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

Finley’s grin widened—too wide, the kind of grin that knew it was teetering on the edge of something sharp but danced there anyway. He leaned in, balancing effortlessly on the table’s edge, his bells giving a soft jingle as he wagged a finger between Mordecai and Ephraim.

“Oh, but of course,” he said, his voice slipping into a conspiratorial whisper, though his eyes still gleamed with that performer's mischief. “It makes so much sense now! And here I thought I was merely gracing two ordinary souls with my presence—fool that I am!” He placed a hand over his heart, mock-wounded.

His gaze flicked back to Mordecai, golden eyes narrowing. “But no, no, no—this is much more interesting. I know you.” He tapped his temple, swaying slightly. “Shadow guy. Prophecy man. The whispers in the alley, the murmurs over drinks—you’ve got quite the reputation, friend.”

He clicked his tongue, tilting his head as if studying a rare, dangerous artifact. “Some say you crawled straight out of Wrath’s own belly. Others say you are Wrath, all dolled up in a mortal suit. And some?” His voice dipped into something softer, almost sing-song. “Some say you’re the reason this whole city’s gone to hell.”

The words lingered, curling in the air between them.

Finley let them sit for just a beat too long before his grin snapped back into place, bright and unfazed. He turned dramatically toward Ephraim, throwing out his arms as though presenting a grand reveal.

“And you! You’ve been keeping such delightful company this whole time—tell me, did you know you were sharing drinks with a legend?”

Ephraim’s smirk faltered, just slightly. Barely enough for most to notice, but it was there—the smallest crack in her usual confidence.

She didn’t answer Finley right away. Instead, her eyes flicked to Mordecai, searching his face for… something. Confirmation? Dismissal? A sign that this was just another one of the jester’s over-the-top performances, full of embellishments and half-truths?
 
Mordecai’s ears twitched sharply, his golden eyes flickering to the jester as the words cut closer, each syllable dragging more attention toward their table. The low murmur of the crowd seemed to grow louder, overlapping voices rising and falling in dissonance. Whispers of shadows, murmurs of recognition—is it him? Could it be him? The weight of their stares pressed down on him like a physical force.

The jester leaned in closer, his grin widening, his voice an incessant prattle of teasing and mockery. Mordecai’s breath hitched, his chest tightening as the figure before him began to shift. Finley’s bright colors started to dull, bleeding into something darker, more sinister. The exaggerated grin distorted, becoming far too familiar. It wasn’t Finley anymore.

Poise.

The air grew colder, a sharp chill creeping over Mordecai’s shoulder as though Avarice’s ice encasement was forming behind him, the phantom sensation of those frostbitten eyes boring into his back. The tavern began to warp—the warm glow of lanterns dimming, the raucous laughter distorting into eerie, hollow echoes. The patrons, one by one, turned into blank-masked figures in his mind, their faces pale and lifeless, their stares burning into him. They were watching. Always watching.

His pulse pounded in his ears, each beat amplifying the distant hum of mechanical gears. The scent of wine turned metallic in his nose, the faint aroma of rust and blood. His hands trembled uncontrollably, the table creaking as his hands dug into the underside in a desperate attempt to ground himself. Don’t look. Don’t let them see. Don’t let him see.

“Get—get—get away from me, Poise,” Mordecai muttered, his voice trembling, barely audible over the roaring chaos in his mind. His head jerked downward, his gaze fixed on the wooden table, his body instinctively trying to fold in on itself. But Wrath wouldn’t let him hide. His head twitched upward, as though the shadows curling at the edges of his vision demanded he look, demanded he meet their gaze.

The whispers grew louder, overlapping with the jester’s incessant chatter. His sweat dampened his fur, his breathing shallow and uneven. Mordecai’s grip tightened under the table, knuckles hard, trying to suppress the trembling and the fury. Wrath clawed at him, taunting, urging him to lash out, to end it all. But the voice in his mind whispered No. Not here. Not now.

He muttered again, more sharply this time, his voice cracking, “Get away from me.”

For a moment, his golden eyes darted toward Ephraim, seeking something—grounding, reality, a reminder that this wasn’t Poise’s estate. But the pounding in his head made it hard to focus, the lines between past and present blurring dangerously. He clenched his teeth, fighting to pull himself out of the illusion, but the shadows loomed larger, refusing to release him.
 
POST A.)
Finley started to turn, his usual flourish in place—an exaggerated twirl, a flick of his wrist, a final dramatic bow to seal the act. But then, halfway through the motion, something shifted.

The jingle of his bells stopped. The playfulness drained from his expression like a candle snuffed out. His shoulders dropped slightly, and for the first time since he sat down at the table, there was no act, no showmanship—just a guy who had suddenly realized he might have pushed too far.

He turned back toward Mordecai, slower this time, his eyes more calculating than theatrical. The exaggerated grin faded into something more neutral, his voice quieter now. Less for an audience, more for the moment.

“Hey,” Finley said, hands still raised in a loose, easy gesture, but without the usual flourish. “I didn’t mean to—” He hesitated, searching Mordecai’s face, catching the tension still there, the barely-restrained storm behind his golden eyes. He exhaled, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly feeling way too aware of how much attention had shifted their way.

His voice lowered further, no longer for the crowd—just for them. “Look, man, I didn’t know. I was just doing my job.”

POST B.)
Finley started to turn, his usual flourish in place—an exaggerated twirl, a flick of his wrist, a final dramatic bow to seal the act. But then, halfway through the motion, something shifted.

The jingle of his bells stopped. The playfulness drained from his expression like a candle snuffed out. His shoulders dropped slightly, not in caution, but in certainty. Like a man who had just decided something.

He turned back toward Mordecai, slower this time, his eyes narrowing—not in fear, not in retreat, but in assessment. Like a predator taking one last measure of its prey before the kill.

"Hey," Finley said, his hands still raised—but not in surrender. They stayed loose, easy, ready. His fingers curled slightly, his weight shifting forward just enough to suggest movement, closing the gap.

His grin had faded completely, replaced with something colder. Something knowing. Something smug.

"So it’s true, then."

His eyes scanned Mordecai’s face, dissecting, prying into places he had no business looking. He chuckled under his breath—low, quiet, like he had figured out the punchline to a joke only he was in on.

"Damn," he muttered, shaking his head, his fingers tapping idly against his wrist. "You’ve been slipping. Letting people get close. I didn’t think it’d be this easy."

Roll a D4. If you get an even number, proceed with Post A. If you get an odd number, Wrath's influence warps the moment, proceed with Post B.
 
Mordecai’s breathing slowed, the sharp, shallow gasps giving way to deeper, steadier inhales as the room began to come back into focus. The distorted image of Poise faded, leaving only the jester—Finley—sitting at the edge of the table. The cold chill on his shoulder, the hum of mechanical gears, the blank stares—they all dissipated, leaving behind the familiar hum of the tavern and the faint jingle of bells.

His golden eyes, still wide with residual shock, stared down at the table. His focus was distant, as if seeing something far beyond the room, but the tremor in his hands began to settle. Mordecai tilted his head down, the motion sluggish, his body still catching up with his mind.

“It’s…” His voice came out quieter than usual, stripped of its usual sharpness or authority. “It’s fine.” The words hung in the air, flat and almost automatic, as though spoken more to ground himself than to truly address Finley. There was no malice, no bite—just a lingering fragility in his tone.

His fingers flexed slightly before retreating into his palm as he raised a shaking hand to his temple, his fur still damp with sweat. His fingers pressed lightly against his head, as though trying to make sure it was real, that he was real. The sensation seemed to help, his breathing finally evening out.

“Just…” Mordecai swallowed hard, his voice steadying but still carrying the weight of exhaustion. “Give us some space. Please.”

He didn’t look at Finley, his gaze still pointed downward, but there was no hostility in the request—only an unspoken need to be left alone, to collect himself. The storm was passing, the Wrath receding to wherever it lingered in the shadows of his mind. Reality was settling back in, and with it, the heavy weight of what had just happened.

Mordecai shifted slightly in his seat, leaning back against the chair, his body visibly calming as he exhaled deeply. His hand lingered near his head before dropping back to his lap, fingers curling loosely against his thigh. Though his usual composure wasn’t entirely restored, the tension in his frame had begun to ease. For now, at least.
 
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Ephraim hadn’t moved much during the exchange, but her eyes never left Mordecai. She watched the way his breathing slowed, how his fingers twitched before curling inward, how his voice—so often sharp and measured—felt hollow now, thin around the edges.

Her fingers, still lightly gripping her drink, flexed once before she set the glass down without a sound. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table, closing some of the space between them without pressing too close.

“Yeah,” she murmured, her voice softer than usual, carrying none of its usual bite or sharp humor. “Take a breath. We’re not in a rush.”

Her eyes flicked toward Finley, still hovering just within range, and for the first time, there was something firm in her gaze. Not a glare, not a threat—just a silent enough. She wasn’t about to make a scene, but the jester had done his part. Now he needed to move on.

Satisfied that he’d take the hint, she turned her attention back to Mordecai. She didn’t push, didn’t press, didn’t ask the obvious are you okay? because that wasn’t the kind of thing you asked someone like him. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, studying him.

“If we’re gonna sit here in silence,” she said, keeping her voice light, “I might just start talking to fill the space. And neither of us wants that, trust me.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something—a reminder that they were still here, still grounded in this moment, not whatever nightmare had just clawed at the edges of his mind. Her fingers drummed idly against the wood before stilling.

“You wanna leave? I know a place,” she asked finally, still not pushing, just offering. “Or we can sit and pretend the drinks are good for a little longer."
 
Mordecai’s gaze flicked toward Ephraim as she spoke, her voice steady and cutting through the lingering haze in his mind—not sharp, not forceful, just present. It gave him something to hold onto, something to focus on that wasn’t the ringing in his ears or the phantom cold still creeping up his spine.

His body still trembled, the aftershocks of the episode refusing to fade completely. A slight shake in his leg, a barely noticeable tremor in his grip on the cane. He forced himself to still, though the tension in his muscles made it feel more like locking his body in place rather than truly calming down.

“Yes… let’s get out of here,” he muttered, voice still carrying an edge of exhaustion. “I think I’ve had enough entertainments in this tavern.”

He moved to stand, one hand pressing into the chair for support, the other gripping his cane tightly as he pushed himself up. The movement was slower than usual, deliberate—not out of hesitation, but out of a need to steady himself, to regain control. He didn’t glance back at the jester, didn’t check to see who was still watching. He just started walking, each step toward the door an act of reclaiming himself.

Stepping through the metal doors into the open air, Mordecai exhaled, the tension in his chest loosening just slightly. The night was cool against his damp fur, cutting through the suffocating weight of the tavern’s crowded air. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to think again.

His ears twitched, his grip on the cane tightening as his mind pulled back into the present. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said finally, his voice quieter, but not weak. He wasn’t ashamed—he refused to be. But there was a weight to those words, an acknowledgment of what had just happened. “I’ve… gained a very unwanted attraction to myself over these last few weeks. Sometimes I still feel like I’ve yet to make sense of it myself.”

His golden eyes flicked down the alley, a familiar, sinking feeling clawing at him before he even spotted the words scrawled in paint. The lantern’s glow cast jagged shadows over the rough stone wall, illuminating the bold message:

THE FEAR OF WRATH, THE FEAR OF THE GOAT’S SHADOW.

A low growl rumbled in Mordecai’s throat, his jaw tightening as he turned away sharply, as if looking at it too long would make it true.

He didn’t need a reminder of what the world thought of him.
 
The heavy footfalls against the cobblestone alley broke the quiet tension hanging between them. Steady, deliberate—not the careless meandering of a drunkard or the nervous scurry of someone trying to avoid trouble. Purposeful.

Two figures emerged from the lantern-lit haze, their imposing silhouettes cutting sharply against the dim glow. Wildebeestkin. Tall, broad-shouldered, built like they could plow through stone if they had the mind to. The one on the right, a woman with a cropped mane and a butch, battle-hardened stance, moved with the confidence of someone used to being in control. Her companion, a male of equal stature, carried himself with the weight of someone who had seen plenty of fights—and likely won most of them.

Their presence alone was enough to draw attention, but more than that, they stopped just in front of the graffiti-scrawled wall. Their bodies blocked parts of the painted messages, but the meaning still loomed, undeniable.

For a moment, their eyes flicked across the scene, assessing, measuring. And then, the woman bowed.

"Lady Ephraim." The deep rumble of her voice carried something between respect and relief. “Where have you been?”

The shift in energy was immediate. Ephraim, who had remained still up until now, let a slow, knowing smile creep across her face. Not just the slight, bemused expressions she usually wore—something warmer, something that suggested she had been expecting this, at least in some way.

She tilted her head slightly, tail flicking in an easy, unbothered motion.

"Well," she mused, voice smooth, as if she hadn’t been missing in action, "that’s a long story."

Her golden eyes flicked toward her two unexpected guests, and then, just as easily, she shifted the conversation away from herself. With a casual flick of her hand, she gestured toward Mordecai.

"But—have you met my friend, Mordecai?"

The way she said it was effortless, fluid, as if she had no doubt the introduction would smooth over whatever unspoken weight lingered between them. And just like that, she took a small step back, subtly nudging the moment into his hands.
 
Mordecai stiffened, his grip tightening slightly on his cane as the two imposing Wildebeestkin stepped forward, their presence commanding the space with an ease that set him immediately on edge. He took a small, cautious step back, his golden eyes narrowing as he studied their movements, his unease growing at how effortlessly Ephraim seemed to meet their arrival. She was calm, even familiar, while Mordecai’s instincts screamed to stay wary, to observe every detail—their posture, their tone, the way their eyes flicked to him with a weight he wasn’t sure he liked.

Dice Roll: SUSPICIOIUS?
 
11:
Ephraim knows these Wildebeests. They are dressed in nice garments... it makes Mordecai think of Avarice's rabbitkin servants; perhaps her goat house employed Wildebeests?
 
Mordecai’s stance eased slightly as he took in their clothing—well-tailored, fine materials, nothing like common street enforcers. They weren’t just muscle; they belonged to something structured, something with wealth. His mind briefly flickered to Avarice’s rabbitkin attendants, the way they moved with quiet efficiency in the House of the Goat. Perhaps her house employed Wildebeests as well?

His posture relaxed, though his grip on his cane remained firm, his instincts still wary despite Ephraim’s ease with them. After a beat, he met the Wildebeestkin’s gaze, his golden eyes studying them carefully before offering a greeting, his voice retaining its usual rasp but carrying a fraction more warmth.

“Greetings. I assume you’re no strangers to each other.” His words were measured, deliberate, the slight upward lilt at the end making it less of a challenge and more of an observation—though the sharpness in his eyes remained, always watching.
 
Ephraim let out a hearty laugh, shaking her head as she elbowed Mordecai lightly—though with enough force to be felt. “That’s hardly an introduction, Mordecai,” she teased, grinning wide. “Introduce yourself properly, will you? I don’t want them thinking I’m running around the city with an escort or something.”

Her tail flicked behind her as she glanced at the wildebeestkin with an amused look, clearly enjoying the moment. “I mean, you do have the brooding mystery thing going for you, but let’s not set the wrong impression.” She crossed her arms, leaning slightly toward him, her smirk still in place. “C’mon, say hello, before they start wondering if you charge by the hour.”
 
Mordecai swallowed slightly, feeling the unfamiliar weight of expectation hanging over him. He had never been good at introductions—at least, not anymore. Telling someone he was apparently the entity of Wrath in a vessel, seeking vengeance and mastering shadows, wasn’t exactly the friendliest way to start a conversation.

His voice caught for a brief second before he cleared his throat. Get it together.

“Well,” he started, his tone carrying a forced steadiness, “I suppose the more formal title is Dr. Mordecai Willowmire. Previously, or well, still an alchemist.” His words carried their usual sharpness, but there was an undercurrent of uncertainty beneath them. “Used to be the medical provider for the underground before… well—” He glanced up, as if the city itself could summarize the chaos that had unraveled his former life. “I suppose you could say I’m in the middle of a career change.” A wry edge crept into his tone, some attempt at humor, though it was lined with something heavier.

He flicked his golden eyes toward Ephraim, momentarily caught off guard—not just by her teasing, but by the way she was. There was no wariness in her stance, no hesitation in her words. Most people kept their distance, speaking to him as though choosing their last words before a knife met their throat. But she never seemed afraid, never seemed to cower or skirt around his presence. She pushed, prodded, laughed, touched—it was unsettling. It was… intriguing.

His gaze shifted back to the Wildebeestkin, and he added, “No scratches on Ephraim, though.” He hesitated briefly, before correcting himself. “Lady Ephraim.” His tone turned slightly awkward, as if only now realizing the weight of the title. Had he been meant to use it all along? Was it a matter of respect?

A beat of silence stretched between them.

“Wow. You’re bad at this,” Wrath’s voice curled into his ear like a taunting whisper.

Mordecai’s jaw tensed. “Oh, shush you,” he muttered under his breath at Wrath, his grip on his cane tightening ever so slightly.
 
The butch wildebeestkin stepped forward, the flickering lanternlight catching the intricate details of her attire. The attire, though unmistakably traditional, carried a quiet air of wealth and structure—not in the polished, pristine way of nobility, but in the craftsmanship behind it. The thick woven textiles wrapped over her torso in deep reds and dark greens were not hastily stitched rags but expertly dyed and carefully layered, embroidered with golden thread in swirling geometric patterns that spoke of an artisan’s skill. Each line and curve seemed deliberate, carrying meaning beyond decoration.

The broad leather bands encircling her arms bore intricate etchings, the patterns symmetrical and precise, not the rough, haphazard markings of a common street fighter. They looked almost ceremonial, like something passed down or awarded rather than bought or scavenged. The jaguar pelt draped over her chest was pristine, its spotted fur carefully maintained—a trophy, yes, but not one of careless vanity. It was a symbol of standing, of history, worn with purpose rather than arrogance.

Every element of her outfit, from the richness of the fabric to the deliberate craftsmanship, suggested an affiliation with something structured. This was not the garb of a wandering sellsword or a desperate outlaw—it belonged to someone with ties to an order, a people, a legacy that extended beyond individual survival. The details, the precision, even the way she carried it all, made it clear: she was not merely muscle. She was part of something larger, something with wealth—not in coin, but in heritage.

She stood with the quiet confidence of someone who didn’t need to raise her voice to be heard, who didn’t need to announce herself to command attention.

Mordecai had barely finished speaking before her dark eyes locked onto him, scanning him with a look so intense it could peel flesh from bone. She stepped forward with slow deliberation, the heavy weight of her presence pressing against the space between them.

“You’re Mordecai...." she stated gruffly, not as a question, but as something already confirmed in her mind.

The way she said his name made it sound like she had been waiting to hear it.

Her stance was broad, unshaken, like a stone pillar in a storm, and for a tense moment, it wasn’t clear which way this was going to go. Then, without warning, she clenched a fist and slammed it against her own chest—a sharp, resounding thud that echoed through the alley like a drumbeat.

A warrior’s gesture.

“Ten years ago,” she said, her voice as steady and weighty as her frame, “a wildebeestkin knocked on your houseboat’s door. An infection had taken hold of his leg. No doctor would treat him. He had no coin to pay you. You took him in anyway. You mixed him an ointment, wrapped his wound, and told him to keep it clean. By the next moon, the infection was gone.”

She leaned slightly forward, eyes narrowing. “That wildebeestkin was my brother.”

Ephraim’s eyes widened slightly, her smirk faltering for a second as she glanced between the two.

The other wildebeestkin, the male, let out a short, knowing grunt. “Doctors and warriors both understand survival,” he said simply. “One keeps people standing. The other keeps them from falling.”

The butch wildebeestkin exhaled through her nose, stepping back slightly, though the weight of her gaze didn’t ease. “Lady Ephraim,” she said, her deep voice laced with quiet certainty, “glad you’re in good company. Well met Doctor. I am Hedra, THE HORNBREAKER.”

Then, for the first time, there was hesitation in Hedra's expression—not weakness, but something uncharacteristically uncertain. She exchanged a look with her companion before turning her full attention back to Ephraim.

“When you stepped down from the council, Lady Ephraim” she continued, her tone more careful now, “we stepped down with you. Every wildebeestkin did. We swore ourselves to your cause, and when you walked away, we refused to stand under Ashen’s rule.”

The male spoke up next, crossing his arms. “And now the city’s lawless. No rulers, no structure, no work. We’re fighters, Lady Ephraim. That’s what we know. But fighting means nothing if there’s no cause behind it.” He exhaled sharply, glancing down the ruined streets. “We’ve been waiting to see where the dust settles, but at this rate, it won’t. Not on its own.”

The butch wildebeestkin nodded, then asked, blunt and straightforward, “Do you have any leads for us?"

Ephraim let out a slow breath, her expression tightening just slightly. She glanced down the ruined streets, as if searching for an answer that wasn’t there, then shook her head.
“No,” she said plainly, her voice steady but carrying an unmistakable edge of finality. “That’s behind me now. Unfortunately.”

Her tail flicked once behind her, a small gesture that betrayed a hint of frustration—or maybe regret. But whatever emotions stirred beneath the surface, she didn’t let them linger in her voice.

“Not that you saw much use from me when I was in council either,” she added, her tone dry, though not entirely bitter. Just honest.
 
Mordecai took an awkward step back, his ears twitching at the sheer force of Hedra’s presence. It wasn’t threatening—just… intense. He was used to people approaching him with fear, or malice, or even desperate reverence, but this? This was something else entirely.

“Yes… I’m glad I was able to assist your brother and that he recovered well,” he said, his voice measured but cautious, like he was still adjusting to the weight of her acknowledgment. “Very glad to meet you, Hedra… The Hornbreaker.” He lingered on the name for a second, as if testing how it felt on his tongue.

Then came the shift. The conversation turned, pressing toward strategy, toward purpose. Hedra and her warriors were looking for direction—ready to fight, ready to act. A plan. A cause. Something Wrath wanted.

Mordecai’s golden eyes flicked toward Ephraim as the wildebeestkin spoke, their words swirling like fuel for a fire already smoldering inside him. He knew Wrath was listening—watching through his own eyes, waiting, hungry. The temptation was immediate, violent. He could use them. He could tear down Unity, crush Ashen before she had the chance to strike at him first. He had the leverage.

The pressure built, an unbearable weight at the back of his skull. He turned, his grip tightening slightly on his cane before he reached out and placed a firm hand on Ephraim’s shoulder, his expression dark with urgency.

“Ephraim,” he started, his voice dropping to something low and deliberate. “I need to tell you something. It’s important, I—”

A sharp, searing pain lanced through his skull. His breath caught, his hand snapping up to his temple as the shadows around him flickered—just barely, just enough for the lanternlight to seem dimmer for a brief second.

Wrath felt the energy from Hedra, from the warriors. Fighters. Soldiers. Devoted. Willing. The beast inside him stirred, its influence pressing against his thoughts with a greedy, suffocating weight.

Command them. Take them. Tear it all down. Lead.

Mordecai’s jaw clenched and a crimson flickered flashed through briefly, his grip on Ephraim tightening for a split second before he forced himself to release it. His breath came heavier, his eyes squeezed shut as he fought against the force threatening to claw its way forward. Not now. Not yet. Wrath pushed. Mordecai pushed back.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers digging into the side of his head, grimacing. “Just—” His voice faltered, edged with strain, before he sucked in another breath and steadied himself. “Just give me a moment.”

He willed himself to suppress it, to drown it out, but the fire Wrath had ignited wasn’t going out. Not yet.
 
Ephraim’s eyes flickered with quiet concern as she watched Mordecai’s struggle unfold in real-time—the tension in his grip, the flickering of shadow at the edges of his frame, the way his breath stuttered as if wrestling with something unseen. She had seen him like this before, teetering at the edge of control, but this felt sharper, like something was sinking its teeth into him and pulling.

Without hesitation, she reached up and clasped his wrist—not hard, not forceful, but firm enough to be real, to ground him. “Hey,” she said, her voice steady, unwavering. The weight of it cut through the haze like a blade, sharp and commanding, but not unkind. It wasn’t just a call back to reality—it was a warning. A line drawn in the sand.

The force behind her tone wasn’t just for Mordecai—it felt like it carried further, like a leash snapping taut, an instinctive command honed by a lifetime of reining in chaos. Maybe, for just a second, it wasn’t only him that flinched. Maybe even Wrath, the beast stirring within, hesitated—snarling, uncertain—because Ephraim wasn’t asking him to come back. She was calling him, grounding him, the way one might steady something wild before it lashed out.

And maybe, just maybe, there was something in the weight of her voice that suggested exactly what this was.

Bad shadow.
 
Wrath stilled.

For a moment, the ever-present force pressing against Mordecai’s thoughts—pushing, whispering, demanding—hesitated.

Did she just—
Wrath started, then cut himself off.

Mordecai, in what felt like a rare, almost foreign reaction, blinked at Ephraim, eyes wide with shock. Then, without warning, he let out a laugh—genuine, raw, surprised. A sharp chuckle at first, then something deeper, something real, before it faded into something quieter, something thoughtful.

He exhaled, shaking his head slightly as he gathered himself. But the warmth in his expression lingered, even as the weight of reality returned.

“Ephraim,” he started, his voice steadier now, though the edges of something fragile still clung to it. “I’ve been enjoying my time with you a lot so far. And as long as I’ve been alive—which, at this point, has been… far too long,” he added with the faintest smirk, though his tone still carried its seriousness, “this past day has been… different. A bright spot, even with all the chaos surrounding us.”

His smirk faltered, just slightly, as something heavier settled behind his eyes. Still, he pushed forward.

“But what I mentioned before—about Ashen—it’s real.” His voice dropped, carrying the full weight of that truth. “No matter where I go, no matter what I do, Ashen will not stop until I am gone. He’s already begun his game—he’s lifted every law, turned this city into a warzone, waiting for me to move. It’s all a trap, and I know it.”

Mordecai shifted, exhaling sharply. He hated saying it, hated acknowledging the inevitable, but this was not something he could afford to ignore.

“I came looking for you because you were part of that equation,” he admitted, watching her closely. “I didn’t know you well. I still don’t, not fully. But despite the monster inside me, despite Wrath and his plans, I wanted to be sure you were safe.”

He paused, then smiled—small, tired, but undeniably real. “And I’m glad I found you.”

Mordecai let the silence settle for just a moment before continuing, his fingers pressing gently against her shoulder, not in urgency, but in something anchoring.

“Time is closing in on me. I can’t keep running. I won’t. But I also won’t pretend this doesn’t put you in danger.” His grip tightened—not desperate, but firm. “I know you’ve wanted to leave all this behind. I know you have your own path. And as much as I wish you would stay… I would never ask that of you.”

His jaw tensed briefly before he continued, voice quieter now, lower, as if pulling from something deeper.

“I’ve been… cursed. Contaminated. This thing inside me—this beast—it has split me. I don’t always know where I end and where he begins. I fight back against his brutality, his wrath, his need to consume, but it’s always there. It’s a constant battle, one I’ve had to fight alone.” His gaze flickered with something almost vulnerable. “But for whatever reason… you’ve been the only one who’s ever calmed him.”

His thumb brushed absently against the fabric of her sleeve before he released her, standing a little straighter. “One way or another, I have to end this. Ashen has to fall. Wrath wants it done his way, and I hope it doesn’t have to be that way. Not the only way.” He met her gaze, eyes burning with something unwavering.

“And I believe you… you can help me find another way.”

A pause.

“But if you want to turn and walk away from this… from me, from all of it,” Mordecai swallowed. “I wouldn’t blame you.”
 
Ephraim stared at him for a long moment, her sharp gaze weighing his words, his hesitation, the unspoken want layered beneath every sentence. Then, she exhaled through her nose—a short, almost amused breath, but not quite a laugh.

"You keep saying I have a choice," she said, crossing her arms, her stance shifting slightly, weight settling into one hip. "That I can walk away, that you wouldn’t blame me." She tilted her head, eyes narrowing as if reading between the lines. "But you don’t want me to. You wouldn’t have come looking for me if you actually thought I’d walk away. You want me here, Mordecai? Say it."
 
Mordecai’s ears flicked at Ephraim’s words, his golden eyes narrowing slightly before a smirk curved at the corner of his lips. He met her gaze without hesitation, his voice steady, deliberate.

“Ephraim, I want you to stay here. With me.”

There was no flourish, no over-explanation—just the raw truth, laid bare between them. His gaze held hers for a beat longer, the weight of his words settling, before his smirk deepened, something teasing slipping into his tone.

“And, if I had to guess… you’ve been enjoying my company too,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Because if you weren’t, you would’ve been gone by now.”

He let the words linger for a moment before exhaling through his nose, a quiet chuckle laced beneath it. “We’ll be strong,” he added, voice dipping into something quieter, something more certain. “Like the goatkin we are.”
 
Ephraim’s smirk lingered, but there was something else behind it now—something unreadable, something searching. She had pushed him into honesty, and he had given it. But that wasn’t enough. Not yet.

She took a slow breath, letting her arms fold across her chest as she studied him, as if she could see something just beneath the surface. She wasn’t stupid—Mordecai carried something with him, something that stirred when he was pushed, something hungry. She’d felt it in the shift of the air when he got too tense, saw it in his eyes when his control slipped. It wasn’t just anger. It wasn’t just power. It was something else.

And if she was going to be at his side, she needed to know what it was.

“I’m staying,” she said again, firmer this time, like she was setting something in stone. “But I need to understand what I’m staying with.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, not with distrust, but with a kind of curiosity that most people wouldn’t dare entertain. “There’s something inside you,” she said carefully. “I don’t know what to call it, but I know it’s there. I’ve seen it—I’ve felt it.” Her fingers twitched slightly at her sides, recalling the moment she had grounded him, the way it had stilled for her. The way he had stilled for her.

“I know you fight to keep it down,” she continued, voice quieter now, but no less steady. “I know you keep it locked up tight, but I also know it’s always watching. Always waiting for an opening.” She tilted her head slightly, her eyes sharp, unwavering. “I need to understand it, Mordecai. Not just you—it. Whatever it is.”

A breath.

“The way I see it,” she continued, unwavering, “if I’m going to help you find another way… if we’re going to fight Ashen together, then I need to know what you’re really dealing with.” Her voice didn’t shake. Didn’t flinch. “I need to understand him."

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “So let me.”
 
Mordecai’s head jerked back slightly, caught off guard by the weight of her words. His ears flicked, his gaze sharp with surprise as he processed what she was asking—what she was demanding.

“Ephraim… do you want to meet Wrath?” The question left his lips before he could stop it, his voice quieter than before. He paused, swallowing thickly, trying to find a way to dissuade her. “I—I can’t let that happen. Wrath is—I can’t—” He fumbled over the words, something rare for him. But the certainty in her expression, the unwavering way she stood before him, made it clear: she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

A sharp exhale escaped him, his shoulders sinking slightly as he raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve never… manually let him take over,” he admitted, his voice rougher now, like the very thought made his throat tighten. “I don’t even know if it works like that. If I let him out, I—” He hesitated, his gaze darkening. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to come back right away. He’s been on edge the last few times, and I’ve been able to keep him down but—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “I don’t know what happens if I invite him.”

Mordecai took a slow step back, rolling his shoulders, trying to prepare himself for something he had never allowed before. “And… I don’t want to hurt you,” he added, his voice quiet, yet firm. “Wrath wants things. He feeds off of chaos, off of fury, off of challenge. He isn’t just some beast lurking in my head—he is me. And yet, he isn’t.”

His tail flicked sharply behind him as he exhaled again, closing his eyes for a moment. “But if you’re certain—if you understand what you’re asking for—then…” His voice trailed off, and when his eyes opened again, there was something guarded behind them, something calculating.

“You’re going to have to entice him.” He smirked, but it was tight, weary. “He’s… moody.” Mordecai gestured vaguely, as if struggling to find the right words for something that defied simple explanation. “And, frankly? He can be dramatic.” His lips twitched, almost a ghost of a smile, but it faded as he tilted his head slightly, watching her, measuring her resolve.

“Make him want to come out.”
 
Ephraim didn’t hesitate. She barely even thought.

Her hand lifted—sharp, deliberate, commanding. Up, then two short, decisive jabs downward.

Hedra moved like a force of nature.

A guttural, bone-chilling scream tore from her throat,
echoing through the alley like the war cry of a woman who had shattered the jaws of beasts with her own hands. Before Mordecai could react, before even Wrath could anticipate, she slammed into him like a battering ram, tackling him with enough force to send them both crashing to the ground.

The impact was brutal. The cobblestones shuddered beneath them, the air between them vanishing in an instant. Mordecai barely had time to register the weight of her before her fist shot up, raised high like a hammer about to fall.
 
Mordecai yelped—a noise entirely unbefitting of someone carrying the entity of Wrath—as Hedra bodied him into the cobblestones.

“WHAT THE HELL—?!”

The impact rattled through his spine, his limbs briefly sprawling out like a ragdoll before he crumpled under her sheer mass.

“MY BACK—!” he wheezed, grimacing as he tried (and failed) to shove her off. “WHAT IS YOUR—PHILOSOPHY HERE?!” He groaned loudly, his breath catching as he attempted to shift under the weight pinning him. “PHYSICALLY HURTING ME ISN’T GOING TO DRAG HIM OUT LIKE SOME KIND OF—EXORCISM BY SUFFOCATION!”

But even as he struggled, shadows slithered up the walls in jagged, flickering patterns, the air around them growing heavier. Unbeknownst to him, Wrath was stirring—watching. A faint, almost mocking outline of curved horns peeked through the shifting darkness, like a beast crouched in waiting. Curious. Amused.

But not compelled. Not yet.

Instead, Wrath simply retreated, the faint shape dissolving into the gloom as if to say—Try harder.
 
Ephraim caught the flicker of movement in the shadows—brief, amused, unimpressed.

She grit her teeth. This wasn’t going to work. Pain wasn’t enough.

Wrath didn’t answer to suffering. He answered to something deeper. Challenge. Defiance. The feeling of losing control.

With a sharp, sweeping motion, she redirected her command. New tactic.

Hedra hesitated for the barest fraction of a second—her ears flicking, her grip on Mordecai’s collar instinctively tightening as if to confirm, Are you sure?

But Ephraim held her ground, unwavering. Do it.

Without another thought, Hedra sprang to her feet in one swift motion, her presence still looming, immense. In one smooth movement, she snatched Mordecai’s cane from his grasp—ripping it away like a weapon disarmed from a knight—and turned it on Ephraim.

The Wildebeestkin stood firm, rolling her shoulders as she adjusted her stance. There was no hesitation, no faltering—just the steady, deliberate motion of someone executing a command with absolute certainty.

She lifted the cane slowly, leveling it like a spear toward Ephraim’s chest. A clear, direct challenge.

Ephraim didn’t move.
 
Mordecai's eyes widened in pure disbelief, his breath catching as he hung from Hedra’s grip, his collar twisted tight in her fist. His gaze snapped to Ephraim, then to the cane leveled at her chest, a surge of panic breaking through his usual composure.

“Ephraim! What the hell are you doing?!” he snarled, his voice edged with something raw—anger, desperation, something deeper. He twisted in Hedra’s grasp, flailing, kicking, his fingers clawing at her hands in a frantic attempt to break free. “This is not going to work!” His voice rose, urgency spilling through the cracks of his control.

His eyes flicked between them, feeling the weight of the moment, the undeniable reality of it—Hedra was unwavering. She followed commands without question. And Ephraim… Ephraim wasn’t backing down.

Mordecai’s growl deepened, a flicker of crimson flashing in his golden irises, his body tensing as frustration and panic warred within him.

“I’m trying! Just—don’t hurt her! Stop it!” he roared, his voice breaking as shadows lashed wildly against the alley walls, creeping higher, twisting in agitation.

The presence beneath his skin stirred. Watching. Waiting. And this time… Wrath wasn’t just amused.

He was interested.
 

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