From the depths of the Wilds, a storm brewed, carrying with it the fury of the western lands. Dark clouds scuttled over the craggy peaks of the mountains that had long since kept Alden safe, their long, wispy tendrils snaking towards the moon like grasping fingers that sought to choke the light of life from its pale face.

Concealed within the shadows that clung to the streets like black mist, a lone figure plied the cobblestones, the edges of its cloak tossed by the same cold wind that had extinguished the lamps.

Its path had taken it towards the docks, where the waters foamed and gurgled as they dashed against the thick timbers of the piers. Pausing beside a stack of crates that trembled with each furious gust, it spoke.

"Have they assembled?" It inquired as if to the very air itself.

From the dark spaces crept a second form, its body haggard and hidden by layer upon layer of tattered cloth, its voice strained and ancient. "Yes, mistress. Even now the horde is growing in strength. Soon they will be ready to march against the king-dom."

Golden eyes flecked with red glinted in a feeble ray of moonlight as they gazed upon the meek form. "Good. And Khalain, is he ready as well?"

The hunched creature wrung boney paws, the lump of its head shying away from the piercing gaze. "Not yet, mistress Illatryx--"

A strangled cry cut the air for but a moment as the cloaked creature struck out. Its voice dripped with venom as it hissed, claws digging into the other's rags. "Never speak my name. Now go and tell that bastard to be ready by the ides or it shall be he who dies."

Bowing even as it struggled to pick itself upright, the pathetic form murmured apologies as it shuffled into the darkness. "Y-yes, of course..."

The storm had arrived.

Chapter I

The storm had finally passed. Warm sunlight filtered into the old gatehouse, spilling in a golden-hued pool across the well-worn timbers of the floor where it slipped past the curtains. Birdsong mixed with the soft rustling of tree-tops, buffeted by the gentle winds that now traveled in the wake of last night's storm. Despite the few trailing clouds, it promised to be a fair day.

Owen felt otherwise. Scrubbing a paw over sleep-laden eyes, the young otter hauled him-self from the snug, warm wrappings of his bed to see what the commotion was outside. Hob-bling over, he peered through the dusty glass. One of the monks, clad in the dull brown habit of their order, stood out on the grass, waving and calling between tosses of small pebbles.

Undoing the clasp with a fumbling paw, he swung open the window to wave in greeting.

"Well good morning, you lazybeast! Planning on joining us for breakfast?" The speaker was Brother Albus, a rather portly old bear.

The otter nodded, stifling a yawn. "Mornin' to you, too. I'll be down in a bit."

Nodding in turn, the ursine monk waved a large paw towards the old stone bench that sat beneath a gnarled peach tree. "I shall wait for you, then. Do remember to put on pants, this time!" He chided.

Calling back through the open window, Owen rolled his eyes. "I told you, it's not my fault. Those little blighters stole everything in my trunk!"

"I remember quite well; you've only told me a dozen times." Replied the old bear as he reached up to pluck one of the ruddy fruits. He bit into it, savoring the sun-ripened flavor. "I must say, though, it's a wonder you haven't found a nice girl yet, looking like that and all."

Owen quickly pulled on a pair of knee-length trousers and a dusty heather jerkin, pausing to don a few of the trinkets he had acquired over the past few months. When finally he left the gatehouse, the otter found a peach hurtling towards him.

Narrowly catching it, he glared at Albus who only chortled. "They're just about at the peak of ripeness. I'll have to tell Brother Edwin that he shall have to get to work on that peach cordial of his."

"Mmff." Replied the otter absently, mouth already busied with the task of the succulent fruit. Owen allowed himself to be lead back to the abbey proper.

Breakfast at the abbey was a communal affair, with large platters and bowls of various dishes being passed between the members of each of perhaps a dozen long, wooden tables that filled the cavernous hall. Warm breads and cheeses studded with slivered nuts gave off rich aromas, their scents mingling with that of leek and mushroom soup, fresh fruit tarts, and a salad of young garden greens dressed with cool mint.

Passing Abbot Bernard, who murmured a quiet greeting to the otter, Owen took up a seat at one of the central tables. He began ladling himself a bowl of piping hot soup and grabbing a small farl of rye as the tray passed along, he dug into the meal, only vaguely registering the jostling of the bench as another of the abbey's inhabitants took a seat beside him.

Owen paused as he bit into the bread at the sensation of a tail brushing against his own. Looking over, he saw the rat Jeremy, son of Brother Edwin. "Hey," he murmured.

"Storm keep you up, too?" Asked the rat, his eyes bleary as he carefully arranged salad onto a chipped earthenware plate.

"For a little," he replied, pilfering a slice of cucumber despite the other's glare. "that old gatehouse is actually rather quiet."

"Hmff." Jeremy snorted. "I spent most of the night in the cellar to get away from all the noise. Casks make terrible bedfellows."

Owen glanced at the rat from the corner of his eye. "I can make it up to you, if you want." He whispered under his breath.

At first, the otter thought that his words hadn't been heard. Just as he was about to turn, he felt Jeremy run a paw over his own. "I'd like that."

From where he sat at the head table, Brother Albus shook his head and sighed. "I wonder about those two." He had watched the pair grow closer over the years, and though the old bear was happy to see that their young otter had found a friend his own age, he often found himself worrying.

"Hmm? Did you say anything, Albus?" The elderly hound Bernard glanced up at his rotund friend, a paw dabbing at soup that had dripped along his chin.

"Just reminiscing about last year's feast; I hope everything will be ready by tomorrow." He replied nonchalantly.

The abbot blinked. "The feast? Oh, oh right. I'd almost forgotten."

Noon had finally rolled about in a peal of bells, only to find Owen awash from tip to tail with flour. His attempts at baking were often futile, even when under the watchful eye of Sister Alicia.

"Well, at least the cakes are done. Too bad the kitchens might never be the same." She sighed, resigning to dusting off the myriad white-speckled surfaces with an old rag.

Reaching for a towel of his own, Owen was shooed away before more of his 'help' could be rendered.

"Just go get cleaned up. You look more like a ghost than an otter."

"Sorry, Sister. I'll try to be more careful next time," he replied, taking care to skirt around the exasperated deer.

Paws akimbo, she shook her head and called after the departing otter. "And try not to get flour on everything you touch!"

Normally, Owen would have gone back to the gatehouse or the dormitories to wash, but as of late he had gotten into a habit of swimming in the river that ran behind the abbey's north-east wall. He had found that the cool waters were quite refreshing, and the privacy offered by the looming shade of the forest's many trees that overhung the river made it quite a far more desirable location.

Dipping his paws into the cool waters that ran beneath the narrow stone dock perched upon the bank, he gazed out across the river's breadth. Even at noontide, the forest about the abbey was still, the leaves of the towering canopy rustling only with the occasional warm summer breeze, their shadows dancing and playing across the grasses that even now shim-mered with the morning's dew. It was as if the storm had been little more than a terror of the night, now banished with the light of dawn.

The otter washed in silence, listening to the birdsong and babble of the river as it coursed along its way to the south and the distant plains of the lowlands. Plumes of white flour drifted across the eddies created by dipped paws, leaving behind thin trails before finally fading into the crystal clear waters.

A thought occurred to him then. Taking a quick glance over his shoulder to make certain that the old wall gate was shut and no beast was watching, the otter waded into the shallow current. The city was due another visit.

Without a sound, the sleek brown body slid along the river's passage, unaware that it was being watched.

Long had the abbey and its inhabitants become stifling, the high alabaster walls that encircled the grounds feeling more as if they were made to keep its people in rather than to hedge out the masses. The chill waters of the river, now flowing with greater urgency thanks to the heavy rainfall, were blissful in comparison. For several months, Owen had swam them, often simply letting himself drift in the currents for hours at a time as he gazed up at the brilliant vernal canopy.

Today, however, the young otter moved with purpose: tomorrow was the grand Midsummer Festival, and the city would be bustling with travelers from far and wide who wished to sell their goods. The market district of Alden was near infamous for the week-long celebration--anything and everything could be found; that is, if one knew where to look.

Upon arriving on the banks where the river cut through the very heart of the city, Owen hauled himself ashore. Finding a small patch of clover that poked through the short grasses, the otter lay in the sunlight to dry his fur and thoroughly sodden garments, looking for all the world as if he had merely been refreshing himself from the heat of the day.

The first matter of business, once he had dried, would be finding money. The last of his precious coin was still tucked away in the old carved box in his quarters, he realized as a paw shoved into the pocket of his jerkin came back empty.

•••

Across the expanses of the marketplace, its skyline glittering with the myriad tarps and fluttering pennants of merchant's stalls, was the Golden Stripe, an old tavern that over-looked the riverside. For decades, it had been run by the venerable Olean Goldstripe, a burly old badger who had traveled the lands of Alden in search of the finest brew. In recent years, however, it had come into the paws of his daughter, Bess.

The patrons were of the typical sort and rarely paid heed to one another, save for the rare bar fight or dispute over who cheated who in a game of cards. It was this quiet, regular atmosphere that had drawn the young fox to the tavern in the first place.

Sighing as he glanced around the common-room of the tavern one last time, Richard allowed his empty mug to be taken.

"Still out on the prowl, eh, Richard?" Bess asked, easily palming the tankard in a huge black paw.

The fox nodded glumly as he turned back to rest his head on his arms. "Yes. I wasn't quite as lucky as I had thought the last time."

With a smile that made the light thatching of silver about her muzzle all the more prominent, the badger gave him a light shove. "Oh come now. You're young and quite handsome. I'm sure you'll find someone soon."

"I hope so," he replied absently as he fished a few coins from the purse that hung at his belt. "here; for the room from last time."

Bess shook her head as she scooped the coins into a coffer. "I don't know why you insist on paying for that old thing. It's not like I let just anyone use it."

"Because you're the Badgermum," Richard said as he traced a claw through a small pool of spilled ale that had collected on the well-polished bar.

A smirk. "I'll mum you if you don't go off and enjoy yourself. The festival starts tomorrow--I'm sure you'll find something of interest." Bess held up a paw as Richard began to speak. "Now don't give me any excuse about your father. Go on, go."

Richard hesitated for a brief moment before slowly extricating himself from the high stool. "Oh fine. You're probably right." With a wave, the golden-furred fox padded towards the great door of the tavern.

"Of course I'm right," called Bess as she watched her young friend retreat. "I'm the Badgermum."

The markets had proven to be quite the catch. Owen smiled as he counted the small pawful of coins he had obtained between glances at a lewdly dressed trio of entertainers who had decided to give an early performance.

Pocketing the little bounty, the otter gave a few quick glances about the crowd before stealing off in the direction of the far stalls near the Old Town district. His luck there had proven quiet good as of late, and he had had his heart set on a new trinket for some time now. Slipping from the growing throng of watchers, Owen padded across the worn cobblestones and up the low rise.

He had always made certain to keep what money he found concealed, or in the very least have a ready story as to its origins. Though the otter didn't see himself as a thief--more of one who had learned the thief's trade--he knew Abbot Bernard would disapprove. As much as he loved the old hound, their relations had become strained over the years. It was only recently that Owen had been granted permission to travel and roam the countryside, though he was still forbidden from venturing into the marshlands.

As he passed a small cluster of travelers that spoke in hushed tones, something caught his eye. Looking up, he saw a glint of brilliant hued fur slip around a corner. His curiosity piqued, the otter followed.

It didn't take long for him to catch up; the golden fur caught the evening rays of the sun, seeming to come alive like fire. Standing in the open-air storefront of a scrivener and book-seller, the fox flipped lazily through a thick volume. Owen had seen quite a number of foxes in his adventures about the city, though never had he seen one quite like this. Drifting closer as he pretended to browse through the various tomes and scrolls that lined the shelves, his eyes roamed towards the fox.

The fox, a young male as it turned out, looked to be a merchant's son. But something set him apart from others. The careful way his fur had been groomed, the cant of his ears, the way he held himself. Even the subtle details of a carefully tailored doublet seemed out of place.

He must be loaded, though Owen as he spied the hefty leather pouch that jingled faintly each time the fox moved. Something else moved as well, and this he kept his eyes on as he replaced a rather boring volume on the history of Alden.

Strangely, the muted opulence only added to the other's beauty, as the brilliant, fiery sheen of the fox's tail shimmered and swayed in a languid arc, suspended in the air where it framed a well-defined rump. I wonder if it's like Jeremy's, he mused as he watched for a few moments longer, his thoughts straying to a night weeks past.

Owen paused as his paw ventured towards another volume. The stiffness between his legs was unmistakable, and already the heat that radiated from his sheath was becoming a bother. He could have sworn he heard a faint sniff from nearby.

A glance towards the fox told otherwise. The vulpine figure was still engrossed in the words scrawled across the parchment.

Biting his lower lip, Owen proceeded.

Moments later he was rounding the street corner, his eyes alight with the prize he had found. The otter could scarcely imagine the night he could afford with so much coin. Pausing, he made a turn back towards the wealthier districts.

Perhaps an early celebration was due.

Should more stuff be here?

That night, Owen lay under the stars. Basking in the silver moonlight that spilled across the ivory stones of the small balcony that over-looked the abbey grounds, he gazed up at the few stray clouds that drifted lazily across the sky. Beneath him, the grasses were ruffled by a faint breeze, the feeling of it against his bare fur sending a low chill deep within him.

A half-empty wineskin rested within paw's reach, its spiced scent clinking to the crisp air as surely as it clouded his mind. Owen pushed it away with a content sigh as he lay back upon the woven rush mat spread across the stones.

Buffeted by gentle breezes, the cool night air entangled itself with the warmth of good wine that coursed through his veins, only serving to add to the intoxicating sensations. For hours now, his thoughts had returned to the memory of the fox unbidden, though certainly not without desire.

Owen let a paw stray as he imagined what that fox might look like without all of his fancy clothing.

Perched upon the grassy bank of the river where the overhanging boughs of the forest cast a welcome shade from the afternoon light, the fox with the golden fur idly dipped black-socked paws into the chill, flowing waters.

_ He wore nothing; there was little need in such warmth of the midsummer air. Like some vision etched from a dream, his fur shimmered in the thin beams of light that wove their way through the canopy, dancing across his naked, shameless body between serpentine filaments of shadows._

_ His very presence seemed to command the natural world; it heeded his call with a surreal, welcoming silence, as if listening and waiting upon his very whim._

_ Owen watched from where he hid amongst the reeds in the shallows, captivated by the nameless fox. As the fox shifted, his paws carefully scooping water upon himself, Owen let his eyes wander lower, following the subtle curves of his chest, down where creamy white shifted and rippled with the faintest hints of musculature beneath them._

_ He looked up, then. The fox's eyes and met his gaze, their amber hue like liquid gold as he beckoned the otter closer._

_ Hesitantly, Owen drifted from the shallows across the calm waters to kneel upon the sands of the river bottom before the fox. As if guided by some unseen paw, Owen dipped his muzzle, his own webbed paws carefully teasing the fox's legs aside. He delighted upon seeing how the thin arches of supple white graced the other's legs, rising up the inside of the fox's thighs like twin brush strokes before meeting._

_ There hung his prize: brazen and heavy in the muted light of the riverbank. Wreathed in soft, creamy fur, was the mysterious fox's sheath, already swollen with his ruddy, vulpine shaft pressing forth._

_ Reaching out a paw, he slid his fingers along the dew-laden grass before cupping the heavy, full sac that idly lay upon the viridian bank-side._

_ His muzzle leaned inwards, lips parting in a silent murmur as he felt the first brushing of the fox's throbbing member along his chin. Closing his eyes, he pressed further, shivering in ecstasy as he heard the other's breath catch._

The ephemeral vision faded as a shaft of moon-light struck his eyes the moment the pressure that had been building in the base of his spine became too much.

Shivering in the cold night air, Owen opened his eyes and looked across the grounds towards the trees that marked the river's edge. The otter sighed as he gazed at the strands of fluid that clung to the dark fur of his paw as they glimmered in the pale light--he doubted he would ever see the fox again.

Wiping the mess upon the edge of the mat, Owen picked himself up and slunk to the welcome confines of his bed. In the very least, he could always dream.