t for the tunnels in the back (likely leading to outside hidden exits), there’s no way he’d fit the way you came
>But the most frightening part is his pelt
>Jutting from his body are chunks of metal like spikes
>There’s no fur around the skin where the metal protrudes, only diseased, raw wounds
>From the dread in your gut, you realize what it is
>Death Spall, embedded into his body
>Faolre is speechless
>”G-get them, Grimspall!” the weasely man cries
>He unlocks the caged wolf, but is launched into the wall with a sickening crack by the titanic creature
>It’s man and wolfess against a monstrous abomination
>But even the weakest-hearted child could eventually find a reason to not fear the direwolf
>Grimspall is a hostile savage, but there’s redness in his eyes
>He lives every moment in anguish, and whenever his eyes are open they’re blinded with tears
>He rushes Faolre, but his swipes are sluggish and his roars are feeble
>But like a man set ablaze, he’s not a foe you want touching the wolfess
>You fire several bolts into the direwolf, while Faolre slashes his pelt
>Chunks of metal drop off him along with fur and meat
>Before long he’s swinging at nothing
>Faolre relents her attack, but only so she can find the opportunity for a merciful, quick killing blow
>Grimspall lashes at her with his jaw, and Faolre knees him under his muzzle
>When he recoils from the blow, the wolfess slashes his exposed neck
>The direwolf gurgles a final howl and slams onto the stone floor
>His dying expression is one filled with remorse, but also relief
>Faolre bows her head before the fallen wolf
>The last of the Blood Coterie has been wiped out
>Anticlimactic, but soon bringing a welcome feeling of closure

>You and Faolre remain in the chamber mourning Grimspall when the three leaders of your own party find you
>The limp-armed Brackard is supporting the Elder Hurcku on his shoulders
>The wolf must have injured his leg during the battle
>”I spent the better part of my first war fighting on my stomach, without the use of EITHER leg,” Brackard scoffs to the wolf
>”Unsurprising,” Elder Hurcku says. “You seem the type to crawl around on the dirt.”
>Lord Digre stands inanimate over the corpse of Grimspall
>”Such a tragic sight,” he laments. “Wolves who survive the Death Spall are said to grow stronger, but repeatedly inflicting such a bane upon yourself? All the clarity left in his mind must have been wasted on feeling a never-ending pain.”
>The bard turns to you and Faolre
>”It is possible he could have worked up enough of a resistance to become a godly wolf warrior. However, he was misfortunate enough to not have the caring touch of someone to ease him through the suffering. He didn’t have someone to comfort him. He didn’t have someone to love him.”
>Your heart aches to look at Grimspall
>What if that had been Faolre?
>What if her brush with the Death Spall had been the beginning of a transformation into what the direwolf had become?
>”Everyone deserves to have their injuries tended to by a gentle touch,” Digre continues. “Which is why we should soon depart from this hive of wretchedness. These boys have nurses waiting for them at home.”
>Elder Hurcku looks at Brackard with a sly grin
>”Ah, yes. I believe the good captain has someone in Gulesden absolutely beside herself with worry.”
>Brackard’s face blanches
>”I beg your…! I don’t understand your delirious words, wolf!”
>He tries to deflect the embarrassment, noticing Faolre sifting through the spilt coinage
>She has a look of longing in her eyes
>At last, there’s enough here to fulfill all her wildest dreams
>It’s almost eerie how lost she looks amidst the treasure
>You shock her back to reality with a touch
>There’s shame in her face
>”Leave it be!” Brackard commands. “That is blood money, and it ought to be cleansed with good will. The families and victims of these murderous cretins deserve this money.”
>He has a good point, though you wonder how much will really go to those in need of the charity, rather than just line the pockets of nobility
>Faolre scowls with the same belief, though she tries to find a light among the cynicism
>Fortunately, the captain has an answer
>”HOWEVER…the Duchess has put out a respectable bounty for the one known as Scrimshaw. If gold is what you mercenaries are after, then you can take your kill to her for your reward.”
>His words have bite, but you’re willing to take a strike to your honor if it means helping Faolre achieve her dreams
>You take her paw, examining it closely
>Then you take a look at the rest of her face
>A few minor scrapes, but nothing severe
>”They’re worse than they look,” she says matter-of-factly. “You’re going to have to treat them thoroughly.”
>You give her paw a gentle squeeze
>She nearly crushes your hand
>The five of you reconvene with the rest of the troops
>They’re cleaning up the aftermath and looking after the saved hostages
>Thistlecrik’s Father Frond will have a lot on his hands
>But it’s a good omen to return home with more souls than you left with
>Though a few of Brackard’s trusted men remain behind to hold the lodge in the name of the Duchess
>Elder Hurcku’s own stay behind as well
>”Perhaps a negotiation is in order,” he says to Brackard. “This would make for an ideal landmark for our new fellowship, once the carnage has been cleared out.”
>”You will have to speak with the Duchess on that matter,” Brackard responds. “Unfortunately, that would mean sending one of your own into Her city for an audience.”
>Digre claps Brackard on the shoulder, eliciting a whine from the captain
>”What fortune!” the bard sings. “Our dear Faolre will have to speak with the Duchess anyway to claim her bounty! Her and Anon would make the perfect duo to demonstrate the unity of man and wolf!”
>You and Faolre
>Enders of war when you both started as instruments
>Messengers of truce when neither one was welcomed into town
>A lot has changed in such a short while
>Including the wolfess
>You don’t say a word to Faolre for as long as you can, so that she doesn’t realize her arm has been around your shoulders since you left the lodge
>Thistlecrik and Gulseden will soon be in sight once again
>But you’re looking beyond them to the Duchess’ magnificent city
>A city you’ll soon be taking the wolfess to so she can live out the luxurious life of peace she’s always wanted
>Giving that to her will be worth more than any bounty



[[ CHAPTER 11: Faolre ]]

>The humans and wolves have put aside their hatred for one another
>Or at least the people of Thistlecrik and Gulesden have
>Though even after the wars they can find disagreements somewhere
>Like which town to return to first
>”Perhaps we should go our separate ways for now,” Elder Hurcku says. “Give us both a chance to recover.”
>Captain Brackard scoffs to hide a grimace
>”Then go tend to your little scrape, wolf. I’VE gotten a second wind.”
>Not to be outdone, Hurcku lowers his injured leg to the ground
>It’s sensitive, but he can at least put weight on it
>”I’ll be damned. It already feels better.”
>The two leaders nod over their improved condition
>Meanwhile, Lord Digre hums not so discreetly
>Faolre speaks up
>”I don’t care where we travel. I go with Anon. We’re not splitting up.”
>It’s a declaration of merely her own interests
>Specifically, interests in YOU
>But the others take it like it were a decisive revelation for the two races’ futures
>”Fine, we’ll make for Gulesden first,” Brackard says. “This poor old wolf needs his rest.”
>”More like the good Captain wants to see this mistress of his,” Hurcku chides
>The banter goes on for some time
>The party’s movement is surprisingly quick and steady, no doubt “encouraged” by the bard and his merry tune

>Gulesden is waiting for your arrival, and all the injured are immediately carried off to be mended
>Elder Hurcku receives most of the attention, but Captain Brackard is given fair treatment at the wolf’s orders
>All the while Brackard is getting patched up, the sultry wolfess from before is hovering close by
>She isn’t nearly as disrespectful to Faolre as you and her are called in
>Brackard is trying to seal a scroll of parchment with one hand
>”Never in my years would I imagine having to give praise to a sellsword,” he grumbles to you, “but good deeds deserve commendation. Here.”
>He hands you a scroll, as well as a royal badge from his coat
>”You and the wolf will want your bounties, correct? The Duchess will be waiting for good news in Cinderburgh.”
>”I will send a message ahead on expeditious wings to prepare for their arrival!” the bard exclaims
>”Fine, but you need to go back to the people of OUR home, Digre,” the captain says. “I shudder to think what that cleric is letting happen in our stead.”
>Elder Hurcku looks from Digre to the captain’s men
>Just from his expression you can tell he knows what the other humans don’t
>Digre regards the old wolf, prepared for his lecture
>”Never mind, Digre,” Hurcku sighs. “Do as he says. I have nothing more to say, except that Gulesden has lost two...heroes today.”
>Faolre’s return is venerated by the other wolves
>Survival on the battlefield, cheating death from the Spall (both blade and bird), and slayer of the worst mercenary band the lands have ever seen
>She’s definitely leaving the village with more than a few trinkets and rewards
>”These will be added to my trophy room,” she nods
>More than one audacious wolf tries to court her right on the spot, but she rejects them without a second chance
>After each one she turns away, her eye strays to you and a smirk forms on her lips
>Gulesden didn’t birth the legendary wolfess, and it won’t contain her either

>You, Faolre, Digre, and Brackard’s leftover men continue the hike to Thistlecrik
>The bard skips the entire way like a giddy child
>Even Faolre looks to be more eager to see the human town again compared to Gulesden
>”I am…almost tempted to see the prison again,” the wolfess says
>You ask her if she’d like to act out your meeting again
>As a joke, of course
>You can almost see the longing in her eyes
>Indeed, it feels like Thistlecrik doesn’t ever change, and if you went down the cold stairs of the prison you’d see a vagabond cleaning and wrapping up a wolfess
>And here’s the good Father Frond
>He looks a little haggard from his extra duties as temporary town ruler, but otherwise has the same gregariousness he had when you met him
>”It’s so good to see the two of you again!” he laughs. “I was worried you’d be missing a few limbs by the time you’d returned!”
>Well, Brackard almost did
>You don’t intend on staying in town for long, only long enough to retrieve the gorget and see Digre’s messenger take off
>It’s a small dove, with a mask-like head
>It carries a ribbon of parchment as it soars toward Cinderburgh
>Faolre keeps eyeing the box containing the gorget, and you have to keep it away from her curious paws as you speak with the lord
>”I’m afraid I’ve been prohibited from leaving the town for a while by our friend Captain Brackard,” Digre says with the same insincerity as a grounded child intending on sneaking out after dark
>He turns to look off in the direction his carrier bird flew
>”You should hopefully receive a warmer welcome in Cinderburgh than you have either here or the wolves’ village. Please give my regards to the Duchess. I’m afraid she isn’t always happy to see me. I wouldn’t be either, given my complexion. Ah-ha!”
>He picks up a lute and tunes the strings, but doesn’t play it
>He just hums to himself as you and Faolre leave his estate
>Father Frond catches the two of you just before leaving
>”I hope I’m not too bold in assuming the unity between the two of you.”
>Faolre looks a little taken aback but doesn’t challenge him
>”Just a little token of our appreciation, for all you’ve done for us and the pursuit of peace.”
>You’re starting to collect boxes at this point
>The one from the cleric only has two polished metal rings inside
>”Just in case.”

>Cinderburgh
>You’ve only ever spent a few days here on your travels
>Even after exploring the streets for every moment of your stay, you never saw more than the outer “crust”
>It’s a phenomenal city for someone not a true monarch, but the Duchess is a phenomenal woman
>Or so you’ve heard
>You’ll have plenty of time to absorb the atmosphere of Cinderburgh after you’ve met its ruler
>Being a city of mostly humans, there are a number of gawkers who give the two of you some strange looks and disapproving gestures
>But their hushed gossip is beneath the wolfess
>Quite literally
>Not only does she tower over most bystanders, her head is kept aloft to take in the grand sights all around her
>It’s difficult for Faolre to stay focused on the task at hand, however
>She’s distracted by every new scene, sound, and smell
>What’s not difficult is finding the chateau where the Duchess lives
>It’s the tallest structure even when taking the hills into consideration
>You pull out Brackard’s badge as you approach the entry guards, and they part as though repelled by the object
>Either your arrival was already noted, or the badge truly has some incredible authority here
>The inside of the chateau is every bit as opulent and regal as you’d imagine a castle to be
>Once again, you can’t stop to enjoy the visuals as you’re funneled down the main hallway to have an audience with the Duchess herself
>If you could restore the picture hanging in Digre’s estate, it would be nearly identical to the image of the ruler standing on the dais before you
>Decorated in makeups, draped with a heavenly dress, and an air of cool dominance that makes the symbol of the flaming swan entirely justified
>”It seems I have the two of you to thank for ridding my domain of unscrupulousness,” the Duchess says in a posh tone
>She doesn’t regard either you or Faolre any less than the other
>Mercenary or wolf; it doesn’t matter to her
>Though reservedly dignified, you sense that the Duchess is truly thankful for your accomplishment
>”I have already prepared a bounty for the elimination of the Blood Coterie and its leadership, as well as what I hope you’ll find to be a generous gift.”
>A coffer is brought before you
>The lid is opened, and you’re nearly blinded
>There’s far more gold inside than all of your cumulative payments as a mercenary
>It’ll be a challenge to carry it on top of everything else
>”There is a stateroom available for the two of you to use whenever you are here in Cinderburgh. I hope you will join me for dinner at tonight’s gala.”
>You frankly expected much more of a reaction from Faolre
>She’s getting everything she wanted, but she’s silent
>Maybe she’s already practicing her courtly attitude?
>”We shall speak more this evening,” you hear the Duchess say, interrupting your concern for Faolre
>The wolfess doesn’t wait a second before turning to leave, ready to get out into the town proper
>You follow at her heels, letting her be the guide
>She’s never been in the city to the best of your knowledge, but something must have caught her fancy in the short time you’ve been here
>You can’t even hear the clacking of her nails on the immaculate stone streets amongst the roar of city life as she marches toward her destination
>A dress shop along one of the corners
>In its window is a breathtaking garment: a dress woven with masterwork talent and the finest silks one could buy
>You wonder how many broken hearts have sat in front of the window, pining for what they could never afford
>It might even be outside of your own budget, even with the bounty still newly jingling in your wallet
>Faolre steps up to the tailor confidently
>But as soon as she passes the threshold you see some apprehension
>It’s to be expected; none of the staff inside look particularly welcoming for a wolf like her
>That is, until you mention of much you’d be willing to pay
>Their mood changes dramatically, though there is still some doubt in their eyes as to how they should go about dressing a creature unlike themselves
>They squabble over designs and fabrics
>Eventually they collude to sell you the one in the window, apparently more concerned with their commission than the costumer
>That is, until their employer puts them in their place
>”No no NO!” comes the raspy voice of an elderly woman
>Though aged, she has an elegant look of experience in her skin
>That and several faded scars along her creases
>If Faolre were a human, this would be her
>The head dressmaker glares at her understudies
>”The best dress on the worst match makes it the worst dress,” she snaps. “What have I told you? ACCENTUATE the costumer’s beauty, don’t mask it!”
 >She doesn’t use an inch of her tape measure on Faolre
>Her eyes alone do the job to a near supernatural level
>”You wait here,” she says to you
>It’s only fair, you suppose; Faolre has been through the same treatment before
>You spend the next few hours in and around the shop, picking out some clothes of your own from a neighboring tailor
>Life as a mercenary has not supplied you with a suitable wardrobe
>You end up waiting some time longer after finishing all your errands
>You’re on the verge of dozing off when the head dressmaker claps her hands
>”It is finished.”
>You’re led through privacy curtains to see the wolfess standing before the mirror
>The head dressmaker was right: the garment in the window wouldn’t have done Faolre justice
>THIS is true beauty
>A blend of human customs and wolfish heritage
>Aristocratic and tribal all at once
>A paragon of femininity, but reminiscent of the heroic armor sitting in the corner
>Faolre just stares at the wolf in the mirror in complete stillness
>It’s a heartwarming sight, but it’s missing one final touch
>You remove Digre’s gorget from the box at long last
>You need to step up to reach Faolre’s neck, but it fits around her plush fur perfectly
>She inhales at your touch, and you can see the tiniest tear form in the corner of her eye
>You join her in the reflection
>The head dressmaker smirks with self-satisfaction

>Before you attend the gala, there’s one more task you need to do
>Faolre should be groomed
>Not out of stink or grime, but love and dedication to her beauty
>You return to the chateau and request a bath be drawn for her, and a servant takes off with a salute
>By the time you find the room she had run off to, you find a steaming tub and a cart full of oils and soaps
>The servant waits for instructions but Faolre dismisses her
>”I have everything I need here. You may go.”
>Everything, meaning you
>Now alone, Faolre carefully peels off her new dress and steps into the bath
>Neither embarrassed nor intentionally erotic
>She’s reclined and relaxed
>You give yourself a moment to take in the wolf before you
>Though her charcoal fur is missing in places where scars show visibly, it is a magnificent coat with a wonderful sheen
>Made even better with you lathering and soaking it
>Her athletic physique shares its space with womanly features, such as an ample chest and flaring hips flanking a stalwart torso
>Eased and massaged as you work your fingers over it
>Yes, Faolre lets you explore her body
>”Remember not to miss any spots this time.”
>Your love for the wolfess means this would be the perfect scene for you to frame her curves with your hands
>But you want to see her happy, to see her treated like a goddess
>Perhaps stronger feelings of intimacy will come later
>Yet for now the sexuality is overshadowed by gracefulness
>Even the scars receive the attention they deserve
>You run along them gently, examining how well they’ve healed
>Miraculously, the one caused by the Death Spall blade has all but vanished
>A testament to her constitution, and to your restorative talents
>Is it magic after all?
>You might never know; it’s too subtle of an ability to say for certain
>The dripping wolfess stands up, well over your head
>You take up the fresh linens and dry her from head to toe
>The rubbing is vigorous at first, but as her pelt dries your motions are much softer
>No part of her form is left unattended to
>Faolre simply stands in place, moving her arms and legs for full coverage but otherwise letting you pamper her at your own pace
>You glide over the small of her back and the valley between her breasts
>No objection, no scorn
>You can’t help but lean your face in and inhale the scent of her cleaned fur
>Faolre gives a throaty chuckle
>Now fully groomed, the dress waits for her

>A clothed Anon and Faolre return to the chateau late evening
>It’s an event that evidently draws in just about every noble and dignitary in the city, if not the whole region
>Of course none of the faces are familiar to you apart from the Duchess
>Except perhaps two others…
>With a sling on one arm and a wolfess on another is Captain Brackard
>Apparently fresh from Gulesden; no injury on the planet is able to impede him
>The sultry wolfess leans on him, rubbing his shoulders and whispering seductively into his ears
>You can tell the captain is trying to keep his composure as he nods to her words
>Seems there’s something about warriors and barriers when it comes to showing emotion
>At the very least, the captain appears to be in a happy position
>Most of the guests are eventually seated in one of several dining rooms, but only a select few are dining with the Duchess
>There’s no shortage of variety or proportion on the table
>It’s a banquet that intimidates you
>Not as much as sitting in close proximity to the lady herself, though
>Faolre puts all her effort into restraining her eating habits, so it’s up to you to make the small talk
>Every so often the Duchess will look to Faolre studiously
>Specifically, the wolfess’ neck
>”If you don’t mind me asking,” she says, “where did you come about that gorget?”
>It’s a potentially damning question, but it would be worse to lie to someone of her power
>Captain Brackard, though seated at the same table (fed carefully by his mistress), is out of earshot
>You tell the Duchess it was a gift from him, meant to be a gift from Digre to his love
>”My sister,” she corrects.
>You’d assumed familial connection after Digre showed you the family crest, but not necessarily sisterhood
>”She was the spirited one; the dreamer and romantic. Met a charming wolf during one of her bouts of wanderlust. Very rarely did she take guards or escorts with her. I...trust you understand what happened from there.”
>The last thing you want to do is take Faolre’s gift back, but...
>”Would you like this in memory of her?” the wolfess offers before you have a chance
>”No, no...it wouldn’t be right. I won’t deny I’m still a little bitter at your Lord Digre about the whole thing—something I must learn to overcome—but I gave the gorget to him in good faith. If you were given it with the same good faith, then you deserve it now.”
>The meal resumes quietly, until the Duchess gives one last toast
>A toast to you and Faolre
>Once the commotion dies down, you ask the Duchess for something
>You ask to excuse yourself so you may treat Faolre to a night of pampering
>The Duchess nods knowingly
>”You’ve earned as much, if not more. I will have the servants bring whatever you need to your state room.”
>Faolre’s ears perk up as you thank the Duchess
>Finally, it’s time to treat the wolfess like the queen you know she is

>Faolre’s stateroom is like something out of a fable
>Extravagant fabrics cover everything but the ceiling
>Art and mirrors adorn the walls in immaculate organization
>Two hearths big enough for a man to step into await at opposing ends
>The bed in the back could contain four of the best ones found at any inn
>There’s a “pool” of pillows in the center of it all, with a half-dozen servants around the rim waiting for orders 
>Waiting amongst the servants are trays and pitches of various sweets, fruits, wines, and creams
>It’s more than any one person cold eat in a week, but excess seems to be the status quo for those living such extravagant lives
>Even for Faolre’s hearty appetite, you can’t imagine her putting much of a dent in it
>Especially following such a filling dinner
>The look on her face seems to say the same thing
>She inspects the food and drink, then turns to the servants
>”Everything looks superb,” she says. “You are all excused. Thank you.”
>You’re just as surprised as the servants, but they’re expected to listen and serve 
>As they file out of the stateroom, you’re left with the wolfess and bewilderment
>Isn’t that what she wanted? To be doted on by many eager hands?
>”Foreign hands,” she says. “I’ve been thinking about my wishes, and many of them have been…reevaluated. I don’t need a company of servants to cater to me; I only need the fondness of just one.”
>She walks over to the pool of pillows and eases herself into it
>”Anon, would you indulge me?”
>If this is what she truly wants now, you can’t deny her
>You wheel the desserts over beside her, waiting for her instructions
>She points to a sweet roll first
>It’s about as long as her muzzle, but she takes small bites as though emulating a noblewoman
>A little of the frosting sticks to her nose, and you wipe it off with a silken cloth
>After the sweet roll comes a glass of creamy milk
>The cup is cumbersome for her lips, and once more you’re there with the cloth to clean up the mess
>You have no objections about it, but Faolre looks displeased 
>After each sweet you give to her, you massage her back, neck, and shoulders while she chews
>The wolfess stares off into a daydream
>You work your hands in deeply as you rub her body
>However, the lack of feedback from her is disconcerting
>Next comes a plump strawberry
>You hold it for her teeth to take, and she does so daintily as to not break the skin of the fruit
>She suddenly grabs your wrist and pulls you down into the pillow pit
>As you let out a surprised yelp Faolre stuffs the strawberry into your mouth with hers
>When you’re done swallowing she pulls you in for a powerful kiss
>Faolre, the cold, weathered warrior
>Finally showing genuine passion
>Reciprocation of your love for her
>You can taste the sweetness of everything you’ve given to her on her tongue
>Her experience in kissing is lacking, but she makes up for it with dedicated fervor
>It’s a sloppy release when she finally breaks the contact, and your own dribble is soaked up by the fur of her neck
>She buries you into the fluff and covers your head with her chin
>You’re in a full-body embrace, lost in the pillows and dress and wolfess
>Any attempt to fidget on your part is smothered by an even tighter hold
>This night is supposed to be about her, but it’s you who seems to be getting the most pleasure out of it
>Isn’t she happy?
>”Anon,” she hums. “Don’t worry. You have done everything I’ve asked for. You’ve been patient and caring. You’ve been brave and courteous. I couldn’t wish for a better companion.”
>She gives you a chance to breath, but after leaving the warmth of her body you immediately want to return
>”But I’m far too restless for these slow customs, and this richness sits uncomfortably in my stomach. This life isn’t for me; I know this now.”
>Maybe it’s the wrong kind of pampering and spoiling?
>Maybe silks and dresses aren’t the answer, and she really just wants trophies and swords
>”Possibly,” she muses, “but not sitting worthlessly on the walls. I don’t want wars, but I want to teach and prepare for the future. Perhaps the Duchess would have a place for me on the training grounds, readying a new generation for combat…just in case.”
>And the money?
>”It’ll weigh us down. I want us to see the world. The best moments I’ve had with you thus far have been on the roads and in strange places. I want to see more of those with you, and if we need money to do so, that’s all it’ll be used for.”
>Everything has been turned on its head
>Her entire life’s pursuits have been abandoned for new ones
>Is that your fault?
>”I don’t mean to be flippant,” she reassures you. “I’ve achieved what I wanted. You’ve made this possible, and it’s you who kept the best in me from being cast aside. These nobles have no character; you saved me from losing mine.”
>Her breathing pulses for a brief moment
>Was that…a sob?
>”My Anon, I want you to help me show true compassion. Not vulnerability, but tenderness. My muscles are too tense and stiff to do this myself. You have taken such good care of this body, and it is rightfully yours. If I can’t have this—if I can’t have you—I’ll forever be empty.”
>Faolre strokes your neck and breathes into your ear
>”I want to show my love for you, Anon. Please, help me do this.”
>You will
>Whatever it takes
>But is she sure she’s ready to give up living like a queen so soon?
>She inhales contemplatively
>”There is…one more thing I wish to try….”

>The other guests have turned in or gone home
>You and Faolre are the only souls still awake
>The ballroom is vacant, except for the dim glow of the candles and the bright shine of the moon
>The clap of your shoes and the tap of her nails are like a muted applause welcoming man and wolf
>The lunar luminescence is your spotlight
>She stands in wait, your demure wolfess
>Waiting for your first move
>You reach out; she gives you her paw
>The two of you move in closer, looking into each other’s eyes
>One step, then another
>The two of you begin your dance
>Neither one of you are particularly adept at this, just as awkward as kissing was
>Her inexperience and your size difference
>But it’s still the intent that counts
>You dance to the rhythm of your breathing and footfalls
>And then the sound of harping
>Delicate and near silent, but perfect as the ambience for your moment with Faolre
>You see the bard’s shadow in the floor, then his silhouette on the high windowsill
>With enough squinting, you can barely make out his unmasked face
>The tattered wolf beams at you while he plays, and a twinkle drops from his one eye
>He’s here to play, not to interrupt
>It’s only you and the wolfess in essence
>Moving in unison, so you can give her freedom to lead and be led
>Blinking in unison, so neither of you ever has to go a second without missing the other’s lovely eyes
>Part of you wants this moment to last forever, but another knows how selfish that is
>After all, you have a whole lifetime’s worth of adventure to discover
>New lands, new faces, new ways to show love
>Just Anon and his dear Faolre



>The end