Part Two: Foam Born

~ Chapter 13: Tied Down ~

Like a soothed pup in cotton. It was a saying for a reason. Breeze and Erasmus watched as Abigail slept soundly in the makeshift crib, blankets rising and falling with each tiny breath. The inn's upstairs room was cosy, if a bit cramped; the single candle Erasmus lit more than enough to keep the small space awash with gentle light. The dusty floor had just enough space for Abigail to squeeze in between Breeze and Erasmus's roll mats, provided none of them moved much during the night. It wasn't luxury, but it was out of the cold, and the room had a lock.

“She's exhausted." Erasmus whispered, adjusting the blankets for the third time.

“Can't blame her." Breeze demurred, running a thumb over his bandaged palm. The puncture-wound beneath had leaked some in the last few hours, and a blotch of dull rusty brown featured in the centre, though Breeze figured it should be fine to change in the morning.

“Feels like years since we left Hieron." The otter said softly, turning away from his place over the pup, floorboards creaking underfoot. Breeze wanted to ask him 'do you regret leaving?', but couldn't find the stomach for it. Instead, he waited another moment, eyes lingering over the sleeping fox pup. He wanted to tell her he was sorry. He knew what it was like to be caught up in something before you were even old enough to choose for yourself.

Eleven. Breeze had been eleven when Slaugh and his company swept through Kurin, a small northwestern satellite village on the edge of what most would consider civilisation. They hadn't been an army back then, just a band of idealistic brigands with a little less raping than most. When Breeze's mother tried to protect him, she was run through the gut with a spear, and the young wolf was taken as Slaugh's new protégé. Why the old warthog chose him, Breeze was never told, receiving no explanation beyond 'I liked the look'a you, there were fight in that pup's eyes'. He'd grown, or been shaped, into the Witchborn - bloodiest name in the north, Slaugh's pet orphan-maker. He'd never had much of a choice, just like Abigail.

Least she'll grow into royalty one day. Not sure that's a great deal less bloody a career though. At least the northwest is honest.

“She'll be alright, Master Breeze. The others are downstairs; I suggest we join them for a nightcap." Erasmus said softly, laying a paw on Breeze's arm. He shrugged the otter off, marching out of the room and making for the stairs. He paused on the squeaking steps a spell, listening to Erasmus lock the door before descending to the inn's cheaply-furnished common room. It had been difficult to find a place willing to open its doors for a party of five, and with the recent influx of refugees fleeing Niverron, most inn keeps had decided it was safer to close their doors for the month – after all, refugees had no money, and they were getting desperate. It wasn't as bad as Breeze predicted, however. He and his little group had gone east, making for the Ferrin/Lyskirk border, which was currently sealed off to everyone thanks to the latter kingdom's trade blockade. It seemed most of the families displaced by the war had travelled further northeast, either seeking refuge closer to the Union capital, Hieron, or aiming further towards the border, hoping for a new life in the small towns that laid within Nystria and Ustric. The place the five had landed in eventually was a small wood and brick establishment called the Quiet Viper, and it had only opened its doors when they'd combined Madame Richeleau's name with Breeze and Erasmus's gold.

Breeze fell into a too-soft chair before the hearth, stretching his legs out and giving a nod to Fenton and Richeleau, who lounged in their own seats across from him.

They were the only ones in the whole building beside the owner and his barmaid, and it gave the inn an air of abandonment and eeriness that Breeze couldn't quite place. It was comfortable in the traditional sense, and with a few hopeful embers left smouldering in the fireplace, and cheap pewter oil lamps hanging in the corners of the room, it was doused in a sunset-orange sort of haze. The smell of must and mildew permeated everything, and Breeze felt his nose itching at the dust in the air. Fenton had a mug of flat ale resting near his foot, nearly drained, and a tired look to his eyes. Richeleau sucked on a pipe she'd “borrowed" from the owner, eyes darting around as smoke trailed from her nostrils. The others seemed happy enough to be out of the wild, but Breeze hated the room. He hated the shaggy rug and the cold floor beneath it, he hated the too-clean corners, and he hated that everything was either burgundy or green. The ale tasted like piss gone stale, and the food was nothing but bread and a thin excuse of a stew. An axe hung above the grey-brick fireplace, but even from across the room Breeze could see it was duller than rock, and likely always had been. He couldn't shake the fact he was stuck in a cage.

Erasmus walked past and took a seat on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and shivering slightly. “Chilly, away from the fire." He muttered, face searching for conversation. Nobody took him up on the offer. Fleeing the city, retrieving Marlough, avoiding both Astmoor patrols and the large swaths of refugees... it had all happened so quickly that none of them had been given the time to wonder why they still bothered to stick together. It was easier to act than think, and none of them quite knew what to do with themselves now things had settled, even if it was only a brief respite.

Simpler to ignore the problems. Breeze thought, remembering the moment he'd decided to abandon Slaugh. Hard to admit that you're well and truly fucking alone.

“You still ain't paid me!" Fenton blurted suddenly, his words ever-so-slightly slurred. He lurched forward in his seat, paws dangling between his splayed legs. “Where's th' resta me half then Breezy?"

The wolf huffed, ribs aching beneath the straps Erasmus had wrapped about his midsection. “In the cart. You can have it in the morning." He didn't like being stuck in place, and was getting eager to drop the two newcomers, but Richeleau had convinced them to stay put – at least for a few days.

If the vixen was telling the truth, she knew a few of Gorm's old contacts that might be able to smuggle them through the blockade and into Lyskirk – for a price.

“Sure this'll work?" Breeze asked Richeleau, proffering Gorm's liberated ring. The woman shrugged.

“It's certainly the best sort of hope you two have." She said. “I can point you in the right directions, perhaps open some doors, that ring'll get you a bit farther. Gorm had more debt than sense, others owing him as much as him owing others. I sometimes played the part of his liaison, the contacts know me; you take me and that ring with you, they'll take you seriously enough."

“Thank you." Erasmus said, his voice hoarse. The vixen smiled.

“The least I can do." She gave Breeze a quick glance, but looked away as he met her eyes.

“Why're you two so keen to get into Lyskirk anyhow?" Fenton asked, picking up his flat ale and swirling it in the mug, as if considering another swig. “I mean, you got an end in mind? Or yous just that hungry to get outta Ferrin?"

“Well, eventually, we're meant to reach--" Erasmus started, but Breeze cut him off.

“Anywhere foolish 'nough to take us." He said, nodding at Erasmus, who began to nod too. “I've not been in this Union too long so far, but I've seen more than enough. It's time to leave."

“There's meant to be no war in Alavakia." Erasmus said lamely. “Might go there."

“Not yet, aye." Fenton added, shaking his head.

“So, a simple change of scenery then?" Richeleau asked, cocking an eyebrow and leaning back in her seat. “Easier places you two might have chosen to get at. Not sure Lyskirk should be your first stop even if it weren't so... it's rife with plague y'know, that's why they got that bloody blockade up in place in the first place. I know the Union merchantry all thinks it's to take some further stab at greater independence, but they just wanna stop the hundred's fucking insanity from washing off into them." She paused, coughing out a short laugh. “Rather ironic, history considered." This time it was Breeze's turn to cock an eyebrow, and Erasmus sighed, his head lolling back.

“Lyskirk was once part of the Ferrin Union, you see." The otter began lazily, waving a paw in the air. “They split off about twenty or thirty years after the hundred began, back when the madness plague first started up. Everyone was sick at that time apparently, many thought it was the end of the world. Weirmothers called it a natural result from two decades of blood, made a kind of sense, all that death and fear swirled together. The armies didn't use soothers back then either, or least, no as they do now, so things were a lot harder. Lyskirk wanted to sue for peace – and Ferrin wanted more war. Lyskirk formed their own council, announced they were leaving, and the king just... let them go." He paused, drumming his fingers against the carpet. “At least, according to history."

“My da always reckoned the plan was to whip em back to heel, eventually." Fenton said, scratching at his chin. “But then the hundred ain't never ended, so there's been no chance."

“You southerners and your politics." Breeze huffed, closing his eyes and letting his head touch the back of his chair.

Is this what the Madlands are destined for, now they've a king of their own? He thought, the image of Slaugh burning Reicherben swimming to mind. Do the Union care?

“Say 'at again." Fenton agreed, finally swishing back the last dregs of his ale. He scowled at it, smacking his lips.

“So, who is the little one then?" Richeleau asked. Her questioning tone rubbed at Breeze wrong, stirring up an irritation that throbbed up from his chest and all through his jaw. He pushed his teeth together, sitting forward, unable to help his hackles rising a little. Richeleau watched him keenly, continuing. “The mystery has been eating at me. No offense, but while you two make a charming couple, I'd daresay you lack the proper equipment for creating a family."

“She's..." Erasmus began, but then thought better of it, snapping his mouth shut.

“Her mother was a whore." Breeze said gruffly, meeting Richeleau's stare head on. He held it until she looked away. “My mistake."

The vixen gasped theatrically, clutching her chest. “What? A man, actually taking responsibility for his bastard? Now I'm certain you're lying, come now Breeze, surely you can do better than that, you take me as a fool?" Breeze felt his tongue pushing against his fangs, one paw bundling into a fist. He was surprised to find himself wanting to protect the pup so strongly, anger flashing in his chest at the idea of this stranger prodding into her heritage.

She doesn't deserve this. It's not right.

He rolled his neck, fighting to maintain control, the taste bitter in his maw. “In the north, there're rules. Whether it's sticking the wrong man with your sword, or the wrong whore with your prick, we don't just pretend our mistakes never happened." He said, trying to somehow unwind the irritation bleeding through his voice.

You're a piss-poor liar Breeze Czeslaw. He glanced to Erasmus, and the otter nodded.

“You mean, when you don't kill them outright?" Richeleau teased, grinning.

“Watch your fuckin' mouth." Breeze found himself saying, paw drifting to one of the knives tucked at his belt.

What's your plan here, orphan-maker? You gonna kill this woman for asking a question, right after she saved your hide? In the back of his mind, he heard Mother san Nostrum condemning him all over again. Heard Slaugh congratulating him, a slap going on his back, paws still bloody with some poor sod's guts.

“I dare suspect we are all feeling a bit tense." Erasmus said gently, palms splayed at the two as if he were holding them both back, the otter seeming rather small sat on the floor like that. “It's been a trying few days. Maybe we--"

“How about you then?" Breeze snapped at Richeleau. “You're just willing to up and leave everythin' behind and hitch with us, like it were nothing?" He leaned forward, his buried suspicion and annoyance bubbling up rancid and dry in his mouth. “You built a life back there, you don't seem so cut-up at having to abandon it, no tears shed for what you had, huh? No better options for you but travellin' with three strangers, or is it you saw a glimmer of silver hiding between us? You said already you're an opportunist." Richeleau stood indignantly, chair legs scraping as the seat slid back.

“In case you didn't notice, my life was burned to the fucking ground you bastard!" She snapped, pointing at the floor. “If you forgot, that was right after an angry mob you lead there had smashed it near to fucking pieces! We're not all tall dark and brooding like you Breeze, some of us try to actually hide our grief. The nerve." She barked a short, sardonic laugh. “The fucking nerve of you. You lot come to me, a more mismatched trio than any in the damn world, carrying a pup matching none of your own species, and you have the pissing gall to get offended when I ask just what the hell it's about? Apologies, your northern lordship, if I want to know what exactly it is I'm getting myself into!"

“You're just waiting to fuck us over." Breeze hissed, standing as well. “She's not your business."

“She is if she gets me killed, you brick-headed mutt."

“I'd say the same of you, opportunistic slag."

Erasmus scrambled to his feet, head darting between the two. “Now, we've all been through quite a lot, so we should stop and allow calmer sense to pre--"

“Stop fucking soothing me!" Breeze and Richeleau barked in unison. The room fell into an oppressive silence, Fenton's eyes were peeled back wide, the Doberman for once staying silent. Breeze was panting, hackles up, fangs bared, tail held level behind him, suddenly furious but not certain why. Wasn't she being at least somewhat reasonable? He forced his fists to uncurl, trying to relax his body back into the seat.

“Don't worry yourself over Abigail." He growled, looking away.

How would Erasmus have handled that?

Richeleau righted her vest, sniffing. “Northerners aren't the only ones with a sense of obligation, you self-righteous prick. Even if you did put the idea of coming to my inn in that fat pig's head, you'd have saved me from Hando and his drunken goons nonetheless. And, it goes without saying I could never have gotten out of the city alone." She looked down, voice suddenly quiet. “You can imagine how whores are treated after a city is taken. I owe you both, I know that, there's no need to wave it in my nose. I don't have anywhere else to go; my entire life was in Niverron. I just wanted to know I can trust you."

“You can. She's a bastard, that's the truth." Breeze said. The vixen gave him a trying look, bit her lip, and dropped it.

“I think it's time I retire for the night. As Erasmus said, it's been... a trying few days." She added meekly, hurriedly pushing past the otter without another word.

“Think I'd best head off too." Fenton said awkwardly, standing with a groan. “Too much ale, I'm... not thinkin' right. See yous on the morrow." And he stumbled off, mumbling to himself.

Erasmus remained standing, paws clasped over his belly.

“They think we're such savages." Breeze muttered, staring at the floor.

“Beg pardon?" The otter asked suddenly, stepping closer.

Breeze caught himself. “I said we should split up as soon as we can. They're asking too many questions."

Erasmus looked hesitant. “They helped us. And we need the Madame to get us into Lyskirk. I think they'd stick around; we could use the help."

Breeze leaned forward, voice a harsh whisper. “And what? We take them all the way to Astmoor? How do you think that'll go down? They both just had their homes destroyed by the Emperor, how do you think they'll react when we say we're protecting his fucking bastard granddaughter? And, that we're taking her right to him? Think, boy." He fell back in his seat, guilt already rising.

“You're right. Of course, of course you're right." Erasmus mumbled. “But perhaps we could journey with them some of the way."

Breeze paused. The otter looked crestfallen, and his guilt only worsened. He fumbled with his words, trying to find something that would shift the subject away from his recent outburst. “What does it feel like, soothing people?" He blurted.

“Oh." Erasmus replied, taken aback. “It's..." He frowned, sitting back down on the rug and crossing his legs. Breeze waited while the otter collected his words, carefully studying his bandaged paw. It hurt, but not as much as he expected. He'd always been a fast healer.

“It's scary." Erasmus said eventually. “That is to say, at first anyhow. It starts when you're barely more than a boy, I was eleven. You've got your own feelings 'course, but then, suddenly you got others' too and you can't stop them. Everyone around you, their sadness, exhaustion, anger, it piles up and you don't know why. Negative emotions are stronger, easier to soothe. And then people are nice to you, because they feel better when you're around, then when they know what you are they're even nicer, because... they can use you." He swallowed, still looking down. “But they don't really like you, how can they? They don't even know you."

“I see." Breeze replied, thinking of Slaugh telling him how important he was, thinking how even at thirteen he hadn't quite believed it. He'd been so desperate to prove how useful he was, he'd cut his name across the Northwest, and when that didn't get him the satisfaction he felt he deserved, he'd stabbed Slaugh in the back and ran off with his Sandmen.

The otter continued. “I was raised in Lyskirk, just outside Gohdren, the capital. My father was a farmer, and when the plague got bad one season his land taxes went up. He started sleeping in my room, just on the floor, because it was easier. Then he stopped treating me like my brothers. I didn't notice at first, but it was as if he didn't even see me anymore." Erasmus rolled his head slowly. “The more I soothed him, the less I was his son, and the more he needed me to do it."

Breeze watched the otter intently. Each one of his words was gentle, carefully chosen, a tiny sliver of fear accompanying them. The wolf's eyes trailed over Erasmus's jaw, his ears, his soft mouth, and those crisp blue eyes. For a moment, it felt like Breeze could listen to him talk forever.

“I left when I was fourteen." Erasmus said. “I travelled west, to a monastery I'd heard about where other soothers lived, separated from the world. I stayed there a long time, away from everything; the war, the plague. We lived quietly, and I learned how to better filter emotion. When others are around, it's like being attacked, and sometimes the hardest part is telling which are your own feelings, and which belong to others – you can lose yourself in the wash. You know, in Alavakia they call us 'Foam Born', because of how our ability surrounds and swallows us. You can get better at ignoring the input, or learn to channel certain emotion, but you can never stop it completely. It's always there, whenever people near you are sad or angry, or going mad from plague, or frustrated or embarrassed, or aroused or in love or happy or miserable, it's there, leaking in, impossible to ignore." He stopped, looking up and blushing, realising he'd begun to babble. Breeze didn't mind. He'd begun to understand that Erasmus had his own walls; the otter wasn't quite the vulnerable open book Breeze had first thought him.

“It's magic, right?" He asked.

“A sort, I suppose." Erasmus nodded. “There used to be sorcerers who could perform it in reverse, they had some funny name, psychomancers or some such. They could funnel their own emotions into others, and even link different people's feelings together. They haven't existed for a long time though, now all we do is take away pain."

Breeze considered that for a moment. He'd never liked soothers, imagining them as some sort of emotional vampire, much preferring the deliberate study and intent that came with weirmagic. But he couldn't help but feel bad for the otter, it wasn't his fault he did what he did, he was just born that way. A life spent as someone else's tool was not much of a life at all, Breeze knew it better than most. He watched the younger man now, his shallow breaths, his round hazel-furred face, the thick tail curled along one slender leg. He wore a green tunic and stained grey trousers they bought a few days prior. The clothes were a bit loose, but it suited him in an odd way.

“Why'd you leave?" Breeze asked. “If this monastery was so good, why come back at all?" Erasmus looked up and smiled wanly.

“I met someone." He said plainly. “A soldier. He was a deserter fleeing the war, and missing an arm. He saw our monastery and came through, begging help. He was infected with the plague, but we let him in anyway. We took turns sitting with him, soothing his pain and madness as best we could – opening our doors to strangers in need wasn't unheard of. He was a... a kind man, a very gentle soul. He talked to me about the war, about what it was like. It sounded awful, and he explained how many of their soothers were struggling to keep up with the demand."

Breeze frowned. “And that convinced you?"

“That's it." Erasmus replied, a touch of sadness in his words. “I thought I could help. When Vernon died, I went to Hieron and told them I was a soother, trained and willing. I was to be sent off to the coast, which at the time was rife with skirmishes of one sort or another, but then... Inquisitor Morgan happened. He happened upon me, said he wanted to end the war, and asked if I'd rather die cold by the sea, or actually do something with my life worth a damn."

“Huh. I see." Breeze said. He fell back in his seat, closing his eyes and exhaling gently. He could feel some of his tiredness being soothed, but he didn't bother telling Erasmus to quit it. “So this Vernon, you two were close?"

He didn't have to look to know the otter blushed, he heard it in his voice. “One could say that."

“And he was a deserter, eh?" He opened his eyes, and Erasmus nodded slowly. Breeze suddenly found pieces in his mind slotting into place, namely the otter's instant dislike of Fenton. Fenton was annoying, but more than that, he had fled Niverron before the fighting even started. By the sounds of it, Vernon had fought, and only left after he'd lost an arm.

“Can I ask you something now Breeze?" The wolf winced, knowing what it would be. Nonetheless, he shrugged an agreement. “Why do you hate soothers?"

“I don't hate..." He stopped, for there was no point lying. Erasmus had been honest with him; it was only fair he do the same. “We don't have many soothers in the northwest, weirmothers fill that gap. Weirmagic is an art, or science, it can be studied and learned. Weirmothers ease, or even cure the madness plague, and help with all other kinds of ailments, but it's purely physical magic; knitting bones, repairing scars, removing sickness. They use runes and blood magic and all that, but still. Soothing is... it's difficult to explain, but it's different."

“Try."

Breeze sighed, massaging the bridge of his snout. “In the south, it seems everyone wants to forget what's happening outside their walls. I mean take Niverron, there's a city under a bleeding siege, having a fucking festival? Even if Nurjan hadn't attacked when he did, they were likely to burn through half their food in a month, even with those weird, inner-city farms'a theirs. That's the kinda thinkin' soothers get you, it takes away your pain, and makes you forget why you shouldn't do what you went and fucking did. Weirmagic, the cure is almost as bad as the cause." He paused, letting out a shaky breath. Why was this so bloody difficult? He wasn't used to sharing his inner thoughts - he kept quiet, himself to himself. But Erasmus had asked, and he owed the younger man. More than that, he found, surprising himself; Breeze trusted him. “And look at them! They've been at war for a hundred pissing years! My pain, either from what I've done, or what's been done to me... I own that as much as any happiness. One way or another, I earned it. I am my thoughts, actions, and emotions, without it I'm just... a wolf with a sword. Pain is a lesson, it's mine, it belongs to me." He stopped himself, feeling dangerously close to overflowing. “That's it."

“I see." Erasmus said. “That... makes a sort of sense, I suppose."

Breeze stood up slowly, knees popping. “There's no point regretting the past, but you can't forget it. As much as I wished the Witchborn to be somebody else, he isn't. That's me, it's who I am." He stopped himself again. Just saying the name sent a cold finger running down his spine. It was funny how opening up a little, made it so much more difficult not to open up a lot.

Tell him the truth now. A quiet voice said. You killed everyone in the Madlands worth killing, bloodiest name in a century. But even that weren't enough, even that couldn't satiate you.

“And what about putting it behind you?" Erasmus asked, accepting Breeze's offered paw and letting himself be pulled to his feet. “That is... how can you move on to be better, if you're stuck feeling those same old emotions over and over?"

They stood there, front to front, unusually close. Breeze could smell the rustic scent of the otter, and he looked away. “Maybe you can't. Maybe we are who we are." He said.

“I don't believe that."

“That's why you're the optimistic one."

Erasmus smiled, stepping back. “I try." Breeze snorted at that.

They left the embers in the hearth to smoulder, heading back up the groaning stairs and unlocking the attic door. Abigail was still sleeping soundly, and Breeze felt an odd tightness surge in his chest when he saw her. He might not care about the war, or the politics, but damn he cared about that pup.

I won't let them hurt you. He thought grimly. I promise, I'll protect you. He glanced to Erasmus, who was pulling the small bundling of rope and fabric from his pack. You too.

Deep in his mind, another voice, devoid of any warmth or caring, whispered to him. Its words curled like smoke, drifting forward despite his efforts to ignore them. An old voice, one that he last heard when he killed those seven men back in Niverron, the one that urged for more, the one that was disappointed that there were only seven.

At least until you get to Istren.

“I hope this doesn't last much longer." Erasmus said, proffering his bundle of rope. Breeze took it unceremoniously, and wrapped the cord securely around the otter's wrists. He was sure not to make it so tight it would chafe, but he made sure it was secure enough that Erasmus couldn't wriggle free.

“Sorry." He offered lamely, unable to stop the guilt as he tied the cloth around Erasmus's mouth. The chaos and panic back in Niverron had affected the soother more than they first thought. During the day Erasmus was fine, but each night when he slept, he would thrash and scream like a man possessed. Mostly it was wordless frenzied nonsense, sprinkled with the occasional plead to Breeze, or even Inquisitor Morgan. They promised the innkeeper that they wouldn't make trouble, and Breeze's solution was to bind and gag the younger man before they went to sleep.

“Good?" Breeze asked, cocking an eyebrow. Erasmus nodded, slowly getting to his knees and flopping down on the roll mat. “Well, just kick me if you wake up an' need a piss." The otter grunted an agreement and rolled over, looking incredibly uncomfortable as he tried to settle into sleep. Breeze laid down on his own mat, facing the otter with Abigail's “crib" dividing them, and for a moment he felt a strange urge to pull Erasmus close, to hold that furry hazel and cream body flush with his own, to protect it. He'd run his big paws through Erasmus's belly fur, inhale his scent straight from his neck, breathe him in.

Stifling that, he put his back to the otter and squeezed his eyes shut.

Breeze didn't wake screaming and yelling, but that didn't mean his dreams were pleasant. Every quiet moment, the wolf felt the thoughts of the Witchborn creeping in, as if it were another person. He felt the thrill and excitement of killing those seven men in Niverron tighten in his gut, the frustration that came when they died too easily. He remembered loving how powerful men had cowed before him back with Slaugh, remembered the things he'd done, the towns he'd burned for the sake of burning.

He wanted to protect Erasmus and Abigail. He felt a pull to the two he'd never had before, a feeling so foreign it made him want to scream and cry and hit things until they bled. Every night he wanted to slip beneath Erasmus's blanket and take the otter's paw in his own, to squeeze it tight and never let go. No matter how hard he tried to forget, he wanted them to be intertwined, wrapped naked around one another. But Breeze had never been with anyone for a reason beyond fucking. He didn't know how, and even if he did, he was sure it wouldn't last. All this was assuming Erasmus would even take him – the otter could be a right fool, but he wasn't a complete moron, he saw through Breeze's quiet demeanour, there was no doubt. After they delivered Abigail to the Emperor's cabal, it would be done, Ras would go back to being a paw of the Inquisition, and Breeze would go back to being a savage northerner.

It was as Slaugh said, years ago; everyone wished for a better life, wished to be someone they weren't. Breeze didn't have that problem.

He knew exactly who he was.

~ X ~

Miverwak hurried to keep up with Nurjan, trying to breathe through his mouth, if only to spare himself the inescapable stench of sulphur and death the filled the Niverron ruins. Just a step ahead the Cleric-General strode majestically through the rubble, no indication given that he even noticed the smell. Niverron had fallen a few days prior. The day they launched the catapults had been a failure, the Astmoor forces successfully repelled, much to everyone's surprise. But the Cleric-General hadn't been discouraged, if anything he'd been spurred on. He ordered they redouble efforts on the tunnelling, and brought down the western wall with that terrifying explosive powder just a week later.

“Captured westerners should be treated with mercy. Barring the young boys, and royalty." Nurjan said seriously over one shoulder. “The royalty must die, like common beggars, like petty thieves."

“Y-young boys?" Miverwak asked, brow pulling in.

“Fallen cities are filled with tragedy." Nurjan said as they turned a corner, eyes carefully scanning over his own men. “And of all tales, tragedies are the most cathartic, the easiest to follow. Rape, pillage, violence. Soldiers take a lot of stress during a siege, many commanders think it only fair they blow it off after. I wholeheartedly disagree, we have soothers for that, after all."

Miverwak nodded, a swell of pride swimming through him. “Of course! It's the righteous way!" He replied eagerly. He still couldn't believe Nurjan had chosen him personally to be a clerk. The thought occurred to him two dozen times a day; he picked me! The giant black wolf was so sagely and wise, and despite being so young for a position like his he never spoke out of turn, never said a thing that didn't need to be said.

“So..." Nurjan said leadingly. When Miverwak remained quiet he sighed. “Draft flyers are to be written up, memos, what-have-you. Get them to COs quick as you can manage, Miverwak. Whores and holy men are to be left untouched. Fathers and mothers to be spared, nothing is to be stolen – in fact, any man that commits such a crime shall answer to me personally. Royalty dies by hanging. Mercy, but with a closed fist waiting behind the open paw. Understood?" And Miverwak nodded. He understood every point but one.

“But the young boys, my Lord?"

“Oh, yes." Nurjan stopped dead in his tracks, naturally drawing attention in his white armour, the perfect contrast. The pauldrons and breastplate had enough gleam that he seemed majestic and otherworldly, but carried enough dirt he wasn't thought to reside in some ivory tower. People smiled when they saw him, and saluted when he saw them. “It goes without saying the Union's commissioned officers are to be hung. And then, any man, regardless of profession, between the ages of seven and twenty should join them."

Miverwak blanched. He was in that range. “W-why, your eminence?"

Nurjan frowned down at him, and for a moment Miverwak feared for himself. Had he overstepped? What did he know of war and sieges? The feeling was quickly replaced with warmth however, as the wolf broke into a grin. “Those are the revenge ages!" He said, and Miverwak nodded slowly.

Of course, of course. Men at that point grow up, get bigger and stronger, but they still carry those old wounds. Older folks have more sense, families to think on. It's smart, wise. He bit his lip. Tactical.

“Where are we going, sir?" He asked, realising they had started walking again, and were just now passing into a tall steeped building.

“Do you understand the nature of soothing magic, Miverwak?" Nurjan asked, slowly climbing the steps into what the young husky now realised was a Union temple to the Triumvirate.

“Uh, magic that... takes away bad feelings?" He tried lamely.

“Partly." Nurjan replied. “We use them, because they're useful. Tools, for the most part. Before the relic age, eons ago, there was only infinity." He paused, and Miverwak nodded. He knew this, he'd studied clerical doctrine as much as any other young Astmoor boy.

“One unit. One whole." He replied dutifully.

“Yes." Nurjan stopped just beyond the threshold of the temple. Miverwak's jaw fell, as he realised that six men in robes – three foxes, two wolves, and one goat – had been pushed to their knees just ahead. They faced Nurjan, heads bowed, Astmoor troops in pitch black armour waiting behind them, weapons drawn. “As we understand, the holy Triumvirate, representing the three dominating predator races and not just vulpines... split infinity in two. They divided by zero, one side is the world we have now, and the other is... well we don't know."

“Yes." Miverwak said, if only to say something. His eyes hadn't left the six men. I thought holy men were to be spared?

“One thing we know, is that animals exist both here and the other side. Our souls reside there, with everything that makes up our essence." Miverwak hadn't heard this part before, and he tore his gaze back to the tall wolf. “Soothers touch both sides, a link between infinity, while the rest of us are sealed here. And we trust them." He looked to the robed men. “Soothing is the backbone of the Ferrin Union, but they rely on it, indulge in it, and so it has become their weakness. But these links between sides of the world, these mages, whilst useful tools, are still rooted here. They are still flesh and bone."

Nurjan stepped forward then, paws clasped behind his back. Miverwak clenched his teeth, he felt excited, tense, as if he were waiting for something. A fire was in his belly, and he longed for whatever Nurjan was about to do.

“Haven't you witnessed it?" Nurjan asked softly, glancing back briefly. “Haven't you witnessed that blood and flesh can't be trusted? We let soothers perform their magic, but to what end? What do they get out of it, but misery?"

“You're insane!" One of the foxes cried. “What are you doing? Don't you know of the pacts?! Soothers are to be spared, you Astmoor filth!" And he spat on the ground. Nurjan raised a paw, made it into a fist, and it was as if all the joy in the room was sucked straight out. Miverwak felt cold fear injected right back in its place, his body shaking, feet rooted to the tiles.

“Perhaps I was, once. But I've found a temporary sanity in the haze of war, found my place." Nurjan said rhythmically, stepping closer to the six men, his eyes locked on the fox that cried out. “I've come full circle, while you all remain in place."

“We're just soothers!" One of the wolves sobbed. “We're just... just an advising council! Nothing more! I've never even held a sword! We'll serve you! We'll soothe your men!"

“Just soothers. You are the six heads of this city, the exceptions to my mercy." Nurjan said, tail curling behind him. “The Union raises you on some pedestal, but you're only men. Just blood, just flesh."

“Why are you doing this? Please!" The goat whimpered, as another wave of fear washed across the room. Miverwak looked around, his teeth chattering, sure it had grown darker.

“I am this kingdom's long-awaited salvation." Nurjan replied icily, leaning closer, his voice flat. “From you."

Miverwak gasped as the Cleric-General made a short chopping gesture, a chorus of screams echoing out as the soldiers around them ran their swords straight through the soothing council.