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"Hey, hey!"

Fingers clicked from the edge of the void.

Targus' eyes fluttered half-open as all sensation returned in force.

The drums had vanished, leaving a throbbing ache in his chest and what felt like a hammer to the head. A white canvas stirred in the wind above, whispering of a distant storm in puffs and furls.

_A tent...? _Targus didn't understand. It was evening already, and the only form of light came from the insect-laden lantern hanging from the rafters, washing everything in a comforting glow.

He's seen this churning canvas in all its stained beauty before.

Yes, it all came rushing in now. Targus' eyes fixated on a speck of mold by the far corner post near the entrance-- on the clean linens, bottles, cots, and apothecary supplies.

Miridah's tent again.

Targus sighed, drawing his eyes away from the familiarities, flinching as he breathed through the feeling of knives in his lungs. His stomach turned, and the once wondrous cries of his muscles had long soured into a tight ache. All the while, Targus' head felt heavy and foggy. Yet he minded these simple displeasures of a crashing sobriety with candid relief.

He wasn't dying, nor dead.

"Targus? Helloo?" Targus' half opened eyes turned to the voice above him. Doctor Miridah looked down from the head of his cot, sleeves rolled up on her medical coat as she sat at her desk. Her cat spirited ears flicked, consternation written between her brows.

He turned away, and said nothing, listening instead to the quiet clap and sweep of white canvas on wood.

Miridah sighed as her ears flattened, turning away and jotting at her clipboard.

Targus breathed deeply, pushing out the unseen knives clawing in his lungs.

"How long was I out?" he finally asked the mold stain on the canvas.

"Twelve hours, give or take," replied what felt to be the only other living person in the tent.

"How many of us this time?" Targus whispered, steeling his nerves and voice.

"...Targus, that's not something you should--"

"Miridah," Targus cut her off, finally setting his eyes on her.

Miridah continued in her scribblings and musings on that blasted clipboard-- clacking, scratching, tap, tap, tapping.

And then it stopped. Miridah's eyes fixed on something at her desk. Her lips parted as she put the clipboard down, yet no words came. She sighed, flaring her ringless nose as she turned to him.

"How many of us died?" he repeated again, his voice low, neutral. They made eye contact.

"...Squad Two, and Squad Five were wiped out.;" She mumbled, her silver eyes betraying the same pain he always saw in them, "And... Ferjal from your... sister squad... Squad Six... he was only half a year in." Her eyes shifted away, towards the darkened corner of the tent. Targus followed her gaze to three occupied cots, the forms covered in black silk. His eyes rested on a glittering gold clasp on a lone, broken antler, poking out from beneath the black silk

"Ferjal, Jalfant, Treyvant," she whispered, turning back to her spot at the table. "they were the first to die after arriving from the frontlines--you would've been the fourth, but... the Resting spares you yet again," she eyed him for a moment, "My nurses expect a dozen more won't see the light of day,"

"and the dead...?"

"The ones we could recovered were put to rest in their shawl hours ago-- twilight, per custom."

Targus muted a growl.

"I hear you put on quite the show on the field today... were you hoping to die this time?" Miridah carried on, stoic, but not fooling the living within the tent.

He turned away, huffing.

"if it's any solace," she continued, "I'd say you gave your squad the fighting chance they needed--"

"And it still wasn't enough..." Targus seethed, clicking his tongue. "I should've made a fucking bet," he turned in the cot, pulling the black shawl with him as he sat at the edge.

"No! Targus, sit. Stay!" He paid her no mind, looking now under the silk.

"Don't treat me like a dog. Where are my clothes-- tunic, armor, that shit?" He asked nonplussed, looking around.

"I'll give you your clothes once I think you're ready to be relea--"

"Keep them then." Targus muttered, heaving himself off the cot and letting the silk shawl tumble to the ground.

Miridah's black and orange fur bristled, her eyes unmoving from the silk shawl on the ground.

"Targus," she soothed, her eyes on the shawl, "I need you to understand that mancers have died from far less than what witnesses said you did,"

Targus looked back to her as she spoke, his eyes trailing off to her desk, littered with scrolls, logs, blank parchment... and a black and white photogram he'd caught a glimpse of once before but never in detail; it was clipped to the back of a propped up book, it's edges hinting at water damage. Miridah smiled in it--an honest joy he's not seen in the longest, alongside what he could only guess was her family from the same blotchy fur pattern. To her left, almost cut from view was a human female-- no doubt a Thur. She had Miridah's eyes-- her sister. Miridah held her tightly, as if trying to bring her into the photo.

Targus stepped over the shawl, and hobbled to the entrance.

"Hard-headed dog, why don't you listen!" Miridah jumped to her feet, and made a feeble attempt to block his path. he paid the little cat no mind and gently pushed her aside. "--Where are you even going?!"

"The Slop Tent," Targus growled, pushing through the tent flaps into the chilly evening air. He looked about, relishing as the breeze lapped over every inch of his fur. Then he huffed and barreled down the rows of tents and flickering oil lamps.

"Drinking? You're kidding right?" she called into the night, "Targus? Targus!" she shouted again, yet followed no further than the light of her tent, "At _least _pass by tomorrow!"

"If I'm alive." Targus muttered, watching her over his shoulder. Miridah groaned and shook her head, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she watched for a second more before she retreating to her dead.

Come next twilight, they too will be buried. Targus mused, sighing.

Targus stomped naked down the deserted thoroughfare of Battalion three's encampment-- silent and empty as it always was after a battle, save for the sounds of the Slop Tent in the distance.

Targus could hear-- and smell the Slop Tent a hundred metres out as the Anshelm inside sang, drank, and fucked the night away after surviving another battle.

He grimaced on his approach, the smell of beer and bile wafting in the still pockets between tents, the ocassional sound of retching coming from behind a tent. He rolled his eyes once he caught the distant tune of a full sing along of Drink for the Dead.

--we'll drink to our dead, and drink 'till we're dead,

whatever finds us first!

flip the skirt of the old gateman,

We caught him wearing red!

Drink his mead to quench a thirst,

take his keys , without remorse!

drink with the dead and flee with the dead,

the light of moonlight comes!

Cross your palms and dress in lace,

Our time will one day come!

We'll drink to our death and drink to our dead,

The Resting claims us all!

Superstitious drunks, the lot of them.

Targus stopped at the entrance of the Slop Tent; gritting his teeth, he crossed the threshold.

Bodies thronged and danced on packed earth and scattered tables. Clouds of smoke from dulling grass and winter's leaf held fast to the rafters and stagnant air, griming up the lanterns above, their light a sickly glow.

The new fledglings sat at the closest table, desolate; their glazed eyes filling their empty cups. All the while, their new kin rejoiced in a battle survived, uncaring--and even goading--the pulsing and throbbing of intoxicated love making on tables and barrels. The masses quenched their mind in ale, mulled wine, and mead, like medicine for the trauma. Damaged smiles and broken laughter painted every face.

Targus scrunched his snout, the fleeting scent of cardamom, black pepper, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves fighting a losing battle against the pungent stench of sex, smoke, and alcohol. No one but him seemed to mind; one of the many tribulations of having the wolf spirit of a Fenhunter amongst the more common fox spirited Fenhunters, rabbit spirited Glodan, and deer spirited Hoden.

At the far end of the tent, more patrons gathered around a tiger-rat spirited Glodan as they pounded out a beat to a new drinking song from atop a crate, singing the loudest of all. The Glodan made eye contact from across the tent and nodded to the beat, eyes unflinching.

He lacked a nose ring.

Targus huffed, turning away and noting him as an outsider before continuing on into the mass of drunks and fornicators, searching the tear streaked faces of the many spirits and faces that culminated the Fringe.

There he is.

"Karmond!" Targus barked, seething. The fox spirited Karmond was in the midst of a jovial conversation at a table in front of a foursome.

The fox's brown ears shifted to the sound of his name as he looked up. He gave Targus a quick once over and a grin, nodding with shifty eyebrows in reverence to the unclothed, scowling mountain of a wolf.

He turned back to his conversation, stealing quick glances as he excused himself from the table, squeezing past a flailing leg and a snow leopard Kat.

"Targus--oh Jarta-- may I say, I've never seen someone wear Ginuvian blood as well as you did today, love," Karmond winked at the snow leopard, his silken voice almost a coo to Targus over the moaning beside him.

Jarta the snow leopard, laughed and pushed him towards Targus. She shot Targus a suggestive wink before returning to a conversation of her own. Karmond rubbed his shoulder and frowned.

"Why are leopard spirits so rough?" he commented under his breath.

Targus snatched the fox by his green threadbare tunic.

"what did you give me?" he growled in Karmond's ear as they flattened in response to his hot, steaming breath.

Karmond pulled away, searching the green of Targus' eyes, and chuckled. He pivoted his ears forward again, patting the clenched fist holding his tunic.

"Spritely for a dead wolf," Karmond chuckled, "let's find somewhere quiet, come,"

He gave Targus a reassuring crooked smile. Targus rumbled, but eased his grasp. Karmond fixed his tunic, and, ignoring the firm grip now on his tail, cut through the crowd, out into the crisp night air, gulping it hungrily.

Karmond looked around as he patted Targus' hand off his tail, and turned right, leading them down an alleyway, cutting between sleeping tents, storage, armouries, and parlouries.

They reached the mancered, westernmost perimeter fence for Fringe Battalion three-- far out of sight-- away from the lights, noise, and smells of the encampment.

"Nice and quiet..." Karmond noted, as he brushed out his tail, leaning against a crate by a storage tent. He pulled a small tin from his trouser pockets and began rolling some dulling grass between paper, striking a match and taking a deep puff.

He held, and exhaled a plume, his eyes swimming with relief.

"So... what's up--"

"What did you give me?" Targus repeated, exasperation swimming in his voice.

Karmond took another hit, unfazed, admiring the roll for a moment. "I gave you what I give everyone, buddy," he said, pushing off the crate and wandering closer to the fence. He examined it from a safe distance, "Cybin Tea."

"That wasn't Cybin tea," Targus growled, "If it was, your hand fucking slipped and almost cost me my life."

"...okay yeah," He chuckled, "I really didn't expect you to run out like ya did."

"So you did add something else?"

Karmond sighed, "yes," he yielded. "a pinch of musebane--"

"Musebane!?"

"Yeah, it's supposed to complement cybin... I thought I'd give you a fun fight since your ten years are about up."

Karmond took a final hit, and tossed the remaining stub at the fence. It burst into flames and smouldered on the ground. "Honestly, the last thing I expected was watch you launch off like you had a fire up your ass-- shit, I think I would've thrown myself in front of an arrow if you actually died because of me," Karmond turned to him. Something about the guilt-laden smile, and upturned brow subdued Targus' rage.

Targus huffed and crossed his arms. "A fun fight, eh?"

"Well... was it?"

"... maybe a bit."

"Honestly, it was the best show I've seen in my six years in the regiment," Karmond commended, punching Targus on the shoulder, quickly patting the spot in response to a growl.

"Damn, Lighten up man, you're leaving in a few days, and I'm stuck here."

"I don't plan on leaving," Targus snapped, "you'll all die if I did."

Karmond clicked his tongue and hopped onto the crate, "hey give us some credit! Even if we did get smeared into the grass, that shouldn't be your concern anymore," he muttered as he began rolling up more dulling grass and striking it ablaze before lounging back on the crate.

He took a long pull, and sighed, gazing up at the stars. "y'know, you can't lock yourself to this life if you can help it--at least you shouldn't. If you can, well... I'd prefer you lived for the rest of us, or whatever."

Targus said nothing, but came to rest on the grass, his back to Karmond's crate, eyes fixed on the celestial curtain clinging to the shadowed moon above; the outer tendrils of the curtain shimmered like diamonds caught in spider's silk tonight.

Indeed, his tenure within the Fringe Regiment draws to an end in a week's time. This may very well have been his last battle.

The day will come too soon when they cut the ring that binds him as a Fringe, and the powers that be send him back to the homeland that abandoned him before the Curse even took hold.

Britton was never his land, and its people far removed as his kin, for what kind of neighbour, family, and ilk would abandon a scared and confused child as they so readily did? The Fringe-- they were his people-- more family than shared blood, all united in trauma and bonded by the labours of death forced unto them as though little more than refuse to be used and discarded. He has no love nor yearning for what awaited beyond this bonded life, back amongst the vain and farce society of this Anshelmic Alliance.

Crickets chirped in the grass beyond the fence as a wind rustled in the trees. No, this was the only peace he'll ever take as forthright, and far removed from construct.

Targus sighed, and raised his hand, signaling with index and middle finger to Karmond. Without a word, Karmond slipped the roll of dulling grass between them. Targus brought the burning grass to his maw, took a long drag, and returned the roll to Karmond.

It burned in his lungs, and eased the tension in his mind near instantly.

After what felt like an hour of quiet remission with only the sound of ruffling tents and the distant whispering woodland to speak of life, he posed the question many Fringe do, but one he dared not ask until tonight...

"How was it when you turned, Karmond?" Targus exhaled the musky smoke through his nostrils, watching its lethargic climb into the wind.

"Getting a little sentimental tonight, are we?" Karmond chuckled. He paused, then followed with a smoky cloud. "Y'sure you wanna hear my peace?"

"Get on with it.," Targus whispered.

Karmond tugged another long breath from the roll, sighed, and stifled a cough.

"Well...my folks were true, cut-from-the-cloth Fox Fens-- barely any outward facing Thur traits. Imagine their shock and horror when I came out--furless--pure and honest Thur right from the flesh gates. They prayed and hoped that I'd stay Thur for my sake--'course they did. It really wasn't easy, even before I turned-- always getting asked where's your spirit, you're just human-- a Ginuvian even... kids are mean like that, y'know? I'd tell my momma, cry about it in her lap, saying I wished I was like them, had some kind of show of spirit I can be proud of, even if it made me just like all the other kids," Karmon paused, taking another tug of grass, and exhaling.

"She would console me, saying I need to be proud of who I am, because spirit or not, I'm still their son-- their pink, furless baby boy, and a gift from The Seeress. I am who I am, and that was more than enough, fox spirit be damned.

But I still hoped... even after learning about the Curse at the tail end of Primary School--you're from Britton too, right? Well, you know the whole introduction, about how the Curse isn't something those with visible spirits have to worry about, but us Thurs had to be hypervigilant on? My teacher--the fucknugget unwashed southlip she was, would motion, signal and suggest anything she could that'd point me out-- the one and only, undoubtedly singular Thur in that school. It was absolute hell from then on, my life was fucking miserable. By this time, even my folks were tired of my griping, so... I just started keeping my misery to myself.

Then, sometime at the edge of seventeen, it started. First as an ache in my jaw, and joints--could've been anything really. Then the sweats, agitation-- the itchy, crawling skin--it all started making me a little loony. I didn't wanna freak out the folks more than my mood swings already did, so I snuck out of school one day to see a doctor-- never regretted a decision so badly before, or after that... anyways, he drew some blood, sent me on my way.

About like... a week or so later, the Fringe Disciplinaries came knocking in the middle of the night. My folks, bless them, had no idea who they were until the very moment our eyes met, as the goons dragged me out of the house. My mother bit, clawed and screamed at the counselling person restraining her as they took me away-- hadn't seen her since, but you probably figured that. After that, they kept me locked under observation, watching as I deteriorated and changed...."

Karmond paused, a tension growing in his voice. He took another hit, exhaled.

"to their benefit, they did give me a fuckload of painkillers and shit, but, fuck man... the pain. Y'know learning about it from a shit teacher really doesn't prepare you for the gravity of it--like, yeah I know, the pain is what ultimately drives them insane to the point of suicide... but... shit. It didn't hit me that I had transitioned from a "them" to "us" until... well, I guess the first time I tried offing myself. They found me hanging by the bedsheets-- rushed me to the inhouse hospital and shit-- don't know why they bothered... I guess they really need bodies out here...

It was about eight moons of unadulterated agony, day and night for me, not even the painkillers worked anymore. But yeah, the rest is probably much the same as what you know... rehabilitation, counselling... prepping for shipment off to the Fringe Regiment because we're inherently a danger to society, and serving time in the Military will do wonders for our mental health after the shit we endured.

And now look at us: upstanding, exemplary individuals with the strict morals and shining predispositions of the Scholars long past. Gotta laugh about it, otherwise I probably would've thrown myself into that fucking fence..." Karmond's voice quivered as he concluded.

He took a drag, and exhaled, letting the sound of the night entreat but for a moment.

"I'd ask about yours... but I hear it's bad luck to ask someone in their final year... so I'll spare it."

"Cub is superstitious now."

"Naw, i'd just rather not risk losing my lover to some otherworldly processional bullshit."

Targus laughed, his eyes watering.

"This is all such fucking horseshit, isn't it?" he whispered.

"You survived ten years of this hellscape, and you're asking that now?" Karmond laughed, stifling a sob as the delicate silence lapsed in once again.

Targus thought on it, chuckling to himself as a tear wet his fur.

"So... you wanna hear it?" he asked, "It's short, not sweet."

"Oh, fuck yeah... lay it on me baby."

"Alright..." Targus laughed, "so I'm a dumpster baby--"

"You're fucking kidding me," Karmond turned to his side, watching Targus' auburn fur shine in the moonlight, "really?"

"Yeah," he nodded, adjusting himself against the crate, "yeah the moment my kinfolk saw this fleshy thing...it went right in the trash.

Some homeless deerkin--Gauff was his name I think-- he picked me out of the rubbish while looking for food-- thought I was a live, plucked chicken I guess, but naw, just a Thur baby. He managed to raise me to about seven years of age like a pet before some restaurant caught him snooping too close to the trash. They sent the cops to check him out, beat him to death--I mean, that's what I've heard. Anyways, shit didn't change much for some twenty years, until I started doing some street work-- no one wanted to lay with a Thur though. Then I got lucky one day, started making a living...fuck what did I do... oh--window cleaner--"

"I remember you talking about the sex work bit, but, window cleaning? You?"

"Yep, window cleaning--couldn't read or write, no one wanted my ass, so what else was there? Yeah I did it for a bit, until I started getting them, jaw aches, joint crap... that whole bit. I didn't go to no doctor though... that would've been nice... naw, just stopped going to work-- because of course, pain. couldn't pay rent, so lost my hole in the wall and I was right back on the streets... Don't remember much else until way after they started hunting for me. I started killing livestock and pets in the rural part of Britton-- Southbanks area--apparently I even killed another Thur."

"--wait, I heard about that! That was a long time ago though!"

"My reputation precedes me. Yeah they caught me. Apparently, I was midway to Feral and them Disciplinaries were ready to put me down like a rabid dog... but... they didn't for some reason--like you said, guess they needed bodies. It took about a year of regression therapy before I started remembering fuck all-- but even then it felt like an old dream--still does-- and it wasn't for another year before I was even fit to socialise--and... well, you got the rest as you say."

"...damn dick waving competition here... shit, if i'd known it was that kind of fresh hell, I wouldn't have asked...hey, you good?" Karmond asked, watching Targus' broad and muscled shoulders tremble in quiet sobs.

"No... but who is around here?" he whispered, steeling the quiver in his throat.

Karmond nodded, finishing the roll and chucking the remains before turning to lay on his back again. "Yeah, fair..." he let his hand fall on to Targus' shoulder, feeling his soft winter coat come in. Targus placed his hand over the fox's own, and held it tight. He was warm, comforting.

"Don't die on me when I'm gone," Targus whispered, reigning in the sob with a sigh.

"No promises."