FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

This is the first chapter of a longer project, following a cat named Nezia who goes to sea in search of a better life. Things do not pan out precisely how she hoped. Please enjoy.

Part One: Caravan Cat

They had gone eleven days on the open water before Nezia found her sea-legs. Eleven days in the belly of a metal freighter packed with refugees fleeing the war. She'd been assigned a berth on the lowest deck; a windowless steel room which she shared with two families. As she was a single person, Nezia had accepted a cramped corner and the smallest of the folding cots they'd been provided with by the crew. This placed her next to a vent and through it she could hear the rumble of the freighter's engines and then, more distantly, the hush of ocean waves.

Though she'd grown up far away from the sea, Nezia had always been frightened by the idea of it. She'd always imagined the ocean like a mirror of the sky, filled with water so clear that she might peer all the way to the bottom, many miles down, and see the fish, krakens and shipwrecks in perfect detail.

Now that she was actually on the ocean, looking off the freighter's railing afforded her only a view of blue-gray murk. Though Nezia had thought at first that this might be preferable, seeing the ocean present so total a mask only made her stomach churn all the more.

Perhaps because she was a cat.

Her quiet fear of the water aside, Nezia had done all she could to remain cheerful and busy. She'd gotten a job helping in the kitchen and had also tried to make friends with the families she roomed with…though both seemed intent on pretending like she didn't exist. The first family, who had immediately claimed the airier half of the room and all of the cots that did not sag, was made up of dark furred rats. Their clothes were worn, their fur patchy, and they spoke to absolutely no one. An older man, who Nezia supposed was the patriarch, was short three fingers on his left paw and had a vicious scar across one cheek that followed the arc of a bayonet slash. It made him look like he was always snarling, half of his face dragged slightly askew.

Though the rats had stared daggers when they'd first seen her, time had eventually cooled their hostility to a dull, watchful dislike. This was normal enough. The collapse of the federation and the war which followed had done bad things to interspecies relations, boiling it all down to a low, terrible struggle between predators and prey.

Nezia liked the other family more. They were rabbits with white fur and pink eyes, who dressed in embroidered clothes and seemed perpetually lost, as though they'd taken a wrong turn while out on a stroll and could not account for where they now were. There were three of them; an elegant mother, a nervous father, and then a curious little boy who wore a blue kerchief around his neck like a sailor. Looking at him, Nezia was put in mind of a finely made doll.

They didn't speak exactly the same language as her, but Nezia had always been good with dialects and could usually understand what was being said. She'd come to learn a little bit about them over the past days. The rabbits were merchants who had come from the western plateau. They had one suitcase that was filled with fine clothes but had lost everything else while struggling aboard the freighter. The boy often had nightmares and Nezia sometimes awoke to quiet whimpering in the dark.

The ship was headed for a place called the Outer Shale, far to the south. It would be another few days before they arrived, but already Nezia had allowed herself to speculate about what the future might hold.

She did not believe for a moment that the Outer Shale would be some kind of paradise. It would have all the same problems as anywhere else in the world, but at least there would no war. No rockets or gunshots, no fears of being rounded up and taken to a quiet place in the forest where ditches had been dug…

Normally, Nezia would have worn her jewelry while out and about. She'd inherited a pair of sapphire earrings from her grandmother, and from her mother some golden bangles and a platinum headdress with a backer that was shaped like a rising sun. She'd have worn all of that and dusted her whiskers with pyrite so that they'd flash and she would look for all the world like something bejeweled and fanciful. Anything to make the gods see that there was still joy down in the halls of earthly creation.

But…

She had only one necklace now, a filament-thin silver chain. She kept it on at all times, hugging her throat. The metal gleamed pale against her pitch black fur.

All the rest had been stolen or sold. She'd given up almost everything to get onto the ship. There had been no other way, not with so many people clamoring to board and the sky above the port red with flames and Inquisition rockets.

The losses still ate at her sometimes, but no more than anything else. Occasionally she tried to imagine what might be happening with all of her heirlooms, fragments of family and lost heritage fanning out across the world, adorning strange limbs and throats. If they hadn't been melted down already.

Nezia tucked away all of her remaining valuables and checked over the outfit she wore; a loose white blouse and ankle length red jodhpurs adorned with tiny copper bells that jingled when she moved. The rabbits were talking quietly amongst themselves (or, the parents anyway. The boy watched her with covert interest), while the rats had produced a board and were playing dominoes. The scarred father smiled and ruffled the fur between one of his children's ears.

She checked herself briefly in the cracked glass of a hand-mirror and straightened the fluffy tufts which stood atop her ears. Habitually, Nezia smoothed black fur over the pale scar that welted the skin on her left temple, then she stood and left the room.

The corridors on the lower decks were cramped, filled always with a tangle of people and loose things. The bulkheads had all been painted the same shade of gray and the overhead lighting was diffused enough that no definite shadows were cast. Though Nezia had come to understand the layout of the ship, she still could not shake a peculiar feeling that she was never actually going anywhere. The fact that people lay slumped against the walls every so often, lost in their own hazes, did nothing to lessen that impression.

The freighter's captain was piping music over the intercoms, a syrupy western waltz. Immediately Nezia felt an urge to play something livelier, but she'd sold her mandolin weeks before.

Perhaps she could buy a new one at the Outer Shale. She'd collated a very long list of errands and wants of that sort, things that could be accomplished once she stopped running. All of it felt decidedly ersatz compared to what life had been like before the war, but Nezia made herself stop thinking about it like that. One always had to focus at least a little bit on the future. Otherwise she might collapse and be lost within herself, just like the poor wraiths who littered the bottom of the ship.

At last she came out above deck, into the fresh salt air. The sun had just cleared the eastern horizon and glowed red amidst a nest of wispy cloud, like an ember freshly stoked. A stiff wind poked chilly fingers down the back of her neck.

Nezia tried not to look at the sea, which was filled with little white-capped waves. The water held a certain truculence, as though it were letting them pass only reluctantly.

The deck smelled strongly of coal smoke and was no less crowded than anywhere below. Refugees ('passengers' the crew stubbornly referred to them, as though this were a normal voyage) were only allowed in certain places, so as not to get in the crew's way. Many of the walkways and upper promenades were packed with people talking, sewing, gambling or simply sitting and watching the ocean pass interminably by.

Though Nezia had done a fair amount of traveling in her life, she'd never heard so many languages, nor seen as many different types of people all in one place. Most were from the west, where the fighting had recently reached, mixed in amongst inland southerners and even a few furtive survivors who had made it all the way down from the north. The vast majority were prey species, the rest made up of small predators like her; cats, weasels and the like. The northerners huddled in their ragged woolen coats and looked at nobody. Nearest to Nezia was a young red vixen, streaked all over with scars, her left eye a sunken hollow. Her ears had been raggedly docked and the livid mark of a T shaped brand stood out upon her forehead.

T meant 'traitor,' of course. Nezia had seen enough of the Inquisition's handiwork to know this. Somewhere in the dismal north the vixen had committed a transgression. Perhaps she had been kind to a prey animal, or maybe she'd simply harbored ideas above her own station. No way of knowing.

For a moment Nezia felt pity, then simply thanked the gods that her own situation was not so dire. She hurried onwards. A few people glared at her as she passed, eyes catching on her clothes, gazes hard and suspicious. This was nothing new, but Nezia still felt a certain sourness in the bottom of her stomach. An urge to turn her nose imperiously up at each new stare…though she knew better than to tempt fate.

The rest of her journey to the ship's kitchen was uneventful. It was a large space located about in the center of the ship and always abuzz with activity. She was assigned to baking. Though the kitchen was loud, hot and always crowded, the constant activity kept her mind off of things. It was certainly better than sitting in her berth and staring at the wall.

There was nothing auspicious or interesting about the food prepared in the kitchen. Most of it was canned, dried or pickled. The bread and biscuits produced came out bland and a bit strange, as there were no eggs and never enough baking powder. The ship's lead cook, a sturdy old roe deer called Hart, seemed unbothered by the austerity.

All of it made Nezia long for home, where the food was bright with colored spices and all meals were eaten in the company of family and friends. Her stomach knotted even as her mouth watered.

She mixed, kneaded and baked until her shoulders ached and her fur was white with flour. There weren't many defined roles in the kitchen, so people drifted over to help as necessary. Most only spoke to her when forced by circumstance and betrayed a guarded stiffness whenever Nezia chatted about anything more.

“I don't talk to caravan trash." One goat snapped at her when Nezia tried to ask if he'd come from a specific city in the west. She'd been there as a kitten and recalled its streets being filled with orange petals and sunlight.

It was not so different with the others, though Nezia never stopped trying to be friendly. Sometimes she wondered if the effort was worth it, if perhaps she wouldn't be better off acting like the rat family in her berth down below…but something about that notion made her feel cold. It would be very difficult to stop behaving that way once she was safe on the Outer Shale, Nezia had decided. So she smiled, kept her bearing light, and maintained a watchful vigilance everywhere she went. Just in case.

The kitchen had no clock or windows, so time always felt curiously static. Some shifts seemed very long and others passed in the blink of an eye. It was still new to her, the experience of working fixed hours. In her caravan everybody had simply labored as needed for the good of the group, whenever or however the work came. There had been no wages or overtime, no supervisors, and always the open road to provide an escape if suspicious strangers came…

“Caravan cat!" A voice snapped Nezia from her thoughts. She turned from her work to see Hart step away from the kitchen entrance, where he had been talking with someone else. The other figure was mostly hidden by the nearer bulkhead, but Nezia caught a hint of gold as they departed. A high, light thrill fluttered through her center.

“You have an admirer, cat." Said Hart, sounding simultaneously disgruntled and amused. He tossed something to her, a blank metal can with corrugated sides. Nezia fumbled and caught it against her chest.

“Oh thank you!" She blurted, both to Hart and her unseen benefactor. People began to gather, curiosity sweeping the kitchen. Gifts of ingredients weren't uncommon, but they were almost never given in so clandestine a fashion.

“An admirer? Her?" Someone asked snidely. Nezia pretended not to hear.

She fetched a tin-opener and peeled back one half of the lid. Immediately, a sweet smell overpowered the prevailing scents of raw flour and newly baked bread. A low clamor of surprise and delight set up from amongst the kitchen workers.

The can was filled with condensed milk, silky smooth and the pale yellow of a summer moon. Nezia felt the fur on her tail fluff up and was immediately seized by an old memory; her naught but a kitten, twining obnoxiously around her mother's ankles as she opened a can of exactly this sort. Whining for a taste of milk before it all went into the batter for a tray of babka.

In the austere confines of the ship this sort of thing was a treasure.

Immediately, the other kitchen workers began to chatter, offering suggestions as to what use the milk might be put to.

“We'll make a vanilla cake," one of the westerners piped up. “I know where we might find a few eggs."

“There aren't any eggs," said a stout northern ewe, her tone allowing for no argument. “We should mix this with beet sugar and turn it into candies."

“Nonsense. One of the women in my berth has a candied orange," someone else asserted. “If we buy it off of her then we can make caramel and use it to flavor other things."

Nezia listened with dismay. Paws were beginning to reach out, fingertips brushing against the metal of the can. An odd, unpleasant feeling of immateriality swirled at her center. Somehow, this was even worse than all of the suspicious looks and snarled invective. It reminded her of watching soldiers go through her things at checkpoints, pocketing family heirlooms without a second thought. A hot, sickening feeling of outrage tightened her stomach.

Standing straight, she grabbed the can and held it tight to her chest.

“It's my gift!" She declared, voice high and sharp enough that it cut through the noise of the kitchen like a blade. The others stopped speaking, startled to silence. A dozen pairs of eyes fell upon her. It was all Nezia could do not to quail beneath their weight.

“It's my gift," she repeated, struggling to create a more amicable tone of voice. “And I say that we make cookies out of it. If we have any almonds or raisins, then…"

A disgruntled aura filled the room.

“Caravan biscuits," the northerner pronounced with unhidden disdain. “We finally get proper ingredients and the cat wants to waste them on vagrant drek."

Nezia shivered but held herself as firm as she dared. Most of the others were taller than her. Stronger. She could see them weighing whether or not to physically take the condensed milk. It occurred to her that she could take out her claws, but there would surely be consequences to such an action…

“What's the holdup?" A voice demanded, rough with impatience. Hart stepped forward, his hooves clacking against the worn linoleum flooring.

Nezia felt simultaneous flutters of anxiety and relief as the deer's gaze fell upon her.

“I was going to make cookies with this." She said in a small voice, her words nearly lost amidst the rumble and creak of the ship.

“Fine," said Hart, sweeping the others with a flat, challenging gaze. None rose to contradict their boss. “It's the cat's cream. Her choice whatever heathenish caravan treat gets made out of it. Get back to work."

The others slowly stepped away, a few muttering under their breath. Nezia tried to thank Hart but found that her mouth had gone dry. By the time she summoned up the correct words the deer had returned to his own work station.

A strange, wide berth existed around her for the rest of the shift, as though she had been placed under an informal quarantine. Nezia did her best to focus on making dough and then forming each cookie into fanciful shapes; gryphons, unicorns and dragons. It was a pity they had no dye for coloring, and only just enough spare sugar to make a pitiful white glaze.

The cookies came out in neat little rows, filling a half dozen baking trays. They smelled pleasantly of milk and, for just a moment, the dreary kitchen seemed bright and new again. Nezia watched her coworkers sneak little glances, unable to keep their noses from twitching…but then they went back to ignoring her, only occasionally sneaking hateful little glances.

Once they'd cooled Hart came and stacked the cookies into a serving bin. Soon to be served to the crew or the compliment of marines who served as onboard security. They always got the best food.

Nezia began to turn away, but then felt a hoof on her shoulder. Wordlessly, Hart gave her a little package, a trio of cookies wrapped up in wax paper.

“Thank you." She managed to say, unable to keep her tail from performing an ecstatic little twitch. Fumblingly, she offered a cookie, but the deer only fixed her with a stern look.

“Sweep up your station, cat," he scolded. “You're getting flour everywhere."

Somehow, even this made her feel a bit better.

When her shift ended Nezia tucked her little package away and pretended to be busy until the last of her coworkers had left the kitchen. Normally, she would have gone to loiter on the freighter's upper deck after work, but this was a special day. She had received a gift. An invitation.

Stepping out of the kitchen, Nezia took a moment to calm herself. A tight, halfway nervous feeling had taken up residence in her chest and seemed to be conspiring to make her heart beat faster. She wanted to chastise herself for such foolishness, but again her mouth had gone dry.

She patted down her blouse, a cloud of flour drifting free, and then sneezed.

“Bless you." A voice came.

Nezia jumped even as she turned to see who it was. There, leaning casually against the nearest bulkhead, was a slim young wolf handsomely dressed in a blue, knee length uniform coat. A red officer's sash was tied tightly around his waist and a pistol in a black holster hung at one hip. Golden buttons glowed like dozing embers upon the front of his greatcoat, contrasting the shadowy charcoal gray of his fur.

Immediately, Nezia's startlement died into a bashful, halfway embarrassed shuffle. This was Martin, a lieutenant of the ship's marine company who she had met on her very first day aboard. He'd sat with her while she mastered her fright of the ocean…and the even less pleasant matter of her seasickness.

After, there had come little gifts; an orange wrapped in the threadbare cotton of an embroidered scarf, and a slender silver chain that had come after she'd mentioned the fate of her grandmother's jewelry. Then, when she wore the necklace for him and showed how it flashed in the light, the wolf had kissed her and so Nezia became his lover.

On some level she knew that she had been purchased, but this hardly seemed an important distinction. She was flotsam, adrift and utterly isolated for the first time in her life. It felt nice to be wanted and to have kindnesses performed on her behalf, as though she were being courted by a suitor straight from a storybook.

“Thank you." Nezia said shyly.

The wolf offered his arm and Nezia allowed herself to be gathered into a close, familiar escort. Martin was taller than her, leanly muscled beneath his uniform and effortlessly strong in a way that she was not. Before her, the dingy metal corridor of the ship's lower deck seemed to melt away and for an instant Nezia could almost place herself in a field back somewhere in the west, amongst purple thistles and with birdsong in her ears rather than the rumble of engine noise.

It was only during empty moments below deck that they could do this sort of thing. The wolf had explained to her at one point that fraternization between passengers and crew was strictly forbidden, punctuating this recitation of the rules with subversive kisses. If ever they were caught…

Nezia had kissed him back before she could learn what the consequences might be. Not that it mattered. They were careful, and the nervous thrill which tightened her stomach at the start of each tryst had begun to feel pleasant. Even as she thought of this, the ship crested an especially large swell and the metal plating of the floor flexed unnervingly beneath her feet. She shied against the wolf, who smiled and guided her into the shadow of a bulkhead. Warm metal pressed against her back.

“Poor kitten," he said teasingly, then stroked a pair of fingers behind her ear, making it flutter. “Did you like my gift?"

Nezia began to offer out her little package of cookies, but Martin's eyes were only on her.

It took them only a moment to sneak to the wolf's berth. Officers got their own private rooms, tiny and cramped but still an oasis of privacy amidst the crowding and clamor of the ship. Nezia stepped in, bumping her hip against the edge of a little desk crowded with papers and stacked high with books. The walls were covered all over with colorful layers of travel posters and tattered maps beginning to fall apart along their creases. Nezia found her eyes drawn to a portrait of a couple lounging in the shade of an orange tree. This was what she nearly always looked at when entering the wolf's room, since it reminded her most closely of home, or at least the types of places that her caravan had often gone. Sun drenched hills covered by endless orchards.

The door clicked shut and Martin stepped near, pressing up behind her, his paws sliding in to squeeze the tiny swell of her breasts. Nezia had just enough time to set her cookies onto the desk, so they would not be crushed, then there was the prickly sharpness of teeth against the side of her neck and the wolf pushed her onto the bed, facedown amidst the scratchy gray wool of the bedspread. Martin had left a book open atop his pillow and Nezia found her nose pressed against dogeared pages for a moment before she was able to push it aside.

She squirmed, static crackling over her fur, then was pinned by Martin's full weight, the wolf settling onto the bed with a squeal of springs. Nezia felt the firm, heavy fullness of his bulge grind against her rear. She moved to roll her hips even as her jodhpurs were stripped off, ruffling inky fur. Her breath had begun to come more quickly and a tense, heated feeling squeezed her chest. Martin's breath was warm in her ear and she heard the hiss of silk being displaced as he cast aside his sash.

“I've been thinking about you all day," he said, voice rough with need. “Poor kitty, bent over an oven when you should've been bent over for me…"

Nezia giggled, then shivered at the blunt press of something hot and slick against the base of her tail, Martin grinding the hardening length of his pointed canine shaft over the sensitive lips of her slit. The shivery rumble of a purr escaped her lips and raised clumps of fur all along her tail and up the length of her spine.

She made herself relax, though her tail still twitched frenetically and Nezia could not keep her claws from digging into the blankets when she felt Martin begin to push into her. There was always a brief moment of uncertainty, almost panic, at the very start of penetration. The wolf was so much bigger than her and there was such strength coiled up inside of him, Nezia was always very aware that if he decided to stop holding back then she would probably be taken well beyond her limits.

But he wouldn't do anything of the sort, and it was this certainty which always allowed her to relax (mostly) and shiver and squirm and make odd little feline noises until he was all the way into her and she could feel the press of his hips against hers. The intimidating bulge of his knot swelled at the lips of her newly stretched cunt.

Nezia had never seen a knot before meeting Martin and was still a bit frightened by the very concept, though Martin—bless him—had demystified that part of the canine anatomy by sitting back and allowing her to try and stretch her fingers around the full girth (she couldn't) the first time they'd had sex. In turn he'd confessed to never having been with a cat before.

For a moment Martin paused, rolling his hips gently against hers, allowing her to get used to his girth and ride out the worst of her shivers. Slowly, he worked his arms around her chest and squeezed her to him, making the world very warm and cozy. Nezia panted and purred, her trapped tail still twitching away and the rest of her fully atremble with pleasant tension.

“Ready?" Martin asked.

Nezia managed a small nod and Martin began to move again, grinding hard into her at the height of each new thrust. Small compliments and promises spilt from the wolf's lips, accented by harsh canine panting. She was so tight and hot, such a good little kitty, was she ready to take his knot? So on and so forth. Nezia thought about trying to answer, but the breath was being squeezed out of her and all she could really manage were disjointed little cries and fragments of purrs. Every bit of her felt warm and overly sensitized, she swore that she could even feel her whiskers, alight with pale arcs of static where they rubbed against the bedspread.

Even still, it was a surprise when Nezia felt a paw come down on the back of her head and press her face into the pillows, Martin hauling her hips upwards, trying to get better leverage to rail her. She let out a little cry, half shock and half delight, which dissolved into a moan when the wolf's hips met hers again and she felt the leading edge of his knot sink into her, stretching her slit wider than she'd thought it could go. For a moment she felt that same worry—near panic—that always came at the start of something new with the wolf, but there was no pain aside from a tiny thread of discomfort, and even that was subsumed by a greater shock of pleasure at being taken like this. Bent over and entirely removed from all the worries of the world.

“F-fuck…" Nezia whined. The wolf's paw pressed down against the side of her head, blunt claws stinging her scalp.

There was a curious disconnect between her mind and her body now, thoughts coming as a hazy blur, entirely rattled to pieces by an overwhelming sharpness of sensation; every bit of her warm and tingling, afire with need. Suddenly she no longer felt worried at all about what might happen if the wolf pushed his knot into her, whether it would hurt her (surely not, considering how good she felt) or somehow never shrink back down.

At the height of Martin's next thrust Nezia pushed back with all the strength she could muster. A little surprised shiver transfixed the wolf, but only for a moment, and it hardly distracted from the eager strength of his efforts. Again Nezia felt a curious, halfway frightening sensation of give between her legs; the elastic tightness of her cunt being slowly battered into submission, molded around the throbbing girth of a canine knot.

“Such a good girl…" Martin panted. Nezia could feel little splashes of warm pre being fired off within her now, the wolf approaching his climax. He always telegraphed this so clearly, his pants turning into moans and needy whines, and the strong, resolute discipline of his thrusts turning shaky and sharp, all rhythm collapsing in favor of a desperate need to finish as quickly as possible.

Within herself Nezia could feel that same immense, insatiable need. Suddenly it seemed that if she didn't succeed in taking Martin's knot her own climax would fizzle and fade, like an ember extinguished by cold water.

She rolled her hips, shameless in her lust, and Martin responded, the wolf leaning far forward. A ragged huff of breath ruffled the fur between her shoulders, then Nezia jumped at a sudden sting of teeth as he bit her—not quite hard enough to draw blood—at the join between her neck and shoulder. He pushed with the whole of his weight and it was all Nezia could do to keep her knees from buckling and her legs splaying helplessly out to the sides. For an instant they shivered, caught in a deadlock, then she felt another long, gradual give and Martin's knot sank into her, the wolf's heavy balls pressed into the sodden fur between her legs. They twitched and jumped, the wolf groaned, and Nezia felt a huge pulse of scalding warmth fill her, lupine seed drenching her womb.

She shivered, the fur along her back standing upright and a heated shiver at last undoing her legs, spilling her flat onto the bed with Martin collapsed on top of her and the wolf's hips still frantically pumping, her lover desperate to fill her up.

Nezia twitched and squirmed, too spent even to make much noise. The air had entirely gone from her lungs and haloes of colorful spots flared at the edges of her vision. The world went kaleidoscopic, entirely unrecognizable, the shabby little room fallen away and nothing left except for her and the wolf.

It took her some time for her to realize that Martin was speaking. The wolf's voice was low, his words punctuated by panting.

“I can't believe you took my knot. Good kitten…" He said, then had to drop forward again, overcome by exertion. They lay together for a while longer, Nezia still too trembly to speak. She could feel Martin's knot throbbing inside of her, the wolf still issuing a last few weak pulses of seed.

It had never stopped surprising her just how much cum Martin produced. Were all wolves like this? All canines in general? Males of her own species were hardly so productive. There was none of this prolonged knotting business either, none of…

Well. Now that they were joined, lying still and enjoying the afterglow, Nezia thought that she got it at long last. Suddenly she felt very jealous of canines, who did this sort of thing every time they made love.

“Martin…" She said, and was surprised by just how small and trembly her voice came out. Every bit of her was still trembling. The wolf shifted slightly and offered a distracted hmm.

It took Nezia some time to explain what she wanted, then more for Martin to sit upright and for the two of them to very carefully, slowly maneuver until she was spun around and the two of them were face to face. Nezia sagged forward, collapsed and panting into the thick charcoal colored fur of Martin's chest. She could feel the rapid pulse of his heart and hear his breathing. He smelled earthy and strong, as Nezia supposed that all wolves probably did.

“I wanted to look at you." She said, and had just begun to wonder if this was a bit saccharine when Martin kissed her. His tongue pressed hers back and he laid her down and they spent a little bit lying there together, taking breaks from kissing only when they ran out of breath. Martin laughed during one of these times, a bit shakily, then kissed her on the tip of the nose and tested his knot. It was beginning to shrink, but only a little, and Nezia felt herself clench down, overcome by a nearly painful surge of sensation.

“We might be here for a while," Martin said, almost apologetically. “You got me really worked up."

Nezia thought about asking if he was expected somewhere on duty, but Martin didn't look concerned. The wolf kissed her nose again, then her cheek, then the little scar on her temple.

Nezia shifted, not entirely comfortably. She hoped the wolf wouldn't ask how she had gotten it, and fortunately he didn't. Instead his pillow talk went in more routine directions. Flattery and praise and compliments on just how flexible she was (just like a good kitty). Nezia was a little bit embarrassed to hear herself purr. Still, she felt a warm bloom of satisfied pride at what a good girl she had been, taking his knot for the first time.

The first time, Martin said, and hopefully not the last.

Spent as she was, Nezia still shivered with anticipation at the idea of that. Looking down, she was halfway surprised to see that her ordinarily flat stomach was now ever so slightly rounded by the sheer quantity of seed Martin had pumped into her. For an instant her mind went in odd directions, wondering just what might be happening in the very darkest recesses of her womb…but of course cats and wolves were too different. They couldn't breed.

Probably.

When Martin did at last pull out of her, Nezia found herself guided to her knees and her face pushed between the wolf's thighs. She obediently opened her mouth and let him guide her tongue over his spent shaft and heavy balls, silently marveling that she had just taken all of this. Her own legs felt intolerably weak, but there was no real pain. Not even much of an ache. Warm trickles of lupine seed drooled down the insides of her thighs.

Martin stroked her fondly behind the ears as she worked, wringing purrs and little feline noises from her with expert care. Nezia had always been embarrassed by just how easy it was for people to do this to her, but with Martin it was actually sort of pleasant to be molded and manipulated in such a way.

Finished at last, he sat back and finished catching his breath, watching as she licked herself clean. It took her a while to finish lapping up the last of his seed and though Nezia tried to act as though she were alone, there was something voyeuristic about cleaning in front of the wolf. Martin's gaze was decidedly predatory, a new pang of desire brightening his gaze.

Indeed, when she stood back up on legs that were still slightly too trembly to comfortably support her weight, Martin's arms looped around her middle and Nezia found herself drawn back onto the wolf's lap. Off went her blouse, Martin's paws roaming freely over her chest. Again the purrs came rumbling involuntarily out from somewhere in her middle. This time some of the embarrassment didn't fade when Martin kissed her neck and whispered his pleasantries.

Nezia's gaze caught upon the little package of cookies sitting on the desk and she wondered if maybe Martin could be distracted with a treat, but of course that wasn't why she was in his room. The wolf would have kept the condensed milk for himself if he wanted something sweet.

So she stayed still and let the wolf's paws roam over her as he grew newly hard between her thighs. Nezia crossed her legs, enclosing the wolf's shaft in a warm tunnel of soft black fur, and watched clear beads of slick pre form at the pointed head of his cock.

“Have I told you they offered me a militia commission on the Shale?" Martin asked suddenly. “I would be a captain." He let out a slow, pleased breath, hips slowly rolling against Nezia's.

She glanced back, caught slightly off guard. It was very much unlike Martin to discuss work, or life in general, when they were together.

“And will you take it?" Nezia asked, as she supposed she was meant to. It felt very strange being invited into the wolf's confidence like this. Strange, and yet not unwelcome. Was this some canine thing? Did he trust her more deeply now that they had done something very intimate and species appropriate?

The wolf's paws slid over her breasts and pushed them fondly together. Nezia tried not to purr (and failed) when he gently pinched her nipples. She was still so damnably sensitive, trying to be calm and attentive was a fool's errand in this state.

Martin smiled at her and kissed the side of her neck, offering a hint of teeth. Enough to raise her fur and make her pussy clench.

“I think so," the wolf said, and Nezia was suddenly sure that he was trying his hardest to sound more casual than he felt. “It'd be a place to settle down. No more ships, no more hauling refugees…no offense."

“So we'd be…" Nezia began to say.

“In the same place." The wolf confirmed, and some of the false nonchalance bled from his tone, replaced with nerves. He groped her, the gesture at once fond and consciously possessive. Nezia felt a warm, slick bead of pre wet the fur on the inside of her left thigh. Already Martin's knot had begun to swell.

Her breath was coming more quickly now, and not entirely because of what the wolf was physically doing. A huge, confusing burst of emotion squeezed her chest. It felt at once like relief and love, longing and homesickness, uncertainty and a great yawning horror of the unknown. Nezia thought, not for the first time, that she knew very little about Martin and he knew even less about her. This was an acquaintanceship (an arrangement) built upon gifts, flattery and a simple need to forget the direness of the world.

Nezia did not think for a moment that the Outer Shale would be a paradise, but it would at least be stable. Small. A place where people would have to be around one another.

At her core she also felt a fragile hint of hope. Martin was nice at the very least, filled with gifts and compliments. He clearly had prospects and an interest in her. Life would be very different in the Outer Shale; no caravans or many others of her kind, no room for the endless wander which had consumed her pre-war life and made the world seem brand new every day. It hurt to admit that, even to herself…but it was no less true.

Odd to think so pragmatically about a relationship, about a thing which ought to have been motivated by love, but perhaps that could come later. Given enough time and peace.

“We wouldn't have to meet in secret." Nezia mused, surprised by just how nice it felt to say something like that out loud.

Martin hesitated. Not for long, for barely more than a moment, but Nezia felt the wolf's paws freeze and heard his tail thump awkwardly against the wall. Then he was offering compliments and flattery and was kissing her neck. The subject had suddenly changed.

“I'll have to get you dressed up in colorful silks and bangles," he said, paws sliding down to her thighs, ready to lift her onto his cock. “Your people like going around in gold, don't they?"

Nezia thought about repeating herself, anything to maybe erase the sudden hard pit of ice which had coagulated in the bottom of her stomach, but she could not summon any resolve and instead managed only a tired little smile.

“Yes." She said, and let the wolf have her.

He didn't knot her this second time and Nezia made him finish in her mouth so she wouldn't need to spend so much time cleaning up. She sat puddled on the floor at the wolf's feet, sagging helplessly into him.

“Such a good kitty." He praised as she nuzzled his balls, and now Nezia hated that this made her purr. Silly kitten that she was, so easily beguiled by the slightest, vaguest hint of affection. All the wolf really wanted her to be was a mistress. Something pretty, soft and purchasable that he could knot and drain his balls into whenever convenient. Already he was promising grander gifts, gold and silks. Secret things that she would have to wear out of sight…at least when he was around.

Still, Nezia knew better than to show her disappointment. Even if the wolf only wanted her for specific reasons, that still had to be better than not being wanted at all. Being seen only as a damned thieving untrustworthy caravan cat.

She kissed Martin when he asked, gathered up her cookies and went wobbling out into the hallway when the coast was clear, her mouth filled the wolf's taste and every bit of her oversensitized and tingly.

It took some work to make herself feel optimistic again. To look forward to the future and what that might entail. If she was to be an officer's mistress for a while, so be it. That wouldn't be the only thing she was.

Coming out above deck, Nezia lingered by the ship railing and made herself stare down into the water. The sea had calmed since that morning and the wind was a mere whisper. Out upon the far horizon the sun spilt a great smear of evening red across the sea.

There were fewer people above deck now. Supper was being served in shifts down in the great cavernous passenger canteen. Nezia supposed that she ought to go eat, perhaps she'd even see some of her cookies being served (to the crew at very least), but her stomach was too tightly knotted for hunger to really register.

She thought for a moment about going back to her berth, though this idea also held no appeal. There would be the wary rats, the confused, distant rabbits…and her own little spot in the corner.

For the first time since she'd established her daily routine, Nezia suddenly felt trapped. Surreptitiously, before she could think better of it, she turned from her prescribed path and slipped elsewhere. Down a level, past a sign on a hanging chain marked CREW ONLY and to the shady, steam hissing quiet of a maintenance promenade.

The promenade was, per the sign, the exclusive preserve of the ship's mechanics. Nezia looked out and listened closely, but could only hear the hush of waves, the rumble of engine noise and the muffled chatter of people overhead. The railing down here had been painted a harsh yellow and the deck was made from riveted sheets of steel rather than polished, foot-worn wood. Steam pipes lined the leeward wall, ticking and hissing.

How wonderful it felt to be alone. To…

Rounding a bulkhead, Nezia nearly stepped on what she thought at first was a bundle of scruffy red rags. It was only when the bundle stirred and looked up at her that she recognized the one eyed northern vixen from that morning. Down here, shadowed and hunched, she looked even more wretched than before, like a child's doll torn up and cast aside.

“Pardon me." Nezia mumbled and felt within herself an ugly, reactionary squirm of pity and frightened disgust. She wanted immediately to shy away, to go someplace the vixen wasn't. Splintery, terrible memories came flashing up; the bloody red glare of Inquisition rockets, the smell of caravans burning and the dark, ragged shape of ditches dug in a wooded clearing someplace that had once been familiar and safe.

Yet, Nezia could not make herself move. To look at the vixen and see only the consequences of what had been done to her was to erase the whole shape of a person and leave behind only scars and absences.

Nezia felt guilt, then a huge, compensatory surge of love towards the vixen and it was with a glad, somewhat stricken look on her face that she opened up the package of cookies and offered one out.

The vixen watched this, head cocked slightly, her remaining eye sharp and black as polished coal. Her lips came straight back in a bemused smile that showed her teeth, all white and perfect in a way that nothing else about her was. She delicately accepted the proffered cookie with a paw that was missing its two smallest fingers.

“Thank you." Said the vixen. She spoke in a northern dialect, but a broad enough one that Nezia could understand her. There was no surprise in the vixen's voice, nor any gratefulness but for the very minimum which might be expected. Her gaze fell away and she set to nibbling at the edges of the cookie with her front teeth, so carefully and precisely that it was like watching a machine work.

It took the vixen a few moments to say anything more, and Nezia supposed that this was purely because she had stayed and was watching. Her presence did not seem to disconcert the vixen, but neither was the other woman glad of the company, or annoyed, or…anything.

“First sweet thing I've seen on this ship," the vixen remarked at last. “Rare. And you give them away."

“They're not really mine," Nezia said. She had to answer in broad western and was relieved when it seemed that the vixen understood her. “They were a gift from a man who doesn't love me."

“Poor kitten." Said the vixen. Nezia couldn't tell if her tone was mocking or sympathetic. Northerners spoke so flatly that she'd never been good at reading them. The vixen's missing eye and torn ears only complicated matters. Nezia tried to hide her uncertainty behind a small, friendly smile.

“I'm Nezia," she said. “It's nice to meet you."

The vixen gauged this introduction and, though her surviving eye did not raise, Nezia still felt oddly exposed, as though the vixen had gathered the whole of her disposition and badly hidden nervousness in a single instant. For a while the hunched, ragged figure waited, trying to see if a sufficiently long silence might kill the conversation before it could begin, but Nezia did not move and at last the vixen let out a small breath.

“Kill-sin." She answered.

This was a proper northern name if Nezia had ever heard one, all spiritual fervor and grim moral austerity. She had to stop herself from smiling. Perhaps the vixen sensed some aspect of this, for her eye flicked to the remaining cookies.

“You should have one too," Kill-sin said. “Not like abstaining will help anything."

Nezia thought about saying that cookies would hardly fix things either, but that felt kittenish and unproductive. She leaned back against the ship's railing, ignoring an instinctive chill of worry at placing herself in such proximity to the sea (if the railing somehow snapped, or if the ship hit a wave at an odd angle and sent her tumbling over the side…), and broke off a small corner from one of her remaining treats.

The cookie was soft, at once powder dry and doughy. The white sugar glaze had dried in clumps and had a grainy texture to it. Yet, Nezia still tasted condensed milk and for just a moment her mind filled in all the rest, inventing sunshine and oranges, cardamom and persimmons and crimson threads of saffron which came carefully wrapped in white paper packets carried from far abroad.

At home there would have been tea brewed strong and black in a brightly enameled samovar. Caraway brandy served in little glasses chased all over with gold leaf. Everything accompanied by laughter, music and family gathered close.

All of it gone now. The caravans burnt, the people shot and scattered and the family heirlooms stolen. Nezia made herself swallow, throat gone tight and her face intolerably hot. There were tears welling in her eyes now and she thought that her whiskers had begun to tremble.

Kill-sin watched her but said nothing. Once again Nezia couldn't tell what the vixen was thinking. She took a small breath and impatiently swiped the tears away with the back of one paw.

“I don't know what sweets you have up north, but these…or something like them…were what we ate in my home." She said, and had to stop herself from apologizing for the lack of spices, the painful absences which yawned wide across the whole of everything.

“They're not bad," said Kill-sin quietly, drawing her knees tight to her chest. “We don't have caravans in the north. Too decadent. Full of criminals." This last part came almost as punctuation, more an automatic conclusion than anything consciously hateful.

“We would have served these with candied plums and wheat pudding," Nezia said, supposing there was no point in saying that nobody she knew had been a criminal. “And on a child's birthday we decorate a tree with these cookies, one for each year, and they have to climb up and eat them all."

She wanted to continue but again the tightness crept back into her throat and Nezia found her gaze tugged back down to the rusty steel beneath her feet, in the vain hope that this might somehow hold back her tears.

One corner of Kill-sin's mouth twitched. She swallowed at last, with a dry, quiet click.

“There were birch trees where I grew up, with white paper bark. At the end of winter we gathered sap from them. You pour it onto the snow and it becomes sticky and thick, like caramel. This…that was what we had for sweets when I was small." She sniffed, turned her gaze sharply downward and took a large, ragged bite of her cookie. Drool had formed at the corners of her mouth and the vixen self consciously swiped it away.

“Like maple candy." Said Nezia. She offered a tiny smile but Kill-sin's gaze went dark. The tremor at the corner of the vixen's mouth tautened to a palsied grimace.

“All over now," she muttered harshly. “No point remembering."

“It won't be like this forever," Nezia said reflexively, with a certainty that she did not entirely feel. “The war will end one day."

Kill-sin scoffed quietly and stuffed the rest of the cookie into her mouth. She chewed twice, teeth clicking, then swallowed with a gulp. Crumbs clung to her whiskers.

“Not for people like us," the vixen said. “Not until we're all dead."

But we've escaped, Nezia very nearly said. Useless rejoinder that this would have been. For now, Kill-sin might answer. Until the Inquisition caught up, or the same old social contagions overcame their neighbors and set kind against kind.

“Then why did you even bother getting on the boat?" Nezia snapped, overcome by a sudden flare of frightened anger.

Kill-sin did not meet her gaze.

“Because I am a coward." The vixen said, then was silent.

A small, busy tap of claws on metal sounded and the very next moment a little brown river otter swept around the corner, so quickly that Nezia had to shy back in order to avoid a collision. The otter, so tiny that she only came up to Nezia's sternum, wore an oversized gray mechanic's tunic that hung down nearly to her knees and carried in her arms a dented metal toolbox. She looked harried, a bright, frustrated look glowing in her dark lutrine eyes.

“Only crew below deck," the little mechanic snapped. She spoke western though her accent was coastal southern, a near purr that anger turned to a growl. “How many times do we need to tell you people?"

“I'm sorry…" Nezia reflexively blurted, but of course the otter's glare only intensified. Kill-sin watched impassively, as though she were somehow separate from the situation at hand. When the vixen stirred, it felt like a conscious intervention. A defense, almost.

“You're a passenger-auxiliary, right?" Kill-sin asked suddenly, though her query had a rhetorical feel to it. “We boarded at the same place, I'm sure of it."

“So?" The otter asked, an edge to her voice.

“So you're not crew either. Not really." The vixen's smile, straight, sharp and not at all friendly, had returned. Her teeth seemed to glow in the dim. Nezia shifted uncomfortably but did not dare speak.

“And yet here I am," the otter said drily, not rising to the vixen's bait. “And here you'd better not be if you want to stay out of the brig."

Kill-sin sighed and stood, one leg favored and her shoulders hunched. For the first time Nezia saw just how painfully, dangerously thin the vixen was beneath her rags. Her tail hung limp, bent unnaturally at the middle.

“Thanks again for the treat." Said Kill-sin, then rounded the corner and was gone.

The otter mechanic watched the empty space where the vixen had been with a sour, wary look.

“Fucking northerners," she muttered. “They started this whole damned thing. I don't even know why we let them onboard."

“The Inquisition did brand her…" Nezia said hesitantly. Perhaps it was a bit patronizing to defend the vixen simply because she had clearly gone through something horrible, but remaining silent felt wrong.

At this the otter turned back to face her, glare undiminished.

“Something wrong with your feet, cat?" She asked truculently.

Nezia very nearly turned and hurried off, but again she was stopped dead by an ugly, tight trapped feeling. Like every bit of the world's uncertainties would come crashing down on top of her if she returned to her berth and succumbed to routine.

Unsure what else to do, she showed her wax paper package to the otter, offering out the remaining cookie. The little mechanic looked and blinked, seeming to have been momentarily flummoxed.

“You made those?" She asked at last.

Nezia nodded. The otter made a little hmm noise, then turned towards the dark little pocket behind the bulkhead where Kill-sin had been lurking. She examined the steam-pipes there with performative fuss, as though making absolutely sure the vixen's very presence had done no damage.

“I had one at supper," the mechanic said at last. “Or a little sliver of one. So you work in the kitchen?"

“Yes…" Nezia wondered what she might say to further the conversation, to buy herself a few more moments in the quiet of the maintenance promenade, but already the otter huffed, seeing right through her.

“Relax," she said. “I suppose you're an auxiliary too…of a sort."

“So I can stay?" Nezia asked, scarcely daring to believe her luck. She folded her package back up and tucked the remaining cookie away.

The otter flashed her a look, expression caught somewhere between amusement and annoyance, then held out her toolbox. Nezia took it, then sagged against the ship's railing with a startled mew.

“Is this thing filled with bricks?" She asked before she could think better of it. Fortunately, the little mechanic only smiled.

“Are all caravan folk so work-shy?" The otter shot back, then pointed down the promenade with her blunt lutrine muzzle. “This way." Off she went, trotting along at a surprisingly brisk pace for someone with such short legs.

Neza obediently followed, the toolbox's metal warm and greasy against her chest. The otter chatted as she walked, an endless stream of mechanic-speak about steam pressure and the integrity of valves, joints and rubber gaskets, for which there were never enough spare parts. Most of this flew well clear of Nezia's understanding, though she nodded obediently at the right points and looked wherever the otter pointed, to where scraps of oily rag and tape were playing a heroic role in holding the freighter together.

“I'm too small to handle the engines—according to them—so instead I'm up here doing peripheral repairs." The otter concluded unhappily, then swung abruptly around to face a bulkhead and one particular section of a steam pipe, where slender threads of pale vapor were escaping from between two rivets.

“Ah." Nezia mumbled, too out of breath to offer more substantive commentary. Her arms had begun to tremble.

At last, blessedly, the mechanic turned and retrieved her toolbox, setting it on the floor plates with a reverberating bang. Nezia flexed her paws and stretched her arms, noting with some dismay that a dark rectangle of grease had been printed across the front of her blouse.

“Simple fix," the otter said, half to herself. She fell to a crouch, blunt tail twitching, and selected the appropriate tools. “This is your first time on the water?"

It took Nezia a moment to realize that the little mechanic expected an actual answer from her.

“Yes," she confirmed. “My name is Nezia, it's nice to—"

“Itzel," the otter grunted, straining to tighten a bolt. One of the threads of escaping steam vanished with a declining peep. “Must be tough for you, so much water. I'm not over-fond of the ocean myself, but at least my paws are webbed and I can stay afloat as long as I want." There was a silky sheen of pride over the otter's words.

“I appreciate you letting me stay down here. It's not been a good day." Nezia said, desperate to turn the topic of conversation away from the ocean.

Itzel gave her a small look, then threw the whole of her weight into tightening another bolt, one foot braced against the wall. Nezia could see taut, well toned musculature rippling beneath the little otter's fur, a lifetime of hard work on display. One shoulder of her tunic rode up and Nezia caught a glimpse of a reddish mark marring the otter's pelt, an S shaped brand.

Nezia had never traveled through the coastal south—it had been a dangerous place even before the war—but she knew of it by reputation. Knew of the slaver-pirates and the livid, ugly brands they marked their property with. The Inquisition had taken to using them as auxiliaries of their own ever since the war reached the coast, provided that the pirates only enslaved prey species. Prey…and perhaps little otters too.

Her breath caught and Nezia was briefly overcome by a feeling of pity, undone only when she thought instead of just how resourceful and brave Itzel must have been in order to successfully escape her captors.

“Phew…" The otter sighed once her job was done. She tossed the wrench back into her toolbox and flipped the lid shut with a swipe from her tail. One paw disappeared into a fold of her oil stained tunic and came back out with a little steel flask. Itzel took a fair draught, then offered it out. Nezia hesitated, whiskers atremble and her nose instinctively wrinkled. Whatever was in the flask smelled disconcertingly similar to gasoline.

“Very kind of you…" She began to say, realizing even as she spoke that this was the sort of hospitality a person was not allowed to decline. Indeed, the otter pressed the flask companionably into her paw.

“I distilled this myself," Itzel said in a tone that suggested she might take offense if Nezia asked what the ingredients had been. “Nothing better for bad days."

Nezia took a small breath and sipped politely. For a moment the otter's liquor was halfway pleasant, smooth in the same way that good southern vodka was, then it hit the back of her throat and ignited like a petrol bomb. Nezia gagged and bent double, Itzel smoothly retrieving her flask before it could be spilt.

“Oh…ugh…" Nezia moaned, eyes watering and a strange, rubbery feeling reverberating between her ears. She felt vaguely like someone had just struck her over the head with a heavy object.

Itzel giggled and thumped her companionably on the back, hard enough that Nezia nearly went to her knees.

“It's a guaranteed cure-all," the otter said, guiding her to sit upon the toolbox. “No matter what kind of day you were having before, I can guarantee you aren't thinking about it now."

Nezia managed to smile, her eyes still watering. The ship now seemed to be swaying in two different directions at once.

“Thank you." She croaked.

The otter sat down beside her. There was only just enough room on the toolbox for them both to fit, Itzel pressed up against her. The otter stowed her flask and its hellacious contents.

“I'm going to jump ship when we get to the Shale," Itzel said with perfect confidence. “What about you?"

Nezia blinked. She thought unhappily of Martin for a moment, imagined herself on her knees or bent over a bed, ersatz gold and meaningless jewels gleaming as the wolf made her take his knot.

A complicated, conflicted swirl of warmth at the idea of this. Better than things had been, for sure, but still so false. Nezia had to work in order to manufacture a smile and a gentle shrug.

“I will find work baking," she said, biting back an equivocation, a tendril of doubt. Always best to have faith in the future. “…People everywhere like sweets."

Itzel offered a small, crooked smile, something about it helping to make the sentiment a little more real.

“I only got a little sliver of cookie at lunch, but if you're this good only working with whatever leftover shit they have in the kitchens, I'm sure you'll do great with a proper pantry." The otter said and Nezia felt a small, webbed paw slide over hers. She blinked. Was the otter…?

“Thank you," she said, then found her package of cookies and offered it out. “I still have one left."

Itzel's gaze was wholly on her. Suddenly the otter's closeness felt a lot more deliberate, the slow press of Itzel's body against hers following, with subtle intentionality, the freighter's sway as it rode the ocean swell.

“You still have crumbs in your whiskers." The otter said, then leaned in and kissed her. It was telegraphed clearly enough that Nezia saw it coming but still too sudden for her to be able to manage more than a tiny, startled syllable before Itzel's lips were on hers. The otter's kiss tasted faintly of alcohol and salt, a hint of her sharp little teeth making the fur on Nezia's tail stand straight.

She froze, every bit of her stiff with alarm, and Itzel pulled abruptly back with a wince, her dark little eyes skating abruptly out to sea.

“Sorry," the little otter blurted. She wiped her mouth, almost compulsively, then stood and stepped over to the railing. There were clumps of brown fur rising unevenly all along her tail. “I shouldn't have done that."

Nezia let out a small breath, working to unwind her own startled confusion.

“I…um…I'm flattered, but…" She managed to craft half of a well meaning sentence before trailing off into a wince. She thought about offering the cookies again as though that would fix anything. Itzel turned from the railing and glanced out to sea, where the sun had fallen low enough to kiss the horizon. A slick of shimmering red light pooled upon the water.

“Curfew soon." Itzel noted, not quite able to meet her eyes.

“Right." Nezia mumbled. She started to turn away, then heard a discomforted shuffle of lutrine feet on the deck plating.

“Thanks," the otter blurted. She had to collect herself before she could continue. “…For the sweets, and the help. Maybe I'll see you around. On the Shale."

“See you around." Nezia echoed, then stepped away, feeling somehow hollower than before.

She made it back above deck without anyone seeing. Fewer people now, a last few stargazers and wanderers counting down the minutes before the crew shepherded them to their berths. Nezia saw Kill-sin huddled into the shadow of a ventilation stack, the vixen's lone eye gleaming in the dying light of sunset. She thought of saying something, perhaps offering to walk the vixen below deck, but then was exhausted by the mere idea of looking at Kill-sin's false smile and listening to another word of her nihilism.

Just before she went below deck Nezia saw a trio of marines trot past, looking harried and tense. They had their rifles with them. Nezia tried not to think about what this might mean. Trouble somewhere, most probably. Knives flashed in some cramped berth, old sectarian hatreds flaring up in the belly of the ship. Nothing heading for her in particular at very least. Thank the gods for that.

Her berth was quiet when she returned, the rats absorbed into an endless game of dominoes and the rabbits talking quietly amongst themselves. Nezia lingered in the corridor outside, doing what she could to straighten her fur and her clothes, so it did not look like she had spent the whole day being mussed and troubled and pawed over.

The tiny pressure of a curious gaze caught her attention and she glanced over to see the little rabbit boy peeking at her through the doorway. His ears fluttered and he shrank back at the sight of her yellow feline eyes, but the boy's curiosity was clearly too strong to be fully extinguished. He glanced back at his distracted parents, then edged forward, out into the corridor.

“Did you really live in a wagon?" He asked, with naive bluntness.

“A special wagon, yes," said Nezia. “With walls, windows and an iron stove in the corner." It occurred to her that this was the longest exchange she'd had with any of the people in her berth.

The boy's velvety nose twitched. His eyes, pink and watery, flickered down the hallway, as though he might see exactly such a vehicle come trundling along at any moment.

“I wish I lived in a wagon instead of this crummy ship," he grumbled. A moment later his gaze returned to her, newly intent. “Would you teach me to be a thief?"

“I wouldn't know how. I've never stolen from anyone." Said Nezia, unruffled.

The boy regarded her mistrustfully, then huffed and looked elsewhere. Feeling slightly bad, Nezia produced her shrunken wax paper package and showed him the remaining cookie. It had crumbled around the edges and lost most of its glaze. Still, the boy made a small ooh, visibly surprised.

“I was only ever good at baking," said Nezia. “I always made the treats on special occasions."

The boy looked at the cookie, looked at her, then delicately reached out and took it with all the care of someone extracting the bait from a spring-loaded trap. He hesitated, mumbled a tiny word of thanks and then hurried down the corridor to eat it in secret.

Though she was very tired and more than a little sore, Nezia did not fall asleep for a long time. She listened to the soft breathing of the rats and the twitchy stir of the rabbits. Amongst them, the boy slept soundly and dreamlessly for the first time that Nezia could recall.

This at very least.