An Age of Steel and Clay 01

Blood freely mixed with tears and mucus as it dripped from Arcanine’s face.

Still, the warrior rose for one last time.

Only a few, cracked plates of ceramic still covered his body. The rest of his armor was strewn around the forest. The armored spikes that had once adorned him had been chipped away. Three corpses lay in front of him, charred and blackened, but one enemy still stood.

The Espeon in front of him was diminutive, a small purple fox with a forked tail. But where Arcanine had been worn down over the course of days, the Espeon looked like he was fresh from a bath house. Even the mud of the water-soaked road seemed to avoid the psychic.

Arcanine roared, a deep bass rumble speaking rage and hatred.

Espeon bowed his head in acknowledgment.

Arcanine took a slow, agonized step forward, like lifting his paw was the hardest task he’d ever performed.

A motion-- nearly imperceptible. The espeon tilted his head, and a tree branch whipped through the forest to pierced into Arcanine’s side.

Still, Arcanine advanced. A red dot appeared in his mouth. More tree branches pierced his sides, but he seemed to ignore them, intent on his purpose.

The orb grew, first to the size of a cherry, and then to the size of an orange.

The espeon took a step back, even as his psychic power made the forest swirl around him like they stood in the middle of a hurricane, rather than a bright, pleasant day without a cloud in the sky.

The Arcanine’s wounds bled freely, each one certainly fatal. He tilted his head back, the final precursor to his attack.

A branch pierced him through the throat.

The Arcanine fell, the fire in his maw sputtering out.

The forest went silent, except for the pathetic mewling of a Growlithe-- the Arcanine’s pup.

The Espeon stepped forward, as if to double check that the Arcanine was dead. He was. Already, his eyes grew glassy, and his body cooled from the enormous temperatures his breed could sustain while alive.

Then, the Espeon turned his attention to the Growlithe.

A puppy, barely four years old. Dressed in what had once been a fine silk vest, and was now, courtesy of furious travel, nothing more than a mud-stained rag.

The Growlithe cried in terror and sorrow. Then, to her surprise, the Espeon smiled. It was not a malicious smile; it did not portend any evil. It was a kind smile, completely open, and perhaps it was even empathetic, in the Espeon’s own, meagre way.

“I mean you no harm, little one. Be at peace. I killed your father, but I had no enmity towards him, and I hold none towards you. He died a magnificent death, and I would honor that by taking you into my own home.”

Had anyone else been there to see it, the scene would have been almost perverse. A killer, comforting the daughter of the man he had murdered.

~oOo~

AN AGE OF STEEL AND CLAY

Chapter 1

~oOo~

I swore under my breath as I dodged. Each narrowly-avoided stone merited another curse.

Every unavoided stone resulted in a wince on my part, and a tiny, smug smile on Uncle’s part.

I’d been getting better, but I still wasn’t good enough.

Eventually the training session ended, and I limped off, battered and bruised.  I had only two saving graces-- that my fur was thick, and would hide the bruises at the formal dinner Uncle would be hosting later today, and that Uncle followed the eastern traditions, rather than the western. Bamboo mats were much more pleasant to sit on for hours on end than hardwood, especially when Uncle had hit my behind with a real doozy of a throw earlier today.

The servants bowed as I passed, a duck of the head and a raised forepaw below their chins. They were predominantly Eevee and Vulpix, pretty fox-girls one and all, catering to Uncle’s tastes. Mature women in their own right, but none had gathered the experience, whether in life or in combat, to evolve.

Art adorned the walls. Elegantly, but perhaps not tastefully. Woodland scenes in black ink on tapestries were interspersed with extravagant paintings in the western style of scenes of battle and orgies and grand debates. In one painting, dragon-kings of the land of sunset held court before a throng of bespectacled bureaucrats. In another, Infernape fought as their republic burned around them.

I paid my quick, quiet respects to the shrine I had for my father as I passed it. A scrap of fur, a spike of ceramic, long-faded memories, and Uncle’s stories were all I had left of him.

Two sigils adorned the entrance to the bath, one to the left, and one to the right. Uncle’s sigil was an eye with a triskelion for a pupil. Mine, a sun contained within a triangle.

A servant informed me that my bath had already been drawn to my usual specifications. I thanked her, and entered the room.

After shedding my harness and weights, I eased myself into the baths.

For a few minutes, I luxuriated in the heat of the boiling water and billowing fire. Then, with a sigh, I set myself to the business of making myself presentable.

With the ceramic comb built into the side of the tub, I removed all the knots from my fur. With shampoos and oils, I made it shiny and lustrous, so that it gleamed in the dull light of the flames. Perfume I used only sparingly; it had been imported at great expense by the amphibious merchants that occasionally swam this far inland, and it would be months, if not years, before they ventured here again.

Finally, I was ready. An effete princess might have chosen to apply makeup and dyes, but I felt that I had made enough concessions towards femininity. After all, I was first and foremost a warrior.

My formal wear reflected that; my vest was dyed a light hazelnut brown, reminiscent of the armor all fire-type warriors wore. My sash was silver, to bring to mind the blades that were the hallmark of my Uncle’s fighting style. (At least, when he wasn’t fighting fire types.)

The sashes that I tied around each paw were green. These were a concession to modern fashions, and nothing more.

Finally, I was ready.

My bruises still stung, somewhat, but I held my head high as I entered the room.

I sat down just in time. Almost as soon as I had made myself comfortable, the bamboo doors opened, revealing the woman I hated most in the world.

The servants bowed as low as they could, heads to the floor. The Marowak entered the room with precise, mincing steps. She wore a beautiful summer kimono, adorned with butterfree and beautifly. But as the saying went, you couldn’t put lipstick on a tepig.

Her bone mask was covered in scars, some minor, some major. Like the scorch mark that surrounded one of her eye holes and the gaping ruin of flesh underneath.

Uncle had been the instrument of my father’s death. But the woman before me had composed the symphony of his demise. Taiga of house Karen.

My liege lady.