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_ Grenzen _

Our narrow wooden stairs squealed with each descending step. An awkward night's sleep had left my neck sore and my back surely twisted. My kingdom for a bed of quality to match that I had left behind in Linvendia. My manor, too, for clothes more comfortable and less garish than the red shirt and maroon trousers supplied to our labouring crew.

The crackling warmth of our fireplace greeted me upon entering our living area, bright flames dancing atop wooden logs beneath a brickwork arch. The fireguard had been left aside again. No errant embers had leapt to the rug thus far.

My tongue wagged with the suggestion of complaint on my way to right the scene. I refrained. The argumentative barking of my wife and son at the breakfast table suggested it would fall upon deaf ears.

"William," Esther grouched, hovering over our son. "By the stars, will you hurry yourself along."

"Mother, I'm almost finished." He lifted and tipped his bowl towards her. "I have plenty of time."

"It's a long walk to the schoolhouse. Doubly so against the worker crowd."

"And yet, I'm seldom late..."

Their back and forth served as a reminder to check the mantle clock. A quarter past six. Best to hurry myself also, lest I be forced to leave on an empty stomach.

"Francis." My wife's snapping ushered me back towards the table. "Please, speak with your unruly son."

"Good morning," I offered with a snort in my nostrils. Her dagger-like glare came as my reward. "William. Do as you're asked."

"Father, I have time." The dusty white tip of his brush flicked and swept the wood beneath his chair. "A half past seven is my start time. As it is, I'm always the first of my friends to arrive at the gate."

"And so it should continue." I rounded the settee, paw finding the frayed seams of its aged upholstery. "The importance of punctuality is a lesson as crucial as any other."

"And at what time are you due at the building site?" he rallied back, joined by a smirk as sly as any fox could muster.

"Steady, now." My grumble set his ears back a notch. "Obey your elders." I took my seat at the table next to him. Esther had readied a serving of porridge for me. "Thank you."

She smiled from the worktop, framed by the wet brickwork and grey skies beyond the window. "We will have to top up the water supply before dinner this evening. We're running low."

"Perhaps you can help with that, Will." I stirred some apple slices, or rather shavings, into my breakfast, allowing myself to smile all the while. "If you're so far ahead of schedule, it shan't cause you bother."

"I still have to get dressed," he complained.

"Then all the more reason to hurry along, as we suggested."

Will sank within himself, clattering porcelain with metal as he, finally, obliged.

"I can stop by the pump on my way back from Village Edge," Esther suggested. "I'm overdue a trip up to the market. Those were the last of the oat flecks, and we're almost out of meat carvings."

"Ah yes," I jeered past my spoon. "More second-rate slithers of food from the Visoka, charged at twice, if not thrice the rate of the proper thing."

"I would wager we would be hard pressed to get a full serving of the local produce through the front door, never mind find someplace to store it."

We shared a muted stint of laughter. She had a point. "At least we can secure ourselves a standard sized loaf from the baker's." I lifted a mix of apple and porridge into my muzzle. Even after several months, the familiar taste and ordinary texture of Bolstrovo's giant produce still offered a sense of intrigue. "Shall I stop there on my walk back from the site this evening?"

"You have the coin?"

"My wage for the week is due today. I should have it later."

"That_is_ good news," she said with paw on chest. "William succeeded in putting quite the tear in his best school shirt. Tailored by Sanderson's, no less." Our son's head approached his bowl further. "Cotton thread being one more thing I need to find at the market today."

I kept my eye on Will while I finished up my breakfast, watching him circle a near-empty bowl with his spoon. The question I ought to have posed regarded how in the world he managed to rip a shirt solely worn for school. Of course, my chances of getting an answer would have been slim to none. "Are you going to stare at the table all day, or do you plan on heading to dress yourself in your second-best shirt?"

"Soon." The scraping of cutlery continued.

"Of course, if you dislike learning that much, the alternative would be to head out with me to earn a wage." His black-tipped ears perked. "Perhaps a delivery boy? I trust that a dawn's light start would not be a bother." Just like that, they dipped again. "As I suspected."

"Okay, father." He pushed back from the table, wood scraping over wood. "Your point is well made."

"Excellent." A glance back to the clock and time's unrelenting march also served to spur me into action. "I should hurry myself, too. If I dally too long, the Meerlanders will have raided all the best tools from the store again."

"I have told you time and time again to speak to them," Esther insisted. "And if not them, your superiors. Surely you would all be better served working together."

I admired her optimism. In a perfect world, perhaps. "It would all be for naught. Regardless of all else, the stars above know that they can't understand me, and in turn, I can't understand all their mumbles and hacking."

"Never mind a delivery boy," said Will. "It sounds as if your site could have need for a translator."

"Oh? And you speak Meerlander?"

"No. But I have learned so much from our Polcian tutoring."

"Polcian?" I spluttered a laugh. His head merely tilted. "They ought to have left that back in Polcia."

"You truly believe that, father?"

"Yes," I snapped, sending him sideways in his seat. "Not a single person on site can speak it. Yes, sure, the scientists, linguists and federalists back home may wish to push that twaddle onto ordinary folk, but we are now a long, long way from Polcia." A tsk and a scoff drew his eyes to mine. "You would be far better served learning Bolstrovan."

"Do you mean Velikan? Because we have studied that also."

His smug smile irked me into a grumble. "Then all the more reason for you. To. Hurry. To. The schoolhouse."

"-Starik.-"

"Bless you." I stood from the table. "And was that Polcian or Velikan?"

That smirk persisted. A bap of his muzzle soon wiped it away, winning with it a squeaky moan. "I should leave."

Esther and I reached out to hug one another, sharing a peck on the cheek. "Be well."

I ruffled William's headfur on my way towards the door. "Have a good day the both of you."

The biting morning air offered a callous greeting, supported by a damp breeze and the slickness underfoot. Plumes of smoke rose from the docklands downwind to become one with the overcast February sky, joined in kind by stacks far more notable, climbing from Sturanja proper in the direction opposite.

My home sat on Excellence Street, one of the newer sections of what had become colloquially known as 'New Arlone' by my fellow Linvendian expatriates. Small, two-floor homes of brick and wood stood uniform, huddled close, as cramped almost as the narrow cobblestone street they lined. Above and beyond the rooftops and smoking chimneys came another street, then another, continuing until they stopped in shy of their massive, imposing Bolstrovan equivalents. As tall almost as the linden trees that grew open and free in Blueweir Park, back at home in Eastport, all the way across the Sovereign. We lived within a stone's throw of the locals here in our small, crowded corner of Sturanja. Off-limits to those giant 'Visoka' natives. And vice versa.

A single stride brought me from our front step. Another carried me to the street proper. I soon merged with the thick, bustling crowd, made up of our neighbours travelling their own paths to their respective workplaces. The drumming of shoes upon stone joined with a low roll of several spoken voices, underscored by the clinking and hammering of builders and craftsmen for whom the day had already begun. All were drowned out by the occasional cart rumbling across the cobbles, pulled along by delivery men, chock full of building materials and supplies from the kilns and factories at the dockland. Some smaller carts, under stewardship of delivery boys, carried groceries and houseware from the market, bound for those somehow still affluent enough to afford such a service.

The breeze from the shore sharpened, stabbing through the exposed fur of my muzzle. I threw my paws into my pockets and hastened my stride. The exertion of a day on site would quickly counteract the chill in the air.

A sloping, right-handed curve took myself and the others on my route from Excellence Street and onto Fourth Road. A wider street brought with it a near maelstrom of crowds, teeming with hardy labourers, neat merchants and all those between doing their utmost to avoid barging and bumping one another. The multitude of scents emanating from countless species, coupled with the rising whiff of industry carried on the seabreeze, prickled my nose more than any amount of cold.

Day after day, week after week, the streets and paths clogged and slowed to ever greater degrees. Workers like myself, and we _were_numerous, did all possible to keep pace with New Arlone's unrelenting growth. News travelled slow to this furthest reach of what one might consider to be 'Polcia', but the state of our homelands could often be gauged by the number of newcomers stepping off each merchant ship that docked in port.

Even at this early hour of the morning, passing town hall offered quite the challenge. Rising from the corner of Fourth Road and Dock Way, still bare with wooden beams that would hold and guide its upper, outermost wings, the central jewel of New Arlone's bureaucracy sat swamped by sheer numbers.

Line after line had formed outside its grand double doors, surging with those newest here, what remained of their worldly possessions in tow, waiting in hope to trade reams of paperwork for their precious settlement documentation. The process had become all the more formal. A far cry from the first arrivals here from Polcia close to a decade ago, fleeing from the wars and strife that had slowly built up and broken out across the region. The only familiarity that remained from then, and even from my family's journey six months prior, was the two week journey across cruel, choppy seas. Only the stars could say how those escaping to places even further across the ocean endured the trek.

My shoulder met another within the bottleneck. The force sent me in a pirouette, a stumble across the cobbles, then a staring match with the mouse whom I assumed to be my partner in this dance.

He shouted at me, creased muzzle and stiff gesticulating demonstrating his rage. The words he threw at me came as a mumbled mess, their cutting tone dulled by my utter lack of comprehension.

"I cannot understand your gutterspeak," I snapped back. The hand gesture he presented did not appear pleasant. I offered my own in return. "Mind your step, dew-beater."

A deep breath and a large exhale started me back towards calm. I pulled my way through the heavy stream of folk padding across my path, carrying on along my journey into the newer sections of New Arlone.

A backhanded sweep of my paw over my shoulder cleared any dust or dirt that mouse may have thrust upon me. For an incident as small and inconsequential as that, it saw fit to affect a good remainder of my walk. I analysed every voice, every conversation, every word that found my ears. So many came in forms and with accents that I failed to process and struggled to place. There had always been a mix of nationalities here, granted, but the sheer volume and variety had become all the more pronounced. This small town had grown well beyond small. How many more homes could we realistically fit on our slope upon the Bolstrovan coast?

Fourth Street led on to Fortitude Road, which in turn directed me up the steep incline to the bright, clean, pristine homes of the yet unnamed street we were currently toiling upon. This street, like many others of its age and location, encroached unprecedentedly close to those of Sturanja. The outskirts of each could barely be told apart from the other, save for a impassable short bluff and neck-achingly lofty fence lining its top. Regardless, our proximity brought us well within earshot of the dull, rumbling roar of the city proper. In fact, so close were we, that natives of all sizes, Visoka and Maleni, had been given permission to lend their tools to the construction.

Halfway along the road lied the site of my current project, a half-built house bordered on one side by what would shortly become home to some of our most recent arrivals, and on the other by a lot containing little more than foundation work. Teams of labourers were massing and milling around a dozen individual sites at least, preparing themselves for, if not already underway with loud hammering and keen sawing.

Beyond them all, it would be impossible to miss the Visoka jackal decked out in a bold blue work coat, carefully descending a giant stepladder set against the stomach-high bluff, rising above rooftops that barely approached his waist. He joined the rest of his team, here to help flatten and dig the land, readying it to be built upon by their smaller compatriots, as well as the rest of us resident labourers.

This delightful scene of international, intersize cooperation painted a grand, dare I say heartwarming picture. As ever, it required little time for it to be so roundly undermined.

"Good morning," I called to two of my crewmates, Jasper and Samuel, recognising their tail ends as they sifted through the supply cart perched where our worksite met the cobblestreet.

"Morning to you, Francis." Jasper looked up first. The wolf offered a raised paw before thumbing down at the cart. "If you want it to stay good, I would suggest not peeking inside."

I carried on past a few of our others colleagues, well busy with shifting and preparing lumber. "That sounds most ominous."

"If this is somebody's idea of humour, I'm not laughing." Samuel pushed back away from the cart, tossing a half swipe, half acknowledgement in my direction. "An empty cart would've annoyed me less."

I paced forward to join their examination of our work supplies. From their grunting and growling, all signs were pointing to my worst fears of that morning becoming a reality. A view inside only confirmed them beyond doubt.

It took not more than a second to reach the same depths of disgust as Samuel and Jasper either side of me. We had but a handful of tools to choose from. Saws with blades so old and dull, that they could barely be called as such. Hammers with heads fixed to rusty joins, clinging for dear life to damp, chipped wooden handles. Nails were on short supply. Levels, trowels, and chisels, too. Hardly enough to be shared out between our crew. I decided against pondering on what we would or wouldn't find in the other carts and caches, focused instead on retrieving what was rightfully ours. Enough was enough.

"Where are those Meerlanders?" I slapped a paw to the cart and pushed away, storming right into the middle of the street. The outrage had taken me. An overreaction, some might say, but those 'some' did not have to suffer fools on such a frequent basis.

I scanned the different lots and homes undergoing construction, crowded with a company of workers that must have numbered a hundred plus strong.

Those I sought, the Meerlanders, or rather one Meerlander crew in particular, were already up and running with their work on a house across the street. They stood massed around the foundations, striking and sawing, with some scaling ladders to reach the wooden frame's peak. They wielded tools aplenty, bright and shiny, as per what was fast becoming the tradition.

Outrage grew to become seething. My paws clenched at my sides. A number of them soon noticed.

"I do believe that these tools and supplies are intended for the _whole_site," I yelled for all in earshot to hear. "Not only for you swamp dwellers."

One by one, Meerlander heads turned. Working slowed. Those ascending ladders came to a halt. I most certainly had their collective attention.

"This is supposed to be one company," Jasper growled. "One company, one group. How about you start acting like it?"

"At least, stop leaving us with the dregs!" Samuel marched past the pair of us, holding out a notably feeble excuse of a saw blade, before tossing it to the cobblestone.

None of them appeared the least bit fazed by our demands. A few of them were smiling. Smirking, even.

I recognised one of them in particular; a young vole with a hammer, standing under the frame of what would become the front door of the house. He had become known as one of the worst for raiding supplies, and I wholehearted believed he understood more Linvendian than he cared to show. One certainty lied only too obvious; the wide display of his goofy, buck teeth revealed his contempt for us all.

"What are you grinning at?" I called, sensing my knuckles turning white. A few of them glanced to one another, speaking and laughing loudly in their slack tongue. "Show some class."

"Fox." That brazen vole shrugged and smirked wider yet, cocksure in his walk away from the rest of his group. "You get here on time... You get_tools_ on time."

"You insolent little--"

"-Houd je bek, struikzoeker!-"

I held a scowl so tight that my jaw began to ache. Both Jasper and Samuel presented themselves as ready to surge forward and grab ahold of that arrogant little miscreant. A few others from our site had crept over, they own tools firmly in paw. The rest of the Meerlanders matched them. A thickness grew in the cold air. My tail twitched. Hackles rose. Blood boiled.

"Excuse me!" The snarling, rolling roar of our company manager ensured we would without hesitation. "What is the meaning of all this?"

The tension massed in my limbs eased. A cool shiver claimed its, running from the top of my spine to the base of my brush.

"Well?" The lion retrieved a silver pocket watch from his neat, red and gold embroidered waistcoat. "By my reckoning, I make it seven o'clock."

He positioned himself in the very centre of the street, filling it with his presence alone. More so than any of the Visoka standing a short way's away could have ever hoped to.

"Do not assume for one second that I pay you to dawdle." A few of those wielding tools around us took a step backwards, prompting more and more to follow suit. "Nor should you believe that any of the countless others arriving day by day couldn't easily replace you."

Even the vole and his fellow Meerlanders were turning tail in retreat. Mr. Halsey's guttural growls knew no language barrier.

I aimed to follow my crewmates back to our site, only to be stopped fast in my tracks.

"My boy." A heavy paw grabbed me from behind, gripping firm on my shoulder. "Would you care to offer me an answer?"

He presented me little option but to stop, turn, and face him. His eyes narrowed. Peered down studiously. That cool shiver ran utterly cold.

"Sir..." I swallowed down a tense, prickly lump. "Once again, we have been left with nothing but... the leavings in our supply cart." He moved not a hair's breadth. "We cannot work to our full capabilities without the tools to permit us."

His nostrils twitched. A blink the only other response to my explanation. I wished so much for him to leave me be.

"I would recommend that you simply get to work with what's available." His paw released me. "Let me worry about the supply."

"Yes, Sir." I nodded, allowing it to hang and approach a bow. "Thank you."

I made it barely a step before Mr. Halsey would call upon me once more. "Fox." His imposing stride closed what little distance I had created. "Francis, isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes, Sir."

"Francis...?"

"It-- uh, Novak, Sir."

He bellowed a short shrift of a laugh. "Of course it is." His eyes narrowed yet further through his grin. "Another that took the option to be named by the Bolstrovans."

I was at a loss over how to react to that comment. Quite simply, I remained quiet and waited to move on from it.

"As you wish, 'Newcomer'." His inquisitive gaze remained latched to me. "Running from something?"

"Aren't we all?" That time my reply came freely. "If not, then why make the trek at all?"

"Hmph." He offered a smirk. "You do not speak like most others on the site. What was your calling back home, boy?"

These questions posed more of an inquiry than both the initial interview with his assistant and the settlement application combined. "Until the blockade, I was a clerk. For a trading company in Eastport, Sir."

"A clerk?" His look upon me turned. "I suspect I shan't find many others like your good self here at the sharp end."

"Regrettably, the opportunity to resume my career here is all the more limited, Sir. But, I have myself two legs, two arms, so I do what I must to put the scandalously priced trimmings called food here on our table."

"Admirable." Mr. Halsey stroked his chin. "A good work ethic, some may say, is the cornerstone of all we are building for ourselves here in Bolstrovo." He smiled, patting me by the shoulder. "If you and your colleagues could channel some of your irritations into output, I would be most appreciative."

My ears flicked. His brow raised to guide me towards the correct response. "Yes, Sir."

With that, I was permitted to leave and return with tail only half tucked to our site. The friction between Linvendians and Meerlanders on opposite sides of the street melted back into the undercurrent. All that remained was for us to scrape together what equipment we could to resume work on this half-finished home.

Morning passed without much by way of event. Jasper, Samuel and I worked with the others in our team to make good progress on the final touches of the framework, drawing close to a point where we could begin to let those in the crew more accomplished with bricklaying take the lead.

For all the diversity of New Arlone, and of the company, crews composed of more than a sole nationality were most certainly the exception, not the rule. We Linvendians partnered up to work on one group of houses, while Meerlanders, Vitmarics, Estordorians, the local Bolstrovans and more all did much the same. In many ways, this means of operation suited all concerned the best. All the way from the lack of language barriers, right through to the occasional race that would stir between rivalling sites (those bigger Visoka Bolstrovans excluded - what with such an unfair advantage!). These shows of both national and professional pride always proved good for build rate. Less so, I would suggest, for safety. Some might suggest we'd all left Polcia only to arrive at another...

Praise be to the stars, we all made it through to our allotted twelve o'clock lunch break without major incident. In fact, I could count the luckiest of those stars for the dullness of the sawblades we had to work with. A slip of my strong paw had only grazed the flesh of the other. The life of a labourer certainly came with more hazards than that of a clerk.

I grabbed the opportunity for a rest. Not least to give the sting in my paw a chance to subside, but also to have a natter with Jasper, sat muzzle-deep in a newspaper.

"How goes the world?" I settled down beside him atop a stack of freshly cut lumber.

"I can't say for certain regarding right this very moment," the wolf replied, settling the paper in his lap to see me. "But as of three weeks ago, not brilliant."

A quick check of its corner confirmed the age of the newspaper. A two week sail meant the merchants that brought these from Linvendia could never keep us truly up to date with events back home. Far better than naught, by any measure.

"The Northern Guard have been skirmishing with Vitmaric forces again. Within a stone's throw of Alvestoft, no less." Jasper checked the story again, concluding, "No mention of whether they've repelled them back towards the border."

"Vitmarics," I grumbled. It came as second nature to glance up and seek out those native to our enemies to the north. Even without hearing them, assuming any white furred wolf, arctic fox or snow leopard as such would seldom steer you wrong. "I would not mind to see all these snowdwellers heading back whence they came."

Jasper huffed in an agreeable tone, turning the page. "Meerland fares little better. The infighting has made it all the way to Viervelden. Loyalists and abolitionists killing one another within view of the king in his palace. What joy..."

I gave Jasper leave to return full focus to the story. My seat near central to the site gave ample opportunity to people watch. Many had settled to partake of their own food, engage in their own conversations, or simply enjoy their own space to rest and recharge. So many nationalities right beside another. Bolstrovans included, still a short ways down the street.

They stood out like beacons amid the crowd. The normal-sized Maleni wore the same bright red shirts as the rest of us, while the Visoka... stood out as a matter of sheer stature. Aside from their labouring aptitude, at their size, they did a sterling job of putting the company's building work to the test. A fact very much evident from the deer and goat resting arms atop newly-built houses, peering down to talk and to laugh, with booming voices, along with their smaller colleagues.

All of this, this entire scene and this entire settlement, stemming from our countrymen fighting and maiming each and one another an ocean away. Much as I would have preferred not to have to share this space with them, it gave a chance, albeit a slender one, to see what could develop, what could be done in those fleeting instances where we weren't all at one another's throats. What would also prove fleeting would be the warmth that line of thought started within me.

Loud, indescript shouting demanded my attention. The calmness of the site faded into memory while I took note of the trio making an approach. One beaver, one badger, and one far shorter otter storming ahead of them, pointing, scowling in mine and Jasper's direction. I turned to the wolf beside me. "Do you know these people?"

"In a sense of the word."

I got no more of an answer than that. The diminutive otter kept on marching, backed by his colleagues, right up until they were close enough to see every crease of anger upon their muzzles.

"Give!" was the heavily accented demand. His pointing went beyond us, back to the gleaming, immaculate collection of tools that had been stowed upon a set of timber behind my seat. I hadn't noticed it before. I sensed Jasper had.

"Give!" The otter repeated, adding a jab of his finger. "Mine."

Jasper appeared barely bothered, half an eye still on the latest newspaper article to pique his interest.

"Where did you find those tools back there?" I asked.

"Oh, lying around." The corners of his mouth creased. He need not say more.

The bigger beaver and badger made a point of stepping forward, shadowing us with their growing presence. I craned my neck up to them. "Meerlander?"

All but the otter ignored me; a short nod of confirmation his response. What chance they could understand me, truly?

"So good to see the shoe on the other foot, supplywise."

Jasper snorted, shuffling his paper. A turn for the worse ensued.

All three of them began to bark and to yell, creating quite the croaky chorus of nonsense in their native tongue. Jasper climbed to his feet. I joined him.

"Give!"

"I heard you the first time, rudderhide," Jasper gruffed.

"Or take." The pint-sized otter had expertly found his way to the rear of his two colleagues, gesturing between them. "We take."

Jasper had stature over all three of them. I, on the other paw, could peer down only to the bigmouth ahead of us. Rapid realisation came. A scrap would not end well for me. Nor likely for either of us.

"You're welcome to try it." Jasper, it would seem, failed to join me in reaching that same conclusion. He threw out an arm, shoving the badger backwards. The stocky Meerlander bumped the otter as he fell, who in turn staggered a fair distance of his own across the cobbles.

That beaver grunted something undecipherable, knocking me in an attempt at grabbing Jasper. He didn't count on the taller wolf reacting first, snatching his wrist, squeezing visibly tighter and tighter.

A cry that transcended language rang out. The beaver lashed about, grimacing, slapping his captor's arm, trying to submit. Back came that badger, back on his feet and charging forward. A few more Meerlanders looked ready to join him from their side of the street. In turn, we had our own countrymen lurking in our corner.

"Back off, swampy." Two strong arms stopped the badger in his tracks, grabbing whole clumps of shirt fabric. Samuel, clearly, had no intention of missing out. "Else I'll make you."

The bull either hadn't noticed or simply gave no care to the gang of Meerlanders massing fast. I watched them storm ever closer, wanting to think over which to take on first, but realistically, pondering which would be the first to lay fists on me. To say things had escalated quickly would be the grossest of understatements.

More and more bodies poured into view, decked out not in the red and marron of workers, but sheer black from head to toe. Site security flooded the street, outnumbering every party to the hostilities two, maybe three to one. They surrounded us in an instant, stern yelling rising above everything to shocking me, and it would seem everyone else, to a juddering halt.

Never mind all of their gruff, accented calls to 'stop', 'halt', and 'back away', it wouldn't be unfair to suggest the row had been ended solely by the trembling ground and the blanketing shadows rolling in.

Security came as another role for the local population; a necessity following unsavoury scenes on various sites in recent times. If the Maleni were effective at their role, then their Visoka compatriots were virtuosos.

The cobblestone rattled underfoot. Those tools taken by Jasper vibrated visibly atop the chattering lumber stacks. Striding between and above both the rocky bluff and the half-built house row behind me came a fellow fox. This one however stood utterly massive, towering over everything and everyone. Joined by a heavy-set stag and a well-built wolverine, step after crashing step sent sharp shudders through the ground. They coursed through and struck the foundations, shaking dust and detritus from the woodwork and rafters of houses in progress. I feared for their fate all while the rolling jolts rattled my teeth to their roots.

In the space of fifteen, twenty seconds, our fighting had become history. Everyone involved gave distance to the blackclad guards around them, gawking up at those in equally dark clothing far above. Surely, the most effective security force that I or any Polcian had ever encountered.

"Leave!"

That command came with enough vigour to rattle me as hard as the Visoka trio looming high with arms folded. It came not from any of them, though. Rather, that deep, brutal voice belonged to the Maleni bear I stood barely chest height against. "Get back to work. Now. Before I report you all."

The big brown bear spoke Linvendian in more than a respectable manner. He sported a thin, white armband, several dialects of 'Captain' stretched tight by bulging bicep. None of us were about to argue.

All saw fit to disperse without further issue. I caught that beaver from before, sneering, nearly snarling at Jasper while cradling the wrist he'd had half-crushed.

"Do you not hear?" That bear marched forward, barging me mercilessly with the force of his bulk alone. "Back..." Another step, another bump of his gut to my chest. "...to work."

"Okay." I threw up my paws, backing away to my work site. The thought of asking where he'd learned Linvendian came and went rather swiftly. "I want no trouble."

"Trouble. Pah." He waved me away, signalling the rest of his team to stand down. "Trouble is the problems you bring here." Those in black marched off in unison. The three Visoka included, this time with far less rumble to their stride. "Go back home to Polcia if you wish to fight and to argue. It will save us space..."

The sheer disgust in the bear's words could not be missed. Fast as the strife had started, it had ended. Hammering and sawing filled the air as work began once more. A sour taste lingered in my mouth, though I found it tough to truly feel the victim as I moved to retrieve my own worktools.

Afternoon saw the course of construction take Jasper and I onto the upper floor of the house. With the woodwork all but complete, we had only the finishing checks and touches to perform before the brickwork could be begun. As I padded along what would become the landing, sniffing the sweet scent of fresh cut timber, it came as relief to see our work still in one piece. With how hard the Visoka wing of security had stomped on by, I would have been anything but surprise to find damage.

That memory, a shock to noone I could be certain, led me to dwell again and again on how swiftly our lunch break had descended into chaos. And how sad it was that we needed security in any capacity, just to do something as simple and beneficial as building new homes for us all to live in. What impression must the Bolstrovans have of us? Granted, I had little time for a good number of my neighbours. How could I, when it was they and their homelands responsible for so much of what had forced us here? They had all played their part in forcing my family from a happy home and a comfortable life in Eastport. How, why should I just... forgive?

The smash of my hammer on wood echoed through the hall. I drew it back to find the stray nail I had targeted very much in place, and now central to a circular dent well driven into the timber. "Blast it."

"What's wrong?" Jasper called from the rear bedroom. His own hammering suggested only partial interest on his part.

"Nothing," I answered, tracing a fingerpad over the imperfection. Not deep. No splits. No cause for concern. Best not to repeat it, mind.

A deep inhale and gusting exhale proved just the tonic to at least ease the edge to my displeasure. The fog of anger that led me to cast blame, to focus only on what we had lost by coming here thinned enough to allow a small measure of perspective. Our neighbours may have forced us here, may have had a hand in leaving swathes of our country scarred by way of both cannonfire, and by the constant spectre of a seemingly never ending conflict... but they could very well say much the same. War fire does not burn the better part of six years without fuel from all concerned. The people had been left far poorer in both monetary means, and in mind. Enough so to spend a fortune to risk life and limb in the hopes of finding better. I was one of those. I was one who had brought their family here, hoping for that something better. Perhaps not for such an international citizenry around us, but for peace, certainly. How far from the unrest in the towns and cities of Linvendia, Meerland, Vitmark and beyond were we here, if we couldn't even build the beginnings of a new life without lunging at one another's throats?

My ears twitched. The rest of me followed a half second after. A deep roar undercut, then overtook the droning of work. Another twitch of my ears. They perked to shouting, creaking, cracking. An almighty, rumbling crash split the air. The house vibrated above, beneath, all around me. Way worse than anything the Visoka had mustered before. Sheer dread crashed down upon me. My whole body rocked and tensed. I lost grip of my hammer. It hit the floor with barely a sound compared.

"What in the stars was that!?" Jasper's head appeared through the bedroom doorway, eyes on stalks.

The shouting from outside had mixed with screaming. Icy cold, trembling, I staggered into the front bedroom, rushing for a view of the street. "My gods."

Jasper joined me at the glassless window. Across the way, the house that the Meerlanders were working to completion... had utterly collapsed. Support beams had tumbled, if not sheared and snapped completely. What brickwork had been started had fallen and crumbled into heaps. No longer did the house resemble anything of a house at all.

My mouth went dry with how far my jaw had dropped. The wonder over just how in the world this could have happened was silenced by the sight of workers rushing around, arms waving, shouting and bawling at one another, and at anyone else around who might listen.

A misty haze enveloped every thought, every instinct. It turned thick, heavy. Clogged my mind and weighed it down to near inactivity. My limbs seized their own control. Jasper may have said something, but I heard not what.

My legs guided me out of the room, directing me along to and down the newly built staircase. Cool air blew in through the doorless front entrance. Filled with a dust and debris that found its way into every nook and cranny.

Outside lied a scene that harked back to my days of work at the docks of Eastport. A time not too far distant. Workers rushed through wreckage, through blanketing confusion, their fur dirty with the aftermath of yet another shattered site ahead. No ship's cannon had caused this, but the result resembled much the same.

Idle steps across the cobbles brought me nowhere. A rush of those wearing red in both clothing, and in matted fur, started every one of my limbs trembling. The calling cries of those directly involved, dustiest of all, visibly distressed, distorted into noise ringing in my folded ears.

Brushes of my shoulders, knocks to my sides, barges in my back: all hardly registered. My focus remained fixed with all my strength, all my will, upon the base of the broken home. Those in red shirts and maroon trousers swarmed it, a fair few pushing and pulling at the remains. If as many people were working inside as there were on our site...

Again and again, my brain tried and failed to fire. A halfway house of fight or flight refused me leave. What would I fight? From what would I take flight? I had no answer. I could not relent.

A familiar face, a memorable voice stirred and cleared some of the haze. Shorter than most, louder than all, the Meerlander otter that made demands of Jasper on lunch break rushed around the cobbles. Arms in the air, distress clear, he cried out, "Help! Help!" to anyone who may listen and oblige. That language barrier between us, suddenly, appeared far smaller.

His eyes met mine. The spite from before stood nowhere. He cried out again, hauling an arm through the air, urging me to come. Again and again, and again.

Each step, each beckoning call, helped to awaken my thoughts to the present. Eastport was history. It had to be. The ice encompassing me thawed. My final few strides, into the heart of catastrophe, came completely of my own volition.

"-Dank je! Hartig bedankt!-" The small, brown otter smiled wide, grabbing and essentially pulling me by the arm. We passed by others who'd joined the Meerlanders in their efforts at the front of the site. Very few had reached its rear.

He guided me into what would have been the tight passage between this house and its part-built neighbour, stopping at a heaving pile of broken lumber, sat with a thoroughly shattered brick wall weighing down against it.

"-Onder!-" He jumped at the rubble, reaching back to wave me on with him. "-Kom, kom!-" Stray lumps of brick rattled down to the ground. The otter dragged himself close to the ruins, shouting louder, faster in his native tongue. He stopped for pause. My ears flicked to the small, shrill, muffled voice replying from within.

More of the brick fell away. A length of lumber shifted a measure. The buried voice cried a squealing cry. My body twitched. For the shortest of moments, I had foresight of the most terrible outcome.

"Timo!" The little otter scurried a half step to where a hole, wide enough for his arm, perhaps, had formed. "-Timo, luister. Alles komt goed.-"

He continued to yell, as did his trapped colleague. They were almost competing. Arguing. I made my approach to afford myself a better view, but only darkness could be seen within that tiny hole.

"Hey!" The otter threw back his arm, batting at my wrist. "-Blijf daar niet staan. Help!-"

I had no time to react. Already, he had returned to the heap, pulling at whatever shards of wood and clumps of brick he could muster the strength for. With my help or not, the otter had one goal in mind, and to hell with all consequences.

More and more wood hit the floor ahead of my feet. The hole grew by the second. I shifted my weight forward, aiming to lend a hand. A rumble rolled together with that first step. My second step came no slower, but my aims changed in an instant.

"Stop!" With one paw I shoved the otter aside. With the other, I reached out in sheer hope, throwing it to what remained of the wall as it threatened to shift and fall atop the wreckage completely.

My heart stopped. As did the brickwork. Less so from my efforts than by sheer, blind fortune. My rescue partner stared at me. I wondered if he at all realised.

"Do. Not. Clear. From. Bottom," I stated in loud, widely mouthed Linvendian. "Wall will fall."

He looked to the brickwork slab, then back again. No change in that blank expression on his face and muzzle.

"Top!" I waved my free arm to the peak of the pile. "Start from top."

Stars bless me, the otter nodded, and launched himself into work as per my suggestion.

Bit by bit, he shifted the debris, working downwards to where his colleague lie trapped. All the while, I kept both arms to the wall, needing more and more effort the deeper he cleared. Soon, the reality hit that arms alone would not offer enough. I shifted further and further beneath the brick, ultimately supporting it with my body in its entirety. What would come first, I pondered: the freedom of a Meerlander, or a Linvendian to join him? Once more the stars would bless me. I need not find out.

"Jeroen!?" gruffed a voice, nearby in the passage. "-Mijn goden!-"

He and the otter shared a whole host more in Meerlander. It strained my understanding as much as this wall strained me in my entirety.

"-Arjen! Kijk!-" barked my partner in this, Jeroen, pointing at me, ending the noise in an instant. "-Ga die vos helpen.-"

I could only see the ground beneath my feet in my crumpled position beneath the falling wall. Hurried steps thumped louder, closer. A paw clamping down upon my shoulder would have made me jump, if not for the crushing weight atop it.

My grimace ached with the rest of me. I managed to shift and look a measure upwards from the floor. A black and white face met me, holding a far warmer expression than the last time I saw it.

The otter's friend from the break, the tall, stocky badger, forced himself into the gap beside me. With two thick paws, he pushed up against the brickwork, easing so much of the pressure upon me. I could breathe again. Talk again. "Thank you."

"No problem." His Linvendian reply knocked me back. As soon as it came, it went, replaced by booming words in his own tongue. Back and forth the badger and otter went, the creak and clap of wood shifting serving as background noise. I understood not a thing. Neither the words, nor the situation. How did he find us? How many were out there helping? How did this all happen in the first place!? Who knew. All I could say with certainty, was that eventually, we would succeed in our combined efforts.

Jeroen yelled, then again. Not in distress, but victory. The tumble of wood, brick and more crashing onto concrete rushed and echoed all through the passageway. Dust and dirt blasted everywhere. Hacking coughing followed. Then deep gasping and heavy exhaling. A third voice, a third Meerlander, let out the longest cry of relief.

"Okay." The badger reached a careful arm to rap me on my own. "Go."

I tried to process that while the still considerable weight upon me persisted. "Go?"

"Yes!" He snorted, pushing firmer and firmer. "Go!"

If he was going to be so adamant in his insistence, I had no qualms over obeying. Carefully, I eased my shoulders down and away from the wall. Every single shift came with fear over the entire thing collapsing. Alas, I had no need to be anxious. The badger, Arjen if I heard correctly, took the full load with his arms, offering only a grumbled hint of discomfort. Clearly, far more adept than I.

For the first time in what felt to be an eternity, I righted myself upwards. Standing tall, I caught sight of a dirt-flecked weasel amid the rubble-strewn passage, squeezing Jeroen as if his life dependent on it. A wide gap had appeared in the wreckage where before there was room to fit an arm and no more. It would take no time at all to fill again.

A forceful grunt pulled my gaze back to where previously I had been pinned. Step by heavy, gradual step, I watched Arjen back himself free of the brickwork, eventually permitting gravity to take its due course.

The wall slammed to the ground with a weighty thud, clattering hard atop buckling wood and crumbling into countless pieces. The ruined house reshifted, changing dimensions, retaking the space previously afforded to the weasel. It mesmerised, left me in awe, until a pair of arms grabbed me from behind.

"-Dank je wel!-" Dust puffed up like a cloud as our red-furred friend limped to offer me another hug, from the front this time. "Thank you!"

"You're welcome," I gladly replied, arms squeezed tight to my side. My contentment tempered as he struggled off to offer thanks to Arjen, spotting the bloodied ankle causing him bother.

He threw arms around the broad badger, engaging in an a three-way conversation with his crewmates. The idea to leave them be took hold for a moment. Arjen saw fit to dissuade that.

"He say he fall. Top floor."

"Is his ankle okay?" I pointed down at it for him. "Ankle."

"-Hoe is het met je enkel, Timo?-" The weasel shrugged and blurted a Meerlander reply. "He say it look bad, but it feel not so bad."

"-Kom op!-" Jeroen bounced between the three of us, waving arms, prodding at Arjen at I. "-Er is meer te doen.-"

Whether it be coincidence, or simply time spent actually listening... their language began to make just a smallest hint of sense to my ears. He was right. There was more to do. We all joined him in race out of the passageway, back onto the cobblestone street.

Red-dressed workers numbering two score at least fought through the carnage from the front of the site, with more and more arriving by the second to offer tools, paws, whatever assistance they could to carve a way through the rubble and ruin.

I caught a glimpse of Samuel at the far corner of the lot, putting his bull frame to good use as he took the lead in smashing through the wreckage, into what remained of the collapsed living space.

In the distance, even the local Visoka workers and guards stood watching while their smaller Maleni counterparts offered aid on their behalf.

Numerous voices, numerous dialects rang out as one, pushing, urging the collective on as two, three, four more workers were pulled free in no time at all.

The Meerlanders pressed on, hunting for however many of their crewmates remained buried. All else present followed their lead. We would go for as long as they did, without question.

All concerned built up a considerable head of collective steam, cutting through the collapse, pushing the ruins aside. Under shade of what still stood upright, our work grew harder. Timber supports, sections of wall, of ceiling, of roof lied in our way. Where trapped, muffled voices were only too apparent, ears had to be perked to catch even a hint of the calls for help.

This deep into the broken home, in tight conditions, less proved to be more. Our army of helpers, for the most part, had no choice but to stop, wait, and look on. Stars forbid any mistakes. Gods forbid any further collapse.

Jasper nudged me aside, carrying on ahead down the shattered hallway. The taller wolf failed to offer up any explanation for me. He need not bother.

I watched him clamber past debris, heading for a sole beaver doing pitched battle with a huge, half-fallen support beam, blocking him from what remained of the staircase and the visibly sagging landing it once connected to.

He strained to lift it, again and again, grunt after grunt rolling out. Progress, mind, proved less forthcoming. In the end, with one last desperate, defeated groan, the beam crashed back down to the floorboards.

"Let me help," Jasper called, placing a paw on the beaver's back. Whether it came as a result of that, or the wolf's voice, the beaver jolted and turned, eyes wide and jaw agape. Grime covered his fur, matting it heavily. Smears of blood adorned his muzzle and forehead. Distraught, holding his wrist in abject agony, I instantly placed him from our disagreement earlier that day.

"-Kijk, kijk!-" His voice broke under the strain of it all. He threw up an arm, pointing beyond the blockage to the gaping hole in the ceiling. "-De jongen!-"

I followed his paw, heard his anguish. Buried under the caved remains of the upper walls and tumbled sections of ceiling, came a movement. Faint, but there. A gold-brown arm reached out, paw crooked and twisted. Not a sound came. Only the most minute of twitching movement.

"Help me!" the beaver pleaded, pained, to me, to Jasper, to anyone who might listen. Our battle seemed long forgotten. The blame for the assailant behind that damaged wrist, too. "...Please."

Jasper eased our former foe to one side, slipping that paw from his back with a firm, forthright pat. I took my place alongside him, eyes drawn still to that dusty, crumpled paw reaching down, reaching out for the both of us.

"Okay," Jasper gruffed. "Three, two, one..."

Together, we gave everything. The beam, thick as the length of my forearm, weighed heavier on me than I could have ever imagined. We fought it, dragged it higher. Brought it to our knees... then our waists. Pain set in. Fatigue. The beaver must have seen, or heard it. Injured wrist be damned, he threw his lot in along with us.

Every muscle in my arms, my chest, my whole body let out scream after scream. I slipped and stumbled, faltered and failed, but Jasper and our Meerlander teammate did not. They covered for me. They worked together to heave that massive beam up and away from our path. They dragged us over the line.

Blockage clear, pathway open, the sheer scope of the challenge ahead revealed itself. With the staircase all but gone, we would be afforded no easy way onto the devastated upper floor. A climb, that might be feasible, if not for the precarious scale of subsistence above. "Any extra weight, and the whole floor might come in on us," Jasper mused, almost apologetic. He had read my mind to perfection.

As for the beaver, language barrier or not, I sincerely doubt he would have given heed to our concerns. He charged forward, clambering up the trio of wooden panels that still resembled steps.

"Wait!"

No chance. Back arched, arms behind me, he looked set to leap onwards and upwards to the sinking landing. Stars be praised, Jasper's reactions beat mine hands down.

The beaver growled and cried out, thrashing about in the wolf's firm grasp, unknowing, or uncaring of the danger that lied ahead. I could hardly blame him.

"Stop!" Jasper snarled, unrelenting in his efforts to wrestle him away from the steps

"-Ga verdomme van me af!-" came the reply, again and again. All while that paw remained dangling from the rubble above. "-Klaas!-"

The shouting must have made it outside. Footsteps came, clattering and creaking the battered floorboards. Arjen arrived first, with Jeroen in close attention. With a single glance our way, the badger and otter rose to add to the racket.

"-Wat gebeurt er--?-"

"Back off!"

"-Laat hem gaan!-"

"-Klaas!-"

"It's too dangerous!"

"This whole place is ready to cave," I called, hopelessly lost in the chaos. Someone, somehow, had to get up there. We needed height. A ladder, or something. We had to get in from the top to have any chance... "Yes. The top!"

I was already halfway down the hall by the time Jasper called after me. "Where are you going!?"

"Don't let him get up there!"

"Francis!"

I hurried back out into open air, eyes adjusting to the daylight while tracing a path past weary helpers and frail helpees alike. Easier by far to spot were the Visoka in their sharp blue work coats, still watching from their vantage further down the road at the scene unfolding before them. If they were so convinced not to come of their own accord, then I would convince them instead.

Charging into the street, I made my stand right at its very centre. Arms up high, waving as hard and as fast as possible, I caused a scene as notable and noticeable as one Polcian fox could. "Come! Come!"

I got no response. I got little reaction. A gold-furred jackal and wide-shouldered ram glanced between one another, but otherwise, I was left to carry on waving and keep on screaming into a desperate abyss.

What was it? Could they not understand me? Language barrier or not, they surely recognised how dire my need, how hard I was fighting for just_some_ semblance of aid on their part.

"Bah." My tired arms fell. Shoulders sagged under the weight of defeat. It was hopeless to keep trying... I needed an alternative tactic. Back to the crowd I turned.

The sea of red remained strong, breaking against the broken house. All intensity had softened. Those around me had begun to stand down, catching breath, one step away from offering one another a pat on the back. They believed the danger to have passed, the crisis to be over. It set me seething.

"Hey!" Through the red, I caught a faint glimpse of black. Neither the uniform nor their proud stance could be mistaken: Maleni security.

"Hey," I cried again, battling through the starts of jubilation to bring the mood crashing right back down. That black outfit presented itself clear to me, along with the brown bear it adorned. The captain. "By the cursed saints, listen to me!"

He stopped sharing whatever words he had for his colleagues, glancing back and down towards me. It was all I could do not to leap and grab and scream at him with all my soul. I managed restrain. I implored him to, "Help."

"What?"

"We need help." He gave me nothing by way of reaction, and offered me no choice but to grab his arm and bring him to face me fully. "Someone is still inside. Trapped!"

His ears flicked. His solid frame sank back. Finally, someone had heard me. "Where?"

"The upper floor." A whimper escaped with my words; this was all taking far, far too long. "Buried. We cannot get to him." I rushed a gesture down the road. "We need somebody... big."

Stars bless me, it worked. The captain stormed forward, a giant mitt of a paw grabbing me by the wrist to drag me along with him. He carried us to where I had made my previous stand, following suit and repeating much of what I had already attempted, albeit in the local tongue.

Once again, the Visoka appeared reluctant. Once more, we were on a hiding to nothing. "Why won't they come?"

"They are worried."

"Worried? What about!?"

"About their size." The big bear kept his glare fixed upon his even bigger compatriots down the street. "About doing more harm than good."

"But we need them..." I looked back to the site. Up at the half-caved roof that had swept down upon the upper floor. "Stars above, we need them!"

The captain tossed me my arm back, charging even further down the cobblestone street. He heaved the heaviest beckoning paw through the air, growling loud enough to start me trembling. "-Nam nuzhna pomosh!-"

It worked. Whatever he said, it worked. Those two Visoka, the ram and the jackal, stars and gods above us bless them, answered the call.

They began to move, heading for the patchy grass passage that lied between the final row of houses and the bluff parting us from the full-sized city. Each of their steps sent faint trembles coursing through the ground. The shaking rose up from my feet, travelled through my legs to my body, touching me from my ears to my fingertips. Instinct may have told one to flee. To seek cover and stay away from a pair of Visoka so towering in stature. Not now. Not at all. Each step, each soft judder of the ground offered hope. What Polcian back home would ever experience this?

The entirety of the crowd, the site around us turned to bear witness. All watched the pair hurry along, negotiating the row of houses that struggled to stretch even half their height.

Our lead in this, the captain, kept on shouting, kept on barking what must have been orders or explanations of some kind. Whatever their content, his gruff words brought the Visoka rumbling all the way to the house I had been working at just minutes prior, peering down at him, at me, and the other dozens gawking back.

My neck ached from the sheer angle of my eyeline. A massive arm went up, high above the houses. The ram batted out a hand, then again, and again, watching me and those around me. Alas, one plus one failed to make two, regardless of such a sight unfolding.

"Move," bellowed the bear, shoving at my shoulder. He swept an arm of his own through the air, charging right for the rest of the crowd. "Move!"

Dazed, amazed, it took time for those dressed in red to fire into life. One by one, jaws agape closed. Hurried steps drummed across the cobbles. The crowd parted, giving a wide berth to the street directly ahead of the Visoka.

The jackal came first, a deep grunt punctuating the clamor of his audience. Standing right behind the waist-high, half-built house, his sheer scale became emphasised only further. His huge right leg raised, casting the structure in shadow as it arched and vaulted barely reaching distance from the frame of the roof. A single step carried the jackal over it. One solitary stride. A boot as long as the street stretched wide descended, touching down with a blast of wind, a sharp shake, and a deep, reverberating thump. His weight settled, drawing visible cracks and audible crumbling from the cobblestones beneath him. The lowest of the low of our concerns at that moment.

With impressive care, he brought the rest of his incredible frame into the street. That left leg followed, easing a clear distance over the house he kept eyes upon at all times. His ram colleague soon joined him, and us, atop the cobbles...

Only up close could one truly realise and take in the sheer size of the Visoka. Combined, they utterly overwhelmed this street, this site, this entire section of New Arlone they had laid out before them. A thought came and went; how humourous the notion that I could have ever hoped to command them to follow.

They took in the broken house at their feet, bending down to study it closer. A stray paw here and there swept whole clumps of what used to be the front facing wall aside. Minimal effort required to do what required a whole team of us. But, the front was not where we needed them. Time was short, and shortening still.

"Back," I yelled, rushing closer to the house. The sight of their boots, with toplines I would have to reach up for to touch, ensured I kept my distance. "The back!"

The jackal glanced down a moment before his partner. His tail swayed lazily. The hulking ram's eyes narrowed. Their heads cocked just a measure, but beyond that, way down low in the deep, dark shadows they cast, I warranted little else by way of response.

"Top floor!" I did my best imitation of a fox unfazed, throwing and pointing my arms to where my colleague lied still trapped. Buried alive. "Hurry!"

A paw took me by the shoulder, easing me back while its owner marched on forward. Our lead in this, far taller than I, still found himself hopelessly, hilariously outmatched physically. But who required physicality when sheer presence would do?

The captain unleashed a monumental roar of a shout, pointing to match me, bellowing again and again in his native tongue. Both Visoka watched him, eyes wide, mouths opening. The jackal's ears perked up high. The ram rolled his sleeves up hefty forearms. With nods in unison, we had action at last.

"Jasper!" I shifted warily towards the house, looking to the opening of the smashed hallway I had left him in. The steps of the Visoka, cautious as they appeared, still juddered the ground, still blasted my fur with air. "Get outside, All of you--!"

The wolf appeared like a shot from the darkness, stray remains of the building visibly vibrating all around him. He'd needed no prompting. "Gods above!"

Arjen came right after, helping Jeroen to drag their beaver colleague clear as well. The boots of our helpers paused to allow for retreat, but my colleagues down here on ground level showed no intention of slowing.

"We did it! We got them--?" My dawning sense of victory took almost as hard a knock as the buckling of my entire body.

"Come on!" Jasper's big right arm clattered my midriff, sweeping me along with it. My muzzle crumpled and creased against his shoulder. He left me just enough scope to see our Meerlander teammates bringing up the rear, and the two Visoka delicately positioning themselves right atop the ruin they downright dwarfed.

We made it back to the crowd unscathed, joining the rest of our work company in silent awe at a far safer distance. The giants in blue followed direction to a tee, shifting atop the broken, bootprinted cobblestone to take one side of the house each.

They rummaged and hunted, paws and hands as long as I stood tall throwing up clouds of debris as they sifted through the rubble as if it were a box of belongings.

Crashing rang out. Their studious faces and steady movement came with care, but their sheer size took a heavy toll on everything they touched. What had remained standing of the outer facade trembled and shook. Sections of wall gave up the ghost, crumbling away into dust on and around the Visoka's feet. My stomach tensed and my heartbeat quickened. I questioned how much of my guidance, and by extension the captain's, they had truly taken aboard.

The remnants of the roof started to shudder. Tiles fell away, raining down onto the cobblestone, the grass, and even the neighbouring houses. A tug at my shirt collar did nothing to ease the stress.

The beaver who had been so reluctant to leave began to cry out, fighting against his friends, and better judgement in an attempt to get back to the house. "-Mijn goden, doe voorzichtig!-"

The rumbling of rummaging stopped. Those clouds of dust dissipated. The ram looked up and across to the jackal standing between him and the crowd. His deep voice started my ears flicking from the sheer bass as each word spoken between the pair rolled and carried through the entire street.

"What are they saying?" I called to the captain, battling to get my voice even a fraction as loud as the Visoka's.

He turned, plucking... a guard of some kind from his ear. "They found him."

All attention went back to the house. The booming conversation between the two giants thundered on, and on. A casual glance back to the bear helped to comfort me. Whatever was being said had thus far caused him no distress.

The broad ram spread his arms an even wider distance, reaching down to practically snatch what remained of the rooftop into his chest. A wicked roar of noise rushed out. The structure wholly disintegrated, smashed into naught more than dust and pulp against his blue shirt. It served as an impressive distraction from the jackal's work, delicate in his plucking of wood beams and clumps of brick between fingers and thumb, before dropping them into a heap on the crushed, littered street.

He spoke softer words down to the exposed upper floor, using both paws to work away out of sight to us down on the ground. I held my breath. As did all others around me. We stood more than fifty strong here, but one could have heard the smallest pin drop, right up until the second the jackal lifted himself back to his considerable full height.

One subtle movement after another, he took all due care in turning himself in a street to narrow to contain him. The houses in varying degrees of completion stood up well to the test of the trembling beneath us. A final thud and shake came with his vaulting step back over the house row closed the bluff, comfortably straddling the home I had been working at between his sturdy legs.

He continued to offer gentle words to his flat, open paw, tending to its contents with a feather touch from the other. His tail swept slowly, but still drew sizable thumps from the neighbouring house it connected with. Again, we were all left with baited breath as the golden jackal crouched and bent to place his upturned grey paw upon the splitting cobbles.

Clamoring restarted in earnest. Many of us rushed forward to see and to tend to the final victim of the collapse: a young vole, fur more white than brown with dust, dirt and debris.

'-Struikzoeker-'. That word came back to me. A reminder of that brazen, tool-thieving vole... who lied near motionless in the palm of a massive gold-furred paw. My blood ran warm, not hot. My hackles remained flat, not raised.

"Klaas!" I watched Arjen, Jeroen and the rest of his Meerlander colleagues rush to him. Surround him. A young man... a boy, not far older than my William. The rest of us remained behind them, hoping, praying... sighing in near cheer at the hacking cough and gasping of air that broke the silence.

The irresistible urge to offer my own paw in aid started me forward. The iron will to apologise for what had been said and done that day carried me further, as if it truly mattered a damn a now. My ears perked, flicked then splayed to his shrill voice shouting out in complaint. My eyes watered as his did, grabbing and releasing his arm, shaking and squirming. A sprain? A break? My heart broke for him. But, thanks to the stars, thanks to the Visoka, he was alive. Everyone was. I took pause, stepping back to allow someone to rush past and summon the '-dokter-' being called for to tend to the boy's arm.

Jasper took my left shoulder with his paw. Samuel arrived to stand to my right. We shared muted congratulations while the rest of our team, our colleagues as a collective whole did the same. All around there were smiles, pawshakes, hugs even. Basking in a job well done, together as one.

The hows and why over the collapse would come, for certain, but later. In that moment, the entire site allowed themselves to be swept up in a mutual relief that transcended language, and transcended size, also.

For the remainder of the day, a calm ease swept over everything and everyone. The tension faded, the atmosphere grew friendly, even. A change most pleasant. And, daresay, a change most welcome.

With dusk drawing in over New Arlone, I could at last take my first step on the winding walk home, exhausted, beaten, but happy to be afforded the luxury of good health, and the blessing of seeing my wife and son once more. In that single instant, watching the factory smoke rise into the red sunset of a clearing sky, I allowed myself to ponder on how long exactly these calm, contented, cooperative times would last...

---

"No running, no climbing," Mrs. Milic called. "This is an observation deck, not a playground."

I waited for the walkway to carry me across to the window. Our whole class were laughing, pushing and shoving, having a hell of a time, much to the proper vex of the doe in charge of us. School trips I mostly hated, but this trip had been pretty cool... Not just 'cool for a museum, cool', but... cool, cool, y'know?

All the yelling and noise went down. As soon as my classmates ahead of me on the path got to the window... they stopped fooling around in a flash.

"Okay, okay, find a place to stand," Miss said from above. She wasn't having much luck with keeping us Maleni in check, that was for damn sure. "On the deck! Don't crowd the belt..."

She and the other Visoka gathered behind us, finding their own spots to take a peek out this straight huge window. My boy Davor was one of them. The hare pushed past a few of our classmates to find and join me. "Hey, Fox, I thought I lost ya back--oh, damn..."

'Oh, damn' was right. Outside this window, just a short ways away... stood this sprawling, fenced-off mini-town, condensed right between a small stony cliff and the sea.

"This class, is the first settlement that was founded by those fleeing the East Polcian War. The first major migration of Polcians into Bolstrovo." Miss took up position at the far end of the window. "It went by many names in the early days, depending on your national origin. New Arlone, Oostpoort, and others. But eventually, 'New Polcia' found favour, becoming the city's official name..."

Honestly, Mrs. Milic's presentation got me bored right quick. Who gave a damn about names and pointless crap like that? I was done with her. I had way more interesting stuff to see.

This place had some funky tag readers that we could use with our phone at the different exhibits. I put mine to one tag printed to a board next to me at the railing, letting it load up while I took in more of this city outside... Hundreds, thousands of wood and brick houses, all set close and huddled, leaving hardly any grass or space anyplace. No room for anything more than a few people my size on those tiny stone streets, either. I mean tiny, tiny. Not just 'Maleni' tiny, as Davor would probably say.

"Man," he whispered, poking a finger at me. "Vilim, this place is _beyond_Maleni tiny."

Told ya.

"I'm pretty sure this is where my family arrived when they came from Meerland." Stipe nudged me as he jumped from the walkway behind. "Way back in the day."

"Where've you been?" I looked up and down the badger. "Lost you back in the room with all those boats and crap."

"Been about..." He pushed himself up onto the railing. "Oh, damn."

"That's what I said," reminded Davor.

"Bigger than I figured it'd be." Stipe glanced up at him. "Not big enough for you, mind."

"Nothin' you guys build's big enough." The hare grinned, leaning to tower over us. "That's why you gotta have all your little walkways 'round Sturanja."

"Hey, careful ya lump. Ya might break something."

"Ah, the walkway's fine."

"I meant the town outside, you overgrown klutz--"

"Boys!" Mrs. Milic screeched. "Pay attention..."

We didn't. I preferred to check out the museum article on my phone instead. Stipe joined me, and I shared my screen to Davor's bigger one.

It mentioned something about the construction process, talking about how rapid the city went up and developed from its start two-hundred-and-fifty-odd years ago. 'With speed came danger', it read. 'Regulations around safety were far, far more lax than we find in place today. Accidents and injuries, sometimes severe, were only too common'.

"Check it," Stipe called, waving his own phone. "I got up the census."

"The what?"

"The first ever census they did in New Polcia."

"Why?"

"So they can tell who be living there--"

"No,why ya got it?"

"Told you! I think this is where my family arrived back in the old days."

I watched him scroll through a long, long list of names. Long. Davor and me looked to each other, shrugged, and still we had time to go back to watch Stipe scrolling.

"Hey, look it." He held his phone up to my muzzle. "Novak."

"Yeah..."

"One of these might be related to you."

"There's a lotta Novaks."

Stipe went on down the list. "Foxes!"

"There's a lotta foxes, too."

"Heads of household... Albert Novak, Andreas, Bram Novak..." He went on and on, listing off more Novak foxes than I ever thought possible. "...Etienne, Francis, Frederik--"

"Alright, alright," I batted his arm away. "Stars above, I get it."

"Our families might have lived in one of these houses." Stipe climbed back onto the railing, looking out onto the old town. "Ain't that cool?"

I had to admit to myself... It was. Didn't get all that much time to think on it, though. Mrs. Milic's calling soon pulled us all away from the window.

"Come on, you three!" She waved us on to the exits the last of our class had taken. "The coach won't wait forever."

"Crap," Davor grunted, turning to us with a buck-toothed smirk. "You guys want a lift?"

"Check!"

I moved fast to jump into the big hare's left paw. Stipe took position in his right, once he'd put that census away, anyhow...

I gripped Davor tight, who in turn did the same as he carried us away from the observation deck and out to the coach park at rapid pace. Had to admit it, in cases like this, we all worked damn well together!