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Making it

Act 2: Making Progress

Chapter 5: Lessons

This was foolish. Brazen. No St. Gareg fearing soul would undertake such a task. Or only one with bravery and skill akin to St. Vanterre, the greatest warrior to ever live, could take such a risk alone. Wolves and bears hunted such feckless creatures yet, heedless of these saints, a shadow darted through the dark forest. He was being hunted.

His pursuers drew near as he ran at full sprint at, then up, the side of a tree until his momentum stalled. The shadow's claws raked at the bark and he let his fear fuel his speed as frothing jaws snapped beneath him. His tail whipped up and around his waist as he leapt for the lowest branch, grabbed the limb with one hand as he drew his knife with the other.

The hound scraped its rough claws at the trunk a few times but, after failing twice, just barked and growled and paced.

Sucking in a long breath, the shadow placed the blade betwixt his long and chipped incisors and climbed into the canopy, out of view as a few more dogs arrived, baying and full of hate. They were no longer a threat, but he knew they weren't alone, so he moved along ever higher limbs as far as he felt the wood could bear his slim body, then leapt to a neighbouring tree.

“Do ye have'em, boys? Have ye t'scoundrel!?" A callous voice from below, and one the climber was familiar with.

A thick-limbed man with a lethally sharp wood axe, clad in muddy clothes and a wide brimmed hat, but the climber knew his crooked nose, bristling moustachioed and pock-marked face. A ham-fisted, pot bellied farmer of cows, chickens and beets.

Tonight, it wasn't any bovine that lured him. No foxish desire for hens or their eggs, nor a demand for beets. Pilfering such would have the shadow chased from the land, as many times before, but no farther. It was a far more precious prize that the shadow had sought, and indulged, this night which fuelled the farmer's two mile hunt into the twilight forest.

The scoundrel stopped his reverie; escaping without getting his knackers cleft or eaten by hounds was sadly more important part right now, he continued his tree-top journey while the baying hounds faded. The scoundrel knew the farmer wouldn't go any deeper, for fear of bigger, hungrier predators.

An hour and dozens of trees later, he was back in familiar territory and as he moved lower to the ground, he saw the dim lights of his village; a scattering of huts of wood and mud had never looked so appealing. The scoundrel approached on the ground, glad for the dirt and wet leaves carpet his path as the village protectors eyed him.

His kin were a pair of sturdy raothaari men, taller than his petty three foot ten by a full head and chosen to protect the village because of their powerful frames and experience hunting the forest. They were clad in heavy cloth to ward off cold, blades and fangs in equal measure and both leaned on long farming scythes, plundered from local humans, though with the blades re-affixed upright.

The pair eyed the scoundrel with disapproval, although fortunately with no ill will.

“Buggerit all, it had t'be poxin' Noran! Ye gann'ta be lurin' strife from t'whole kingdom on'ta our village at this rate!"

Noran smirked and shrugged. “Oh gi'over, Barslow, I've t'be gettin' two lungfuls of woes from ye, when me sister'll be doin' plenty more when I get home? Ye'd best keep yer snouts to yeselves, anyhoo; t'is a matter o' love. And I imagine I'll be worth another blow of wind from ye as much, aye, Mortim?"

The raothaar pinched his whiskers as he huffed. “Ye can stick ye cock in whate'er cunny ye please, ye dumb bastard, just stop wi'gettin' caught! I've nae plans o' tellin' the ealdorman that we're t'move again af'er a mere four seasons."

Noran passed through, making hasty passage through the sleeping village and to his hut. Or his sister's hut, with a door larger than the others. It opened and he coughed at the warm stench of lacquer, then yelped as his sister's huge hand grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him inside.

The village's true protector, and the reason Cannagher wouldn't get too close with even a full mob. No normal raothaar was she, but a giantess! Over six feet tall and arms thicker than Noran's waist, capable of crushing a man's skull with one hand! A grim lass of dark grey fur to his smooth brown, but siblings nonetheless as told by their pale blue eyes.

“Yer a damn fool, brother! I know where ye've been! That strumpet down at Cannagher's farm, aye?"

Noran knew his sister too well to be glib, so he confessed, “aye, Kasta, aye. I can't help it! She's wondrous! Glory be wasted on catchin' t'dawn when folk could just instead glimpse her! An' how she came to be from Cannagher's loins baffles me."

Kasta huffed and finished wiping excess lacquer from a thick wooden shield, ran a claw over the uneven, off-angled edges, then hooked the bulwark on the wall. She turned, still furious, but the muscular raothaari woman's expression melted into her truer self; a caring older sister.

“It's not e'en what yer doin', brother. I'm afeard yer goin'ta get hurt. Ye go with naught but that ramshackle pig-sticker-"

Noran snorted and laughed. “Afeard? Ye needn't be! This?" He plucked the knife from the small of his back and tested the edge on his thumb. He hissed as even the tiniest draw cut him, then grinned. “It gets wherever it needs ta. Ne'er failed to, neither, and ne'er will."

* * *

Primrose placed her quill back into the inkwell and blew on the page, then read it back over. Just a mention of Kasta's shield and Noran's knife, the weapon Primrose now wielded, but that was it; a mention.

Another half-day's translation from old raothaari into modern bralic for ease of reading, but it hardly felt worthwhile for her mission; no context and even less description of the artefacts. Prim reminded herself this was necessary work, thanks to the damaged condition of Father Cathrop's books.

Not by any fault of his own. The Great Hitherby fire meant the fragile tomes were retrieved in haste, and while properly stored once more, the damage had been done; every turn of a page was dangerous to their condition.

Father Cathrop knew them off by heart, but he only knew the lessons they passed on and abridged the true tales for brevity's sake. The detailed references Primrose so desperately sought now rested in the faded, illegible and crumbling parchment of the Raothaari Books of Stories.

She smoothed her whiskers back and placed the last page with the others, then pulled an amulet free from under her shirt; the mysterious locket that once belonged to Jacob's sister, Tabitha.

It featured an ornate silver depiction of St. Phoebe, but within it hid the Sibling Lords in their usual clasped hands pose. Even stranger, she could separate the two halves and turn them, leaving St. Phoebe to seemingly hold hands with one of the raothaari figures.

It couldn't be by chance as the designs matched up perfectly. What confused Primrose was that St. Phoebe was a famous songstress, a protective mother and a caring soul to all in need. She eased a weary king in his final days of illness, and helped him make peace with a rival nation before passing on, saving hundreds of thousands of lives.

St. Phoebe, in all the depictions Primrose could find, was no farm girl. There certainly wasn't even the barest mention of raothaari in any of her religious texts.

Primrose stuffed the amulet back under her shirt and looked out the window. It was already dark and she had the night-watch at Sir Falkshire's estate. She then heard footsteps outside her door. Before the first knock sounded, she opened it to the kind smile of Father Cathrop, complete with a tray of tea, biscuits, bread and preserves.

“Good evening, Sister Primrose. I wondered if you had time for a light supper?"

Primrose's heart ached. It had been so long since she had just sat down with the kind old man and just talked. “I... really should prepare for my duties, Father. I can't let Sir Falkshire down now he's so generously sponsoring our people."

Father Cathrop entered and placed the tray on Primrose's desk. He then took a thin silk sheet and covered the old tome before gathering the translated pages. “It's not always about lile, Sister Primrose... my girl, please. You're barely home and the flock misses you. This is not your burden to tackle alone." Father Cathrop looked over the completed pages, adjusted his shiny new glasses while his whiskers twitched and tensed.

“Ah, the tale of Noran as he learned that no single raothaari can succeed where many just might, as Kasta, Mortim and Barslow rescue him from his impropriety. You would do to well to take this lesson to heart after my..." Father Cathrop's words faltered for a second, then he cleared his throat to continue, “after what happened to Antoine. Even the strongest of us can fall, and even if the many do fail, at least they do so as one. I understand you-"

Primrose wordlessly shut the door, gathered her things and jogged to the Falkshire estate.

* * *

What was she doing? The noise was clear to her keen ears; a creak, a crack, a crunch above as she patrolled the third floor. A burglar, maybe an arsonist? She should summon help.

“Don't be a coward, Primrose," she whispered to herself and wrung her hands as she reached the top floor of the mansion. The plain, undecorated hallway was only lit by the lamps from the stairs. “Prove yourself worthy of all that lile. Pull your weight and demonstrate your wit. Show Jacob you're worth his time."

She removed her feathered hat and pulled up her hood. It was dark by the lone door, down the corridor. The attic was to be even darker, so a hood provided a smaller silhouette and the hood was lined with fine chainmail. The outer edges of her vision filtered into the smoky grey scale of her raothaari night vision as her hood blocked the light. This ring grew to fill her sight as she reached the door. She reached for the handle, then paused and paced back and forth.

Prim's mind raced; who was inside? A list of likely culprits, and she once thought of plans on how to deal with each. Her time on the street was also time spent as a freelancer and she had mingled with many of the clubs, guilds and unions of the city, each employing many specialists, from mindless thugs to the most cunning criminals.

All manner of infamous sorts sprung to mind like Hempley Knock-Knee, an unscrupulous sort who walked with a pronounced limp yet made no sound, currently under the employ of the Westjack Mill gang. Another especially nasty character from the chaotic Isle of War and employed by the Gutterway Trade Union, named Imawachrie, would sever and keep the index fingers of all who saw him 'working.' This was apparently a superstition concerning not being pointed out from his homeland.

Otherwise you would hear of the more legendary, unaccounted for thieves. The likes of which were spoken in quiet corners of the city taverns whenever a heist was enacted yet nobody saw or heard a thing. True legends, like Garreth the Pagan Eyed, was notable for his mechanical eye and knack for dousing flames wherever he went with arrows that somehow dispensed water. He had disappeared decades ago.

Or maybe Sley Copre? He wielded a cane and affected a slow walk but was actually a highly skilled acrobat, able to hop between narrow parapets and lampposts with ease. Word was he had finally retired not too long ago under a new alias and settled down with an old enemy turned lover, yet famously swore to go on another crime spree before escaping arrest.

There were now the tall tales of the dangerous highwaywoman Lady Lile, a raothaar who wore a full hood covered in coins and was supposedly unbeatable in a sword fight, and she ran her own raiding band that roamed Bralran's countryside. Prim had been active for longer, but never felt the need to cultivate a legend whereas Lady Lile became notorious seemingly overnight around ten years ago.

Primrose heard a bump beyond the attic door and realised she was wasting time and wallowing in her doubts and fancies just standing there, so she double checked her gear; a vast collection of tools, tricks and doo-dads filled the many pouches and rolls on her belt, all purchased as custom pieces by Bantam. While the old crow's tools could be useful in a pinch, as a house guard her weapons were more important.

Primrose felt the grip of her thin arming sword; a reliable weapon, cared for as she was instructed, that hung from her left hip. On her right, a relic of her people; Noran's tooth should keep her safe and strike wherever she needed to, according to the legend. At the small of her back was a common constable's club.

Where fable and swordplay might fail, trickery should be key; her wrists were protected by vambraces that concealed a combat-worthy straight-razor and a thin dirk, ready to be plucked by a concealed cord tucked into her open-claw gloves. What would be most important?

Primrose centred herself and took a deep breath. As much as she detested her foster father, he had some good advice about dealing with a task; you can't pick the right tool without knowing the job. Starting with the door.

Primrose knew this door was squeaky, so she took some oil and poured some on the hinges, replaced the small flask and entered the attic slowly and smoothly.

She was greeted by a few mannequins, covered paintings, chests and cabinets otherwise occupied the space, many in disrepair from water damage, wood worm or misuse, and saw her reason for being here; single beam of light illuminated a tiny storm of floating dust from the lunar cascade through a round window, exposing that the wood frame was damaged from a pry-bar's clumsy work.

Besides the low glow of the moon, a subtle halo of golden candle-light around a black silhouette. Primrose didn't recognise the figure for any hallmarks, famous equipment or notable quirks of his behaviour and movement, a masculine hum as he worked by a dull lamp.

Primrose skulked around to get a better look. It was like performing an old dance; she knew she was sluggish as she crept, but every step, every beat of her heart as the slow trickle of adrenaline fine-tuned her senses, the more precise and assured her steps became. Her new, cushioned boots covered the small flaws for now; a luxury she hadn't had before, afforded by her new wage.

Primrose's eyes made out the old, warped boards and she gingerly applied her weight in each stride as near the nails, where the wood was least likely to flex, all the while her ears twitched and twisted for her own footfalls and her tail snaked slowly behind her. As she drew near, she heard the telltale scrape of metal on metal and the creak of pressure on tiny springs; the thief was attempting to pick the lock, though doing a damn poor job.

Once she had a better vantage point, off to the side of the moonlight to help her merge with the darkness, she began to study the thief and plan her attack.

He had a broadsword set against the wall nearby rather than belt so he could crouch easier. A closer inspection of the weapon revealed the throat of its scabbard was scratched and worn from many failed attempts at sheathing and drawing the blade. An unskilled fighter.

The chape at the other end was chipped and caked in mud from years of being bashed and scraped on the floor. While that was the purpose of the cap, it likely hadn't been cleaned or replaced... well, ever, if she had to guess. He didn't care for his gear.

The man also had a knife attached to his ankle, plain as day. Amateur mistake; you don't have time to crouch down, huddle up and take your eyes off your foe in order to unstrap and produce such a blade. No, if you wanted to hide a blade, you'd hide it in your boot, not exposed, and only as an emergency. A quick-draw weapon was better served tucked into concealed pockets in your armour, coat or near your hands, like Primrose's vambraces. Young and impressionable to follow stories of better thieves.

He had lockpicks, and any burglar would have an assortment of tools but she couldn't see around his tattered cloak to confirm. He could have escaping tools like caltrops, marbles, firecrackers or even fancier things like blinding powder, a finely ground dust made from any chemicals that would irritate the eye, yet linger in the air when thrown behind in a pursuit. Unlikely; his cloak was black, not navy, which blended with the night-time dark just as well as the sky at dawn and dusk, not to mention it looked less suspicious in the daylight. A true amateur.

Primrose surmised this man wasn't a major threat, so decided to make him both an example and practice.

Dead focused on any errant sounds as she moved, Primrose's large, well trained ears twitched at a click of a tumbler from the lock, then his relieved sigh. Then a horrible mechanical crunch that made Prim's tail stand upright. A scrape and another click as the man cussed under his breath; he'd just reset the lock through his ineptitude. He started over and, at this point, dealing with this novice was as much a matter of professional pride as it was dealing with the intrusion.

First, she sidled over to his sword and took a tool called a gear-jammer from her belt. It was a thin cord of strong rope with padded metal hooks on both ends and an iron sphere that was split in the middle which could be twisted to retract the rope. A sneak could bind all sorts of things so long as it had two points to anchor together.

Prim latched one hook around his sword's crosspiece and the other around the loop for the belt. With a pinch and a turn, the cord drew tight and secured the blade in its sheath.

She crept nearer to the man, so close he could feel his body heat, and dropped low. Prim plucked his knife and stowed it in her belt, then took a breath as she walked to the damaged window.

Primrose took out a length of fine wire and tied it around a support beam on one side of the window and, ensuring the man wasn't watching, darted across the other side and secured it there, shin high. As insurance, she poured a little oil just before the window in case he saw her trap.

Primrose finally moved herself back over to the door to the house and drew her truncheon, then threw open the door with a crash. The man froze, so she cheerfully announced, “on your knees, vagabond!"

The man grabbed and tried to draw his sword, but the jammer held fast. He tugged at the cord for a moment then reached for his missing boot-knife.

Primrose charged up to the man and smacked him as hard as she could across the brow with her cudgel.

The man spun, staggered against the wall and swayed around from a likely concussion. With what balance he could muster, he darted for the window then tripped over the thin cord and landed face-first with a hard thump.

“Are you quite done?" Primrose asked.

He made a low groan.

“I'll take that as a yes."

Thunderous footfalls from the corridor prompted Primrose to collect her things as one of the other night watch burst in, sword in one hand and lantern in the other. A swarthy and well groomed gentleman named Sahir, an older Ardentiphan native. He was a mercenary who retired to Bralran after his quiet life was set ablaze by Vliechov, and as such, the man was a bit less uptight about the law than most of Falkshire's men.

This suited Primrose just fine as someone better suited to her style of work.

“Who goes- what is this, Primrose?" he asked.

Primrose shielded her eyes from the light and replied, “a burglar, Sahir. I wondered if you wanted to question the poor fellow before we turn him over to the constabulary."

Sahir's brow creased when he looked at the near-comatose thief, and sheathed his sword with a dark grin that betrayed his darker ideas.

“Good, yes, I can do this for you. Let us find out where this fool came from."

“Very well. I'll continue the rounds while you get acquainted."

A smug Primrose left the dark of the attic for the low lamplight of the manor as Sahir began tying up the unfortunate thief.

* * *

Jacob placed the paper on his desk, next to his breakfast tea, nodded and said, “excellent work, Primrose. Some of my men took upwards of half a year to give me such a concise report. Impressive collar with the burglar as well, even if he seems to lack affiliates. I'm not sure what you aimed to learn by having Sahir question him like that."

Primrose doffed her feathered specialists hat and offered a bow. “Glad to be of service, sir. And it's not so much what we could learn than sending a message that the Falkshire estate isn't to be trifled with. But, to change the subject, how are preparations for the visit to your uncle?"

Jacob drank the last of his tea and replied, “the carriage is ready, I've packed both our travel and party outfits, the guard roster is arranged and provisions in case of anything unexpected delays us in the country. It will be the two of us as the guests, Jasper and Sahir as our guards and Gretchen as the driver."

Prim nodded, then cleared her throat. “I don't mean to pry, but might I ask what to expect from your uncle? By all I've gathered, your uncle Isaac's most notable quality is being a recluse, that he protects his property with Vliechoven kobold-hunter dogs and the public records of his campaigns along the north-west coast of Vliechov."

Jacob leaned back in his chair. “I'm impressed you found even that much. Yes, retired Brigadier Isaac Randell was a successful navy marine and sailor. In the campaign of fifty-three, amidst twelve raids on several major settlements, he famously claimed the lives of three of the Vliechov oligarchs, captured another and sank the forty strong dread fleet of Admiral Hejchek whilst only losing seven ships. His hatred for our enemy besides, he's something of a hypocrite considering his wife is also Vliechoven. That and the fact that, yes, he owns and breeds dogs from our long-standing enemy as well.

“Expect a man who will change his mind frequently, something I believe he does on purpose rather than out of whatever eccentricity or compulsion. For all of his anger and bluster, I can tell you he's also a good man who likes to laugh."

Primrose winced at having to deal with dogs, but she committed the information to heart like for any sort of caper.

Jacob continued, “and what of your side? Has there been any advancement in your research on any aspect of the prophecy?"

“Very little, I'm afraid," Primrose sighed and her ears drooped. “The damage done to our holy texts due to the Hitherby fire is just too great."

Jacob gave Prim a nod and a gentle smile. “Well, no sense fretting over what has passed. With luck the remnants of the book of stories my uncle owns will offer some clues, even if the pages were also consumed by flame. I won't stop you from investigating the artefact, but I do ask you not harm to anyone or take anything you don't strictly need or can attain through barter."

Primrose stood and adjusted her hat. “I understand. I won't let you down." She saluted, almost knocking the feathered chapeau from her head, but readjusted it and cleared her throat. “By your leave, sir?"

Jacob stood and saluted back. “Fine work, Specialist Primrose. Go get some sleep and I'll see you on the morrow."

* * *

Sleep came easy to Primrose, as it usually did in this 'home away from home', surrounded by budding friends and even Jacoby Falkshire. The occasional low thump of boots on carpets and the closing of doors were far easier to ignore than the whistle of wind through the cracks of her home on Patterfield road or the creak of each door in the long street piercing the dead of night.

The only continued distraction was the guilt she began to feel just days after starting her job as Falkshire estate's counterspy. The guilt of leaving her people behind. Abandoning them. Once more her short conversation with Father Cathrop came to mind.

Sure, she was sending Falkshire's contributions, as well as a portion of her own lile whenever she got paid. The contributions had improved the raothaar's lot a great deal, and she knew the money was being used wisely since she gave it directly to Father Cathrop, but even so, other thoughts lurked in her mind as she began to gently snore.

* * *

“Chervoue, Primrose!"

“Hear, hear! Congratulations, girl!"

“Kasta's breath, I'm jealous but you of all people deserve this, Prim."

Primrose was surprised she still had tears to shed, and for once they weren't of sorrow or fear, but joy. Clad in her impossibly garish wedding dress she first felt a fool, but now, with everyone celebrating in her name, she felt comfortable in the massive, poofy attire and the dreamlike, weightless sensation had faded.

This was real. After twenty-one years of struggle, from orphanage, to abusive foster father, to vagrancy and, with no bitterness, a few years as a nun, Primrose had made it at last.

Primrose Cathrop! The rusty pig-iron common bride to the lustrous gold and gallant Antoine. This was perhaps her greatest theft, to pluck such a lofty prize despite her petty and ignoble life.

Garlands, ribbons and confetti formed a wild kaleidoscope of colour. Smiling raothaar faces all around continued to offer their congratulations as they smothered her.

Primrose had to stop and breathe for a time, so she struggled through the crowd to cut short her Jousoie, the parade of a new raothaar wife.

Away from the procession, she dipped into a tent and removed the outer layers of her dress, leaving her in the simpler white undercoat, blouse and skirt, and sought her beloved Antoine. Her experience searching for people in crowds, easy marks for theft in her earlier years, told her to work from the outside in, so she roamed the edges of the park her wedding had dominated.

The method paid off as she spotted her husband, who was being cajoled by a couple of his fellow militiamen. Playful slaps to his broad shoulders, boisterous teasing and other shows of camaraderie made the big raothaar man's ears burn red as Primrose crept up close enough to hear.

One spotted her, but he smirked and patted his companion on the shoulder and said, “c'mon, let's go get some grub while it's fresh. Leave this poor fool to the rest of his life tied down to one lass."

“Aye. More for the rest of us! Attaboy, Tone! Always takin' up the slack," said the other with slurred words and a salute that collided with his brow.

With one last grin, the pair moved on.

And Primrose attacked.

The bride dived at Antoine to tackle him to the ground by the waist, but she might as well wrestle a rooted tree. Prim tried to lift one of his legs for leverage, so he stepped forward to drag her to the ground and turned. Then he put his hands on her waist and hoisted her in the air as easy as holding an infant despite his fully outstretched arms. Being carried by this strapping man sent a tingle up her spine and a wiggle in her tail.

Antoine sighed with forced frustration, but couldn't hide the smile. “Rosy, I thought you promised father you would attend a full Jousoie?"

Prim drooped in his arms and whined, “oh, come; that's meant for introducing a bride to a new clan or tribe. I know Hitherby's people better than myself at this point. Noran's breath, I literally know some of them more intimately than you! If I have to rub salve on Old Cheswill's inner thighs again, I'm going to scream."

His smile only grew wider as he pulled her head against his broad, muscular chest and they held one another. “I suppose you have done your share of service to the people, true, but there will yet be trials ahead."

Primrose tilted her head as she tried to wonder what he meant.

He then stuck his fingers into her sides and tickled her to the ground. She squealed and writhed, her tail even whipped his thigh, but his might made any attempt to escape fruitless. Before long, she collapsed yet he refused to relent until he had her pinned to the ground and finally stopped.

And they just stared at each other.

Her head rested against the soft grass as she looked at his handsome blond furred face and big blue eyes. The little scar on his cheek from their first meeting, the dazzling and handsome smile he gave her as his ears flushed red. His thick neck and massive shoulders tensed to keep her pinned. His huge arms and the rippling power packed into his formal clothes. He was a noble and peerless man.

And he looked down at her. Her light brown eyes and darker, silken fur. The heave of her chest as she caught her breath, the subtle way each perfect mound bounced. The tapering of her sturdy waist, wider than from her impoverished years, but it exuded raw femininity as it rolled out to her broad hips and lusciously thick thighs. What he saw in her in spirit still baffled her, but there was no mistaking the glint in his eye as he let them roam all over.

She could smell rosemary on his breath, then the sweet, woody fragranced fur oil which filled her mind with an obsession. She leaned closer to let her mind swim in the scent. She needed more; she wanted to taste him, savour him with eager lips and hungry tongue.

But he tensed up, garbled as he cleared his throat and rolled off the side as his blush pierced even his cheek-fur. “I- it... uh... w-we should probably s-save..." Antoine stammered as he fiddled with his fingers.

Primrose giggled and said, “always the choir boy." She hid her disappointment; his innocence was expected, his gentleness the perfect balance to his raw, impossible strength. She was his plaything if he wanted, and she wanted oh-so dearly to be held and taken, but for his overwhelming kindness she would wait as long as it took. Instead, she grabbed one of his hands.

He could have resisted, but he let his arm be pulled to her as Primrose rubbed her cheek on his hands and kissed his wrist, where the skin blended to fur. Where he once would be completely paralysed by her up-front affections, and just as she had taught him, he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close, and at last they just shared a deep, deep kiss.

It could have gone until the ageless dragons returned to Bralran and laid waste to the world before their lips parted. Until the time stopped or the everything ceased to be. It still would have ended too soon.

When it finally did, Antoine stroked her cheek and whispered, “a choir boy I may be, and if that is what is expected of me, then so be it, by Kasta. I have naught but my faith to thank for you, my greatest gift, my Rosy, to have you delivered unto me that night and to have you by my side here and forever."

“That you find me worthy at all, by Noran... ah..." She pressed her cheek on his thick shoulder and cuddled his arm as her eyes closed, and she whimpered, close to tears, “as ever, as I'll say unto the end, you make me worthy, not by my own merit, my love."

He kissed her again, this time on top of her head.

“No, my Rosy. I will say it every time that you are truly special. Forget your past; it defines you no longer, but what you have done for these people, for Hitherby. For me, all of this is truly priceless. You have the kindest, most passionate spirit I have ever met to be treated so poorly yet still harbour such bright light."

Primrose giggled, “if that's a florid way of saying I'm gullible enough to still change, feed and look after everyone's children despite their parents swearing on the Siblings 'it's just one time', even though I stopped being a nun a full month ago, then perhaps you're right. Although I suppose it is good practice for when... the conflict is over." She nudged Antoine's side.

They both sighed and Antoine replied, “I'm merely thankful we were given this opportunity to marry before I'm sent to the front once more. It won't be long, my love, and we can start building a true life toge-"

A hoarse laugh and a female scream cut through the discussion and Prim felt her husband's muscles tense.

Antoine stood and said, “wait here, I'll go see what's happening."

Primrose sat obediently as her husband left to investigate. Once upon a time she would object and make a fuss but she knew her beloved too well. Better to let her skills get some use; as soon as he left her sight, she hopped to her feet and followed, low and quiet but swift.

It didn't take long to catch up as she saw his tail slink through into the main drinks tent, and some hushed words just on the edge of Prim's hearing.

“Nah, nah," an unfamiliar and brutish voice said, “see, yer causin' a ruckas and ruinin' our day, so we deserve compensation, aye?"

“You'll get nothing, sir," Antoine replied, “you're in our borough and this party is by invite only, so I suggest you move on. There's no need for any trouble."

Primrose peered around the corner. Three burly men eyed her husband with contempt as he stood between them and two frightened serving girls; barmaids from the nearby tavern hired for the event. The new bride ducked and pulled a tent spike free; it was no dagger but it looked sharp enough to bleed one of these bastards if they didn't listen to her husband.

“Oh, a ratfolk borough, is it?" A second man sneered as he ran his hand over the machete on his hip. “Funny, all boroughs 'neath the crown are free to all civilians, ain't they? What makes you think you own this fuckin' rats nest?"

Antoine sighed and looked around, then pointed at one of the large kegs of the best local brew, Noran's Own. “I'll tell you what; let's settle this situation. Help yourself to a barrel of ale. That should be fair compensation, yes?"

The three thugs eyed the barrel. It was as long as Antoine was tall at five feet and just as broad as his muscular build. You could quench the thirst of twenty men going by the size of the vessel and it had to cost a good hundred and fifty lile in premium brew. The leader of the three nodded and the others went to move it, only to struggle to get it off the mounting. All three eventually got it down and managed to roll it near the exit by Prim, then one turned around.

“That's a good start. What about a little time with the girls there? Can't say I've ever fucked a rat before, and for vermin, they ain't bad on the eyes."

Primrose squeezed the tent spike and bared her teeth, but Antoine simply shook his head and picked up a weighty, branched iron candlestick holder from a table.

“This is your last chance, gentlemen. Leave with your prize and Kasta's blessing."

The man chuckled and drew his blade. “Not without a little entertainment with me drink, vermin, so how about you bugger off?" He went to push past Antoine, but the blonde furred raothaar resisted and sent him staggering back with but a flex of his shoulder.

“You've outworn your welcome, by Noran." Antoine scowled, grabbed a serving tray and held it like a shield. “And for that, I'll be taking back the ale."

Primrose watched as the other humans drew their blades, and the serving girls fled. The bride crept behind the offered barrel and took a few deep breaths, ready to help; she could get one in the back and hopefully distract the others while Antoine defended himself.

“Get'im!"

The men darted at Antoine, blades raised.

To Primrose's surprise, he responded by charging, 'shield' ready to meet them.

The iron machetes cut into the wood, but didn't get through. The man to Antoine's right found his blade clash against the candlestick holder. The impact cut off one of the stems yet also forced the blade from the human's hand.

Antoine punched the man's chin with the base of the heavy metal shaft and sent him high in a shower of blood and teeth. The man landed on, then fell through, a table filled with readied mugs of ale in a mighty crash.

The two remaining humans lifted their blades, but Antoine swung first as he retracted from his first strike. He brought the iron shaft down into the leader's knee. It crunched and inverted and he howled, and as the man lost balance, the third human took his second swing.

Antoine ducked and spun, his shield slung over his back as insurance, as the blade whistled high. He then thrust out a rear kick to the falling man that launched the fool clean through the tent wall. As Antoine planted his foot and finished the spin, he swung his cudgel up between the human's legs.

The impact made a sickening crunch and the man's feet left the ground.

Primrose didn't think there was anything 'crunchy' down there, until she realised that was likely his pelvis.

He then just collapsed in a heap with a strange, whistle-like whine.

Primrose didn't even have a chance to fully round the barrel. It was over in two seconds from first contact, not counting the slow collapse of the last man.

Antoine sighed, looked at the mangled metal and gouged wood in his hands and dropped his armaments. He then grabbed the man with no balls in one hand, the one bathed in ale and blood in the other and dragged them to the same makeshift exit their leader had been punted through. He tossed them both out like empty sacks just as Antoine's fellow militiamen reappeared, properly armed, and they followed through the hole to chase the humans away.

“I suggest you get your friend to a surgeon before he coughs up his testicles, sir," Antoine called through the gap and huffed, “and if I find you or your ilk in Hitherby again, I won't show you such mercy."

He watched them leave, staggering and crawling as the militiamen escorted them, then turned and smiled at Primrose. “Sorry you had to see that," he said, sheepish, then gave her a loving hug. “I could have sworn I told you to wait for me."

“Then you still know nothing about me, my love." Primrose giggled, then dropped the tent spike. “I was all prepared to make good on the ''til death do you part' oath we swore not an hour ago. I know you're Kasta's chosen and I shouldn't worry, but what kind of raothaar would I be if I didn't believe in the community spirit of helping out?"

“I... suppose I stand corrected, Rosy. You're right." Antoine sucked in a deep breath, wrapped his burly arms around the keg and lifted it back onto its mounting. He almost sounded like it took effort.

He then held out his hand, which she took, giddy as a teenager, and they walked arm in arm back to the party, their tails intertwining as they went.

* * *

Primrose awoke and coughed, then sipped some water from a nearby pitcher as she sat up.

The guilt was just one sensation she continued to feel. Another had begun to creep in over time, ever since she swore to herself to finally move on from Antoine's passing, and that was a willingness to seek companionship again. The feel of her hand in another, the warmth of another soul joined with her own.

Her mind went to Jacob. Then she laughed at herself.

“Don't be absurd," she whispered.

Bernard was likely fun for a short term fling, but after having enjoyed her time as a housewife to the noble and kind Antoine, she needed a man with more heart than all else. Someone stable and kind. She supposed she could keep herself available as things moved forward, and while humans didn't normally excite her, the feelings she felt for Jacob opened a new avenue of romantic interest. If he could instil these feelings, why not others? Plenty of human men were interested in raothaar, and there were plenty of decent men, even if the two groups didn't often meet.

Just another new beginning to consider, but she still had a prophecy to thwart, so she resumed her new life once more, glad for the distraction.

* * * *