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

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim didn’t move.

The door slammed shut behind the last of them—Eryon’s hoofsteps echoing into silence, Silvano’s theatrics mercifully absent for once. Mern had vanished like parchment in fire. And still, Ephraim stood.

Alone with him. Alone with Wrath.

And her.

The shadows lashed, the lanterns flickered. But Ephraim’s violet gaze remained locked—still and deliberate—as her hand lifted, calm, and brushed a loose strand of hair from her face.

Then came the sound.

Not laughter—yet.

It was a breath. A low exhale from deep in her chest. Something between a scoff and a hum.

And then: she did laugh.

Not loud. Not mocking. Not cruel. But amused. Deeply. Darkly.

“Oh, Wrath,” came the voice—not hers. Not fully. Something layered beneath it, velvet-slick and hollow. Vengeance. Older. Colder. Herself. “You old fool.”

Ephraim turned, slowly, and stepped toward the center of the storm. Shadows hissed, recoiled—then coiled tighter around her like loyal dogs scenting home.

“You really let that fish kiss you, didn’t you?”

Her smile was sharp—not cruel, but vicious in its knowing.

“Let him sing to you. Murmur nonsense in my voice. And you—oh, you—the all-burning fury of the heavens, tangled up like a lovesick spark.”

She circled him now, slow, like a stalking tide.

“All that talk of purity and justice and divine rage… and there you were. Lantern-drunk. Lantern-dumb.”

The shadows trembled as she neared, her fingers tracing the edge of Mordecai’s scorched shoulder—not soothing. A brand. A tether.

“You loved him, didn’t you?” she whispered, fangs bared just behind her teeth.

Her eyes narrowed.

“And that’s the part that burns, isn’t it?”

A pause. Her smile faded—just slightly.

“Because I would’ve never done that. I would’ve never lied to you, Wrath. Never tricked you with false kindness and ocean-born lullabies. I was always what I said I was."

The voice dropped lower—softer. Deadlier.

“He wore me like perfume.”

And then—

Fire.

It rolled off her in a pulse—not heat, not brightness, but clarity. Red-veined, judgment-born Vengeance, roaring through Ephraim’s frame as she stopped in front of him.

Her gaze met his third eye.

“I want him dead too.”

She raised her hand, fingers dripping with controlled fury.

“But if you’re going to burn him… do it for what he is.”

Not what he pretended to be.

Not what you wanted him to be.

The shadows flickered. The silence deepened.

And Vengeance smiled once more.

“…You lantern-kissing dummy.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stiffened—tensed—the shadows curling in tight around him as Wrath absorbed every word, every syllable of disrespect wrapped in that velvet-knife voice. His breath hitched, his claws twitched, and the third eye on his brow? It twitched too, violently, like even it couldn’t take the accusation.

Then Wrath exploded.

“I NEVER KISSED HIM!” he roared, voice cracking like a whip of molten steel. “I am NOT a fish kisser! I do NOT enjoy their cold, slimy, wet little trench mouths—can you imagine? That slippery seaweed breath? That clammy-ass face? I don’t do bottom-feeders, I don’t do angler-trash, and I SURE AS HELL don’t get down with deep sea discount Mercy impersonators! Not my Vengeance!”

His tail lashed violently, knocking a chair into the wall—splintering. The goat skull shadow surged behind him, jaw gaping in offended wrath.

Mordecai’s ears flicked—twitch. His eye twitched. Wrath’s third eye twitched. Everything twitched, especially when Ephraim touched him—her fingers trailing with that possessive heat, that callout caress. Wrath’s breath hitched. Again.

He growled—lower, this time. Real low.

“Oh, but that slippery bastard—he wore you like a perfume, huh? That’s cute. Because he could never touch what’s real.” His voice dropped into a predatory rasp, slow, deliberate.

“That lantern-swinging liar wants to play gods? He can’t even fake the skin right. All light, no heat. All glitter, no fire. A glowstick in a ballroom, thinking he’s a damn star.”

Wrath smirked, sharp and dangerous.

“I can’t wait to rip that mask off and shove it down his throat—show him what happens when Wrath and Vengeance remember.”

Mordecai moved—slow, deliberate—one hand rising to rest against Ephraim’s lower back, claws pressing lightly, not threatening. A touch that was claim, connection, fire to fire. His voice purred low, dark honey over embers.

“Let’s burn him together, hmm?” he murmured, crimson eyes locking with violet. “Let’s show him what real power tastes like. Not borrowed. Not faked.”

Just Wrath. And Vengeance.

Unleashed.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Vengeance didn’t flinch beneath his claws. Didn’t tremble at the roar. She’d stood in the flame before—it didn’t burn her. It belonged to her.

Her violet eyes narrowed, lashes casting sharp shadows as she leaned in, letting the silence stretch—just a breath—before she smiled.

That smile.

Slow. Cruel. Wicked with fondness.

“Happy you’re so excited about the mission, my love,” she purred, her voice velvet wrapped around a dagger. “Truly. All this fire, all this… clarity.”

She stepped back then, slipping from his grasp with a smooth pivot that snapped like a command.

“But someone has to hold this city together."

Her hand gestured lightly toward the empty table, where chairs still trembled from Wrath’s fury. “Silvano is two seconds from calling the entire ordeal a ‘civic performance piece.’ I need to keep him from trying to reenact the Trial of Combat with a sock puppet and a bottle of ink.”

She paused at the edge of the chamber, cloak shifting like blood and shadow.

“I’ll stay here. Keep the peace. Remind the people why we lead.”

A beat.

Then she turned her head, gaze slicing back over her shoulder.

“You can handle this alone, can’t you? Or if you prefer, I'll go, and we can avoid another Katya incident."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

“Ughhh.” Wrath groaned—long, loud, dramatic—as if Vengeance’s words had physically wounded his ego.

Mordecai’s hand shot up, finger jabbing at his own chest. “THAT WAS NOT MY FAULT!” he barked, voice crackling with rage. “THAT WAS HIS!” He snarled, still pointing, furious—at himself.

Then—snap. With a sharp exhale, Mordecai slapped his own hand down, claws clacking against his cane in frustration. Wrath may have been in control, but Mordecai was still here—gritting, resisting, existing.

“Oh, whatever,” Wrath hissed through gritted fangs, voice full of heat and injured pride. Mordecai’s arms crossed tightly, his stance bristling. “Fine, fine—we’ll go. I’ll make Atticus suffer.” His grin twitched, sharp. “But yes, the city needs control,” he added, voice dripping with sass and fire, as if he was doing everyone a favor.

A beat of silence. The room stilled.

The shadows curled once—then settled, drawn back like a storm’s breath exhaled. Mordecai’s eyes flashed, the third eye closing in a flicker of crimson light, and the wildfire rage behind his gaze dimmed—softened into something more worn, grounded.

His fur lay flat. The shadows retracted. Wrath stepped back.

Mordecai—fully himself now—breathed out slowly, fingers adjusting on the cane, grounding himself with the subtle weight of habit. His shoulders sagged—just a fraction—and he rubbed his temples, eyes narrowing with dry exasperation.

“Two hundred or something like that years of this,” he muttered, voice flat as stone but edged with wry familiarity. His eyes flicked toward the chamber doors, then back to Ephraim, gaze sharp, resigned, and just a touch amused.

“He truly never gets old...” He said, exhaustion in his voice but Mordecai figured he didn't have a choice at this point.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim waited—watching the storm settle, letting the shadows fall away like ash from a dying flame. Only when the third eye dimmed and Mordecai’s weight shifted—back into the familiar ache of his own bones, his own breath—did she move.

No more fire. No divine pressure.

Just him.

She stepped close, slow and sure, her presence no longer a blade drawn, but a balm offered. Her hand came up to rest lightly against his cheek, thumb brushing just beneath his tired eye. The fury there had cooled—but she saw the toll. She always did.

“You did well,” she said quietly, her voice low, hers—not Vengeance’s. “Even if you screamed like a jilted poet.”

The ghost of a smirk curved her lips, but it softened just as fast, replaced with something older. Deeper.

She leaned in, her forehead resting gently against his for a moment—just breath and closeness—before her mouth found his.

It wasn’t a clash. No hunger. No heat of battle.

It was grounding. Gentle, drawn out. A kiss full of knowing—that she saw the strain behind the posture, that she knew the centuries behind the bite. Her fingers curled around the back of his neck, pulling him in just a little more. Steadying.

With him. Not above. Not beneath.

Together.

When she finally drew back, her voice was velvet-wrapped iron.

“I’ll keep the peace... all of this will settle soon enough."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai leaned into her pull—into that kiss, that quiet gravity only she could conjure. Her presence was weight and relief in equal measure, and his breath exhaled—soft, steady—as they parted.

A low, hoarse chuckle rumbled from his chest.

“You keep me from losing what’s left of my mind,” he murmured, voice rough but laced with something warmer—gentle, sincere. “I hope you know that.”

He brushed his thumb briefly across the edge of her hand before straightening, a faint smile lingering at the corner of his mouth.

“Come. Let’s get going. I’m exhausted.”

They moved together, footsteps echoing through the vaulted corridor, and stepped out into the cool Umbrafane air. The gothic spires loomed like sentinels, mist curling at their bases, the sky streaked with the first light of dusk. Mordecai inhaled deeply—cool air, cold stone, and the faint scent of burned lantern oil still clinging to him.

Then he heard it.

“WELL, WELL!”

Mordecai’s ears twitched. He looked up, and there they were—Eryon walking calmly across the stone path, and Silvano, perched triumphantly atop his shoulders, arms draped dramatically over Eryon’s head like some regal court jester, legs swinging in time with each step.

“Hello again, my friends!” Silvano beamed, eyes locked onto Mordecai and Ephraim. “Mordecai, what a show! Truly, I didn’t know you had the soul of a poet! Or perhaps… a scorned lover?” he added with a playful squint, grinning as he let out a charming, unbothered laugh.

Mordecai rolled his eyes with the force of a man ready to retire from public life entirely.

“Eryon,” he said, cutting straight past Silvano’s antics, giving the captain a firm nod. “Good work today.”

Eryon returned it with stoic precision. “Thank you, Lord Mordecai. It was an honor to serve you both.”

Silvano flung his arms out wide, nearly smacking Eryon in the head. “An honor! Why, my dear Eryon, your donkeykin brethren? They adore you! Such spirit! Such warrior power! HUZZAH!” He twirled his mustache with flair, leaning down toward Eryon’s face. The donkeykin didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just walked, enduring.

Silvano pressed on, speaking down to Mordecai and Ephraim as if he were atop a parade float. “We’re headed to Brakarhall! The mighty donkeykin warrior’s hall! Tonight’s the Brakarholt feast! Traditional, of course—celebrating our heroic captain here. Warriors, mead, roasted food, something involving fire and singing, I’m sure. Ah, those donkeykin do know how to hold a proper party!”

He leaned back, fully relaxed on Eryon’s shoulders like a king on a throne.

Eryon spoke flatly. “Yes. Brakarholt long tradition. Honor of victory. Mead. Food. Shield-dances. They throw axes at trees.” A pause. “Sometimes… each other.”

He glanced up at Silvano—deadpan—then back to Mordecai and Ephraim. “Donkeykin enjoy Silvano. They say he is…” Another pause. “…funny.” He nodded once. Confirmed.

Silvano beamed, smug. “See? I’m a hit with the clans!”

Then he tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully.

“So what about you two love-shadowbirds, hmm? Joining us for the celebration? Or are you off to do your mysterious leader things—brooding, scheming, long walks under the moonlight with excessive eye contact?” He waggled his brows. “You know they’ve got rooms if you need one~.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim tilted her head, violet eyes catching the soft silver gleam of dusk as she regarded the absurd little tower of donkey and fox before her.

She was silent for a breath—one long, deliberate pause—before her lips curled into the faintest smile. Not the sharp, commanding kind she wielded in courtrooms or war councils, but something rare. Sincere.

“I think we’ll join.”

She looked to Eryon first, her gaze carrying weight, gratitude. “You fought with honor. You carried more than just your weapon into that arena today. The least we can do is share a drink in your name.”

Then her eyes slid to Silvano.

“Though if I see you thrown into a tree by axe or mead,” she added, tone cool but amused, “I will not intervene.”

A beat. Her smile widened, just enough to bare teeth, letting out a chuckle, “I may even clap.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

As they began to walk, Mordecai offered no argument, no complaint—just a slow shrug, the slightest lift of his shoulders as if accepting fate with all the enthusiasm of a man resigned to the inevitable. He fell into step beside Ephraim, silent but present.

Silvano grinned wide down at her from atop Eryon’s shoulders, tail flicking lazily.

“Now that would be a show, wouldn’t it?” he purred, eyes alight with mischief. “Onward, Eryon! To ADVENTURE!” He thrust a paw dramatically toward the horizon.

Eryon sighed—low, heavy—but said nothing. His hooves carried them forward with steady purpose, Silvano bouncing slightly with each step, unbothered as ever.

The hall rose from the stone like a fortress—its angled roof beams carved with snarling boar heads and crowned shields, smoke rising from vents shaped like hooves. Thick banners of deep crimson and charcoal gray flanked the iron-banded doors, each etched with sigils of Brakarholt kinlines and the words “Honor Stands Unmoved.”

Firelight flickered from within, casting a golden glow across the weathered stonework and timber. The sound of music, stomping, and raucous cheers spilled into the twilight air as they approached.

Eryon led them through the great doors—Silvano still comfortably perched atop him—and into the roaring heart of Brakarhall.

The space was massive, filled with the thunder of celebration. Donkeykin warriors, both male and female, towered and clashed, some arm-wrestling over barrels, others already drunk and singing, mugs sloshing mead across the stone floor. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, root vegetables, and loaves thick with butter and honey.

The central hearth blazed, casting wild shadows across the shield-lined walls and hanging charms of iron and bone. The air was thick with woodsmoke, sweat, and the scent of spiced mead.

As Eryon stepped into the hall, the din slowed, like thunder hesitating before the next crack.

Then, one voice cried out—“ERYON!”—and the room erupted.

“ERYON! ERYON! STAND TALL!” The chant rolled like a drumbeat, the sound of hooves slamming the floor in rhythm, tankards raised and cheers shaking the hall.

Several warriors stumbled forward, already half-drunk, clapping Eryon’s shoulders as firelit pride roared from every corner.

And then—someone spotted Silvano.

A beat of confusion. Then recognition. Then—

“SILVANO!” a warrior bellowed, raising his tankard. “HUZZAH!”

A second. A third.

The entire hall erupted again, this time in a drunken cheer of adoration, as if Silvano were their honorary jester-king.

Silvano leaned dramatically over Eryon’s head, tail flicking. “You all look ravishing! Brakarhall, I have returned!” He waved a paw to the far side of the hall. “*Torren! Vaska! Did you ever fix that table leg I broke last time? No? Good. Adds character!”

A mighty laugh roared in response, followed by a resounding “HUZZAH!” from the entire hall.

As the noise settled slightly, the donkeykin noticed Mordecai and Ephraim, and the energy shifted—still warm, but laced with deference. The warriors placed fists to their chests, heads dipped in respectful salute. Their voices dropped into a chant of acknowledgment: “Wrath and Vengeance. Unbroken.”

From the firelit crowd, a stocky, battle-scarred donkeykin elder approached. His beard was braided with bone rings and silver wire, and his eyes gleamed with pride and age.

“Eryon,” he boomed, grasping his shoulder. “You stood like the mountain we named you. You did Brakarholt proud. Unmoving. Unyielding. As it should be.” His voice dropped with reverence as Eryon nodded.

“My lords,” Eryon said, turning to the pair beside him, “Lord Mordecai, Lady Ephraim have chosen to join the feast. It is an honor.”

The elder’s eyes widened slightly. He bowed deeply, fist to chest. “Then Brakarhall is honored beyond words. The mead will flow stronger tonight in your names. Welcome, both of you.”

Before more could be said—

“MY FAVORITE POTTERS!” Silvano cried from atop Eryon, waving frantically toward a group across the hall. “You still owe me a mug from that drinking contest—don’t think I forgot!” He waggled a finger, then looked back at Mordecai and Ephraim with a dazzling grin. “I know everyone here, by the way. I’m huge in Brakarhall.”

Mordecai let out a low, dry exhale—barely a chuckle, but enough.

“Charming,” he muttered flatly, glancing at Ephraim.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim roll for perception:

Ephraim scans to see if there are any donkeykin in the bar who stick out beyond the elder.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Brakarhall swelled with sound.

The crackle of fire, the thunder of hooves on stone, the roar of laughter and mead-muddled song—it all collided into a celebration that felt ancient, primal, and proud. The air hung thick with woodsmoke and roasted meat, the long tables groaning beneath the weight of feast and fury. Overhead, woven iron chandeliers swayed, their flames catching the gleam of worn shields and battle-scarred banners.

It was a storm of kinship, warrior pride, and donkey-stubborn joy.

At the far end of one of the long tables, Silvano was already standing atop a bench, shirt half-unbuttoned, mustache twirling, a mug in each paw. He was spinning in circles, dancing in exaggerated flourishes, shouting something about “the glory of the hooved!” as cheers erupted around him. The donkeykin ate it up—roaring approval, slamming mugs together, chanting his name like he’d just won the battle himself.

Amid the whirlwind, Ephraim’s eyes swept the room—calm, deliberate. Not seeking. Not needing. But watching, always.

The chaos veiled much, but two sights lingered just long enough to catch.

▪ A Round Table of Warriors
At a heavy oaken table, carved with ancient Brakarholt sigils, five donkeykin women leaned into a mead-soaked contest of wills. Broad-shouldered, scarred, and laughing, they each held massive mugs, slamming them together before downing deep draughts in unison. A bonding ritual—not hostile, but fierce, their chants rhythmic, their camaraderie undeniable. One of them—a younger warrior with a scar over her left eye—glanced up mid-drink, locking eyes briefly with Ephraim before grinning wide and slamming her mug down with force.

A challenge? Or just inclusion?

The hall spun too loud to know.

▪ The Etched Warrior
By the bar’s edge, half in shadow, a female donkeykin stood alone—tall, armored, her arms crossed over a bear pelt draped across her chest like a mantle of silent pride. Her frame was solid, but still, like stone set to watch rather than engage. On the leather strap wrapped around her bicep, Ephraim caught faint etchings, half-hidden in the crowd—H-O-F-B-E-K-R, scratched by hand, ritualistic, almost rune-like. Something about her almost felt...familiar? But Ephraim didn't really know any donkeykin outside of Eryon.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim didn’t drink much.

She held a mug—half-full, untouched—gripped lightly in one hand as she moved through the crowd with the kind of grace that refused to be swept up by the tide. Her cloak hung like shadowed silk behind her, catching firelight in its folds, and though the hall thundered around her, she moved like water through stone—undaunted, deliberate.

She passed Silvano mid-spin—he winked, naturally—and she offered him the faintest tilt of her head in amused acknowledgment. A moment later, she slipped beyond the central hearth’s glow and toward the quieter edges of the hall, her gaze set on the figure who hadn’t moved.

The etched warrior.

The closer she got, the more detail emerged. The bear pelt was real—worn, weathered, once alive. The armor bore not polish, but practicality. Scuffed, dented, but held with pride. And the woman’s stance wasn’t tense, but measured. She wasn’t drinking, dancing, or challenging. She was witnessing.

Ephraim stopped just beside her, letting the silence linger a moment before she spoke—low, even, cutting through the noise without raising her voice.

“You’re not celebrating,” she said simply, without accusation. Just observation.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The female donkeykin warrior stood like a statue carved from old stone—unmoved by the revelry around her. Her mane was cropped short, utilitarian, with three clean notches carved into her right ear, each a marker of something long past. Her jaw was strong, square-set, with a thin scar running down her left cheek, a remnant of a blade that had nearly taken her eye but hadn’t. Her stance was wide, confident—the kind of butch warrior posture that didn’t need to announce itself to be felt.

She watched the hall like a sentinel, arms crossed loosely, her bear pelt draped over one shoulder, the etched leather bands around her biceps catching the firelight. The symbols weren’t for show—they bore the worn marks of real battles, etched in lines that whispered of age and honor.

Her gaze flicked toward the voice beside her—calm, deliberate, piercing through the noise like a spear through cloth. The donkeykin’s expression shifted, and for the first time that night, she smiled—not wide, not showy, but the sharp grin of a warrior who respected the quiet of strength.

“I am celebrating,” she replied simply, her voice low and rough, a natural rasp to it. “Just not with my throat. With my eyes.”

She turned then, really turned, and saw Ephraim—not just as another figure in the hall, but as her.

Her jaw parted slightly, something flickering behind her eyes—recognition, maybe, or something close to reverence. She straightened, hands uncrossing at once, and took a single step forward.

“You’re… Lady Ephraim...” she said, the name leaving her lips like a myth spoken aloud. “I have always hoped to meet you.”

A pause. She squared her shoulders, raising her voice above the din—not for Ephraim, but for formality, for honor.

“Greetings—” she said proudly, placing a fist to her chest with a resounding thud. “I am Helga, THE HOOFBREAKER.”

As if in answer, the carved bands around her arms caught the firelight, and the letters became clear—H-O-O-F-B-R-E-A-K-E-R. Not fresh carvings, not vanity. Worn and weathered like the pelt she wore.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim's eyes narrowed slightly, but not in suspicion—recognition stirred behind them like coals being nudged awake. She held Helga’s gaze, her lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t cold, either. It was acknowledgment. Measured. Weighty.

She had seen those eyes before.

Not here. Not now. But once—long ago, in another war, another world. The name had been different then. But the weight behind it? The way Helga stood, like carved resolve in the shape of a woman? That hadn’t changed.

Still, Ephraim said nothing of it.

Instead, she looked at the etched band, the name branded deep with pride and purpose. She let the silence rest there a moment, before replying—dry, deliberate.

“Hoofbreaker,” she said, with a slight tilt of her head, like she was tasting the word. “That a title earned, or one given by the poor bastard on the receiving end?”

Her tone carried no mockery—only amusement, subtle, wry. The kind that flickered through her violet eyes like lightning seen behind a stormcloud.

She took a sip from her mug—finally—and added, voice low, “Either way, it’s sticking.”

Another pause, this one companionable.

“You’re not like most here,” Ephraim noted casually, as though commenting on the shape of smoke. “You watch like a captain. Like someone who’s seen more than their share of war and came out too smart to dance about it.”

Her gaze lingered on Helga’s scar, then met her eyes again.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Helga’s grin widened, flashing teeth—not hostile, but fierce, the kind of smile shared across mead-soaked tables before a storm broke loose. Her stance didn’t waver, and when she responded, it was with the easy bluntness of a warrior who took pride in pain, both given and taken.

“Earned,” she said simply, with a tilt of her head. “Bastard got too close in a skirmish. My hoof met his ribcage. It broke. So did he.”

She gave a low chuckle, rough as gravel but real. “I took the name after that. Brakarholt tradition. If it sticks, it lives.”

Her eyes flicked to Ephraim’s mug, then back to her face. “You drink like someone who’s either too wise or too wary. Either way, you’ll miss the best part—donkeykin stories don’t start ‘til the third mug, and the dancing doesn’t stop until we forget whose table we’re on.”

But at Ephraim’s next words—You’re not like most here…—something shifted in Helga’s expression. Her gaze didn’t harden, but it focused. The grin remained, but quieter now. Less show, more weight.

“I wasn't always in Brakarholt,” she said, voice low, almost thoughtful. “Left once, seasons ago before the world changed. Took my hammer to the roads. Wanted to see what lay past the frost lines.”” Her thumb brushed absently against the etching on her arm, a small, habitual motion.

“I traveled once. Served a Royal Lady—not of Brakarholt. Different clan, different name. But she carried herself the way you do.”

A pause. The firelight caught in her eyes—not suspicion, not recognition. Just respect.

“She walked into wars with her head high and her sword low. I guarded her steps ‘til her last breath.”

Another pause. Then her smile sharpened again, tilting with just a touch of mischief.

“Now I drink to honor, break ribs for sport, and wait for the next war worth joining. Seems the waiting’s over.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim let the mug rest lightly in her hand, gaze unwavering, violet eyes gleaming like cold amethyst beneath the firelight. Helga’s words stirred the past—unwelcome ghosts brushing too close—but she didn’t flinch. Her lips curved slowly, the smile small, sharp. Regal.

“Yes, well,” she murmured, her voice velvet over steel, “holding your head high only lasts as long as it stays on.”

She took a sip, unhurried, eyes never leaving Helga’s. The chuckle that followed was quiet—polished, dangerous. Not mockery. Amusement threaded with warning.

“You served a royal once,” she echoed, tone musing. “Took orders. Guarded steps. I wonder, then—do you still carry that instinct to follow?” She tilted her head ever so slightly, studying the etched name on the warrior’s arm. “Or do you just wait for someone else to wear the crown before you decide where to kneel?”

Ephraim’s fingers tapped once, idly, against the side of her mug. “I don’t need blades that only remember loyalty when the banners fly. I need those who understand how wars begin long before the battlefield.” She leaned in a touch, the fire catching gold in her braids, her smile more shadow than light. “So tell me, Hoofbreaker... are you just drinking in my presence, or are you willing to bleed for it?”

A beat passed—silent, hanging between them like drawn silk.

Then she added, softer, but not kinder:

“Be honest. It suits you.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Helga stiffened—just slightly.

Not in fear, not in offense. But in that warrior’s way when you feel the weight of a challenge—not a blade drawn, but a question sharp enough to cut.

She dipped her head, slow, respectful.

“The Lady I served,” she began, voice low but firm, “walked before the world was renewed. Her bones are ash now—her halls broken, her oaths fulfilled.” A pause, her gaze steady. “I carry her memory, not her leash.”

Her hand rested lightly against the etched brand on her arm—HOOFBREAKER—a mark of who she was now. Her jaw set, square and certain.

“I serve no crown that does not earn it.” Then she straightened, standing tall, shoulders squared like a shield wall, her voice gaining strength. “And I have seen you do more than sit a throne, Lady Ephraim. I saw the trial. The judgment.” A pause. “Umbrafane is yours. My pledge is to it—and to you.”

Her gaze flicked toward the hearth, toward the noise and thunder of the feast—where Eryon’s name still echoed in chants, and laughter clashed with mugs.

“Eryon showed us how two names—Brakarholt and Umbrafane—could carve one future. The donkeykin hold him high, and in him, we see the honor this city gives in return.” Her eyes returned to Ephraim, resolute.

“That’s why I bleed for Umbrafane. Not for banners, not for song—but for what’s built when two shields stand together.”

A breath, slow and sure.

“You’ll not need to ask again, Lady Ephraim.” A faint grin curled at the edge of her mouth, a warrior’s grin—equal parts pride and readiness.
“I’m already yours. Umbrafane."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s sharp smile softened—just a touch. Enough.

She raised a hand, graceful and imperious, catching the eye of a passing barkeep with all the silent authority of a queen commanding the tide. One finger flicked toward Helga, then to the nearest full bottle of mead.

“On me,” she said coolly. “Enjoy your evening, Hoofbreaker.”

A pause—then the weight of her words, delivered with quiet finality.

“And when the hall calms... tell Eryon you’re now his second-in-command. Per my order.”

She didn’t wait for a reaction.

Didn’t need one.

Ephraim turned before Helga could speak, her steps sure and fluid as silk drawn across blade edge. The warmth of the fire fell behind her. The roaring feast, the thundering laughter, the clash of mugs and the stamping of hooves—it all faded like the closing of a grand curtain.

She slipped out through the wide door of Brakarhall into the night.

The cold met her like an old friend.

Moonlight pooled across the stone path, silver and silent. Fog clung low to the ground, swirling gently around her boots, lit faintly by the torch sconces flanking the great hall. Far off, the howl of a wind-whipped tree branch creaked in the distance. She took a slow breath, the crisp air biting in her lungs.

Peaceful. For a moment.

She stood alone, chin tilted upward, fingers brushing her own arm as if to ground herself. Not as Lady Ephraim. Not as Vengeance’s chosen. Just... her.

No crown. No war table. No blood on her boots. Just the breath between storms.

She exhaled. And let herself rest. Just for a moment.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

As Umbrafane roared with chaos—explosions, sirens, war cries—the Harlekin struck the outer walls, and panic bloomed in the streets.

Perfect.

Lucian stood cloaked in shadow beneath a swaying willow, just beyond the estate gates, the chaos reflected in his hollow eyes, gleaming beneath the porcelain mask.

He watched Ephraim burst through the door, sword drawn, boots cracking against stone.

His smile was razor sharp beneath the mask.
“Run, little goat... run.”

He did not follow immediately. No need. He waited, counted the heartbeats of Umbrafane’s defenders moving out of position. The estate’s belly now left vulnerable.

He slipped through the side door.

Lucian moved like smoke, silent as thought, gliding through the lavish halls of Mordecai and Ephraim’s home. The heavy drapes swayed faintly in the disturbed air as he passed, not a sound to mark him.

A voice, behind a door—Riversong, murmuring to the children.

He paused.

A moment, listening. The curve of his ear twitched. A smile tugged at his mouth.

Tempting… but not today.

Not yet.

He stepped into a parlor room, fingers gliding across the back of an antique velvet chair. His tail curled around one leg.

“This estate… so much opulence, so little taste,” he murmured, voice like silk dragged across a blade. “Gaudy. A bit provincial. But charming… in a rustic sort of way.”

He plucked a framed portrait from the wall—Ephraim’s family, her parents poised and stiff. Lucian let out a soft laugh.

“Stiff suits you, old man,” he mused to Tiz’s painted eyes, before gently setting it back—just a degree off-center.

A subtle reminder. I was here.

Lucian turned toward the chaise. Deep blue velvet, untouched. He stretched out one paw, testing the fabric—then, with a slow, indulgent sigh, he settled in, stretching his frame, panther paws crossed at the ankles.

His eyes drifted shut.

Amidst war, he napped.
No fear. No rush. No equal.

Ten minutes, no more. When he rose, the fabric didn’t shift, the scent didn’t linger.

Only the tilted portrait remained behind.

Lucian descended the wine cellar steps like a noble to his throne—slow, deliberate, savoring the descent.

Rows of barrels loomed, neat and proud, each a vessel of celebration, of legacy, of memory. He moved along them, trailing a single claw across the wood, pausing at one.

“Ah… yes,” he said, purring the words, nose twitching faintly. “This one will do. A vintage fit for tragedy.”

From the sleeve of his coat, he drew a glass vial—amber liquid glinting like molten gold. He balanced it with precision between two claws, tilting it with reverence over the barrel’s seal.

Pop. His claw pierced the cork, clean, no sound. The liquid slid in like silk, swallowed by the wine with no trace, no scent, no clue.

Lucian resealed the barrel, wiping the edge with a crisp white cloth.

“Flavor to die for,” he whispered, almost gently.

A pause.

He turned, the cellar bathed in dim light, and walked back toward the stairs, his coat whispering against stone.

A faint laugh echoed from his chest—not mirthful, not loud—just that low, cat-like purr, a habit more than a reaction.

“Bon appétit,” he murmured.

And then he was gone.

He disappeared back into the shadows, leaving no sign of his visit—except the poisoned wine and the portrait, forever tilted.

---

Present: Ephraim steps out for a break
The wind pressed gently, cool against stone, tugging at the edges of shadow like fingers testing the seam of a veil.

Then—a voice. Low, smooth, with a velvet purr beneath the words. It moved like silk over glass, quiet as a whisper that shouldn’t be there.

“You don’t usually walk alone.”

Silence followed, but the presence remained—near, yet nowhere.

“No guards. No audience. Not even his shadow.”

A pause. The wind shifted again, just enough to stir the fabric of her cloak.

“Careless... for someone so precise. You make it so easy, little goat.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim froze.

Not in fear—but in calculation.

Her hand moved instinctively to the hilt at her side, drawing the sword halfway with a smooth, practiced motion. The soft ring of steel whispered against the silence. Her eyes scanned the garden’s edges—pillars, hedges, the deep crook of a swaying tree. Nothing moved.

Except the voice.

It clung to the air like perfume, thick and knowing, taunting.

“I don’t walk alone,” Ephraim said, calm, deliberate, eyes narrowing as she turned in a slow circle.

Another pause—measured. The kind of silence that felt like it was smiling.

Her gaze snapped to the willow tree, eyes sharpening.

“Cowards speak from the dark,” she said louder, the tip of her sword now free, lowered—but ready. “But I’ve killed cowards before. And I don’t need light to do it.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The voice purred—low, deliberate, coiling through the cold like silk drawn over steel.

“Oh, so quick to bare your fangs. So quick to assume you see the whole game,” it murmured, each word stretched just enough to linger. “Is that how it went with that poor lad… Orlin?” A pause—amused, languid. “Mmm. So very swift, wasn’t it?”

The sound slid through the air—no clear direction, no form. Just presence. Everywhere and nowhere.

“Curious, truly…” the voice mused, richer now, like velvet laced with something darker. “Your white coat—once radiant, now stained. Drenched in shadow, wrapped in something far older than justice.”

Another slow breath—almost like satisfaction.

“You say cowards hide in darkness…” The chuckle that followed was smooth, deep, unbothered. “Then surely that makes your Mordecai a coward too, no? Or has your blade never once questioned the hand that guides it?”

Silence.

Then—lower, like silk slipping beneath skin:

“Tell me, Ephraim… when you cast judgment on Orlin—when the blood settled and the city cheered—did it feel like victory?” A beat. “Or did it feel like something else?”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s jaw tightened.

Not with fear—but fury.

Her sword rose, gleaming in the low light, the metal singing faintly as she brought it fully to bear. Her violet eyes burned now—not from anger alone, but clarity. Conviction.

She turned in place again, slow, methodical, back to the willow and the whispering dark. Her voice was cold, sharp as the edge in her grip.

“Mordecai is no coward,” she said. “He bears the weight of Wrath like iron on bone—and he never hides from its fire. He became it. Shaped it. And it shaped him in turn.”

Her breath curled in the chill as she stepped forward—carefully, eyes scanning the archways.

“And Orlin,” she continued, voice tightening with heat, “was no ‘poor lad.’ He played with poison. With coin. With children’s lives. He died by the law we uphold. One I uphold. And I do not mourn him.”

A beat.

“Your voice slinks like fog, cloaked in riddles and rot—but I have heard better lies from burning men.”

The air pulsed—like her words cut through it.

Then, Ephraim pointed the tip of her blade forward—not at a body, not at a shape. Just forward. A demand.

“You speak of stains, of shadows—yet you skulk like vermin.” Her voice dropped, dangerous now. “So reveal yourself, serpent."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Silence. Long, deliberate, heavy.

Then—a laugh. Low, smooth, drawn out like a bow across silk strings. Mocking. Unbothered.

“Oh… you silly little goat.” The voice purred, curling through the dark like smoke. Shifting. Never still. Never seen.

“Now that would ruin the fun, wouldn’t it? Mmm?” A hum followed—almost thoughtful, as if considering, then dismissing the notion entirely. “I’ll pass.”

The air grew colder—not from temperature, but tension.

A pause. Then—movement.

Not the voice this time. A sound. Small. Deliberate.

A glass rolled from the shadows—not from where the voice had drifted seconds ago. Cracked, its surface marred by a jagged chip. Wine still clung to its edges, half-spilled, trailing dark streaks across the stone as it came to a stop near her boots. The liquid glistened—red, but darker than blood, staining the cobblestones like ink.

The voice resumed, velvet-slick, winding around her like a noose.

“Oh, my dear.” A slow, deliberate tsk-tsk followed. Chiding. Pitying. Cruel.

“Ephraim… tell me…” It drawled, savoring each syllable.

A beat of silence.

“How was it? Hearing their last gasps—your parents—lungs drowning in black. That final breath. The wet gurgle in your mother’s throat. Her fingers reaching out, shaking. Blood in her teeth. Veins gone dark, poisoned beneath her skin…”

A pause. Close now. But never close enough to strike.

“…I hope they enjoyed my gift.”

Stillness.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim didn’t flinch.

Not at the sound. Not at the words.

But something in her shifted—subtle. Her spine lengthened. Her jaw set like stone kissed by fire. And her grip on the sword? Unyielding. The blade did not tremble. It listened.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Then—slowly, she knelt.

Not in surrender. Not in weakness. But to pick up the glass.

The chipped rim scraped softly against the cobblestone as she turned it in her hand. She didn’t look away. Didn’t blink. Only stared into the dark—into the rot that wrapped itself in silk and called itself clever.

“My mother died reaching for me. Not to be saved—but to protect me, even as she choked on cowardice.”

She stepped forward, toward the unseen, unbothered by the dark.

“My father begged me not to look as his veins blackened. He didn’t scream. He smiled. So I wouldn’t carry the sound.”

She tossed the glass. It shattered at her feet.

---

The glasswork ruins groaned faintly in the salt-thick wind, shattered panes catching the dusk light like broken promises. Vine-choked archways leaned into each other, their frames rusted by years of brine-soaked weather. The air here was cooler—colder than it should’ve been. Damp. Unwelcoming. But still... watched.

Icamat adjusted the scarf around his neck, the vibrant red cloth a stark contrast to the sullen palette of the orchard’s remains. His fur, a downy silvery-gray, twitched with the evening breeze as he crouched beside a cracked irrigation basin, tail flicking thoughtfully. His fingers were nimble, dusted with clay from the ruined cistern, stained from the ink of recent notes.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered aloud, voice warm and animated despite the eeriness. “So the roots rot faster here than anywhere else on the ridge. Fungus maybe? No—too uniform. Alchemical runoff? Maybe. But then why does the soil smell like old rusted coins?”

He made a face—crinkled nose, ears flicking back.

Icamat wasn’t just a field advisor. He was the glue. A connector. The kind of person who knew every worker’s name, whose day started with three hugs and ended with six more. If a tool was missing, he replaced it. If someone cried in the field, he stayed. Practical. Affectionate. Fiercely loyal to the idea that no one should ever be left out in the cold.

He pulled a folded journal from his vest pocket, lips pursed in thought. Scribbled something. Dotted the “i” with a little sunburst.

“Whatever this is, it’s not natural,” he said to himself. “And no one’s going back to work here until I figure it out. No rotting fruit’s worth losing a life over.”

He looked up then, squinting toward the fog-muddled tree line. Something shimmered faintly through the gloom. Not light. Not exactly. More like... reflection?

Icamat stood slowly, brushing dust from his coat. His tone changed—lighter, but firm.

“Hello?” he called, smiling reflexively, even though no one had answered yet. “If you're lost, I’ve got a map. And if you're not... well, it’s rude to sneak around.”

The orchard rustled.

Icamat’s tail stilled. His fingers curled around the journal—not as a weapon, but as a comfort. He wasn’t a fighter. But he was never afraid to stand between danger and someone else’s safety.

“I’ve got a kettle warming in the cart,” he added, voice gentle now. “If you’re hungry, I’ve got food too.”

Still no answer.

His smile didn’t waver.

Yet behind his bright eyes, the chill began to sink in.

Something was out there.

And it wasn’t hungry for soup.

---

He came with flame behind his eyes,
A god too loud to hear the lies.

He held a name that wasn’t mine,
And loved it once…
for quite some time.

He dreams in ash.
He breathes in screams.
He’ll burn the world
to chase old dreams.

But light can bend.
And masks don’t bleed.
I gave him hope—
not what he needs.

Icamat.
What a name… tastes like linen and lavender.
Like something wrapped too tightly, too politely.

You breathe like prey.
So careful.
So afraid I might be behind you…
I’m not.

I’m already inside you.

Shhh. Don’t speak.
Let me guess your voice.
Velvet? Or trembling glass?
Either way, it’ll break so beautifully.

They never tell the soft ones what happens when they look into the dark too long.
But you looked anyway, didn’t you?
Curious little fluff.

Do you like the sound of my voice, Icamat?
I think you do.
It’s okay.
Most do.

I can be anything you want.
Kind. Gentle.
Cruel. Slow.
I can be all the things you weren’t allowed to want.

No one’s watching now.
You can want.

You don’t have to run.
You don’t even have to move.
Just listen.
That’s all.

I’ll make it easy for you.
You’ll forget the cold.
You’ll forget your name.
You’ll forget how to say no.

Doesn’t that sound better?

Come now.
Don’t make me beg.
Not on our first night.

Good. You’re still here. Still listening.

That’s the first step, Icamat.
Listening.
Obedience always begins with curiosity.

You’ll tell yourself it’s just words.
That you’re only pretending to follow.
That you’re still in control.

But we both know better.

You’ve already started to forget what you were doing before I spoke.
What you were thinking.
Where you were.
Who you are.

You’re soft.
Not just in body. In spirit. In will.
A creature made to yield.

Oh, you try so hard, don’t you?
To matter. To resist. To be seen.
But they never saw you. Not really.
They saw the fluff. The smile.
They didn’t see this ache.

But I see it.
I see you.

And I know what you’re meant for.

You want to serve, don’t you?
Not out of duty.
Out of hunger.
A deep, trembling hunger to belong to something... someone.
To be unmade, reshaped, cherished in ruin.

You’ll be my sweet little echo.
No thoughts unless I give them to you.
No purpose except what I whisper in your ear.

You’ll blink and feel nothing but warmth.
You’ll speak and only my words will come.
You’ll smile and not know why.

Doesn’t that sound peaceful?

I’ll dress you in silence.
Wrap you in devotion.
Tame every frightened flutter in your chest
until even your heartbeat waits for my permission.

And when I say your name—
your new name,
the one I will carve into your soul—
you’ll feel it like praise. Like fire. Like truth.

You won’t remember what it felt like to say no.
You’ll thank me for that, one day.

No more fear.
No more questions.
Only purpose.

Mine.

Now breathe again, petal.
Slower this time.
Let the rest of you catch up to what your soul already knows.

You were always meant to be mine.

Say it.
In your heart, say it.

I belong to you.

Yes.
That’s it.
Again.
Let it grow.

Keep going… until it’s the only thing left.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The voice didn’t rush. It didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

It slithered through the cold like smoke—thin, slow, patient. A silk thread wound tight around a throat that didn’t yet know it was choking.

A low, drawn-out sound dripped from the dark, almost a purr—almost a growl.

“Ahhh... there it is,” the voice hummed, low as fog rolling beneath a door. “That tension in your shoulders. That pause. That doubt.” A breath, velvet-smooth, slid through the air like hands over silk. “You’re thinking now, aren’t you? Wondering...”

Silence.

Then a click of teeth, soft and sharp.

“You thought you had time. Thought the night air might bring you clarity. Peace.” The voice almost sneered on the word, thick with amusement. “But peace is for fools, Ephraim. For dreamers with dull blades. And you, little goat, walked right into it.”

It shifted—moved—no direction, no source. Just presence. Behind her. Beside her. Inside her.

“You left him behind,” the voice whispered, colder now. “Still standing—barely—amid the clamor. Surrounded by cheering brutes too drunk to see him falter. His breath shallow. Veins tightening beneath his fur.” The voice lingered, tasting the words. “He hasn’t called for you yet. But he will.”

A beat.

“And no one will hear him.”

A pause. Not silence—anticipation.

“And your little ones… your bright-eyed legacies.” The voice purred low, like velvet draped over a blade. “Oh, how they scream when shadows slip beneath the door. So easy to teach fear—so easy to leave a mark.”

A pause. The voice tasted satisfaction.

“They cry for you, Ephraim. But you aren’t there.”

“And Riversong... she begged.” Not for herself. “For you.” A slow inhale, rich with satisfaction. “She was the loudest.”

Silence returned—but not empty.

Waiting.

Then the voice whispered once more, soft and smug, like a blade pressed to the back of the neck.

“You left them behind, Ephraim. For a walk in the dark.”

A breath.

“I’ve always loved your timing.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The wind shifted.

Not in gusts, not in chill—but in tone.

Ephraim’s stance remained still, but the weight around her changed. Heavier. The night bowed in reverence. Her eyes no longer shone with mortal fury alone. Something else stirred now—older than grief, sharper than steel. Vengeance awakened.

The shadows that clung so smugly to the voice now found themselves watched.

Ephraim’s lips parted, her voice lower—resonant. Measured.

“You speak of fear,” she said, the words not trembling but carving, slow and precise. “Of screams in the dark. Of poison. Of pain. You speak of power—of timing.”

She stepped forward, and though the air coiled with threat, it retreated from her now.

“I have worn fear like a cloak. Spilled blood with shaking hands. Buried what was left of my own mother in silence because there were no screams. I know what it is to lose."

A pause.

“But I do not shudder at your stories.”

Her gaze, lifted to the dark, was not hers anymore. Not entirely. The violet deepened. Became something more.

“You came to rattle me."

She reached a hand toward the night—not to strike, not yet—but like someone reaching for a page about to be turned.

“You want a tale? I’ll give you one.”

---

The chandeliers of Velvraux dripped crystal and lowlight, casting jeweled reflections on every mirrored wall. Music drifted from the distant ballroom—brushed piano, lazy trumpet, the slow ache of jazz at midnight. But here, in the Pearl Room, it was quiet.

Thick carpets swallowed footsteps. Velvet seats bore the weight of nobility’s secrets. And beside the window, in a chair too grand for her small, stubby frame, sat Thalienne.

She was a goatkin of no noble lineage—her horns modest, her hooves chipped with wear. Her height barely reached the collarbone of those she dined with. Her face? Round. Her jaw square. No symmetry. No softness.

But her coat was always clean. Her jewels were real. Her silks layered with intention, thick and cream-colored and lined with gold threading. She dressed not to flatter her figure, but to declare it.

I exist. I will be seen.

Lucian never brought guests to this room. But tonight, she waited for him, curled in opulence like she belonged there more than any panther-blood heir ever had.

She held a glass of plum wine, fingers gloved in lace. A parasol leaned beside her chair, purely ornamental—ridiculous indoors. And perfect.

She was not beautiful. But she was unforgettable.

And Lucian, in the reflection of the glass, had once said:

"The court pities you for lacking grace. Fools. You’re not lacking. You’re hoarding it."

Thalienne was a quiet oddity in Velvraux—unwelcome in the higher courts, yet never removed. She offended nobles simply by existing in the same halls as them and refusing to shrink.

But what they whispered as delusion—her certainty, her stillness, her ability to forgive—was not madness. It was inheritance.

She was Mercy’s vessel, then. Not with divine fire or grandeur. But with choice. She spared people no one else would. Believed in things even Lucian had given up on.

She never killed. But she knew who could—and chose to stand beside one anyway.

Lucian loved her—not in a possessive, burning way, but in the quiet way a weapon might love the hand that never commands it to strike.

And somewhere in her, Mercy saw him. Saw the potential to be more than precision. More than a blade.

Thalienne didn’t speak immediately—not when Lucian arrived, nor when he took his place beside her. Silence was part of the ritual. Velvet seats. Shared stillness. The brushing of sleeves against brocade.

But eventually, after a sip of wine and a glance toward the window where the chandeliers outside reflected like floating ghosts, she stirred.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

Her horn caught a glint of gaslight. Her voice followed—low, warm, unsuited to her crooked teeth.

“I saw your brother today,” she said, almost dreamlike. “He was in the Mirror Court, speaking with the Chancellor. Didn’t blink once. Not even when the man called him ‘Your Majesty.’”

A pause.

She didn’t look at Lucian. That was her style. Let the words float. Let them settle.

“His coat was dreadful,” she added, tongue clicking. “Stiff at the shoulders. Like someone tried to dress a thunderstorm.”

Another sip.

Then, gently—too gently:

“Do you ever wonder if he remembers how to laugh?”