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The village of Harper's Bluff was in danger. Not from raiders, or the multi-colored kobolds that the towns close to the mountains had encountered. No, as far as the elders were concerned, this was more troubling. They had seen many harvests, and their memories of full storage barns had long since fallen out of line with what the younger villagers came to expect. Whatever barley they didn't lose to pests or weeds grew weaker and less productive. The people were concerned. While they were able to make up the shortfall, they could see a future where they would have to make a choice between paying their dues to the Duke, or feeding themselves.

It was into this environment that Oswin found himself entering. Since the passing of his master, three months ago, today marked the first time that he would conduct an inspection of the Duke's fiefdoms alone, but it would not be the first time the young squirrel had been in Harper's Bluff. He knew roughly what he would expect. The villagers were simple peasants, and whenever peasants got concerned, they got superstitious. Superstitious and wary of anyone working on behalf of nobility. He could only hope the hardier linens of his traveler's garb would make him seem closer to the wools of the farmers than the velvets of Castle Marovia.

Even now, as his drake climbed the hill road leading up to the entrance, he could see the first of what promised to be many crude altars to "the Land." What that meant changed, depending on who you asked and in what region. The Land was either a god, a spirit, an ineffable force that permeated all things, or it literally was the dirt and grass and crops beneath the people's feet. Oswin's master had had no patience for such matters, and Oswin himself did not have much more. If the Duke's tithe was in danger, it was no abstract force that Harper's Bluff would have to contend with.

The homes were quiet, at least by the standard of farming villages. The harvest was nearing its end, but most of the able would still be out in the fields, at this time of day. An ancient hedgehog, on an equally venerable chair by the side of the road looked up from her sewing. She cast her rheumy eyes back down, when it was clear she saw nothing worth her attention. The squirrel's drake turned his serpentine head off to one side, as the rhythmic cry of a female in heat began to issue from a nearby stable. Thankfully, he was a war-trained beast, and could be put back on the road with nothing but a pull on the reins and an anxious shudder in the flanks between Oswin's thighs.

There were eyes on him, the whole way to the elder's house. Not baleful eyes, mind; he saw a glimmer of recognition in some of the older housewives, as they passed by between errands, and quite a few children gaped openly at the sight of a modestly dressed scholar on the back of a beast from their Lord's stables. A tiny mouse, barely old enough to walk, held up a hand in a manner vaguely reminiscent of a wave. Oswin smiled, uneasily, and waved back, aware the whole time of the intense eyes pointed at him from the boy's grandfather, a dozen paces away. He could not get past the little retaining wall penning the hill of the elder's house fast enough.

***

"It is a shame to hear about Master Toren's passing."

Oswin frowned, faintly, as he picked up the wooden cup that the elder pushed towards him. He always hated the bitter taste of alcohol, but he knew better than to refuse an elder's hospitality. "Yes. It seems as though his stubborn defiance could overcome his failing health no longer."

The elder was one of those very particular squirrels, common among old farmers, who kept their homes locked but their tongues unguarded. Oswin didn't need to wait long to run into that second part of him. "Yes, a shame," he said, with a wheezing laugh. "No matter. He's food for the earth now, and doesn't need to worry none about nothing."

Oswin attempted to keep his expression level. "Aye, that he doesn't. Though, since you mention worries, perhaps we should discuss the harvest."

"Naught to discuss, sirrah," the elder replied, as he took a hearty swig of his drink. "Can't rightly see what good talking's gonna do to help the barley grow in stronger."

"You've been advised on what you need to do, good elder. Your use of the land…"

The elder made a horrible noise, from the back of his throat. "Here brays the whelp…"

Oswin's brow knitted, as he started again. "You have been instructed on the use of the land, multiple times. You do not leave enough of the land fallow, and you don't maintain crops of clover to fortify the fields."

"Clover!" The elder brayed with harsh and aggressive laughter. "The madness that the scholars up at Castle Marovia come up with! As if dedicating a third of our fields to spices and grass would let us still make our famous barleywine."

"Your harvests have spoken to the truth of those scholars' words," Oswin replied. "If you continue the way you are doing, you won't have enough to eat, let alone make into drink." The elder poured himself another drink. Judging by the smell of his breath, Oswin would hazard a guess that he had been sampling the town's barleywine for some time, before the younger squirrel had shown up. Oswin's expression softened. "Be reasonable, goodman. There's still plenty of arable land, even rotated. You might still maintain a surplus, if you can manage it well."

"The Land don't need managing," insisted the elder. "He needs to be respected."

"Respected how?"

"The same way we told Toren the Land needed respecting, for years. He insisted that we give up the old ways, throw out the rituals. Well, the Land has been patient as the saints with us, but it's obvious that he's languishing without proper attention. If we don't start them back up again, he's like as not to collapse entirely 'neath the strain of our harvests."

Oswin sighed, leaning back in his seat. This village had always been the bane of his master's rounds. While others had been happy to accept the Duke's advice on stewardship, this town, and its elder especially, cleaved to what Toren had called "outdated" ideals, the words of long-dead gods and mad petty wizards. Had Toren the authority, or the pull with the Duke, Oswin almost believed he might have tried to oust such superstitions out of the townsfolk with sheer force. The young squirrel stared at the dark liquid, swirling around his wooden cup, pensively. He had spent the whole of this trip thinking about how he was going to deal with this town. Slowly, the idea came to him that he would not be adopting his master's feuds. No, he was going to be a steward, not a preacher.

"Good elder," he said, at length. "Forgive a young man's folly, but I talk to a great many people, and it's just occurred to me that I have forgotten your name."

The elder squinted, seeing a trap in the way simple farmers were conditioned to, when they heard the honeyed words of bureaucrats. However, apparently seeing no danger in answering the question, he said "Peet, sirrah."

Oswin smiled. "Good Peet. I am not here to be this village's enemy. The Duke has no reason to care about how you keep your fields, so long as he receives his shipments on time. I am here because the thought that your people might one day go hungry causes just as much distress to me as I am sure it does to you."

Peet shook his head, leaning back in frustration. "Pointless air you're spouting, whelp. If you actually believed that, you'd let us get on with…"

Oswin raised a hand, to stop the older squirrel, before he continued. "Tell me, Peet. If you were to perform these.. rituals of yours, how fast, in your reckoning, would it be before you saw an improvement in your harvests?"

Again, Peet seemed to suspect a trap. He saw the calculating glimmer in Oswin's eye, and his mind was inevitably drawn to the Empire's exhausting tradition of contracts and legal maneuverings. "If we did it now, at the end of this harvest, we would start the spring by planting in perfect soil."

"I see…" Oswin took a sip of his barleywine, and though he didn't care much for the taste, he kept his expression level. "And were we to do nothing, would the village still be able to meet its needs? To pay their taxes, feed the villagers, have enough left over for barleywine?"

"

"Might get dicey, but we'd likely still feed ourselves, at any rate."

"Then it seems to me that we have time, at least, to try." Oswin put his cup down, and reached for his papers and pen. "Tell me what you require."

Peet raised an eyebrow. "Sirrah?"

"Your rituals. We shall provide your Land with the respect they are entitled to, however that has to happen." Oswin looked up from his notes, into Peet's eyes. The old squirrel was waiting for the catch, if his expression was any indication. Oswin sighed. "I shall be frank, good Peet. I share my master's distrust of your superstitions. However, I'm willing to be proven wrong, so long as it does not endanger the people of Harper's Bluff."

We'll…" Peet stopped, paused, then continued. "...we'll not need to plant the clover?"

"Not for this next planting season, no. However, I shall be keeping a close eye on the harvest coming out of these fields." Oswin narrowed his eyes. "If-and perhaps even when-it comes to pass that your rituals do nothing to halt the degradation of your fields, I will be coming around the next year with an Imperial Edict." The mentioning of the Empire's legal might silenced any further questions from the village elder, which prompted Oswin to tap his papers and repeat himself: "Now then, what do you require for these rituals?"

***

Over the course of the next few days, Oswin's stay in the elder's house was marked by research and interviews. As it turned out, it didn't require a whole lot of terribly exotic resources in order to put these rituals into action. The list was broad, however, and certain things couldn't be found in Harper's Bluff, which meant that Oswin was forced to send missives asking for allotments of things like honey and flaxen cloth.

While he waited for those to arrive, however, he was in conversation with the local farmers. He spoke with them about the difficulties that naturally came up, in the course of farming. He took the opportunity to present the basics of rotation to some of the larger farm owners. He was happy to see that a few of them seemed to be willing to listen, and that one or two might have seriously considered taking the advice to heart. However, most of the villagers spoke to him in a similar fashion to Peet.

"Don't see how it matters," said a weedy goat with uneven horns and an uneven smile. "If we get back on the Land's good side, then we won't need none of this rotational stuff, eh?"

"Perhaps not," Oswin replied, diplomatically, "but if you cannot, then…"

"So all's well, isn't it? We're just waiting on the bread and honey, and then we'll be good."

Oswin exhaled through his nose. "It is best to be prudent."

"If you say so, sirrah."

Several times, Oswin's conversations went in similar directions to that one. Old Peet's word carried more weight than that of one of the Empire's stewards, it seemed. For the first time, Oswin was starting to gain a firmer appreciation for why Master Toren had gotten so short-tempered, in his gray years. Still, Oswin kept his head clear, and took detailed notes. That was what Toren had told him to do, when he was still an apprentice, and it was what he intended to do, even in circumstances as vexing as these.

The village seemed to be in a better mood, upon the announcement that the rituals would be starting back up. Oswin, as his own mood began to sour, suspected that the reason for that was because the villagers considered the "rituals" to be a fine excuse to party. Peet was the only one who seemed to take the affair seriously. The rest broke out their reserves of barleywine and made their finest meals for the village to eat, in the town square. Music was played, on a variety of battered and well-worn instruments. A crude stage was erected in the epicenter of several roads, little more than a collection of planks tossed onto the dirt with nothing but a few thin cords to keep it from sliding underfoot.

Thus was everything prepared for the last day of the harvest.

***

Evening was beginning to fall, casting long shadows over the short buildings. Oswin and Peet sat in two wicker chairs, overlooking the stage. The younger squirrel, for his part, had to wave away a number of people, who attempted to get him to sample some family recipe or other. He had had his fill of simple but filling, sometime around the third dish offered.

The stage had been painstakingly adorned with, seemingly, whatever plant matter the villagers could get their hands on. Fallen leaves, pinecones, sheaves of barley, all festooned the floor of the stage. Two poles were driven into the ground, on either side, around which a collection of wicker wreaths were tossed. There was one for every household. Or at least, so Oswin would have assumed, since he had seen many of the villagers pulling one from their homes, to add to the pile.

“What is the purpose of those poles?" Oswin asked the old squirrel next to him. “I see that the womenfolk bring their wreaths to the one on the left."

“Aye," Peet replied. “And the menfolk to the right. Every house elder brings one wreath. Ideally, for the ritual to work perfectly, there oughta be a balance between the two. Sadly, Rook fell to his cough, just last winter, and old Master Umo went in his sleep, so the stack's gonna be leaning to the women's side."

Oswin's eyes narrowed. “I see. And what does that mean, exactly?" Peet gave him a look, clearly looking for a trap, so he elaborated. “For the ritual. What does it mean for the ritual, that there's an imbalance of wreaths? Is it liable to fail?"

Peet scowled. “It won't fail, sirrah. The Land'll hear us."

Oswin kept his expression guarded, barring the briefest shrug of his brows, and returned his attention to the stage.

One of the villagers led a young, sharp scaled drake by her harness, down the lane and into the town center. She scrabbled onto the planks, sharp claws scraping against the wood stage. She looked about her, at the gathered townsfolk. She was confused, but no sooner had she recognized the scents and faces of familiar people than her confusion lost out to the more insistent need plaguing her. Lifting her head up, her muscled throat began to quiver, as she let out the rhythmic bugle of a female in heat.

“What is this?" Oswin asked.

Peet chuckled, taking a mighty pull of wine. “Lilac over here is gonna be our main attraction tonight. She's gonna help us get the Land's attention."

“What does that mean?"

Peet didn't respond to the question, right away. He stared at the stage, almost dreamily, his old head rocking back and forth from the weight of the alcohol he had already consumed.

With the first stirrings of alarm rising in the back of his head, Oswin pressed. “Peet? What does that mean? Are you planning on making a sacrifice?"

“What's that?" Peet's head shook, in confusion, meeting Oswin's gaze with a look of lazy indignation. “Sacrifice? You think we're gonna kill a perfectly good drake, while she's still got strength to pull a plow? The Land don't want His soil contaminated by blood, boy. The Land wants life, not death."

“Then what…?"

Oswin was interrupted by an energetic patter of feet, off to his right. Two youths pulled on either end of a harness, as a second drake squirmed between them. Specifically, Oswin's drake, the one that he had rode into town. The beast (Gallant, Oswin remembered his name being) all but dragged his handlers down the street. His head was almost still, eyes locked straight ahead at the stage even as its body slithered to and fro in an anxious dance. His powerful tail slapped against the dirt, kicking up clouds of dust, and his throat bulged with the force of his sonorous growl.

“What is he doing here?" Oswin said, indignantly. “That drake came from your liege lord's stables."

“Aye," one of the villagers called from the crowd, “but if I'm seeing right, he ain't letting his status affect him none."

Oswin caught a glimpse of something light red and glistening, poking out from Gallant's underside. His round ear twitched in embarrassment, but he tried to keep his expression suitably incensed, when he turned it in Peet's direction. “What is the meaning of this, elder?"

Peet wheezed with laughter, spilling barleywine over his sleeve as he poured himself towards his younger counterpart. “You said you would furnish the village with whatever they required, eh? Well, then…"

Lilac stood on the stage, head cocking at bird-like angles. Her flanks shivered in anticipation. She began to bugle anew.

“Is this a joke? You mean to tell me that the Land requires breeding sto…?" The question died in Oswin's mouth, drowned out by a panicked yap as four powerful reptilian feet thundered past him with all the speed one could expect of a trained charger. One of the youths had had the sense to let go. The other shook his hands, groaning in pain at the rope burns that crossed them. Gallant was unheeding of the chaos he was causing, the chuckles and murmurs he was drawing from the crowd. All that mattered was getting up on that stage.

Peet waved his hand, an action that might have looked imperious if it was delivered by someone who could stand up a little straigher. A young mouse girl grabbed a pair of wooden cups from the nearby table, handing one to the elder. “You see, whelp," he slurred, “the Land requires life. More life'n what we grow just to harvest."

Gallant and Lilac began to circle each other, writhing their necks against each other flanks. Their scales flared, making faint screeching noises as they caught and scraped against each other. Gallant's tapered drakehood wriggled completely free of his slit, dripping pearly streaks of excitement onto the foliage at his and his new mate's feet. Lilac's thick tail slowly began to raise straight up into the air. Gallant needed no further invitation; in a trice, his head was snaking to her hindquarters, forked tongue greedily lapping up at her fluids with all the relish of a creature dying of thirst.

Oswin righted himself in his seat, turning his eyes away from the display going on in front of him. He muttered to himself, darkly, “Seems to me a fine excuse to put one of the Duke's drakes to stud without his permission." The mouse girl smiled faintly, as she held the second cup out to him. Oswin took it, without thinking, though he had long since grown tired of the bitter, herby taste of the town's barleywine.

The steward's ears burned with a duet of panting warbles. Gallant had finally overtaken his circling quarry and gotten behind her. Now, he was climbing atop her back, hips thrusting blindly in search of that hot tunnel where his snout had been, seconds before. Gallant cooed at the first kiss of flesh around his member. Lilac hunched over, hindquarters raised, neck craning up as puffs of ecstacy steamed the air around her open maw. As is often the case when beasts mate, it was not a long performance. Almost as quickly as the assault had begun, Gallant was twitching and roaring to the sky. Mingled fluids pattered down onto the planks with just barely audible force. The villagers were silent, which only made the sounds of panting, post-coital giant lizards stand out all the more.

Oswin moved in his seat, uneasily. The sound of the wicker groaning under his shifting weight was almost like a spell being broken, because suddenly the village was abuzz with movement. Several townsfolk made their way to the stage, patting the drakes on their flanks as they worked to disentangle them from each other's embrace. Food and drink were passed among the rest with renewed vigor. A fife whistled out the first notes of a jaunty song, then several more instruments joined in with unpracticed vigor.

“'Tis done, sirrah," Peet said, slumping back in his chair as though exhausted.

“What is done?" Oswin asked. “What did we just accomplish with this… this… display of yours?"

“We'll know soon enough. Come the morn, we'll see if we've managed to catch His eye." Peet's head lolled back in Oswin's direction. The wine seemed to have taken its toll on every inch of his body, except for his eyes, which still shone with a simple cunning. He pointed lazily in the younger squirrel's direction. “You will be staying with Yola and Tress, tonight. They've a bed prepared for you."

“Yola? Tress? Where…?"

“The house out by the edge of the woods."

“Is there a problem, good elder?"

Peet shook his head. “No problem. They're just happier about havin' guests over'n I've ever been. Besides…" He took a sip of wine, staring blankly at the stage. “...youth oughta be among youth, especially on days like today."

Oswin had questions. For the past several hours he had nothing but questions. However, before he could answer, a smiling cat was shepherding him out of his seat, eager to introduce him to her husband and where he was going to be spending the night.

***

That night, sleep was difficult. He found himself situated on a pile of straw, in a room that had clearly long since been relegated to storage. A pair of blankets had been provided, one of which served as his only barrier between himself and his bedding. There were no windows, and once the door was closed he sat in pitch darkness. None of that kept him awake, however. He had been used to spare sleeping arrangements, from his travels, and for all this place's faults, at least it was dry and modestly warm.

At first, what had kept his eyes open was his own racing thoughts. Now that he was alone with them, now that there wasn't the smell of barleywine and the sight of mating drakes to occupy him, he found himself seriously wondering what it was he had agreed to. He was not prone to superstition. Rationally, he could tell himself that this was all harmless fun. If the villagers thought having a party would make their harvest better, then there were worse things to believe in. He also knew that village folk tended to be a bit less… bothered, when it came to matters like this.

Which is to say that such matters bothered Oswin, immensely. Try as he might, he couldn't get the image out of his head. The two drakes, rutting each other like beasts. They were beasts, make no mistake, but even so... Oswin had thought he had looked away, but as the evening played back in his head, he could swear he had remembered every thrust of Gallant's hips. Gods, he could practically smell it, now.

Rolling onto his back, he stared up at the dark ceiling. It did him no good to dwell on these things. Tomorrow he would be done and he could put himself back on the road to the capital. In the meantime, he needed his sleep. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. He tried to remember the techniques Master Toren taught him. He imagined a room whose walls were lined with lit candles. He pictured the flames snuffing out, one by one, each one leaving the room a little darker, a little cooler, a little…

“Ohhhh…"

Off to his left, he could hear Yola's back as it landed against the adjoining wall to their room. The tabby squirmed against the body of her husband, as his hand wormed its way under her linen dress.

“Gods above, woman," Tress taunted, his voice husky and raspy with purrs. “You're already soaking through your stays. Don't tell me watching those drakes go at it has stoked your furnace, like this."

“Don't be a churl," Yola whined, between heavy breaths and heavier kisses. “My furnace is stoked be-mmph-because you've been glaring at me like a starving beast."

Tress rubbed his cheek against hers, his hands fumbling blindly to try and expose more of her tawny fur to his grasp. “Perhaps I am a churl, my love, because that ritual's certainly worked its magic on me." Yola's breath hitched, as her hand inevitably found its way to the growing bulge in Tress's pants. His voice only got huskier, as he continued. “I couldn't help but think how good you'd look, arse raised for me, as I bred you for the whole village to see."

“Tress…!" Yola's voice contained a note of protest, drowned out by overwhelming desire. Clothes began to fly off, as the two of them awkwardly shuffled in the direction of their bed. “Tress, what about the ritual? What if the Land…?"

“Sod the Land!" Tress pushed Yola onto the bed, climbing atop her as he freed his twitching feline member and rested it against her glistening sex. “What I want tonight is my wife."

The walls were thick enough that Oswin could only hear bits and pieces of their conversation. However, not even the stone walls of Castle Moravia could have spared the squirrel the full-throated sound of their lovemaking. Every thrust from Tress's hips shook the bed, which shook the walls, which shook Oswin's walls. They were more vocal than the drakes (much more vocal), but no less feral and wild.

Oswin curled into himself. His nightgown began to form a torturous knot, as his loins began to burn. His breath came in heavier and heavier pants, but he grit his teeth. He tried to picture a room full of candles, flames slowly being snuffed out, drakes in heat-no! A room full of candles, the drip of wax as they fell to the ground like semen out of a-damn it all, no! Above his head, the moans and grunts from the other room became faster, harder. He heard a gentle, hesitant whimper from somewhere, and it took him a moment to realize it was coming from his own lips. It took a moment longer to recognize that his hand had found its way between his legs, that he was now gripping his inflamed member through his gown and stroking it into flames.

Collecting himself, with a start, he pulled his hand away, and brought it up with his other hand to his head. Holding down his rounded ears did very little to stifle the noises coming from the other room. He growled in defiance, throwing the covers over himself entirely, as he tried to will himself to calm down, to go to sleep. The morning wouldn't come, if he didn't go to sleep.

He tried to picture candles… softly burning candles…

***

When his eyes opened, once again, it was deep in the night. Or at least, it didn't quite feel like morning. Oswin groaned, as he realized why he was woken up. Apparently, the barleywine had finally caught up with him. Slowly, he pulled himself off of his straw pile, opening the door into the house as he tried to slip out, unnoticed. Yola and Tress were on their bed. Apparently, they hadn't had the wherewithal to get the sheets over themselves, before sleep took them. Or to cover up in any way. Oswin's face got hot, as he tried to ignore them.

Outside, the town felt different. Oswin didn't have time or inclination to think about it until after he had found a quiet corner to relieve himself, but as he was lowering his gown back over himself, the feeling became unavoidable. It was dark, not yet time for the quickening of dawn, and a cover of clouds quenched any star or moonlight that might have made things less oppressive. The stage was exactly where he had last seen it, in exactly the same state as he had last seen it. His mind slowly lumbered to full waking, trying to figure out just what about this scene was wrong. Then, it hit him: despite the fact that it was deep into autumn, it was warmer tonight than it had been all that day. In fact, it almost felt like he had walked into a summer night.

Curious, Oswin found himself wandering into the town square, where the remnants of the villagers' “ritual" still lay scattered about. Jugs of barleywine were lined up on the far table, a lone wooden cup on the edge, full of liquid that warped and waved in the breeze. The squirrel found himself reaching for it, bringing it up to his lips. He took a sip, while his eyes were still on the town itself, but then he found himself looking down at the cup, confused.

Barleywine didn't taste sweet, like this drink did.

The clouds parted, and the town got a bit brighter as star and moonlight… wait. Not moonlight. Oswin's brow knitted. Had he read his charts wrong? He could have sworn the new moon wasn't for a few weeks, still. At least the stars were bright enough to see by tonight. So much so, that he finally noticed that only one of the poles, on either side of the stage, still had its wreaths. The pole on the stage's left had been all removed.

If Oswin had been allowed to look at the scene before him, any longer, his confusion might have given way to worry. Unfortunately for him, something more pressing grabbed his attention. Scratching out from around the corner, Gallant looked across the square at Oswin. The drake's slitted eyes shimmered with a recognition and a cunning that seemed altogether alien to such a simple beast. His scales also shimmered, iridescent in the too-bright starlight. Oswin might have thought that Gallant struck quite a noble figure, had he not made the grim realization that Gallant was outside of his pen, unbridled. The squirrel took one step forward, perhaps a bit too urgently.

Gallant turned around and immediately loped off towards the forest.

“Damn!" Panicked, Oswin tossed the cup aside and went off in pursuit. That the Duke had seen fit to trust Oswin with putting one of his war-drakes through his paces was already enough of an inconvenient situation. If he were to lose track of such a valuable beast, now, there was no telling what horrible punishment awaited him. “Do not run, you! Get back here, this instant!"

Gallant chose a rough and overgrown path, through the woods. His wide, dextrous paws and thick scales made such a trip easy for him. Oswin, barefoot and dressed in nothing but a thin linen gown, did not fare so happily. Every time it seemed like he might lose the drake, Gallant stopped to look back at him. Every time it seemed like Oswin would get close, Gallant would start running again. The damn creature must think this is all a fun game, he thought to himself, as yet another branch tore yet another gash in his gown. He could only hope Gallant was enjoying this little vacation of his, because when Oswin finally got him back to his master…

Suddenly, the path opened up to a large clearing. Oswin all but stumbled out into the open field, cursing and panting. In the very center, the drake stared at Oswin, expectantly. As he stood there, hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath, the squirrel met the creature's eyes, with befuddled impatience.

“What?" he said, at length. “Why are we out here, then? Searching for more females to breed?"

Gallant's head snapped up, at some unheard sound. Then he was off into the brush, once again.

“No!" Oswin held a hand out, shouting at the drake's retreating tail. “Come back! Damn you, you lousy…!" He paused, for a moment. Gallant's body had been blocking something, and with his passing Oswin finally learned what had happened to the collection of wreaths taken from the pole of the village stage. They lay in a pile, a jumble on the grassy floor. Oswin would have paid it no further mind and went back to worrying about Gallant, before he noticed the things that were different. They were no longer made of old sticks and straw; every fiber that made up the wreaths was green and new and alive. White flowers, of a kind Oswin had never seen before, sprouted from them, each one blooming, before his eyes. Far from something dug out from root cellars, these seemed like they were all still… growing.

Almost as soon as he thought that, he saw the pile shift. The wreaths stretched, uncoiled, joined together with each other. A mass of green tendrils began to take form and shape. It rose up. Oswin could see shoulders, then arms, then a head. It turned and rose. Oswin saw hips, breasts, a canine snout and eyes that shone like gemstones. Flowers sprouted and bloomed, covering the creature's body with a coat of white.

It… no, she… was a marvel to behold. A white-furred bear, with height to dwarf the squirrel who trembled in her presence. She was dressed in nothing, not even a smile. She had wide, motherly hips. Her body was one of plenty; her stomach, her thighs, her breasts, all were soft and heavy. Despite that, she stood with an ethereal grace and sensuality, her steps so light they barely disturbed the grass beneath her paws. Her eyes were cold, almost artificial, but everything else about her mein seemed to beckon without words.

Oswin felt a momentary surge of panic, at the sight of… whatever she was. He turned, prepared to flee blindly into the woods. However, as soon as his back was to her, there was a huge, white hand clamping down on his shoulder. When he looked up at his captor, suddenly there were lips on his. He could taste her breath in his mouth, earthy and sweet. It made his head swim and his body hot. He turned his body towards her, tried to push her away, but the moment his hand touched breast, he stopped. She was soft, hot to the touch. Her fur ruffled under his grip, the tiny petals layered on each other. They looked like feathers, this close. And he couldn't stop feeling them.

He had to be led to the center of the clearing. Not because he was resisting, anymore. Her breath had intoxicated him stronger than he had known any drink to make him. He could barely stand straight when, releasing him from her grip, the bear leaned back onto a giant mattress that formed itself behind her, out of vines and flowers. She spread herself out, in front of the widening eyes of her captive. One hand hefting her breast, the other spreading open the lips of her wet and ready sex. She licked her chops, a predatory grin in her eyes.

He should have been scared. And he was. Oswin was terrified. Even while his mind screamed, however, his body responded to the sight in front of him with all the youthful abandon of a teenage kit. He wanted to know why his gown seemed to have fallen from his body, as if it were made of smoke, but his head and his eyes refused to turn anywhere where they couldn't see the creature before him. Was he pulled onto the bed, by some unseen force, or had he just stumbled forward in a lust-drunk stupor? All he knew was that the space between the bear's thighs was hot as a summer day, and the flesh that kissed at the tip of his throbbing, needy member was downright volcanic.

His first ever taste of a woman's love was almost too much. There was no way that even the clearest-headed version of himself could take in what he felt, when his hips first bottomed out against her thighs. The petals of her pelt were smoother than fur, and every brush against them loosed yet more of that earthy aroma. The feel of them against his own body was electric, and he craved more. He heard himself whine, as he stretched himself along her body. He tried in vain to reach her lips, only to find his chin stopping at her chest, in the valley between two hills of fragrant petals. There was a chuckle in her eyes, though she said nothing, as she placed a soothing hand on the back of his head.

His hips swung with awkward but feverish strokes, as much from side to side as towards his strange lover. His breath came hard enough to cause petals to fan out from him, which only made the scent more potent, which made his breath heavier. Rational thought lost out, in the sea of pleasure he found himself all but drowning in. “What… ahh! What are you?" he asked, his voice more worshipful than anything else.

Instead of an answer, Oswin felt his body tossed around with impossible ease. In a trice, he was on his back, staring up at the silhouette of the bear. She grabbed his legs under the knee, lifted them both up to the sky. As she lined herself back up with his leaking member, the look on her face was one of mingled amusement and impatience. Then, she descended. And then she descended again. And again.

Oswin reached behind him, for anything to grasp onto, as his hips were slammed into over and over. The bed provided nothing for him to grip. He couldn't get away, if he wanted to. The bear's thighs rippled, muscles visible under the softness, as she began a spirited, relentless assault. The fear came back, in full, as he realized he was powerless, a tool to be used by his assailant. But not even the fear could stop the climax that was barrelling towards him.

He whimpered, then yelped, and then his mouth produced no sound. Seed poured out of him in a veritable torrent, up into the clenching, sucking hole that greedily milked more out of his writhing member. The bear above him looked up to the sky, jaw slack, tongue lolling out of her mouth, in an expression of exquisite relief.

Above, the clouds opened up. Rain peppered the ground around them, first as a trickle, and then as a downpour. Oswin was insensate, every inch of his body alive with something between joy and exhaustion. He stared up at the bear, panting and tearing up as he took in her preternatural beauty. His hands groped upwards, blindly petitioning for her to bless him with the majesty of her touch.

She smiled.

Oswin's eyes quirked up in question, only to widen when he realized that the bed beneath him was moving. Grass and vines and flowers grew around him, between his legs and along either side of his head. It stretched past the limit of his fingers, grew and grew impossibly tall, until all he could see was green. And then the plants crossed each other, taking with it the last of his starlight and leaving him in darkness.

Darkness…

He woke with a start on a pile of fallen leaves. The forest clearing lay around him, as cold as he could have expected from an early morning in late autumn. He clutched his arms, to try and warm them up. His gown was nowhere to be found. The fur around his crotch was matted, and he smelled unambiguously of sex.

Ahead of him, Gallant the drake waited patiently for Oswin to collect himself, so he could take him home.

***

“What news of Harper's Bluff, steward?"

Oswin looked up at the Duke, from the spot below his throne where he knelt. “My Lord?"

“You did a tally of the villages, correct?" Duke Walcot explained, the fox staring distractedly at his nails as he spoke. “How fared Harper's Bluff?"

Oswin paused for a moment, before speaking. “It was a bumper harvest, this year, My Lord. Better than any in recent memory."

“Splendid!" The Duke's words and his tone were completely mismatched, as he tried to look like he cared at all about agriculture. “It sounds like all that hubbub, last year, about the fields going barren was nothing but a run of bad luck, then."

Oswin kept his expression level. “It would appear so, sir."

Walcot sighed, in a greater hurry to see this meeting ended than even Oswin was. “Yes, well, I'm sure my scribes will tally up your reports, faithfully. Now then, if there are no other pressing matters you wish to bring to me, you are dismissed."

Oswin bowed his head. “There are none. Thank you, my Lord."

Oswin spoke to nobody, on his way out of the castle. He was not in a talking mood. With his work done, for now, he was in a hurry to get back home. There he would eat, he would bathe, and then he would study. A stack of books waited for him by the fireplace: a collection of the myths and superstitions of villagers around the known world; tomes of hedge wizardry; there was even a book of dark magic, which he managed to acquire at great risk. He would read until sleep threatened to take him in his chair, whereupon he would extinguish his fire and head to bed.

Before he slept, however, he always found himself looking out the window, at the little garden that old Master Toren had once kept, before his health failed him. Oswin had let the patch go fallow, not knowing what to plant in it.

He began staring at the patch during the spring, when he discovered that, without his tending, the field had become completely taken over by a bed of white flowers.