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"There are things we see with our eyes, and we know them by their look. There are things we touch with our fingers, and we know them by their texture. There are things we smell, and we know them by their fragrance. But there are things, young ones, such things as you have never seen, touched or smelled; you would think me mad were I to tell you of them, but you must believe they are there. They hide inside us, lurking beneath our skin like some grand mystery, sliding through us, yet they are not us. They are him."

The Chaplain stood over the assembled furs, his pulpit a dark mockery of the one he towered at during his daytime sermons. Its red lacquered body was similar in shade to the red robes which hung around the broad shouldered lion's body. Its gold lined fringes wavered in the growing breeze which stole through the night air like a thief spying on the assembled furs. There were twenty in all, though only eight of them were dressed. Seven of the eight stood in a semicircle behind the preaching lion, their hoods pulled tightly over their hidden faces and only darkness within.

"Know that you shall know this bliss, young ones. It will find you either in death, or in rebirth; whichever path you are destined to take, He will walk with you!" There was a soft murmur from the remaining twelve furs. Each wore only a simple pair of red silken briefs, and all of them were male. They watched the lion with unblinking eyes, their mouths clenched tightly and a consistent pit of uncertainty yawning amongst their collective bellies; none showed their fear, but they all felt it.

Neema was no different. The white furred mouse had recently celebrated his twentieth year of life, though he had always found him questioning what sort of life it was. The second born son of a wealthy merchant, the lean boy had lived a life of pampered mediocrity. Servants had attended his needs, his father had ensured he was well employed in some middling position within the trading company, but deep below this success Neema knew he would never be anything more.

"Are you tired?" the voice tickled at the back of Neema's thoughts as he stared blankly at the pontificating feline atop the stage spread before them. The tropical garden they had been assembled in had grown restless with a coming storm, trees wavering in the starlit periphery, but it was his own memories that held Neema's attention.

"Are you tired?" The stranger had asked. It had been several weeks ago but still every detail was burned into Neema's memory. The stale air of the rodent's office, the sweet tang of the spice wafting from the stranger's clothing, and the crackling raspiness that had marred his words.

"No. I'm just bored." Neema answered, dropping his pen back into his inkwell and lifting his eyes to peer into the darkness created by the stranger's blood red hood. The faint lines of a face were all he could make out, however, and the young rodent's whiskers bristled in annoyance. "How did you get in here?"

_ "Much the same way you did, young master" the stranger began, "with little effort."_

_ Neema's annoyance grew into an unsettled consternation._

_ "If you don't leave, I'll call for the guards. Our business hours are long over and I have little patience for beggers" the mouse snapped, rising from his chair but finding the stranger still dwarfed him. Outside a carriage drawn by a pair of horses clattered along the cobblestones of the street. They seemed distant somehow, as though muffled by a wall despite the gaping window facing that very street._

_ "There are always hours for business, young master, and sometimes the most important business comes when the sun has set, and the good have cloistered themselves in the frail security of sleep. This is business for such a time and I believe it would do you good to listen."_

_ Neema simply stared; the stranger's accent was strong, and at times Neema seemed to be hearing words which weren't English at all, yet somehow his mind soaked them up as though they were._

_ "Lord Seward's manor. When the half moon glows, you will find your true purpose in life."_

_ "Lord Sewa--" Neema began, but even as he spoke the figure before him turned and seemed to flow through the window like some demon come straight from Hell itself. The candle flickering atop Neema's desk flickered, sputtered then died; in the darkness, Neema crossed himself before he realized he'd even done it._

There had been little debate in Neema's mind following the encounter. A good religiously minded boy, he had found himself assaulted by all the temptations his religion had done little to insulate him against. As he'd climbed the steps to the vast exotic gardens of Lord Seward's estate, he gave himself over to his own ambition entirely; he would not be a servant to his brother, he would carve his own name into the Book of Glory... somehow.

Now he knew how he would.

The others were like him, second or even third sons of notable descent, none afforded the luxury of their own destiny but all helpless to be anything more than footnotes in the great deeds of others. They had come, and like him, they listened.

"Know that like blood, we flow eternal, young ones. We hide beneath the skin of the daytime world yet we feed it all the same. We do this with His blessing, and today we seek fresh blood to appease him, and fresh flesh to carry out His will." The lion hoisted a large chalice above his head, its gold wrought basin embedded with rubies that shimmered in the light of the torches which ringed the clearing. "Drink of Him, and give Him rise within your hearts and know that the worthy shall join us, and the unworthy shall join Him!"

The dagger the lion pulled from his cloak was lit by the white light of the stars and as it slit open one of the feline's arms, he didn't flinch. Dark blood oozed through his fur before finally dropping almost sullenly into the chalice. Not a word was spoken as the lion drained himself, and only once he was satisfied did he speak again.

"Drink."

The chalice was brought to the head of the line of unclothed youths, and each in their turn drank. There was no mystical display of light, no great resounding truth revealed, and as each drank they grimaced before resuming their stone-faced scrutiny of the lion's movements. When Neema's turn came he balked for only a second. The blood was already thickening in the chalice and as he put it to his lips it slid down his throat with all the consistency of congealing eggs. The urge to gag was stifled only by the boy's desire to appear strong in the face of his judge; whatever this task was meant to test, he would be found worthy.

The lion continued the grim task of feeding his own blood to those assembled, and once it was done he resumed his post at the blasphemous lectern and looked over the boys. Each of them had begun to feel something gnawing at their bellies; it was not the fear or uncertainty that had plagued them earlier, it was something new. A deep yearning tingled in the darkest recesses of Neema's brain and he struggled to control himself as his heart began to race with a lust hitherto unfelt by the boy. His cock grew hard, possessed by a mind of its own and the resistence in Neema's mind melted away. He relished the intense feeling of his hardening prick as it pressed against the silk of his briefs, and in that moment the mouse felt invincible. The young rodent afforded himself a single stroke of the heated flesh, and several other boys followed suit, each eyeing one another even as they succumbed to the desires infused by the lion's blood.

"There is no room for weakness. Weak blood hurts the body, and the body must thrive. Go now, young ones, cast out the weakness amongst you and prove yourselves worthy of His blessing!"

Caught up by whatever force had claimed his mind, Neema and several others roared out a short cry of acknowledgement. Their enthusiasm was interrupted by the clatter of metal clashing against stone as a number of blades were thrown to the ground before them. There was no need to question what they meant, and the boiling blood coursing through Neema's veins danced at the opportunity being provided to him; he would be worthy of His blessing, and the other males would feed the body.

A distant roll of thunder played the role of a starter gun, the assembled youths scattering at the sound. They disappeared into the blackness which huddled at the edges of the torchlight like a predator waiting to pounce, moving with only the whisper of bare feet. The gardens were vast and they would be a suitable battlefield. Patches of tropical growth grew between the stone-brick pathways and each corner, each bush and each swaying tree was a potential hiding place.

Neema stole into the night with only a few stragglers still lingering behind at the base of the Chaplain's dais. The thinly curved falchion he had grabbed from the pile of weapons was a welcome weight in the white furred male's paw; the hilt was hot in his paws, or perhaps it was just his paws which were hot. Blood pumped and roared in his veins, egging him on to search into every crevice the garden provided; each empty hiding spot was a disappointment to the boy, hoping he would find his first victim hiding in the next one. There was no sign of the others until the sound of clashing metal somewhere nearby had Neema's ears swiveling, his head twisting jerkily to the side as he sought out the source of the noise. A soft glimmer from the corner of his eye caught Neema's attention, however, and as a dagger slashed through the air towards the back of his neck, Neema threw himself to the side.

A boastfully swaggering tawny lynx came slipping from the foliage as he spun one of the two thin daggers he held. The feline's foot came down on the sprawled mouse's back with little restraint, Neema's breath rushing from him in a strangled cry of surprise. When heavy paws curled around his neck from behind and drug him to his feet, the mouse found himself eye to eye with a killer; there was no emotion in the lynx's eyes, though the smile on his face was enough to give that empty stare a sense of malice.

"My first sacrifice to Him," sneered out the lynx as he brought his blade up to Neema's throat. The mouse's cock was as hard as his intended killer's, both of the boys tenting their red briefs with carnal lust even as Neema struggled against the sturdy paw against his neck. With a virile intensity, Neema's prick ached as the first touch of metal against his bare throat brought a shiver up his spine. A voice in the back of his mind screamed suddenly, as though awakened by the self-destructive appreciation the boy held for his situation.

"FIGHT BACK!"

Neema's knee came up and slammed into the heavy orbs outlined in the lynx's briefs. Hot pain broke through the deadness of the other male's eyes and Neema was relieved to see it. The lynx's body lurched backwards, carrying the mouse for the first few steps before another hard knee into the lynx's defenseless cock sent him to his knees. Clutching his assaulted shaft, the lynx felt bile rising in his throat and only the certainty that he'd empty his stomach if he screamed kept him from howling.

"F-Fuckin' bast--"

The lynx's final defiant--though weak--snarl as he shuddered on his knees was cut short by Neema's falchion opening his throat. The agile mouse had wasted no time in grabbing his fallen weapon, spinning on his heels and sending it cleanly through the feline. Blood burbled at the thick incision, the look on the lynx's face twistedly comedic as his wide eyes and jabbing tongue bespoke of his realization that he'd just been killed.

"Grrrrrk!" The lynx brought a paw up to clutch at his own throat as blood began to pulse from the wound. It gushed down the slain feline's chest and matted his fur even as he tumbled backwards. Hips arching as he twisted and writhed on the garden-floor, the lynx's death throes brought a smirk to Neema's lips.

"Cast out the weak and the body thrives," Neema muttered almost teasingly as he watched the lynx's movements slow and begin to stall. In one last brilliant gush, the lynx's cock erupted with thick cum, darkening his briefs even as his own blood pooled beneath his body. The orgasm wracked the defeated lynx, cum oozing down his length and dripping from the legholes of his briefs, though the feline was far beyond caring. With one final exhausted rattle, the feline fell limp at Neema's feet; the blood continued to trickle from the male's ruined throat but the stilling of the lynx's heart robbed much of the blood's speed. Kneeling down Neema stroked a finger through the spilled blood and dragged it through his own chest fur. The red line created a stark contrast to the white, and Neema looked down at it as though it were a badge of honour.

A scream in the distance signaled the end of another would-be cultist; the sharp bark of laughter which followed was no doubt that of his killer. Neema moved towards the sound and found three youths battling over the body of a fallen fourth. The boy on the ground was bellydown, trying to drag himself to the perceived safety of the foliage. Even as he tried to save himself, a trail of blood left in his wake marked the male as doomed. Neema moved in and joined the fray. The mouse's prick was like a magnet, dragging him towards the inevitability of death or glory.

Neema easily blocked the wild swing of a thin collie. The mouse turned the incoming weapon away and ducked low, slashing at an upwards angle, hoping to catch the canine before he could readjust his balance to parry. The collie hopped backwards instead, stumbling just out of range of the swing as he brought his light rapier around. Neema did not raise himself from his crouch, using the momentum of his swing to help propel himself forward and in too close for the collie's blade to strike him.

Nearby, A well-muscled stallion was too busy bearing down on an uncertain looking otter to pay much attention to Neema; none of the boys paid much attention either as the fallen male finally succumbed to his injuries and died, his legs sticking from the bushes he had hoped would provide some refuge. The smell of blood hung in the air like a swarm of mosquitoes, nipping and biting at the boys' noses as they continued to fight. The collie had clearly been trained to fight; many of the more prominent families still held onto tradition and trained their boys to wield a blade. The thin rapier was hard to follow in the dimness of the garden's shadows, but Neema held it at bay with his heavier weapon.

A sudden riposte by the collie nearly sealed Neema's fate. The canine's weight lunged forward, sending the blade streaking towards Neema's chest only to be turned away by an awkward parry that left the mouse off balance. One of the collie's fists came up and slammed into the mouseboy's chin, sending the rodent reeling backwards as blood quickly welled against his lips. The smug grin on the collie's face betrayed his arrogance and Neema saw his advantage. Another fist came down and crashed into Neema's cheek, once again causing the boy to stumble a step; the mouse knew the collie would bring his blade in to finish him off, but he had to wait until the canine committed if this was going to work. Head bowed, the mouse feigned exhaustion, his blade hanging by his side and his head hunched over as though he were trying to catch his breath. Act or not, Neema's face ached from the blows of his opponent and he could feel blood trickling from a split in his lip.

"Submit" sneered the collie as he stepped in towards the seemingly stunned mouse. The canine's rapier glinted in a ray of moonlight as it rose like the tail of a scorpion to strike a mortal blow against Neema. The demand to submit was formality more than anything; whatever the mouse chose to do, death was the expected outcome-- but it would not be his, not this time. When the collie's rapier hit the pinnacle of its lift, Neema struck. The canine had been ready for some trickery on the part of the rodent, but Neema's speed still caught the boy by surprise. The falchion swung upwards in a dangerous slash that--should it miss--would have no doubt left the boy exposed to his opponent's rapier, but it didn't miss. Dark crimson blood splashed into the trees as the falchion slit a large laceration along the reaching canine's exposed gut.

"GRAAAAAAH!" the scream of the collie rocked the miniature battlefield. Neither the stallion or otter looked, but Neema watched with no small satisfaction as the slash along the canine's belly grew wider as the meat inside sought to escape. Both of the slain boy's paws moved to his belly to try and hold himself together, but blood pulsed from between his arms and soaked his lower body as it already began to pool beneath him; it was a messy kill, a cruel one. Neema's shaft jerked in his briefs as he scooped up the boy's fallen rapier, eyes not leaving his new victim despite the collie's sudden and overpowering fascination with the pain that was raging inside his body. "H-How..." rasped the boy as shock overtook him and he fell to one knee.

Neema smirked, but did not speak. Leaning in, the boy planted a firm kiss to the dying male's lips. The two remained locked like that for seconds, but each one of those seconds was enough to fill the young mouse with a new wave of dire lust. Neema only broke it when he tasted the metallic tang of blood on the dog's lips. The collie's searching lips left him reeling as the support the mouse's weight had offered disappeared. It was quickly replaced by the mouse's hips however, the musky tent in the mouse's briefs ground into the boy's face, marking him as Neema's kill; pre-cum oozed from the rodent's prick as he asserted his dominance in so primal a fashion.

The collie's own weapon sealed his fate. Hips pulling back, Neema drove the confiscated weapon into his fallen opponent's throat, saving him from the drawn out death a belly wound like his promised. A final choking "Hraak!" was the only sound the collie could make as his eyes shot open and immediately grew glassy, the male toppling backwards into the pool of blood which had formed beneath his ravaged body. The canine didn't writhe like the lynx had, though his feet pushed against the ground as though trying to propel him to some unlikely safety. The collie's hard prick still jutted upwards, somehow defying the loss of blood which should have rendered it limp. Neema could only watch as his boiling blood basked in the satisfaction of sending another weaker male to his death, and despite himself he could feel his hand curling around his own proud prick and stroking needfully. For the collie all that was left was the warm rush of cum spraying into his briefs, his impotent seed wasted in his own crotchfur as it slithered along his shaft and balls beneath the sheen of blood which covered him.

By the time the collie was dead, Neema felt as though he was going to cum as well, his balls aching with their desperate urge to empty. There was still work to do, though the equine and otter were still battling. Only one of the three remaining males would walk away from this little skirmish, and Neema waited to see who his next opponent would be. Absently the mouse reached down and--like the lynx before--added a streak of the collie's blood to the white fur of his own chest.

The end of the fight came quickly, and unexpectedly. The otter had been on the defensive for much of the fight. The equine's size, and the power which came with that size, had battered at the smaller male relentlessly. The horse was getting tired, however, his brown pelt speckled by beads of sweat and his movements growing sloppy. When the otter's shortsword snuck through the horse's defensives in a lightning-quick counterattack, there was little the large male could do. The blade plunged into the equine's belly and the large male's body reared backwards in pain. Unlike the others, there was no delay in the reaction of the horse's body. Rich cream pounded through the thin fabric of his briefs and created a glistening arc that splattered against the otter's chest. The vanquished male's hips bucked violently as pulse after pulse of his impressive climax painted his opponent; the normally virile display only served as a final humiliation for the male, put down by what he had assumed to be an easy kill.

"YAAAAAAAIIIIEE!" The male's deathcry rattled even Neema, but the otter was mechanical in his efficiency. The blade was yanked out roughly and even as the horse began to crash to the ground--his rubbery legs refusing to support his weight any longer--the otter's blade struck again, cutting into the horse's neck and propelling him down even quicker with the force of the swing. The large male was dead before his body had fully fallen, his tongue hanging lewdly from between his lips and his dick still dribbling the last of his climax.

The horse had not even begun to cool before Neema moved in to attack the otter. Stepping over the body of the collie he had slain--the boy's cock now flaccid--Neema jabbed forward with the rapier, hoping to catch the diminutive otter before he had fully recovered. The falchion was held loosely in his other paw, ready to strike if it was needed. The otter was no fool, however. Whether energized by his kill, or simply more skilled than he looked, the mustelid's body twisted easily away from the stab. His shortsword came up and clashed with the thinner blade, knocking it away easily before he stabbed forward. Neema reeled and nearly tripped over the collie's corpse before gathering himself enough to attack again.

The two exchanged blows, neither able to gain the upper hand. When Neema was certain he had grabbed an advantage, the otter would surprise him with a brilliant parry and riposte, or force a clinch that the stocky otter always seemed to come out on top of. A pair of thin cuts were all the mouse had been able to inflict on the other male, but neither were deep enough to slow the brown otter down. A hard slash from the otter came suddenly, and Neema's parry did little to stop it. The shortsword ricocheted off of the rodent's falchion and hit along the boy's opposite arm; Neema's blood trickled from the wound on his bicep, the pain jarring him enough to cause him to drop the rapier that arm had held. Gritting his teeth, Neema held his distance as the otter sized up his wounded prey.

The otter's attack came fast, but it was unusually clumsy for the sleek fighter.

"He's getting tired!" Neema was certain his chance had come. Stepping into the attack, Neema threw his shoulder into the otter's chest while that shortsword was out of the way. The surprise he had expected to see on the otter's face was firmly plastered to his own face, however, as the otter's knee caught Neema square in his cock and balls. White static filled Neema's thoughts as pain lanced up into his gut, his mouth flopping open like a fish out of water. He was dimly aware of the first droplets of rain from the impending storm finally falling. They were cool against his heated flesh, but his mind was still wrapped in the surprise created by the otter's deft move; clearly the clumsy attack had been a trap, and it had worked perfectly.

Neema's shaft felt as though it were going to explode as another hard blow collided with it, his cock jostling as it was battered by the merciless assault of the otter. His earlier uncertainty was gone, replaced by a bloodlust that Neema had grown accustomed to himself. Pain became Neema's world, and he realized that the otter was just playing with him now, throwing a series of hits that battered Neema's prick. The mouse couldn't help but scream with each new attack, the pain unbearable and his whole world now a white hot inferno of agony. Finally, the otter relented, and Neema fell to his knees. Both of the rodent's paws buried themselves between his thighs as though the pressure would somehow help.

The otter took his time stepping up to the fallen mouse, eyeing his latest handiwork as his chest heaved with the exertion of the fight. The rain had begun to grow in intensity, and once again thunder boomed in the distance--it was going to be a hell of a storm when it finally broke in earnest. Dropping his shortsword, the otter lifted Neema's falchion from the ground, grinning as he used the tip of it to lift the mouse's bowed head so he could look into Neema's pained expression.

"Nice try, boy," was all the otter said before he stepped back and swung the heavy blade with both paws. The blade sliced through Neema's throat and neck like they were made of putty. The look on the mouse's face didn't change as his head left his shoulders, wide-eyed despite the pain which radiated from his groin. The mouse's body jerked, arms flapping once as the boy's spinal cord was severed and his central nervous system sparked and jolted in protest. The head flew backwards from the force of the strike and Neema was still dimly aware as he watched the world spin around him. It landed in the dirt at the edge of the pathway and as Neema's tongue slid from between his lips and his eyes began to dim, he was aware of the same voice which had told him to fight earlier, speak again.

"We are all the body sustained by the blood. Join me."

Then darkness claimed him.

The otter watched with no small satisfaction as the headless body of the mouse crashed backwards, sprawling atop the corpse of the collie. Blood pumped and pulsed from the stump of the rodent's neck, and even as his blood sprayed out, so did his cum, his briefs darkening with the same release he had inflicted on the lynx and collie. Hot cum marked the boy's end, the seed pooling in the crotch of his briefs as his body jerked out its final few seconds of energy before falling still. Just as quick as that, Neema was meat. The otter admired his handiwork for only a moment longer before hefting Neema's falchion, he turned to find the survivors of the initiation rite.

Almost an hour had passed since the rite began before the otter stepped from the foliage. The dais stood before him and the Chaplain stood regally atop it. The rain had stopped and started several times already, and now it began once more.

"Welcome back, young one. You have done well to quell the blood of the others and send them screaming to the embrace of our Lord. Come now, and earn your reward."

The otter stumbled forward, his fur splattered with blood--though little of it was his own. Something in the pit of the boy's stomach was churning, the sensation growing more intense with each step he took. By the time he had reached the foot of the Chaplain's pulpit, he was certain something was wrong. The boy retched unexpectedly, falling to his paws and knees with a violence that mirrored the past hour of his life. Blood burbled from between the otter's lips and for long minutes the dry heaving expelled the crimson bile like it were a virus being expelled from its host.

"He comes!" The lion's voice rose above the cacophony of rain pounding on stone and the otter could only look on with horror as the blood being pumped from his stomach began to move. Finally the flow stopped and the boy was able to scramble backwards, the pool of darkness he had vomited out heading in the opposite direction. Thunder crashed as the puddle began to stretch and ripple. The first imprint of fingers against the tumultuous surface of the viscous fluid nearly dragged a scream from the otter's lips, but the cultists only began to moan and cry out in adulation.

An arm rose from the puddle, dripping with the dark fluid that had borne it; when a head followed, then another arm, the otter realized exactly what was happening. His heart quivered and the lust that had driven him to revel in the death of the other contenders fled from his mind, as though the fluid had somehow been the driving force behind it.

The increasingly humanoid shape which rose from the spreading puddle began to take on features, and it was hard to mistake the wide toothy grin on the forming muzzle as anything but the sadistic calling card of a killer. The rain continued to pound, and a flash of lightning almost directly overhead illuminated the scene for a split second, and the otter could see the emerging shape begin to crawl towards him; the grin, the grin was enough to break the otter and he began to scream.

"Lord Valerith has come! He is born unto the world once more!"

The cultists howled in pleasure as the figure continued to move towards the otter, but all the boy could do was scream. And scream. And scream.