Fantasy Anthroterra (1:1, closed, scantilycladsnail & ThieviusRaccoonus)

[scantilycladsnail]

The moment Wrath’s jaws snapped shut—
BOOM.

The goose exploded.

Not with gore. Not with blood.
But with an impossible, blinding burst of feathers.

White. Fluffy. Endless.
The feathers floated.

Suspended. Serene.

Just for a moment—like the aftermath of a pillow fight between eldritch beings. Soft. Harmless.

Then they shifted.

Midair.

Drifting toward Wrath.

Slow at first—then faster. Dozens. Hundreds. Each feather twisting, turning, drawn like iron to a magnet.

FWUMP. One slapped onto his flank.

WHIP. Another latched to his shoulder.

Then all at once—

FWOOSH.

The feathers swarmed him—clinging to his ghostly, wolfish form like fabric with a vendetta. They wrapped around his limbs, pressed to his ribs, tangled in his shadowy tail. His skeletal skull was the last to go—crowned with a poofy white plume that landed like a final insult.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Wrath stared.

Covered. Completely.

A walking embarrassment of white feathers and ghostly indignation.

Mordecai stared too.

Silence.

“Get this off me,” Wrath growled.

Mordecai said nothing.

Wrath shook violently—like a wolf trying to fling off bathwater—but the feathers clung. Clung like shame. Clung like vengeance.

“WHAT THE HELL!” he bellowed, snarling, twisting, tail whipping through the void. “HELP ME!”

Mordecai’s expression barely shifted at first.

Then—he laughed.

A short, rasping sound. Rare. Genuine.

Wrath froze.

“STOP LAUGHING AT ME!”

“Oh no,” Mordecai said smoothly, arms folding as he leaned back. “I’m sure you’ve got it under control.”

“AAAAAAGH!” Wrath howled, thrashing wildly as the feathers fluttered more aggressively, somehow offended.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

HONK.

The sound echoed like a gavel in a courtroom full of clowns.

Then—

FLASH.

Light without color. Sound without noise.

And then—absence.

In a single, breathless blink, Mordecai was no longer in the void.

No doors.
No feathers.
No goose.

Just—

Wood.

The gentle creak of floorboards beneath him. The faint scent of sea salt and old ink. His cane tapped once, grounding him.

He stood alone on the familiar floor of the houseboat.

Dim light filtered through the curtained windows, soft and warm.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai gasped as the world shifted back into place.

His hand gripped his cane, grounding him. Wood beneath his hooves. Familiar. Real.

He blinked—slowly, carefully. The scent of sea salt and old ink drifted through the quiet. Dim light filtered through the curtained windows. The houseboat. His sanctuary of clarity.

“...What happened?” he muttered, rubbing his forehead.

His robe still clung to him from earlier. He glanced down at it, then out the nearest window. No sign of Wrath. No voice. No feathers. Just the soft sound of river water lapping gently against the hull.

“How did I even get out here…” he murmured.

No answer.

He exhaled, steadying himself, and stepped outside. The door creaked softly as morning air swept over him—cool and quiet. The dock creaked under his hooves as he moved, cane tapping along the weathered boards.

He made his way down the narrow pier, half-hidden near the edge of the estate, pushing past overgrown bushes and slipping through the garden path. Always quiet. Always unseen.

When he reached the estate doors, he slipped inside, one hand clutching his robe tighter around him. He moved quickly through the halls, avoiding sound, avoiding thought.

Up the stairs. Familiar steps.

Back to their room.

He opened the door with a soft push.

“Ephraim?” he called, voice low—but not flat.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The door creaked open—too loud in the hush that followed.

No reply.

The room was empty.

No fire in the hearth. No robes tossed on the chaise. No perfume on the air. Just stillness. Recently lived in, recently left.

The curtains fluttered gently with the breeze from an open window.

Nothing.

No footsteps in the hall. No soft voice responding from the next room. Just the whisper of linen settling as he moved past the bed.

And then—

Laughter.

Distant. Faint. But unmistakable.

The children. Somewhere deeper in the estate—chattering, tumbling, delight echoing off stone and wood like sunlight on water. It drifted through the corridors like warmth through a draft, untouched by the silence of this room.

But no one else.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stepped into the bedroom. Empty. Ephraim was gone, and so was the coat she'd left draped on the chair. Had she gone looking for him?

He wasn’t even sure how he’d left the room himself.

His ear twitched toward the faint sound of laughter—children, somewhere deeper in the estate. Light and distant, but real. It echoed off the stone like a memory trying to reach him.

“Hm,” he murmured, eyes dropping to the robe still wrapped around him. Apparently, he'd been standing there longer than he realized.

“Well… maybe that first.”

—

A short while later, he stepped out again, properly dressed now. Still sharp, but stripped of his usual ceremony—no vest, no tie. Just a crisp collared shirt, black leather suspenders crossing his shoulders, and dark trousers. His cane tapped softly as he moved down the corridor, unhurried.

The children’s laughter hadn’t stopped. Perhaps Avarice had proven entertaining after all… or maybe they were laughing at him.

He paused at the door to their room, fingers resting lightly on the frame—then pushed it open.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Callabassas was perched on the bed with a wooden sword in one hand and a book in the other, proudly explaining a rule to absolutely no one who had asked. Rhea sat on the floor with her makeup kit—open, scattered, and very much in active use. She beamed up at Mordecai, her little brush still clutched like a dagger of glamour.

Castara was cross-legged in the corner chair, reading through something far too complicated for her age, eyes flicking up only briefly to acknowledge him with a knowing little smirk.

Avarice?

He was on the floor.

Covered in blush.

And eyeliner.

And—was that a star drawn on his cheek?

He blinked slowly, then turned toward Mordecai like a man who had seen the end and come back not wiser, but with glitter in his fur.

“She said it would wash off,” Avarice said flatly.

Rhea giggled. “It will! Probably.”

Callabassas grinned, sword raised high. “We made him swear allegiance to the Sparkle Court.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stood there, staring.

He blinked once.

Then again.

His eyes moved from Avarice—slouched and glittering on the floor—to the children, then back to Avarice. Then to the blush on his nose. Then to the eyeliner. Then—was that a star on his cheek?

"My… this is a new one," he said at last, genuinely surprised. His gaze drifted once more between the scene’s key players as if trying to map the chain of events that led to this particular catastrophe.

Castara glanced up from her book, barely hiding a smirk. “Are you feeling better? Mother said you weren’t well last night.”

Mordecai’s focus shifted to her. “Ah—yes. I’m fine now,” he said, offering a faint, polite smile, followed by a small cough into his hand as if clearing the moment from his throat. His attention turned back to the room at large. “Have any of you seen your mother recently?”

The question landed on the children, but his eyes flicked toward Avarice too for confirmation.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Avarice didn’t move much—just enough to shift one glitter-coated paw behind his head as he reclined dramatically against a pillow someone had clearly thrown at him earlier. He blinked once, slow and deliberate, like someone carefully choosing the lie they’d already committed to.

“She knew you went to the markets,” he said lazily, lips curling into a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thought you were taking a while. Figured you got distracted by a bookstall or some brooding ledge somewhere, so… she went looking.”

He lifted a hand, lazily gesturing skyward as if to shoo away any concern.

“Said she’d be back soon. Probably wandered into a debate with some poor merchant who tried to sell her a floral print."

Rhea, still holding her brush, gasped softly. “She hates floral prints."

“Exactly,” Avarice muttered, folding his arms behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. “Might be a while.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai raised an eyebrow at the explanation. Or rather, at Ephraim’s supposed reasoning. He still couldn’t quite piece together how he’d left the bedroom—let alone how long he'd actually been gone for this entire sequence of events to unfold. Ten minutes? Maybe less?

She must have told them that story to keep them calm. Keep it simple.

“I see…” he murmured, giving a slow nod. “Well, I’d rather not have her worrying on my account. Suppose I ought to go find her.”

His thoughts drifted—Atticus. He still needed to handle that today. He’d planned for it. Prepared for it. And yet Ephraim had refused to let him go.

His ear gave a slight flick.

Then, with a glance toward the lounging, glitter-drenched heap on the floor, he added dryly, “I assume you’re invested in this… new glitter kingdom of yours.” He gestured vaguely at the mess. “Or would you prefer to come with me instead?”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Rhea gasped—scandalized, scandalized—as if Mordecai had just threatened to cancel a royal coronation.

“He can’t leave,” she declared, clutching her brush like a scepter of authority. “We haven’t done the other side of his face yet!”

Avarice opened his mouth, perhaps to answer Mordecai with a clever quip or excuse—but the moment Rhea turned those big, dramatic eyes on him, his soul visibly left his body and signed a surrender treaty.

Avarice sighed, shoulders slumping as he resigned himself back to the floor. “I suppose I’m needed here in the realm of powder and tyranny,” he said, voice full of long-suffering flair. “Go, Mordecai. Save the world. I’ll be here... glowing.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai raised an eyebrow—amused this time—as he looked between Rhea’s fierce declaration and Avarice’s tragic surrender. A soft chuckle escaped him, low and brief.

“All right, all right. You win,” he said, with a slight dip of his head toward Rhea’s sovereign authority.

His eyes returned to Avarice, the faintest curl of a smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you for watching them. I shouldn’t be long.”

He gave the children one last glance—Callabassas mid-duel with invisible foes, Castara pretending not to listen while tracking every word, Rhea poised like a war general with blush in hand—then looked back to Avarice.

“Have fun,” he added, voice dry, but not unkind. There was a flicker of something in his expression—humor, certainly, but gentled with something quieter. A brief and vulnerable gratitude, passed between old friends.

And then he turned to go, cane tapping rhythmically as he disappeared down the hall.

—

The front doors opened, letting in the cool breath of Umbrafane. Mordecai stepped out, now wrapped in a long, weathered coat—dark and split at the back, the hem trailing near his knees. The city unfolded before him in all its quiet, spiraling grandeur—gothic towers stretching into the pale sky, stone streets humming with the soft murmur of life. Citizens bustled about their errands, unaware of the war still walking among them.

Mordecai kept his head low, crimson eyes forward, cane in hand as he moved toward the market.

Just himself. For the moment.

Then, a wry comment slipped past his lips—aimed at no one near, but not said to no one.

“So… how are the feathers treating you?”

As if on cue, the cane gave a sudden jolt in his grip—not alarming, but unmistakably petulant. His own shadow twitched, subtle, then gave a sharp nudge against his heel.

He stumbled forward a step, catching himself with a quiet scoff. “Oh, come now,” he muttered under his breath, the warmth in his tone belying the complaint.

He straightened his coat and kept walking—toward the market, toward Ephraim, toward whatever came next.

And behind him, his shadow fell back into rhythm.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The air of Umbrafane today was… strange.

Too warm for the season. Too light for the hour. The city’s usual somber rhythm—the quiet diligence of old stones and older secrets—had taken on a peculiar lilt. It was still Umbrafane… but dressed in colors Mordecai didn’t quite recognize.

Laughter echoed between the shadowed alleys. Dancers moved at the edges of the plaza, swaying to the playful clink of stringed instruments played by street musicians perched on crates and barrels. Vendors leaned forward from their stalls, not to peddle aggressively, but to offer warm conversation—samples of bread and dried fruit passed like gifts instead of bait.

Paintings bloomed on canvases and stone walls alike. Children chalked dream-creatures across cobbled walkways as if the Harlekin weren’t a whisper away. Couples strolled. Strangers shared space without tension.

It was… joyous.

Maybe Mern’s been busy.

Then—

Bump.

A shoulder grazed his.

A tall gazellekin woman stood there, already a few steps ahead, her profile framed in soft gold from a nearby awning.

She was dressed in pale violet silks. Bangles shimmered at her wrists and ankles, chiming softly as she moved. Her horns were etched with gold filigree, curled high and proud, and her face was mostly hidden behind an ornate fan of dark wood and lace.

But her eyes?

Amber. Sharp. Laughing.

She dipped into a fluid little bow, elegant and brisk, fan hiding most of her grin.

“My apologies,” she said lightly—her voice airy, musical. A practiced flirtation that vanished as quickly as it came.

Then she turned and slipped into the crowd, her silks catching the light like wind catching a veil.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stood still, eyes narrowing.

Bothered. Confused.

This wasn’t how Umbrafane moved. Not like this. Too bright. Too soft. Too… hopeful. The kind of day that wore someone else’s face. Not the shadowed hush he and Ephraim preferred. Not the city they knew.

His ear twitched at the memory of the gazellekin’s shoulder brushing his. Deliberate, maybe. Or just playfully careless.

He turned slightly, gaze sweeping the plaza. Music, laughter, the scent of fruit and charcoal fire. Children tracing stars into stone. People lingering.

“I swear,” he muttered under his breath, “if Silvano and Mern have done something ridiculous again…”

His grip tightened on the cane. He closed his eyes.

“Wrath,” he said quietly, “can you find Ephraim and Vengeance?”

The sigil beneath his hand gave a faint pulse. A thrum of recognition. Then the cane shimmered faintly at its base—shadow curling outward as Wrath stirred, slinking low along the stone.

(Using Wrath's Shadow Tracking)

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The shadows curled outward like spilled ink.

They twisted beneath Mordecai’s feet, slick and hungry—eager, but struggling. The plaza was saturated. Shadows overlapped in layers too thick, too bright, too recent. So much movement, so many feet, tails, hooves, laughter woven into the stone. The light of the day had invited them all, and their shadows clung like confetti after a parade.

Wrath’s presence throbbed low in the cane. Frustrated. Sorting. Sniffing.

Then—there.

Thrum.

A flicker.

Mordecai’s gaze dropped as the shadows at his feet shimmered with subtle shape—like oil rising above water. A thin line began to pull from the mass, separating itself. Lighter. Sharper. Woven with a familiar echo.

Ephraim.

Her shadow essence wasn’t like the others. It didn’t walk—it pressed. Strode. Dipped where her hoofsteps had paused, curled faintly in places where she lingered. There were points of hesitation. Points of weight. He could see where she’d stopped at a stand—perhaps for fruit, or one of the painted charms hung along the vendor stalls. Then again, a little farther.

The path was faint. Like a string of whispered thoughts laid across the stone.

A little dotted trail.

Forward.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai knelt, fingers brushing through the delicate lines of shadow others would never notice. Wisps, echoes—too faint to cast, too deliberate to ignore. He followed the curve of them with his eyes, then lifted his gaze to trace their direction.

She had stopped, that much was clear. Once. Twice. Maybe three times.

But shopping?

No. That wasn’t right.

Not today.

His eyes narrowed.

“…Ephraim,” he murmured under his breath—quiet, suspicious. Something in the weight of her steps pulled at him, a subtle wrongness in their pause.

He stood, cane tapping lightly beside him as he moved forward, following the trail. Not hurried. Not aimless.

Just tracking.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

“M-Mordecai?”

The voice was small—gentle, uncertain.

A tug came at the hem of his coat.

There, standing beside him, was a young goatkin—maybe eight, maybe nine. Big eyes, dark and round, framed by an unruly shock of curls and oversized ears that twitched nervously with each passing breeze. They wore a simple tunic, too long in the sleeves, and clutched a satchel that looked far too heavy for their frame.

They blinked up at him, uncertain.

Their hooves shifted on the stone—restless, like they had something important to say, but weren’t quite sure how to say it.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stopped mid-step, his gait halting with the precision of a man unaccustomed to interruption. His head snapped around, gaze sharp—ready to cut down whatever had dared to tug at his coat.

But then—

Downward.

A small goatkin stood there, wide-eyed and trembling, their hand still brushing the fabric of his coat. Young. Barely older than Rhea or Callabassas. No threat. Just a nervous, twitching shape clutching a satchel too heavy for their spine.

His expression shifted—just slightly.

“…Yes?” he asked, voice still low and stern, but gentled at the edges, tempered by the child’s size. Not soft. Just… measured.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The child swallowed once, eyes flicking to his cane, then back up to his face.

“Are you… looking for Lady Ephraim?” they asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

It came out like they weren’t sure if they were allowed to ask it—like they were repeating someone else's words, words they didn’t quite understand but knew were important.

Their fingers tightened around the strap of their satchel, knuckles pale against the worn leather.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s ears flicked at the question—surprised, but attentive. The child’s tone was too rehearsed, too fragile. Still, they hadn’t run. And they hadn’t lied. Not yet.

“I am,” he answered, voice level. Measured. Watching.

His gaze flicked briefly to the satchel, then back to their eyes.

“Do you know where she went?”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The child gave a quick, uncertain nod—like they were proud to remember, but still scared to say it.

“She said… if you came by, I should tell you that she went to the Riftkin district.”

They looked up at him with wide, earnest eyes.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Perception roll

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Roll Reward:
The market didn’t stop for Mordecai.

Eyes flicked his way when he passed—just a little too long. Conversations dipped a beat too low. Laughter hesitated. The air around him shifted in that subtle, practiced way Umbrafane had learned to breathe around danger.

And the child…

They had been brave. Or rather, obedient. Not bold. Not warm. Just dutiful. Ephraim had spoken to them—kindly, perhaps—and that kindness lingered in the echo of the message. But even so, the child hadn’t lingered.

They had delivered the words, then pulled their hand back like they’d touched fire.

It wasn’t him.

It was the name. The weight. The shadow that walked a half-step behind him, never tethered far.

It was Wrath.

Even the Goatkin—the ones who shared his face, his blood, his fur—they gave him space. Reverence. Deference.

But not trust.

Not anymore.

The child stood for a moment longer. Not watching him. Not questioning. Just waiting for him to go.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai studied the child as he straightened his posture, a quiet breath shifting through his chest.

“…I see,” he said, voice low.

Behind him, his shadow flickered—just slightly. Wrath, alert. Watching. Tracking not just the child, but the crowd, the rhythm of the market, the tension hiding in idle motion.

Mordecai’s gaze lingered a moment longer on the child—just long enough to catch the tremble behind their stillness. There was no malice there. No agenda. Just obedience.

“Thank you,” he said, simple and clean.

No warmth. No threat. Just finality.

He turned, cane tapping once against the stone as he moved off, heading in the direction of the Riftkin district. His stride was steady, but there was a new stiffness to it—shoulders drawn just slightly tighter, his hand rising to rub along the side of his head.

Pressure. A heaviness. Something shifting in the air around him that he couldn’t yet name.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The air changed before the road did.

The sounds of the market dulled—softened to a hush, like cloth over a bell. Laughter thinned. Music faded. Even the cobblestone beneath Mordecai’s boots seemed quieter, like it understood where he was going and chose not to speak of it.

The Riftkin district didn’t announce itself with spectacle.

It simply was.

The arched gateway loomed ahead—tall and sun-stained, carved from old Umbrafane stone and fitted with a thick wooden door that bore the marks of reinforcement. Iron bolts. Weathered hinges. And the words:

“Beyond This Gate: Riftkin Territory. Entry Discouraged Without Escort.”

No guards. No posted sentries. Just the gate and its silence.

Most kin didn’t come this way. Not by choice. It wasn’t a forbidden place—it was just forgotten. Pushed to the edges. A courtesy penned into policy, a kindness given only so far as it could be comfortably ignored.

But Mordecai had helped build it.

He knew the shape of it—what it was meant to be. A sanctuary. A perimeter. A compromise between containment and care.

But now, it felt different.

Heavier. Hollowed in a way that couldn’t be seen. The presence of kin behind him had already started to vanish block by block, like the city itself respected the line drawn in the dirt.

Ahead, the gate waited.

And beyond it… the Riftkin. Those twisted by magic, mutation, or trauma—the ones the world didn’t quite know how to name. The ones Mordecai had once fought for.

And hadn’t faced in some time.