{"sf1_id":2229990,"sf2_id":"keN2OgYe","title":"Dark Horse","author":"Oliver_Hart","words":4008,"posted_at":"2025-02-28T05:18:47.000Z","tags":["Adventure","Character Development","Crow","Foxing","HMOFA","Human","Lore"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/2229990-dark-horse","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/keN2OgYe","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/36/cf/36cf1557-90eb-430c-a4c3-74b015e90a7b","description":"(You) are a newly graduated Foxer, carrying a secret identity: you’re a dream walker; a mutant. When the Church discovers your abilities you’re pressed into service and sent beyond the walls of Enclave. There you encounter another dream walker, who just so happens to be your sworn enemy. Written with love. A /hmofa/ epic.  \n  \nAct One: Augury launches 3/14 on autononymous.io, Ao3 and SoFurry","content":"\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eLucy bounds atop a demolished automobile and leaps, stretching her lithe form\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe fox splays her four paws wide as she catches air, making the leap from trunk to hood with ease\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAgainst the moonlight, it's as though she's traced in silver flame\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eJust seeing her is enough to make you scream in of relief\n\n \n\n“LUCY! Thank GOD you found us! C'MERE GIRL!\" you shout\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou wriggle in your bondage, as if it was about to come loose magically now that Lucy's here\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eBut as Lucy draws closer…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…as her features become more definite…\n\n \n\n\\\u003eFaint murmurs of doubt gather within you, like the first snowfalls of a wrathful winter\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThat's… still Lucy, right?\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIt has to be; couldn't be that there's any other Foxers in the area\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYour fox doesn't look triumphant to have found you at long-last\n\n \n\n\\\u003eHer ears sit pasted back against her skull\n\n \n\n\\\u003eShe squeaks as well, little shrill yips of existential terror exploding out of her\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe last time Lucy sounded like that, you two had a harvester on your tail out near the High Line Canal\n\n \n\n\\\u003eEight Zealots and one Foxer died\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou look past Lucy and focus your blurred vision as best you can\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eSomething else — something following your fox — rounds the corner of Wealthy and Fulton Street on two cloven hooves\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eOhhhh… fuck\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThat might be exactly what you think it is\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eA fucking…\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…Harvester\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eMaybe twenty feet tall, from what you can tell, the harvester ambles down Wealthy Street, covering several yards in a single step\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIts broken antlers just barely scrape the tops of buildings\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe harvester is closer now, close enough that you can see its face — a peeling mask once belonging to a deer or an elk, now decayed into its skeletal form\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTufts of fur still cling to rotten musculature across its lanky body\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\nIts eyes, pale and glowing like starlight, are recessed in its skull, ringed by darkness\n\n \n\n\\\u003eWith every one of its footfalls, the ground trembles, like the rippling surface of a lake broken by heavy stone\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n“Wellllllll fuck.\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou sigh the sigh of a patient yet exhausted man\n\n \n\n“So this was Lucy's plan,\" you mutter, watching the harvester gain on the gray fox\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n“Scare off the cross builders with a damned harvester?\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n“God really does deliver,\" you say, voice rattling with sarcasm\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eWith her untrimmed claws scratching off the concrete steps, Lucy the fox finally appears at your right\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYour eyes meet for a second, sharing a look of desperate hopefulness\n\n \n\n“Lucy!\" you shout, trying to draw her interests towards the rope around your wrists. “Lucy, bite the rope around my wrists, okay? Be quick!\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe fox sucks down tiny swallows of air, a frantic rise in her little fuzzy chest\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThen…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…she barks in your face, as if demanding you magically escape\n\n \n\n“I can't, girl! I can't can't!\" you shout back in her face. “You have to bite the damn ropes!\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIt'd take a miracle to get you free at this rate\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAnd what your service fox doesn't understand:\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eShe has to be that miracle\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou wriggle your wrists and watch Lucy's brown eyes follow the motion in your arms up to your hands, a thought building steam in her mind\n\n \n\n\\\u003eSlowly, of course, like the gradual roll of a locomotive\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003e\"Wrists, Lucy!\" you snap. “Wrists! Bite the rope!\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAs if to show, you wriggle your arms with several violent motions, shuddering the timbers of the crucifix\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eFucking DAMNIT\n\n \n\n\\\u003eHow can salvation be so close and yet so far away?\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eThe heretic to your left cuts a hoarse, throat-shredding wail\n\n \n\n\\\u003eSounds a little like the birds you shot with grandpop when you were younger — when you tagged them in the leg or wing\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou'd stand over them, watching them die. Out came a terrible squawking and squealing noise as the birds bled out\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIt never sat right with you, killing those birds\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIn your periphery, you see the raven's dark form struggling against the ropes\n\n \n\n\\\u003eHe madly tries to free himself, the last of what he has poured into his desperate attempt\n\n \n\n\\\u003eBut it's no use for him either\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eMaybe God really has forsaken you, just like that bird over there, you reason\n\n \n\n\\\u003eMaybe he's written YOU out of His Promise\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eSo that begs the question, death fast approaching on two cloven hooves…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…Why?\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYou've been nothing but pious\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou pray, and you pray, and you pray, and you pray ad nauseam\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou serve as dutifully as you can\n\n \n\n\\\u003eGod, how many heretics have you slain?\n\n \n\n\\\u003eHow many dead in His name is enough to get you off this cross?\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eTears well up in your eyes\n\n \n\n\\\u003eA knot tightens in your throat\n\n \n\n\\\u003eMaybe… you really are alone now?\n\n \n\n\\\u003eMaybe… God really left you to perish alongside the heretic?\n\n   \n\n“God…\" you croak, tears carving a jagged path down your pale face, “Please… forgive me for the things I've done-\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n“The people I've hurt-\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n“The innocents I've killed.\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYour eyes slam shut, figuring it better to not see what's about to happen to you\n\n \n\n\\\u003eOh, but you will feel it — a gnashing of teeth, a ripping of skin, jaws that could shatter concrete nearly tearing you in two with one bite\n\n \n\n\\\u003eNearly\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYou pause mid-prayer\n\n \n\n\\\u003eSomething is pulling on your bindings\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYou crack one eye open\n\n \n\n\\\u003eLucy is mangling the bindings on your right wrist, her gray body twisting and ripping the hemp rope in order to give you some play\n\n \n\n“Good girl, good girl!\" you shout, heart hammering in rib cage\n\n \n\n\\\u003eWith a strand of rope between her teeth, Lucy rears back and pulls\n\n \n\n\\\u003eSuddenly, the pressure against your wrist is gone\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYour eyes split with surprise as you're able to slip out of bondage\n\n \n\n\\\u003eLucy goes for your legs next\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou reach down onto the shattered asphalt, hand searching blindly for something\n\n \n\n\\\u003eA dull knife\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe one the cross builder tried jamming you up with a little earlier\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYour fingers grace upon the knife's 'handle', which is surprisingly sharper than the supposed 'blade' itself\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou bring the 'knife' high against the indomitable moonlight, like a magical sword ripped from a stone\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIt's a crude piece of mildly bent iron, with a blunt, almost rounded-off 'blade'\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTo anyone else, this is a shitty, shitty knife\n\n \n\n\\\u003eBut to you?\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIt's salvation\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou flip the knife and grip it with its 'blade'\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe sharper handle — more jagged and flinty than serrated — is your weapon\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou saw in earnest at the ropes still keeping your other wrist against the timbers\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThat vile fucking cord at last snaps apart after what feels like hours of precious time lost\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou lift your blood-drained arm\n\n \n\n\\\u003eLucy finishes undoing your legs\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…And for a second…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…just a second…\n\n   \n\n\\\u003e…you're free to run…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…right as the harvester's gigantic shadow falls upon you, swallowing you in darkness that blots out the moon\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYour neck turns up, and you meet harvester's eyes\n\n \n\n\\\u003eCold and small, those hungry eyes stare back at you through a pinprick of flickering starlight\n\n \n\n\\\u003eLucy yips and runs between the harvester's legs in an attempt to draw him away\n\n \n\n\\\u003eShe'd have better luck moving a mountain\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe harvester sees a much more substantial meal than some clever animal\n\n \n\n\\\u003eA Foxer and a bound raven — easy pickings\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eSo, now would be a good time to move, right?\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…Right?\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYou can only watch as the harvester's lumbering, lanky arm reaches out towards you\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou've seen many harvesters, but never one from this close…\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThey look so…\n\n \n\n\\\u003eDecrepit\n\n \n\n\\\u003eDecayed\n\n \n\n\\\u003eSad, even\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe ribs that suck in against flaking fur and mangy flesh\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe deer-face that's more hollow skeletal mask than anything else\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe hunger gnawing at its sucked-in gut\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eIt's close to having you in its mangy, clawed grasp\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eAnd then you hear something that causes you to move\n\n   \n\n\\\u003e\"DEMON! FLEE!\" the heretic screams in its broken English\n\n \n\n\\\u003e\"Flee!\" he struggles on the cross. “Vulcada, go!\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIn your periphery you see the raven watching you, sitting up as much as his ropes will allow him\n\n   \n\n\\\u003e'Demon! Flee!'\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eRight, you still have to save yourself\n\n \n\n\\\u003eCan't expect the Lord to do it all tonight\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eWithout hesitating any longer, you do what you can to throw your tired, beaten body down, off the cross\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou crash — weakened and wounded — into the old nails\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eThe harvester's swipe misses as it latches onto the crucifix that once held you\n\n \n\n\\\u003eA beastly grunt escapes the creature as it realizes it will have no easy meal out of you\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIt hurls the crucifix over its head, down Wealthy Street\n\n   \n\n\\\u003e\"Vulcada, go!\" the raven squawks again, a perfect echo of his own voice\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe scramble to right yourself is easier said than done\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou crawl like some kind of crippled beast, fevered with the desire to live, no longer God's next promissory\n\n \n\n\\\u003eConcrete and ruined asphalt sting your palms as you make your way across the concrete platform, crawling underneath the crucifix\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYour ribs feel busted up, like someone took a wrench — or a would-be knife — to them. Your Lungs scored from screaming so hard\n\n \n\n\\\u003eBut you crawl, Goddamnit\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou crawl\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThen, you gain the strength to right yourself onto two feet, your soles bitten by shards of glass, metal, and concrete\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIt doesn't matter\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThere is no pain you will not endure right now to escape\n\n \n\n\\\u003eNo agony that can persuade you from fleeing\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou see your target: your bag, Foxer's scarf, and your chemical rifle, resting against a flat slab of concrete near the entrance to an old hotel called The Brown Palace\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe building loomed over you during the torture like God, judging you for all of your mistakes and sins\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe cross builders left your things near their makeshift altar, probably where they sacrifice each other to whatever the fuck they believe in, delivering their brethren with concrete chunks the size of your head\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThey have no use for firearms or alchemy\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTheir simple minds think only of blunt instrumentation — slashing, stabbing, and smashing\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eThe plan is simple: grab your gear and run as fast as you can into The Brown Palace, where the harvester can't reach you\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAnd Lucy will follow you; she's a smart girl\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIn fact, as you run, you see her bolt ahead of you like a gray bolt of lightning\n\n \n\n\\\u003eLooks like she figured out the plan before you even did\n\n \n\n“Lucy, wait!\" you call after her, still trying to reach a sprint\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAfter a rather pathetic effort, you end up huffing and puffing next to the wide-open double doors of the old hotel\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe darkness calls you inside, safety just a few feet away\n\n \n\n\\\u003eBut not yet\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYour dirty grip lands on the barrel of your chemical rifle, your other hand easily lifting your bag and supplies\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou throw your Foxer's scarf around your neck, shirtless\n\n \n\n\\\u003eWhat?\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIt's quick, and you like the look\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eThe heretic does not scream, but instead cuts loose with a series of terrified squawks and caws — animalistic sounds that wouldn't be out of place in the wilds\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou look behind you and stifle a gasp, your instincts screaming at you to tear your eyes away and run inside\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eThe harvester has the raven off the cross\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eThe heretic thrashes in the harvester's iron grip, black clouds of loosened feathers catching wind as he struggles\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAnd as those feathers drift into the breeze…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…as you look on while the raven — your sworn enemy — fights against the maw of the harvester…\n\n \n\n\\\u003eyou're struck by a sharp, immediate memory\n\n \n\n\\\u003eBy the grace of God, perhaps\n\n \n\n\\\u003eActually\n\n \n\n\\\u003eMore like a comet of sound, traveling through your skull, faster than particles of light\n\n \n\n\\\u003e'God will deliver us'\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eWill God deliver the bird?\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe very people you are trying to wipe from His Purgatory?\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eNo\n\n \n\n\\\u003eNo, he will not\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThat raven up there rejects your God in favor of his ancestors\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYou yank back on the bolt action of your chemical rifle\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe weapon's one-round chamber holds the bullet you never fired\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIt's a crude brass cylinder, maybe the length of your index finger, with a glowing yellow tip\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou slide the bolt action forward\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYour decision goes against God\n\n  \n\n\\\u003eSo you pray\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eFor as you drop onto one knee…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…you pray to stop shaking; terrified you'll screw this up\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAnd as you steady your sights…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…you promise to seek penance for your actions here\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAnd as your finger curves against the trigger…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…as a storm of black feathers drifts into your iron sights, obscuring your target…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…as you sight down the barrel…\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYou pray for aim\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eBecause God will not deliver this heretic…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…but you will\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYour fingers curl around the trigger and squeeze\n\n \n\n\\\u003eA ringlet of yellow light erupts from the barrel of your chemical rifle as the gun thumps into your shoulder\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe flare round explodes outward in a blitz of gold sparks, a spray of phosphorescent shards that cast golden light everywhere\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAnd the bullet travels so straight\n\n \n\n\\\u003eSo true\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eIt's almost like it has wings\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYour flare round strikes, exploding against the small, pale eyes of the harvester\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe beast cuts a skull-rattling howl of pain, as it drops the heretic unceremoniously onto Wealthy Street\n\n \n\n\\\u003eA hot flash fills your vision as the flare round's secondary fuel kicks in\n\n \n\n\\\u003eA shower of gold sparks pours out of the harvester's eye socket\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou don't look away though\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou watch as the heretic tumbles from the harvester's grasp, landing in a graceless heap\n\n \n\n\\\u003eA small, upward plume of loosened black feathers goes with him\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eThe harvester takes a mighty stumble backwards\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIt digs its claws into its eye; a bid to remove the flare like pinching out a small, alchemical splinter from its eyeballs\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAnd in all this commotion…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…the bird stirs…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…plants one huge talon on the asphalt…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…and pushes himself upwards…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…where his yellow eyes meet yours — confused at first…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…and then all at once grateful\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYou wave the heretic over to you with a frantic arm\n\n \n\n“Hurry!\" you call, as loud as you can. “Over here!\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe bird lurches upwards and starts towards you with a noticeable limp in his step\n\n \n\n\\\u003eOh God, he's not gonna make it moving like that\n\n \n\n“I have to do everything myself,\" you mutter to yourself\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou make a snap decision\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe harvester lets out a horrible scream as the flare continues to sizzle in its eye socket\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYou meet with the heretic about halfway between The Brown Palace and the harvester\n\n \n\n\\\u003eWith surprising ease you slip under his shoulder and drape his body against yours\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe raven dwarfs you in sheer size, and unlike the crows, his bones are solid, so it feels like you're dragging an extra two-hundred pounds\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTogether you limp and lurch as fast as you can towards the entrance to The Brown Palace\n\n \n\n\\\u003eLucy, like a gray-and-white omen, appears in the set of double doors leading inside the hotel\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe fox lets out a frantic yip as her tail fans like a motor\n\n \n\n\\\u003eHer panicked screeches are worse than being shot at sometimes\n\n \n\n“C'mon, bird, just a bit further!\" you say as you struggle to push through the pain and exhaustion\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe harvester starts to move in your direction, the flare still scorching its eye\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eWithout a glance behind you, you can tell its gains are impressive\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou learned a long time ago to judge a harvester's approach by the way the ground shakes\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYou're so close to the entrance that you can see inside the hotel\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe bird stumbles a bit but is clearly trying not to drag you with him\n\n \n\n\\\u003eBy God, you can see the front desk inside! You can't die when you're this close to salvation!\n\n \n\n“See that? We're-\" you grunt as you have to drag the heretic the final few yards, “-nearly to safety…\"\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYou feel air moving behind you\n\n \n\n\\\u003eA gigantic claw at your necks materializes in your mind\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIf you close your eyes, you're already between the harvester's teeth-\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThat couldn't be the wind\n\n \n\n\\\u003eCould it?\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAlmost inside-\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eOW\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eThe raven's talon catches on a chunk of concrete, dislodged from what was once the smoothed over plaza at the front doors\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou — or rather, the heretic — pitch forward\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe world goes right-side up as the two-hundred plus pound bird takes you down with him\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou and the heretic crash through the front doors, end-over-end, onto the shattered marble floors of the Brown Palace\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe heretic quickly drags himself across the dirty floor, away from the entrance\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou do the same, knowing exactly why\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eChest heaving, you make it to the hotel's front desk,\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou collapse with your back against the wood panels, ending up next to the heretic\n\n \n\n“My God…\" you mutter, head turning upwards to drink in more of the stagnant air\n\n \n\n\\\u003eExhausted and nursing a headache that could split skulls, your eyes flutter shut\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou feel a gentle weight against your side\n\n \n\n\\\u003eA light squawk of pain slips from the raven as shifts against you, exhausted\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYou and your sworn enemy rest together, rigid, upright, like two logs leaning on each other in last night's camp fire\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eYou focus snaps towards the entrance\n\n \n\n\\\u003eA huge, dirty claw gropes the dark floor, searching\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe harvester's claw grabs a destroyed chair, and in one swift motion crushes it like simple glass, sending wooden shards and shredded upholstery everywhere\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou nudge your elbow into the side of the raven, a futile effort to try to move your sworn enemy to safety\n\n \n\n“Hey, I think we oughta leave. That harvester is only going to get closer to us if we linger\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe raven stirs\n\n \n\n\\\u003e\"Katha,\" her wheezes in response. “Skaa katha.\"\n\n \n\n“No, no time for katha. We need to flee-\" you start, only to have your sentence halted\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe raven lifts his brawny arm — the one covering his side\n\n \n\n\\\u003eFresh blood seethes from a sizeable wound\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eOh\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou look towards the door — where the harvester is trying to find you two — and there's a crimson trail of slick blood that ends beneath the heretic\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYour heart sinks in your chest, though you know it shouldn't — this raven is the enemy, still\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe enemy of God!\n\n \n\n\\\u003eBut for whatever reason, the sense of empathy within you is stronger than the desire to kill him… for right now, at least\n\n \n\n\\\u003eHe drew Lucy in for you\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThat ought to count for something, right? A life for a life?\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eAt least you won't have to make that call later on\n\n \n\n\\\u003eIt doesn't seem like you two are escaping together\n\n \n\n\\\u003e\"Skaa katha,\" he says again, a broken wheeze leaving his chest\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe raven's yellow eyes lock with yours, brimming with exhaustion\n\n \n\n\\\u003eBut this time there's regret\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThere's no pain\n\n \n\n\\\u003eA kind of bloodless peace swells within his eyes\n\n \n\n\\\u003eA resignation of something so deeply…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…kin… to his own people…\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…to yours, even\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThat, In that moment, you feel perfectly understood by this strange, anthropomorphic raven\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe heretic leans in close, his beak curling upward in something close to a broken smile, if birds could smile\n\n \n\n\\\u003eWith a deep croak, the raven opens his beak\n\n \n\n\\\u003e\"Child of my enemy,\" he croaks, “you help Visha.\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eHe reaches to his side — the side in which the cross builders did not pierce his tender skin — and plucks a single black feather\n\n \n\n\\\u003e\"You take Visha…\" he says, losing his race against blood loss and language\n\n \n\n\\\u003eVisha hands you a clean feather from his side, practically half the length of your arm\n\n \n\n\\\u003e\"You take Visha… courage,\" he says at last, words tumbling from his jaw\n\n \n\n\\\u003eHe hands you the feather, his arms shaking\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou twist the feather in between your un-gloved fingers\n\n \n\n\\\u003eCourage\n\n \n\n\\\u003eHuh\n\n \n\n\\\u003e…\n\n \n\n\"Thank you, bird,\" you say as you lean back against the polished wood paneling of the hotel's front desk\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eThe harvester outside shifts to its other arm\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou'll need a way out of here, probably the back entrance\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou look down at Visha, who's eyes are half-shut, as if now already waiting for the harvester to gain enough purchase and snag him by the talons\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eIt's wrong to see a heretic — a raven, no less — so accepting of his fate\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThat was you, right when the harvester was upon you, and it was Visha who broke the spell of despair\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eWithout thinking too hard on your next move, you dig into what remains of your bag and withdraw your 'bayonet'\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYour bayonet is nothing more than a combat knife — milled steel brought to a fine edge, nothing like what the cross builders used on you\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou're supposed to fix it to the end of your chemical rifle so you can impale heretics\n\n \n\n\\\u003eLike… Visha…\n\n \n\n\\\u003eBut now, you mostly use it to cut up sausage and vegetables for dinners\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou pass the knife to Visha as payment for his feather\n\n \n\n“You take my courage, Visha,\" you say. “That is a virgin knife, not a single kill on it. Nii katha.\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eTHUMP\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe harvester rams its shoulder into the front entrance and gains a small bit of purchase\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe building shivers from the weighty blow, its foundations shifting hard\n\n \n\n\\\u003eDust and rubble plummet down on top of you\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eVisha looks down at the knife in his lap\n\n \n\n\\\u003eHe grips it between his bloodstained talons, his dark skin underneath cracked and cut\n\n \n\n\\\u003eHe turns his head up to you\n\n \n\n\\\u003e\"Visha no scraa. Eset merkas,\" he says, weary\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAnd then, as if remembering he's speaking to a human, tries the sentence in halting English\n\n \n\n\\\u003e\"Visha no strong. No help to Vulcada. I am called to sky,\" he says, as he hands back the knife\n\n   \n\n“My instructors at Academy taught me that your people — especially you ravens — prefer to die fighting. To die like heroes. Is that not true?\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eVisha looks bewildered, his comprehension perhaps weaker than his grasp of speaking\n\n \n\n“If you've a rendezvous with death, so be it,\" you say. “Seldom does a man choose the manner of his death. You have a rare, rare opportunity here.\"\n\n \n\n“Opportunity?\" Visha echoes back at you, not sure if he understands the meaning\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou bend one knee and face your dying enemy, the man who you tried to kill several hours ago\n\n \n\n“Yes, my friend,\" you say, gently returning the knife to the bird, “a chance to die a valiant death. One of honor. Senaw.\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAt that the utterance of that word, things seem to click for the blood-starved Vish, like the last piece of a puzzle falling into place\n\n \n\n\\\u003e'Senaw'\n\n \n\n\\\u003eCorvidaen for 'honor'\n\n   \n\n“Can you understand what I'm saying? What I want you to do?\" you say to your foe\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe bird gives a quick nod\n\n \n\n\\\u003e\"Katha ves senaw,\" he replies, “Die with honor.\"\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou smile\n\n \n\n“Die fighting.\"\n\n   \n\n\\\u003eThe ceiling shakes again — something above you gives way with a tremendous crash\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThe harvester is not a clever beast; its destruction is entirely driven by hunger\n\n \n\n\\\u003eCollapsing ceilings, ripping floors, breaking into entrances — all part of the harvester's eternal quest for food\n\n \n\n\\\u003eNot much time left, you suspect, until this hotel collapses\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou stand at full height, the empty chemical rifle strapped tight against your back\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou finish buttoning your Foxer's uniform — now reduced to sewn rags and mismatched patches\n\n \n\n\\\u003eLucy coils at around your dirty boots, ready to leave\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou pull your gloves on\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAnd with one last look shared between yourself and Visha\n\n \n\n\\\u003eOne final, affirmative glance\n\n \n\n\\\u003eWhere your eyes meet — his like golden coins, flush with vigor and life once more\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYours, narrowed in cold approval\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou turn on your heels\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAnd head deeper, deeper into the hotel\n\n \n\n\\\u003eYou scour for the fire exit\n\n \n\n\\\u003eAnd pray to God\n\n \n\n\\\u003eThat you can find your horse still","series":{"name":"Foxing","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/2227622-cross-builder.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/2234396-the-world-to-come-part-one.json"}}