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“Sacred Lady Landraste…I'm trying to walk the path that you intended for me, but I just don't know what to do. How should I use your blessing? What should I do about the Order and all of its politics? Please, if you can, visit me agai–”

A bump in the road jolted Brann Holstrom out of his prayer. Outside, a swampy landscape rolled lazily past the window as the carriage trundled down the bumpy drive. Trees laden with Spanish moss surrounded murky ponds covered in green algae.

“Rise and shine, horsey,” Great General Reynario jeered from the adjacent seat. “Can't blame you for nodding off, though. These satin seats are something else!”

Brann frowned down at the fox, dressed in common Warrior Monk attire that did nothing to betray his status as the top-ranking Monk in the world. “I was praying,” he said, tersely.

“Sure, sure. Gotta do that,” Reynario sighed, looking out the window. “Anyway, you picked a good time to wake up. I think I see our welcoming party.”

“Why are you here?” Brann asked, surprising himself with the bluntness of the question his own lips were directing toward his most supreme superior. “I'm more than capable of taking on this job. Your presence is going to raise a lot of eyebrows beyond mine.”

Reynario's grin didn't flag, but a spark of fury briefly flared in his vulpine eyes. “Colt, let them raise their fucking eyebrows at me. What are they going to do about it?” he whispered conspiratorially. He thrust a finger toward the small welcoming party standing at the roadside as the carriage rolled to a stop. There were three males, all dressed in matching white linen suits. “Our job, no matter our rank, is to protect common folk like them. Agreed?”

Brann snorted as the carriage driver, a bulky chestnut stallion himself, leaped down from his seat, opened the door, and stood aside. He twitched his right ear at Brann, a common equine greeting, and the Warrior Monk returned it as he stepped out onto the muddy road. Humidity instantly drenched his fur in oppressive, wet heat.

Reynario vaulted out of the vehicle, his small boots tapping against the road as he sprinted toward the bewildered porcine mayor. The mayor of Graymoss and his two assistants stood with their hats in their hands, watching in amazement as the great general approached like a charging feral bull.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Reynario cried as his right hand lunged toward the mayor. “It's a pleasure to make your acquaintances!”

“L-Likewise!” the mayor replied, his flat nose appearing to shrink in on itself in terror as the two males exchanged a brief but furious handshake. “Mayor Eldin Macon, at your eternal service, great general. And these are my assistants, Lamiel and Meekins,” the pig said, gesturing in turn to the sheep and mink standing stupified at his flanks.

“A delight, sirs,” Reynario crooned, brutally gripping the staffers’ hands as they winced in pain. “This large fellow over here is our newly minted captain! Horse, say something!”

“Good afternoon, sirs. I'm Captain Holstrom of the Warrior Monks,” Brann recited, opting to nod a greeting instead of risking further damage to their hosts’ fingers.

“He's a quiet lad, but he's my secret weapon,” Reynario explained to Macon, casting a side eye toward Brann. “Come now, let's have a briefing while we walk!”

“Of course! Right this way!” Macon said, gesturing toward a narrow, overgrown road that led into a copse of twisted live oaks. “The house in question is at the end of this drive.”

“Ah, seems familiar, aye?” Reynario asked Brann as they started off down the path.

“Sure,” the horse murmured, trying to stave off the flood of traumatic memories from his first assignment.

“Well, it's a rather cliche story, if I'm being honest,” the mayor sighed. “A local coyote lass with a strange reputation was seen wandering around a derelict oyster harvesting shack before ultimately disappearing. Not long after that, any male that ventured out there alone turned up missing. Only males, mind you.”

“Demonic communion and predation in a spooky old house,” Reynario tisked, shaking his head. “It is a bit overplayed, aye?”

“Hmph,” Brann grunted. “What time did these disappearances take place? Only after dark?”

“Indeed, captain,” Meekins answered, his long whiskers twitching. “It’s prime oyster season, so we had lads working even after sunset. When they didn't come home before daybreak, they were reported missing to the sheriff.”

“And then there was the town lush, Smithy. He was seen stumbling around this drive we're on now, and then never again,” Lamiel added.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but I'm not optimistic that these fellows will be found alive,” Reynario shrugged.

“Oh dear,” Macon moaned, swiping a handkerchief across his pink brow. “Perhaps you can inform the families of that when you're done. It'll be easier coming from folks of your stature.”

Reynario shot a vexed glance back at Brann. His muzzle mouthed the word “elections”.

The group rounded a corner past a particularly crooked and ancient oak. There, on the bank of a muddy inlet, was a long, single-story structure in terrible disrepair. Shingles were missing in patches, and lengths of wood siding lay rotting around the foundation. A battered dock stretched out into the inlet, with floats and joints that allowed it to rise and fall with the tides.

“Well, this is it,” Macon huffed, gesturing toward the building. “I suppose you'll want to get to work, so…we'll be off!”

The pig grabbed his cohorts by their shoulders and practically shoved them back from whence they came before turning his sweat-soaked back on the monks.

“Hold it!” Reynario barked.

Macon stumbled, nearly pitching forward onto his squat muzzle. “Y-Yes, General Reynario?”

“When we're done, I trust that I can expect a generous contribution to the Church. Yes?”

The mayor's brows furrowed. “I don't know. Can I expect the Church not to endorse my opponent next month?”

“If Landraste wills it,” Reynario shrugs, his muzzle wearing a grin that allowed his gold incisor to sparkle.

There was no reply. Instead, Macon turned and stomped off toward town with his lackeys stumbling after like ducklings following their mother.

“He's going to complain to the diocese,” Brann grumbled.

“Not after we take care of his little problem overnight!” Reynario declared as he strode toward the delipidated structure.

“‘We?’” Brann asked, incredulous.

“Yes, actually,” the fox chided as he yanked open a door and glanced inside. “You don't reach my rank without passing a lot of ranks along the way. I know demons, and I know how to kill them!” Reynario turned to face Captain Brann and favored him with the same grin that he'd shown Macon. “You walked into one haunted mansion and got magic balls. Remember that, captain.”

Brann’s teeth clacked as he ground them together. He stood in the doorway, glaring silently.

Satisfied, Reynario made his way through the building, disappearing into the dark. His predator's eyes allowed him to see using only the dim light sifting through the boarded-up windows and holes in the roof. Brann, however, had no such advantage. He opted to lean against the doorway until the “great general” was finished doing recon. Eventually, the fox reemerged from the gloom, dusting his hands on his trousers.

“Well, the layout is simple enough,” Reynario said. “There’s this room. It's got a counter, so I figure it was front of house.”

Brann nodded.

“Beyond that door I went through is a hall,” Reynario explained, pointing at the pitch-black doorway. “There are a couple of rooms with cots and such. Staff quarters. At the end of the hall is the only other room. Big, with long shucking tables. And that's all there is to it. All the exterior doors are boarded up except the one we came in through.”

“Don't suppose you saw any demons?” Brann asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“Not one,” Reynario sighed, shaking his head. “But night is not yet upon us. Here's what I propose: You stay here, and I head into the shucking area. It gets real dark back there, and I can see a hell of a lot better than you.”

“Fine. Don't like splitting up, but you're the boss,” Brann huffed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “If something happens, yell.”

“Once again, horse, I'm a seasoned warrior monk,” Reynario replied, pulling out his flask of holy water and jiggling it in one hand with no reverence whatsoever. “Do feel free to scream if you need me.”

Brann scowled as he watched the fox swish away into the gloomy hallway. When the general was gone, he turned around and looked out the door at the oyster shed's yard. In the fading daylight, something odd caught his eye. There were clusters of plants with semicircular leaves lined with spikes. A chill ran through his flanks as he recalled the wisecracking plant in August Manor’s greenhouse.

“At least you guys aren't talking,” Brann muttered down at the tiny flytraps.

His eye twitched as it followed a flitting motion near his muzzle. Brann’s hand swooped out and clasped shut. The fly twitched plaintively against his palm before going still.

“Now, let's see…” the horse grinned, looking over the hungry mouths. “Which one of you will be the lucky winner?”

Among the identical plants was a flytrap bearing an odd pink stripe streaking across its upper leaf. Brann reached down and tossed the disabled insect between its lips, prompting them to snap shut.

“You owe me,” he said, dusting his hands and staring out at the inlet as orange sunlight made the small waves sparkle. “Guess I'd better settle in.”

Brann retreated into the building and shut the door behind him. Searching behind the counter, he found a book of matches and set to work lighting the enchanted candles on the wall sconces. Their wax was designed to last for an extremely long time, but these looked like they had a week or so left in them at best. Once the room was lit, Brann took a seat at the counter, propped up his muzzle with one hand, and began leafing through an ancient dry goods catalog from the Graymoss General Store

“Everything was so cheap back then,” he murmured.

“CHILDREN OF THE SWAMP, RISE AND FEED!”

Brann's ears perked up and his eyes went wide. The voice had been female, and impossibly loud. Every muscle in his body tensed up as he rose from his seat and stalked toward the door. He glanced at the hallway, hoping to see the fox rushing in to join him, but there was nothing to hear or behold in the impenetrable gloom. With a trembling hand, Brann reached for the doorknob, turned it, and eased it open. Muggy air rushed over his muzzle as he revealed what lay beyond.

“Reynard!” he shouted as a flood of watermelon-sized flytraps poured into the room, burying his bulky body in seconds.

—

“Reynard!”

The fox's heart leaped into his throat. His muzzle opened as he began to pant.

It's actually happening!

Reynard had never, in fact, faced anything more than benign hauntings during his tenure as a Warrior Monk. His rise to supreme power had come through years of politicking, subterfuge, and more than a few outright fabrications. Authority was a joy to wield, and the luxuries of his station were numerous. Nonetheless, there was a hunger gestating in the general's belly. Every means to satiate that hunger was flatly forbidden by the Church…unless, of course, he was attacked and overwhelmed by forces beyond his control. Brann had gotten away with it, and he sure as hell could too.

His keen vulpine eyes watched unblinking as green vines crept through the floorboards. The battered planks groaned and cracked as bulbous flytraps of unnatural size shoved their way in from the crawlspace. Though they had no eyes, they turned their heads to the fox pressing himself into a corner of the room. Their mouths opened to reveal pillowy flesh dripping with mucus.

“Oh seven hells,” Reynard groaned, slumping to the floor. With numb fingers, he tugged the strings holding his boiled leather codpiece in place. His slender, red penis practically kicked its way out into the warm air, fully unsheathed. He held it at its base and pointed the tip at the approaching plants. “This is what you want, right?”

It was.

One of the flytraps lunged forward and snapped its fleshy lips down onto Reynard’s cock.

“Fuck. Fuck,” the entranced male wheezed as his darkest fantasy was finally fulfilled. “Fucking eat it.”

He'd fantasized about females, of course, but they were so seldom seen in the insular world of the Warrior Monks that his imagination was stunted in that regard. But when it came to demons, there were entire libraries of tomes available to any monk who wished to study them. They contained graphic descriptions (and occasionally diagrams) of what they would do to mortals if they got the chance. How many hours had the great general sat by candlelight in his chambers reading with his eyes shining and muzzle drooling? Too many to count. His hand was a poor substitute for the dripping maws and squeezing orifices discussed in those dusty bestiaries.

Reality was so much more intense.

Lewd squelches emerged from between the general's thighs as the creature chewed on his sex, desperately seeking his mortal essence. Another beast latched onto his testicles and tugged on them, eliciting a gasp from its victim. A third jumped up and grabbed onto the fox's expanding knot, squeezing it like a customer testing a tomato at a market. Reynario collapsed forward onto his hands and knees, his groin wrapped in a flurry of activity.

“Ah…AHHHH!” he groaned, pounding his fist into the splintered remains of the floor as he was milked like a common dairy cow. His body tingled and tensed, preparing for a monumental orgasm. The flytrap on his balls scrambled for purchase as its mouthful of flesh drew upward.

“OHOHOHO! HOW FASCINATING!” an enormous, reverberating voice cried. It sounded as if it were coming from every direction at once. “WELL DONE, MY DARLINGS!”

The flytraps dropped off of Reynario's body in an instant before retreating to the corners of the room. Despite the muggy air, the fox's spit-soaked tackle felt cold as it hung neglected between his thighs.

“W-Wha!?” Reynario stuttered, kneeling and looking frantically around. From the hallway, he could hear the muffled sounds of Brann struggling with something.

Darkness pooled within the holes in the floor that the plants had burst from. Reynario's vulpine eyes could not penetrate it. Something was emerging.

A torrent of writhing black slugs surged into the room like a geyser. The pillar of swarming annelids rose up, looming over the stunned fox.

“Good evening!” a female voice cried from within the squirming mass.

All at once, the leeches fell away, revealing what lay within their cocoon. It was a scrawny coyote-kin, her perky breasts and vulva fully exposed. The only odd thing about her was that the flesh below her elbows and knees was furless, black, and coated in shimmering mucus. She smirked at Reynario, running her gooey hands over her tits.

“Mmm. So you're a Warrior Monk, huh? And you came here for little ol’ me? I'm flattered, dear!” the coyote crooned. “My name is Millicent.”

“Millicent,” Reynario rasped. “You've made a pact with a demon. Do you understand what that means?”

She threw her head back, laughing derisively. “And you let a demonic plant eat your cock for supper. We are sinners, all!”

“I–” Reynario trailed off, closing his thighs around his penis.

“There's no need to explain yourself to me. I've been where you are. Fantasizing. Yearning,” Millicent cooed, swishing her hips as she approached the fox. He watched, fascinated as she crouched before him, deliberately parting her thighs. “Let's put aside these adolescent dreams. We're adults. Our bodies have so much pleasure to offer each other!”

Millicent sprawled out on her back with a dramatic flourish of her strange arms. Her amorphous hands slid under her knees and pulled them back, exposing herself fully to Reynario. His eyes gazed at the lips of her sex with unguarded lust.

“Go ahead,” she whispered, her eyes locking with his. “Stick it in. I promise she doesn’t bite.”

Reynario opened his muzzle to speak, but only a choking sound emerged. His thighs parted, revealing his steely hardness. Crawling forward on all fours, he approached the befouled female until her scruffy tail swished between his knees. His hand gripped the base of his cock, aiming it at the entrance of her puffy sex.

“You hesitate even now?” Millicent pouted. “Well, let me help!”

The coyote's pussy yawned open and distended as a tentacle darted out and grabbed the tip of Reynario's penis with its soggy lips.

“Oh…oh shit,” he groaned as he watched the uncanny appendage slam itself down his length and over his knot. Muscular swallowing motions massaged him in waves. His hand fumbled into his pocket, grasping for the holy water flask. Pulling it out, he began yanking at the cork.

“I think not!” Millicent shouted, her arm whipping forward. The mutated portion extended unnaturally, sending her clawed hand into the flask with such force that it sailed horizontally from Reynario's grip and shattered against a wall.

“BRANN, HELP!” Reynario shrieked, tugging fruitlessly at the tentacle writhing between his legs.

—

“BRANN, HELP!”

Brann ground his teeth and delivered another haymaker to a flytrap as it lunged at him. The plant thudded against the counter and crumpled into a green pile. The swarm threatened to overwhelm him at any second. A cheeky plant swooped in from behind and grabbed a tattered piece of his trousers in its mouth, tearing away the crotch of his trousers. Seeing his vulnerable equine maleness was now undefended, the monsters surged forward with maws agape.

“By the Lady!” the horse shouted as sloppy lips mauled his balls and sheath. The instant that the tip of his penis emerged, a flytrap snapped shut on it. Attempting to pull it off only made it bite down harder, threatening to bruise his tender organ if he persisted in his struggles.

This couldn't go on. He could let the little bastards make the fatal mistake of forcing him to cum, but would there be enough to kill them all? And would he still be able to vanquish whatever was attacking the general? Based on the voice he'd heard earlier, there was little doubt that their mark was a daemonmorph. Such a creature would take everything he had.

Mouths closed over his involuntarily expanding shaft as the horse thrashed on the floor. Every beast that he swatted away was instantly replaced by another. Splitting up had, as he'd already guessed, been a huge mistake.

“In the name of the Lady, stop!” he screamed as his cock endured the demons’ embrace.

A green blur of movement swept across the room. Bulbous plant heads were severed from stems as a tendril swiped through them. The largest of all the flytraps loomed over its siblings, battering them with agile vines wielded like whips. Its head bore a striking pink stripe.

“You!” Brann gasped, recognition flaring.

The rogue flytrap throttled the plants gnawing on Brann's privates, forcing them to release their grip. Taking the opportunity, the horse scrambled to his feet and rushed toward the hallway, demons nipping at his heels all the while.

Thanks, pal. We're sure as hells even now, Brann thought as he spared his unlikely ally one last glance. Stripe fought valiantly against its brethren while they furiously retaliated–provoking them to turn away from their mortal query to concentrate on the greater threat. It was a battle the plant, however large and powerful it was, would surely lose. A pang of sadness thudded within Brann's racing heart as he raced down the hall toward the great general and whatever fresh Hell awaited him.

—

“Oh, it would seem that we have an unexpected guest!” Millicent sighed, turning to regard the Warrior Monk charging into the room.

Brann took in the scene playing out before him, his eyes narrowing in disgust and rage. The organ extending from between the daemonmorph’s thighs like some greasy pseudopenis was furiously milking the general while he panted and winced.

“I can't get free!” Raynard whined. “She's going to make me cum! Fucking do something, horse!”

“I'd hurry, mortal,” Millicent taunted. “This guy's about to shoot his goo, and that's gonna juice me up real nice. I'll snap your thick neck like a twig.”

Brann considered his options, grinding his molars as the only path forward materialized in his mind.

Shit.

“Well, we're fucked!” Brann groaned, throwing up his hands. “Might as well put this to use before I bite the big one,” he continued, waggling his half-hard prick in Millicent's direction.

“You monks are ten times hornier than I anticipated,” Millicent jeered, crossing her arms over her small breasts. “Why don't you stand over there and wait your turn?”

“No, thanks. Let's just do this,” Brann rasped, stomping over to Reynario.

“Er, really?” Millicent giggled, watching him straddle Reynario's sprawled body. “Pretty kinky! This, I gotta see!”

“Horse, you can't be serious!” Reynario whispered harshly. “I order you to–ahh!”

Brann growled in his throat as he pressed the flared tip of his prick against the fox's pubic fur, where the tendril had swallowed him to the sheath. Sensing the presence of another male, the already distended tube yawned and mouthed at the horseflesh. Brann pushed his hips forward, feeling Reynario's engorged vulpine penis sliding against the underside of his. Just like that, they were both swallowed by the coyote's diabolical growth.

“Incredible! I should have known you monks would be this depraved!” Millicent cackled. “Let's see which one of you finishes first! My bet’s on the horse!”

“Same here,” Brann grunted as he slammed himself into her to the hilt. It had to be him. If the fox fed her his energy, who knows what the daemonmorph would do with her new strength?

“C-Captain,” Reynario wheezed. “You're making me…”

The general had been trying his best to minimize friction against his tingling cock, but the addition of a massive slab of horsemeat made that impossible. Millicent’s writhing tentacle rubbed the two males together as it squirmed.

“Sorry, general,” Brann grunted as his hand swept down and thwacked against his superior's fuzzy white balls.

A sharp, keening noise emerged from Reynario's gaping muzzle as his teary eyes stared sightlessly into the ceiling. All at once, his impending orgasm was annihilated.

“Damn. I guess you were serious about winning,” Millicent remarked, her smirk fading into a confused frown.

“You bet your ass I am, monster!” Brann panted, pounding his erection in and out of her slurping, suckling flesh. Every ounce of willpower was at work suppressing the rage he felt for his general’s stupidity and the disgust he felt toward Millicent. He had to think sexy thoughts, and nothing else. His mind turned back to the demonic botanist basset hound that he'd lost his virginity to. In his mind’s eye, he saw her heaving breasts bouncing as he impaled her thirsty pussy. Her eyes had gazed into his in a way that made him feel needed, adored, and fully male. He could almost smell her.

“Ah…Andra,” Brann groaned as a familiar pressure crescendoed in his loins.

“How rude!” Millicent snarled. “So I'm not good enough, am I!? Can your ‘Andra’ do this!?”

Brann recoiled as the coyote's right arm surged forward. Instead of going for his neck as he expected, it cooled its long, elastic fingers around the portion of her sex bulging around the flared head of his cock. Squeezing him through her own flesh, she began pumping the sleeve rapidly over his weak point. Firm ridges lining the interior slapped against the edge of his tip so quickly that it felt like it was vibrating. Guttural noises involuntarily emerged from Brann's throat as Millicent employed her finishing move.

“To hell with mercy!” the daemonmorph snarled. “I was going to take my time, but I've had enough of you, horse. Your balls will shrivel like grapes in the sun when I'm finished!”

The strokes never slowed, even as the orgasmic throbbing began. Gold-tinged semen roared into the tube as the exhausted horse slumped to the floor.

“Haha, works every time!” Millicent crowed. “Males are so path–AH!?”

A golden glow flowed up the tentacle and into the stunned coyote's vagina. Like a fizzling fuse attached to a stick of dynamite, her body erupted in a blinding gaze of holy light as soon as the anointed cum completed its journey.

“What in the hells!? How is this possible!?” the daemonmorph shrieked as her body gradually lost its form.

“Blessed balls,” Brann gasped up at the ceiling. “Works every time.”

The demon's furious screams mercifully faded into nothing as the power of Landraste erased her vile existence. Soon the light dimmed until it was a tiny glowing ember where the coyote had once stood. Brann sat up and watched as a single leech, its spasming body flickering with The Lady's blessed glow, gradually grew still and perished. He sat in silence, his mind composing an earnest prayer of thanks to his Lord. Behind him, a frantic wet slapping noise began.

“Wha–” Brann groaned, turning to face the source of this new cacophony. What he saw banished all of the pious thoughts from his mind.

General Reynario sat cross-legged, one fist pounding over his throbbing length while the other squeezed his knot. The fluid lubricating his self-abuse had an ethereal golden glow. Fury surged through the horse's weary mind as he witnessed the highest of all the Warrior Monks engaging in the most blatant sacrilege that he had ever witnessed a mortal perform (and that was saying a lot). Reynario’s eyes were shut too tightly in pre-orgasmic ecstasy to see that he had an audience.

“Ooooh, fucking hells!” Reynario groaned as jets of cloudy fluid spritzed from his tip and splashed over the shattered floor.

The only sound in the ruined shucking hall was the fox’s heavy breathing and the dripping of two flagging erections. Brann tore off his shirt and tied the sleeves around his waist into a makeshift apron. His enraged gaze never left Reynario, who sat shamelessly with his thighs apart.

“That was incredible, captain,” Reynario sighed, opening his eyes at long last. “You really are blessed. I don't know why I ever doubted you.”

“Well, the evidence of my pact with The Lady is currently smeared all over your cock, so I'm glad I made a believer out of you,” Brann huffed, turning and stomping toward the hallway.

“Hey, horse!” Reynario shouted, stumbling to his feet and hoisting up his pants. Brann stopped mid-stride. “Now that I anointed myself, do you suppose there's any chance I'll have the same blessing you do?”

Brann didn't reply. He didn't even turn around to face his great general. Instead, he continued walking through the ruined facility. The floor, or what was left of it, was littered with brown and shriveled plants. Among them was the large flytrap with the pink stripe, its jaws torn apart and its stem torn.

“Sorry, friend,” the horse murmured before making his way outside.

The night's darkness was diminished by a radiant moon, which sparkled over the steadily churning water of the inlet. Reynario soon emerged from the shack, his eyes glowing green as the dim light reflected off of them.

“Well, captain, despite everything the job is done,” Reynario said, slinking around the horse and gazing up at him with a mild smirk. “So here's what I propose: You let me lead you back into town with my elite peepers, we go find where they dropped off our trunk at the hotel, and then we'll go see what the nightlife looks like in this hole. Celebrate our victory.”

“‘Our’?” Brann grumbled.

Reynario's bemused demeanor instantly faded. His jowls drew up to reveal the ivory gleam of his teeth, and his eyes betrayed an emotion Brann had never seen before. He thought, perhaps, that it could very well be madness.

“Yes, boy. Ours,” General Reynario rasped, his index finger lancing painfully into Brann's bare belly. “Nearly the entire church is critical of you. Half the diocese literally wants your balls taken off. Your current state of being calls into question every word of scripture and every papal edict. You have one ally. One person who knows beyond any shadow of a doubt that you are chosen by our God. That's me. Lose me, and you're done. Am I wrong?”

Brann frowned, his mind consumed by sorrow. Nothing Reynario had said rang untrue. Despite having a personal relationship with the God of this universe, he'd never felt more alone than he did at that very moment.

“No,” he replied.

“Great!” Reynario chirped, removing his prodding finger and clapping his hands together. “Now, let's be on our way! The night is yet young! And horse?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Save for the valiant defeat of our demonic enemy, none of this happened.”

—

The town inn was, unsurprisingly, next to the pub–which thrummed with dozens of voices trying to talk over one another and the out-of-tune piano plinking away under the clumsy fingers of a drunken bison-kin. Reynario strode in wearing his shimmering silken finery and immediately approached a female fox, who was soon smitten with his charm and prodigious coin purse. Brann, on the other hand, made his way silently to the bar in his plain linen trousers and shirt. After receiving his ale, he sipped on it while watching the Great General work his magic on the giggling vixen. She did not, of course, know that he was the Great General. As Reynario took her hand and whisked her off toward his room, he found himself hoping that she would never find out. That knowledge would be very detrimental for her safety, particularly if this rendezvous ended in the birth of a bastard.

Unbeknownst to both Warrior Monks, it would.