by Taki Drake
>
Chapter 6 – Mingling
The others in her group had been busy while she was busy exploring the sharing circle. When she finally caught up with them, Trey chattered at her excitedly about what they had learned about the upcoming schedule and some of the other things that they could do while they were there. He showed her proudly that he had a clip-on badge now that said his name and classification, in this case, juvenile. It was marked with a plain circle. He was chattering so much and so rapidly that she almost couldn’t understand him.
The wolf companion nudged her in the side to get her attention, and when she turned to stare at him, he wordlessly dropped a badge in front of her feet. She saw that he was wearing his which also displayed his name and the same classification. Dascha looked down and saw that the one at her feet was marked with her own name and the classification of juvenile.
<
Jack ducked his head slightly, and his tail wagged in happy acknowledgment.
Trey had not even bothered to pause to take a breath. <<… And we saw these funny monkeys they come from someplace that has a big rock, and there were even things that look like dogs that came from down under. I don’t know what that means, like under a rock or something? Oh well, it was interesting, and there were lots of them. And everybody was getting their badge. They even said that the badges would update and change as we learn things. Isn’t that cool?>>
Kevin and Stinky managed to get a few words in edgewise, although Dascha wasn’t sure that Trey realized that someone else was trying to be heard. <
Stinky added, <
<
<
All four of the others laughed at her. She looked from one to the other trying to figure out what the joke was until Kevin took pity on her and explained, <
Trey chose that moment to reconnect with the others’ conversation and tried to reassure her, <>
Faced with everyone else’s cheer, Dascha could just not articulate why she felt so down, so inadequate. She dropped her eyes to the ground and stared there for a while as the others continued to talk. Concentrating on her breathing, she apparently missed part of the conversation because the next thing she knew Stinky had come over and was patting her shoulder with one of his forepaws.
<
Shocked out of her introspection, Dascha responded, <
Stinky started to explain that they all were invited to a party tonight to celebrate the start of the trials. There would be food and conversation but that they had to wear their badges.
His agile little paws managed to get her badge attached to the slim, protective collar around her neck. Stepping back, the ferret looked at the badge tilting his head first one way, then the other. Professing himself pleased and that the badge looked very impressive on her, Stinky curled up on the ground next to Dascha. In just a few seconds, the ferret flipped his tail over his nose and fell into the depths of a nap.
Looking at her friend in bemusement, Dascha glanced around the crowded area and the mass of moving people. Worried that someone would step on the ferret, she sat upright and guarded his nap. After all, wasn’t that what friends were for?
<<<>>>
Once, when she was a small kitten, Dascha had heard her mother and another queen talking about a party that their witches had attended. It had been something called a “cocktail party,” and it sounded like a bizarre experience to her young ears. The idea that someone would go to a crowded area with lots of people and be bribed by food and drink into interacting with those people for mostly shallow and meaningless conversation was something that she thought was a tall tale.
Apparently, she was wrong. It was all too real.
This party was called a “mixer” to indicate that people were expected to talk to many other people. Dascha decided that this was going to be a good place to observe. Perhaps she would hear useful things or see important interactions even if she was not the life of the party like Trey and Stinky. She might even be able to find some other familiars that were from a close by area to where she lived. That would be an excellent thing for her to do. Having someone nearby would mean she could more easily ask questions of things that were confusing while she was trying to learn how to be a better partner to her witch.
Determined to hold up her end of the deal, Dascha moved around the party area, attaching herself to one group or another, listening for a while and quietly moving on. Her ears were tuned to detect the cadence of her homeland or any mention of Russia. There were many familiars from all over the world. Monkeys and big cats from Africa, smaller felines and canines from the Americas, familiars from Germany, the United Kingdom, and so on. But no other Russian witch familiar. In fact, Glenfrey was one of the closest geographically to her.
Distressed at a level that didn’t make conscious sense, Dascha pushed herself to move around more and widen the search pattern. Still no defined presence of a Russian familiar. It began to prey on her mind and added another log onto the fire of doubt. Perhaps, Russian witches weren’t supposed to have familiars. What if her bond with Zhanna hurt the young witch?
The combination of exhaustion and too much social interaction was more than Dascha could handle. Escaping from a small group that had been castigating the unprofessionalism of Russian mercenaries as magical contractors, Dascha spied a small clump of bushes and promptly curled up underneath them, trying to make herself as small and as unnoticeable as possible.
She was miserable. Tired, aching head, convinced that she was somehow doing something wrong, it was just too much to bear. Sunk in exhaustion and depression, Dascha didn’t notice at first that she had company.
<
She was surrounded by hooves. Her first startled glance had only picked up that there were LOTS of them. A second look allowed her to interpret what her eyes were telling her. Eight hooves grouped into one set of four larger, another of four smaller. Two animals.
Glancing up, she saw that there were indeed two animals peering down at her. One was obviously a goat, with a coat of mixed brown and white topped with lively but kind eyes. The second was a horse, but not one similar to the few that she had seen. This horse was relatively short, not more than Dascha’s height different at the shoulder from the goat. The horse was blocky without the slick and graceful poses that Dascha remembered.
The friendliness in their combined gaze helped Dascha even more. She sat up straighter and met their attention with an assurance that she didn’t really feel. <
<
<
<
Staring reflectively at the small cat, the goat reached over and absentmindedly started chewing the bush that Dascha was hiding underneath, showering her with bits and pieces as the leaves and branches were reduced to splinters. <>
The intensity of the thankfulness and gratitude in Dascha’s voice startled both of the other animals. <
Bolad snorted and addressed the goat, <
No sooner had the horse finished speaking than Dascha was startled to feel herself being lifted by the scruff of her neck and moved through the air. The goat had grabbed her and reared back on its hind legs. Standing almost upright, Nanny placed a careful hoof on the side of Bolad. Leaning slightly forward, the goat carefully set Dascha by the horse’s mane.
Although unsure and a bit frightened, Dascha was careful not to sink her claws too deeply into the horse. She found that the area around the mane had more places for her to hold onto, and so she hunkered down there as Bolad began to make the circuit of the area again, this time with Dascha up higher.
Chapter 7 – Fun or Fight
It was a totally different experience. The first time, Dascha had not felt she was part of the conversation since in every group she was staring at someone’s hock, ankle, or belly. She had felt ignored and physically intimidated. That was no longer true. The people in the conversations greeted her and her horse companion actually had a discussion with her and waved goodbye when Bolad took them on toward the next group.
Dascha found herself having a good time. The conversations now were interesting, and the ability to talk with a group of other familiars was exhilarating. Most of the conversations were on exactly the sort of thing that she had hoped to get from the gathering. Skill improvement, suggestions for actions, all the sorts of things that she could use to make herself into a better partner for Zhanna.
They were almost completed with the circuit of the room when the cheerful buzz of conversation was shredded by the reverberating disharmony of a pair of angry snarls. Bolad spun in place to see what was going on. He had turned quickly enough for Dascha to see two wolves launch themselves into the air and merge into a twisting and lethal implosion of flashing fangs and flying fur.
The two combatants were paying no attention to anyone else around them. There was a mad scramble as those closest to the fight tried to gain protective distance. The panic of the densely packed partygoers all trying to leave at the same time produced its own set of victims.
A medium-sized black dog, muzzle streaked with gray, was knocked to the ground by several fleeing the violence. Apparently stunned, she attempted to struggle to her feet unsuccessfully. As the juggernaut of fighting wolves rolled toward her, Bolad moved.
Accelerating from a standing stop to an instantaneous gallop, the small horse charged forward effortlessly weaving in and out of those with only escape on their mind. Reflexively, Dascha crouched down more tightly to his mane. Rather than sink claws more deeply into him, she grabbed a hank of his mane hair in her mouth and determinedly hung on.
The density of those fleeing danger was concentrated around the two sides of the table that have been set up with food on it. Seeing the wrestling wolves getting closer and closer to the incapacitated dog, Bolad gathered himself and leaped. Dascha saw the surface covered with food slip underneath them as the horse’s sheer athleticism carried them over it in an astonishing jump that cleared the wide table.
Just before they reach the dog, Bolad twisted sideways and slid, coming to a stop in a protective stance over the downed dog. Neighing loudly, he planted his feet protectively. The sideways slide nearly threw Dascha from his back. Only her firm bite on his mane kept her on his back.
The next moment her precarious hold was tested again. The enraged stallion reared on its hind legs screaming a sound of challenge and flailing with its hooves. Once again, Dascha was whipped back and forth as he rose and twisted in a defiant display. There was no time to think, only a split second to react. And she still held on.
At some level, the battling wolves must have heard Bolad’s challenge, for the path of their battle altered. It began to veer off to the right, no longer advancing toward the injured dog. Dascha had raised her head and was panting in reaction she watched as the wolves began to trace back along their pathway, leaving trails of blood as they rolled.
Dascha felt a quick flash of relief, like a cool, soothing wash of water on an overheated brow. The relief was short-lived when she realized that there were other victims. The fury and power of the fight between the two large wolves had smashed food tables and caused stampedes of terrified partygoers. What Dascha had at first thought to be food or a bloodstained cloth began to twitch, much to her distress.
The cat realized at that moment that what she had taken to be a napkin or tablecloth was the soft white fur of the pampered-looking Persian cat she had seen earlier. Its body had been smashed to the ground, whether by the wolves or by those fleeing. Dabbled with blood that Dascha feared was its own, the animal was capable of no more than week partial movements. The only thing that the young black familiar knew was that in sending the fight away from the old dog, the still fighting wolves would soon be on top of their earlier victim.
There was no moment of conscious thought. Dascha went from clinging stubbornly to the back of Bolad to a flying, darting streak of black fur. Faster than coherent thought, the small black cat went from survivor to rescuer. She was so focused on the progress of the wolves toward the semi-conscious white cat that she never hesitated, never faltered.
That focus left nothing for elements of sanity. When a twist in the fight between the wolves shoved them back on the route between her and her objective Dascha didn’t dodge or stop. She climbed. Using fully extended claws, she went up over the fighting wolves using whatever part of their body was momentarily upright as she dug in and launched.
The arc of her leap ended right by the battered cat. A quick visual check showed that the injuries were severe. Broken bones and blood pouring from nasty-looking injuries. The Persian needed protection, and she needed it quickly. Turning, Dascha was appalled to see that the bloodied furball formed by the fighting wolves was only a few feet away. There is no more time to think. Mentally apologizing for the pain that she was about to cause, Dascha grabbed the scruff of the injured white cat’s neck and started dragging her as fast she could away from the wolves, toward another clump of bushes. Mercifully, the white cat mewed in agony once and passed out. Praying desperately that she had not killed the one she was trying to rescue, Dascha pulled harder on the heavier cat. Struggling mightily, Dascha was nearly startled into a heart attack when Stinky darted in from the side and started pushing from the back of the cat. The extra help made a huge difference, but it still looked increasingly like they were not going to make it. The wolves had stopped their constant wrestling and were now running at each other in passes of fury and deadly intent. They had no eyes or attention for anything else. Knocking tables and perches aside as they charged each other and wrestled in deadly anger, they were oblivious to everything and everyone else.
Dascha refused to despair. They were making progress, and she hoped that the
y could get far enough away that all of them would be safe. Stinky had his back to the wolves and refused to look. Dascha’s eyes grew tight and burning as she realized how quickly and how strongly a friendship could develop. She hoped with all of her heart that they would all survive this encounter.
The wolves darted back and forth, repeatedly ripping at each other with their teeth and spraying blood everywhere. They were getting closer as Dascha and Stinky were getting more tired. The cat and ferret were moving as fast as they could, but the strain of trying to move a limp weight heavier than the total of their own weight was beginning to show. It did not look good.
Suddenly, reinforcements arrived. Creating a wall of their bodies between the fighting wolves and the rescue party were Kevin and Jack. Posed in defensive mode, Jack looked half again larger than he had during the day. His fur was on end, and his fangs were on full display. Braced to take impact if the fighting wolves got that far, he looked ready to do battle. The large, scarred cat at his side looked just as powerful despite his much smaller size. Kevin’s easy-going attitude and stance were wiped away leaving a deadly fighter. It had taken them a while, but her friends had come for her.
Dascha and Stinky had almost gotten the injured cat to the bushes. They stopped abruptly when they heard Trey’s frantic cries from above them. <
Dascha had no idea what he was talking about. However, she trusted him to not lie to her. It was instinct mixed with hope. Perhaps a shaky basis but she chose to believe him. Apparently, Stinky did also. Without any conversation, the two exhausted friends changed direction and started pulling the cat toward where Trey had indicated. It wasn’t that much further but the bush had different leaves and was missing the little white berries. It also had thorns which might be even better.