FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

“This sucks. This place sucks. You suck."

Pik's splendid review of the port town Chauste did little to dissuade Edwin. It was no mainland city, certainly, no grand palace enthroned with massive pearl citadels rimmed with blue and gold. But it was peaceful, quaint. Out of the way. And right now, the two needed to be every bit “out of the way."

“Now, now, Pik, nothing wrong with stretching your legs."

Well, Edwin had an advantage over his short companion. His lean, pensive frame was tall and promising, his steps taking great strides over the grassy cobblestone. By comparison, Piks short hops were practically scurries, and more often than not he had to stop for her.

“Are you calling me fat!?"

Edwin paused, stopping at a street corner. The evening sun was bright today, showering the town in dull tones of reddish gold. Pleasant, but, he preferred the dark. Pik strode up next to him, huffing, her wide-eyed features sagged with a furious scowl.

“Mm, you're the one always promoting your generous backside," Edwin said, taking stock of his surroundings.

The imp growled. “That's different!"

Some across the street glanced at them, but moved along. Edwin looked down at his companion, finger coming to his covered mouth.

“Let's not make a fuss. I'd prefer eyes look away."

Her green cheeks went a violent flush of red. “Oh you're just loving this, aren't you!?"

Well. . . it was a little amusing. Pik wasn't herself. Literally. Strange as it sounds, but Myn and Myr weren't too keen on otherworldly folk. Seeing an imp put them in foul tempers, it did, and Pik was nothing but. No doubt, a spry demonette for a companion provided a host of its own challenges, personality aside, one being her appearance. Normally she was a troublesome thing, a mischief maker coming to his waist in height, a splash of winding white hair accompanying her deep blackish-green horns (one cracked like a tooth). Vivid, wide eyes complimented her petite yet oddly 'excessive' physique, and if she wasn't using her rows of fangs for spitting insults, they were oft chewing on something. . . meaty.

Now, instead, her faded scarlet skin was switched for a pleasant greenish hue of the multicolored Fey. Her long, pointed ears were adorned with gold fastenings, and her white hair now a river of jet. Even wore a “dress" fitting of her station, though she loathed the walking. She cheated the ground with levitation, and now it had its revenge.

“No, no," Edwin said, attempting a lie. Pik rolled her eyes. “Alright, perhaps a bit."

She flipped him off.

“Know what I think's amusing?" she challenged, crossing arms. “Getting the town guard. Think they'd pass up a stud like you? No! They'll spear you right through your virgin ass!"

Edwin blinked. Could never tell sometimes if she were serious or no.

“Sexual innuendos? Now I know you're grumpy."

Nudging aside, they did need to move things along. Pik couldn't keep her form like this forever. Cloaking was a draining ability as is, but her brand of “aura" tended to attract. . . unpleasant things. Just as well, seeing a Marshguard so far from his post (see: several hundred miles) was bound to rouse suspicion. Citizens weren't keen on demons or spooks, much less a ghastly set of stilts and his foul-mouthed companion.

“Don't jerk me around, Eddy, or I'll jerk something right off you!" she snarled.

Edwin started down the street. This was the way, yes? Chauste was a port town, but home to a slew oddities. Fey and Fen – the short folk of greenish complexion – were common too, along with the alien arts they so feverishly concocted.

“Okay, okay! Not much longer, Pik, I promise."

Best they find something out of the way, and soon. Pik was all sorts of unpredictable when she was ornery, and she was a coin-flip on the best days.

Relief washed over him when he spied a rusted black fencing touched with strange decor and flowers. Snaking around the metal ribs were pale vines hung with colored skulls, some shrunk, some not. Candles sat upon small stone monoliths and dancing lights accented buildings ahead, choking the air with mysterious hues. Strangers in cloaks and fanciful attires chattered in quiet tongues, traded brass galleons for jars and vials of. . . well Sol only knew what. Poison squid ink? Bee wings? Crushed fungus? Incense accompanied the various transactions, and it was like stepping into another world, a dimension hidden away in the annals of Chauste.

“Wow,' Pik commented as the two strode by the odd gatherings. “What a bunch of weirdos!"

They passed a man with copper eyes and a rope around his neck, another wearing a neck-piece of fish spines, then a dark-skinned man with tiny fires in his hat.

“I like em'!" she added.

“Let's hope they have a similar opinion," Edwin muttered, stepping through the crowds. At least here he didn't capture too much attention. His lean frame hid beneath a veil of thick, black leather, a long overcoat mixed with wrappings shielding him from light. Boots and dense gloves accented a hunter's hat and, were it not for the sliver between his hat and nose, he'd look like a moving shadow. Necessities for poison swamps and marshes. In public? Conversations deteriorate.

“Hmm. . . I think there. . ." gestured Edwin.

Ahead slept a building, not too dissimilar from its brethren, save it was crowned with an indecipherable text, torches beckoning with warm light. Here, in Chauste, Edwin and Pik sought particular company, a parlor for both rest and information. The town was a port, and beyond it lie the isle Kadro, and within it, well. Peppers.

Peppers as wild and varied as the barnacles on a ship's chin, of bizarre colors and intense flavors. Rumor had it the peppers of Kadro could grow the size of a babe's head, stay ripe through winter, and maintain their heat in the most brutal of atmospheres. But it wasn't just exotic seasoning that drew wary travelers. Some said the peppers held special magical qualities. Perhaps even medicinal. The notion alone was enough to draw Edwin and Pik like ants to honey.

This parlor, then, likely contained the details they sought. If nothing else, a respite from the city light and even the hands always eager to tie their noose.

“Oh," said Edwin, stopping to gander at the scrawlings. “What is that? Enkrit? Vathscript?"

Pik, for a moment, eased off her salty demeanor. “Erm. . ."

“Mutterings," said a cold, shrill voice. Edwin snapped his attention, spying a huddled figure at the building steps, drowning in brown rags. No part of the person was visible.

“Pardon?"

“They are mutterings. . ." it rasped.

Edwin blinked, looking at Pik. His imp companion shrugged.

“Thanks, ominous loon," she shot back.

She started to step forward, only for the figure to continue.

“Mutterings to change your fate. . ."

“Oh my god he's still going," she spat, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

Edwin gave his friend a kind pat. “Erm. Pik. Why don't you hop inside? Find us a table or something? I'll. . . see to this gentleman."

She looked at him, ear twitching, glancing between the huddled mass and the Marshguard.

“Don't empty your pockets out this time," she grumbled. “Not drunk enough for another train."

Edwin coughed. She had. . . creative ways to acquire income.

“I won't. I'll be with you shortly."

With a sigh, the “Fey" imp wandered beyond the building, while Edwin went to the reposing gent, kneeling.

“Sorry, friend? Mutterings you say?"

A hand appeared from the forest of brown rags. Pale, thin, and covered in green buboes, rife with pain and blistering disease.

Edwin looked, grimacing. A nasty pox, not native to the isle, that was for sure. He took his own gloved fingers and pressed it into the quivering palm.

“You're unwell, friend."

It rasped, voice cold and ragged. “The mutterings. . . beware the mutterings. . . beware your fate. . ."

Edwin wasn't foolish enough to spurn the words of a stranger, not anymore. Old loons often had something to say, and there was always something to take stock in.

“Fate, you say? Why? This place gambles with your fate?"

A weak breath, trembling. “Trade. . . nothing. . ."

Edwin squeezed the hand in comfort, going over the festering limb carefully. “This is Black Pox, friend. Here. . ."

He fiddled with the innards of his coat, pulling out a small glass tube. Inside was a dark, viscous liquid that smelled of bitter vinegar and tasted just as bad.

“Fish marrow and grave worm paste. Drink it thrice a day till the blisters fade. Stay out of the light."

He pushed the medoc in the weak thing's fingers, forcing them closed. “Thanks for the tip."

The rags didn't respond, save for another whisper. Mutterings. It retrieved the medoc and went silent. Hmm. That was cryptic. Mutterings, in front of a parlor he didn't recognize, musing over fate, stricken with Black Pox, a mainland infection. Kadro was a charming place.

Edwin slipped past the building entrance, a charming door draped in orange flowers, more painted bones, and a collection of spider legs. Lovely! He expected the worst as he entered. But instead, a warm, welcoming ambiance fell over him, the heartful glow of pinkish-red lights dotting shadowy corners where families of small tables littered a (mostly) quite interior. Silhouettes huddled together, exchanging strange words – some tall, some not. Most of them didn't bother regarding Edwin with so much as a glance, something he preferred.

Snakes of thin smoke touched the air, lending an aroma of harsh tobacco. There was something else too, something pleasant – like a perfume – but Edwin couldn't spy a source. What he did, though, was a less than subtle Pik hopping on a table, glaring at him as he entered.

“COME ON!" she hissed. This drew grumbles from some of the patrons, so Edwin was swift to join her.

“Keep your voice down," he cautioned. “Strangers are strangers."

She waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, a bunch of cripples and drunks. Soooo scary."

Her eyes danced hither and dither. “But look."

Edwin certainly did not look, because a tall cloaked man scoping out a building's interior was nothing but suspicious. He could feel the alarmed eyes on him.

“Ya' hear that?"

Edwin shook his head. “I hear only one thing right now."

PIk ignore him. “That's the sweet, sweet sound of cards and coin. Gambling. And you know I'm a regular shark!"

Edwin blinked. “You're joking."

“I win every game."

“It's because you set everything on fire!"

Pik gave a wide shrug. “So?"

Edwin rubbed his nose through cloth. “For once, Pik, I'd like to not be chased out a town."

She remained unconvinced.

“Well we're not a charity and that trip from the mainland set us back. You got any better ideas?"

A pregnant pause filled the air. Edwin cleared his throat.

“. . .there's always your uh, services," he said.

She scowled. “Fuck that. Half the dicks around here are probably cursed, anyway. Look, trust me, we'll make off like bandits!"

He sighed, defeated. “That's what I'm afraid of."

He mused to suggest something else, but his conversation was interrupted by a small voice, cracked and ragged.

“S'cuse me lad," it said. Edwin glanced, then down. It was a Fen, of dull grey flesh and small, beady yellow eyes. It wore a grimace of sharp teeth crusted with false bone and what looked like mold. A terribly unpleasant thing with withered features and angry complexion.

Edwin smiled.

“Check in ya' weapons, or there be trouble."

Pik leaned over the table, frowning. “Weapons!? What are you talking about!"

Edwin raised a hand. “It's all right."

He nodded. “Of course sir. Somewhere to check in?"

The Fen glanced between the two, grumbling at Pik. He gestured to Edwin. “F'low me."

Edwin looked at his companion. “Be right back. Don't cause any trouble."

There would probably be trouble.

Loathe Edwin was to cause further problems, though. He met the smaller creature at something like a foyer. Behind the desk was an armada of strange oddities. Likely an array of alcohol, drugs, and “remedies." If the Black Pox outside was any indication, best to avoid them. The Fen sat himself on a tall stool, giving Edwin a suspicious once over. Probably the attire.

In a show of good faith, Edwin removed his hat. Lights ran over splash of white-silver hair, accenting his pale, bluish eyes. He wouldn't pull down the scarf, though, the air was bothersome enough. The Fen scrunched his features, leering up at the spook.

“The hell be a swampfoot doin' 'round here?"

Edwin kept his tone pleasant. “Travelling, sightseeing. Looking for information."

The Fey gave a suspicious growl. “Travelers is trouble." He tapped the desk.

“Well? Let's 'ave em."

By 'them' the Fen meant Edwin's weapons. Good eye, this creature. He opened his cloak and pulled free a family of handguns. Arcane shotcasters with thin muzzles, a pair of blackwood flintlocks, a Solarian revolver, three segments to a Vausian rifle, a wrist gun, a rotund blunderbuss, and a twine-based knife launcher. Oh, and the spare pistol hugging the interior of his left boot. He set them down with practiced swiftness, making sure he'd spared enough to convince the Fen. Oh, he wasn't bare, not at all, there were pockets of explosives and shells full of Hellbite, but the greeter didn't need to know that, did he?

“Hmph."

The Fen looked none too impressed. Based on his withered demeanor, Edwin wasn't the first to sport an entourage of weaponry, he guessed. All the same, he took each weapon with a degree of care, setting them in a wooden fixture behind him.

“You'll have em' back when you leave."

His beady eyes drifted past Edwin.

“Wot about the imp?" he said, leaning to glance over at Pik who was promptly assaulting tables for a game of cards.

Edwin hesitated. “Imp?"

The Fen pointed. “Stop futzin' with me. Imp. Plain as me arse. A Fey-lass don't have ears pointin' that way. Your friend is sloppy."

Oh, Sol. Well, no use in arguing.

“Ah. Well. We'll work on that. She is ah, unarmed."

“Peh. She's botherin' my guests."

Edwin pressed his hat into chest, apologetic. “Your guests? Are you the owner?"

“One of em'. Ogwit."

Edwin nodded. “I see. Well, mister Ogwit, we won't be a problem, I'll see to that," he said, gaze going over to Pik again, who apparently found herself a row with another Fey, similar to her stature.

Ogwit spat. “Travelers is always trouble. Mind y'self, or we'll have you at the gallows."

“Of course."

With formalities out of the way, Ogwit chewed his words, musing over something. “You just here to scare my customers?"

Ah, of course. Silver and gold made friends fast.

“No, no, not at all. I suppose I fancy a drink, and a room if you have it."

Ogwit grumbled again. “We'll start with drinks."

Edwin was relieved! But, before he had a chance to voice his taste, the owner shuffled off to retrieve a glass and a black bottle, filled with a. . . questionable liquid. Guess it was the house specialty. Well, Edwin was in no hurry to offend the colorful locals, so he took a seat at the bar as Ogwit fetched him something. A glass materialized before the Marshguard, tinted a deep-brownish red by the accompanying alcohol. It looked and smelled of poison.

Edwin pulled free a pair of copper pences, assuming the price, thanking the owner. But before his metal reached the table, a hand coalesced next to him, pushing forward a thrice-family of shimmering patronage.

“I'll cover this one, Oggy."

Ogwit created a sound that was a mix of annoyance and here we fucking go again. Edwin glanced, his benefactor coming to light.

A lithe figure leaned into the wooden frame, bearing svelte, yet rather ambiguous dimensions. Soft alabaster white fur peppered with pink freckles matched a tempting visage, with eyes as pale as snow. Long ears, a scruff of well-kept hair, and an attire blending between formal and provocative made up the character of this. . . fellow?

Edwin blinked. The newcomer gave him a once-over with a curious, come-hither gaze. Features of a rabbit, much like the Myr of the southlands, save this one was far more elegant. Their fur carried an alluring sheen and the gentle tinge of perfume wafted from them. Quite noticeable through the stench of acrid smoke and alcohol.

“Pfh. Slow night then, is it?" shot back Ogwit, looking the other over with a hint of disdain, retrieving the payment.

The stranger wasn't deterred. “You've got me all wrong. I love welcoming new guests."

Yes, yes Edwin was sure now. Though the person carried an effeminate demeanor (to put it mildly) they were certainly male. His voice was like warm velvet, soothing and strange, full of dark promise. There was something else, too. Edwin spent enough time with Pik and company like her to sniff out those familiar with the “other side." There was more here than just a well-dressed rabbit.

He clicked his tongue. “Really, Oggy? Our gentle sieur is weary and you're passing him this swill?"

They procured another coin, this time a silver. “Get him the good stuff."

Another grumble from Ogwit, who took the payment apprehensively. “You keep ya' tricks out o' my place, y'hear?"

The rabbit looked to Edwin, waving his hand. “Don't mind the old scruff. He's a little cranky, his lady's put their night life on the kabosh, you see."

A dark growl. “MARCHAND."

Now a giggle. “Oh, I tease, I tease, Oggy. Now be a dear and fetch something nice for the boy. Still have some of your Summerwine?

The Fen bristled with simmering rage but bit his tongue – perhaps literally – padding off to find a more suitable drink. But, Edwin was not one to turn down an offering, so, he took a swig of the first drink. It was like brine and fire, absolutely awful.

This 'Marchand' gave a surprised squeak. “Oh. I've never seen anyone down the local brew so. . . bravely."

Edwin coughed, giving the other his attention. “It's bad luck to turn down a drink."

Marchand tilted his head, leaning in a touch closer. “Mm? A mainland superstition. Fancying a guess, you're not from around here, no?"

Edwin chuckled. “What gave it away?"

A slap of hands against a table and a jubilant yelp grabbed his attention. Pik was seated in the corner, standing in her chair, looking all sorts of pleased. Her opponent was another short Fey, looking quite flushed. And. . . started pulling away one of their clothes. Oh no, Pik!

“Ah, pardon, I think I need to 'attend' to my friend."

Marchand reached over and rest his hand over Edwin's arm with an agile, delicate movement. It was like a calm radiance poured into him, settling his concerns at once.

“Oh, your little troublemaker is all right, m'promise. Everyone respects the cards in here."

Ogwit returned too, climbing up his stool to push over the mentioned Summerwine and a glass. He poured one for Edwin, and Marchand, who took it with enthuse.

“Besides," purred Marchand, “Despite the decorum of this shanty town, you can't pass on this wine. What did you say, it's bad luck?"

Edwin stared at the dark scarlet liquid, conceding. He thanked Ogwit again, offering a nod. “Yes, I suppose you're right."

A glance to Pik. “So long as nothing catches fire. . ."

He pulled down his scarf again to sip at the drink, and it was far more pleasant. Tasted of fermented fruit and spiced honey, coupled with a pleasant, subtle burn.

“Thank you," said Edwin. “Marchand, was it?"

The rabbit smirked, glancing to Ogwit. “That'll be all, Oggy."

The Fen made a series of ugly sounds and marched off. Marchand's ears flagged, giving Edwin all his attention.

“Marchand," he said, correcting Edwin with a slight accent. Edwin didn't recognize it, though it was airy and refined. Maybe something closer to the Solarian capitals? He certainly held all the attire suited for “high society."

The rabbit took a deep sip from his glass, adopting a half-lidded stare. Strange eyes, this one. They danced like crystals, so pale yet so inviting. And, he had to admit, Marchand held attractive qualities. Across the room you'd have never guessed him for a lad.

“Well, Marchand," said Edwin, perching his arm on the bar table. “I don't mean to sound crass, but, hospitality isn't usually free. Especially around places like these, and especially with strangers."

Marchand tilted his head. “Mmm?"

Edwin looked around, as though seeking out 'additional' company. When a lovely thing approached you, offered you drinks, and gave you a beckoning look, odds are there was something afoot. What was it? Was this fine strumpet working on behalf of a brothel or rowdy pimp? Was he bait for a crowd of brigands ready to strip Edwin of his less-than-exceptional wealth once the pants were off? Besides, there was a. . . different aura about this Marchand. Edwin couldn't quite place it, though. Comforting but, odd.

“I don't normally make bets but I'll wager you aren't here for small talk.'

Marchand offered a chuckle. “Oh my, mister Edwin. So mysterious and suspicious. You think little ol' me is trouble?"

“Your friend seems to have a bothered opinion of you."

Ogwit mentioned something about tricks, and if the bundled of infected rags was any indication, Edwin best keep his guard up.

Marchand ran his finger around the rim of his wine glass. “Of course he does. He's such a lonely thing, made so many passes at me, y'see. Between you and me, his cock's on ice, the poor dear."

Edwin shuddered at the thought.

“I'm just trying to keep you nice and warm, stranger," added the lapin with a dark smile.

Edwin broke his gaze, taking another sip of wine. Not the best idea when you're trying to maintain your wits.

“You'll pardon me if I keep things cool."

Marchand shifted, just so, getting closer. His warm aura beckoned at Edwin, as did the scent of soothing perfume.

“And that makes you so much more interesting. Besides, aren't you here for information?"

Edwin stopped, glaring down at the rabbit. He was a foot over Marchand, and he used this height to advantage.

“Now, how's a delicate thing like you know about what we want?" said the Marshguard, carrying a hint of threat in his voice.

Marchand giggled, flicking his long ear. “These, sweetheart."

Edwin wasn't convinced. “You practice the mystical art of eavesdropping, do you?"

A soft shrug. “I dabble here and there. I like taking chances."

Marchand noticed Edwin's growing concern. “Now, now, my silver-haired sieur, put those mean eyes away. I've seen them from fellas thrice your size. You've nothing to fear from me."

Edwin sighed. “Heard that before."

Before Marchand could simper and wordsmith another tension-laced sentence, their attention was caught by a proud, shrill voice.

“HEY EDDY!"

The Marshguard almost jumped, coughing. At his side coalesced the grinning, wide eyed Pik, her features yanked with a proud, toothy expression. She wasn't alone though. Next to her was a blushing Fen, the same one from the table, her bluish cheeks tinted a fine color of rose.

“Look what I won!" she said, patting her companion who squeaked at the touch. Edwin noted the secondary was a bit lacking in the clothing department. Marchand regarded this 'intruder' with graceful caution.

“Oh, Pik, Pik. What have you gone and done?" Edwin chastised.

The Fey murmured to herself, in disbelief. “I, um, lost."

Pik smiled wider, if that were even possible. “You bet your sweet fat ass ya' did!" She accompanied this jubilation with a firm smack.

“Got us some winnings! And company!"

Pik swirled the poor lass around, making a show of the impish girl's rear. “She's huge! Ya' wanna take a crack at this?"

Edwin buried his hands in gloves. “Pik. No."

“I like your moxy, little one," Marchand interjected, giggling. “And Kess? Oh, you sweet dear, what possessed you to play for skin?"

This 'Kess' flushed and glanced to Marchand. “I didn't know!"

Pik was quick to give Edwin's new 'company' a once over. “Woh, eh? Who? Hey Eddy, who's the pretty boy?"

Edwin grumbled. This was getting out of hand. “It's. . . just a polite patron, Pik. That's all. We were just talking."

Pik remained unconvinced, looking between Edwin and Marchand. Slowly, her grin faded, replaced with a suggestive, knowing smirk. She stared at Marchand a while too, eyes dazzling, like she knew something. And then she chittered with pleased laughter.

“Uh huh."

She sneered at Marchand. “Oooo. Yeah. I see you're real preoccupied here, Eddy.

Pik retrieved a small pouch and tossed at Edwin, who snapped it from the air.

“Well, anyway. That. Don't go blowin' all that for a handie. That's for the road. Now, if you'll 'scuse me. . ."

Edwin thought to stop his companion, but she was on a warpath. Not even other patrons would dare interfere. The “Fey" was about to have her victory prize, and all it entailed. Sol help them all.

Edwin stowed the coinpurse in his long coat, looking back to Marchand, defeated. The rabbit was wearing a victorious smile, leaning ever closer, as though this cracked apart the Marshguard's reserved demeanor.

“I love your little friend," he said. “Gets what she wants, I take it?"

Edwin huffed. Well, at least Pik's new. . . pursuit wasn't going to cause any more trouble. He hoped. There was another thing: Pik, bombastic as she was, could sense danger, or sniff out trouble when it roused itself. Granted, she was the trouble most of the time, but, if she didn't get any bad vibes off this Marchand, perhaps Edwin needed to be a touch more trusting. What's the worst that could happen?

Edwin took another swig of wine. “In a manner of speaking."

Hmm. The warm taste of the alcohol filled him with a pleasant buzz, like his chest was set next to a kind flame. Stuff worked fast. And Marchand was so. . . shapely, in his own way. The allure of perfume taxed his concentration, and every word out of the fellow's mouth – troublesome or no – was like liquid silk, lulling him.

It was like Marchand sensed this. He slid closer, and again, his hand crept over Edwin's arm. But this time, it didn't leave, and this time, Edwin didn't bristle.

“You ought to be more like her," he cooed. “Could learn a thing or two."

Edwin snorted. “I'm the reason we're not hanging from a noose."

A tongue click. “Oh? My, my, Edwin, we get into all sorts of trouble, do we?"

The lapin squeezed. It filled Edwin with new waves of radiating heat. A different kind, though welcome all the same. Steady, steady, don't lose yourself here. . .

“I find that so hard to believe," added Marchand. “How could a handsome traveler like yourself get into mischief, mm?"

For the briefest of moments, Edwin dropped his guard. Worse things could happen, he supposed.

“That's what happens when you look for peppers."

Marchand blinked. No doubt, it utterly perplexed him. “. . .peppers?"

Oops. Ah, well. No harm in telling now, was there? If the lithe rabbit hinted at information, perhaps he knew something himself.

“Yes, well. There are rare ones growing in regions around the world. Bit of a legend, that. Something about an old food god prancing around the lands, seeding the earth with their fancy brand of peppers. Point is, the one's we're after are special. Medicinal, even magical, in quality."

Marchand took gentle sips as Edwin explained.

“We heard rumor there were some growing around the isle. The Kadro Revenant."

Marchand feigned a gasp. “What an awful name."

Again, Edwin felt those soft fingers squeeze, and gentle tingles roiled through him. He felt like saying more.

“Well, named right then. They grow near grave sites, I hear. So, that's what we're after."

Marchand offered a curious ear wiggle. “And I take it you'd like to know the way, mm?"

The Summerwine caused Edwin's mind to swim. After a glass or two, it was taking its toll, and the buzz blossomed into a sense of strange, tipsy joy. And every time this damn Marchand spoke, it was so. . . entrancing. Like he could listen to the voice for hours and hours. The perfumes, the sensations, all were starting to work together in a brilliant concoction of, well. Want.

He'd been on the road for a long, long while. The sea, too, provided little comfort. Pik was so rambunctious and he didn't get 'involved' with her unless he was drowning under a few bottles. Something about self-control, something about don't get too frisky with an impulsive imp.

His flesh yearned. Ideas flashed through his mind. The moving shadows of himself and Marchand. He shivered.

“Better than taking a chance, I'd say."

Marchand drifted closer, and his arm slithered around Edwin's waist. The Marshguard didn't resist, invited it really. As he did, the rabbit procured a card from seemingly nowhere. Three, in fact.

“Chances are so much fun, though," he purred. In one, quick motion, he set them on the bar with frightening skill, splaying them before Edwin.

“Want to flip one and see where you land?"

A small, sensible voice called out in Edwin's mind. Didn't that ball of pox outside say something about fate? This seems awfully fate-like.

Hmm.

This is true. But, are you even looking at him?

Yes, unfortunately. He was looking a lot, and Marchand knew it.

“What am I putting up?"

Marchand gave a suggestive smirk, carrying a gaze a bit too knowing. “You've already bet."

Oh. Good. Nothing like stakes you aren't even aware of. Or, perhaps the rabbit was flirting in his very specific way. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Edwin scanned over the cards. He assumed he needed to flip one over, so now it was a matter of choosing. Was there a wrong answer? What happened if he guessed against his new “acquaintance's" wishes?

Hmm. Well, compared to fighting massive, acid spitting flies or religious fanatics, this wasn't so bad. He and Pik were already risking their necks in Kadro as is.

To the amusement of Marchand, Edwin flipped the left most card. It was a silhouette.

Wait, no. As he looked closer, there were shapes, shapes of people. Two, to be precise. Edwin's eyes widened as realization hit him. . . the shapes were he and Marchand. Tangled up in something. . . explicit.

“My, my, my," cooed Marchand. “Lucky pick."

Well, Edwin had spent enough time with Pik to recognize shifting magic when he saw it. This fellow beside him wasn't just some sultry soothsayer. There was something else lingering behind those pretty eyes and wry smile. Devious, dark. Maybe dangerous? What, exactly, did the “rabbit" want then?

“Hmm," mused Edwin. “You might be trouble."

“The kind of trouble you'd like?" whispered Marchand.

His ears flicked and he gestured softly with his head. “There are more private accommodations, sieur. Your little friend is no doubt enjoying them."

Ah, he was speeding things along now, was he?

“And I trust you'll tell me about the Revenant?"

Marchand withdrew the cards in a single, fluid motion. “Oh, I'm sure we'll find ourselves deep in conversation, my silver-haired friend."

Brr. The alcohol, the perfume, and the warmth all mixed together in a devious concoction. Edwin was out of it, dizzy with the syrup of desire and intrigue. Really, what's the worst that could happen? Lose his soul? That fetid thing was already partitioned thanks to his proximity to Pik. He was getting free drink and what appeared to be a free lay. If this was “it," well, nice way to go out, yes?

Oh, come on, don't be naïve. You know there's something else going on here.

Yes, and?

You're not worried?

Edwin was worried when the poison swamps writhed with centipedes thrice the size of a man. He was well and far away from all that.

What if it's a trap.

. . .in a manner of speaking.

Ghg. The nights were long and cold, the trip here colder. Relying on Pik for “comfort" was just begging for trouble, much as he admired the little hellcat. This damn Marchand and his damn words and his tempting lips and sweet suggestions and supple curves.

Fine, fine. He'd figure out the rest later.

What about Pik?

The she devil was probably showing her horns. Bless the little Kess, the poor thing might not survive.

“Alright Marchand. Lead the way."

The rabbit adorned a dark sneer, oh-so happy to oblige. He snared Edwin by the arm, and with delicate authority, swept him away from the foyer. Edwin had to admit, it was nice to escape the stench of brine-y alcohol and foul tobacco stench. From this angle, he even got to watch Marchand's legs stride, and his lithe grace was enchanting to say the least.

Typically, Edwin didn't think it wise to walk in strange places unarmed, especially with a party he didn't know. But whatever this rabbit had in store. . . it had his attention. The room they entered was down a hall, and though Ogwit cast Marchand an irritated glance as they passed by, he didn't bother to stop them. An expected occurrence? They reached a door with peeled scarlet paint, rather unbecoming to the eye, though within was surprisingly elegant and kept together.

Everything one might need for Marchand's idea of an “evening" was there. Silk bed, warm light, enough privacy to muffle the noise of Chauste and Ogwit's parlor. Very inviting.

Edwin didn't even have time to process his surroundings before a pair of arms slid around his waist form behind.

“Oof, mmn. So good to be outta' all that. You know, puttin' on the whole 'prim-and-proper' courtesan act isn't usually my thing, sieur."

. . . it was Marchand, but it wasn't? It was like his entire persona shifted. While he maintained the dainty accent and regal, soothing voice from before, it was slack now, crass sounding. That, and, his fingers were doing a lot of talking, feeling around Edwin's waist, gently cupping his crotch.

“This the part where you hold me at knife point?" said Edwin, excited heat spreading through him. Marchand strode around, dancing into view, his visage now pulled with a coaxing, lustful expression.

“Naw, ya' got it all wrong, sweetheart! There's only one knife here, and. . ." A squeeze. Edwin grunted, the lapin's gentle palm rubbing his crotch.

“Oh, Sol, it's a big one."

Edwin wasn't planning on any kind of resistance, not at this point. Eh. Problems for later. If he did somehow end up at spearpoint from a local gang trapping young men for lusting after an effeminate barfly, suppose there were worse fates.

“Aren't you supposed to help me find what I'm looking for?" he managed, Marchand tugging at his overcoat with a skilled motion.

The heavy leathers fell with a thunk, ringing from the spare cannisters and explosives hidden within them. This did little but urge Marchand on, massaging the dimensions of Edwin's hidden root.

He licked his lips. “How 'bout helpin' me, first? I'm lookin' too."

Volcanic heat took over Edwin. Ah, blazes and blood! What did this elegant fellow really want, anyway? Something about his eyes and elegant figure. . . hmm. Did he deal with fate? Rearrange what was to be? Edwin wanted to ponder it more except a pair of hands were stuffed into his pants, outright throttling his member.

Edwin tossed his hat to the side. “Bloody bogswamps, busy that mouth of yours, would you?" he said, more pleading than anything. He didn't mind company, especially one so lovely looking as this. Hopefully, this would have a good end. If not, eh. At least he went out with a bang?

Marchand yanked the trousers down. “What's wrong?" he said, glancing up and blinking innocently.

His hand went to lips. “You don't like my conversatin'? Ohhh, Edwin! M'hurt, truly!"

Edwin didn't fancy himself an aggressive man, but boy he was going to slam himself into the lad's throat if he didn't get on with it.

Perhaps Marchand sensed his yearning (oh of course he did, Edwin was hard as a Solarian flak-cannon now), because he slipped to knees, toying with the member as it sprang free, nosing at it. His tongue worked against the tip in smooth, hot motions, running the supple pink rug against the inches from base to bellend. Edwin put a hand on his hip, the rest of him quivering. Oh Sol, that was fucking good. Pik was always so. . . aggressive. No foreplay with that one. Marchand? He was like the Summerwine, warm and soothing and steady.

Didn't take long before the lapin embraced the inches in his soft, suckling mouth, wet tunnel filled to brim. He kept his eyes gazing up in servile fashion, though Edwin was rather dizzy on everything to notice.

“Oh by the Krows, hang me now, I'll die happy. . ." muttered the Marshguard, flexing his other hand. The mouth was so practiced, so skilled, and it knew precisely where to go.

“Hmfhmfhmf," chittered Marchand. Or laughed. Hard to tell, his throat was a little preoccupied.

A gentle rhythm of sloppy suckles accompanied his groans and purrs, tossing his head on the inches, each stroke of maw ever faster. Edwin's flesh glistened, even sparkled, as if Marchand left a glaze of something along the pole, and it did nothing else but invigorate Edwin further.

Marchand withdrew his grasp, pursing lips at the tip, applying a kiss while his palm enthroned Edwin's testes in a gentle, cupping squeeze. He tapped the tip against tongue like a perverse drumbeat, inciting more excited groans from the Marshguard.

“Blazes," he said, toying with the rabbit's ear. “Where were you when I was in service. . ."

Marchand flushed, smirking. “Awh, gettin' sweet on me? Poor, poor thing. A sword gets rusty without a polish and you're so neglected."

Edwin didn't get a retort out before Marchand buried the fleshy pike in his throat, hacking and gagging as it bulged his oral chamber. Saliva and presex dribbled like a river from his chin, wincing as he engulfed the mast like a flag into earthy mound.

Edwin felt that want, that sea of burning lust erupt through his blood like flash-fire. Nothing quite like it. Liquid excitement. Every gurgle, moan, and motion sent him into a physical ecstasy, higher and higher. . .

But like the little tease he was, Marchand ceased his motions with a drooling 'pop.' He licked his lips, a thin trail of saliva bridging his 'work' to Edwin's tip, and the Marshguard snapped his attention to see why hell he had stopped!?

“What. . ."

Marchand was a step ahead, though. The svelte form rose, wearing a fanged grin, patting Edwin on the cheek.

“Oh, don't worry, sieur, a little warm up. Haven't had a good fuck for months, think I'm gonna' let ya' shoot the air? Nonono."

Though he was smaller, Marchand had no trouble pulling Edwin to the scarlet bed, shoving him into the covers. His fingers came to hips, slipping down the black lace as his own petite flank popped free, curve of his generous hips bare for Edwin to view.

“Lemme' get on top of ya'. . ."

Edwin blinked. When his eyelids opened, the rabbit was indeed on top.

Beastly want coated his mind. “Don't mount a steed you can't ride," he challenged.

His gloved hands came to Marchand's supple, smooth rear, squeezing it hard and spreading it. The rabbit squeaked, though draped his hands over Edwin's shoulders all the same. His pink pucker nudged Edwin's tip, teasing it with the promise of a warm, tight fit.

As the rabbit pushed himself down, the pink entrance spread harsh and wide, he whimpered.

“You're no fuckin' hoss," he murmured, “Fuckin' bull!"

That was about all he managed before bouncing himself on Edwin's root.

-*-

Port Captain Habaras was used to seeing all manner of oddities flow into the isle of Kadro. The refuse of Sol Solaria drained here, from felons to privateers to bird-worshipping shamans, boozers, dealers, geomancers, necromancers, low beasts, high beasts, and all manner of Myn or Myr.

But this. . .

Usually, his two armored guard were enough when it came to authorizing the passing of newcomers before they were properly recorded by the isle census. Usually, because his piggish companions were dressed in strips of fuck off and bore ugly polearms. Usually, even the nastiest of seafarers knew to back down and respect his long iron dick of the law.

Usually.

A man stalked forward. Tall, impossibly tall, with skin as pale as the moon, hands dangling low to an unnatural length. He bore faded crimson robes and his face was obscured by a barbed, black-iron cage. Around his neck were several thick brass chains, bearing various scrolls and insignia, the kind you didn't want to see. The executioner's icon, the chains of a Scarlet Cleric, the words of Solarian authority, the kind that – on a whim – would get you nailed to a piece of wood.

Behind him were. . . creatures. Men? Not anymore. Their torsos were bare, yet, interwoven with tiny marks. Inscribing, words, prayers, all burned and scarred into their flesh. You could not see their heads. They were obscured by brass cones. They held long, lashing iron flails and horrifying spikes were shoved through them as a show of devotion. They should be dead. They were not. They were the revenants of Sol's will.

Behind them a thin, black ship. Black sails. Black wood.

Habaras forgot himself.

The figure in the middle stepped forward, towering over the Port Captain and his vanguard.

“Where is the one in black?"

Cold and shrill, the voice wept into the captain like a dying river. It did not belong in this world. Habaras could not even make out the face crafting the words, save for two black, lidless eyes staring down at him.

“Where is the broken horn?"

Terrible words.

Terrible mutterings.