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

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim stepped inside, her sharp violet gaze sweeping over the controlled chaos of Mordecai’s sanctum. The thick scent of alchemy and metal clung to the air—burnt herbs, iron, something acrid that curled in the lungs.

She had been here before. But every time, it felt like stepping into another world. A place where war was not fought with steel and strategy, but with patience. With precision.

With him.

Her eyes flicked to the work laid bare before him—the beakers, the fractured mask, the careful arrangement of tools and notes that only made sense in his hands. And then, to him—Mordecai, seated in the dim light, framed by his work, gaze sharp as a blade edge.

She had seen that look before. Purpose crystallized into action.

Ephraim didn’t speak immediately. Instead, she moved forward, quiet, deliberate, tracing the edge of the table with her fingertips as she took in the shattered remnants of Katya’s mask. The porcelain had been pristine once—mocking in its flawlessness. Now, it lay in pieces, soaked in whatever alchemy Mordecai had devised to unmake it.

She exhaled slowly, measured, before finally meeting his gaze.

“So.” Her voice was low, not questioning, but understanding. “You’re going to take them apart.”

It wasn’t a guess. It was truth.

Her fingers ghosted over the rim of a beaker, feeling the faint warmth of whatever chemical experiment pulsed within. The room hummed with potential, with the weight of something inevitable.

She turned her head slightly, considering him, the way he sat so still, so composed—but his mind was already ahead, already unraveling the threads of the Harlekin, pulling at their seams.

“This isn’t just theory anymore,” she murmured, tilting her head. “You’ve found something.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

“I have,” Mordecai said simply, his gaze locking with hers. Crimson eyes steady, unreadable, but alive—glinting not with rage, but certainty.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fangs barely bared in a faint, almost amused smirk. Not joy—anticipation.
“We’ll tear them apart from within. Slow. Unraveling. No mercy.”

He let the words settle, then leaned back with the kind of ease that only comes from knowing victory is inevitable.

Another tray scraped softly against the table as he pulled it forward. “They struck from within,” he murmured, gaze flicking toward a set of vials nearby. “Silent. Precise. Poison.”
The word was clipped. Bitter. A promise returned.

“But I…” He shifted tools aside with one hand, metal scraping metal, then reached for a satchel at his side. Fragments of mask shards spilled out, skittering across the tray—white porcelain, lifeless, but full of potential.

“I am not just Wrath,” Mordecai said, voice low. “I am poison, precision, experience. And now?” He turned toward her, his full weight behind the stare. “Now, we move.”

Vials were placed before them with exacting care, each one filled with murky, layered substances—some dark as pitch, others shimmering faintly with green, like decay held in liquid form. He didn’t need to tell her to watch. He knew she already was—calculating with him, matching him, step for step.

“This,” he said, reaching for thick gloves, “will be a disease. A plague. One only the Harlekin will suffer.”

No flourish. Just fact.

He lifted a dropper from a bubbling beaker—a tar-black liquid with sickly green undertones—then held it above one of Katya’s mask fragments. His hand hovered. Measured. Controlled. Then—three drops, precise.

Hissss.

The porcelain crackled, fractures creeping like spiderwebs, glowing black-veined with rot, and the shard buckled, warping inward like paper left in rain. **Not destroyed—**just weakened. Corrupted.

“Porcelain Blight,” Mordecai murmured, naming it aloud, as if claiming the ruin himself.

His gaze flicked back to her, studying her reaction—then shifted, methodical again, to another table. He retrieved a sealed jar, larger, heavier, its lid tightly bound. With effort, he twisted it free and poured the contents through a metal strainer, thick fluid dripping into a basin below.

From the strainer, he extracted something vile—a broken Harlekin mask, soaked too long. Once white. Now brown, cracked, pitted with grime and mold, like rotting wood left in the sun too long. A relic of beauty, ruined beyond recognition.

He held it up for her to see.

“We know how they die—when their masks shatter.” His voice was calm, sharp, every word deliberate. “But why let them die clean?”

A beat. His eyes burned.

“Let them suffer.” Wrath's own voice, intertwined with Mordecai's. But not taking over. Together, in control.

He stepped closer, pulling the gloves free with slow precision, setting them aside. His voice lowered, now only for her.

“A plague—one only they carry. It won’t touch kin. Just them. Infect one Harlekin, and they’ll spread it to their own kind. It weakens them, eats at them, makes them fear each other.” His tone was rough silk, laced with vengeance sharpened to a blade’s edge.

His hand reached for her—not grabbing, not demanding—drawn, always, to her.
To vengeance. To love.

“We’ll make them rot. From the inside out. And they will remember the day they provoked Wrath and Vengeance."

Not anger. Not cruelty. Just clarity.
This was war. And Mordecai was done waiting.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim watched. Listened. Felt it hum beneath her skin.

Every drop of liquid that touched porcelain. Every fracture that crawled through the mask. Every carefully chosen word meant to break, not just destroy.

Her violet eyes traced the lines of rot that spread across Katya’s ruined mask, and she inhaled slow, steady.

This was not just a weapon.

This was justice.

Her fingers ghosted along the edge of the table, barely brushing a shard of broken porcelain before lifting, hovering above it, her breath curling between her lips in something like reverence.

She looked at him. At his hands—capable, deliberate, merciless. At the gleam in his red eyes that was not rage, but certainty.

“You’re brilliant.”

---

The jail was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that didn’t come from peace, but from something waiting.

Orlin sat on the narrow cot, his back against the cold stone wall, his arms folded over his chest. He wasn’t pacing, wasn’t shouting—not yet. But the tension in his shoulders, the twitch in his fingers? It was coming.

The cell was small, barely enough room to stretch his legs, the iron bars thick, old, but unbreakable. Across from him, past the dim torchlight flickering against damp walls, stood Eryon.

The donkeykin Captain did not move. Did not waver. Broad, steady, his armor gleaming beneath the low light, the weight of his axe resting against his palm—not drawn, not needed.

His presence alone was enough.

And Orlin? Orlin hated it.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

“I didn’t do anything.” His voice cut through the quiet, firm but not pleading.

“I don’t even know why I’m in here... I love this city, I'd never do anything to hurt it."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai smiled—not warmth, but precision. Hunger. Wrath with teeth.
His eyes never left hers as he eased back into his chair, reclining slightly, fingers steepled, voice smooth and rasped like smoke over coals.

“Now,” he murmured, tone calm, calculated, “that brings us to the next part.”

A pause. Intentional. He watched her—not for approval, but for alignment.

“I’ve made the blight. That much is done. But to rot something from the inside, it has to be planted first.”
He let the words hang, then continued.

“I have a few… methods in mind.”

His gaze sharpened.

“One Harlekin. That’s all we need to begin. I can lace weapons with the blight—send guards to engage, infect through combat.
Or…”
He leaned forward, voice low, deliberate.
“…we capture one. Infect them ourselves. Then let them go. Let them run. Let them carry the message back on their own rotting mask.”

A beat. Then another idea, heavier.

“I could draw Edrom’s fog—laced with the blight—around the city’s borders. If they come again, the fog will poison them. But… it comes with risk. Kin who pass through it won’t catch the blight—but Edrom’s memories? Those can’t be controlled. And the fog can’t linger forever.”

His eyes flicked to her. No pressure. Just choice.

“And then… there’s Orlin.” His tone sharpened, the name like a blade.
“Detain him. Punish him. Or use him. Infect him—not harm him—and offer him to the Harlekin.
Let them kill him.
And in doing so… seal their own decay.”

Mordecai stood, eyes locked on hers, his voice low, certain.

“This isn’t just my Wrath.”
His hand rested on her shoulder—not to guide. To ground. To stand with her.
“This is your vengeance too.” He watched her, his lips curved slightly. "So, my shadowess?"

Spoiler: Options for Ephraim and the blight

Option	Description	Pros	Cons

1. Infect Through Combat

Lace weapons with blight, have guards target a Harlekin in battle.

- Immediate infection. - Keeps control over target. - No fog risk.

- Harlekin might escape too soon or die before infection spreads. - Risk to guards.

2. Capture & Infect Harlekin

Capture a Harlekin, infect manually, then release them.

- Guaranteed infection. - Sends a clear message. - Maximum fear factor.

- Dangerous to capture one. - Risk of early detection.

3. Edrom’s Fog Deployment

Infuse the fog with blight, cast it outside city borders.

- Wide area coverage. - Passive infection method.

- Fog affects kin mentally. - Hard to control. - Short-term use only.

4. Use Orlin as Vector

Infect Orlin, release him as bait. Harlekin kill him = infected.

- Uses him as leverage. - Poetic justice. - Minimal direct risk.

- Relies on Harlekin engaging him. - May be unpredictable.

---

Eryon didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He stood like stone carved into purpose, his breath slow, steady—unbothered by Orlin’s words, or the weight of them.

The axe shifted slightly in his hand. Not raised. Just there. Present. Like him.

A long pause. Then finally—his voice.
Low. Rough. Solid as the earth.

“Not my place to judge.”

Another beat. Silence heavy.

“Interrogation’s coming.”

His gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t need to.
“Speak then.”

That was all. No comfort. No sympathy.
Just fact.

Eryon wasn’t there to argue.
He was there to stand.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s jaw tightened as she considered the options laid before her, violet eyes flickering over each calculated path. Each method carried weight—each had the potential to burn the Harlekin from the inside. But some were too slow. Some were too uncertain. And after everything that had happened, after twice being ambushed like prey rather than predator?

“They came for us twice. The poison at dinner? That wasn’t an attack. That was a statement.”

Her lips curled, baring the edge of her teeth. “They wanted us to feel small. Powerless. Wanted to remind us they could reach past our walls, into our home—into our blood.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Fine. If they want to fight from within? Then we’ll return the favor.”

“We’ll let them think they’re clever, let them think they’re slipping past us just like before. And when they do?” Her fingers flexed over the mask before lifting, tossing it back onto the tray with a sharp clack. “We take them. Infect them. Let them run home. Let them spread our gift to the others while they still think they’re the ones in control.”

She stood straight, rolling her shoulders as if already preparing for the work ahead. “The fog is too much of a risk. Using Orlin? Too unpredictable."
Ephraim’s fingers drummed once—once—against the table’s edge. Sharp. Intentional. Her thoughts moved fast, faster than the words forming on her tongue.

“They’re ghosts,” she muttered, her voice edged with both frustration and calculation. “We don’t know where they are, how many they have left, or where their next move will hit. The moment we react, they vanish, slipping back into the dark.”

Her hand lifted, fingers pressed to her temple as she exhaled, slow and measured. “Katya, Brisance… they were tools. Not masterminds."

"The hyena Harlekin who attacked us back at the camp… he was feral. Driven by instinct, by hunger, not by strategy. He wasn’t like Katya or Brisance—he didn’t strike to send a message. He struck to feed."

Her voice lowered, measured, as the idea took shape.

"He traveled with a pack. He wasn’t alone when he came for us."

Her eyes flicked to Mordecai, sharp with intent.

“What if we set a trap? Karn’s soldiers—not all of their bodies have been buried yet. If he’s still out there, still lurking, he’ll catch the scent. He’ll return to feed. And if he does, he'll take the Porcelain Blight back with him and we may be able to track him to where they're currently operating out of."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai watched her, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then—a hum, low in his throat. Amused. Pleased. Hungry.

A slow smile pulled at the corner of his mouth—fangs catching the dim light. “My, you are beautiful.”

Not performative. Not empty. Genuine. True. Because this—her mind, her fire, her precision—was the kind of beauty he revered.

He breathed in, slow and deliberate, as if letting the moment settle in his lungs. Then nodded, eyes gleaming.

“A Harlekin hyenakin. Feral. Hungry. Pack-driven.” His tone shifted, considering, strumming fingers together, precise. “Predator instincts like that… they don’t come from the mask. That’s not just Harlekin.” His gaze cut to hers, sharp, approving. “That’s ancestral. Species. Time. Hunger. Deep down—it’s always there.”

Another pause, then—smirk deepening.

“You’re brilliant.”

It wasn’t flattery. It was fact. A recognition of equals.

“I’ll infect the bodies,” he continued, already seeing the plan unfold, each move calculated. “Lace them with the Blight. Let him come. Let the pack feed.”

His eyes drifted back to the twisted fragments of porcelain on the table—cracked, corrupted, hissing beneath the blight’s touch.

“The pack will feed,” Mordecai echoed, voice low, certain. “And they will carry our rot with them.”

His eyes met hers again—no hesitation, only clarity.

“So be it.”

He reached for a drawer, retrieving a syringe, its glass glinting in the low light. Measured. Intentional. Inevitable. Then turned his gaze back to the vial of Porcelain Blight. A storm waiting to be released.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

---

The moon hung heavy in the sky, silver light casting cold, stretched shadows across the field of the dead. The air was thick—dense with the scent of blood, decay, and something older, something fouler that clung to the battlefield like a specter.

Ephraim stood at the edge of it all, waiting.

She was dressed for war.

Not in armor, not in ceremony, but in something deliberate.

Her coat was black—not her usual heavy formal wear, but something lighter, sleeker, meant for movement, meant for silence. It hugged her form, high-collared, lined with thin, silver buckles down her waist, the fabric falling just past her knees. Beneath it, she wore fitted, midnight-hued trousers, tucked into knee-high boots, the leather dulled from use, scuffed but sturdy.

A belt sat snug at her hip, fastened with silver etchings of old Ramuran script—a relic from her past, a quiet tether to what once was.

Her twin swords were strapped across her back, hilts peeking over her shoulders like sleeping vipers, waiting to be drawn. She did not expect to use them tonight. But expectation meant nothing in war.

The wind shifted, and she inhaled sharply, jaw tightening as the sickly stench of rotting flesh filled her lungs. The piles lay before her, stacked like discarded offerings to some forgotten god.

Karn’s soldiers. Leftovers. Some stripped of their armor, others still half-dressed in the gold-and-crimson of a kingdom that no longer existed. Their eyes—where they remained—were vacant, lids half-shut, expressions frozen somewhere between terror and disbelief.

Ephraim did not pity them.

But she understood them.

Her fingers flexed at her sides, slow, measured—restless. She was still, outwardly composed, but her eyes betrayed her.

Violet, bright, burning.

They did not wander. They did not hesitate. They remained fixed on the bodies, searching—for something, for nothing, for what came next.

Would the Harlekin come?
Would the hyena catch the scent? Would he bring his pack? Would they fall into the trap?

Her mind spun through the possibilities, through every variation of what could happen. And yet—

She was calm.

Because she was ready.

When Mordecai arrived, when the blight was planted; the hunt would begin.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai moved like shadow.
Swift, silent, unseen. His coat—dark, tailored for the hunt—brushed the edges of fallen bodies, boots soundless against blood-matted soil.

In his hand, the syringe caught a glint of moonlight—needle sharp, purpose sharper. He worked quickly—no hesitation, no waste.
One body, then another. The blight injected straight into still flesh, seeping into wounds, soaking through torn armor and shredded uniforms.

At his hip, vials clinked softly. He opened one, then another, dumping their contents over exposed skin, into ruptured veins. The liquid hissed faintly, already reacting—the rot beginning to take hold.

Mordecai stepped back, surveying the field. The trap was ready, but he wasn’t finished.

From within his coat, he retrieved a larger vial—thick, dark red. Blood. Kin blood. Fresh. Potent.

He unsealed it, then with a sharp flick of his wrist, flung it wide. The blood arced through the air, splattering across the ground, streaking the dead in fresh crimson.

A trail. A lure. He didn’t linger.

Glancing toward Ephraim, then back to the field, Mordecai turned, his stride quick, deliberate, slipping through shadow as he returned to her side.

“It’s done,” he murmured, voice low, rough. Controlled. Confident.

“Hyenas are scavengers—opportunistic. He’ll have no reason to turn this down. The blood’s real. Fresh. If he catches the scent, he’ll think there’s more where that came from—a feast, still warm.”

A glint of amusement flickered behind his crimson gaze, dark, but focused.

He nudged her arm, light but firm. Tactical. Grounding. “Now we wait. Stay low. Let him come to the bait. If he sees us first…” A faint smirk. “We’ll look like the better meal.”

His eyes swept the field, then the tree line. Patient. Ready. Wrath waiting in silence.

.....

Cackling in the woods? Breathing?

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim settled into the dark.

Low, controlled, her body still against the earth—a predator, not prey.

The night stretched around them, thick with silence. Only the occasional whisper of wind moved through the trees, rustling leaves, stirring the scent of death across the field. The waiting was the hardest part. Not because she was impatient—because she wanted it to start.

She exhaled slowly, her breath barely shifting the air around her. Her hand rested lightly against the ground, fingers brushing dirt, tracing idle patterns in the soil—a tether, something to keep herself anchored.

Mordecai was still beside her, sharp, quiet, a presence she didn’t need to check for. She knew he was there—always. The faint scent of alchemy clung to his coat, the tang of his work mixing with the scent of rot. Familiar. Steadying.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai crouched low, motionless as stone. The night whispered around them—but then, a sound.

Cackling.

Not laughter—something primal. Wet, breathless, broken. Hyena-born. Hungry.

His ears flicked. His breath stilled.

It grew louder. Closer.

A shape slipped from the treeline, moving on all fours, limbs coiled with raw muscle, gait uneven, but deliberate. Three hyenas flanked him—feral, gaunt, twitching with anticipation.

Zru’gar.

Porcelain mask shaped like a hyena’s maw, nose to the ground, sniffing. Twitching. Panting.

“Meat.” His voice rasped, half-breath, half-snarl.

He rose slowly onto his hind legs, spine arched, snout lifted, sniffing the air again. Something fresh. Something close. Blood.

Mordecai peered from cover, eyes narrow, calculating. Then ducked back, hand pressing gently over Ephraim’s. Still. Silent. Wait.

Zru’gar stalked, flanked by his pack, bone necklaces rattling with each movement. He twitched again, erratic, head jerking side to side—the scent trail winding. Fresh blood. Corpses. A feast.

“Pack hunt! Pack feast!” he shrieked, the hyenas bursting into broken laughter—cackles slicing the air like knives.

He approached the bodies, inching close, but then—he stopped.

Sniffing. Sniffing harder. Too many scents. Fresh. Dead. Old. Sweet. Foul. His head jerked toward Mordecai and Ephraim’s hiding spot. Still. Watching.

He edged closer, breathing ragged, hungry, nose twitching.
“Fresh…? Hungry…?”
He loomed closer—too close.

Mordecai tensed beside her, eyes sharp, but held the line. Not yet.

Zru’gar hesitated. Then turned abruptly, laughing—high, manic, broken.

“Hungry? YES. We HUNGRY. HAH! HA—hahehhehh…” He staggered toward the corpses, voice rising. “Zru’gar, PACK—starved too long. Poise won’t let Zru’gar EAT! BAD Zru’gar! BAD BAD BAD!” Clawing at his arms, cutting old scars open, giggling, growling.

“HARLEKIN no need food—but HYENAS do. Pack LIVE. Pack SURVIVE. ZRU’GAR DEVOURS—HAAH—HEH HA!”

He screamed into the void, into nothing, and launched at the corpses.

The pack followed, howling, cackling, ripping into flesh, blood soaking their jaws, bodies twitching in frenzy.

Mordecai didn’t move. Eyes hard. Watching. Waiting.

Then—Zru’gar stopped.

He stood, trembling, blood dripping from his mask, then retched violently, spewing black liquid across the earth.

The blight had taken root.

The hyenas staggered, twitching. One collapsed, then scrambled up again. Still standing, but trembling.

Zru’gar sniffed the air again—uncertain—turning toward Mordecai and Ephraim’s hiding place.

Still. Watching.

His nose twitched. Too much scent. Too many layers.

He jerked his head violently, snarling, then howled.

“Zru’gar! PACK! Bellies FULL! GO! GO! HAHAH—”

He bolted on all fours, laughing, howling, the pack racing behind him, vanishing into the dark.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim remained still, watching as Zru’gar and his pack vanished into the night, their laughter trailing behind them like the scent of decay.

She let out a slow, measured breath. It worked.

But her eyes didn’t waver from the dark where they’d disappeared. She didn’t relax. Not yet.

“They took it,” she murmured, voice quiet but certain.

Her fingers curled slightly against the earth beneath her, her mind already shifting forward, ahead, calculating. This wasn’t the victory. This was only the first step.

She turned her head toward Mordecai, violet eyes sharp, searching his face for confirmation.

“We can’t lose them.” Her voice was calm, but edged with something beneath it—anticipation, hunger, the same sharpened drive that had led them here.

She exhaled, then—softer, but not uncertain—“Will you be able to track them?"

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai rose slowly, brushing the dirt from his gloves with practiced ease. His crimson gaze stayed locked on the place where Zru’gar had vanished, the air still tinged with the stench of blood and bile.

He gripped his cane, the metal gleaming faintly in the moonlight. “I should be able to,” he murmured—low, deliberate, sure.

He stepped forward, boots sinking slightly into the torn earth, surveying the carnage left behind—bodies half-devoured, blood soaked into soil. The scent was thick, layered. But beneath it all… the blight was humming.

He exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes, focus narrowing. His fingers pressed to the sigil carved into the skeletal crown of his head—the symbol burned low with red light, a slow thrum of power.

Silence.

Then—a flicker of movement beneath his skin, Wrath stirring. Awake. Watching.

Mordecai’s tail flicked behind him, slow and sharp. His cane glowed at the base as he pressed it into the ground, the earth shifting beneath the touch. Shadows pulsed outward, reaching—threads unraveling into the woods, thin echoes of movement trailing where Zru’gar had run.

His eyes opened—calm, cold, calculating.

He turned back to her, the shadows pulling back as he walked slowly to her side, every step measured. Controlled.

“The blight was forged with Wrath’s essence—he’s in it, just as much as I am.” His voice held weight—assurance, not arrogance. “I can’t say how far the tether will pull… but if the infection takes root—truly takes root—we’ll feel it.”

He paused, gaze steady on hers. “I can track it if it deepens. If the spread accelerates… Wrath will pull me to it.” He let the words sit for a breath. “The masks I used—they were already dead. The reaction was fast.” A flicker of a smile—sharp, cold. “Zru’gar’s mask… he’s still breathing. That makes it slower.”

A pause.

“But slower is better.” He leaned in slightly, voice low, rich with promise. “They won’t see it coming. By the time it takes hold, by the time they understand—it’ll be too late.”

He nodded once—final, certain. “It’s begun.”

A vow, not just to her—but to Vengeance itself.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim turned from the shadows of the forest, the remnants of Zru’gar’s presence still lingering in the air. She let out a breath, slow and steady, before stepping forward, her pace fluid as she fell into stride beside Mordecai.

She didn’t look at him right away, though she could feel him—always there, always aware, always the quiet, steady force at her side. Instead, she kept her gaze forward, toward Umbrafane’s distant silhouette against the night sky.

“This is only the beginning,” she murmured, her voice even, certain.

Her arms crossed loosely over her chest, the faint scent of blood and rot still clinging to her sleeves. It didn’t bother her. It only reaffirmed what they had done.

She tilted her head slightly, considering. “The spread will take time. But time is exactly what we need.” Her lips curled, almost thoughtful. “We don’t need them to die right away. We need them to suffer first. To question. To panic.”

Her violet eyes flicked toward him now, gleaming in the dim light. “To turn on each other.”

They had spent years striking from the shadows, cutting through Umbrafane’s defenses like smoke.

“Now to deal with Orlin,” she said, her voice steady but edged with something unreadable.

The city streets stretched before her, dimly lit by flickering lanterns, the night still thick with the remnants of war’s echo. The scent of blood and decay still lingered faintly in the air, but Umbrafane stood—unchallenged, unbeaten. The Harlekin had struck, and they had retaliated. But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

Ephraim rolled her shoulders, shaking the tension from her limbs. Her body was coming down from the hunt, but her mind was already moving forward, sharpening like a blade sliding against a whetstone.

Her pace quickened, the weight of their next step pressing into her chest. They had kept him locked away long enough.

Ephraim felt the weight of the night settle into her bones as they neared the underground cells, where Orlin had been rotting away in his own uselessness.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s stride didn’t falter as Ephraim spoke, her words sharpening the air between them like drawn steel. He nodded once—silent agreement, measured.

“Orlin…” he echoed, low, rough, almost dismissive. “Yes. Time to remind him.”

A pause. His crimson gaze flicked forward, cold and certain.

“Information, for us.” His voice was calm, but threaded with something harder, something final. “He’s no stranger to caution. Prefers to keep his head down. Quiet dealings. No ripples.”

A beat. Mordecai’s fingers curled loosely over his cane, thoughtful. “But too much silence… and some start mistaking it for safety.”

He glanced sideways at her—assessing, but also grounded. “He has ties in this city, especially among the farmers. People watching.” His voice stayed low, unbothered. “Reputation stands.”

A flick of his tail behind him, slight tension in his jaw. Then—“The cellar had Harlekin written all over it. Precision. Timing. A message. That doesn’t absolve Orlin… but it complicates the truth.”

Another pause.

He knew she was already looking past this. Already preparing. He understood—because he was, too.

Mordecai exhaled, slower now, and added with quiet weight, “After this—our children.”

His tone shifted—not softer, but real. Grounded.

“They need us. More than they know.”

Then he turned, knocking once on the heavy iron door.

Footsteps echoed.

The underground cell creaked open, and Eryon’s form filled the doorway, unmoving.

“Lord Mordecai. Lady Ephraim,” the donkeykin greeted with a deep nod, stepping aside.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s gaze lingered on Mordecai for a breath longer than necessary. After this—our children.

She knew. She had known the moment the smoke had settled, the moment she had looked into Castara’s measured, calculating eyes and Rhea’s wide, burning ones. Their daughters were watching. Not just them. Not just what they did. But who they were.

But for now—Orlin.

She nodded once, sharp and precise, before stepping through the heavy iron door.

The cell was damp, thick with the scent of confinement—not suffering, not yet, but the staleness of waiting. Of time stretching too thin for the man behind the bars.

Orlin sat on the narrow cot, his shoulders drawn inward, his hands loosely folded in his lap. An attempt to seem smaller. Less dangerous. Less guilty.

Ephraim wasn’t fooled.

She approached slowly, deliberately, letting the silence stretch until it was something tangible. When she stopped in front of the bars, she tilted her head slightly, violet eyes burning through him.

"Orlin."

His name fell from her lips like a weight. A test.

Orlin hesitated before looking up. His eyes were sunken, rimmed with exhaustion, but there was something else there too—calculation. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t begging. He was watching.

“I didn’t do anything,” he started, his voice hoarse from disuse. “You’ve made a mistake keeping me here.”

Ephraim smiled. Sharp. Amused. Unimpressed.

“A mistake?” she echoed, as if tasting the word. “You think we don’t know exactly what you are?”

Orlin’s lips pressed into a thin line. He wasn’t stupid enough to argue outright, but he was careful. Measuring. Weighing.

“I trade,” he said at last. “That’s all I do. I don’t take sides. I don’t play in wars,” He exhaled through his nose. “I keep the wheels turning. I make sure people get what they need.”

Ephraim’s fingers curled lightly around the iron bars—gentle, but final.

“And yet,” she murmured, voice smooth as silk, "the wine barrels were poisoned. The city was infiltrated. War was brought to our doorstep. And you—” her grip tightened, the faint creak of metal breaking the silence, “just happened to be close to all of it.”

A flicker of something passed over Orlin’s face. Not guilt. Frustration.

“You’re looking for someone to blame.”

Ephraim huffed a quiet laugh. “We’re looking for justice.”

The words settled, heavy and inescapable.

Orlin inhaled sharply, his composure fraying at the edges. “You don’t have proof.”

Ephraim tilted her head. Wrong answer.

“You’re right,” she said softly. “I don’t.”

Orlin’s shoulders relaxed—too soon.

“But what I do have,” Ephraim continued, voice dropping into something colder, sharper, undeniable, “is a city that needs someone to answer for what happened.”

Orlin’s eyes widened slightly, realization creeping in like cold fingers at his throat.

She leaned in, her words threading through the bars like fate whispered through steel.

“You know how our laws work, don’t you, Orlin?” Her voice was mockingly patient. “When proof is scarce. When questions remain. When trust is gone.”

She exhaled through her nose, the warmth of it brushing against the cold iron.

“The accused is given one chance to prove their innocence.”

Orlin swallowed.

Ephraim straightened, rolling her shoulders as if shedding the weight of the conversation itself.

She took a measured step back from the bars, adjusting the cuffs of her coat with precise, deliberate movements.

Then, her voice rang out, smooth as judgment itself.

“You will stand in trial by combat.”

Orlin’s breath hitched. His fingers clenched in his lap before he shot to his feet, panic flashing across his face.

“No.” His voice cracked, raw, desperate. “No, no, you can’t do that. I— I’m not a fighter!”

He lurched forward, gripping the bars with white-knuckled hands, his eyes darting between Ephraim and Mordecai, searching for some semblance of mercy—of reason.

“This—this is absurd! You know I can’t fight! I—I trade, I negotiate, I deal! That’s what I do! That’s all I do!” His breathing grew sharp, erratic. “This isn’t justice, this is a damn execution!”

Ephraim tilted her head slightly, watching him with cold detachment. She let him break himself down. Let him feel the weight of what was happening—what had already been decided.

Then, when the silence had stretched just long enough to drown him in it, she spoke.

“You misunderstand.”

Her voice was smooth, unshaken, final.

“If you are too weak to fight for yourself, then you may choose another,” she said plainly. “A warrior. A champion. Someone willing to take your place.”

Orlin stilled, breath ragged, confusion flickering behind his desperation. “Wh—what?”

“You can name a warrior to represent you in combat,” Ephraim repeated, her violet eyes burning with certainty. “Mordecai and I will name our own. And in Wrath and Vengeance’s name, the trial will be settled.”

She exhaled slowly.

“The one who lives will have spoken the truth; if your warrior dies, we will execute you accordingly."

Orlin’s fingers tightened around the bars, his mind racing. “This—this isn’t fair! You’re sentencing me to death either way! Who the hell would fight for me?” His voice cracked, edged with something between hysteria and disbelief.

Ephraim shrugged. “That isn’t my concern. The laws are clear.” She took a step back, adjusting the collar of her coat. “If you are innocent, then you will find someone who believes in you enough to stand for you.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“If not? Then Wrath will judge accordingly.”

Orlin stared at her, mouth slightly open, chest heaving.

For the first time in his carefully constructed life, he was cornered.

And he had no idea how to escape.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai remained silent in the holding chamber, unmoved as Ephraim pronounced judgment. The sentence. Trial by combat. He did not flinch when Orlin’s protests shattered the stillness, nor when desperate eyes turned toward him in search of mercy or reprieve. Mordecai offered neither. One hand rested calmly behind his back, the other coiled tightly around the head of his cane. He stood motionless, unwavering, a sentinel amid the rising tide of panic.

The silence that followed Ephraim’s final words was thick, cloying, as though the air itself bore witness. And Mordecai—he did not break it. He let it press down, let it settle.

He stood by her.

Behind him, the shadows shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. He could feel Wrath stirring, that familiar weight coiling close, hungry and knowing. The air grew colder, denser, though Mordecai’s expression remained carved from stone. He felt it too. The demand. The craving for reckoning. And he understood.

“So it shall be,” he said, his voice low and final, slicing through the tension like steel.

At last, he looked to Eryon, offering a single, solemn nod before stepping forward. His hand found Ephraim’s shoulder, resting there for a brief moment—a silent affirmation, steady and grounding.

“Come,” he murmured.

With that, Mordecai turned, his coat trailing behind him as he crossed the threshold and stepped into the cold night, leaving the echo of judgment behind.

---

Through the night, as chatter rippled through the city about Orlin’s arrest and the chaos of recent attacks, Silvano lounged atop a rooftop, one leg propped lazily on the chimney beside him. Umbrafane sprawled below, flickering with the uncertain glow of a city on edge—but his grin? Untouched. The breeze toyed with his coat as he leaned back, eyes half-lidded in amusement.

With a careless laugh, he sprang to his feet and leapt from the rooftop, landing with practiced ease on another, then darted across outstretched planks with the grace of a performer mid-act. He skidded down a stack of crates, twisting through narrow alleys until the scent of oil, metal, and whatever-that-was told him he was close.

Ah, yes—home sweet disaster.

The building barely looked like it should stand, a beautiful mess of salvaged parts and reworked scrap fused into something resembling shelter. More junkyard than house. Exactly as he remembered.

Silvano’s grin widened, arms folding behind his back as he stepped up to a grimy, cluttered window. Without hesitation, he knocked—rhythmically, obnoxiously—with a little clawed flourish.

“Oh Vaaaaaaas~” he sang, voice lilting and theatrical, “my chaotic, explosive lemur friend!”

A pause, then another knock, more playful this time.

“It’s your favorite handsome, devilishly charmed fox—bearing a query most dire!” He leaned in, nose nearly pressed to the glass, voice lowering to a dramatic whisper. “Unless, of course, you’ve already been blown sky-high by some glorious backfired experiment... in which case—tragic! And yet, entirely predictable.”

He chuckled to himself, claws tapping in an impatient rhythm.

“Come now, Vas, don’t keep me waiting! I’ve got ideas, mischief, and possibly a job depending on how much we’re both willing to bend the law tonight.”

---

The grove was still, the kind of stillness that settled after the grief had passed, but before peace could take its place. The wind moved gently through the trees, carrying with it the scent of incense smoke curling in soft spirals above two grave markers—simple, unadorned, yet softened by wildflowers arranged in careful, humble bundles.

Riversong sat before them, her legs folded beneath her robes, the fabric pooling like water around her hooves. Smoke drifted from the small clay bowl before her, a blend of river mint, cedar, and thornrose—the kind of scent meant to open the senses, not dull them. The kind used for connection. For letting go.

Her gaze rested on one stone in particular. Alra.

She let the silence linger for a while, her fingers absently trailing over a piece of polished driftwood she’d set beside the grave—a token from a river far away, meant to guide spirits gently on their way.

Finally, she spoke, her voice low, nearly swallowed by the breeze.

“I don’t know if you’d want me here.”

Her lips curled into a small, tired smile, but there was no humor in it—just something worn, something honest.

“You never said much to me. We weren’t friends, not really. Just… two mothers passing in the same river current.” She plucked a petal from one of the nearby bundles, letting it fall into the incense bowl where it hissed and curled into smoke.

“I knew about the Leaves.” Her gaze didn’t lift, but her voice held steady. “Not just from you. I’ve known a lot of kin who used them—some to heal, some to escape, some just to feel something when the world felt like too much.”

Her fingers curled in her lap.

“I never judged you for it. Not then. I thought—maybe—it was your way of finding balance. That it wasn’t my place to intervene.” Her voice faltered briefly, but she pushed on. “I told myself, ‘Alra’s walking her own path. She knows what she’s doing.’”

A pause.

“I didn’t see how far you were drifting.”

She finally looked up, golden eyes soft, but glinting with the weight of something else—guilt, perhaps. Or maybe just clarity.

“You were there, but not really. Not in the way Ephraim needed. And I… I let it happen. I thought I was honoring your space, your choices.” Her throat tightened, her hands curling slightly against her knees. “But maybe I was just avoiding the hard thing. The right thing.”

She glanced at the grave again, her voice quieter now. “Ephraim tried to save you. Over and over. But you were already somewhere else.”

The wind stirred the grass, the incense smoke curling like a question rising to the sky.

“I didn’t poison the wine,” Riversong said softly, “but I still wonder if I could’ve stopped you from drinking it. If I had stood closer. Reached for you. Reminded you of what was here instead of what you were always chasing.”

She reached for a small riverstone from her pouch, placing it gently atop the grave—a symbol of remembrance, of grounding. Something real, to tether the spirit.

“I’ve been close to Ephraim. Closer than you ever got the chance to be. I see her pain. I see what your absence left behind. And maybe… maybe she let me step in because you couldn’t.” Her voice wavered. “But I won’t pretend that didn’t cost something. I won’t pretend I didn’t take your place.”

A long breath.

Then, she reached for a folded reed of rivergrass, carefully tied into a spiral. A symbol of return, of release.

“I hope you’ve let go, Alra. I hope you’ve drifted free of the weight that kept you so far away. I hope… you’re present now, wherever you are.”

She rose slowly, brushing the grass from her robes, and set the spiral at the foot of the grave. Her hand lingered there a moment—soft, reverent.

“Be still, sister,” she murmured. “The current’s taken you home.”

She turned, letting the breeze carry the last tendrils of smoke into the sky—peace offered, not just to Alra, but to herself. One mother, honoring another. Not perfect. Not unburdened. But real.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

@ Mordecai
Far above, the post exhaled.

Old stone settled. The sigils dimmed.

And in that breathless hush where time folds quietly inward, something stirred behind Mordecai’s eyes. Not memory—not quite. But a thread unspooled. A flicker. A place that wasn’t here. A name spoken by someone he’d never met. A life that didn’t belong to him but wore his face like a borrowed mask.

He blinked once. The world had not changed.

---

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

As Mordecai and Ephraim stepped out of the jailing building and back onto the cobbled streets, night pressing close around them, Mordecai suddenly halted. His frame stiffened, rooted as if the earth itself had caught him mid-step.

"What the hell..." he muttered, not to Ephraim, but to the silence around him, voice edged with something like confusion—perhaps unease. It hadn’t been a memory, not exactly. More like a glimpse into something distant and misplaced. A vision wearing his face, though he knew it wasn’t his.

His ear gave a flick. He blinked once, slow and deliberate. Then, with a faint shake of his head, he exhaled and moved forward again.

“Perhaps I ought to ease off Edrom’s fog,” he muttered under his breath, almost convincing himself, as he fell back into stride beside Ephraim.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

There was a bang—not quite explosive, but dramatic enough to jostle a few hanging pots—and then the window flung open with a wheeze and a clatter.

A striped tail curled down from above, flicking in time with the hiss of steam. Moments later, Vas Vexerine dropped into view upside-down, dangling by his knees from a rusted pipe like some grease-stained jungle spirit. His fur bristled in every direction, ears perked and twitching, goggles askew across his forehead, and oil smeared along one cheek like war paint.

“Silvano,” he purred, upside-down grin wide and wicked. “You radiant, rule-breaking sparkplug. Been too long since you got me on a watchlist.”

He twisted easily out of his hang—big lemur feet paws landing with a hefty padded thump, louder than expected for someone so agile. The size of them made sense up close: wide, dexterous, and clearly used to climbing everything except things meant to be climbed. Bits of scrap clung between his toe pads, and he didn’t seem to notice.

“Thought I smelled brimstone, ego, and fancy soap. Knew it had to be you.”

He straightened, his ringed tail curling expressively behind him, practically wagging with kinetic energy. Every movement of it said exactly what his mouth didn’t: excited, twitchy, ready for trouble. The tail was more expressive than some faces—currently flicking in a circle, like his brain was spinning too fast to sit still.

“You said ‘job,’” Vas repeated, brushing past Silvano with a casual shoulder bump and pushing open the front panel of what looked like a door but might’ve been a disassembled engine hood.

Inside, the workshop was its usual chaotic brilliance: half-melted scrap sculptures, wiring spaghetti, and Riftkin prosthetics in various stages of questionable inspiration. A pair of boots hung from a ceiling hook, but he clearly wasn’t using them—bare paws slapping across the floor, his long toes gripping a dangling blueprint as he yanked it down and spread it across the nearest table.

“Oh, and don’t sit on that bench,” he added, gesturing vaguely to a stained cushion. “The capacitor’s under it. Unless you want to wake up with hair like mine.”

---

Flashback:

Somewhere between where the world broke and where it started again—

The jungle didn’t hum.

It hissed.

The air was thick with moisture and noise—dripping vines, distant shrieks, the low grinding croak of something that didn’t sound like it had bones. Vas Vexerine crouched in the underbrush, still as the rusted gear in his hand. His fur was slick with sweat, ears twitching independently to track sounds across the canopy.

No cities. No salvage routes. No power grids. Just roots and teeth.

He shifted his weight, his oversized paws sinking silently into the moss. They weren’t just good for climbing—they grounded him. Let him move without breaking twigs. Let him grip slick bark when escape was the only option. Jungle floors didn’t care how clever you were. But they noticed if you panicked.

Vas didn’t panic.

He watched.

His eyes flicked up to the broken drone carcass tangled in the tree above. It had crashed during the Reset—a relic from the world before. Its casing had been stripped by weather and wildlife, but a faint spark still glimmered near the core. He tapped the edge of his teeth with a claw, then glanced down at the tiny satchel of parts he’d scrapped from the last wreck. A hinge. A bent lens. A copper filament twisted into a loop.

His tail flicked behind him as calculations filled his head.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath. “Cracked capacitor. Stabilizer’s toast. But maybe… maybe if I reroute through the filament, push it through that lens with just enough—”

A snap in the brush behind him.

He dropped flat.

Not fear. Reflex.

A shadow moved. Long-limbed. Wrong-angled. It didn’t see him yet.

Vas reached slowly into his pack, fingers closing around what should’ve been junk: a broken emitter disc, fused to the handle of a screwdriver. Crude. Ugly. Repurposed.

He twisted two wires together.

A pulse fired upward. Not a weapon—too weak for that. But it sent a flash of static light into the canopy, just enough to draw the creature’s eye away.

By the time it turned back, Vas was gone—climbing three branches up and gone horizontal across a fallen trunk, tail looped once around a moss vine for balance. He exhaled, grinning despite himself.

"Still got it."

He crawled forward on all fours now, paws silent against bark, navigating by scent, vibration, memory. The jungle wasn’t trying to kill him. It was just testing him. And that? That he could handle.

He stopped at a shallow ridge—overlooking a half-sunken ruin. Stone cracked by roots. A wall with glyphs. A collapsed pillar with metal embedded in the joints.

His smile widened, crooked and full of ideas.

“Well, hello opportunity.”

Vas crouched, unrolling a strip of cloth across a wide root, sorting his salvaged tools with quick, practiced movements.

“I may not have cities,” he said to no one, “but I’ve got parts.”

He looked up, eyes catching the flicker of light through the trees—sunlight playing off shattered drone metal, and somewhere deep below, the echo of old systems trying to restart.

“I can work with that.”

---

Even further flashback:

The scent of incense curled thick in the air—clove, myrrh, and something faintly metallic beneath, like the trace of coin passed too many times between too many hands. Silk drapes still swayed gently from the motion of moments ago, and the pillows beneath them were a battlefield of crushed velvet and shallow breath.

Vas Vexerine sat upright, one leg crossed over the other, half reclined against the curved spine of a lounge chair with all the posture of a man who had won, not just enjoyed, the night. His big lemur feet—broad, padded, still glistening slightly with spit and reverence—rested just beside the head of Avarice, who was sprawled out across the cushions like a toppled idol.

The prince’s muzzle still hovered close to Vas, eyes half-lidded, lips parted as though the taste still lingered.

Vas stretched slowly, arms rising behind his head with a soft pop in his shoulder. Not even winded.

“Well,” he drawled, voice thick with amusement and dry confidence, “glad to see you’re still breathing. Wasn’t sure for a second.”

Avarice gave a soft exhale—half sigh, half groan—as if even the effort of responding might undo him. His royal composure had melted hours ago, now replaced by something raw, unguarded, and worshipful.

Vas nudged him gently with one paw, the pads pressing into the side of his jaw with teasing familiarity. “Don’t tell me you’re going to fall asleep like this,” he said, tilting his head. “You do have a kingdom to inherit someday. Can’t have your court catching wind you spent the night muzzle-deep in some scavver’s paws."

He smirked, unbothered. “Though I’d bet half of them would envy the hell out of you.”

He leaned forward slightly, picking at a stray thread on his patched jacket. Oil-stained fingers worked with idle precision, movements smooth, efficient. Always tinkering—even now.

“You foxes always play long game. Chess pieces, veiled words, centuries of planned betrayal.” He flicked his gaze down to Avarice, golden eye glinting. “But when you beg…” A chuckle slid from his throat, low and warm. “Gods, do you beg well.”

---

THE EVEN FURTHER FLASHBACK:

The chamber was unfinished, carved into the side of a slope overlooking what would one day become one of the grandest private estates. No ballroom. No velvet drapes. Just stone, scaffolding, and a crown of exposed gears beneath a rising foundation.

And Vas Vexerine stood in the middle of it, hands filthy, shirt tied around his waist, one foot braced on a crate of tools and the other planted firmly atop a flat gear the size of a dining table.

His oversized lemur feet were slick with grease and dust, but perfectly balanced—evolved, perhaps, for this chaos. For the narrow beams, the oil-slicked floors, the unstable machinery. His tail flicked lazily as he adjusted a copper rod with a snap of static. The whirring noise that followed was a low, hungry hum—a promise of power not yet unchained.

Poise stood watching from the upper scaffolding.

He was already theatrical, even in the skeletal echo of construction—wearing a tailored waistcoat cinched tight over a blouse ruffled at the throat, lace cuffs dancing at his wrists, and crimson trousers tucked into polished boots. His antlers were adorned with delicate chains, catching light with every turn of his head. Despite the dust in the air and the sound of grinding steel, he stood immaculate.

“You’re sure it’ll rotate clean?” he asked, voice smooth, crisp, and laced with amusement.

Vas didn’t look up. “It'll do more than rotate. The room’ll pivot like a damn ballerina on cue. Quiet as a breath, precise to the degree. Each guest’ll be exactly where you want ’em, when you want ’em. No mess, no rerouting.”

He glanced up then, a grin curling beneath the oil smudges on his cheek. “Unless, of course, you want mess. In which case—I’ve got a few add-ons I could suggest.”

Poise’s red lips curved in approval, chin lifting slightly. “Delightful.”

“And the siphon systems?” he asked next, descending a step in practiced poise, the heels of his boots tapping stone with deliberate rhythm.

“Built under the floorplate,” Vas said, tapping the side of his head. “Channels residual anima from anyone in the chamber. Doesn’t rip it, just tastes it. Like background music, but in magic.” He turned the gear once more with a lever, revealing a set of inner ridges that pulsed faintly with arcane filament. “If you play it right, you can amplify one guest’s power at the cost of the others’. Subtle. Elegant. Perfect for a little theater.”

Poise smiled—slowly, knowingly. A performer who already knew his lines.

“And the guests won’t notice?”

“Not unless you want them to,” Vas replied. “This whole estate’s a dollhouse. You just tell me which parts you want to play with.”

Poise stepped lightly down the scaffolding, boots clicking, his movement liquid and precise. His coat flared slightly at his sides, perfectly tailored. “You’re not what I expected,” he said.

Vas stretched, cracking his back with a satisfied grunt. “Good. Expectations are boring.”

He hopped down from the gear, landing with a heavy pad of his broad lemur feet. “You want elegance. I get that. But this?” He gestured to the room, to the weaving of metal and magic beneath the soon-to-be marble floor. “This is art."

---

Another flashback

The cables above them sparked faintly, low pulses of violet light threading through the steel lattice overhead. Pressure hissed from a vent nearby—sweet, hot air vented from gods-knew-what system, laced with oil and smoke and something vaguely narcotic.

Vas Vexerine exhaled like it was incense.

He lay sprawled across a collapsed diagnostics table, shirt abandoned somewhere in the maze of chrome and arc-glass. One of his oversized feet—still damp with whatever gel that pod had leaked—was propped lazily on a broken armature, the other flexing absentmindedly midair. The motion wasn’t idle. He knew it drew attention. He liked the weight of eyes on him. Especially certain eyes.

His grin spread lazily, a fang catching the ambient light.

“Gods, foxkin really are something else,” he murmured, not quite to himself. “It’s the tails, sure, but it’s the restraint, too. All that discipline wrapped around that kind of want?”

He rolled onto his side, grease smudging across his shoulder as he traced a shape into the dusted panel beside him. “You move like you think you’re subtle. Like it’s a game. But your body’s already betrayed you by the time you speak.”

He licked his teeth, pupils narrow in the glow. His lemur tail swayed behind him in a satisfied arc.

“Something about you people just begs to be ruined.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Flashback:

From somewhere deeper in the chamber, Silvano’s voice drifted in—smooth, amused, laced with that infuriating confidence.

“Well, my dear Vas, I am a fox of many talents.” His silhouette appeared in the flickering light, one brow raised, cape fluttering just enough to be dramatic. “But I fear if I actually gave you what you wanted, you'd short-circuit half this facility just trying to recover.”

He flashed a grin—roguish, theatrical, maddeningly untouched.

“Tempting, isn’t it?” A wink. “But alas—some treasures are meant to be chased, not caught.”

---

Silvano’s grin widened, equal parts charm and mischief, as his eyes flicked over the chaos of Vas’s workshop. He strolled with slow delight, arms clasped behind his back like a nobleman inspecting a gallery rather than a den of scrap and potential combustion.

“My, my—you’ve been busy, haven’t you?” he purred, tail flicking lazily behind him. “So industrious, so... unregulated. I admire that in a craftsman.”

He spun on his heel, gesturing broadly to the clutter. “I do hope you heard that little bang by the wall earlier, mm? Must’ve given you a fright, wondering if one of your pet projects decided to self-actualize?” He chuckled, eyes glinting. “Mordecai would have your head—oh, the gloomy dark lord himself!”

Silvano struck a dramatic pose, one paw raised, voice dipping into a mock-gravel: “Touch that lever again, Silvano, and I will gut you where you stand.” A grin split his face as he dropped the act. “Such a character, yes yes.”

He ambled closer, leaning with casual ease against a metal fixture that might’ve once been part of a stove or a siege engine—it hardly mattered. His claws clicked idly against its surface, eyes never leaving Vas. “But! The dear Mordecai has… indulged me. He knows the fox I am.” A wink. “So long as I don’t cause too much trouble, he turns a blind eye. A rare gift.”

Silvano leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. “And that, my dear friend, brings us to you.”

He draped an arm dramatically toward Vas’s shoulder, claws nearly snagging a coil of wire. “Mordecai was most impressed with my rooftop antics. Theatrical. Precise. A gallon of tar dropped on a Harlekin’s porcelain mask? Art.”

He laughed, breathless, delighted by his own genius. “But now he wants more. Wants us, Vas. You and me. Two brilliant, diabolical minds, crafting traps atop the city’s spines—rooftops rigged with mischief. Defenses that confuse, confound, and maim just enough to send a message.”

His tail whipped with excitement as he spread his arms wide. “Explosions! Tar! Slipping, sliding chaos! Oh—tar and feather, perhaps? Really make chickens of them.”

Another laugh, sharp and wicked. “So... tell me, Vas—what can we build together, hmm?”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The grove was still, the kind of stillness that settled after the grief had passed, but before peace could take its place. The wind moved gently through the trees, carrying with it the scent of incense smoke curling in soft spirals above two grave markers—simple, unadorned, yet softened by wildflowers arranged in careful, humble bundles.

Riversong sat before them, her legs folded beneath her robes, the fabric pooling like water around her hooves. Smoke drifted from the small clay bowl before her, a blend of river mint, cedar, and thornrose—the kind of scent meant to open the senses, not dull them. The kind used for connection. For letting go.

Her gaze rested on one stone in particular. Alra.

She let the silence linger for a while, her fingers absently trailing over a piece of polished driftwood she’d set beside the grave—a token from a river far away, meant to guide spirits gently on their way.

Finally, she spoke, her voice low, nearly swallowed by the breeze.

“I don’t know if you’d want me here.”

Her lips curled into a small, tired smile, but there was no humor in it—just something worn, something honest.

“You never said much to me. We weren’t friends, not really. Just… two mothers passing in the same river current.” She plucked a petal from one of the nearby bundles, letting it fall into the incense bowl where it hissed and curled into smoke.

“I knew about the Leaves.” Her gaze didn’t lift, but her voice held steady. “Not just from you. I’ve known a lot of kin who used them—some to heal, some to escape, some just to feel something when the world felt like too much.”

Her fingers curled in her lap.

“I never judged you for it. Not then. I thought—maybe—it was your way of finding balance. That it wasn’t my place to intervene.” Her voice faltered briefly, but she pushed on. “I told myself, ‘Alra’s walking her own path. She knows what she’s doing.’”

A pause.

“I didn’t see how far you were drifting.”

She finally looked up, golden eyes soft, but glinting with the weight of something else—guilt, perhaps. Or maybe just clarity.

“You were there, but not really. Not in the way Ephraim needed. And I… I let it happen. I thought I was honoring your space, your choices.” Her throat tightened, her hands curling slightly against her knees. “But maybe I was just avoiding the hard thing. The right thing.”

She glanced at the grave again, her voice quieter now. “Ephraim tried to save you. Over and over. But you were already somewhere else.”

The wind stirred the grass, the incense smoke curling like a question rising to the sky.

“I didn’t poison the wine,” Riversong said softly, “but I still wonder if I could’ve stopped you from drinking it. If I had stood closer. Reached for you. Reminded you of what was here instead of what you were always chasing.”

She reached for a small riverstone from her pouch, placing it gently atop the grave—a symbol of remembrance, of grounding. Something real, to tether the spirit.

“I’ve been close to Ephraim. Closer than you ever got the chance to be. I see her pain. I see what your absence left behind. And maybe… maybe she let me step in because you couldn’t.” Her voice wavered. “But I won’t pretend that didn’t cost something. I won’t pretend I didn’t take your place.”

A long breath.

Then, she reached for a folded reed of rivergrass, carefully tied into a spiral. A symbol of return, of release.

“I hope you’ve let go, Alra. I hope you’ve drifted free of the weight that kept you so far away. I hope… you’re present now, wherever you are.”

She rose slowly, brushing the grass from her robes, and set the spiral at the foot of the grave. Her hand lingered there a moment—soft, reverent.

“Be still, sister,” she murmured. “The current’s taken you home.”

She turned, letting the breeze carry the last tendrils of smoke into the sky—peace offered, not just to Alra, but to herself. One mother, honoring another. Not perfect. Not unburdened. But real.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Vas didn’t look up right away.

His back was turned, tail twitching with lazy arcs, half-curled over a cluttered worktable where wires tangled like overgrown roots and a faintly humming orb floated in an anti-grav cradle made of a toaster and what was definitely an old prosthetic spine. His oversized lemur foot kicked a metal crate aside with a hollow clang as he leaned over the work, a glowrod held between his teeth, goggles pushed up to his brow.

He let Silvano's words roll through the workshop like theater smoke—unavoidable, fragrant, and possibly toxic.

Finally, he turned.

A slow pivot. Grease-slicked, shirtless, ears twitching. His grin? Crooked. Sharp. Hungry.

“Oh, Silvy,” Vas purred, voice dragging low like velvet dipped in engine coolant. “You come in here stinking of theater and tar and the unmistakable afterglow of chaos, and you have the nerve to call me industrious?”

He licked his thumb, smoothed it across a smudge on his own abs, then pointed that same thumb squarely at Silvano’s smug little chest.

“You come in reeking of my favorite things—combustion, ego, and fox.” A beat. “Gods, the way you strut. Tail swinging like a pendulum that’s daring me to time a tripwire.”

He stepped closer, big feet slapping audibly on the metal grate floor, not shy about the weight or the space he took up. “You know I’ve got a condition, Silvano. I told you. Foxes. You’re all slick arrogance and sly teeth, and every time you open your mouth, it’s like chewing glass wrapped in silk. I haven’t even looked at your face yet and I’m already halfway to breaking something important.”

A slow inhale—nose flaring, breath catching with exaggeration. “And tar, you say? On porcelain? That’s art. That’s—fuck, that’s foreplay.”

He spun away suddenly, energized, arms flinging out as he stormed across the room, pulling a lever that made something spark aggressively in the ceiling. A hatch opened. A mannequin dressed like a noble launched downward and slammed into a spike-lined dummy dressed like a city guard. The resulting explosion of feathers and powdered dye coated the floor.

Vas exhaled. Finally satisfied.

“We could build hell, Silvy,” he said over his shoulder. “We could build something that makes poets weep and dignitaries piss themselves. A rooftop ballet of whirring blades and collapsing chimneys. Pressure plates that bite. Doors that don’t just lock—they judge you. Fireworks that spell out fuck you in Old Script.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Silvano grinned wide—devilish and radiant, his sharp fox canines gleaming as feathers drifted from the air like the aftermath of some deranged opera. He threw his arms wide with all the pomp of a victorious stage actor.

“Huzzah! Vas, my ring-tailed virtuoso! You’ve outdone yourself yet again!”

He spun on one heel, his coat flaring dramatically, then strutted toward Vas with an exaggerated swagger, every step a statement. He stopped just shy of colliding, chest to chest, and let his sharp, slender muzzle tilt upward with feigned reverence. His fingers—those maddeningly light fingers—tapped along Vas’s shoulder, trailing slow circles in the grease without a care.

“Truly, such an artist. No wonder foxes are drawn to you like moths to flame.” He leaned in slightly, breath warm. “Though in your case, I’d wager it’s more molotov than moth.”

He spun again—two full rotations this time—before collapsing against a support beam, back arched, one leg kicked up dramatically against the wall like he was posing for a scandalous portrait. His tail flicked behind him like a banner of victory.

“Oh Vas,” he sighed, back of one paw to his forehead, “the brilliance of your mind… your desires... your actions...” He gave a theatrical shiver, his whole body shaking like he’d caught a chill. “Shiveeeeeers.”

A pause, then a sly flick of his mustache. His golden eyes gleamed.

“You do love our little collaborations, don’t you? All that delicate time spent together... the late nights, the scheming...” His voice dropped just a touch, rich and teasing. “The watchlists.”

He pounced forward, arms flung wide like an open invitation, landing beside Vas with a low, flourishing bow.

“Because you know, Vas, I’m irresistible. My tar-scented grace, my explosive panache... the singed fur, the collateral damage—artistry, really. And your work?” Silvano placed a paw delicately over his heart. “Beyond the reach of my poor fox brain. Far beyond.”

A beat. He leaned in just enough to let his words hum with mischief. “But I? Silvano? Your Silvy?” He raised his eyebrows with that infuriating wink. “We are a masterpiece in motion.”

He twirled again, cape trailing, then struck a pose—arms crossed, tail coiled at his feet like a throne.

“Now tell me this—could we incorporate pies somehow? Just imagine it: the Harlekin, blades drawn, blood in their teeth... but wait! Is this blood?” He licked his finger with mock concern. “No, it’s raspberry pie!” He turned to Vas with a conspiratorial grin. “That’s the deceit.”

And then, as effortlessly as breathing, he changed topic, waving a hand like he was clearing smoke from the air.

“Oh, and did you hear? Orlin’s being dragged into a death match to prove his innocence. Should be a riveting performance, yes, yes. Front row seats, I hope.”

He smiled—pure, untouched, and maddeningly aware—then flicked his tail in Vas’s direction, just brushing the lemur’s side as he turned away.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The temple grounds were quiet this time of day—just after the morning incense had burned low, before the afternoon shadows stretched long across the carved stone. The scent of cedar and ash lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the metallic bite of the mountain breeze.

Ephraim stood beneath the temple’s archway, her silhouette framed by the carved visages of the old gods.

Instead, her voice rose into the open air with calm clarity.

“I need a warrior.”

The words weren’t loud, but they didn’t need to be. The air carried them.

She waited a beat, her eyes fixed, not challenging—but certain.

“Not for spectacle. Not for show."

The wind shifted, catching the edge of her coat.

“He is set to face trial by combat,” she said, sharper now, more certain with each word. “He was part of what broke the city—what poisoned our people. What could have taken my daughters.”

A pause.

“Mordecai and I will name a champion. We need one who fights without fear of the law’s edge—only with the weight of what is right.”

She tilted her head slightly, gaze unwavering.

“I came to ask if that warrior is you... I know it is a large ask, of anyone,"

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Eryon did not speak right away.

Taller, heavier—his figure loomed like a carved stone effigy, unmoved by wind or time. He stood as he always did, steadfast and unyielding, his battle axe secured across his back by a worn leather harness, the metal catching faint light as if it too were listening. The breeze stirred again, lifting the edge of his captain’s mantle—worn with duty, ready for war.

His hooves remained rooted, unshaken.

Only when Ephraim’s words had fully settled did he speak, his voice deep, roughened by age and iron, accented with the cadence of his kin. His gaze did not waver.

“I understand, Lady Ephraim.”

A pause, measured and full.

“In my homeland, we say a warrior’s honor is not in the battle, but in the cause he takes to the grave. Umbrafane taught me to carry both—the old ways, and what must be built anew.”

His eyes remained fixed on hers, unwavering.

“You and Lord Mordecai gave my people breath when the mountain had none left to give. We are yours.” He bowed his head slightly—not as a servant, but as one warrior to another. “Loyal in blood and stone.”

Eryon had stood beside Ephraim when she faced Orlin. He had seen judgment passed. Death was the only road forward—on either side. But death did not frighten him. He had faced it before and lived with its weight.

His hand rose, fingers brushing the braids in his mane—pausing on one interwoven with strands not his own. His thumb traced it gently, reverent.

“Jen walks with me still,” he said, low and firm, more to the wind than to her. “And the child that never drew breath—both rest in the mountain’s hall. I honor them in the stand I take now.”

There was no sorrow in his voice—only the weight of memory, shaped into steel.

He looked back at her, straightened fully, and brought a hand to his chest—a warrior’s promise, solemn and unshakable.

“I will fight.”

A nod, solid as stone.

“For you, Lady Ephraim. For Lord Mordecai. For your family. For Umbrafane... and all that stands.”

Another nod.

“You have my promise.”