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Markus Kalla ef Solm Maldeth, eldest son of the Countess of Oryon, tapped the blade of his sword between the smooth balusters supporting the balcony handrail. Not the most fabulous of weapons, but it was the one he knew after so many countless sessions spent dancing back and forth with his instructor in the back field of the manor learning the posture, the footwork, the responses and ripostes. It was a long, thin blade, more for show than actual use.

Not everyone knew this, though. The foxwolf shifted his shoulders, reached back towards his waist, and tugged free the small cloth sack he had tied there earlier in the night, letting the ring of stacked coins tinkle out into the otherwise still night. The weight had been sufficient for his satisfaction when the terrified carriage driver had handed it to him, the point of this sword poking up against the underside of his jaw, and the son of the countess had felt it, nodded behind his mask, and hopped down from the door to let the hapless victim on his way. Whether that merchant had initially intended to stay the night here in Oryon, he didn't know – but he had watched from off the road as it continued on through the town without stopping, towards the shallow mountain pass leading to Alenar to the north.

He turned himself slightly to the side, now pouring the bag out into his palm in the light of one of the lanterns over his shoulder. The twin moons looked down from overhead, the smaller of the pair well in front of its larger brother and casting its shadow back across the sharp silver-white surface, cementing the illusion of a great eyeball peering out from the black velvet of night; Markus thumbed through the coins, pressed gold from Maldeth to the east, silver and bronze from here within Mora, a few other pieces from Alenar. One of these he lifted to the sky, turned back and forth between his manicured claws, and then tossed out to the darkness of the estate courtyard down below. Silence for a moment – then the nearly inaudible pomf of it landing somewhere amid the bushes at the foot of the enclosing walls. One of the servants would likely find that one later.

Plenty enough. The coins jingled again as he closed his paw around them, then carefully slid the batch back into the bag. Not that Markus needed the extra wealth, if such an amount could be termed as such: if he didn't toss it into one of the drawers with the others, at most he might take it down to the town and spend it on another bottle of his favorite wine for the cellar – he couldn't stand the Three Kings that his mother preferred – or a book to pore through on particularly slow nights.

Nights when he couldn't stay up late laughing and playing games with his brother, cards and dice and the little trick with sticks and string that Mercutio claimed a traveling peddler from Maldeth had taught him. Nights when the countess barred him from wandering the halls of the manor, not wanting him to disturb whichever guests, ambassadors, diplomats, or whatever else the county was entertaining. Nights when he couldn't don his cloak and mask – and remove his signet ring, of course, marking his heritage as coming from previously royal blood – both safely stored in the alcove behind the tapestry in his washroom, and dive out into the darkness of night to… what was the word?

Harass his own townspeople? Take the guise of a criminal, a highwayman, stalking the roadways in and out of this little corner of Mora? And for what purpose? Because he thought it was fun?

He hated to admit it to himself, but the best word for his regular escapades was simply that he went out to play. He was the son of the countess; he could do what he wanted. Markus straightened up, cast one more glance out across the darkened courtyard, and with a swish swung his blade up to rest lightly over his shoulder. It was a way to practice his skills, he told himself: if he was to inherit the county and responsibility of the title, he needed to know how to hold himself, how to enforce his presence, how to bend others to his will and whim, didn't he?

And, after all, all of that would begin its countdown as soon as the sun would begin its descent beneath the horizon on the following day, and his engagement to the daughter of the Viscount of Leyo in Alenar would be made official. Days, weeks, months spent in tutoring up until this point, with his mother, the house's librarian, and even some of the visiting diplomats Countess Oryon hosted, learning the ins and outs of running the town, imports and exports, tax collecting and submission, communication with and supplication to the People's Council of Mora – the country had not held a monarchy in just over two decades – and associates, politics, paperwork, posturing, this and that…

Was it so wrong to want to have a little bit of fun with what of his life was still his own? One day the Oryon Ghost would disappear as abruptly as its crime streak had begun, and then finally the petty thefts would cease being the county's issue. His mother had spoken of the problem with her advisors before: “it's not worth expending extra resources if the guard can't do anything about it. The losses are regrettable, but it's far from enough to impact economic relations." Markus had watched the older vixen's muzzle throughout the meeting for any sign, but so far it seemed she didn't suspect him in the slightest.

As he turned to retreat into his quarters something down in the courtyard caught his eye. At first thinking it was the glimmer of the moons across the coin he had tossed, Markus nearly shrugged it off until his ear twitched in response to some sound sensed rather than heard, a little tingling whisper on the cool night air. He paused where he stood, clutched his fist around the sack to keep the coins from jingling, and turned his head, both ears angling back towards the yard. He took in a breath, tasted the faint oil of eucalyptus the servants fed into the lanterns alongside the normal fuel, then closed his eyes, focused, listened… and heard the distinct rustle of a body sneakily pushing through bushes, quite a familiar noise to him.

That was strange. His mother would be in her offices preparing everything for the announcement ball on the following evening with her advisors; his brother would either be practicing in the yard on the other side of the manor, or applying himself to his studies; each of the others employed had their own tasks and responsibilities to undertake, and generally after dark the courtyard was closed even to guests, of which the house currently hosted none.

There it was again. Markus slipped the bag through one of the loops on his belt and tied it in place there, crept back over to the rail, striding carefully along his footpads to prevent any undue clicking of claws on polished stone. He leaned in a little closer, slitted his eyes against the glare of the moons, pored through the murky depths of the open courtyard… caught another whisper of movement along the far wall, and took a half-step back.

Then without a second thought he ran forward, braced his free paw on the railing, and vaulted himself over. There came one, one and a half, two seconds of gut-wrenching freefall, heart suddenly thumping fast in that brief space as he realized he may have misjudged the distance and height, but then his legs reflexively bent and balanced when he landed upon the grassy floor of the courtyard, and Markus dove into a steady, practiced roll, keeping his blade sideways across his body to minimize its protrusion. In hardly two more seconds he had lifted himself back into a low crouch, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, ears perked, eyes wide in the darkness.

All things he had practiced countless times before, here as well as elsewhere within the town. Reflexively he raised his other paw to adjust the fit of his mask over his muzzle, realized he wasn't wearing it for once, and was glad for the darkness and lack of any audience. The foxwolf froze in place where he stood, eyes open but seeing nothing while he waited, tall ears flicking this way and that in response to imperceptible currents in the air and changes in the space around him.

Over there. He turned his muzzle, tilted his head, wet his lips, and crept forward, holding his sword low and at a slight angle equally ready to lash out or dive back and defend. Now that he had locked onto his target it was quite easy to track, listening to the rustling in the leaves, the little catches of breath, the pauses and footsteps. Along the wall towards one of the railings, a shadow leapt over and then melted back into the darkness. Markus pressed himself up against the stone behind the line of bushes: his predator's eyes picked out the movement there in the darkness and the presence of something, but couldn't quite resolve it into form. At the edge of his vision he saw the flickering light from the lanterns inside the manor halls, filtering out through carefully maintained window glass. The shadow approached one of those windows, paused there, shifted – perhaps looking around the courtyard – and then moved closer again.

When the figure glanced back in his direction a sensation washed over him, though the foxwolf couldn't quite name or place it. He held in place, breath in his throat, muzzle tilted up to reduce his silhouette against the wall: this was certainly someone creeping around here, likely another thief trying to find their way into the great manor hall of Oryon. A fine target, and naturally the obvious for any newcomers to the town. Markus never plied his trade here, mainly because he saw no point in stealing from his own family, and then because he already knew all of the secret passageways and hidden corridors, the small shortcuts from first floor to second, from second to third, from third to first. There was a trapdoor hidden beneath a swathe of clover in the rear corner of the courtyard of which likely only he and the gardener knew, leading to the outer yard at the back of the house.

Perhaps this thief had used that one to enter the grounds. What other reason would they have to cross the courtyard? Markus's attention refocused at a slight glitter of torchlight off the shifting glass, and when he looked again the figure was gone. Or, at least, most of it: slender paws cloaked in black drew the window back down into place from within the hallway.

So the foxwolf pursued. He bustled over to that same spot, poked and prodded at the sill, lifted the window open, and reveled in the slight burst of adrenaline that punched through him as he entered this way. It was childish, it was silly, but he enjoyed it. Within the halls, though, he himself would draw far less suspicion by just being himself, so once inside he straightened up, dusted himself off, then strode as though he belonged here. Which, really, he did.

Markus looked down one way while his ears pointed the other, and after a half-second of consideration he swung on his heel and followed his ears. As he walked he kept his sword resting up against his shoulder in a relaxed grip, easy to ready if needed yet otherwise unobtrusive, and a portion of his focus went into keeping his footsteps light and silent along the tiled floor.

A short distance down the hall the walls widened out into another corridor containing a carved marble figure of a lioness – the current Queen of Maldeth, complete with the hefty battle-axe resting over one shoulder and one half of her bare chest flattened out by a vicious scar – and the guard posted to watch over it for the night.

The wolf tipped his helmet and braced a gauntleted paw across his chest in greeting. “Evening, my lord. All's well?"

Markus nodded in return, eyes dancing back and forth across the shadows and alcoves behind the statue, then over to the other side of the hall. Wolves made for good guards and soldiers: natural breeding resulted in peerless determination and willpower when set to a goal, and Oryon's proximity to their homeland Alenar to the north as well as his own family's roots in the region meant that the countess had had no shortage of options in that regard.

“All's well," he answered, continuing without stopping. “Carry on."

Interesting. Markus quickened his step as soon as he turned the next corner, now turning his head this way and that to sniff in the general direction of the doorways to see if he could track down this unannounced visitor. That tension in the air, like someone blowing gently across his fur, strengthened the further he went; he took another corner, paused, turned entirely around, then treaded back towards the intersection he had just passed. The door hung slightly open, all lights inside extinguished: the foxwolf swallowed, closed his eyes, perked his ears, and sniffed at that space – then jumped as someone bumped right into him, cloaked back against his chest.

He stumbled back a half-step, surprise eliminating any advantage he might have had with his sword, and gasped, his free arm on instinct lashing out to squeeze the stranger against him. His eyes flashed open, one footpaw went back to catch himself where he stood, and he looked down at this slightly smaller figure. The black cloak fluttered back to show a short, stout muzzle underneath, fur running the spread between sandstone and cinnamon, between nougat and chocolate in coloration. A large, leathery black nose, wide whiskers that protruded out beyond the hem of the cowl, eyes that glittered with a haunting, almost unearthly quality to their flat steel grey, devoid of any sort of tint or hue… and, as the otter rebounded and caught his balance, a hefty ring swung out from the collar of his shirt on a silver chain.

Startled, Markus lost all sense of what he had intended to do, and in that spare moment after a quick half-thought released the thief. He bounced forward on footpaws eerily silent on the tiled floor, squeezed a bundle up against his chest, and then turned and was out of the corridor quick as a dancing shadow. The foxwolf's mouth fell open; he reached up, patted at his own chest, blinked, looked down at his paw to see the same type of ring there along one of his fingers. The ornate shank, the broad head, the solid claw-like prongs… the single great, delicately cut stone shimmering in the center, flanked on all sides with smaller specimens of other colors.

His own was sharp burgundy garnet, polished to bring out the lambent glow from within – the royal stone of Maldeth to the east, where his late father briefly ruled as King before his deposition – surrounded with bright topaz, rich orange agate, and deep red spinel, the colors of his own House Kalla. In that quick split-second of surprise he hadn't been able to take in the colors of the otter's ring, but no doubt stood in his mind: that was another royal signet ring.

A bit dazed, Markus stepped out towards the corner and peered down the hall, to of course find it completely vacant. On holding his breath and perking his ears nothing came to him, though the further he wandered the more he picked up the sound of steady breathing – which turned out to belong to the same guard.

The wolf nodded at Markus again. “Something the matter, my lord?"

“No…" He shook his head, ears flicking back and forth, curiosity stirring. “No, I'm alright. Thank you."

“Misplace something?"

Another pause. The foxwolf snapped his gaze over to the guard, who stood at attention. “Excuse me?"

“Your purse." The wolf motioned down to Markus's waist. “When you came through a minute ago you had it, and now you don't. Looking for where you put it down?"

Purse? Then he remembered – from his excursion tonight. Markus dropped a paw down to where he had tied it before leaping over the railing, patted there, and found the neatly slit neck of the cloth bag still tied in place. Curiosity began to simmer into amusement, and perhaps a small amount of annoyance.

“No," he answered, “that's all in order."

“Yes, sir."

And on he went, tail flicking behind him, sword now held at a slightly readier position than before. Already he knew it would come to nothing, though: when he returned to the window through which both he and the thief had come, it was still as neatly closed as he had left it. The tingle in the back of his mind had dissipated like morning mist under the rising sun.

Very interesting.

~ ~ ~

“So you see, it's due to the cool air and climate of the terraced mountain fields that contribute to the quality of the grapes…"

Markus nodded a greeting at yet another face unknown to him, gladly taking the opportunity to hide his lack of a smile behind the lip of his wineglass, as well as to pretend that he was still listening to the young vintner's explanation. At least his mother had listened to him this time and provided the sparkling Arro 20 alongside the Three Kings, so he could at least have a choice for something he enjoyed. The sweet wine fizzed against his lips as he took another sip, then pinged and popped across his tongue; the foxwolf enjoyed the sensation for a moment, closed his eyes, swallowed it, and then looked back over the ballroom.

Despite the sheer density of attendance tonight – Countess Azura Oryon had quite an impressive social web, reasonably fitting for someone who had once been Queen – Markus felt no need to pinch his ears back against any overwhelming press of noise. Those who knew each other conversed in gentle tones, while those who didn't milled about to make introductions, speak with the countess, or chat with the family or employment; a few sedate games of cards ran towards the far wall near the back hall; the string sextet brought in from Leyo, Azura's other jurisdiction across the Alenar border – she had, of course, been the one to appoint the Viscount Thorn – continued along in their slow, steady tune, one which the foxwolf recognized as being a favorite of his younger brother.

By chance. This wasn't Mercutio's engagement. It was his own, and he had had to push for his favorite wine and for some of his favorite snacks to be served – the rest where southern Alenari regional delicacies provided by the Viscount's master of the house through earlier correspondence, all familiar – and all of his other requests had been denied. Markus had asked if the ball could be held outside, for the comforting touch and breath of the wind, and in secret so that he could slip back into the shadows whenever he felt overwhelmed; his mother had swiftly denied the idea, citing that a pleasant breeze was one thing, but a coastal wind coming in off the sea to the west and grinding against the mountains to the east tended to disagree with respected visitors in this season. He had asked to wear the colors of House Oryon instead of House Kalla, again met with disdain: “you may belong to both," the countess had explained, “but it is vital that tonight you are a Kalla. It is vital that the name lives on. That is why I have arranged this for you alongside Volo."

Markus rolled his eyes remembering the conversation and took another sip, the fizzy sensation immediately serving to help calm him again. Beside him the young, slim fox, scion of the Arro family, continued on in his inane descriptions and explanations; Markus watched him a moment longer, focusing more on the way he drew legitimate pleasure from his work and speaking of it than he was on the information itself. Over Arro's shoulder Markus could see Viscount Volo Thorn of Leyo from here, the tall, slim-shouldered Alenari mountain wolf who held himself with the assumed importance of someone standing before a crowd when the first thing he wanted was to be anywhere else. Where Markus's mother Azura claimed the town of Oryon here, Volo Thorn ran Leyo to the north in Alenar, and all under Countess Oryon's oversight: Markus's late father had hailed from Leyo, traveled to Maldeth where he stood first as Advisor to the Throne and then King himself, and had established for himself and his wife more respectable legal holdings in each of their hometowns.

He had borrowed his royal blood. Upon his death the following Queen of Maldeth granted his widow the title of Countess, later recognized by the Council of Mora upon her return here with her then-young first son and newborn second, and within another year she had instated a close family friend as the effective ruler of her husband's initial estates.

But there lay the root of their – of her – problem. A countess lacked the power to formally claim a second county, and Azura knew her limits: she could not reasonably run both. So she named the known, respected, valued House Thorn of Alenar to the viscounty, and arranged a marriage between her firstborn and theirs to ensure that the rulership remained within her own House Oryon which had, upon Lucius's death, effectively absorbed House Kalla. The title of Viscount was honorary, not hereditary: it would not pass to Volo's firstborn upon his death. But marry the son of a countess to the daughter of a viscount, and suddenly a new count and countess appeared.

And Markus really couldn't care less about any of this. He heaved a sigh through his drink, fogging the interior rim of the glass, and took yet another sip, welcoming the sparkling cool warmth in the back of his mouth and down his throat. It's not even my problem, he figured. Who cares who runs Leyo? That's there, a full day's ride to the north. So House Kalla died with my father. So what? Maybe that's a sign that we should let it die. I'm just Markus.

_ _

“The 20 you have there – one of my own personal favorites, as well. It was initially a pet project of my mother's father, but I like to think it was my own father who refined the method, and in another few years I'll have a new vintage that I'd be delighted for you to try…"

And his fiancée? He had seen her once so far tonight when the Thorn entourage first arrived, prior to the beginning of the ball. Azura had asked Markus to welcome each and every one of them, including the servants they had brought with them. The rites of courtesy and etiquette had been thoroughly ingrained into his memory through regular repetition over the years, and as such he disliked the task but didn't complain about it. When Rhea had stepped down from the carriage, riding dress bunched around her slim legs, Markus had taken her paw, guided her down, then threw a bow at the waist, kissed the back of that paw, took in the gentle scent of gardenia and woodland air over the roughly familiar spice of lupine musk, and then straightened up to introduce himself.

That had, of course, been their first meeting, and he had made sure to leave it at that. “Markus Kalla ef Solm Maldeth," giving his formal full name, as was expected: the ef to his understanding simply meant 'of', as he had been born while his father Lucius still held the position of Advisor to the Throne in the eastern desert country.

Rhea had smirked, as though amused with his introduction. She held his paw for precisely the socially demanded length of time, then surreptitiously wiped it off on the side of her dress when he had turned his head. “Rhea Thorn," she had replied, and stopped there. She held neither title nor nobility, and what belonged to her father the viscount had been granted only by Azura's grace. “Pleased to make your acquaintance."

But her behavior said otherwise. Markus had guided them up the steps of the manor house and down the halls to their rooms, then directed them to the ballroom and left. He had not yet seen Rhea again, though her father mingled with the other attendants, and perhaps that was her younger sister and brother over there watching the sextet, and…

A little shock vibrated through the foxwolf's nerves. He tapped his claws along his champagne flute, tilted his head, squinted, leaned slightly to the side to peer around the broad-shouldered crocodile who stood in the way, silken finery presenting an admittedly impressive display across smooth scaly skin. Behind the reptile engaged in bright conversation stood a smallish otter in noble finery, warm strawberry-pink against his cinnamon and chocolate fur; he, too, held a glass of Arro 20 in one paw, stout fingers carefully clutching the stem instead of the bowl. He tossed his muzzle back in a laugh audible even from here, reached up with his other paw to scratch a spot on the side of his broad nose, then glanced over–

-and for a quick half-second rested strangely colorless grey eyes on the son of the countess. The otter lifted his glass in familiar greeting, winked, and turned back to the crocodile with another quip, then amid the conversation reached up to scratch at a spot on his neck beneath the thick collar of his shirt, and for a split second lifted the glittering chain of a necklace running underneath.

Markus lifted a finger away from his glass and glanced over at the fox. “Excuse me," he interjected, “ah – apologies, Avi, but…"

The fox's ears flicked in brief offense, though the young vulpine knew better than to openly display that in front of the son of a countess. His little pink tongue flicked out across his lips. “Yes, my lord?"

He motioned with that finger. “That otter over there. Behind the big reptile. Who is that?"

“The otter?" Avi Arro took a sip of his own drink, another of the 20 – Markus hoped that the prevalence of the sparkling white tonight would signify to his mother to stock it in greater volumes – “He introduced himself as Lord Lura, and complimented the wine. Said his father always loved the Three Kings but it's always been a bit tart for him. That tends to be the complaint we receive the most of it, yet it's such a reliable line that we tend to shy away from altering the methods…"

“Lura? Is that a family name?"

“Apologies, my lord, but I can't honestly say. We serve all tracts of nobility from northern Alenar, all the to the southern peak of Mora, and even across the desert to the other side of Maldeth."

“As an otter, he's probably from around here, isn't he?"

“From Mora, yes. Of course all types are found everywhere – your own heritage, my lord, hailing from Maldeth for instance – but if I had to hazard a guess based upon his species, dialect, and mannerisms, I would say Ryalon may be his home."

Markus blinked and raised his eyebrows. His tail behind him gave a swish. “The capital? Really?"

“Yes sir. I speak regularly with the ambassador of imports for the Council, as I'm sure you understand, and Lord Lura's bearing and composure remind me greatly of hers. Enough to the point where I almost asked if they were related." Avi took another sip and leaned in. “She used to perform the same task for the old King Calador, you know. Didn't your mother Her Excellency do the same in Maldeth?"

“Ambassador of imports? Yes. For my father and Scheherazade before him." Markus took a step towards the otter. “Excuse me, Avi."

“Of course. Good luck, my lord."

The foxwolf threaded his way through the gentle press of the crowd, murmuring thanks, apologies, and greetings as appropriate, careful to keep his muzzle angled over his shoulder and his tail bound around his legs to minimize his stature as he went. The crocodile had since stepped away from the mysterious Lord Lura, leaving the small otter inspecting, Markus noticed with slight amusement, his carefully trimmed and painted claws. Warm gold glittered against the contrast of brown fur to pink cloth.

A small teacup-shaped ear flicked as Markus approached, and then those grey eyes flashed up to him again. Lura's short muzzle spread in a curated, deliberate smile and he issued a slight bow at the waist.

“Greetings, my lord, and congratulations on your engagement," he purred in a sweet, smooth tenor. “Beautiful evening tonight, moons full, breeze pleasant. Reminds me of how truly wonderful this area is: all the best of Alenar with none of the worst of Mora, yes?"

An odd thing to say. Markus reflected a polite smile and inclined his head. “I might agree. I apologize that I could not be there to welcome you tonight."

“Oh, that's quite alright. I let myself in." The otter lifted his glass for a sip but paused just before. “How may I serve?"

“Had I not known better, I would almost think that it had been your goal for me to notice you."

Lura's lips pursed along the rim of his glass for a moment while he digested the particular wording. He held the wine along his tongue, let it fizzle, then swallowed. “Well," he said, “do you know better? And, besides… it worked, didn't it?"

Amusement flared again. Markus found himself looking back and forth between the otter's strange grey eyes, one appearing slightly darker than the other. There seemed to be something about them, like looking out across the river on a cloudy, moonless night…

“So," the foxwolf went on, ignoring the hook, “you are Lura?"

Another inclination of the head. “Lord Lura Strade of Rowan, at your service. An honor to be here."

Interesting. Markus knew quite little of local geography, but Avi's appraisal of this otter's heritage surprised him: Rowan was the next stop up the river from Ryalon, often collaborating with the capital to properly manage trade.

“Rowan, you say! I've never been. How is it down there?"

He paused in thought. “Cooler than you'd expect. Proximity to the gulf brings in chill winds from the south, though the latitude means that braces against the usual warmth, and – heavy rains. In contrast, all the worst of Ryalon with none of the best."

To that Markus offered a little laugh. So far what little of his story he had given seemed to line up, but still there was more to learn. The foxwolf held a paw out towards the side exit of the ballroom. “Walk with me, Lura?"

Surprise briefly flared across the otter's brow. “Now, my lord? At your own engagement ball?"

“Nobody will notice." Markus paused to wet his lips, thoughts rolling across one another. One of his ears flicked; he tilted his head. “Besides," he went on in a slightly lower voice, “I am not engaged yet."

Lura's odd eyes glittered.

“Rhea is preparing, and who knows where my mother is." He struggled to keep his gaze from the flash of silver just barely visible against Lura's neck. “It would be my pleasure. You have my interest."

Recognizing his focus and resuming his own disposition, the otter reached up and smoothed his shirt collar down again to hide the chain. “Your interest is my honor. Lead the way, my lord."

Someone likely noticed Markus slip out of the main ballroom, as he really was one half of the main event tonight, but if so nobody thought to stop him. As soon as he led his guest out into the pleasant humidity of the early evening, the foxwolf straightened up, tilted his head back on his shoulders, and breathed out a little sigh of relief. Just being in a room with all of those other people had started to press in on his nerves.

Their footpaws crunched quietly over the gravel path leading away from the side of the ballroom, butting up against the rest of the manor house like a sleeping cat, and then around towards the back. Lura hovered a little bit behind Markus as though waiting for him to lead the way, so he did. The Oryon manor had been built atop a low hill, allowing sight across most of the rest of the town itself: from here so many small lights twinkled in windows across the valley, spaced here and there between great swathes of open shadow where the fields swished and swayed. Harvest would be soon.

“So," Markus began, driving himself back towards the point, “Lura. Tell me about Rowan."

“Mm…" The otter stepped up to come alongside the foxwolf, glass still held lightly in his other paw. “Quite a bit larger than here. Busier. Louder. Not as regulated as Ryalon. Like I said, all of the worst."

“You have friends and family there, I imagine?"

“No. I don't." Grey eyes made even more colorless in the night looked up to him. The pair stepped aside to let a newcomer pass; in the darkness they inclined their head to Markus, who returned the gesture. “I am a Lord in title only. My parents were unwed, my mother middle class, and my father a delinquent. His estates were stripped from him, and on his death I inherited his title and nothing else."

Markus fell quiet for a moment. As far as he could tell, genuine frustrating and anger simmered beneath those words, but there was still something about the way Lura held himself and walked beside him, how he swished the liquid in his glass back and forth to keep the bubbles rolling, how one small ear angled over towards the foxwolf beside him. They turned to the right to follow the exterior trail around a small bank of trees; this would put them beneath the halls that led to Markus's quarters, along the rear side of the manor.

“Is that," he ventured, “why you steal from the local nobility?"

It was a risk, but quickly he saw that his venture had been well placed. Instead of seizing up the otter just hid a snicker behind his other paw, wide rudder-tail giving a flick across the gravel behind him.

“That," the smaller Lord answered, “is because I simply noticed you doing the same. But I must admit, you do it with a bit more poise and flare. Mask and sword? Ooh." Was that a wink? “Like a character from a romance novel."

That certainly caught the foxwolf by surprise. Forgetting that he too held a glass, he stared down at the otter, met his eyes, and couldn't help but grin in response. “Are you saying you had ulterior motives?"

“Perhaps. It just caught my interest, is all. Not that I have room or station to judge, but – not exactly behavior befitting of the son of a countess."

Markus lifted that arm and motioned out towards the trees pushing up close to the manor exterior. Lura looked, perked his ears, then glanced back at him again. “I could have you punished for a comment like that."

Amusement again. Lura finished his drink. “I suppose you could. Will you?"

“I don't know yet." In the darkness Markus found the otter's wrist and stepped off the path with him. Well-trimmed grass tickled at the fur of his ankles, his body reflexively diving between the trunks of trees half-hidden in the darkness. He had come over here countless times before on his nights out, leaving the upper window open so he could easily find his way back in without alerting any of the guards. “That requires further investigation."

“And how would you propose we go about that?"

“Mm…" Something strange yet familiar stirred within the foxwolf as the ring of trees closed around him, blocking off the rest of the world from where they stood. Interest, amusement, excitement, anticipation thrummed within his chest, and as he looked down at this strange otter before him all of that flared up. He had no idea who Lura was, yet felt that irresistible pull of enticement. A little clumsily he reached down to place his empty glass on the ground – it tumbled over onto its side, caught by the grass – then brought that free paw up along the otter's side, fingers already adventuring beneath the hem of his strawberry-pink shirt. “I think I'll have to get to know you a little better first."

Lura let out a sweet little sigh. “I think you're right. Oh – I saw you speaking with Avi, from the winery. What do you think of him?"

Another little surprise. Markus couldn't help but giggle at the absurdity. “Avi? He's – fine, I guess. Cute. Wish he wouldn't speak so much."

Lura laughed as well, then paused to sip at his drink. “So we're in the same boat, then. And me?"

“You?"

“What do you think of me?"

Markus blinked, looking over the otter's muzzle in the darkness deepened here beneath the trees. The noise of the ballroom had completely faded into the night: all that existed was the two of them, here. Lura smelled of mint and flowers. He reached forward, slid the otter's glass from his paws, downed the last few drops, then dropped that to the ground as well – and now slid his other paw up along the otter's back beneath his shirt, fingers splaying within thick, soft fur, pressing in, pulling him forward to him. Lura gasped, leaned in against him, wrapped his tail around Markus's leg… grinded gently up against him, loins to waist.

A distinct, firm heat pulsed there beneath the fabric of his pants, tempting, inviting.

“I think you're a mystery." Markus found Lura's paw and guided it in against himself, first to his chest, then his belly, then up underneath his own shirt, and then down further. Fingers spread, cupped, squeezed; he sighed and shivered. The otter's little muzzle came in, angled to the side, and nuzzled at his bare neck, breath hot and gentle. “Mostly the same, I – I suppose. But I'd like to hear your voice more."

“Yeah?" A quiet giggle, the rustle of clothing, a shiver of warmth… Lura's other paw came in to join the first, teasing at the waist of Markus's pants, tugging at the fabric. The foxwolf responded by doing the same, slipping his fingers down beneath the base of Lura's wide tail, curling around the thick muscle there, poking deeper until – fur gave way to soft, sensitive skin over tight, sleek muscle. There was a little gasp and twitch and clench. “Keep doing what you're doing, and you're bound to get just that."

“Is that a promise?"

The words trickled out across the sensitive fur of his neck, dribbling down his shirt like slick liquid: “It's a challenge." Then Lura pulled back, wet his lips, showed his teeth in a sly grin, and dropped down to his knees there before Markus.

The foxwolf shivered in anticipation, tilted his head back, and balanced himself against the wall of the manor, one arm stretched forward while the other came down to rest between the otter's ears.