~ Chapter 09: Tradition & Triumph ~

Roland filed into the Lord's Junction with the other nobles, fighting – as always - the urge to scoff at the gaudy unlit sconces and over-designed doorframes. It was early, and stark morning light illuminated the bustling crowd of self-important aristocrats via giant floor-to-ceiling windows that ran along each wall. It was the kind of room that only had the visible parts dusted, the ledges and innards of the intricate woodwork left untouched. It was so densely packed with nobles and merchants Roland was sure the scent of cheap perfume would be burned into his memory for days, the cat scarcely able to hear himself think over the oceanic crush of nasally voices struggling to talk over one another. The Lord's Junction hosted the city's open assembly, and was available for all members of the Ferrin aristocracy to attend, though Triumvirate knew few often bothered.

Something happened. Roland thought, motioning for Salem to keep up, the two men all but shoving through the unfiltered throng of churlish nobility as they waded deeper into the hall.

“I see everyone wanted to make a show of being present." Salem exclaimed, shaking his head. “What in the world has gotten under their hides?"

“You didn't hear, my Lord?" A nearby ram called out, presently occupied in the fight to get a seat in an unreserved row. “The King is to be in attendance today!"

“My Lord." Roland scoffed, shaking his head. Salem came from a decent family, and he was Roland's foremost clerk and personal assistant, but he was certainly no lord. Already, the cat felt a headache building behind his eyes.

Doesn't anything mean anything anymore?

“Oh, my apologies Lord Estoc! I d-didn't see you!" The ram bleated, abandoning his seat to try and keep up in the shuffle with Roland and Salem. “Why, I say this must be Master Salem D'Lange then, of Ustric? How do you like our fair Union city, my good fox?"

“Now is really not the time for chit-chat." Roland snapped at the ram. “Please take your seat, sir." And he grasped Salem's arm, tugging the fox into the reserved seating section at the forefront of the hall. The constant din of bickering blue-bloods was almost unbearable, grating on Roland like a bad fever. He knew none of them had anything worth hearing nor saying, nothing to contribute but money and complaints, yet they had to feel included every now and then, even if it was only for show.

Like letting a pup cut the carrots for dinner. At least the carrots actually need cutting.

“So, I'm to become famous by association? I daresay my internment with you has been quite fruitful thus far, Lord Estoc." Salem teased, leaning to whisper in Roland's ear. “They do know I've been in the Union a good eight years now, right?"

“They don't care." Roland hissed, pushing the young fox into his seat and taking the one next door. “He's just some nameless lobcock without any high friends, hoping to ingratiate himself and take your place when I eventually tire of you."

“Eventually?"

“Didn't I say now isn't the time? I hate repeating myself."

“Glad I'm so vital to your successes then." The fox pouted, his tone mostly in jest, but with a brief sliver of genuine hurt. Salem covered embarrassment poorly, and Roland thought once again how quickly the boy would be eaten alive in court, if there wasn't someone like himself to guide him.

“Just be quiet, and try to pay attention this time." Roland said, pulling at his stiff collar and smoothing down his lapels. The Assembly was finally beginning to settle, each man filing into his pew like well-behaved cattle. Roland glanced back the way they'd come; surprised to see that it was so busy many were left standing in aisles. It had taken him years to get a reserved seat up close, and not an inch of him missed the brief political melee that was seat selection on an important assembly day.

Making a room intended for sizeable gatherings this large and curved had been a grievous mistake, of that Roland was certain. He closed his eyes, cursing the lineage of whoever had been empty-headed enough to think that a peaked wooden roof with no definition would be just the thing to tie the Lord's Junction together. What better idea was there, than to amplify the noise of a crowd, making it damn near impossible to properly hear anything without strain?

I suppose it's appropriate. He thought, watching the esteemed members of the War Council filter in to their polished steel seats at the front of the room. Ferrin Nobility does so love to hear the sound of its own voice, at least this way they feel loud and important.

Arch Brigadier Audric was first on the council, an astute fox with the build of a wolf, sneering at the rabble as usual. He seemed a good enough sort, but put any decent man in near-total command of a hundred-year war and he'd probably end up a spiteful husk eventually. Roland had been at odds-by-proxy with Audric ever since the giant fox had decided to send a brand new company marching down to Niverron, seemingly at random.

Least we put clothes on their back. He thought, sighing.

The next-most important figure of the council was third in line, and the closest thing Roland had to a nemesis, barring Claude Morgan. It was Magister Baine, a stalwart grey fox a year shy of his sixth decade, moving with the grace and poise of a spry thirty-year-old. He'd been a popular Viscount once, but after serving “admirably" in the hundred, he was returned to Hieron a grand hero. The King (or rather, his War Council) had subsequently appointed Baine as 'Magister of Auspice', a bizarre and newly invented title that seemed to mean nothing specific, so far as Roland could tell. Baine was responsible for the barbaric King's Trust, an old regiment of city guards that roamed the countryside, butchering peasants who had committed no crime but getting sick with the plague.

We bring them war, disease, famine. Then we punish them for getting sick, with an illness of our own making – it's a wonder they haven't revolted. He supposed they would eventually, at least if Baine ever stopped murdering them. Perhaps the true intention behind the Trust is to keep the discontent masses well underfoot.

“He's glaring at you." Salem muttered, jutting his chin towards the Magister. He was. Roland licked his lips and met Baine's firm expression head-on.

“No wonder, I dare say we caused him quite the embarrassment, arming that fool's company he made with Audric." He explained, giving a cursory wave to the councilmen. “Everyone is talking about what a ridiculous notion it was, and the fact we had to fight so hard just to get them basic supplies shows as much. We did that."

“Ah." Salem mused. “So we made an enemy?" Roland shrugged.

His first and ultimate goal in court was to end the hundred. Roland had been fighting against this damned war for nearly a decade now, always trying to ease the violence and insanity where he could, losing most of the long game but winning a few inconsequential battles here and there. Since being appointed as the so-called 'Magister of Auspice', it seemed Baine had done nothing but spur it on, almost deliberate in his attempts to undo Roland's work. He was prone to giving grand speeches of freedom and honour, happily committing himself to another fifty years of war, if it meant the terrible, unshakeable Emperor Kinborough in chains.

For King and Country, all that. Roland thought sardonically. And if the Council gets to stroke their egos and get rich off it, so what? After all, it's only commoners who are dying these days.

A few other important so-and-sos took their seat, eight members of the War Council all in all. Few intersected with Roland's goals, excepting Baine, Audric, and finally Claude Morgan's master; the High Chaplain of the Inquisition, Preston Wrast.

Behind the War Council stood a large mahogany dais reinforced with silver – the King's seat, heavy with the dust of a long-time vacancy. It remained as empty as always now, for while the Junction seemed filled to burst, the Union's fearless leader had yet to make his appearance.

“Such a treat for a lowly man of the Court like myself," Salem whispered, leaning close and pressing a paw to Roland's thigh. “To see the king himself? Such regality, such strength and wisdom bound into one man... why it's a marvel any mortal body can contain such multitudes of--"

“Be quiet, or you'll sit outside." Roland hissed, prying Salem's paw from his leg just as it slid closer toward his crotch. “I heard something from the Second Inquisitor a few weeks ago, about Pahran. We could see that come up today."

Roland shifted nervously, just thinking of the small vassal state filled him with dread. If the Ferrin Union was stupid enough to actually attack the island and invoke Alavakia's wrath... well, at least the hundred would be over, because they'd all be dead.

“What, you believe anything from that prick Marsh?" Salem turned his nose up. “Too good for the common man!" He chuckled. “I'd scarcely pay him any mind, my Lord."

“Well we don't have a choice in the matter, enough jokes. Keep your ears on Baine, and listen for any talk of taking Pahran--"

The echoic boom of an iron staff slammed on wooden floorboards drowned out the last few of Roland's words. A seemingly ancient oryx in a flowing maroon gown stood between the War Council and the rest of the nobility, a number of bells and ornate gold rings dangling from his horns. The hushed discussion of the assembly cut off abruptly, all eyes watching the speaker.

“This morning session of the open assembly is called to term!" He decried, voice high pitched and wavering, as if tiny cracks were spiking through every syllable. “By the rightful command of the Vulpine Triumvirate, all rise for the honourable High King of the Ferrin Union – His August Majesty Mordecai Niven!"

The petulant masses climbed awkwardly to their feet, as behind the War Council a pear-shaped orange and white fox came stumbling out from a back room. Two wiry greyhounds attended to him, his favourite soothers, by all accounts always within arm's reach. The King waddled up the steps to his seat, flopping down in the hard piece of furniture like an egg on a hotplate. He licked his lips, panting as he raised a paw for all to sit.

“I'm awestruck, truly." Salem whispered dryly. Roland licked the back of his grinding teeth, headache ramping up into a whole new level of agony. The room was stifling, naught but hot and stale overly-perfumed air to suck through his flaring nostrils. His hackles rose with every shift and shuffle, every scuff of a boot on the floorboards scraping on his ears.

Cats were not meant to work in crowds. He thought, tugging at his snow-white neck fur. I believe it more every day that we are meant to be solitary creatures, no wonder Claude hates this circus act.

“What's... what's all this about then?" The king muttered, glancing around as if waking from a dream. One of his pet soothers passed him a large, disgustingly ostentatious goblet from which he slurped noisily, wiping an already-filthy napkin at his stained lips. His daughter, the Lady Orianna Niven, cringed slightly at his side, doing a bang-up job of masking her embarrassment.

An inspiration to every free man in the world. Roland sighed.

“Your Majesty!" Magister Baine exclaimed, standing in his seat.

“The assembly recognises the Magister of Auspice, Marricus san Baine!" The speaker exclaimed.

“Thank you, Speaker Polten." Baine added gracefully, nothing but sincerity in his soft bow. He gestured to the king, then to the crowd. “There is no decent way to give indecent news, but a matter of grave importance has come to my attention just yesterday eve. There's no point delaying the news; the city of Niverron is under siege!"

“Shit." Roland growled, as a roar of outrage rippled through the assembly. The king started in surprise at the outcry, pawing nervously for one of his soothers. The speaker banged his staff, but it took him a good six or seven slams to get the nobility back under control.

“Wait, wait. What does this mean for us?" Salem whispered to Roland. “I'm confused."

“Means we look right fools. Means we're fucked."

Arch Brigadier Audric took that moment to stand, gesturing first to Baine, and then the rest of the assembly. “There are many who called my recent decision to reinforce the city foolhardy and rash!"

“The assembly recognises Arch Brigadier Belmon san Audric!" The oryx cried, with no regard to the large fox's speech.

“Yes, thank you speaker." Audric said tightly. “Well… even now, my new company is working to alleviate our old capital's bereavement! The walls are strong, and our men inside are of the utmost calibre!"

“What are we to do!?" King Niven exclaimed, his meaty paw stroking his greyhound attendant like the boy were a pet. “A siege? In the Union?"

“Your Majesty," Baine said slowly, turning. “With Lyskirk still refusing to lift their blockade, our stocks and treasuries are suffering, and we cannot hire mercenary forces. I propose that we go to the Guilds for a loan!"

News of the siege at Niverron had been an upset, but the idea of more debt was simply too much for the assembly to handle. Roland winced as the room simply exploded, men in the back screaming and roaring, the King taking hold of both his attendants, Lady Orianna covering her eyes.

“Preposterous!" One man cried.

“Idiotic!" Another bellowed.

“More debt?! MORE?!" Roared someone a few seats down from Roland himself.

“Order! Order!" The speaker exclaimed meekly, banging his staff for the dozenth time.

Salem poked at Roland's arm. “Look!" He said, pointing to the High Chaplain. Roland squinted, unable to believe his eyes.

“Is that… Claude?" He muttered, blinking. There were very few snow leopards in Hieron, and only one in the Royal Inquisition, yet it was a shock nonetheless. Roland knew for a fact that Claude detested the Lord's Junction with a white-hot passion, and did everything he could to avoid attendance. Roland watched the Inquisitor whispered something to his master, before scurrying away before the commotion had even died.

I don't what you're about Morgan, but it probably spells disaster for me.

Eventually the shouting was pulled to heel, and the High Chaplain stood, nodding to both Baine and Audric as they took their seats. Anxiety built in Roland's stomach as he waited, itching for it both to be over quickly, and to drag on as long as possible, at least time enough for him to think of some counter attack. He could feel his influence slipping away already, there was no telling what people would say now. He'd – very publically - called Audric's company foolish and political, he'd made a show of slaving over the arming of them, all the while putting down the idea that Niverron even needed reinforcing. There was no doubt in Roland's mind that the moment he could, Baine would seize the opportunity to destroy him. He wondered if the Inquisition was in on it too, hoping to make a new alliance.

You're an idiot, Lord Estoc, and they've got you dead to rights.

“Who, who is that?" The king said loudly.

“The assembly recognises the Arch Chaplain of the Inquisition, Preston Wrast!" The old speaker exclaimed, the bells on his horns jingling as he glanced from left to right.

“Ah, good, good!" King Mordecai exclaimed. “My old friend!"

“MONEY!" Wrast cried, a dramatic fist quivering before his breast. “Money is the root of all troubles! Why, if we had all the gold in the world we'd have won this war a good three decades ago!"

“Triumvirate's breath." Roland groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. Astmoor just had to take Niverron now, didn't it? If the siege had waited but only another month, Roland could have been in the clear.

I swear the fucking Emperor is out to get me personally.

“Now, as the Magister of Auspice has suggested, we could sink further into debt with the Guilds and banks. We could also further levy the nobility, and - as I have personally suggested – drop our soldiers to quarter pay. Traditionally, these have been the Union's tools of victory." The High Chaplain paused, letting his words sink in. A ripple of disquiet went through the room at the suggestion of further levying nobles.

“Haven't we given enough!?" Someone cried.

“What do you propose we do?!" A man two rows behind Roland shouted, jumping to his feet. “All this talk of tradition and triumph, paltry options of what we could do but won't, spat in the face of tragedy, and yet not one decent suggestion!"

“Oh, you misunderstand me, good sir!" Wrast called back. “These are my suggestions; I am saying we should do all three!" A ripple of discontent fluttered through the hall, and Roland sighed.

“Now, High Chaplain, with respect--" Magister Baine started, but Wrast cut him off.

“I am not looking to point fingers Magister, but mistakes have been made." The Chaplain exclaimed. Roland's stomach sank into a hole.

Here it comes, the crucifixion. Niverron will fall, and who was it that called reinforcing it a 'blind fucking mistake from a petulant pup, trying to look important'? Oh, that's right, Earl Roland san Estoc, why, he's right over there! His mind raced, trying to think of some way he could writhe his way free of blame. Something horrible had happened and, as always, the rich needed someone to point a finger at.

“Our armies need steel, men, and supplies." Wrast went on. Roland glanced around, wondering if he could somehow leave before the guillotine fell. “It's very well and good to make a show of moving men about, but without the foresight of such figures like the brave Lord Roland san Estoc, there's precious little that new company would be capable of doing!"

Roland blanched as all eyes turned to him, the High Chaplain grinning victoriously. Brigadier Audric glowered at Baine, clearly furious the old fox had helped open him up for such a public lashing.

Guess we know whose idea the reinforcement was then. Roland couldn't help but think. I wonder, are you the one really pulling all the strings, Baine?

“The War Council's gratitude to Lord Estoc." Audric grunted, shaking his head as the king flopped out some limp-wristed claps.

Roland frowned, still wondering if this was merely some elaborate setup, designed only to make him suffer more. How had he come out on top here?

And what did Claude Morgan have to do with it?

“Are we heroes now?" Salem muttered, still blinking back surprise.

“No, I don't think this is much better, truth be told." Roland replied quietly, watching Wrast.

And just like that, I am thrown into debt. Well played.

“Of course." Wrast added. “Before we move on, I'd like to propose a fourth option that lay before us. Bastion." A murmur of confusion went across the assembly, as each man decided to give his opinion on the prison labour camps to the north.

Baine stood, trying to regain his momentum. “I know crime and panic is a concern in trying times, High Chaplain, but your mines are practically overflowing already, and you would demand more men? Pardon, but I fail to see how Bastion is relevant to this discussion."

“You continue to leap bounds ahead of me, Magister. Mind that you don't fall off a cliff." Wrast replied dryly, earning a muted laugh from the crowd. “I have been in talks with Lord Estoc for some time now, and our suggestion is that we levy men from the mines themselves. A chance, if you will, to have carefully selected men earn their freedom back, fighting for the King's Sword!"

That brought trouble, and the speaker again had to bang his staff.

Oh, we talked, did we? How silly of me to forget. Roland thought snidely, feeling his migraine echoing through his jaw. He didn't like being used, but what choice was there after such a favour? Thinking on it, Roland was sure that he and Chaplain Wrast had in fact never exchanged anything more intimate than pleasantries at a dinner party. Imagine my surprise, to find that we've been in cahoots for weeks now? Bleeding pity I agreed to this alliance before I got a chance to hear the terms, but oh well, just one of those things.

“You've been meeting with the High Chaplain of the Inquisition? Why didn't you tell me?" Salem whispered, brows furrowed. Roland shrugged.

“Must have slipped my mind." He muttered.

“Those men lost their chance!" One voice shouted up at Wrast.

“Criminals!"

“Scum! Traitors, the lot!"

Other men added to the protest. “An inspired choice!"

“Triumvirate honours redemption in blood and steel!"

“Good show, good show!"

Arch Brigadier Audric stood then, holding his chest as if stifling heartburn. “This matter requires some... consideration, my Lords." He glanced at Roland, nose twitching. “It will take more than Lord Estoc's assent to convince me I should allow convicts in my army, no matter how much foresight he may seem to possess."

If we weren't enemies before, Audric, we certainly are now. Triumvirate removes the noose and gives you the axe.

“No consideration!" King Niven bellowed suddenly, shocking everyone around him. He kept one paw scratching at his soother's neck, the other waving his spilling goblet drunkenly. “We must not allow Niverron to fall! My home, our old capital! Arch Brigadier Alston!"

“Audric." One of the soothers mouthed.

“Arch Brigadier Audric!" The king growled. “You will accept whatever it takes to liberate the city! I won't, I won't stand to see my birthplace in the clutches of those filthy wolves for even a single day!" A silence descended over the room, each man shocked that the king had actually weighed in on a matter of Court.

Roland massaged the soft spot behind his ears, certain that his skull contained a raging storm straight from hell. If things got much worse, his head would surely burst at the ears, his brains and bone flowing out over the ground and staining all the nice boots around him.

And what a relief it would be to suddenly and violently die. He thought. Kits, we're all just kits, scurrying over one another, using each other, more concerned with looking good than getting anything done. And now… He looked to the High Chaplain, the fox revelling in his moment of political triumph, having successfully maintained near total control of the day's assembly. Now I have a brand new master to hold my leash.

“The king has spoken!" The speaker bellowed, slamming his staff down. Roland saw Baine and Audric then, each one glaring at him, no doubt praying their looks could kill.

The assembly continued on, managing and discussing the minutia of using prisoners as soldiers and lifting the siege. Nothing of consequence really came of it, and Roland explained to Salem that the War Council would later make the real decisions behind closed doors. Eventually the stifling air in the Lord's Junction became too much for all to bear, and the assembly was called to a close. Roland winced as his arse sang with cramps; knees creaking as he pushed Salem out of the chokingly stuffy room.

The moment they stepped out into the gardens of The Equitánt was ecstasy, and Roland sighed in pleasure as the cool midday breeze ruffled his fur. The sight of precisely trimmed hedges and hungry flowers begging for sunlight was the perfect break, a welcome reprieve from the garish gold and wood décor of the assembly. The relief was quickly and thoroughly spoiled however, as a menacingly cheery voice called out to Roland from behind.

“Congratulations are in order!" It said. Roland turned, licking his fangs as Third Inquisitor Claude Morgan approached him. Seeing the snow leopard so jolly made Roland anxious at the best of times. “You've got friends in high places, my Lord!"

“Hello Claude." Roland grunted. The Inquisitor bowed insincerely, the breeze pulling at his black and yellow gown. Roland shook his head. “I suppose you had something to do with that?"

“Hmm?" Morgan asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Why, I never! I merely assumed it was due to your well-documented friendship with my own master, the High Chaplain is a decent man - as you well know."

He's nothing of the sort, the only difference between Wrast and Baine is that when Baine defeats you, you get to go on breathing. Roland thought. Anything to get me back in your clutches, eh Morgan?

“What do you want?"

“Just a word." Morgan said, edging closer. He gave Salem an unimpressed look, snorting in amusement. “The Inquisition thanks you, and Chaplain Wrast has expressed to me his delight at the... continuation of your long and fruitful relationship."

“I won't be your lackey." Roland hissed. “I wanted none of that!"

“Oh, come off it Roland," Morgan whined, his tail swishing behind his back. “We both know if I hadn't convinced Wrast to tongue your tailhole in front of everyone like that, Baine would have pulled your guts out through it. They were gearing up to blame you for the company leaving late, or at least so I heard from the whore Audric likes to fuck. Sidebar; did you know he likes to be spanked?"

“So what, you'd like to be rewarded?" Roland asked.

“No, just for you to keep us in mind." Morgan said tiredly, examining his claws. “And, I must say, I was rather hurt to hear you've been gossiping with Inquisitor Marsh. Typical noble I suppose, always something on the side. I've always been a one-Inquisitor type of cat, but that's just preference really." Roland reached a paw up to throttle Morgan's neck, but caught himself in time, curling his fingers into a shaking fist and instead pointing a finger.

“Fuck off Claude."

“There's a spy, by the way." Morgan added, right as Roland turned away. He was done, he needed to leave before he did something stupid. He needed a damn drink. Claude kept talking. “Wrast is certain, it's the only way that Astmoor cunt Nurjan could have gotten so close to Niverron so quickly. Someone has been talking…"

And Marsh thinks it could be you. Funny. Roland thought, not looking back as he stormed off. Salem trailed behind like the good assistant he was, finally shutting his mouth for once. Roland was so sick and tired of people who did nothing but talk. Maybe I should have gone along with the Witchborn and that otter, I'd wager there's a distinct lack of chatter on that particular trip.

He crossed The Equitánt and made his way back inside the keep, doing his best to avoid anyone that might try to strike up a discussion.

He almost succeeded, making it all the way to his office wholly unmolested. Unfortunately, she was waiting for him inside.

“Afternoon, Roland." Lady Fantine said as he pried open the door. She looked up sharply from the faded forge ledger he'd left open on a desk, expression blank, voice soft but firm. Tiny dust particles swirled around her, the light through the window catching on them and sparkling in the air.

Fuck.

“Fantine, how nice to see you." Roland replied tersely, gesturing for Salem to take a seat and for Triumvirate's sake shut up. A white and grey cat, Lady Fantine struck an inspired figure in her flowing scarlet dress. She wore a perfectly tempered gold necklace, with a conservative selection of rings decorating her elegant fingers. She was a well-known woman in the upper echelons of Hieron society, famously respected for her connections and ferocity. She had a tool for every social situation, picking at gossip like a spider on a web, and was truly a person that one wished to stay on the good side of whenever possible.

She was also Roland's wife.

“How was the assembly?" She tsked, glancing around at the unkempt room. “I heard there was quite an uproar."

“You know how these things are, always something." Roland replied. “What brings you here today, my love?" He approached her as one might a feral dog, meaning to take her paws in his. As he reached her however, Fantine pulled away, drifting around another desk as if she hadn't even seen him. Roland sighed, reaching instead for the decanter of slightly-too-old wine.

“Why, no thank you, I'm fine." She added tartly, as he lifted a freshly-poured goblet to his lips, leaning back against the counter.

“It's been a trying day, and it's quite stale." He said. “Can I just give you a blanket apology and be done?"

“Don't get trite with me, Roland." Fantine snapped.

Ah, she's in a good mood then. He looked to Salem, who waited quietly in the corner.

Fantine went on. “Two days ago I was being told what a moron you were for going so openly against Brigadier Audric, and today I hear you're a war hero of strategic brilliance?"

“Things have been… blown out of proportion." Roland explained. “I can explain it all to you tonight. It was a move. Of sorts."

Just not mine.

Fantine choked out a laugh. “Oh no, tonight we're to dine with the High Chaplain himself. The Estocs are grand friends of the Inquisition now, so it would seem!" She declared. “And would you guess who gave me that invitation?" Roland stared into his swirling wine, and briefly wondering if drilling a hole in the side of his skull would alleviate his throbbing migraine.

He sighed. “Claude…"

“Claude fucking Morgan." Fantine finished for him, spitting the name like it was a bun laced with shit. She stepped right up to him, pushing her breasts to his chest, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Roland. I have my own commitments. Next time you pull some stunt like this, at least inform me. Now half my friends are scared we've ratted out their ridiculous crimes, and half my enemies are scared I'll be coming for them next. I've lost all chances at subtlety now, as well as most of my contacts' trust."

“Believe me, next time you'll know as soon as I do." Roland replied, trying to lean back and finding the wall blocking his way. Fantine scoffed.

“I'll see you tonight, look sharp. Do try not to embarrass me any more between now and then." And she left, without ever even acknowledging Salem D'Lange, the young fox still sat in the corner like a naughty pup.

Roland locked the door after his wife, unable to stand dealing with another soul until he'd had a glass or two more of wine and a nap.

“Well." Salem said, standing. “That was horrifically uncomfortable. She terrifies me."

“Let's not talk about my wife, she terrifies everyone." Roland groaned.

“Yes, well." The fox came closer, face softening as he began neatening a stack of papers. “Where does this leave us then? Astmoor besieges Niverron and suddenly we're good friends with the Inquisition. What now?"

My whole life; politics, alliances, social embarrassment, enemies, egos, more politics. I'm tired of the inference, tired of stuffy old men, tired of warmongering nobles hoarding gold like a dragon.

“And I am tired of hearing you speak." Roland breathed, pushing into Salem and pressing the fox against the wall, shoving the papers aside.

“Roland…" The young man exclaimed, before Roland shut him up with a fierce kiss. Their tongues met briefly, and then the fox pulled back. “I'm not so sure now is--"

“Now." Roland growled, reaching down and taking hold of Salem's growing bulge through his trousers. He squeezed the fox's cock, his other paw pushing down on the young man's shoulder. “On your knees, quickly."

Salem's eyes went wide, but he sunk down obediently, allowing Roland to tug his tunic up and over his head. The shirtless fox licked at his lips, paws worming across Roland's stomach and waist. The cat pulled his own top off, motioning for the fox to do the same at his belt. Salem undid it dutifully, pulling everything down and revealing Roland's long pink cock. It stood firm, a drip of silver bubbling at the tip. The head was tapered, and then along the top half of the shaft ran a small patch of soft barbs. There were always jokes and rumours about cats and their 'hooked pricks', Roland was used to it. But while they were technically spines, in Roland's experience the tiny rivets only added to the pleasure.

Salem went to lick at the dribbling pre on his cock, but Roland wasn't waiting. He let one paw snake behind the fox's head, pulling him forward and shoving his cock halfway into Salem's muzzle without warning. He groaned at the enveloping warmth, feeling the long vulpine tongue curl around his barbed head. Salem wheezed, one paw squeezing at Roland's balls, the other down the front of his own trousers. Roland slid his hips back, and then pushed forward again, holding Salem's head in place and slowly fucking his maw.

“Triumvirate's cock," Roland growled, tail curling up around his leg. He was getting close already, it had been too long since he and Salem were together alone like this. The fox pulled his head free, moving his lips to the base of Roland's cock and lapping at it, kissing the underside, letting his rough tongue trail up the length and flick at the very tip.

“Feeling pent up, my Lord?" Salem breathed, and Roland grunted, again pushing his dick through the fox's lips and building to a steady rhythm. All Salem's attention was on Roland now, his own red member hanging through the front of his trousers, his prick dribbling onto the wooden floor. His knot was out, but both paws attended to the cat thrusting deep into his muzzle. One paw fingered Roland's balls, tugging and rolling them, squeezing them tight and tracing lines just behind his sack. His other paw had gone behind the cat's waist, squeezing his arse cheek and helping to pull him deeper still.

“I'm…" Roland hissed, picking up the pace, that familiar tightness building at the base of his prick. “Gah, Salem I'm getting close." The fox just grunted, eyes closed, putting both his paws to Roland's waist, letting the balls slap against his chin. “Uh, uh," Roland gasped, hilting his cock in Salem's maw, that wicked tongue teasing and chasing his length.

Roland bit his lip, resisting the urge to cry out as he felt his load building to a peak. He grabbed a pawful of Salem's fur and pulled his head close, holding his cock deep inside the fox's mouth. He shuddered as ropes of thick cum shot into the young man's throat, the fox swallowing automatically, his paws going to tug at Roland's sack once again. His other paw quickly worked at his own knotted cock, pale cum firing out in one thick load, spraying onto the wooden floor and painting Roland's spats.

The cat propped himself against the wall with one arm, panting as he pulled his hips back, a thin line of shining cum linking the end of his prick to Salem's lips. The fox licked it up, then fell back, breathing heavily and massaging his jaw.

“Better?" He asked Roland, who'd already begun stuffing his wilting cock into his trousers.

“Somewhat." He admitted, stepping away. The pain in his head was still there, but it had eased. Salem was up now, still half-naked, a few errant drops of seed splattered across his chest and pants. He came to Roland's side, paws touching the soft part at the sides of his stomach. He went for a kiss, but the cat pulled away.

“Oh, well alright then." The fox muttered petulantly, as Roland poured himself a fresh goblet of the souring wine. “I always wanted to be a whore anyway."

“You wanted to shadow me and learn the ways of Court, as I recall, and in Court you fuck people, one way or another." Roland replied, lifting his too-full goblet in a mock toast. “So why don't we schedule a more formal visit with High Chaplain Wrast, and maybe you can watch as the Inquisition takes it's turn at fucking me right back?"