FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

It was the deepest he had slept in some time.

When his mind slowly roused, he remembered naught a dream; nor, more importantly, nightmare.

He felt heavy and solid, like his bones were made of lead, his blood made of tar, and his sinew made of cured clay.

He fought the drawing of his rousing. Fought to stay within the murky depths of sleep. But with each beat of his heart to count the seconds since his birth, he was pulled by the whiskers out of his slumber.

First came the warmth. So cozy and relaxing. It stirred in him a feeling abandoned long ago, so long it seemed like an experience from another life. It threatened to escape into a full-fledged memory, but was snuffed like a candle before it had a chance to even sprout a feather.

Amidst the warmth there came a tickle. It was gentle, barely felt, as if his mind were playing tricks upon him in his limbo. But there was a distinct pattern to the tickle, which he could count against his heart. It grazed his cheek and whiskers, and even caused an involuntary twitch within them.

Then, the lulling, rapid rumbling that vibrated into his ears. Like a small tremble in the earth, it made him tingle all over with both a pang of uncertainty, and a sense of relaxation.

Finally drudged from his sleep beyond the hope of return, he slowly opened an eye.

The darkness was not unexpected. But there was a sense of disorientation and confusion as the shapes in his vision tried to piece themselves together. He could not recall the moment he fell asleep. And what was that rumbling...?

"Y--nh." He started to speak, but cut his voice.

Both his eyes went wide, and the light and shadow in front of him, barely visible, made sudden sense.

Her expression was... sad, but peaceful. Her hand partially blocked his vantage, but from what he could see she was frowning. Her eyes were relaxed. The lids met in a fine black curve, like the delicate stroke of a practiced calligrapher.

As his awareness grew, he began to understand that the sensations he felt all came from her. The warmth, her body near his. The tickling, her breath upon his cheek. The rumble... it, too, came from her, but he had never experienced such a thing.

As he observed her in slumber for several moments, he began to feel a sense of disgust. At first, he explained it from the way he watched her. Projecting his own feelings, he felt that gazing at her as she slept was, in some way, immoral.

And then, he recalled what happened before he had fallen asleep.

He understood it only at the barest breadths. He had seen them on the streets, the whores that walked sultrily and coaxed men to follow them to seclusion. He knew that such behavior was disdainful, and the men who took part shameful.

He had not the thoughts to imagine there was such a place for the same kind of behavior... for ones so young.

And this girl, lying so innocently beside him, sleeping with him...

He only knew it to be shameful. The act he had committed in that cellar, and concluded within his own bed.

Naked, he lay with her. So very naked, they were.

He was not ashamed of nudity, even in public. It was not uncommon for the flash of a groin or the slip of a breast to be witnessed from behind the peasant toga. But those instances were fleeting glimpses. Never were they moments for anything more; the hand could not touch.

But in this moment, without reaching, he could touch her. Had touched her. In ways he had never touched anyone but himself, before. And even then, the touches to his own were with no more purpose than grooming.

She looked so sad.

His hand acted with permission--and yet betrayed him. Part of him wanted to touch, but the other felt sick from it. And yet he only laid his hand upon her side, at her ribs.

The touch of her plush fur brought back the events of the day. As he came to the memory of just before falling asleep, he nervously stroked her without thinking, his fingertips sifting through her patterns.

He winced when she moved, but calmed after a moment.

She did not wake, but her expression had changed. She looked happy, now.

He exhaled the breath he had been holding, and immediately regretted it.

She stirred, her face wrinkling briefly before an eyelid flipped open.

In the darkness, he could distinctly see her iris. Like the moment of a solar eclipse, it was a halo about her circular pupil. It shined like a light, and caste a viridescent glow upon the fur of her cheek.

His mind reeled. He had the instinctual belief that if he remained still, perhaps she wouldn't notice him. And, for a moment it seemed so, as she began to roll upon her back and yawn. But the stray hand that he'd held still against her ribs was carried by her movement to her diaphragm. By some means, it found its way to her maturing left breast.

Her rousing activities paused, and her vibrant eye blinked as it flitted to him. Before he could wince and pull his hand away, she held him firmly in place and emitted a fluttering purr from her throat.

The vibration went all the way from his hand, up his arm, over his shoulders, down his spine, and out his tail. Though he had felt it before, he marveled at the warmth and softness he held in his palm, and the gentle beat of her heart just beneath.

Without thinking, he began to gently squeeze the maturing mound. It started as just a timid rub, but quickly turned into a full-on cupping and kneading. Mesmerized by the squishy globe, he only realized his activities when she rolled to face him once again.

His hand snapped away and he held it to his own sternum. He curled it into a fist, holding his breath. His cheeks burned, his stomach twisting in a knot of guilt and shame at his curiosity.

She closed her eyes, almost with frustration. A sharp gust of wind came from her nose, and she began to move.

He remained frozen, his breaths shallow, as she began shimmying down the cocoon-like stone structure in which they were wrapped. Her motions were a bit stiff and clumsy. It was an odd choice, he thought, for her to crawl down that way; he would have gone the other direction, where the hole was a bit wider.

And then, his eyes pulsed, and he let out his breath in an uttering of shock. He glanced down, and with the aide of the glow from her own eyes, he could barely see what he most surely felt.

She gave him a quick glance, her hand gently cupping his genitals. She leaned in, kissing the warm, semi-stiff spire, and then made better and faster progress departing from the cocoon.

He remained still; rigid, especially in ways that were particularly unsettling. The feelings in his stomach and his chest began clashing with one another, and he fought to control the burning, bubbling warmth that irritated his insides.

Then, he felt cold. Not chilled, or anywhere close, just colder than before. Without her warmth, the relative temperature made his fur rise on-end, as if to try and reach for the remnants of her presence.

And then a pang of loneliness. He suddenly burst to life, scrambling to find a purchase at the top of the cocoon. His fingers latched onto the lip, and he pulled himself up.

A hundred-thousand times he had departed the stone. Why, now, did he struggle at every inch to make his way out?

At last, his torso dangling a few feet above the ground, his body fell from the cocoon in a small tumble. He quickly got to his feet, whipping about in the dim lighting.

He felt relief. When, after a few passes of the area, he finally spotted the gentle, green glow, a calm swaddled him. It was difficult to make her out at first, the pattern of her fur breaking up the bright white that was easiest to see. But, he finally managed to see that she knelt upon the ground, a short distance from the cocoon.

Already on hands-and-knees, he crawled over to her. As he neared, she turned to face him, and changed her posture to sit more upon her thigh, with her arm supporting her upper-body. He paused as she changed, and then closed the gap until their knees were only a few inches apart.

"I thought... you had left," he admitted, breaking the silence.

Her lips fell ajar, head cocking. Then, her mouth closed and she shook her head. Then, she sat back upon her knees and reached toward him. Resting two fingers on his chest, over his heart, she looked at him. Then, she looked toward the door for a moment, pointing to it, and back to him.

His gaze fell. "Still can't talk." He said with dismay. He sighed, and then realized he was staring at her white bosom. He averted his gaze. "S--sorry," he spoke quickly. "I--I didn't--" He felt a light, benign slap at his arm. Glancing back to her, she squinted an eye.

With her right hand, she brushed her left shoulder, and bobbed her shoulders up in a quick shrug. Then, she repeated the two fingers over his heart, and pointing toward the room's opening.

"I'm sorry," he shook his head. "I'm... not sure what you're saying." He hated telling her that. But when she nodded, he was glad she didn't admit the frustration she must have felt.

She gave him an exaggerated, quizzical expression.

"Question?" He tried to interpret.

She nodded, and pointed to him.

"Me." He said.

She rested the two fingers upon his heart.

He felt a twitch in his stomach. "...Chest?" He questioned, with trepidation.

She shook her head.

"Heart?" Another shake, then her eyes caste away with thought.

Her fingertips receded from his fur, and she clasped her hands together, raising up on her knees, and shaking her twined hands.

"Praying?" Another shake. "...Begging?" Her hands broke, and with her right she held her index finger near her thumb. "Want?"

She nodded."

"I want..." He put the two words together.

She pointed to herself.

"I want you..."

She smiled, and then finally pointed at the entrance.

"...To... leave?" He guessed. His nose felt the press of her finger. He latched onto her wrist. "No, I don't... I don't want..." He let go of her hand. "I mean... You don't have to leave... You can stay."

She sighed, almost disappointedly.

His ears picked up even the inflection of her breath. "Did... I do something wrong?"

She squeezed his shoulder, shaking her head emphatically. Then, she leaned back, the hand which she used to grab his shoulder resting flat upon the ground. Using it as a fulcrum, she stood up, and began walking to the entrance way.

"What's the matter?" He said, shooting to his feet. "What'd I do wrong this time?"

She whipped about, her face glaring.

He backed away a step when she advanced on him. But as she neared, her expression softened. Her arms, disguised in the darkness from his eyes by her patterns, threaded beneath his. His back tensed and shivered while her fingertips ran through his fur, until they stopped and latched about him securely.

Such a gesture was something he had grown accustomed to lacking. Until she had been caught hiding in his home, it had not been since his past life that he felt the squeeze of an embrace. And in the span of, presumably, less than a day, she had given him three; as if the gesture was a benign, common thing.

Still getting used to the feeling, he returned the embrace. But, just a few seconds after lightly touching her back, he felt--and heard--a gentle rumble come from the left side of her body. His eyes opened. "You're hungry," he stated, though it had an inflection of self-anger within it. Surely, he should have realized it sooner.

She broke away, and attempted the shoulder-brushing gesture again. But in her midst, he took her free hand by the wrist, and began leading her. To her, the gesture was unnecessary--in fact, it should almost have been her that should lead. Her vision saw the pathways and shadows fairly well.

She had seen him. Drifting upon the moonlit sands, like a wraith above the sea of souls. Following, just a few miles behind, she managed to spy him climbing the rock, and disappearing into the hole she had discovered with his unknowing guidance.

Their footpads scraped across the stone as they entered the kitchen. The large, shaped boulder that served as both table and stove was lit by moonlight upon the surface, and shrouded in shadow at its base.

He let go of her hand as they neared it, ducking toward the cupboards. She watched as he squatted down, his tail whipping up to aide his balance. The cupboard door slid aside; the one next to where she had hidden in. Rough scraped against rough as he reached in and began working something free.

He huffed, standing up and bobbing his weight about a bit. In his arms, he cradled a clay pot that was rather broad for his stature. As he stepped toward the far side of the room, liquid within sloshed about. He made his way to the hearth, setting the pot upon the iron grate above the fire pit.

She met him at the opposite side, looking about. She spotted an open shelf upon which small bowls were set. She did them a favor and retrieved two long before they were necessary.

When she set them upon the center stone, a rush of air hit her ears. She glanced, to see the fire had started.

He went to another open shelf, retrieving a husk-weave sack, tied at the neck with twine. Hauling it toward the fire, he set it upon the ground about two feet away. Retrieving a ramekin amongst a set of several, he dipped it into the bag, collecting the contents within.

She waited against the table, watching as he poured three or four ramekin-fulls of cereal into the pot. After he was through putting the ramekin and sack back into place, he squatted by the hearth.

He watched the fire as it crackled and snapped, blazing beneath the pot. He reached for the reed-stick, and began fanning the flames to excite them.

The room began to smell of the hearth, and filled with warmth.

He set the reed-stick back into its place, and gazed proudly at the hearth. Fire gave him a sense of purpose, as if it were a younger brother. He always felt glad to see it grow; especially when he did not force it to himself, but on its own, with only natural encouragement.

He flinched, and glanced behind him. In the corner of his eye, her soft face looked past him to the fire. Those hands wrapped about him again, this time in reverse, and his back pressed to her chest.

His fur stood on end. He closed his eyes, a swelling of discomfort bubbling in his gut. And yet, he did not resist when she coaxed his squat to a sit, and his rump felt the contour of her lap.

He... liked it.

He... didn't want to like it.

He gritted his teeth. He was fine until she_screamed. He was just getting used to the emptiness and solitude; and then he had to hear _her. It wasn't fair. He didn't ask for it. He just wanted to get food.

A groan hit his ear. A groan from her. From her stomach.

She gasped, her hands wrenched apart as he tore from her. She relented, allowing him freedom. He crawled on knees toward the fire, and she watched with confusion when, with an angry expression, he placed his hands on either side of the pot.

She began to sit up in curiosity. Then, as she heard the simmering suddenly hasten, her eyes pulsed with understanding.

"Ngh!" He grunted, glancing back. "What are you--ow!" His hands detached from the pot, her fingers digging into his shoulders harshly. He stood, backing away from her. "What the heck was that for?"

She stood with him, and held her hands up. A look of apology on her face, she held her hands together. Then, she held out one of her hands, palm up. She gripped the wrist with her other hand. Her face twisted in agony and her hand slowly curled into a fist, her body trembling as if in pain.

Then, the act was dropped, and she took on an expression of concern.

"I told you," he said, rubbing his left shoulder. "Little things like that aren't going to bother me. I think I can boil water by now." He went back to the fire, and placed his hands on either side of the pot. "You're starving, I can tell. This'll take forever on its own." This time, when her hands rested on his shoulders, her fingers did not grind into him; though she held him firmly, poised to react to any sudden twinge of pain.

After a few moments more, the pot began to bubble. Steam billowed from its unevenly-molded brim. He released his hands, and leaned back, allowing the natural heat to take over. The grip at his shoulders remained firm. He laid his right hand over hers.

"Don't worry," he reassured her. "I didn't mean to make you feel bad," he said with an apologetic inflection. "I just... I'm not used to..." His words trailed, unable to come up with how to express his thoughts. "I'm... hungry." He admitted.

Her hands finally slid away. She spotted a ladle resting on the shelf above the hearth. Standing, she took a half-step back to retrieve one of the bowls, and a half-step forward to reach up and retrieve it.

The ladle dipped into the pot.

She felt the thick resistance of the cereal, followed by the abrupt pull as the ladle was filled and swallowed by the meal. She pulled it back up, carefully so as not to spill. With a sense of grace, she slipped the bowl beneath the ladle and poured the contents in, shaking the bowl gently to even it out.

She huffed as the heat of the meal began to permeate through the thin clay.

He noticed her distress. "Here, give it to me," he instructed, and she handed it off. "Ah-ah-aaaaah!" He shrieked; but then burst into laughter when her eyes went wide and she dropped the ladle into the pot. Had it not had a hooked end to its handle to catch it upon the brim, it would have fallen flat-in.

She gave him the most contemptuous expression he had ever seen. He quickly stifled his laughter, and fought for control of his breathing. "I'm... I'm sorry, okay? I'm really sorry, I just..." He snorted. "I couldn't resist. It doesn't hurt at all! You saw me stick my hand in the fire yesterday, remember?"

She dropped her glare, and rested half of her face within her palm, shaking it with frustration. But then her lips curled up in a smile and she began to silently giggle.

He set the bowl upon the center table. "I won't do anything like that again, I promise." He said, and stepped up to her. He took her hand, and rested her palm upon his heart, his expression suddenly very sincere. "Never," he clarified.

She smiled, and sneaked her hand about his free. She matched the gesture, placing his palm to her breast. Her entire body tingled when he instinctively cupped her and gently squeezed, as he had done after she had woken up.

But too quickly he let go. "I-it's g--getting cold," he stammered, retrieving the other bowl. Sloppily, he pulled the ladle up, and, dripping bits of meal upon the iron below, and into the fire where it hissed, managed to get most of it in the bowl.

"Spoons," he muttered, his bowl clacking upon the stone. He went to the cupboards, and uncovered the lid of a small box. He plucked two utensils from it, not bothering to close the box back up. Carrying them back to her, he proffered the one his left hand. "This is the best one, I made it myself."

It was exchanged into her hands. The spoon was made of a large rib-bone, with the broad end having a thumb-sized depression in it. The bowl of the spoon had no chisel-markings or scratches--only a seamless curve, as if it had been molded from clay.

She looked to him. He was watching her, as if awaiting approval. She pointed at his other hand. He looked at it quizzically, lifting it up. She saw that he had gotten a wooden spoon for himself. Her left eye flitted to the spoon in her fingers.

"What?" He questioned, when she held up her palm. He glanced down at his hand when she pointed. "This spoon?" A nod, and a flick of her fingers. "You want this spoon?" Another nod. He shook his head. "No way. This one'll probably give you splinters. You have the best spoon I've got."

She exhaled, and looked to her meal. Turning toward it, she brought the bowl closer to her, and dipped the spoon in. Lifting up, she leaned over the bowl, and began blowing on the spoonful, and touching her tongue to it, to gauge the heat. After a few moments, she slipped the spoon into her lips, and let the cereal rest on her tongue.

He watched as she winced, and then grimaced. Her whole body shook in what could only have been revulsion as she straightened up and breathed in loudly through her nose, swallowing quickly.

She calmed down from it all, and looked over to him. She could see right through the look on his face; the way his eyes looked dejectedly at her meal. She caught his attention by resting her hand on his shoulder, and dipped her nose down, closing her eyes.

"It's fine, I know it tastes awful," he admitted, and stirred his own meal. He lifted it up, popped it into his mouth, and grimaced himself before swallowing. "I'm...not good at cooking." He hovered another spoonful above the bowl. "I would offer you something else, but... Unless you have more meat, this is all I have."

The hand slipped away, and he ate another morsel. He had gotten used to the taste of his own terrible cooking already, so this time he did not put on the show for her. When he glanced back over, she was poised to slip the spoon into her muzzle again.

She did so, and this time only grimaced for a few heartbeats. That was all she did, before swallowing it.

"Really, it's fine. I don't care," he insisted, swallowing another bite. "I'm guessing you eat a lot better than this... But, it's all I have." He lifted his bowl, and began shoveling the meal into his mouth, for the heat of it did not actually bother him.

In silence they swallowed their meals. Over time, her reactions became less and less vulgar, until the only response she displayed was hesitation before the bite, and a slight quiver of her jaw after swallowing.

He went back to the pot, retrieving another serving. When he turned, he saw that she was holding her bowl out, as well. It was still partly full, a thin layer of meal coating the bottom. He stirred the pot, which had gone back down to a simmer, and ladled her a small portion.

When she did not move, he gave her another. And yet still, she did not move. Sighing, he filled her bowl nearly to the brim, and only then did she incline her nose in thanks and turn back to the table.

It had cooled to the point where she could bear the heat of the bowl on her palms. In fact, it had cooled enough that she did not have to wait at all for the small dollop on the spoon. She set the spoon upon the table, and lifted the bowl, opening her maw.

He watched, out of the corner of his eye, as the meal began sliding into her open mouth like wet sand.

As more and more meal went straight down to her stomach, she tipped the bowl up and leaned slightly back. She finally set the bowl down, with only small clumps of meal clinging to the clay. Some had clung to her whiskers, and dribbled down her chin.

She glanced to him, noticing he had paused. Then, feeling a rumbling, she quickly covered her mouth as her cheeks puffed out and the rumble escaped her lips. Blushing, she glanced to him, and started to lower her hands, when another report quickly made its way up.

He picked up his pace again, his spoon making the clay ring gently as he scraped the bits of dried meal. Setting his bowl down, he looked to her. "Was it filling, at least?" He asked.

She smiled, and rested her hand on her stomach. She rubbed it, and patted it.

He sighed, squatting down to be level with the boulder, and rested his chin on his folded arms. "That's good, at least." His tone was dampened.

She was quick to respond to his sudden change in posture. She rested her hand on his shoulder, and after a bit of coaxing got him to stand back up. She pointed his dim expression to hers, concerned, and rested her fingers on his scalp. She then took those fingers and touched her ear, pressing it back, opening it up, and turned it to him.

He sighed, once again. "I just... wish your voice was back." He said. "I know you can talk," he declared, removing her touches from him. "I heard you. But not since." He gazed away once again. "I can't help thinking... Is it... my fault? I mean... I--unf"

He took a step back as her hand slapped against his chest. The hit was not hard at all, but his heart did skip a beat. Then, his shoulders were seized, and his chest was bumped again. Her ears tickled his neck, her whiskers tickling near his armpits.

He braced against her weight, forced to wrap his arms about her. As the moments ticked on, and the fire began to die, he tried to keep her shoulders from quivering, and felt the warm, wet tears dampen the fur over his sternum.

"Hey, hey," he eased, trying to lift her away. He was released, and she stood up, her hands clasped over her clavicle. He felt guilty, watching the pearled tears bead and break down her cheeks, shimmering with her iris' green hue. "I didn't mean it like that... It's not your fault, you--"

"Nay-em."

It was said with great distortion, more akin to the croak of wood being lashed together, than a girl's voice.

His lips fell ajar. A tear managed to find its way out of his own eye. "Y--you can talk?" He questioned, in a whisper.

Her gaze went half-lidded, and she demonstrated her efforts. It was still grotesque to the ears; only slightly better than before.

"S--stop, please," he begged, "Don't talk."

She closed her muzzle.

"I--I mean..." He growled at himself. "I don't want you to talk... if it's too difficult." He emitted a wincing noise. "I mean, I want you to talk... I just..."

She reached up and held his cheeks, nodding her head. Then, releasing his face, she pointed to his sternum, gazing at him expectantly.

"What?" He questioned.

She smiled. She lifted her chin, and scratched at her throat, and then gently pinched and wiggled one of his large ears.

He sighed. "This... this is why..." He gritted his teeth. "I'm sorry, it's just... getting harder and harder to understand what you mean."

She nodded again, and gave up her efforts.

"Wait..." He looked to the dying fire. "What you said... nay-em... name?"

She gasped, and beamed. She pressed his nose, and then pointed to his sternum again.

"Name... My name?" He questioned. "You... want to know my name?"

She hugged him tightly.

"Whoa, whoa, relax," he chuckled, returning the embrace gently. He was let go, and she folded her arms, her browse raising as she tilted an ear toward him. "My name..." he muttered again, a little nervously at her attentiveness. "It's... My name's... um... Branton," he told her.

Her lips parted just a little, her ear twitching as he said it, as if physically tickled by the sound. Then, she smiled. "Bray...ahn...tehn..." She tried to repeat, but the syllables creaked and scratched in her throat. Her shoulder was seized, and squeezed gently.

"Please, don't," he winced. "I... I just can't stand it," he admitted. "I'm sorry... it's not your fault."

She nodded. Her shoulder was released, and she followed him with her eyes as he made his way to the hearth. She watched as he squatted, and without hesitation stuck his hand into the fire. A flutter of instinctual panic shot through her, but she quelled it, recalling when he had done the same thing earlier.

Had she not seen what he had done with his powers, she would have taken the sudden dissipation of the fire as a pub trick. But when his hand receded from the now-silent hearth, a plume of smoke still rising from his fingertips like steam, she knew he had taken the fire as one might wash their hands in water.

"I can't wait..." He began, standing up. "I can't wait 'till you can tell me your name, in your real voice." He said.

She seized his hand, and with a minor protest from him, began tugging him down the pathway to the entrance of his home within the cliffs. When they arrived, she ignored the ladder resting along the wall, and leapt from purchase to purchase until she was scrambling up the lip of the hole that served as his home's entrance.

He took the time to set the ladder, for he knew this particular spot was dangerous to get back down from. Climbing it, he joined her, his head popping out into the open.

The desert night always smelled fresh. He gazed toward the moon, and saw that it was still near the eastern sky. They must have awoken just as the sun had set. A tap upon his shoulder distracted him, and he looked to her.

She pointed.

In the distance, its image no longer disturbed by the waves of heat that made it shiver and dance, the dark monolith of the city shot up from the moon-lit sand like a spire from a vast, frozen sea.

"You want to go back to the city?" He questioned.

She nodded.

"Okay." He started to hoist himself up, ready to go right away, but she held him.

She coaxed him back to her height. She made a gesture of wrapping something about her; and then held out one palm while she pinched her other fingers in it, and opened her fingers, and repeated the gesture a few times. Finally, she pointed back down to the tunnel.

Nodding, he set his heels back down upon the natural flange below the lip. "You're right," he responded. "But... you had the togas last, and I have no idea where they are. I'll wait here, unless you need me to help you through the tunnels."

She shook her head, and started receding down the ladder. When she was at the bottom, she looked up at him, waving, and dashed off back into the tunnels.

Once her tail had disappeared, lagging behind her, he turned back to face the outside. The cool desert winds drifted by, sending a shiver down his spine. He wasn't looking forward to going back; not so soon.

But as the wind calmed and then picked up for the third time, he began to reflect on the moment he'd heard her speak. He tried to imagine her normal voice, but it was impossible. Even her screams and shouts were replaced with the terrible strain she now had in his memory.

His stomach tightened. What if it hurt her to talk? What if it had hurt her to scream for help? Begrudgingly, he recognized that his imagination and speculation were running wild, influenced by worry and curiosity. But he felt that she was trying to tell him that something important lay in the city; important enough that it warranted haste.

His reflections were disturbed when he felt the ladder quiver. He glanced back to see her already a few rungs into the climb. "I'll head down first," he offered, lifting up to get his legs over the hurdle. "You can toss them to me and climb down more easily."

She nodded.

The climb down was actually a bit misleading. While the climb up could be made nearly straight, to get back to the ground without needless risk required double-backing. He made his way left, deftly reaching for and alighting upon the hand and footholds that were naturally sculpted into the cliff's face.

After several minutes, his feet touched the sand. During the day, it was scorching and malignant to anyone who did not have something to protect their feet. But at night, it was as cool as shaded stone.

He walked to a spot where she could easily throw the garments, holding up his hands in show of readiness. He could just barely see her, white coat barely standing out against the shadows. A moment passed, and then another. He clapped his hands.

Suddenly, as if that was the magic gesture, a tightly coiled ball of fabric drifted upward into the air, before dropping toward the earth. He had to dash further out than he expected, and just barely managed to catch it.

He unbundled the tightly coiled cloths. It took him some time to separate the two white pieces of fabric. To her credit, the tangled puzzle did keep the togas from unfurling on the way down. Once he was almost to the end of unraveling them, the final few twists gave way readily, and a sound hit his ear.

At his feet, the dark-blue purse lay squat on the sand, its neck tilted down like a drunkard who indulged too much.

Silently, an arm that was white on one side and blotched on the other, set proffered in his vision. He looked to her, and then offered one of the togas--he had no idea which was the one she had worn earlier.

She took the toga and wrapped it about her body, letting out a sigh that was almost disappointed in its manner. When she had all but the sash done, she squatted down and picked up the purse.

Modest, and with purse secured, they looked toward the city. A gust of wind picked up, skirting along the cliffs. The night was getting cooler, and their time for a comfortable travel was trickling.

She grabbed his hand, and started their run.

* * *

They approached the city's walls.

She, a few moments faster, waited for him, bracing herself against the stone perimeter and breathing heavily. She had caught her breath when he arrived, and smiled, patting the wall beside her as a place for him to rest.

He leaned against it, heaving. His face had gone flush red, and the sweat that touched the cut at his throat stung. He used his toga in attempt to dry the fur, but only managed to smear it about.

After he had regained his breath as well, she beckoned him to one of the ventilation holes. He stepped behind her, and caught her attention. He reached and tugged her ear, and then tugged his own, giving her a smile.

She smiled back, and stepped aside, motioning for him to take her place.

He neared the hole, and crouched down. Tilting his head, he rested his right ear against the ground just slightly. He raised his hand, hearing footsteps in the distance. He waited until they receded, and still a moment more to listen for breathing.

Hearing nothing more, he stood, and stepped away, acquiescing to her.

She stepped up, and peeked about the edge. Her eye flitted about, able to see nigh as well as if it were day, with the moon high in the sky. She spotted no one, and so, quickly dashed in, securing the purse with a hand to keep the coins inside from jingling.

He followed. Her footsteps were as silent as her voice; comparatively, his sounded like a heavy drum.

They spent a good while dashing and flighting between alleyways and buildings. For kids, it was almost a past-time to sneak about the city at night. Even if caught, it put the guards in a dilemma: to hold a child too young was often disdained by the citizens, but if the child did not cooperate then what else were they at liberty to do that would not draw ill attention?

But, quickly, they were heading to a district where guards could not be bothered to patrol within. They spent less time darting and more time casually walking. There came a time when, in their leisurely stride, she reached for his hand.

They walked, hand-in-hand, down the nearly-empty streets. Few were present to witness the young strollers. The few who did were too inebriated to have any chance of remembering the next morning.

Soon, her pace hastened.

He followed, tugged gently as she picked up more and more speed, traveling down a street with particularly worn-down houses. They slowed, and came upon a stocky house beside an empty and dilapidated stable.

A water-well jutted out from the ground in the middle of the street, its walls crumbling and the top beam lashed together by rope where it had already broken.

As they approached the house, a small black blob scurried past, headed for the stable. He noticed that a look of worry came upon her face, as she stepped up to the door.

She rapped upon it with the meat of her fist several times, and then went quiet.

He waited, listening. He felt a perturbing twinge come across him, and quickly gazed about. But when no other disturbances came to his eyes or ears, he relaxed, just a little.

Then, there came a clatter from inside.

She took on a deeper look of concern, biting her lip.

"Who's there!?" The voice was elderly, but spry and vivacious yet.

He watched, and heard, as she quickly began to knock. Her hand was deliberate both in placement, and rhythm. As if in a secret code, she rapped out a pattern upon the door; not one that was too intricate, but one that he could not exactly follow.

Three heartbeats after she had finished, the door creaked open just a sliver.

"Erin?" The old voice called, now sounding a mix of relief and concern.

He watched as she reached in through the sliver, forcing it open just enough for it to allow her hand passage. A moment later, she turned to him and beckoned him to follow as she took the handle of the door.

"I'm so glad you're back!"

He stepped into the home, and was hit with a very curious odor. It was not unpleasant, but not pleasant either. The house was completely dark, and he was not able to see but the sharp glow of... Erin's... eyes.

He was only forced to stand awkwardly in the dark for a moment. A spark lit, and a meager flame glowed. The light was pitiful at best, but then a few more were lit and the room was dimly illuminated.

"Why the lights, dear? You've never..."

He saw the old hare.

She was propped up by a gnarled cane held in her left hand. She was hunched, practically falling over were it not for the cane. Her gray fur matched her age fittingly, and a great deal of her hide drooped as the skin beneath sagged from her bones. Her eyes were closed, the wrinkled skin of her lids almost crusted over.

She made a show of sniffing the air, her nostrils flaring with each wheezy whiff. "What is that... foul stench?" She questioned, facing toward him.

The mouse's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Me?" He questioned.

"You... smell..." She sniffed once more. "Like... coal... and brimstone." Her cane tapped the floor, as if to ward off any difference of opinion.

The feline clasped upon the hand the old woman used to grip her cane.

"I see..." The old hare said, though he guessed that she was actually sightless, given her eyes were crusted shut. "You. Stench. You accompanied her here?"

Just to prove himself, he nodded.

"I can't see nods, Stench. Stop being an ass to an old woman, and answer her kindly."

"Yes." He replied, though his tone was not exactly as she had instructed him.

"That's yes ma'am. And if you want to stay in my house, you'll help clean the cellar of rats. Understood?"

He wrinkled his nose. But, the feline approached him, holding her hands together, her face pleading him. He took in a breath. "Fine. I'll be glad to stench up the basement."

The old woman cracked a smile. "I'd rather your stench over the rats'," she replied, lifting her cane and beginning to hobble.

The calico winced at his comment, but relaxed at the caretaker's response. Giving him an admonishing glare, she went to retrieve one of the candles. Handing it to him, she beckoned him to follow.

He was led to a short, cramped hallway recessed in the back of the room. They had to duck slightly, for the ceiling was low. There was a small, simple hatch set into the floor.

She opened it, and began descending down. When she reached the bottom, which took no time at all, she raised her hand, flicking it toward the candle.

He handed it off, and she held it up so he could see the way down. The ladder was only five rungs, and really if he wanted he could probably just drop down, and jump to hoist himself back out.

But, listening to the old hare's cane thump about somewhere behind him, he opted to take the ladder to avoid any hostility. Not because he cared, but because it seemed Erin did; and he was keen to not have her feel any more distress than he had already given her.

When his feet touched the ground, he found it to be very old and crumbling sand-block. There was a thin layer of dampness all about, and the off-putting smell was much stronger. Amidst the candlelight, motes of dust and fibers of cobwebs drifted about as he stepped cautiously away from the ladder.

There came a chatter, and a scratching. The black vermin scuttled about in a panic, shrieking in fright as if fully aware of the intention of their presence.

She was so fast that he barely saw the lashing of her hand as she caught the rat right in its tracks. She walked to an urn by a table in the middle of the room, and dropped the rat in. She squatted, lifting the urn in her hands, and waddled with it toward him.

Hefting it gently, he took it from her, easily managing to wrap it within one arm. He watched as she skulked about the room in a squat, and very soon another shriek--but this time, it was already in her grasp.

He shook the urn to discourage the rat inside from nearing the neck, and opened the lid just enough for her to slip the freshly captured rat in.

It tried to escape, bending its body as soon as it was shoved, but that only served to make its entry even more turbulent as the lid was closed on its tail. It squealed, pleading for mercy, and when it was given, it consigned to its fate.

And so he followed her about, bearing the urn. He fought the urge to chuckle and snicker as he watched her slink about, her tail swishing hither-thither almost in delight. For certain, she was more agile and lithe than he, and in a clear way he was thankful he was not one of his primitive kind.

While he idly kept the lid secure and lamely followed the huntress, he became very acquainted with the cellar.

Starting at the ladder recessed into the lower-right corner of the room, just a few feet ahead and against the wall to the right, was one half of a corner-housed workstation. The long counter, against aforementioned wall, was in a great disarray. Littered about were empty and half-filled vials, as well as several small knives, needles, and other such fine instruments. Underneath the counter was a shelf structure that beheld a few kinds of scales and other measurers on the high, and various tomes and lightly-bound scrolls underneath.

On the far side of the workstation, where the shorter portion turned the corner, there was an inkwell, several plumes resting in a clay cup, and sheafs of blank papyrus; and a stool tucked into the leg-space.

Further counter-clockwise, along the back wall, was a range-pit and griddle. Such a range was suitable for heating and simmering, but not practical for most applications of cooking. Around the range were urns, pots, ramekins, and other utensils.

In the opposite corner to the ladder, there was a meager and unkempt bed of straw. The linens were bunched upon it, and a worn cloth sack served as a makeshift pillow. The wall above the bed was recessed, giving the impression of a natural shelf, on which a candle could be placed.

Half of the bed was cozily tucked away behind a wooden cask-rack, upon which five casks were nestled in two layers; the top-middle space unoccupied. Each cask was fitted with a small brass tap.

The rest of that wall was taken up by a gathering of sacks; bundles of hemp, reed, and twine; and boards of lumber.

The center of the room was fairly spartan, with only a small table situated between two support-beams. About the support-beams were a few more sacks and urns.

But, by far the most intriguing furnishing in the room was to the left of the ladder. From floor to ceiling, the wall was of shelves. Upon the shelves were flasks, tubes, jars, urns, ramekins, pots, and ampules; dozens visible to the eye, and perhaps many more tucked behind those. Some of them were empty, with a thick layer of dust or grime on them. The others contained powder, liquid, grain, clump of something fleshy or half-rotten, or withered plant in old soil.

As the minutes ticked by, the weight of the urn began to take its toll on his stamina, and he had lost count of how many rats they had sealed within it. It seemed like there was no end.

"How many rats could there be?" He huffed.

She straightened up, and spread her arms wide. This turned into a stretch, for she had been poised and skulking for some time.

"Do you... do this every day?"

She nodded, and pointed to several things about the room. She made a motion like scratching, and went to one of the sacks on the ground by the nearest beam. She looked it over for a moment, and showed him a spot where the sack had been previously chewed, the hole patched up with a swatch of different cloth.

"How do you get rid of them?" He questioned.

She took in a breath, and beckoned him to follow. She climbed back up the ladder, and knelt at the opening to the base level, extending her arms down. The urn of rats was exchanged, and she helped him up, keeping him from hitting his head on the low ceiling.

"Done already?" Called the old voice. "Or were there too many for one trip? It's been a couple of days!"

"I'll be glad to make it a couple more, if you really want," he half-threatened, squatting down to lift the urn. He was given a cautioning glance from across the lid, and with a wry grin she lifted it up enough so that a tiny, gnarled limb escaped and began thrashing about.

With her pressing down on the lid and guiding him, she opened the door and aided the burden of leveling the urn during the change from home to sand-brick road.

He huffed, carrying the brunt of the weight down the road, following her lead. While he could not directly see where they were headed, he could soon make a very accurate guess.

The smell was putrid. A broth for flies and maggots; the city did what it could to alleviate the smells. The flow of underground springs was sometimes not enough to work through the stench.

Making their way to the edge of the cloaca, she helped him lower the urn to the ground. Above the gentle hiss of the aqueducts, they tipped the urn to lay upon its belly, and she undid the lid.

All too eager to escape their prison, each one unwittingly and stupidly plunging themselves into the cloaca below, their little black bodies giving a far too relevant appearance for the setting.

Together, they shook the urn upside-down to ensure no straggler clung in attempt to elude its fate, and then made their way back to the house.

The door creaked as they entered. "Welcome back," the old hare greeted, her voice coming from a chair in the fringes of the candlelight. "I think you've cleared enough rats to avoid being pestered while you sleep."

The girl guided the boy to set the urn down against the wall, disturbing a few cobwebs.

"Erin." The hare called.

The girl's ears flicked, and she stood up.

"Come here, sweetie."

She walked, her feet barely making a sound.

The boy remained still as he watched the feline approach the hare. The hare reached out, and the feline touched the outstretched hand. The hare's hand then went up over the sleeve of the toga, over her shoulder, across her clavicle, and rested upon her now-exposed throat as the girl lifted her chin.

The old hare sighed. "I'm so sorry this happens to you." She said with sympathy. Her hand retracted back to her lap. "You remember the formula, yes?"

The girl gave a nod.

For a few seconds, the room was silent and dim.

"Stench, I know you're there."

"You want me to leave?" He said with a bit of a snarl. "Tired of me stinking up the place?"

"No." The old hare replied. "I am blind, and Erin cannot speak. If you have the heart to bring her home to me, then perhaps you'll have the heart to be her voice for me, as well?"

"She said 'yes,'" he acquiesced.

"Good." The hare rested back, the back of her chair crackling with stress. "Unfortunately, I do not have the key ingredient, nor do I think we have the money to purchase it."

The girl clapped her hands loudly.

The hare's blind gaze lifted, the noise catching her attention. She heard the rustling of fabrics, and then there came a tinkling of metal, snugly bound within high-quality cloth, tied at the end. The half of the hare's face that could barely be seen in the candlelight suddenly went taught--where it could. "Erin," she said, with a stone-cold tone. "I do not lend my home to thieves. If you or that Stench--"

"Not stolen," the boy interrupted. "Found."

The hare's lips closed with thought. Finally, she voiced them. "I will allow its use for now." She declared. "But, I expect for you to explain the moment you are able." The hare let out a cough.

The boy noticed that the girl visibly tensed at the coughing.

"Don't worry, sweetie." The old woman reassured. "I just need a sip of water. It's still several hours until morning. The Midnight Market should still be open; I'm sure they will have what you need, there." She reached for her cane, and tapped it upon the floor. "Go get ready, I need to have a talk with the boy." She tapped her charge's ankles gently with her cane.

The feline glanced back to her companion, holding her hand up as if to insist that he stay. She took the purse of coins with her, swiftly darting down into the cellar.

"Stench," the hare began, taking a sip from a flask. "You will go with her to get the ingredient she needs. The night is dangerous for an innocent young flower. And, I..." She took in a breath. "I can't bear the thought of her missing from me again." She stood, hunched over, and turned to the boy. "Please, Stench?"

He sighed. "I would have gone without the guilt-trip, hag." He countered.

The old hare smiled. "Perhaps you're not so foul, after all." She rapped her cane upon the floor in a definitive manner. "Go. My old eyes will probably fall asleep. Erin knows what to do." She turned about, heading toward an open passageway, presumably to her room.

There came a ruckus as the girl scurried back up from the cellar. The golden flakes with her jade eyes appeared to glint like the quartz crystals from the boy's cliff-face dwelling. She paused near him, waiting expectantly.

"Ready?" He questioned.

She patted the purse where it was securely tied by her sash behind the counter-fold of her toga.

He offered his hand. "Then let's go."

With that, the girl seized the boy's hand, and they set out back into the night.

They were headed back from whence they very first came, though very quickly they veered into an alley that took them toward the market district. Guided by the moonlight, and occasionally a torch by a guard-post, they scurried through the quiet town.

As they neared the market district, there were more people on the streets. Most did not do business; night workers and cleanswomen, collecting urine from the corner waste-pots and setting up the market for the hundreds of people that would do commerce with the rise of the sun.

The young skulkers kept to the shadows, skirting about the brim of the open plaza. Their most vulnerable moment was the need to cross the wide street that fed into the plaza from one district to another.

From this street, the boy could see the spot where he had squatted before hearing the marching band.

They threaded their way through the alleys, now heading slightly away, but still in the same direction. Then, abruptly, the girl stopped.

She blinked, looking about, and then, still holding the boy's hand, very carefully crept up to a stone wall that had a passage into an enclosing. The passage was cut into the stone, giving the entrance a sense of an archway, albeit square. To the left of the entrance, there was a distinctive stain upon the stone face, that bore the semblance of a crescent moon.

She felt a squeeze of her hand, and glanced to her companion.

He nodded his head toward the entrance.

She affirmed, nodding her head.

He looked about, and backed up into an alleyway, guiding her out of sight. He was given a quizzical look. "I just... need to be sure of something," he explained. He took in a breath, and rested his hand upon where the purse was.

"The money... It came from... that place. Didn't it?"

Her eyelids concealed her eyes halfway. She inclined her muzzle once, in solemn confirmation.

"We both know... what cost it really paid for. This... is worth it, right? It's not vain?"

She opened her lips and then closed them, working through her own doubt; true consideration of his words. He made no assertion, nor was he likely trying to dissuade or even test her. But it did make her consider her own heart, and tidy her morals. Maybe he was questioning it as a gesture to her, to make sure she was either fully resolved and would not falter, or to give her a chance to reconsider and avoid future regrets.

As she worked toward her resolution, he gently took her left hand, which had balled into a nervous fist. He did not really notice his own actions. As if possessed and numb, he found his own left hand pressing to her back, squeezing her gently in an embrace. The purse between them was gently disturbed, the metal within scraping together.

While his words instilled dubiousness within her, his actions instilled confidence. When the embrace receded, she turned the grip of their hands, and gently tugged.

They crossed the street back to the entrance of the Midnight Market, as the old woman had called it. Standing just before the threshold, still huddled behind the wall, she turned to him. She let go of his hand, and pressed her palm to him, pointing at his feet.

When she took in a calming breath, and began to walk to the threshold, he started to follow her. But she whipped round, predicting his actions, and pointed her finger at him again, wagging it as if instructing an animal.

He crossed his arms, lowering one eyebrow, but pressed his back against the wall. His shoulder was lightly touched, before she righted herself and made to walk past the threshold as if she had just arrived. Not content to sit idly, he looked about, and saw that the area was fairly quiet. He spotted a bit of scaffolding a few yards away, jutting from the corner of the enclosing. It was meant for a lantern, but went unused.

A perfect perch.

He swiftly made for it, climbing it as if it were a ladder, though it was a bit unsteady. Crawling across the top beam, he slithered upon the stone wall's brim, and gazed into the enclosing. Before him was a corner-set pavilion from which light spilled forth upon the ground. He spotted her, trotting up to the pavilion, and backed away just a little, to remain unseen.

She approached the pavilion. It was lit by a lantern, dangling from the corner, beneath the drooping cloth that served as the roof. The counter to the market was a head taller than she, and likely imposing to even an adult. Upon it was a bell, for it was unmanned at the moment.

She could not even reach the bell, for she could not hold herself up by the one hand and it was just inches from her finger-tips when raised upon her tip-toes. Thumping back down on her heels, she rapped her knuckles upon the side as loudly as she could.

A moment passed. Then another. She gritted her teeth, and rapped again, this time louder. Her knuckles began to smart and sting.

"Comin', comin'. Keep ya' girdle on."

The figure appeared in shadow at first, and then was bathed in the light of the lantern. He reached up, opening the vent and allowing the light to grow further. "'Lo?" He questioned.

She knocked again, and stepped back.

His form leaned over the counter, and she saw how massive of a bear he was. The span of his hand alone could hold two ripened apples. His fur had a sheen of sebum, his last bath likely forgotten in the annals of history. His neck was nearly as wide as her own head, whiskers included.

His chuckle rumbled in the air. "This no place to find a ball o'yarn to play with, kitten." He leaned over the counter, and his keen eyes looked about. But he saw nothing. "Or maybe ya' lookin' to find a bit o' somethin' to draw a man's eye?" He chuckled, and looked up as if reconsidering his words. "Nah... ya' don' need nothin' o' that. Turn it away, then..." He rested upon his elbows. "Well? Ya' got business 'er ya' gonna bide my time?"

He watched as she reached into the fold of her toga, catching a glimpse of her white-furred sternum. His ears heard the gentle chatter of coin, and the eager talk of its desire to exchange hands made him smile.

She unraveled the draw of the purse just enough to wriggle her fingers in. She plucked from it a small, rolled-up piece of papyrus, that had crinkled since the trip had started. She proffered it to the shopkeeper.

He took the three-inch wide scroll, carefully and respectfully, and set it upon his counter.

She watched as he unrolled it, and studied it.

His brown eyes roved over the scroll, and then a smile cracked his lips, showing his yellow teeth. "Gettin' clearer." He muttered, and handed the scroll back. "Moment."

She retrieved the scroll and bundled it up once more, slipping it back into the purse. She waited as he disappeared back into the shadow. Then, from within a doorway at the back of the pavilion, a shaft of light burst forth. There came a few noises, as he searched for her request. A moment later, the light was snubbed, and he was heard before seen, appearing once more at the counter.

He set a wrap upon the counter-top, unraveling it. He plucked one of the items, and held it up, displaying it high enough above her that she could not reach it, as if it were a morsel he taunted her with. "This what'ch'yerr after'?"

He held it by the middle of its long stem. Its dried body a pale, pale-green, almost white, in the amber lantern glow. The thick bulb at the end of the stem had a slight pink hue.

She rose up on her tip-toes, examining the specimen. He generously turned it between his fingers, and then she nodded, setting back down on her heels.

"Only sell 'em half-a dozen o'ta time," he informed her. "I wonder... How much ya' think that's worth?"

She wriggled her fingers back into her purse, the coins within tinkling as her fingertips felt them to sort them out. She flicked them into the cupped palm of her hand one by one, and pulled her fingers free. Turning her hand up, she took a step back, and laid out her palm, displaying the coins, sorting them flat with her thumb.

Six silver coins, he counted. He chuckled, and then began to outright laugh, though he quelled it rather quickly. "Ya' gott'a fine sense o' humor, kid." He replied, setting the dried plant back with the others. "Even if that were, I can't'a be sellin' it to ya'. F'er all I know, ya' just gonna think all it takes is swallow'n it whole, an' then I gott'a kid's blood on my spirit."

She closed her palm, and dipped her hand back into the purse. The coins whined as they were dropped back into their nest, and another tinkling sounded. She pulled something larger from the purse, holding it up with her thumb upon the bottom edge and her fore- and middle-fingers balancing the top.

He examined the emblem, squinting his eye. He noted the artisan-work of the engraving, the signature markings of the guild which the emblem represented. The emerald flecks set within the snake as it twisted and curled about the staff twinkled and glittered as she kept an imperfect and unsteady angle. After a moment, she turned it about. He saw the circle, inset the square, inset the triangle, with the emblem's circumference serving as the circle within which the triangle was inset.

"Hmm..." He muttered, touching his fingers to either side of his massive chin. "Still. Gonna have to try again: how much they worth?"

She reached back into the purse, and dropped the emblem back in. She cupped all the coins, and pulled them out. She displayed her value once more, this time with a copper coin added to the six silver.

He chuckled. "Not playin' no games, little girl. Show me what'ch'ya really got."

She dropped the coins back in, and wrinkled her nose. She drew the string of her purse, and turned about, motioning to walk away.

"H--hey, wait."

She smiled.

"Listen... maybe what I'm sayin' is a bit muffled. How much ya' offered again?"

She slid back into a neutral expression before turning about again. Slowly, she loosened the draw of the purse, and dipped her fingers in once more.

He was ready to accept the offer, when he thought better to look at her hand before saying a word. He was glad he did. "'Ey, now. Ya'd six silver 'fore. Ya' forgot one."

She sighed, and clamped her hand shut.

"I mean..." He said, raising his hand. "I guess... it'd make me look bad leavin' a kid with nothin' a'buy food." He extended his hand. "Deal." He stated.

She smiled with glee, deciding that if she could not resist the inclination to show her smugness that she had managed to swindle a bargain, she would disguise it as innocent and overbearing gratitude.

The coins were handed off, and she curled her fingers about the wrapping, peeling the top apart to count the half-dozen bulbs and get a cursory measure of their quality. They were neither the best, nor the worst, and likely the one he showed her was the highest quality of them all. But for her purpose, they would get the job done.

Looking up at him, she inclined her head, and slipped the wrapping into her toga, along with her purse. She backed away, waving, before turning about. She tried not to walk too excitedly; she had learned that every moment was an impression in the marketplace, and so she had to be deliberate. Should she need to return, the haggle would be very different, and if she showed too much of herself it could be taken advantage of.

"A thought."

She gasped, the hand resting on her shoulder. She glanced back. His massive frame, stout but wide, nearly swallowed her in its shadow. His palm covered her shoulder completely, and she felt the pressure of his grip slowly increase.

"I noticed ya' didn't'a say a word the whole time. I'm thinkin'... I left ya' with some coin, but I still think what I gave ya' was worth more." He grinned, licking his lips. "I'm also thinkin'... if ya can't'a talk..." He delighted as she winced, his fingers bearing down upon the pressure-point in her shoulder. "Can ya' scream, neither?"

"Bet you can!"

The bear's eyes flashed as he suddenly felt a slight pressure about his calves. Then, all of a sudden, his muzzle fell open, giving in to the sudden, searing pain that began to sting his legs. He let go of the girl, and the earth almost trembled from his weight as he collapsed to his knees.

"C'mon!"

The bear growled, spotting the figure from which the voice came, barely seeing the sand-colored fur and broad ears. He tried to catch the boy's body or toga, but the pain impeded his judgment.

The boy ran with the girl, not at all recalling how they had come; just to get away. But over time, she took the lead, and guided them back home. Their path was less obtuse, even crossing streets and turning a few eyes to them in curiosity.

The boy began to recognize the street he was on, spotting the well in the distance. They slowed, gasping and heaving, holding each other as they made their way home on legs laden with lactic-acid, and weary yet from their previous run.

Inside, it was dark. He was guided, though he had some sense of where he was, to the entrance to the cellar. Remembering to duck, he followed her down the ladder.

There was a scurrying sound; a rat, most likely, that had found its way back in. He waited at the ladder, spotting a gentle glow on the opposite wall. When she lit a candle, and he followed it to her, she set it down upon the table in the center of the room.

The extra coins she had taken from the purse were organized in neat stacks. She took the purse from her toga, and set it down beside them.

He began placing them back in, and took the opportunity to examine the two things he had noticed her pull from the purse.

The first was the emblem. He traced over the engravings, the snake about the staff and the inset shapes. The shapes were akin to the symbols he had used in his home, but the intricacy of the snake and staff were like nothing he had ever seen.

Second, he pulled out the scroll. He unraveled it, and set it upon the table, gazing over it. While he had examined the emblem, she had unwrapped the items she had bought. The picture that had been drawn in heavy ink upon the scroll looked strikingly realistic to the real things, which she had carried.

He heard a sound, like a soft thump. Looking up, he noticed that the toga she had worn was conspicuously missing, the blotted pattern of her fur showing on her shoulders.

She lifted the candle, touched the scroll, and beckoned him to follow.

He retrieved the scroll, the papyrus crackling stiffly, and walked with her to the workstation. She took out a tome from the low shelf, and set it upon the counter-top, opening it. Inside were several other similar depictions, of plants and symbols, on scrolls of several sizes. He placed the scroll he had carried on top, and she rebound the tome with a smile.

Leaning to retrieve a small knife, and then stepping over to retrieve another small instrument, she pointed to the candle and then to the table from whence they had come.

He lifted the candle, and led the way. Back at the table, he set the candle down and reached for one of the stems. Glancing to her, she nodded, and he took one. He touched it with both hands, noting how dry and smooth it was, especially at the bulb.

She took one, and used the knife to cut the bulb from the stem, right at the neck.

"Why not just..." He said, and with a twist and a crack he tore the bulb from the stem of his own specimen. When he looked to her, she had a grimace on her face. He bit his lip. "S--sorry," he said, meekly setting the plant down, trying to match the torn ends back together, as if in the hopes that it would mend back together.

She smiled, shaking her head, and reached for another. She made quick work of cutting the stems free, and carefully laid them aside a few inches from the collection of bulbs. Thanks to his help, the last stem and bulb merely had to be moved into place.

Setting the knife down, and wagging her finger as if to predict his curiosity in touching it, she retrieved the other instrument she had taken. She plucked one of the bulbs into her fingers, and began using the needle in her other hand to puncture it with several holes.

He watched in fascination as she did so. It looked akin to preparing a stew, but on some level he got the feeling that this was far from any mundane cooking. He was intrigued at her level of focus, of concentration and deftness. It looked almost as if... she was relaxed, despite what had just happened a short while ago.

As she set the last bulb down, he touched her shoulder. He met her eyes, and gently pressed his fingertips to where the brute had held her. "Does it hurt?" He asked.

She blinked, and looked down at the prepared ingredient. Then, after a moment, she noticed that his fingertips felt rather warm. She looked back at him, and saw his gaze had not faltered at all.

"Does that help any?" He asked.

She smiled, but gathered the bulbs, looking to the candle.

Staving off his feelings of confusion and disappointment at her reaction, he took the candle in his hand. He served as the light, but she guided him, over to where he had noticed a gentle glow earlier.

The small griddle was like a miniature hearth. The glow of the coals radiated warmth, albeit low and gentle. She looked to a small clay crock, the flame of the candle shining in its glaze.

Taking the hint, he set the candle down beside the griddle and reached for the crock. He set it down upon the griddle, and she let the bulbs fall into it, like balls of garlic.

Then, she went into the shadows for a small barrel-jug, and poured the water from it into the crock. She started off pouring a great deal, it seemed, and then halted. Gazing into the crock, she added more and more in a few short bursts, until she was satisfied. Corking the barrel-jug, she set it back from where she had retrieved it.

He leaned over the crock, gazing inside. He could just barely see the little bulbs, nestled on the bottom in the shadows, warping and quivering from the gentle stirring of the water. Sensing what she wanted to do, he squatted down. "This'll speed things up."

But even as he set his hands upon the crock, she held his wrists, and actually began tugging him away from it.

He acquiesced, recalling the way she had grimaced when he tore the bulb from the stem. "Okay, okay," he said, releasing the crock. "But speeding it up didn't make it taste bad, before..." He replied. "I'm just bad at making meal."

She smiled and shook her head, retrieving the candle. She beckoned him to follow, and began walking along the shelves that lined the opposite wall.

He followed. Now and again, she would pause, and reach up to a vial. She would pluck it, and swirl the contents within, as if she were shopping the market for the best fruits. Then, she would pull it down, and hand it to him.

After several minutes, he had nearly half a dozen in his charge. Without a clue as the what they were, he thought them to be various spices. He heard the simmering of the crock, and glanced with her toward it.

Abruptly, she cut to the end of the shelves where there were several empty flasks. She retrieved one, and made her way back to the table.

He set the vials down, one almost rolling away. Panicking, his hand snapped for it, and he looked at her. He relaxed when he saw a grin on her face, her hand rising in attempt to hide a giggle.

She handed him the candle once more and carried the flask with her back to the crock upon the griddle. She reached for a ladle and dipped it in, stirring the contents. She motioned for him to set the candle down.

For several more minutes he waited, watching her as she occasionally dipped the ladle in to stir the broth. From the gentle steam that billowed up, a sickly-sweet smell began to waft into his nostrils. It smelled of sun-baked earth and burnt cricket-flesh.

As he stared at the hypnotic swirling of the ladle, and the scents drifted into his nostrils, he began to feel a bit light-headed. Perhaps he was just tired; but at the same time, it made him feel more... alert. Calm. He sighed, closing his eyes, his sinuses tickling.

When he opened them, he felt a sense of unease. He looked at the candle, and saw the wax dripping from it. Had it really shed that much in such a short time? Then again, he did not remember how tall it had stood to begin with.

His attention was snared when she lifted the ladle from the crock. She hovered the flask over the broth. With great care, she poured the contents of the ladle into the flask, wary of getting any of the hot liquid upon her hand.

She set the ladle aside, and motioned for the crock to be lifted and set upon the ground.

He obliged, though his muscles felt a bit sluggish. He had to ready himself two or three times to get solid control on his arms and back as he lifted the crock. It was ten pounds heavier, it felt, with the water, but he managed to set it gently onto the ground.

She took the candle and held it to the flask. Swirling the liquid, she hovered it over the crock, and began pouring it out in small dribbles, until it was just the right amount to her eye. This also gave him some time to recover and get his senses about him, for she knew he must be feeling a bit woozy.

Leading him back to the table by light of the candle, she set the flask down. Taking each vial that she had retrieved earlier, she pulled the reed-cork free and poured some of the powder or liquid into the broth. She sighed, picking the flask and candle up once more, gazing at her impromptu assistant. Smiling patiently, for she knew he must feel as though going back and forth was an unbearable tedium, she began heading for the casks.

He followed her, his head beginning to clear some. He stopped with her before the middle cask. He was proffered the candle, and when he took it she motioned him to squat. He squatted on the opposite side of the tap, and held the candle up so she could see the flask.

She held the flask beneath the tap, and slowly eased the flow. The rum fell into the flask with a dribble, beginning to bubble and froth. She swirled it a bit, waiting for it to settle.

As he watched the rum mix with the broth, it began to turn a dingy, brown color. More and more alcohol was added, and with each burst and swirl, the color became murkier and murkier, until it looked like water tainted with sand sediment.

She breathed evenly with concentration, studying the reactions and color. With one final trickle of rum, she swirled and flicked the flask. The glass rung like a distant bell at her flicking, as if to signal that the tincture was ready.

He straightened up as she did, and awaited her next order. His shoulder was touched, and she tugged his toga, guiding him. He followed her to the bed.

She sat upon it, the straw beneath the linens crackling under her weight. She set the flask between her thighs, and took the candle from him, setting it down upon the shelf that was cut into the wall against which the bed was set. With the light behind her, she could see his face, a bit relaxed but also a bit curious.

She reached for the sash of his toga. Looking up at him, she smiled as she unraveled his clothing, and tugged it from around him. She set it behind her, tucking it into the corner of the head of the bed, making a nice little pillow-rest. Her eyes gazed down to what made him him for just a brief few seconds, before she smiled back up and patted the empty spot at the foot of the bed beside her.

He sat, the straw beneath his bare rump a little uncomfortable compared to the stone he was used to. It pricked and poked, though the linens did ease the feeling a great deal. He looked to her as she looked back, and then gazed with her down at the flask in her lap.

She lifted it, swirling it once more. She blinked, taking in a deep breath.

Before he could even react, her head slung back and the flask rose into the air. The apple of her throat bobbed as she swallowed and chugged the liquid, despite it was only enough to fill a third of the flask.

He held her as she slumped forward, the flask hanging from her grip near her knee. Her body lurched in his palms, her other hand covering her lips, as though she was revolting at the taste. Thin mucus weeped from her nostrils and tears beaded from her eyes.

The bell-sound of glass came more sharply as the flask was dropped to the ground, and rolled off into the shadows.

She gulped in a deep breath, and then breathed as though she had just come up from nearly drowning.

"What was that?" He questioned, bracing her at the back and sternum.

She rested her hand over the one at her sternum, and her other upon his thigh. She looked at him, leaning toward his muzzle.

He watched for several moments as her eyes wiggled about. Her pupils tried to focus with his, and he thought that their glow might have even begun pulsating. Her pupils began to narrow, until they were but little slivers of black obsidian in a radiant sea of green light.

Then, the little hair's-breadth of space between their muzzles was closed when she kissed him.

He balked, startled, at both the gesture and the bitter taste that his tongue caught from her breath. "Wh--?" He tried to question, but when her hand groped at his genitals his words were sent limping back down his throat.

She had a wide grin upon her face, her eyes rolling lazily as she tried to keep her head up. She leaned back, tugging on him, coaxing him to fall back into her bed.

He did so as a means to try and get her to lie beside him, but soon realized he was tangled with her. Her body pressed to his, her lips seeking him with kisses and even licks.

He managed to pry her away. "What's gotten into you?" He questioned.

Suddenly her face looked pained. She receded toward the wall, curling up a little. Tears began to well in the corners of her eyes, and she tried to bury her muzzle into the linens.

"I... I'm sorry, I didn't..." the boy tried to speak, terribly confused and worried.

She rolled onto her back, spreading her knees. Huffing, she reached down, and began rubbing her mound. She gasped, arching her back, and then looked over at him. She then abruptly went limp, breathing evenly. She hiccuped, and began to silently giggle, lifting her feet up and kicking them in the air.

"W--wait here," the boy said. "I'll be right back." But as he started to get up from the bed, she suddenly burst forth and snared his trailing hand in hers. He acquiesced, not wanting to make her feel abandoned, and turned to her, thinking she was pleading for him not to go.

But when she began pressing and rubbing his palm to her immature chest, he questioned his decision. "Please, let me go; I'll be right back, I promise." She looked him in the eyes, and he saw that she was beginning to tear up again. His hand was freed, and he used it to cup her chin. "I just want to talk to the hag. I'll be right back, okay?"

She nodded, though she started to tremble.

Reluctantly, his hand receded from her chin, and he made his way toward the ladder by sense of memory. Above ground, he tried to get his bearings in the darkness. He clumsily and cautiously stepped across the floor, his hands pressing outward to get any kind of vantage he could. He headed in the general direction of the door, and found it.

A wave of relief hit him, and then a bit of worry. He had no idea where to go from here. Except that, as he calmed, he could hear. Amidst the beat of his own heart, he heard the wheezing, crackling breaths. Using them as a guide, he made his way, in the same manner as toward the door, toward the old hare.

"Hag?" He called. "Hey! Hag, wake up!" He heard a snort, and then a grumble.

"What is it, Stench?" She called with a wary and agitated tone. "Can an old woman not be given the beauty-rest she so badly needs?"

Thanks to her voice, he fumbled his way into the room where she had disappeared to after giving him his charge. "It's Erin, she's acting--"

The old hare yawned loudly. "She made the tincture and drank it, yes?" The hare asked, apparently unconcerned.

"What's happened to her? She's not herself."

"I agree." The hare replied, smacking her dry lips. "Until I smelled your stench, I have never heard her footfalls sound so... gingerly before."

"Wake up, Hag!" He barked. "This isn't normal; I think she's poisoned or something!"

"I did not teach her to be so stupid," the old woman spat. "If she poisoned herself, then she deserves it." Her bed crackled as she rolled upon it. "She knows what she is doing, and she knew what would happen to her after she drank the tincture."

"Well someone could have told me!" The mouse retorted.

"For such a Stench as you are..." the old woman mused. "I'm surprised you bear so much worry for her." She sighed. "Well? What are you just standing there like a dimwit, for? Waiting to see if I pass in my slumber?" She chuckled. "Sorry, but I won't. Now please, Stench, be her company. At least for the night. Watch her; make sure she knows she's not alone."

"You sure?" The boy snorted. "Trusting me an awful lot for calling me Stench."

"My opinion of you matters little," the old woman replied. "By some means, she sees company in you. I don't care to know why or how, but it's more she's seen in anyone else--even me." She exhaled, as if insulted a little. "The sun will be up in a few hours, yet. 'Till then, be with her. If you tire, her bed has room enough."

Surprised, the boy tried to think of something to say in response. The old woman sounded weary. He turned. "Okay," he finally agreed. "At least until morning."

"Thank you." She listened as his feet began to scrape across the floor, hesitantly searching for his way back. "Stench?" She called.

"What, Hag?" He replied, his tone taking on the same one she had taken on when he first called out to her.

"If you find the heat of your loins takes hold of you again... Please, just be gentle with her."

His cheeks flushed. "What do you mean, again?"

"Stench, I am tired and do not care for your anger. When she neared me, she reeked of your musk. You two are young and your bodies eager for warmth and touch; I am old, wise, and only delight in your shame and embarrassment to a point." Her bed crackled, and she let out a cough, resigning herself back to sleep.

Glaring into the darkness for a moment longer, he finally made his way more assertively back to the ladder. As his feet touched the cool floor of the cellar, he eagerly looked toward the bed.

She lay facing outward. Her stomach was turned up, her thighs parted as one knee lay on its side and the other leg straight. The tip of her tail could be seen resting on the ankle of her outstretched foot.

He wandered over to her, quietly so as not to disturb her. He noticed, as he neared, that she was trembling. His heart swelled with worry, and he rested his knees against the bed, reaching for her.

When his hand rested upon her tummy, her eyes opened, and she rolled over. She clasped her hand about his wrist, and tugged it, beckoning him closer.

He climbed into the bed, and nearly had to fight her advances as she tried to grab at him even before he was lying down. But, at last, he lay with her, wrapping his free arm about her to press upon her back.

She pressed into him, their stomachs rubbing and gently pushing against one another with each breath. She began to gently grind against him, her delirium bringing such vulgar impulses to the forefront of her mind.

He felt hot, for a rare occasion in his life. His boyhood stiffened in reaction to her pelvic gestures, the downy fur of her mound and lower-belly tickling his flesh so sensually.

Gentle.

The word echoed in his mind, as he guiltily reached between them. His fingertips found his own flesh, and then worked to find hers. He looked into the thin slivers of her pupils, feeling the delicate and damp folds at his fingertips. Using that touch as his guide, he slipped himself within her, his heart quivering at the way her body squeezed around him.

She let out a mew.

It rang in his ears, shooting down his spine. He remained as still as he could be, waiting as she closed her eyes and rested her forehead to his sternum. Then, he felt it. Not in his loins, but in his chest: that gentle rumble. The vibration that came from her.

It lulled him. He suddenly felt so weary, and calmed. He stroked her back, breathing evenly, and closed his eyes. He even began to soften just a little, despite being nestled within her warm and silken vice.

Just as he had woken with her, so did he fall sleep. With the gentle rumble fading, and the tickling of her breath against his sternum. Over time, the tickle agitated him less, and he felt only her warmth in his arms. Finally, he slipped into the waters of his slumber, feeling heavy as an ingot of lead.