8th of Ash, 715
Beneath the shifting trees of a cool autumn eve, something skulked along forest paths, clad in green cloak and leather-y strapped gear. With merely a knife to his name, he padded up the trail to Gilded Springs, a stream fed pond of crystal clear water.
Pausing beyond the tree-line, two green eyes spied tents, nose twitching at the thicker scent of roasted meats carried upwind for miles by a gentle northerly breeze. Electric desire guided him now, and he crept about, his quiet rustles thus ignored by the four or so figures he’d seen wandering this royal getaway.
As the sun hung low upon the horizon, he crept forward to the tents beyond the sight of the two Halamire keeping watch over the fire. Soft female laughter and a flirtatious man of suave, Gentevarese tongue echoed across the clearing as Tom lifted the hem of the tall, open-faced tent. Nosing underneath, his tail wriggled as he squeezed his way inside, finding himself in something of a bedroom laden with silks, the couples’ backs to him as they bustled by the firelight.
Without a word, Tom flipped open a brown box nearby, swiping a pen and some vials of liquid he found within. From the bedding, he pulled free a pillowcase and started stuffing it with silks. His foot caught a hookah lamp, knocking it over with a caterwauling of noise!
Tom’s fur stood on end. He looked over at the couple, wide-eyed, and both Halamire were now crowding the entryway.
Turning tail, he dropped everything save for the pen and dove for the bottom of the tent as shouting ensued, squeezing beneath; a quick hand just barely caught his foot. “Get ‘em! I’m going around!” Tom heard the heavy footfalls of a large man clad in regal military garb coming up the side of the tent as he was getting to his feet.
He broke into a run, but they caught him by the tail. Tom’s jowls soared, and he shrieked. “Ahhhh!” Birds flew in the distance, and he found a blade to his throat, the fox hugging himself upside-down. “Wait--wait, sir!” he spoke in Gentevarese. “I am an escaped slave to the count Pierre of Ald. You will get praises for returning me!”
Those words seemed to stay the blade. “Where’s your brand, pest?” he asked with venom dripping in his voice.
“It is upon my rear, left buttock... pull back the fur,” said Tom, reaching out to push away the sword with one finger. “This is not necessary.”
“Like hell it isn’t. Rodgers, check ‘er!” barked the bigger man.
“This is kinda gross, why do I have to be the one to touch it?” asked the soldier behind him. He started frisking him, hands moving beneath Tom’s clothes.
“Says the man reeking of sweat touching me with dirty hands!” growled Tom, grunting as his fur was played with in search of that mark.
“Found it. It’s Pierre’s heraldry, alright. What do you want to do, sir?” asked the lower ranking Halamire. He kept on moving his hands over Tom’s body, fingers digging through the fur. It seemed he couldn’t help but rub the fox with a certain fondness, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
“It is not our glory,” replied the older fellow, itching his beard. “I will leave that to Missus Primrose and her suitor to decide.”
“No Marks of Control, sir.”
“Tail... hurts...” Tom said, wincing. “Owwwh.”
The man dropped him, and put a boot to his back. “Is that better, scum?”
“...Yes,” Tom wheezed, eyes brimming with tears.
The man looked to the more inexperienced Halamire. “Go inform the Veir and get his orders. I’ll hold ‘em.” That crushing boot had Tom’s chin in the dirt, the little fox clawing at the earth.
