FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Chapter Four

Othello straightened in his seat, and began to hyperventilate. He swiped off his glasses and placed them in his lap. He buckled his seatbelt, patted himself down for his essentials. Phone, wallet, keys, and satisfied that everything was as secure as it could be:

"aaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!"

The shriek was as loud as he could get it. He refilled his lungs and screamed again, purging every bit of his panic and fear and stress of the last day. He screamed until his throat scratched. Then he sat back, lit another smoke, and inhaled deeply.

"My name's Othello," He said quietly. "Thank you, Mr....?"

"ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY!!?" His savior was red-faced with rage and his own stress. "What the fuck are you doing? I almost crashed just then!!" (Othello did vaguely notice the swerve during his vocal purge.) This man was surprisingly nerdy-looking. Pear-shaped, with thick arms that ended in fleshy mitts. Othello found his lap thick and comfy-looking. His hair and beard formed an unruly black mane. Yet even this couldn't hide the round, stereotypically "jolly" features of his heavily freckled face. "Shut up, and stay quiet!"

"Um....?" Othello held back a chuckle. "What's another word for redundant?"

"You can walk," his rescuer said, pulling over.

"Hey, now!" Othello sputtered. "You and your beasts really saved my neck, so I figured I'd ease into this a bit, thank you properly."

The car started down the road again.

"Simon," the driver finally introduced himself. "And for the record, you shouldn't thank me. You're my prisoner, after all."

"Oh, am I now?" Othello gave a smirk. "Here I thought I was an intruder."

"You're... something, alright," Simon frowned. "The elders will want to know what."

"Hey, you're kinda cute when you make a serious face like that," Othello chuckled at Simon's blush. "'You ever consider that you're my prisoner? That I could leave at any time without your say-so?"

"So do it," Simon retorted, "I'm not even sure you're worth the trouble."

"I assure you, I'm not," Othello said. He was feeling Simon, this whole situation, out. "I have to see where this goes, so until I do, you're stuck with me."

Simon drove in silent thought, heading toward the outskirts on the edge of Fortuna crater. Fortuna's Maw. From the view of the dark and jagged shapes encircling the crest of the city's lights, it really did look like a swarm of fireflies trapped in some great beast's mouth.

"What are those wolves, anyways?" Othello asked, watching the scenery change. "How do they know to fight the boogiemen?"

Simon clenched his jaw, cutely by Othello's reckoning, and clammed up.

"Gotta be something special," Othello stroked his beard, "to have those vicious, mangy mutts at your beck and--"

"DO NOT!" Simon exploded suddenly, "Do not talk about MY PACK that way, okay?"

There was a moment of silence before Othello started cracking up. "Okay, Remus, now we're getting somewhere! So what, you were raised by those monsters?"

"Werewolves aren't monsters!" Simon was turning red again. The way his cheeks puffed with restrained breath, the way his hands flexed on the wheel... Othello promised himself to see how hot that fire burned. Later.

"Sure they aren't!" Othello crooned, "Just hapless no-nuts that become ravenous, slobbering, howling analogues for toxic masculinity with a hint of menstrual pains once a month."

The car stopped suddenly.

"Get out," Simon said.

"Not if you're gonna make me walk," Othello scoffed.

"Not til' I kick your ass!" Simon snarled.

"Oh, you don't want that, sweetness. Just drive," Othello settled in, but he felt the tension gnaw the back of his neck.

"Get. Out." Simon snarled.

"Fresh idea," Othello sneered, "Make me. And don't be gentle."

Simon glanced around the jeep, before pushing himself out of the door and Othello breathed hard watching this pound cake stomp like a brute to his side. All the while trying to guess if it was to be a headlock or just two fists on the scruff of his shirt to drag him out of the vehicle.

"You realize that anything that comes next is self defense?" Othello called, smiling. That was when a sour-smelling arm wrapped under his chin and hoisted hard. "Hurk! Headlock it is!"

He waited for his feet to hit the ground before spinning in Simon's grip to face him. He grinned and ran hands up over the startled Simon's belly before shoving hard. The grip broke and Simon stumbled backwards.

Othello undid the belt holding up his jeans, slipping it free of his jeans. Widening his stance to keep them high.

Simon went slack-jawed. "What are you doing, man!?"

Doubling over the belt, Othello snapped it twice. "You need to learn what's what, boi." That blood-pounding joy like thunder in his skull. Anticipation of the clash, the meet, the climax and resolution! He felt more like himself than he had in days. Even if he didn't win, this would do a lot more for him than bedrest.

Simon flushed, and caved. "W-wait, fuck! What even ARE you?!"

Othello snorted, deflating. "I'm kinda stressed out, maybe a little tired, certainly fucked in the head, but more than that I am in desperate need of answers. And as soon as we get off this potentially entertaining detour, we can see about my satisfaction!! Now. Get in the car, or come over here so I can work off some of my other issues." Finishing his tirade, he leaned against the car, lit yet another cigarillo and waited, never once taking his eyes off the harried young pup before him.

Simon opened and closed his mouth, gaping like beached carp. After a moment of that, Othello took a decisive step forward, which sent Simon scurrying to the driver's side door. Othello hopped back into the passenger seat and took a few moments to pull himself back together.

"So... the wolves are... Werewolves... Heavy," The realization was only just sinking in. "So, that means... you...?"

"It... didn't take with me," Simon mumbled, "And for the record, if it had, you'd have regretted taking off that belt!"

"Well, it's never let me down yet," chuckled through a veil of smoke, mask of bravery firmly in place..

"I'm taking you to more experienced guys," Simon said, now distinctly grumpy. "Pull that shit on them and see what happens..."

"Happy to, although, I think you and I could've had more fun."

"Enough! Jeez!"

Othello put his hands up, "Okay, okay, I know when a guy just isn't gonna get it out. I'll behave."

They drove into the woods just off the Maw, sliding past enough trees for Othello to admit that he had no idea where he was. The fog thickened as they went. Finally, they pulled into a clearing, an old and overgrown campsite. The shapes around the fire were largely indistinguishable silhouettes until getting out of the car. Up close were about a dozen people, only one under the legal drinking age. Every sort of person one could imagine was there. Business folk, street-toughs, college kid or two, and everything in between. All eyes followed Othello, and something about these people's stony glares made his neck stiff.

"You brought him with you?!" A stately man in a business suit stepped out of the mists. Grey temples were the only marker of his true age. His straight back and the way his mustache molded to his curled lip oozed open hostility.

"Didn't have much choice," Simon mumbled, "He can See, so I thought the Elders might wanna chat with him."

"You didn't bother to tie him up, conceal your face?" Mustachio harped, "I bet you even gave him your real name."

"We played Simon says, he lost, not his fault, I'm just that good, you top-dog or should you be getting me a glass of water and taking my coat?" It was out before Othello realized he'd said it out loud. And before he could bandage it up, he was falling over with a new goose-egg on his head.

"We'll have to kill him," Mustachio straightened his cuff.

"That's a bit drastic, dad!" Simon crouched to help Othello to his feet.

"Not at all, and it shall be done quickly before you reveal ALL of our associations to you, son," Mustachio shoved Simon aside and reached down for Othello. Everyone was surprised when the gentleman's arm was flung to one side. He lost his footing and the mists surged up crash over him like a wave.

The fog settled and Othello, arm still flung out in defiance, looked down to see a stunned Mustachio crouched over on all fours. His eyes were wide, shining gold and wide in fright. He snarled out in a flash of fangs: "HOW DARE YOU HIT ME WITH THE SHROUD!?"

"Grumman... That will be enough." If Mustachio (apparently now Grumman) had a condescending tone, he was positively affectionate compared to the ice-queen that spoke. Three people stepped forward. Two men, one old, the other ancient. And a much younger woman. They each had similar green eyes and only the really old man lacked the others' strawberry-blonde hair.

Othello recognized one of them... but as their eyes met, he knew that mentioning it would be a bad idea.

"Obviously, we should talk," Othello grumbled.

"Not yet," The younger of the two men barked. "All of you, go home."

The others dispersed, sauntering into the trees. Soon cars could be heard starting in the dark and pulling away.

Grumman however stepped forward. "Madam, Simon mentioned that this one is a Seer, perhaps Simon might learn som--"

"Now is not the time, Grum," The lady hissed. She was dressed like a cowgirl, from her boots, to her jeans to the the flannel shirt tied to show a slightly muffined midriff. Only the too-big aviators jacket was out of place. "Take your son and go."

Grumman rumbled a low growl, hunching over to loom over the younger lady. Othello felt his brows creep up expectantly, but she only glared. When he ran out of breath, he sighed and began to back, very carefully, away. "Simon! Get in the car..."

Simon swallowed and turned away. He gave Othello one last indecipherable look. To which, Othello gave a wink and a smirk.

Finally alone with the three "bosses", Othello struggled to relax. None of them looked intimidating, but to see how the Fog loved them, clung to them, raised alarms. He cleared his throat, trying not to let his adrenaline-powered confidence slip.

"So.... Werewolves, huh?"

The girl squared up with him and stared into his eyes. Othello, not liking intimidation tactics used on him, stared back. That was a mistake. He suddenly smelled blood. Heard the snapping of bones. Cringed at the shrieks of prey, human prey. Fangs flashed. Flesh was torn. Life ended. He flung himself backwards to break the eye-contact, pressing his back against a tree. He looked skyward to keep from accidentally locking eyes again, but had to glance down at the ruckus before him.

The cowgirl was crouched low, but that hardly diminished her steadily increasing height. The coat draped over her was filling with muscle and bulk, each throb of new muscle released gouts of fog from under her collar and sleeves. Her face was stretching as her mouth filled with sharpening fangs. Her morphing muzzle seemed incapable of swallowing and drool glistened as it fell in strings from those teeth.

The other two fell on her, previously unseen muscles bulged to pull her back, each emitting their own smaller puffs of smoke..

"What did you see, child!?" the elder demanded.

"Father," The less-older man grunted, "She's too far into the Change. We need to get her out of here."

Othello saw hatred in her shining yellow eyes and was afraid. She was just like one of Them! She parted her teeth to snarl and to accompany them were words in Othello's head.

"DEFILER OF FLESH!!" but that was all that got out before, with twin shouts of effort from the men, she was hurled into the woods.

There was tense silence for several long moments before a loud echoing howl bellowed in the distance.

"You'll have to excuse her, my son..." The old man sighed, shrinking back into a frailer form. "You did her quite a fright!" He smiled, eyes blinking back to green as if switching out a light. "I'm Ezra. This is my son, James, and the one who very nearly gnawed your head off was my granddaughter, Elizabeth."

"Pa... " James stepped forward. "You sure--?"

"Trust must be given before it can be expected," Ezra said patiently. "What is your name, son?"

"F-f-fuck me running, you really are w-w-were..." Othello stammered with a dry tongue. Hearing or even believing a word like that is very different from experiencing such a thing firsthand.

"Werewolves, yes," Ezra chuckled. But his voice was tight. Patience may have been wise, but testing this man's was not, Othello decided.

"T-Tell... Call me Tell..." Othello sunk to the ground, squeaking with each breath.

"Very good, child..." Ezra stepped forward, making Othello want to scamper away. "What are you?"

Othello thought to respond that he was human... But if werewolves were a thing, maybe he wasn't? "I don't know... Can... can you tell me, please?"

Whatever he saw in Othello's expression then warmed the look in Ezra's own. "Well, we will certainly try. Come, the sun will be up soon, and I can't imagine you've slept. How about some cocoa?"

"With a sh-shot of bourbon..?" Othello wanted to cry, but like hell he'd let them see that. Now if he could just get his legs working. As it was, he just used the tree to pull himself back up.

"HA!" Ezra barked out. "I like you already!"

James watched him for a moment then grunted something about putting the kettle on and busied himself by the fire. Ezra extended a hand, and Othello instinctively recoiled. The old man withdrew, and backed to the fire. "Come when you're ready. We will wait."

Othello went back to what he taught Angel to keep from freaking out: "Breath in on ten... hold... out on ten..." He kept up his circular breathing until he could stand on his own, then continued as he moved on shaky legs towards the warmth of the fire. He hadn't realized how cold it had gotten.

He rubbed his biceps to warm his hands and stood just outside of the flame's glow. He looked down at the fat, little six-legged lizard coiled up within the flames. It raised jet-black eyes at him and gave a crackling hiss, spraying sparks out all over.

"He sees you, son," It was James who spoke this time, "Can you see him?"

This little pet-name was getting under Othello's skin. "My name is Tell," He huffed, "And yes, I see him... What is he?"

"A spirit," Ezra whispered theatrically, "of fire... I'm sure you can guess its name. I'm sure you've seen pictures."

Othello took a breath, and muttered out. "Salamander...?"

"Yes, indeedy..." Ezra laughed out. "Just a larvae, though. Grown-ups are harder to contain."

This piqued Othello's interest. He took a few steps closer. "You can... 'contain' Them..? Spirits?"

"Small ones," James emphasized.

"I bet, with the right bit of know-how," Ezra teased, "You could catch something bigger..."

"What makes you say that...?" Othello asked, still staring at the salamander.

After some silence, Ezra spoke up. "You See them.. Can you See the Shroud?"

"That's what Grumman called the fog?" Othello circled the fire to sit opposite the others. "Sure. The fog, the dust... What is it?"

"Ah, so you see it as fog," Ezra said. "And I'm guessing you see it clearest once a month?"

"What is it?" Othello asked more clearly, watching them over the flames and steepled fingers. Now that he was calm, he found himself growing impatient, desperate to make all this make sense.

"It's a barrier between our world, and theirs," James explained. "It weakens a few days on either side of the full-moon. It's been said that shamans perceive this weakening all sorts of ways. Visually, or by smell or touch, taste, so on. The world presses right up against us, like a lover through a Lacie Shroud."

Othello had spent so much time living in fear or willful ignorance of this time that he never linked it to the lunar cycle. That should have been obvious. He felt his cheeks warm in embarrassment.

"The dust you see, those are... proto-spirits?" Ezra hazarded. "What spirits come from, evolve from. The primordial Akasha." As he spoke, Othello turned his attention to the sparks, many of which drifted almost purposefully back to the fire instead of fading in the cooler air.

"So... I really do attack with this.. Shroud? That's how I make them disappear?" He raised a hand to the flames and the fog thickened and swirled around it. The salamander reared up like a startled cat, and more embers sprayed. Its middle legs fanned the sparks his way. Othello barely winced as they peppered him. Just as He was about to crush the little wyrm, a hand grasped his wrist.

"Please, don't do that," The girl, Elizabeth, said grumpily. She reappeared with a fresh layer of dirt and blood on her mouth and hands. Othello opted not to imagine where the blood came from. "Those are pretty rare around town..."

"Besides," Ezra said, "I imagine it must be a strain to kill. Why not try a different approach?"

Othello was baffled. "Why would I try for anything less?"

"Would you really smite something that only wants to warm itself in peace for a while?" Ezra asked blithely.

Othello considered the answer to that, considered that he'd not only be committing some moral affront, but also some deep insult to these wolves. "Why would you care?" He asked, "Why would horror-movie monsters care?"

All three laughed at that, and Othello pouted annoyance.

"DAMN those fucking movies!" James guffawed. "The only wolves who live like that are so out of Harmony with themselves that Hunter and Human don't even know each other! They're mad!!"

"We are spirit-beings, Tell!" Ezra declared. "Just like you."

Othello shot Ezra a look. "Wait, wha--?!"

"Your gifts, they bind you to their world. The Other Side of Reality," Ezra said. "Werewolves are born to enforce the separation of the worlds, to protect mortal lives. Shamans act as arbiters between the worlds."

"So we should kill him," Elizabeth snorted.

"Liz," James rumbled in warning.

"Shamans are necessary, especially here, especially now," Ezra explained. "Especially with them being suddenly so scarce."

"Because that isn't ominous at all..." Othello muttered.

"It is," Ezra stated flatly. "I'm not going to lie to you here, Tell. You're the first shaman around these parts that could even affect the shroud, or spirits in long, long time."

"Why?" Othello felt his deep frown. "I get to be some chosen one? What the hell?"

"Maybe not," Ezra smiled, "We've seen lots of special young'uns lately. You may not even be the first shaman. Simon, for example, has certain gifts. As you heard."

Othello immediately thought of Niel.

"Should we really be saying so much, Grandad?" Liz drew out a bag of marshmallows, and spiked one on a stick.

"Which tells me that you..." Othello held out his hand to take the bag from her. He continued when she begrudgingly handed it over "... don't have much more to divulge." He smiled smarmily at her, after glancing at the others. "There were more people like me?" He set his own mallow to roast.

"Most of them are crazy, with no reference of understanding," Ezra explained. "Much like us, a shaman who denies himself suffers mental breaks until they lose themselves almost entirely to one Side or the Other."

"Even if they weren't useless..." James added, "The fact is that Fortuna is just... wrong. Whatever powers mortal shamans use is dampened here."

"We don't fare much better," Ezra snorted. "Every time we transform, we become vulnerable to Glass."

"Like the boogie- uh, spirits?" His mallow lit, as he dangled it over the face of the watchful salamander.

"Dad, let's just keep the talk to shamans, yeah?" James muttered, standing to distribute steaming mugs.

"We are all linked. What endangers the Forsaken risks us all," Ezra said patiently. "This child, if he is to help us, needs all the information we can offer... With a certain understanding of mutual discretion?" He looked pointedly at Othello.

"Sure, your secrets... what I can understand, are safe with me," Othello nodded, taking his own. "I'm really sure anything else and this lovely lady would tear off my head and spit down my neck, right?"

"Good! Excellent!" Ezra raised his own in toast.

"So, what is it you actually want from me?" Othello grimaced as his marshmallow slipped and was snapped up greedily by the fire-spirit. He tossed the stick at it, and warmed his hands on his mug instead.

"I want to train you, and test you," Ezra grinned, eyes twinkling.

This answer saw the others thunderstruck.

"DAD!?"

"GRANDAD!!"

"Heh..." Othello sniggered. "Neat."

"And in return..." Ezra continued, silencing further comment, "you work for us, taking on responsibilities for the Balance. You will naturally be drawn into such affairs on your own, but in this way, you have allies."

Othello tumbled the proposition in his head for a moment. "Will you pay me?"

"How dare you!?" Lize barked. He was starting to enjoy hearing those three words. "Do you have any idea what you're being offered here?"

"Don't need to," Othello shrugged. "I'm smart, and I'm hubristic; I fully believe that I can figure this out on my own. I also think I'm suffering some kind of mental break, so for all I know, I'm in some sort of video game. Which helps. So I ask again. Pay me?"

"WAHAHAHAHAHA!!!" It was surprising that the deep belly-laugh came from James, but it was followed up by Ezra's own. "I say we do it. It won't be much, but for each job completed, you'll be rewarded."

"Men!" Liz huffed. "You're all crazy!"

"I'm starting to believe that," Othello chuckled after a moment. "Maybe we are all nuts."

...