DESTINY - 1
There is a saying in the Impratum:
"If you wish to have an Heir,don't send your sons to Sanova."
It was naked.
Naturally, it was naked. It tried to tell itself this was okay. It could not place why it thought this was wrong—it was safe here. Not a soul in the washroom but itself. And yet, when it looked to its member from its place on the wash stool, it could only feel shame. Not disgust—it held an unparalleled partiality to the limb—it was embarrassment from its exposure. It had never felt this. Not here. Not where it was safe. It felt like it was bathing in the wilds near a town.
..Was someone watching it?
No. Not here. That isn't how this worked, it thought.
Every piece here spoke of decadence beyond any beast's imagination. Virgin oak and timber, cut exclusively for this room, never recycled. White marble tiling, miraculously warm to the touch. Brass ceiling panels, engraved with the most beautiful of patterns. Red walls, hand-carved with floral embossment leafed in gold. Green palms, confined to ceramic pots which bore the beautiful scars of golden repair.
It was its only real haven.
It looked longingly at the ornate clawfoot tub before it. Here, it could drown these thoughts. But first, it needed to cleanse itself. It moved its hand through the white hot steam and plunged it into the wash bucket. It winced and sighed as the temperature equalized. After seizing the sponge, it brought the soap-soaked porifera out, and to its face. It has memorized the sensation, clung to the feeling as though it was life itself. It could even feel itself smile–an expression it seldom wore. Its eyes were closed, anticipating the warmth on its wool, the cleansing of the wounds upon its feet–
A pitter-patter. This was not water—Footfalls, clean bare soles against the marble. Slender, delicate. And that is when a hand fell onto its shoulder. It did not feel like the hand of a male beast.
It was a woman.
And the Beast turned to meet her gaze, slowly, shaking—softly at first, until its eyes met her face.
She was an ewe. And she was smiling.
The Beast's eyes widened as tears pricked at their corners. Her face. Though it was so evidently aged, worked, wrinkled from labor and from hard living—
—it looked like that memory.
And such a thing scared it. Enough to scream–yet it was silent. It could not move. It felt as though its arms were seized by hands unseen, and its wrists pinned against soft, plush bedding. And though she was a fair distance, it felt as though her head was resting just by its ear. Its shaking ceased. It waited to hear those words again.
But they never came.
This was not that memory. That memory was not real. It had to tell itself this. It had to.
By some fortunate mercy, the Beast's face had remained completely neutral throughout this building chorus of petrifying fear. Yet, the Ewe sensed the tension on the Beast's shoulder and withdrew briefly, only to return with an eased grip, her other hand falling to her heart.
"My, where are my- our manners," She stammered. It occurred to the Beast that, in its trance, another woman had entered its sanctum. Another Ewe. It shifted its quiet gaze–she was near-identical in every way–or perhaps it was mistaken. Faces were never its strong suit; each looked as though it were an artist's arrangement of a piece it did not paint.
"We're.. Both of us, our names are Helan. Twins." The first one spoke once more.
"We were answering an opportunity offered by the Mäjestat.. They say you require bathing.. and soothing?" The second Ewe spoke. Her voice was dripping with a tone unfamiliar to the Beast–like praise, but stranger. It'd been a tone taken by some it'd killed, moments before they met their end—offers, pleading, that they could "aid" it.
"Alleviate the tension".
"Soothe" it.
Equally as forced—equally as unsettling.
It made the Beast's skin crawl. It shifted its thighs finally, in a vain attempt to conceal its member. It did not like being naked here. It wanted them to leave. It did not want to indulge whatever this second Ewe had in mind, after she had taken that tone with it.
"Are.. Are you feeling alright?" It was the first Ewe.
"No. I am not." The Beast finally spoke. This appeared to shock both of the women—though if it were the Beast's voice, or the words it spoke, was unclear to it. It did not blink. It kept its gaze focused on the women, like a predator eyeing down another beast of prey in its den.
"The Oberfehlter did not speak of you." It stated plainly, gesturing to both with a shift of its neck. "I expected to be alone."
"Tsch, any way to treat a working woman.." The second Ewe scoffed. "We come here to make more money than our mother ever made in her life, maybe get a noble heir out of the whole deal, and he says "no"? An outrage!" She continued, and she tossed her hands to the air, soon crossed at her chest, back turned to the scene. "The Oberfehlter sends us here, and yet you speak as though you were unaware?"
.."Him"? She was referring to it—it could discern that much.
But it was peculiar. Very peculiar. It was an it. A beast.
It was not a "him"; not a man.
..No matter the member between its legs.
"Sister-! Please, pay her no mind; she means not what she says." The First Ewe assured and retracted her hand at once. It exhaled—free from her touch, it felt its senses return. It shifted away, as far as it could from her on its washstool. It tore its gaze from the women—it wanted to wash this feeling away.
It took the sponge, and once more began to scrub in earnest. Deep into its wool, the sud-filled water flowed down onto its chest. The two women watched and traded blows, but the Beast did not care to listen. Much like the guards of its true den, the chances of their departure were far higher when providing no reaction to their presence. When its face was sodden, and its ears cleared, it moved to its chest—beneath the arms, then down to its groin. It scrubbed softly, tactfully avoiding the possibility of full exposure by pressing between its thighs.
When it was finished, it stood itself up. This brought the attention of the two women, and they exchanged frightened glances. It did not turn to meet them. It slid into the bath with a soft splash and felt far more at ease with its body hidden beneath the water.
Wordlessly, the two Ewes looked between one another, then back at the Beast. They began an approach, albeit one with much hesitation. A careful gait, as though each step was taken with the latent fear that the Beast may spring out of the tub at any moment. Such a fear could not be assuaged with ease, though time would erode the dormant worry's pedestal. The first Ewe assumed a position next to the Beast's head, while the second perched herself at the foot of the tub. It began to adjust to their presence. Unlike the guards, these two were not outwardly antagonistic—it questioned whether such a display of kindness should go ignored.
"Now, I know.. I know you weren't expecting us.. And I'm quite sorry about our intrusion, your highness.." The first Ewe began, her voice meek.
"Yeah, maybe you're sorry.." The second Ewe muttered softly. Her voice—though dripping with hot sarcasm—was smiling. It too smiled at this. It was not often that it heard such peculiar things, nor had it ever been treated with such reverence as to be called nobility. Just what had these women been told?
"Sister--! Look, what I mean to say is that we can't exactly leave without pay. And to earn our pay, we first must labor." The first Ewe stammered.
"But.. We don't need to do anything that you don't want us to do. Promise." The second Ewe spoke, this time without that tone.
"I accept. You may wash my body." The Beast said at last.
It didn't exactly feel as final as it was intended. Something was missing.
As the Ewes readied their palms and forearms to be dunked in the hot water, the Beast raised its hand.
"I misspoke—you may wash my body; avoid my member, soles, and forearms. I will wash them."
It looked at its reflection in the water. It was not used to this sort of choice, limited as it was.
It enjoyed it.
The Ewes paused for a moment and exchanged glances. They both sighed audibly.
"—but of course!" The first Ewe bleated. It wasn't so much faux enthusiasm as it was surprise at the request. Even the Beast could tell, though it did not quite know its source. These women had proven peculiar beasts so far.
As the women washed with both cup and cloth, its wool became slack with the weight of the water.
"..May I ask. Why is it that you share a name?" It looked to the first Ewe.
The first Ewe giggled. "Ah, yes, I don't suppose a nobleman like you would know much about twins."
"If she dies too soon, I inherit all she owns, and likewise if I do the same. To the Majestät we are but one Ewe." The second Ewe snarked.
As expected, the first was about to interject. She had only just squeaked "While that's true—" before the Beast spoke again.
"Free of your circumstances—what name would you choose?" It asked blankly.
"Pardon?" The first Ewe asked.
"Your name. What would you choose, given you had the choice to wield?" It repeated.
"Well— I, names are significant! They hold power, I can't just— choose in the moment!" The first Ewe stammered. There was a silence for a spell. The three stood in quiet contemplation, the first Ewe and the Beast's gaze locked. Before,
"..Loraine. I would have chosen Loraine." The second Ewe spoke softly. Her sister did not reply. The Beast was content with this answer.
Large swaths of its body became visible. The Ewe at its back gasped and dropped the wash-cup. The Beast shuddered as it felt her delicate fingers trace old scars. The words carved into its back, the warning they spoke, no matter if they resembled no known markings—she read them as though it was her own tongue.
"O-oh my.. You.. what.. what happened to you..? Who could have.. I don't..
You poor thing.. You poor, poor thing.."
"What did they do to you?"
It did not want to cry here. It'd promised itself that it would not weep for the pain it had endured—let alone weep freely, in front of a woman. It was stronger than this. And yet.
It was weeping for its own pain.
Such was selfish. Others out there had it worse.
Poorer beasts of the Medieraum did not live in palaces.
Poorer beasts did not bathe in sanctums.
Poorer beasts did not resent the presence of someone happy to bathe it.
..So why was it weeping now?
Why?
It wanted to forget that.
It was clean—yet not absolved. Dressed in its palace clothes—yet still, it felt naked. As though that wall keeping its tears from those women had slipped like a towel.
The two let it be after they'd finished. They asked if there was anything else they could do for it, and it had said it needed nothing further. It apologized. It believed that these two may care to hear that.
Graciously, they accepted.
It did not stay in the sanctum much longer after that. It was no longer a place of solace.
It was a den for that newborn, filthy memory—one it could not drown in the tub.
For if that memory was born of the water which cleansed,
Then it would surely have gills to breathe in it.
To filter out all that made the tub's water clean.
It was in the Wyrmwerk bay now. A den in its own right, home to the colossal steel beasts who traveled beneath the ground on thin metal rails. These mechanical beasts barked and howled in a tongue that made even the Beast's wool stand on edge. Though they had been confined to their track, the Beast kept one hand where its blade would have been, as if they might leap up the platform and strike. It shuddered as the mechanical Beast's scales parted and revealed the inner carriage. It was always a distinct, foreign process.
It took the route of least resistance. The halls of the steel creature were wide enough to fit twenty beasts end-to-end, which afforded it space that it took solace in. Many beasts here were not unlike the other mouthless dogs who had seen it to the infirmary earlier. They had no investment in its presence aboard this creature. They unsettled it—though it was not blind to the irony of them being disturbed by its own presence in kind.
It found its way to the Window Car. A segment which bubbled from the Wyrmwerk's back, where its scales no longer held their pigment, and had become transparent. It was held in a similar regard to the Bathroom, insofar as it could rest itself here, but the similarity was superficial. This was a place of transition, where that peace may be disrupted at any moment. Come a raid, or a derailment, or arrival itself, the time it could spend in this place was in constant flux. In a stroke of great fortune, it happened to have visited near Sanova once before, in the overseeing of a battle between the Sanova Arditus and a strike force of Todorian Bloodplates. The journey had taken such time that there was hardly a battle to oversee by the time of its arrival.
And so it had already decided—it would lie itself down in the Window Car's central bed, and rest. Secure in the knowledge it was alone, it sat itself on the bed's edge with a huff, and began to remove its boots. While its palace-clothes were slack and silky, and more befitting of a lounging Prince, its boots were always the same—long black jackboots of an immaculate design, crafted by Gottspyre's one and only master cobbler. This pair was new—the last, ruined in the battle and subsequent march home.
It lamented the waste. And it thanked the cobbler, silently. It knew that without him, it would have no means to march into battle on any front.
It swung its stocking feet up onto the bed once its boots were safely stowed, inspecting its right. Owed in part to swift healing, the sole no longer ached. It massaged its arch gently, admiring it for but a moment. What remarkable and elegant limbs these were, to carry it so far for so long, and so soon find themselves without injury or ailment. It then slipped beneath the covers, contented. It felt the car begin to shift once it had settled into position, and saw the titanic tunnel's maw open to accept the Wyrmwerk's entry. It prayed that the stretch of country it would travel through would be a quiet one. It did not wish to be stirred from its slumber. It wanted to take the pillow upon which it rested its head, and smother the memory of the past evening. To never think of it again.
And as the claws of proper rest wrapped around the Beast's body, its mind departed. The Beast was no longer in the bed, the window car, or the Wyrmwerk.
It was where the sea grazed the land, and tall grass sprang from the humps of sand and clay. It could see a field of wheat which sprawled inland and stretched as far as the mountains. A cold breeze brought a shiver up its spine. It felt as though a downpour was moments away.
It was in its ceremony clothes now—the outfit it enjoyed the most. It was a pretty set.
It always felt pretty in these clothes.
It looked up. And it saw him.
It was a man. He was naked. Though he bore a stronger resemblance to an arc lamp than a beast, his figure was clear, discernible. His member swayed as he danced alone on the sand, ears flopping, feet quick and nimble, each footfall burning a glassy footprint where there once lay sand.
And that is when it heard it too.
The music.
It was a strange melody—not like any the Beast had heard before. If it were compelled to place it, to put it into words—
—The tune evoked an image of itself.
A discordant melody, which swung into a beautiful symphony. Its song.
And here stood a man—a beautiful man, a man of light, who danced upon glass.
Dancing to its melody.
It felt its chest begin to swell. Not embarrassment now, but an emotion that it only felt when it had imagined itself being held. The thought that someone may take such pity—selfish as it was—brought a flood to its mind that it never tried to contain. Like a downpour, bathing in it.
It grabbed the man of light's hand and danced with him. It did not care how much it burned—it had been so cold on this beach that the sensation was tantamount to lying by a fireplace. His smile was beaming. Being so close now, it could feel the living yellow flame upon its body. And in time, the Beast found itself ablaze too, and became but a naked, flaming Lamb. And soon, the dancing ceased. It was in the man's arms.
It was being held.
It looked to the sea. The clouds never parted. From its depths came a rumbling—and soon enough, a dreadnought.
The Ship's Bow ran aground, and the two were split from each other's grip. The Beast looked up to the Bow's deck as it backed away. At its helm were two figures—one of white flame, the other in red. The Figure in red was the Oberfehlter. He was grinning through yellowed teeth. At his side, the Figure of white turned to face it. The being had upon its head a cap not unlike the highest of generals in the Impratum. In a swift descent, it jumped from the Bow and landed upon the Lamb. It recoiled from the impact and found itself with its back in the sand, neck held at knife's edge by a white saber, held by this imposing Figure. It brought one indistinct foot forward and laid the length of its sole onto the Beast's groin, applying a crushing pressure. It did not need a mouth to speak. The Beast heard the words all the same. They were another man's words. A silky, smooth, mature voice, which made it weak at the knees, and sent a throb down the length of its burning member.
"Hound. Wake."
A good Hound does as it is told.
The Beast woke in a hot frenzy, its member pulsing with an ungodly heat. It inhaled sharply, scrambling to undo its pants. It retrieved a handkerchief from its bedside and covered the head as it released, the white gushing from its slit thick and steady. This would mark the first time such a thing had occurred on the Wyrmwerk—it did not dream often, and this sort of event was even rarer. It whined and moaned freely as it let the occurrence pass, panting in time with each pulse until it was over, and its cherries were spent of their cream. It crumpled the soiled handkerchief and wiped its member clean with the dry backside. It shuffled free of the bed, still panting. Pushing itself towards the Bathroom with shaky legs, it was intent on retrieving a sip of water for its parched mouth and discarding the handkerchief. Such a thing was unusable, having been sullied in such a manner.
While it had discarded the handkerchief and washed its hands, it did not feel as though this was enough to absolve it of the odd dream. This had never happened before. It was overwhelmed by a grip on its chest, a sensation it despised—though it despised the thoughts assailing it more. The idea that it could not summon the will to be pleasured by the divine form of a woman, but could unconsciously be pleasured when it dreamt of being held by a man, and ordered around by another with a firm tongue.. It had seen the Impratum put beasts to the stake for such apostasy!
So why then was its member still solid?
These thoughts were a wildfire in the Beast's mind. It could not cool off. It seldom felt any honest rage and had known indignation too young to recall it. But when the time came to change from its palace-wear to its ceremonial clothes, it had little recourse but to face the fire. Having its lingeringly hard member so brazenly on display to the dress-servants brought a fresh burn to its cheeks. It tried to conceal it as best it could, but the dress-servants hardly responded. Their gaunt faces spoke of tales worse than the mere sight of a half-hardened member.
As it was known, it was indeed a pretty set—black gloves, a white hussar jacket with red piping, left parted at the waist to expose a beautiful red-and-gold barrel sash as high as its stomach. Over its legs, it wore a matching set of pleated trousers, whose pant legs ended in stirrups, worn over top his socks. It quite enjoyed the sensation of how the stirrups hugged its arches.
As the quiet men finished their work, the Beast looked to its gloved hands. It worked to plaster its face into a neutral expression, to chase the heat and thoughts assailing it into the darkest of nights. And it succeeded—on only one count. Its face was still alight with a flame of raw shame.
It would have to do.
Finally stepping into the jackboots, it reached for its dress-cape—a red length of cashmere which flowed to its ankles, embossed with gold linen in an ornate floral patterning. This was complemented with a cream-colored woven silk collar, with a small dark rose placed into each point in the weave.
It moved from the dressing room and through till it was back at the greeting car. It wore nothing upon its head—neither cap, nor crown, nor any face that would not be its own. It stood among its escort, awaiting the moment the mechanical Beast fell silent. The mouthless beasts around it moved to accompany its sudden presence, the only sounds exchanged being that of breathing—though still, it could hear their breaths heighten in frequency, and tighten in suspense. It stood regardless, and its gaze never left the passing landscape viewed through the glassy scales of the Wyrmwerk, nor the rising yellow sun which beamed through them.
And at once, the life in the metal beast was gone. It coasted along the rails for a time before the motion sputtered and died altogether, with a hideous screech. From where the scales would part, through the glass, it could see the great white city—Sanova. The receiving Wyrmwerk station sat at a higher elevation than the city proper, giving the Beast a wonderful view of all that lay within its marble walls—expansive, narrow streets, lined with tall buildings capped with stout domes of bronze. Each held little pigment to their faces, as these too were constructed of finely cut marble. The still-rising sun provided a low light to these narrow passages, supplemented by tall, thin gas lamps which illuminated the hazy figures worming past one another. To its edge was the ocean—a fickle expanse which looked to stretch to earth's end, which the Beast quickly brought its gaze away from.
Upon reorienting itself, it sighted an escort not unlike its own outside, primarily composed of passive canines. These beasts wore no face, however, and dressed in quite a strange manner. They wore green field tunics with a brown buckle at the waist, fitted with matching pants and khaki gaiters. They held across their arms a peculiar band or sash, a light blue in tone. Strangely, they had no helmets to protect their heads—opting instead for blue fabric caps, which were pitched at the right side, but tapered off into a flat fold at their left. They held in their hands a more primitive repeating lance, one that took just one cartridge per fire-order, with a bayonet at its end. They flanked an empty walkway, upon which a blue carpet rested. As the scales parted and the group began their exit, the Beast was first to tread. It had been given an order, and it had all the intent to see it through—even in the absence of a counterpart to itself, in this arrangement.
The guards, once as stiff as the poor Beast's member, began to recoil and move as they watched it walk unprompted. Though they gripped their lances tightly, they had no cause to fire.
A call came from the other side of the platform, a lone figure its source:
"My apologies, men of the Impratum! Our Brother Dolya insisted that this meeting take place in his personal accommodations in the city!" It was a smaller beast—a canine, yet of a far smaller breed. He was young, scholarly, had a strange pair of lenses resting on his snout, of a similar craft to that of a few Generals of the War Cabinet. It was safe to say they were a far better fit on this studious fellow than those red-faced white muzzles. He made a motion to the guard flanking the Beast's escort, and spoke once more:
"Follow me now, the men here will accompany us into the city."
It was a quiet trip into the city—truth be told, it puzzled the Beast to need an additional escort when so few cared to make notice of their presence. Dozens had passed, without so much as a glance of curiosity. Were such things so mundane? Or was it the red cape it donned that averted the gaze of hundreds on these crowded streets? The air was more a malaise of dust from the frequent footwork than air itself, on which the Beast choked and sputtered. Voices and smells, once so distant as to be disregarded for their dizzying quality, now stood at the forefront of its very being. The occasional awning broke the dim gaslight and plunged the group into a cooler shade than what the high marble walls offered.
It was an unpleasant walk.
And it ended, in due time. The entourage settled at a particularly large building, draped in blue banners which obscured old symbols of state, so damaged and indiscernible that their true visage could not be made out. While the gold lettering scrawled across these banners was indecipherable, the meaning was clear: it was a claim, staked to the land and levers of the old order.
It almost seemed wrong to dwell amongst one's own volk, to have the fate of the nation made below one's feet, rather than coming from above. And yet, as the entourage parted the busy statesmen, partisans, and peasants, and ascended the stairs to Dolya's quarters, such was the very truth that donned on it. It found itself in a large circular hall, with a single dim yellow arc lamp planted at the ceiling's center. Only one door lay ahead now.
"By Brother Dolya's request, he would prefer your emissary to see to his chambers alone." It was the studious canine. This brought a deep unease to the group and the Beast itself. However, it was never one to argue when given an order so plainly. It stepped forward and left the rank with their jaws slack, and their protest on their tongues. For the first time, it opened the door with its own hand.
And inside was a den. Dim. Dimmer still, as the door closed by its own volition behind it, a thunderous slam announcing its arrival to the only other soul in the room. A figure, sprawled across a fainting seat before a roaring fireplace—the only source of light in this chamber. The Figure turned and drew its right leg into an arch. The limb was a long, slender thing, its calf defined against the light blue fabric. As though a simple reflex, the Figure pressed the toe of its stocking foot into the plush chaise, then flattened its sole till the ball of its foot met the cushion with the softest noise of exertion the Beast had yet heard. He was wearing a fine pair of stirrups.
The Figure rolled to face the intruding Lamb, his features scantly visible in the dim yellow backlight..
And yet..
The Beast grew still. While every rational thought whispered doubt into its ear..
It knew this Beast to be him—the man of yellow flame—he-who-danced-upon-glass.
He bore an almost white pelt of silky fur, growing more gold the further up the Beast's eyes traveled. His ears—more tufts of indistinct fur than ears—flanked both sides of his head.. Atop which, he wore a peculiar crown. It was not fashioned from gold nor steel—but still-green grapevine, with fresh red grapes dangling from it. His clothes, meanwhile, lay obscured by both shade and a white chlamys, sans his legs, of course. He perched his head upon one hand and grinned at the Lamb before him.
"Ahah! So, you must be her lady's newest peacemaker!" He giggled. "Now, don't be shy. It is quite dim, come close.. I am certain both of us would prefer to see one another in a more.. favorable light~"
A good Hound does as it is told.
With yet another noise of ginger exertion, the Canine maneuvered himself to perch his back upon the chaise's top rail, lazily stretching one arm over it in kind. He brought his hand to the Lamb's face, to which the Beast lowered itself to meet his palm. It brought a mild scoff of amusement from the Canine, yet he continued his examination.
His touch.. Now in the flesh, it was enough to melt the poor Lamb's iron will to naught but slag.
"..A male?" The Canine muttered through pursed lips. This quiet proclamation brought a further heat to the Lamb's cheeks, and a sudden motion at its rear. Its tail began to sway—idly, at first, though actively now. It was of such surprise that it withdrew instinctively, to which the Canine laughed.
"Oooh, now that is quite strange! I had not a clue such things existed in your Lady's Empire!" In an upset, the Canine sprang from the chaise and began a slow movement towards the Beast, revealing his true height in the process, at a head and a half taller than it. "Say, tell me then, little lamb.." The Canine cooed as he approached, each footfall as soft and as elegant as they'd been on that beach.
"Do men of the Impratum too walk the path.."
"Of the dribbling tit?"
It felt the warmth drain from its face as it mulled over the meaning, the venom in his words clear. Its tail became still as it stood its ground. This Canine.. He may look to be the man of yellow flame.. But in the end, he was nothing but-
"Dolya.. I'd doubted your willingness to meet in the flesh.. Enough to presume you'd sent a jester in your stead.. I see now I am sorely mistaken." The Lamb spoke, and its tone now matched Dolya's venom.
Dolya paused as his grin faltered and grew crooked. "..I see my tastes are known well! I suppose it explains why you're here, opposed to yet another wench—that last one deals in a wicked trade, preaching peace to the man she'd like to see bound in a faggot and set ablaze.. Not to worry!" Dolya sighed and circled the Lamb. It found these words to have purchase in its mind, enough to make it recoil. "I have my own doubts about you.. It's not often that peacemakers of your Empire cloak themselves in the color of their fellow Beast's blood~"
"Through war, is made peace. It is curious that a usurper such as yourself doesn't understand that." The Lamb stated.
Dolya would grab his chest in a mockery of seizure, and cry out: "Oh, how you strike at my heart! I tell you.. It matters not whether I do what your Empire deems an upset—it matters when one of their own acts against the cast they were poured into! And it would seem wearing red is the least of your worries—that tail of yours, a metronome at my touch~"
The Lamb had no response to offer. It was deeply confused about the matter. It felt the heat return, if only for a moment.
"Though, perhaps I am mistaken, and you truly are an Ewe! After all, you happen to bear such a resemblance to the Lady Kaisalin hers-"
"Enough. From. You." The Lamb growled. "You speak without introduction, and strike with accusation.. What manner of statesman are you, to treat a guest with such venom? I am more than your assumptions… I am Wilhelm, and I will not have some.. Some coward speak for me!"
It stated a strong defiance in its tone. It surprised even the Beast itself—or rather.. it surprised Wilhelm—a name of its choosing, where there had been none.
A man's name. Were those Ewes right to have called it a "him", if its name was that of a man?
Was it threatened with conviction of apostasy if it were a man who'd had that dream? About the man who stood before him, who had not an interest in the divine woman?
"..a coward..?" Dolya repeated softly, incensed. He ceased his circling in time with the approaching Lamb, now face-to-face in the dark. Their shared gaze spoke the words which they left unsaid, brows furrowed, eyes wild and wide—
—and in an upset, Dolya threw his head back in a hearty laugh, the motion nearly sending his crown of grapevine sailing into the air. He brought his hand to the headwear and receded into a more reserved giggle.
"Oh friend, it was in jest! All just in jest.. Come now, the matters so pertinent to your presence are at hand! We shall discuss terms over a banquet in the old royal palace! After all, I am certain you and your escort are famished."
And with that, the Canine began to walk to the door, quickly slipping into a pair of tall white jackboots of his own, which sat neatly by the door's frame. With an awkward effort, fought on but a single, alternating leg, Dolya slipped those enticing pedals into their appropriate dress-wear. The likelihood of their reappearance was a slim one in the mind of Wilhelm.
Best to forget it—they were a man's.
And men do not examine men's bodies with such predatory eyes.
OUTRO
Hey again!
So, by some manner of mixup (and me being relatively new to this), I'd been writing non-stop since I first published this with the intent to cram alllll of Sanova into a single chapter, called DESTINY! This undertaking was mainly motivated by me not understanding how long your typical chapter should be. I was under the impression that the current word count (16,256) was about a third of the way to completion, when in reality, a chapter's maximum average length is about 5,000 words. So, I compromised, and I split it up! This is DESTINY - 1 — DESTINY - 2 is done, but not edited. That should be roughly the length of this part. DESTINY - 3 is nearly complete, and DESTINY - 4 will likely be a little short compared to its triplets. Either way, stay tuned! Lots to be looking forward to as we approach the new year!
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