FSE

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Hi everybody.

For those of you still reading this series, how do you feel about it? Is it too slow, too much exposition? Or is it doing a good job of describing characters and setting the scene and themes of the setting?

I'd love to get your feedback on how I can modify my writing as the story goes on to make this more interesting. For some reasont his series isn't getting nearly the readership as my previous one, and I'm trying to figure out why that is.

Anyway, thanks for reading!

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"So in this vision of yours, the Finder of the Lost has told you what...That there's a source of this plague, and you're fated to do something about it?"

Timid shifted uncomfortably in the rough-spun clothes they'd scrounged for him from the soldier's barracks, tugging at the wool collar as it made him itch even through his own fur.

"Well yes. Er...I think. More like he said I should find some sort of 'dark heart' and put the Finder's Star into it. Whether that's meant to stop the plague, I don't really know."

He held up the old piece of jewelry, the firelight glinting luminously off it as the three sat on the floor of the surgery, speaking of prophecy as Sir Cel lay silent and hopefully healing.

Tomasj rolled his eyes, as he fussed at his tall hat, brushing drying mud from its brim and muttering in his native tongue a moment before speaking more intelligibly.

"It is simple. You have a weapon that destroys the undead. We saw you do it, and Nastasia says to me the Finder's Star is the focus and you are the will behind it."

Timid blinked at him, head tilted in perplexity, then looked down at his lap with a sigh.

"Tomasj, I'm not...I can't do that sort of thing. I'm...I'm just not that strong."

Tomasj opened his mouth to spill forth his usual abuse, but the Warden raised his paw, quieting the wolf's intended annoyed tirade.

"He believes you are." The fox thumbed to his side at the wolf. "Frankly, you threw yourself at an armed opponent to give your friend a chance to take me down. In my long experience as a hunter of other furs, only the simple-minded or the zealously faithful are willing to sacrifice themselves that way."

Timid didn't look up. The Finder's Star where he'd re-hung it around his neck felt over-heavy, like a lead weight on his neck. He had no intent to turn from the Finder's quest, but now that he knew the god he'd spent his life giving lip-service to was indeed real and not just a clever device to help the downtrodden, he felt a heavy sense of guilt, powerlessness, holding him as if stones were piled on his back.

"Then I must be simple..."

"No. You have faith...In decency."

From behind him, a raspy voice cut the air, and all eyes turned towards her in surprise. On the table, the bandage-wrapped woman knight had opened one of her startling-blue eyes, the swelling having decreased enough that she could see the strangers arrayed before her.

The woman's voice was rough enough to pass for a man, she caught herself thinking, despite the fact everyone here no doubt knew her real gender. She coughed once as she tried to speak again, an itch in her chest turning it into several more before her breathing settled enough to speak again.

"I am Sir Cel. Decency, father...Means politeness, too..."

Timid blushed, though the gentle admonishment made him laugh as well, the pressure in his chest easing somewhat as he rubbed at the back of his neck.

"I'm called Timid. The black wolf is Tomasj, and our vulpine friend just introduced himself before you woke. His name's Vanyal."

Her blue eye tracked from Timid to the forest warder, taking in the fox's appearance. He wasn't overly large, maybe a few inches taller than the diminutive priest, but by the way he sat, his knees on the ground and footpaws perched under his rear, handpaws resting on his upper legs with elbows slightly to the side, she judged he could certainly hold his own in a fight. Or, at the very least, was disinclined to be taken unprepared even when sitting.

The green brown and grey leather armor he sported partly hidden by his dusky cloak and forest-patterned patch tunic supported the theory well.

"Venyal...Of the Forest Folk? Your name sounds like it."

The vulpine quirked a brown-furred brow, and bowed his head slightly to the wounded warrior.

"I am."

As she girded herself for the next sentence and the pain it would send shooting through her aching face, the little priest stood and walked to her, placing a paw on her forehead. Cel felt tension coil in her body, then release when her abused muscles simply could not hold it. She closed her eyes, fighting down the urge to strike out at the cat, both because she knew she couldn't and because she knew she shouldn't.

With a pleased voice, he proclaimed proudly, "Your fever's broken! It's a wonder, I wasn't sure you'd ever wake."

She couldn't smile, her face too pained to manage beyond a few twitches until his paw moved away and the tension in her jaw abated.

"Then I have you...To thank for my life?"

The priest shook his head, with a beaming smile, and waved his paws ablatively.

"No no no, I just did what needed to be done. Your will is what saved you, not my little bandages and poultices. A-and beside that, we've yet to figure out a way to leave here alive, and there's not much food in the stores."

She nodded, shifting her head as much to show agreement as to test her range of motion. Toryen Casso had cut her badly, but his brother Royval had preferred beatings. Luckily, it seemed he'd been restrained enough not to break her neck, though it ached horribly.

"Venyal, you are...A forester. Rumor says your people...Know old ways of the woods."

The warden's eyes shifted to the side, and he merely shrugged. Now was not the time for secrets, though it pained him to go against old promises of secrecy. She would understand, he hoped, in context of what the others had told him of this undead plague.

"Among the Veldrin, which is what we call ourselves, it's the wives who know the deepest of the old paths. We men are hunters and warriors, but they decide where and when the hidden villages should move. We'll have to make our way to my wife, who will likely be in Sundertown by now, guiding other villagers to the start of the old paths."

Cel grunted, having understood but not wishing to nod again. The little priest was touching her again, and it made her tense all over, despite the logical knowledge he was just checking her bandages and doing what needed to be done. The flashes of vision were, she believed, fever dreams infringing on the waking world. Nonetheless, she kept seeing Royval's vengeful savage smirks, and Toryen's strange petulant childish smiles.

"S-sundertown...You will have to lead us."

Tomasj snorted, derision spilling from his voice as he spoke up.

"And fight through an undead host when you cannot walk? Then outrun them in the forest when, again, you are a cripple? I think not, woman!"

The growl that tore from her throat was sudden, hard and harsh as a whip, as she managed the strength to speak stern words that had the wolf blinking in surprise and smirking in amusement.

"If you are afraid, wolf, then stay behind!"

Timid's paws touched on her chest, just below her breasts, and pressed there in a way that made her gasp and squirm. She saw him grimace in apology, keeping the pressure with one paw as the other fiddled with bandages out of her range of view.

"Tomasj, Sir Cel, the vision was quite clear that I need all of you. All and one more, before we can look for whoever this 'frozen one' might be. Do any of you have any ideas who that is, now that I think of it?"

He got back only silence, and a slight shushing of cloth as Venyal shifted his weight forward so he could unsling and begin oiling his bow. Timid hung his head with a sigh, and rubbed at his face with his fingers.

"Then our course is clear. We head to this Sundertown, find these secret paths you've mentioned, Venyal, then make our way to the city. If anyone knows about this 'frozen one', it will be one of the priests at the grand cathedral. Also, we have to make sure your message got through, warden. I won't see another entire city wiped out just because of indecision."

Timid put a paw on Cel's arm, careful not to land it on any of her many wounds, and spoke more softly to her.

"I do not know why they did this to you, but you must understand. We can disguise you. We have to warn the people-"

She interrupted him, her voice soft so she could avoid sounding choked.

"I am not afraid of danger. The people are always first. King Callian's First Rule."

The warden looked up from his bow, and frowned at her, though none but the witch-hunter was positioned to see it. He knew the stories of the glorious, good, and chivalrous Sir Cel, from his days serving King Callian before the revolt. He'd fought raiders in the forest, allies of King Verenax, before Duke Casso's allegiance had been sworn to the revolt.

Still, he had sworn oaths to uphold the law. He'd seen what became of the people when there was no law to protect them, and no respect for it even in difficult times. Venyal's brows beetled, and he set the bow calmly aside, unstrung, before speaking.

"The law must be upheld to serve the people. You of all furs know that, if you are indeed who you claim. Turn yourself in when we arrive, I promise you I'll do all I can to make certain his Grace hears us out."

Timid felt as if his stomach was full of curdled milk, sighing as he leaned against the table on which Sir Cel rested. He could see her shaking, out of the corner of his eye, tremors running up and down her body as she let her eyes close.

She was beautiful, before they did this to her...

He was entirely surprised when it was Tomasj who broke the silence, laughing from under the shadowy cover of his wide-brimmed tall hat.

"You are a fool too, law-man. Casso is a duke, he does not deal with realities or decency. He deals only in power and pride. He will finish the job his men started, laugh at the priest's prophecies, and have your head for being a peasant with enough temerity to speak to him."

Venyal reminded himself not to be goaded, and picked his bow back up to continue oiling, using the simple activity as a focus for clearing his mind.

"Duke Casso cares about his lands, even if only for how they reflect upon him. He's arrogant, yes, and he's greedy. But he will listen, if he knows his own survival and that of all his life's work depends on it."

Timid shook his head and looked towards the window, where a low drumming told him the rain still fell.

"By how fast they were shambling, how long until they reach the city?"

Venyal shrugged as he oiled.

"Four days, I would say. If we leave here and travel at full speed, which is impossible with a wounded woman, we can make the city in a day and a half through the forest paths."

Cel didn't open her eyes, just spoke, sounding incredulous.

"We could not make that pace on horseback! How could you make it on foot, through woods?"

Venyal just gave a mysterious, grim half-smile.

"You city-dwellers have forgotten plenty of things we still remember. Have faith, milady."

A pensive look crossed his face for a moment, beetling his brows as his eyes went distant, then re-focused.

"I have an idea."

Venyal perched on the tower roof, and forced himself to abandon his sense of annoyance at finding there was a damn door he could have used, rather than that silly window that had nearly killed him.

He emptied his mind, thought by thought, turning his face upwards towards the falling rain and feeling it drum against his nosepad and face fur, pooling in the back of his cloak.

The warden's thoughts went down familiar paths, as he performed the mental exercise. He brought up in his mind an empty, white room. Its smooth plaster walls rendered the place just warm enough not to shiver, cool enough not to sweat, and blotted out all sound and detail of the world beyond.

He imagined himself sitting in its midst, naked to the fur, dry and comfortable, with his legs folded and his paws sitting on his knees, his back straight and expression placid.

Around him, the world faded away. The rain was simply gone, unimportant, as were his worries about what was to come. Finally, he opened his eyes, calmed, and whispered as he descended the outside of the tower towards that same tree branch that had seen him into it.

"Hear me, oh wind, and bear my words home. Tell her to send us the horses, that we might outrun our foe even with wounded feet."

A gusting blast of wind, furious with stinging rain, whipped past him as he reached the tree branch, gripping it with one paw so he could swing himself up onto it and grab with all four limbs. Behind him, Timid saw this through the window and snorted, folding his arms over his chest and tapping a booted foot, waiting with anticipation for the fall he expected to see.

When the fox failed to fall, to an agonizing and amusing death amongst the swarm below, Tomasj sighed his annoyance and turned crisply to stalk down the steps towards the medical room below.

When he shoved the door gracelessly aside, his eyes alighted on Timid as the slender feline was helping their baggage sit up. The wolf snorted and put a paw against the doorway for something to lean against as he looked her up and down.

Tall for a woman, she looked far more human now that her bandages were clean, though they were beginning to yellow and redden already in the places along her back where flesh had been stripped away, perhaps with a scourge. The injuries put him in mind of what he and his brothers had done, years ago, to the witches they hunted.

The thought made him smirk, and he reached down to readjust the crotch of his leather pants, the memory of glorious witch hunts past sending a tingle down his body that forced blood into his groin and left his body feeling giddy with energy.

A pulse of exhaustion so powerful it made him start to cough surged through his body then, and he doubled over against the door, hacking into his paw as the priest turned towards him.

"Ah...Are you all right?"

Tomasj looked up, under the brim of his hat, and saw the knight was watching him as well, her eyes hard and cold like frozen stone. Brother Timid's face was scrawled with concern, and no small amount of nervousness, his arms wrapped around the woman's midriff to keep her upright.

"N-no." He hacked again, and felt the itching burn in his chest that he knew meant there'd be blood on his paw if he bothered to look. Instead of doing so, he merely wiped the sticky redness onto his pant leg.

"Nastasia is...Angry with me. I will go make her feel better."

With that, he turned and limped his way for the nearest door, shouldering it open to flop down on the floor as soon as he was able.

Tomasj sucked in cool, stinging breaths, he looked down towards the pistol, cradling it in his paw as he drew the weathered old thing. His chest felt heavy, though he imagined it a weight of blood more so than emotion.

In the low, guttural tongue of his home, he spoke to it, his voice full of annoyance and amusement intermingled together.

"What is it now? You are angry again?"

The blackened, blood-stained weapon sat silently in his paws, and he raised it up, barrel towards his forehead until he could see the packed shot where it rested, explosive fury contained in its leaden load. He angrily shook the thing, growling.

"I know you are angry that I killed you! You deserved it for what you did!"

The barrel loomed before him, slowly filling his vision, the scent of gunpowder overwhelming his nose with its peppery aroma. His limbs felt numb, his ears full of the rushing noises of blood so he could hear nothing else. His world seemed to darken in the pistol's background, with the weight of its wrath, and he smiled.

"Are you ready to kill me yet?"

The barrel touched his forehead, hot to the touch, like his wife's flesh often was when they made love, or fought, or fucked while fighting.

It quivered against him, his paw shaking, caressing his forehead with the deadly, near blistering-hot weapon. He felt the crusty blood caked on its aperture as it crackled against his skin, combing through his wiry fur as the smell of singed fur joined the scent of warm gunpowder.

Finally, he found Nastasia's heat tapering off, the weapon caressing his thin, chapped black lips, the tastes of copper and dust spilling into his mouth as the enchanted weapon dripped its unending slow dribble of blood.

He gave it a lick, tender and affectionate, as he brought up his off paw to caress its side.

"You cannot forgive me, and I cannot forgive you. What a marriage, hah!"

The wolf laughed a while, enjoying the burning in his lungs as he did, a scourging to help do penance for the sin of loving a witch. By the time he was done, his own blood had dribbled down his lips into the fur of his chin, and he daubed a finger into it to trace a scarlet pattern along the dormant pistol.

"Maybe when we are done helping this priest. Maybe then you will let me die, yes? Then we can be together again, burning in hell as one."