Preening Owl, shuddering now, looked briefly at Battered Bear but then dropped his eyes.
“Can you remember what you said about her?”
Preening Owl did not answer, looking to Battered Bear with an apologetic face. She snarled back at him, still blushing.
“Apparently you were very loud,” Galloping Turtle continued, speaking more to the other assembled fighters than the two beside him. “I believe many present today heard the words from his mouth.”
There was murmuring from both bands.
“By the Queen’s tits, I’d rather kiss an ox’s arse than touch Battered Bear. I believe those were the exact words?”
Preening Owl, ashen, looked at Battered Bear and then Galloping Turtle. “I was in my cups. It was just a bit of banter, didn’t mean any harm by it.”
Galloping Turtle looked at his Paws. “Didn’t mean any harm by it?” Angry grumbling from the Paws echoed Galloping Turtle’s own affronted tone. “Didn’t mean any harm by comparing a Lion’s Paw to an animal’s rear end?”
The grumbling from the Paws increased.
“Let’s get a look at you, then,” Galloping Turtle shouted, grabbing Preening Owl’s mask, and ripping it from his face. There were gasps from both stables. Even Crazy Raccoon winced. Removing a Bravador’s mask was unheard of.
“Well, what do we have here?” Galloping Turtle stroked his hand along Preening Owl’s face. The boy was indeed young, and his youthful features were also very handsome.
Too handsome for a Bravador. He should know better.
“Aren’t you a pretty one?” Galloping Turtle said. He looked up at Battered Bear again. “Don’t you think he’s pretty?”
“Reminds me of my sister,” Battered Bear said, automatically, eliciting a chorus of chuckles from the Paws.
It was not the truth, Crazy Raccoon knew. All who frequented the Proving Grounds knew Battered Bear had a soft spot for younger men. Of course, Preening Owl would have caught her eye.
“Yes, very well,” Galloping Turtle chuckled theatrically. “You know, Battered Bear, I value you, I really do. You have done great things for the Lion’s Paws, protecting the city of Espadapan and the surrounding lands. It sits badly with me that someone who provides as much as you do for our people can be insulted by a… by a child like this.”
Galloping Turtle walked over to Battered Bear, lowering his voice. “Battered Bear, do you want this boy?”
Battered Bear, face red, fixed her eyes on Preening Owl. She said nothing.
“Did you express an interest in this boy?”
Battered Bear paused, and then said, “Yes. Yes, I did.”
Galloping Turtle walked back to Preening Owl, shaking, alone. “Do you not think highly of Battered Bear, here? Is she not a fine example of a Bravador?”
“Yes, yes, she is. I was foolish. It was silly of me. I’d love to, I’d love to…” Preening Owl stammered, but Galloping Turtle cut him off.
“No, silly boy, I was not asking you to change your mind. You have made your thoughts on the matter very clear already. But I will tell you something else. I do not care. I do not care that you were not interested in her. I do not care if she is not your type.”
Galloping Turtle grabbed the boy by the scruff of his shirt, and pulled him close to his own face. “The Lion’s Paws are the best of the Bravadori, and like all of the Bravadori of Espadapan, we can take what we want.
“Battered Bear saw something pretty. She saw you. She wanted you, and nothing should have stopped her from having you.”
Preening Owl tried to respond, but only whimpers came out.
“You know, young man,” Galloping Turtle continued, words laced with menace, “I work hard too, protecting this city, providing for our people. I think you are pretty too. Perhaps… Perhaps I want you as well.”
Then, slowly, with Preening Owl angled so all the Mice and Paws could see, Galloping Turtle extended his tongue, and slowly licked the side of Preening Owl’s face, running his wet muscle from the young man’s jaw all the way up to his ear.
All present held their breath. What was happening in front of them was truly disgusting, an affront to all that should be honourable and good about the Bravadori.
I want a turn, Crazy Raccoon thought, with relish.
Galloping Turtle stepped back, but held Preening Owl tight.
“Battered Bear. Take what’s rightfully yours. Come and taste your reward.”
Battered Bear seemed unsure of what was being offered to her, so Galloping Turtle shook Preening Owl. Gingerly, Battered Bear stepped forward. Galloping Turtle turned the Mouse around to offer Battered Bear Preening Owl’s other cheek.
Then, slowly, she too took a lick of the Bravador’s face.
“Yes, well done,” Galloping Turtle said, as Battered Bear stepped back into the crowd. “Now all is as it should be.”
It seemed as though the entire park held its breath as all present waited to see what Galloping Turtle would do next.
The stable master looked at Preening Owl again, theatrically thoughtful, then turned back to his Paws.
“Colossal Newt! Where is Colossal Newt? He fought well in the plaza, did he not?”
As Colossal Newt made his way from the ranks of the Paws, Crazy Raccoon began to grin - he knew what was happening.
He’s rewarding us all. All the Paws who performed well tonight are going to get a taste.
Crazy Raccoon puffed up his own chest in preparation. After all, it was his presence that led to the Mice backing down.
Colossal Newt stepped forward, and after a short introduction, took a quick lick of Preening Owl’s face. By this point, the young Mouse was crying silently, shoulders shaking at the shame of what he was experiencing. To his credit, the boy did not make a sound.
“Hidden Vulture! Hidden Vulture, you have served me well this year. Through the harsh winter, when the chupacabra came to our walls, you stuck by me. Come, come and claim your reward.”
Another Bravador, an older woman with grey feathers painted onto the bandana that covered her head, sauntered out. She took her turn to lick Preening Owl’s face, relishing in how the dragging of her tongue made the young man shudder.
My turn next, Crazy Raccoon thought. Must be me. The constables’ll be here soon.
Galloping Turtle grabbed at Preening Owl’s shirt again, drawing the young man near.
“Did you enjoy that, little Mouse?”
Preening Owl fixed Galloping Turtle with a wild stare, unsure how to answer the question, unsure as to which answer would allow him to return to his friends, to safety.
Galloping Turtle did not let the lad suffer for too long. “Let this be a lesson to you. Remember tonight, when you next seek to insult a Lion’s Paw.” Then Galloping Turtle roughly shoved the Mouse back to his companions.
Crazy Raccoon stood, open mouthed, in shock.
But… what about me? What about my lick?
Aghast, Crazy Raccoon strode forward, making his way to the stable master.
“Galloping Turtle,” he shouted. “What about me?”
Galloping Turtle stared at Crazy Raccoon as he walked forward, then he lowered his eyes, gave a half smile, and addressed the rest of the Paws. “The constables will be here soon. We’ve done what we came to do. Best be off, to commiserate and to celebrate.”
What about me? It was I who made the Mice stand down. I’m the most feared Bravador in all the city.
The Paws, laughing, full of violence and success, turned and made their way through the darkness of the park, to home.
Crazy Raccoon ran with them, but his mind was only half on the task. He was running as if in a daze, as if he had been slapped in the face in front of everyone else.
Galloping Turtle. He didn’t even look at me.
He didn’t give me my lick.
As overheard in the taverns of Espadapan
Some wonder why people leave the safety of the cities, why they seek to live out in the loneliness of the Wilds.
> It is true that the Wildlands are dangerous. The Mistress’ creatures roam, and they particularly seek revenge on any of Mouse blood, of the line that took her land and people from her.
But the Wildlands are also rich with life. Most flock to the cities for their high walls and Bravadori steel, but there is a living to be made in providing for those cities, in farming the land to feed hungry mouths.
When the Queen sent her Muridae across the sea over one hundred years ago, they were searching for gold and jewels, and they found these things, but it is often said that the best riches that were found out here come from the land itself, and the good food it can provide.
However, farming this land does not come without dangers, and the greatest danger of all is loneliness. Loneliness, and what lies out there in the Wild that seeks to fill that awful void.
This story is about a farmer, a man like any other. Like any other, this man and his family worked the land hard, and normally they reaped their just rewards. Normally he could use his money to hire sellswords, sometimes even true Bravadori, to protect his family. However, one year things did not go as well. One year, the farmer’s crops were harmed, many failed, the city did not want to pay as much for them - whatever the reason, this year the man had less money, and he gambled with his family’s future. This was the year the farmer did not hire any Bravadori to protect his home.
The first sign of trouble came when he was asleep. He woke, as he often did, in the middle of the night, his wife dozing happily beside him. He paused for a moment to listen to the sounds of his house. There was nothing but the reassuring creaks of the timber that he had helped to assemble himself, but these familiar sounds did nothing to assure him that things were well.
Taking a firm grip of the machete that was always set beside his bed, the man left his wife to look out of his window. The Wilds stared back at him, the wide, flat land rolling out towards the mountains, the full moon illuminating all, showing nothing but endless stretches of corn dancing in the breeze.
The farmer left his room, making his way down the short hallway towards his daughters’ bedrooms. One by one he checked on them, his heart in his throat as he did so, for some reason fearing the worst. Like his wife, they were both sleeping soundly, exhausted from working the fields all day.
His lips pursed. He had checked everyone, and yet his gut still told him something was amiss.
He made his way into the kitchen. Embers burned in the fireplace, but their warm light was dwarfed by the whiteness of the moon as she shone through the window, painting the empty room an uncanny paleness. The farmer stood for a moment, watching the corn outside wave at him mockingly.
Finally, the farmer gave up and returned to his wife. Laying the machete back down by the bed, he lifted the covers, slid under them, and raised his hand to gently stroke his sleeping wife’s face.
Her face fell away at his touch, crumbling to dust as his fingers met with it.
Terror rising, not fully aware of what he was doing, the farmer threw himself out of the bed, clawed hands clasping at the walls, eyes fixed on the statue of ash that used to be his wife. The room’s black curtains flapped gently in the breeze.
It was at that moment the farmer realised the window was locked. There was no breeze inside to make the curtains move.
Rigid, the man’s gaze was drawn to the curtains, their subtle fluttering now a cruel taunt. His eyes followed them upwards, and he realised the dark fabrics extended much higher than the top of the window.
It was at this moment the flowers began to fall.
Small, grey blossoms floated down from the ceiling, crumbling into dust on the farmer’s white sheets, an insufficient funeral wreath for his dead wife.
However, the farmer was not thinking about his wife, not now. His eyes were fixed upon the black of the ceiling, the dark shape that covered the entirety of it, extending down the walls in strands of rippling fabric.
He looked for the source of the falling flowers, and there found the creature’s face. Hooded in black, the moonlight picked out what used to be a woman’s face, but like his wife this face was long dead. The features of the face - lips, nose, eyes - were poorly defined, as if a sculptor had begun the job of carving out their shape, but had not been given the time to complete his work. Where he saw the creature’s ill-formed lips, white-painted lines picked out her teeth, giving her a skull’s grin. Flowers of ash were falling from the dark indents that were the creature’s eyes.
The flowers fell every time the creature sobbed. For - and the farmer had known this as soon as his wife had crumbled to dust - it was the Black Shepherdess who had come to visit him that night.
Crying openly now, the Shepherdess descended from the ceiling, the yawning emptiness of her robes pooling in the centre of the ceiling like a poisoned dewdrop falling from a blade of grass. Hanging upside-down, she turned to him, hands extended.
The farmer ran.
To his credit, despite his terror he had not forgotten about his daughters. Lacking all hope, he ran to the first girl’s room and grabbed her by the arm, yanking her from her bed.
The girl’s arm came away in his hand, but the rest of her grey body remained asleep.
He did not bother to reach out and touch the second daughter - the moonlight on her sleeping form told him that she too had been turned to ash.
In his nightwear, weaponless, the farmer staggered out of his home, eyes wild. His head spun around, looking for someone, something that would save him from this nightmare.
Unbelievably, he spotted movement a short distance away. A person, no, a group a people, making their way towards his land, through the corn fields.
“Help!” he shouted. “Help me! The Shepherdess is abroad!”
Stumbling, the farmer ran to the newcomers, weeping now, unexpected hope alive in his chest.
His sobbing stopped when the moon disclosed the identity of the nearest newcomer, a man in soldier’s uniform. However, the soldier’s expression was rigid, his eyes not fixed on anything, his movements slow and jerky, as if controlled by a distant puppeteer. The farmer did not need the moon’s light to know that the newcomer had been drained of all colour except for ashen grey.
Movement in the dark betrayed the others, and the farmer became aware of a line of ash people, walking slowly towards him, herding him back to his farm house.
Hope dying in his chest, the farmer turned around to look at his home. His family was there, waiting, his faceless wife walking side by side with her daughters, whose eyes were not quite fixed upon him.
Silently the figures walked forward, and from behind them, from the farmer’s own front door, swept a being of pure blackness, born from the Wilds and cursed forever to haunt them.
The Black Shepherdess drew up to her full height before the farmer, ash flowers falling from her eyes as she continued to cry, her shoulders heaving with the pain of each wretched breath. For his own part, the farmer stood helpless before her, waiting for the inevitable.
With one touch, the Shepherdess drained him of life, the colour, pain and joy leaving him. As the last glimmer of his soul faded away, his eyes moved to the dead shapes that used to be his wife and children, and he smiled, knowing that he would always be with them, the newest additions to the Black Shepherdess’ dead army.
Some wonder why people leave the safety of the city, to live in the Wildlands. Many say they are looking for their fortune. Others say they seek adventure, a place to forge their own destinies.
Many say these things, but that does not make them true.
The truth is that these people are all fools, and we should weep not for anyone foolish enough to leave the safety of Espadapan’s walls.
“Are you sure this’ll be okay?” Arturo asked as Gavrilla handed him his dinner.
They had stopped at a street side stall selling turkey cooked in mole sauce, and Arturo opened his purse to pay. Used to food being served on a plate, Arturo regarded the meal with suspicion.
Gavrilla, the
Queen’s Bride, raised an eyebrow at him. “You kidding me? Outside of the convent, this is the best food I’ve ever had. Where the hell you from if you’re turning your nose up at this?”
The shadow of his father’s estate, and the serving staff within, crossed Arturo’s mind, but he dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
“My first day in the city,” he explained. “Got a few things to get used to.”
“Alfrond’s balls,” Gavrilla said. “What a first day.”
The painted buildings of the barrio leaned above them, almost touching each other in many places. In Barrio Mercado, tradesmen had been given free reign as to how to construct their shops, and many of the buildings teetered dangerously, designed more to attract attention of pedestrians and their purses than to be structurally sound. The facades of the buildings on Calle Raton, the main thoroughfare between the Plaza and the northern gate, were painted garish colours - red, blue, yellow, green - to pop out at the passersby and drag them in to browse the stalls.
Arturo nodded at Gavrilla’s comments, doing his best to smile as he chewed the overcooked bird.
“Agreed. I came here for the Bravadori, but hadn’t expected to make contact with them so quickly.”
He had been unsure what to do with his mask. He knew keeping it on was a sign to other Bravadori that he was one of them, and as such was open to challenge, so he had been tempted to remove it. However, he had caught Gavrilla looking at him out of the corner of her eye, curious, doing her best to sum him up, and had decided to keep the mask on for her, if nobody else.
As they strolled down the busy streets - daytime traders were packing away their stalls, the evening vendors setting up shop - Arturo’s eyes flickered to any Bravadori that walked close to them. Unlike him, the other Bravadori of the city tended to roam in packs, groups of stable mates identified by the coloured bands they wore on their arms. The Paws were yellow, the Mice grey. Arturo knew that from before - those larger stables were both well known outside of Espadapan. However, now he was noticing different stable colours - orange, white, a large amount of green - and he found himself lost. The nearest pack, a trio wearing green bands, stared at him as they walked in the opposite direction, but otherwise they did nothing.
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