FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

1

Few inns like Jerk's Tavern existed.

There were dozens, hundreds, of places like it, places where you avoided drinking because you knew you'd wake up in a bathtub full of ice the next morning. Places whose hospitality rivaled your in-laws, and the cycle of poverty wound itself around hygiene's throat as it leaped off hope's step stool.

Few inns reveled in its own desolation.

Jerk's didn't pride itself in its cooking, but always reeked of something dead and burning. Visitors described their first walk-in like stepping into a flaming manure shed with smelling salts shoved in your nostrils. Splintery floors competed with rusty walls over which could catch the most splatter, collecting them with the kind of brand aesthetic other establishments might reserve for framed posters or fancy rugs. Cigar smoke created a second ceiling overhead, hiding rafters that would've sent building inspectors out through the windows, which in turn were so thickened with grime that attempting to do so would've been like nosediving onto a cinder block. Sunlight streaming through these windows tinted everything inside in the sepia tones of spat chew.

While Sunrise Theater's dilapidation was the result of time and neglect, Jerk's Tavern's was the result of needing an instantaneous screening process that also saved money previously wasted on soap.

In summary, only a real jerk would've wanted to stay here.

"Brother, isn't this where we were staying earlier?" Stowhart asked.

"Yes," Lain said.

"The place that put us up in that room with the...stains."

"It is."

"The place," Stowhart persisted, his tone becoming portentous with campfire dread, "that served you turbid coffee and charged extra for a clean mug?"

"They served you turd coffee?" Ed asked, breaking the illusion of darkness crawling around them, save for a disembodied light beneath Stowhart's chin.

"Turbid coffee," Lain corrected. "It means 'opaque with suspended matter'."

"Oh," Ed said. "Like a sewer?"

"Yes. Like a sewer. And this is the very place we left only this morning, Brother. It elates me to know dementia hasn't claimed you."

"I'd have sworn you'd never stepped foot in this place again," Stowhart said.

“What gave you that idea?"

“The way you shouted 'I'll never step foot in this place again' as we left, for starters. And then there was that puddle you stepped in," but Stowhart caught his brother smiling before he finished recounting the harrowing tale of the hallway puddle and his hackles raised. Lain's smile was a rare sight. A pure, malicious glee once exclusively seen by the damned as they fell into leering demon's boiling cauldrons. Ed noticed Stowhart's ears splaying back and mistakenly attributed his unease to the unfinished puddle story. He resolved to watch where he stepped inside Jerk's, which was a good idea anyway.

"You've collected and loaded our belongings onto the ship, yes?" Lain asked.

"Y-yes," Stowhart said.

“And the rest?"

"I cleaned our room, returned the keys, and left a tip, as you asked."

Lain's fangs gleamed. Moments like these made brushing after each meal worth it.

"Excellent."

"Brother, please don't cause a scene. Remember what happened last time?"

“How could I have possibly known that inn was situated above a magma vein?" Lain asked, his smile broadening like a hunter regarding his favorite trophy. “Nothing untoward will happen to this," he coughed into his fist, “fine establishment. We'll enjoy an uneventful meal and leave as safely as everyone else."

Stowhart, glaring suspiciously, followed Lain into Jerk's.

Ed and Masamune shared a glance, shrugged, then went after them.

Carnivorous animals packed the dining room in such a way that made canned sardines look socially distanced. Compulsory spite toward outsiders made them snarl at Lain as he entered, and a compulsory preference toward keeping one's head attached shut them up as Masamune came in behind him. Tails were tucked. Whimpers were heard. The four men stopped at the entrance, standing between potted plants that'd tripled as trash cans and ash trays.

“Th'fuck are all you lookin' at?" Masamune asked.

No one spoke. The answers he might've gotten included: the insides of empty mugs, claws that their owners miraculously noticed needed trimming, or remarkably intriguing sauce stains, all variations of “anywhere that didn't risk pissing off this crazy old bastard". Smart people treated Masamune the way dumb people treated spontaneous moles, not at all. Quietly ignoring the problem and hoping it'll go away usually worked, except whenever Masamune told a joke, pressuring internal debates on whether continuing to ignore him or laughing out of obligation could've been interpreted as the greater offense. Masamune never noticed any of this. He'd always assumed people fainted because his knock knock jokes were that funny.

A young puma brought them to a table and the dining hall's prior inebriated brouhaha returned with the relief of a held breath being let out. He presented their menus with none of his usual sass, walked into the kitchen, and locked himself in the broom closet. He'd worked the floor the last time someone affronted them. They had to peel his face off the wall with a spatula. It left the only stain anyone in Jerk's scrubbed out.

“Elemancy's one neat parlor trick," Masamune said after sitting, his back toward the front door. No one in Shanty Town was dumb enough to attack him from behind, but he always held out hope. “You do birthday parties too or what?"

“What makes you believe I am an elemancer, rather than a geomancer?" Lain asked after animals nearby stopped laughing for seemingly no reason.

“It's th'smell," Masamune said.

Lain blinked, taken aback. “Why, thank you. You're the first to have noticed, but I'm unsure what my scent has to do with anything."

“Ya smell ashy, like burnin' wood," Masamune continued. “That could mean you're a geomancer who dabbles in pyromancy, but ya don't strike me as somebody who'd settle for two outta th'four major elements."

Lain, deciding he'd rather believe the old man misjudged his new cologne's scent, fixed his cloak's collar.

“The skills of my profession, whatever they may be, have little to do with my proposal," he said curtly. “For now, know that my expertise will cover the expense of our meal. Please, order whatever you'd like without restraint."

Ed and Masamune's faces twisted with drooling sneers that would've gotten them kicked out of most buffets on the spot. Starving predators pillaging rabbit warrens didn't look so ravenous.

“Brother," Stowhart hissed behind his hand, “are you certain of this? Our funds—"

“Are perfectly fine," Lain said, waving to dismiss him and summon their waiter.

It's a proven fact throughout the multiverse that the dirtiest eateries serve the best food. With that in mind, Jerk's Tavern's layers of mold and crust and grease promised a culinary experience vying with Michelin star restaurants led by celebrity chefs from cooking shows replete with sensational foodporn close-ups. Whoever'd plastered that big, red “A" on the front window needed a new job or a welfare check.

They ordered enough food to feed a small battalion, which was hauled to their table by a similarly sized team of servers who all wore the stoney looks of shell shocked pallbearers.

There were cuts of raw meats, fried pork belly drizzled with a spicy pineapple salsa, boiled Atlantean fish heads, stewed oxtail, barbeque oxtail, pan-seared oxtail, and many other appetizers which surrounded their entrees like burning ships in a steaming hot fleet. These, the servers were told, were to be replaced as each plate was cleaned until further notice.

A honey-glazed, almond-crusted, roasted adult duck was their main entree, a large Overworlder whose final resting place was a bed of lettuce large enough to feed a family of rodents for weeks, which'd go wholly uneaten by the meal's end. Thick, white steam billowed from the fowl's carcass, displacing the cigar haze above them the way a locomotive's exhausted parts low-hanging clouds as servers hauled it over. Its golden, crispy skin put it in league with things that belonged locked up in treasure chests. It oozed juices so savory, so succulent, one could've bottled it up to sell separately.

Another server set the bottles aside after his colleagues placed the bird at the center of their table.

There were other entrees, edible masterpieces whose combined presence were devoured by the duck's flavorsome aroma. Did ignoring Masamune also mean ignoring his lunch? This new quandary plagued nearby diners, who slurped their lips to total drenchedness while stealing glances at their table.

For drinks, Ed took advantage of Masamune's deal by ordering three separate rounds of different scotches for the table, ones with funny foreign names he could neither pronounce nor read because of the squiggly script on their labels. Stowhart read one for him and he had it sent back. He'd ordered Fagot du Orge because its color on the menu looked neat. Masamune groaned at his order, half expecting the lad to order lemon twists and nutmeg garnishes too, and was wholly devastated when Ed did exactly that. Boozing since eleven years old and he still drank like a withered businessman. Where'd he go wrong in raising him?

Lain asked for an empty glass and bucket. He poured water from his own canteen into the bucket, tossed in soap flakes, removed his gloves, washed the glass, dried his hands with his handkerchief, then filled the cleaned glass with more canteen water. He was whistling a jaunty tune.

Stowhart, who'd ordered a salad, stared at the assortment of freshly pulled back alley flora placed in front of him. Ed and Masamune stole whatever astonishment his plate of weeds might've warranted by becoming a shapeless flurry of chomping fangs and smacking lips before him. They forwent utensils in favor of snatching as much food as their bare hands could shove into their faces. Small bones and cartilage were swallowed whole. Larger bones were stripped bare with monstrous bites, sucked clean, and gnawed to bits. Starving ants couldn't reduce a corpse with such esurient speed. Chemical baths came close, and they did so without spectators having to dodge flying scraps.

“Let me know when you're ready to discuss the job," Lain said between sips of water, unperturbed. Stowhart watched them, mouth agape, stupefied in awe. He'd only ever heard noises like those coming from the “private" rooms of video stores.

“Might as well start now," Ed said with his mouth full, “I see th'ribs I ordered comin' along."

“Grilled or braised?" Masamune pried his face from his duck thigh, one he held like a giant corn cob, long enough to ask.

“Braised."

“Good Lad."

“Our brother was kidnapped," Lain began.

“And you want us t'rescue him," Masamune said before wiping sauce from his beard. “Who snatched him? Slavers? Debt collectors? Probe-happy space aliens?"

"Pirates," Lain said, "ones brazen enough to attack a cruise liner sailing Ashright waters. We and other bereaved are to send ten thousand credits worth of gold to an account in exchange for our loved ones. That's the price to receive them, and I quote, 'in one piece, with both of their eyeballs.' You can see our dilemma."

Ten thousand gold could've bought five Eds, or several two story homes with two cars each, a pool, and a backyard big enough for family cookouts. Ed whistled. If he had to remember he once had a price tag, he might as well've taken pride in the fact that his worth fractioned the value of a middle class cul-de-sac.

"He's dead. The threat's meant to scare you into payin' up. Probably raped him too. Brave idiots like that ain't picky," Masamune said, gnawing into his duck thigh.

Lain's expression didn't budge as he raised a hand in front of Stowhart, who settled back into his seat with a low growl. "We have reason to believe he's alive."

"Oh?" Ed asked.

"Reasons I prefer not to divulge. Elemancy, as you said, is a utilitarian 'parlor trick', with which I was able to ascertain information from otherwise uncooperative sources via less…conventional methods. He's being held somewhere in a compound on the Feral Islands."

A phlegmatic quiet comparable to a poker table's pensive aura was ruined by slovenly lip smacking.

"Why me?" Masamune asked. "You got money, powers, 'n connections to th'Order. Why get your hands dirty jerkin' me off?"

Lain steepled fingers that'd momentarily gone rigid because of that mental image.

"You'll get the job done quickly, without my having to maneuver bureaucratic red tape, and you'll make everyone I want to suffer wish their balls were being peeled with a paring knife. I don't give a shit about the other hostages. We'll rescue Emanuel, have fun eviscerating the motherless cocksuckers responsible for taking him. I'll pay you, then we'll fuck off back to Ashright."

He stared without breaking eye contact, his rigid demeanor immune to spittle flying across the table and missed him by inches.

“How much?" Ed asked.

“We'll discuss the amount on my ship, away from prying ears."

"You ain't worried about your rep takin' a hit for fraternizin' with us lawless folk?" Masamune asked. Lain chucked.

"Who will know? Besides, the amount of fraternizing that goes on with your kind in Ashright would make you think street vermin were royal bastards. Anyone foolish enough to turn their noses up because I do what I must is foolish enough to swallow a boiling kettle. It'd be quicker than what I'd do to them if they were so bold as to do it to my face."

Masamune listened in as contemplative a manner as his protein inhalation allowed. An uprooted graveyard of bones divided their table, each resembling something pulled from the bottom of piranha-infested waters. He opened his mouth to speak, eyed the ribs Ed was reducing to scraps, and tore into a whole rack first.

“Eighty percent up front," he said, channeling Lila's ability to speak with meat in her mouth.

"Half," Lain said.

"Deal."

"With full accommodations," Ed quickly added. "Rations, supplies, travel expenses..."

"I'll be flying you there personally, via airship," Lain said. “Unless you prefer being whisked away on the backs of strong winds?"

“Airship is fine," Ed said, gurgling.

"We leave after you finish your meal." Lain took a photograph out of his bag and slid it across the table, weaving around innumerable puddles along the way. "This is the compound."

Ed observed it, biting into another rib when Masamune seized up. His eyes, already a little red from his third scotch, were now bloodshot like a frothing animal's, locked in a cage. His claws gouged deep ravines into their trembling table. Nearby guests made swift beelines toward the closest exits after seeing his face, moving smoother than politicians palming bribe money. None of them paid their bill.

"Old man? Masamune! What's wrong? What's wrong?" Ed asked before giving the photograph a closer look. Either he'd noticed something terrible in it, like a butterface bimbo hiding in the shrubs, or the old fuck's heart was finally throwing up double deuces after decades of artery clogging. Ed's assuredness that Masamune's liver would give out before his heart had him scanning for nice tits before administering first aid.

The blurry photo was of a slave compound in a jungle. Dark leaves framed the shot as though it were taken from within a bush, or the photographer wore a ghillie suit. Or they were obscenely hairy, a possibility invoking mental images of PIs with shaggy pelts who blended into their surroundings by stripping naked and holding still.

Ed shook his head, still ignoring Masamune's palpitations beside him. The brothers exchanged concerned looks.

Lots of guards. Concrete walls. Iron bars. No sluts in sight, facially-challenged or otherwise. Ed focused on the large insignia carved above the compound's doorway last, mostly out of stubbornness in wanting to see a nice rack other than the one he held in his hands.

The insignia was of two lotus flowers joined together to make a starburst shape, like a sun's fiery rays.

The Kage family insignia.

"Oh shit."

2

Anyone thinking Masmaune Kage would've reacted in such a way from learning his family dabbled in slavery misjudged him, which is impressive because most knew he was an unscrupulous bastard after a brief bumping of shoulders. Granted, the proceeding stomping of the foot, punching of the teeth, and stealing of the wallet might've influenced that first impression.

Seeing the Kage insignia, the twin lotuses, always pushed his buttons, and not the ones a finger's reach within him he liked being pressed. It kicked up all the memories that years of drugs and sex and cheap liquor and his favorite ice cream could only ever keep down for a two count. Times like these, drowning within a tidal wave of trauma flashbacks so vivid he sometimes forgot to breathe, were anyone's best chance of killing him. A dagger-edged tracheotomy would've been doing him a favor.

Ed knew why his reaction was so intense. Masamune had two older brothers, twins. His avowed reason for living was to personally make it zero.

Their wandering, loitering, working-for-hire, bounty hunting, training, criminal enterprising, and general lollygagging halted so abruptly that miles-long skid marks marred the asphalt of their foreseeable futures whenever another Kage was nearby. Every lead for the past few years led into minefields of assassins that left various Kage-funded operations in flames. Drug rings, weapons smuggling, iFone sweatshops, and telemarketer offices…no, the Kage working with slavers didn't surprise Masamune. It wouldn't've surprised him if they skinny dipped with Satan every Sunday after Craps with shriveled heads for dice, but he'd have a few questions.

Ed slapped him across the face, pitching his skull like a whiplashed bobblehead. He knew he was in too deep when threatening to eat his fish heads didn't work.

"What?" Masamune blurted out.

"You good?" Ed asked.

Masamune blinked hard, still saw double, blinked again.

"Aye...thanks."

"Um," Stowhart said.

"Blood pressure. Acts up when I go all out," Masamune said jovially. "Lunch is over. Pay th'bill 'n let's go."

"Eager to get started?" Lain asked.

Masamune stood, shoving his hat on with one hand and leftovers into his bag with the other. “As eager as you are t'see your brother alive, dubiously unmolested, 'n with both his eyes."

"I'll…get the check." Stowhart said. He'd started waving down a server when Lain stopped him.

"We aren't paying," he said.

"Brother!"

“A good ol'dine 'n dash? Didn't know you city folk had it in ya!" Masamune said, a conspiratorial smirk stretching barbeque stains on his face. Ed, who knew they ate for free in Shanty Town ever since the old man made a manager eat the contents of a trash can for trying to collect on their tab, stared at him. He prepared to walk outside calmly after they ran.

"We won't be doing anything so uncouth and unnecessarily rousing of attention, "Lain said and made a quick hand gesture, "we'll simply walk out alongside everyone else."

"Who's aroused now?" Masamune asked, then a fiery explosion blew the kitchen's double doors off its hinges. Black smoke gushed from this red mouth as screaming cooks fled, soot-faced, tails on fire. Stowhart gaped as Lain plucked and ate a scrap of duck meat before leading them outside behind a stream of panicked guests.

"Y-you said nothing untoward would happen!" Stowhart cried.

"Old kitchen. Older wood. Those oily stoves definitely aren't up to code, or weren't I should say. They were due an unfortunate accident," Lain said, chewing contentedly.

Ed and Masamune were the last to leave Jerk's, furious embers aggrieving their backs. Ed's arms were folded. Masamune stroked crumbs out of his beard. Both left with more bags than they came with for quickly perusing all manner of abandoned luggage.

"Well?" Masamune said.

"Well what?"

"Y'got somethin' t'say. Spit it out."

"What makes you think I've got something t'spit out? Th'meat was the right color for a change. Th'scotch wasn't watered down grog either. Didn't even taste no paint thinner."

Masamune scowled at him.

"Would an elemancer strong enough t'blow up a whole tavern by wavin' his hand need a couple of rank vagabonds to turn some slavers into gravy?"

"I bathe weekly, thank you very much."

"Answer the question."

"No," Masamune said. “As long as he's payin' us, who cares?"

"If he pays us. And ain't that picture convenient? Faint as a city girl's marriage vows except for th'Kage insignia in th'middle, in perfect focus."

"Again, who cares?"

“I do. It's a trap."

Masamune snorted. "Even better. I'll get one more bastard t'torture for info if he's fuckin' with us."

“If," Ed repeated, “there's any info t'tortue outta him. You're infamous here. Everybody knows you'll jump if they say 'Kage' loud enough. It stinks like bad bait t'me."

“Look," Masamune said, frowning, “I ain't about t'drop our first lead in years cuz you wanna play chicken shit detective. I'm goin'. Suck curds outta Lila's tits till I get back if you're so sure it's a trap."

Ed grunted and followed along, passing a growing bucket chain leading toward the inferno behind them. Walking boldly into danger did sound more fun than sucking Ms. Danish's tits. Getting fucked over by this wolf would've been free anyway.

Lain's airship, a Laputan model, hovered above a heliport a half hour's walk north like a flying sentinel scrutinizing lesser vessels grounded below. It was the size of a large yacht at about eighty feet long, and proved with its paint job that money couldn't buy taste. Lain being as color-blind as paleontologists believed his Four Era ancestors were was the only other explanation, because Ed didn't want to acknowledge that anyone aside from burger delivery boys might've thought neon red accents on a piss yellow hull looked good.

Overworld artificers held a tight monopoly over their magitech, arcane mechanisms so far beyond the understanding of Surfaceworld engineers that they'd have an easier time inventing time travel and assassinating their counterpart's technological progenitors to level the playing field. Surfaceworld airships existed in the same way smoldering wrecks did. Some even flew before exploding. Owning a Laputan airship, horrid paint job notwithstanding, also proved to Ed how deep Lain's pockets were, which might've explained why he didn't wear pants. There'd be severance pay in it for them if this was a trick, after severing the wolf's head from his shoulders.

Lain pressed a button on a remote unearthed from behind his cloak, suspending an automated ladder. Stowhart went up first, then Lain, then Masamune. Ed, who only ever climbed as high as bee hives or blunts required, prolonged his ascent for as long as possible.

“What's th'hold up, Lad?" Masamune shouted from over the ship's railing, a gazillion miles up. His face was a white speck on the blue sky.

“I'm comin', don't rush me!" Ed shouted back and braced a shaky foot on the first rung. He threw himself onto the deck twenty minutes later and rushed to find a windowless space below deck to hunker down, totally deaf to whatever insults Masamune hurled at his back. Lain's airship soared away from Shanty Town soon afterward, a black zit on the ocean's otherwise glistening countenance that shrank under a balm of high speeds.

Masamune, who stood at the bow, poised himself in as serious a manner as possible with a barbeque hand-print still on his cheek. He glared ahead. His arms crossed tightly. He felt like he'd spent twelve hours on a sling shot ride after two minutes of standing around and pretending he didn't need a sick bag. Life as a sky pirate passed him by longer ago than life where he didn't worry about heartburn after going all in on fatty meals. Acid lit a bunch of firecrackers in his chest. They ought to've hit that drug store after all.

The Feral Islands loomed ahead, green pyramids atop a sparkling horizon, one of them hiding the Kage compound.

The Lad was right, this could've been a trap.

Most folks warned against poking bears, which is pretty rude on top of being bad for your health, but the dregs of Shanty Town were far more practical. They said not to poke Masamune Kage, and bears. The latter simply got you mauled over bad manners, while intentionally fucking with Masamune was viewed in the same light as throwing yourself face first into a woodchipper. Both got you killed. Both reduced you to mushy giblets. Only one made people wonder if you were ever right in the head to begin with.

Lain sped up, his ship piercing clouds like a purring missile.

Masamune maintained a wide sneer despite his face turning deeper shades of green.

3

Lightning ripped across a sky populated with dark clouds, courtesy of Jerk's. It didn't so much as hit Lain's airship as it latched onto a keel fin like a lightning rod. No one aboard noticed except Lain, who was zapped at the end of a long game of Snakes and Ladders the bolt played with the vessel's magical-mechanical guts to get to him. He didn't flinch. Both hands maintained composed grips on the ship's wheel. His clothes didn't even burn.

His only reaction to being struck by literal lightning after the sparks finished diffusing over him was to give a satisfied grunt, a gesture on par with a business woman on-the-go when she snatches her coffee order.

Everything went according to plan.

4

A cloaked figure watched the other cloaked figure, who'd earlier jumped off a flagpole with the tangentially tantalizing advertisement on it, turn into a bolt of lightning and hit Lain's airship.

This cloaked figure, hiding within inky shadows darkening an alleyway near Market Square, binoculars in his amphibious hands, would've agreed on two points.

One, with Lain, everything went according to plan.

Two, with any hypothetical witness who'd've called the first cloaked figure a show off for all his braggadocious flourishing, he was a show off. But since he'd witnessed the first cloaked figure, meaning a hypothetical witness never existed in the first place, this was entirely his own thought. None of this mattered because the earlier narration describing what a hypothetical witness might've thought when the first cloaked figure jumped off the flagpole was extradiegetic, meaning there wouldn't've been anyone for him to agree with even if he hadn't personally witnessed it, which there wouldn't've been anyway because they'd've been hypothetical. The second cloaked wouldn't've ruminated on any of this, even if he could. He was too busy thinking what a real show off that guy was.

HE was a spy with standards, despite what his swamp-inspired fashion sense might've implied.

HE didn't flaunt his otherworldly powers to feel cool.

This alley just coincidentally had a non-hypothetical witness to watch him use his cool, otherworldly powers in a moment.

You had to try to be homeless in a place like Shanty Town, and this old weasel'd never tried harder at anything in his entire life. He wouldn't work. He wouldn't bathe. He wouldn't wear clothes, which wasn't such a big deal but it might've helped with the whole smelling-like-a-donkey's-ass thing. Why should he? He left civilization to ditch all of those things. His pelt looked like something dunked in glue and sat before a smoking turbine after weeks of eating nothing but packaged s'mores and sleeping in the same cardboard box they came in when he stole them. Empty wrappers he used like blankets and pillows, and sometimes licked for low-calorie snacks, stuck to him.

This was the cloaked figure's witness.

He kept a watchful eye on him ever since he manifested out of the shadows cast by Ms. Voiding's blouses and panties hanging above, clothes that occasionally dripped on his wide-brimmed hat that was actually a really big lilypad. Whether or not the figure was a drunken hallucination, he knew they'd've ran to find the nearest shower if they knew how she'd gotten her clothes wet last night. Instead, he stood with the ominous air of one who knows he's being watched and wants to make a good impression.

Ms. Voiding's clothes continued dripping.

Day drinking saved as many lives as it ended. It saved the drunk weasel's life because, when he started digging through wrappers for his flask and looked up a second later, after the figure disappeared, he didn't have a heart attack. He'd later commit suicide by pissing on a pirate's thigh, thinking it was a fire hydrant, but we'll tally one point for alcoholism anyway.

Before all that nastiness, miles away from Shanty Town, somewhere within a shadowy room on the Feral Islands Lain flew toward now, the cloaked figure reemerged. He rose from a pool of darkness cast by a large oak desk in a kneeling position, with all the rehearsed elegance of a pyramid of synchronized swimmers. A candle on the desk, the room's only light source, set his shoulders aglow with a dim halo of warm hues. He couldn't've asked for a better entrance if he prepared for it in advance.

“Lord Kage," he said toward the desk, head lowered, “Masamune has boarded the elemancer's airship. They are on their way as we speak."

“Excellent," someone answered, stressing each vowel harder than an overworked copy editor. “I'm standing behind you."

The figure spun around, gasping at the six other shadowy figures standing behind him, although scraping his knee as he turned might've had something to do with it.

Lord Kage stood within the candle's flickering glow. He wore a flowing, dark kimono and his long beard braided into a noose. No one told him it looked ridiculous because the few who did were never heard from again. If there was one statement Lord Kage made with his facial hair, it wasn't that he accepted criticism with an open mind. He towered over the kneeling spy, a blue-furred otter who made his kin triple their calcium intake with envy.

“M-my Lord, your speed rivals the Gods themselves! And your footwork…I never heard you rise from your chair."

“I was standing here the whole time," the otter said.

“Oh."

The flame behind him continued devouring some animal's tallow with crackling delight.

“Um. Yes," the kneeling figure said. “That makes more sense than you suddenly having super speed. Not that you couldn't have gained the ability since I last saw you, my Lord." Then, when no one spoke after a moment so tense its edges frayed, he added, “and why wouldn't you like a dark office? A samurai of your caliber requires a work space as equally foreboding. The candle is a nice touch as well, if you permit me to say so. It smells quite nice."

“The lights are out," Lord Kage said. “They're doing maintenance on the generator."

“I see," the kneeling figure, now the standing-and-walking figure, said. “But why are you all standing in the—"

There was a sound like something being knocked over, a loud crash, and the low noise of teeth being ground to dust.

The frozen, sweating figure said nothing.

Someone behind Lord Kage cleared his throat.

“My Lord," the largest shadow in line said, “allow me the privilege of engaging Masamune. Why dirty your hands with his blood when mine are perfectly clean and in need of moisturizing?" No one else laughed, but that was fine because he knew the best jokes were the inside ones, as in the ones that only made sense in your own head, and he wouldn't've heard anyone over his own obstreperous cackling anyway.

He kept laughing until Lord Kage glanced at him, and he shut up.

“Allow me the ssssatisfaction, my Lord," another voice hissed.

“The privilege should be ours!" another shadow boomed, then grunted when the one beside him made a swift but unseen gesture that likely involved an elbow and ribs.

“I agree in one respect," this shadow said in a quieter, reserved tone, “there is no need to personally concern yourself with his eradication. However, this is a matter of reclaiming our clan's honor. If you don't go then we, your pupils, should."

Twelve eyes turned toward the final figure, who could've been rubbing his chin or picking his nose judging from his silhouette's motions.

“I don't care who goes," he said," as long as I can fuck him before we kill him."

The candle provided more crackling, gluttonous commentary during the ensuing pause.

Lord Kage sighed, opening his mouth for the first time since endeavoring to clench his enamel away.

“That would require you to encounter him, if you intended to make use of your 'highly specialized' killing art, Horei. We will take no prisoners. There will be no torture, no dungeons. Whoever I send to draw first blood shall slay him or never return."

“Ah," Horei said. “Nevermind. I'll hire a buff stripper."

“This," the grateful-to-be-alive-and-desperate-to-keep-Lord-Kage's-mind-off-the-thing-he-just-broke figure said, “is ridiculous. Why don't we all jump him at once? Hell, why don't we have Cortessa blow their airship out of the sky the moment we see it above the treeline? The elemancer is of no further use to us now."

“While I'd rather duel Lain Granfyre facccce to facccce, our little frog is correct," Cortessa said.

“Because you are my most elite assassins," Lord Kage snapped, “my Six Demonic Petals of the Twin Lotus—"

“Five."

Everyone stared at Horei again, who was definitely picking his nose this time judging from the guilty way he tensed up.

“I mean, we're the Five Demonic Petals of the Twin Lotus if you think about it. Nobody knows frog boy exists."

“I am a shinobi!" the now-very-annoyed-and-glaring-pettishly figure said. “Of course no one knows I exist. I'd be a pretty lousy spy if people knew to look out for me."

“You're a lousy spy anyway," Horei countered. “I'll bet you're wearing that stupid hat again, and that cloak with all the big palm leaves on it. I'd laugh if how conspicuous you are weren't so pathetic."

The largest figure laughed for him, always ready to snatch unutilized opportunities. Firelight reflected in his open mouth, which was so full of gold his lips could've qualified as a bank vault.

"My SIX," Lord Kage continued, “Demonic Petals of the Twin Lotus. You will each have the opportunity to prove yourselves worthy of this title. One of you will go. One of you will bring me his head. And one of you will be rewarded as I make arrangements with my taxidermist."

“Your will, Lord," they said.

“As long as it's not me first," Horei added.

The lights snapped back on then, revealing Lord Kage's not-so-foreboding-but-straining-to-feel-elegant office. He filled his already confined space with oriental craftwork, channeling an interior designer's eye for tight clutter and clashing aesthetics. You'd likely find similar pieces in museums, which was accurate because that's where Lord Kage found them too. Chief example among his collection being the ornate vases standing on bamboo pedestals, except for the one a certain amphibious shinobi in a dubiously inconspicuous outfit bumped into, which lay shattered on the ground.

Another blue otter in a similarly expensive kimono hid behind one of these pedestals. Seeing how everyone in the room immediately noticed the boy, darkness clearly did the heavy lifting in hiding him.

“Michitaka!" Lord Kage shouted.

Michitaka Kage jolted, knocking another vase off its pedestal. The brittle sound of priceless fortunes shattering to make their namesake more literal preceded another quiet so tense the candle went out in solidarity.

“I," Michitaka Kage said, “lost my way to the bathroom."

Everyone watched him run out the door he snuck in through, except his father, whose eyes were shut tight behind the hand massaging his brows.