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Haste to the Wedding
© 2015 by Walter Reimer
This is a sequel to Blunt Objects, which is a sequel to
Mont Rose, which is itself a sequel to
Rajjan Tor.
The stories are set in
tegerio's Realm of Faerie universe, as shown in his Zandar's Saga here on FA, and The Ballad of Adler Young.
Also check out
eocostello's Realm of Faerie stories:
The Thin Line
From Whom All Blessings Flow
Personal Diplomacy
The Font of Honour
It's Only Funny Until Someone Loses Their Dignity
. . . Is In Another Castle
The Coin of the Realm
Dance, Ballerina, Dance
Dulce Domum
8100 Years of Solitude
Apparel Oft Proclaims the Wolfess
. . . And a Child Shall Lead Them
___________________
Art by tegerio
Part 1.
Early summer in Rajjan Tor, the fortress district on the Kingdom of Faerie’s southern border, was marked by a number of festivals as the caravans stepped up their traffic between the town and the cities known as the Four Sisters. The marketplace was filled with the odors of flowers and spices, and was noisy with the cries of vendors and hawkers, the murmured voices of shoppers, and the gronking of dray-ants hauling wagons.
An Elf didn’t need ears as large as his to hear the hubbub, Ayyub Sharpears thought to himself as he leaned out the window of the hostel. The fennec tod’s nostrils flared as he breathed deeply and savored the variety of scents.
He had gotten up shortly after dawn and availed himself of the breakfast Gareth and Marjorie, the hostel’s owners, had on offer. The wheatcakes had been slathered in fresh butter and was served with fruit compote, with plenty of hot, sweet tea to drink.
Not FAFI tea, though. The Faerie Armed Forces Institute obtained good quality tea from farms up in the mountains west of Rajjan Tor, but what they did to it after acquiring it could only be described as unseelie, something akin to dark magic. FAFI tea could polish armor, or take the rust off a sword blade. The Imperial and Royal Army’s soldiers grumbled and made jokes about it, but drank it anyway.
Ayyub leaned on the windowsill and took another deep sniff of the breeze coming from the direction of the marketplace before turning toward the bed. A pair of ant-panniers sat open, both nearly half-full of clothes or assorted items from the years he’d used the room as a home away from home.
But now he was packing up.
His formal uniform lay on the mattress, waiting to be folded and placed carefully on top in one of the saddlebags. Its khaki color wasn’t the same as the Army’s; Ayyub was a member of the Rajjan Tor Yeomanry, an all-volunteer force drawn from the local population and charged with defending the border and supporting the Regiment that currently garrisoned the District.
A small pile of scrolls and two furbrushes lay at the other end of the mattress. The fennec snorted at one of the scrolls and tossed it into the satchel. Jane, the Low-Folk Femme was among the most popular written entertainments in Faerie, and the edition he’d just packed was one of his favorites.
He just had to be careful to keep his mother from seeing it. Hannah Sharpears was a firm believer that any depictions of undraped femmes or sexual activities were the proper province of the Mephitist Church, and not popular literature. Shortly after discovering his younger brother Jake looking at a copy he’d found, Hannah had wasted no time in taking him to the Temple.
Jake had come back looking a bit bewildered, but the nine-year-old kit thought girls were still a bit “icky.”
Ayyub chuckled at the memory. He’d learn.
Under the scrolls and brushes was a small framed portrait that he looked at fondly before kissing. The painting was his betrothed, Isabeau Weatherwright. The vixen was a pure-blooded fennec (as opposed to himself; the slightly shorter ears and grayish cast to his fur proclaimed that to the discerning eye) from a village up in the western mountains. They’d met the previous year.
He kissed the portrait again before packing it away carefully and closing up the pannier, then packing away his formal uniform and closing up that saddlebag. The tod was dressed in faded dark blue trousers, a white shirt and boots, as he wasn’t expected to ride out with his troop today.
“Almost forgot,” he muttered to himself as he lifted the panniers, then set them back down on the bed and turned toward a small niche set in one wall. Being a good Mephitist, he would pray daily before the holy symbol, a crossed circle for the world with vertical wavy lines emanating from it to represent the Holy Musk of Fuma.
The fennec bowed to the symbol, the knuckles of his right paw scrubbing at the fur between his ears in the approved Benedicto Interphalangeal. Murmuring a prayer, he rubbed his knuckles between his ears again.
Then he scooped up his bags and left the room.
“Got everything cleared out, Ayyub?” Gareth asked. The feline grinned as the tod placed his key on the counter. “Hate to see you leaving for good. You’ve been one of me and Marjorie’s best customers.”
Ayyub gave the hostel owner a sheepish grin as he rubbed the back of his head with a free paw. “Well, it’s not like I’m leaving town, Gareth. Besides, your wife makes the best date cake in the district.”
“Hah! And well I know it, too,” Gareth laughed.
“So you know I’ll be back.”
Gareth snickered. “Marjorie gave your Isabeau the recipe, I recall. Can’t beat home cooking, you know. Now, about your bill,” and he pulled a small slip of parchment from a pocket. “Care to guess?”
Ayyub put a paw to his chin. “Hmm. Twelve silver?”
“Lower.”
“Ten.”
“Lower.”
“Are you gouging yourself? It’s not good business, Gareth.”
“You know what the rates are. Keep guessing.”
“Nine and a half silver.”
“Getting a bit warmer.”
“Nine and a quarter.”
Gareth placed the slip on the counter. “Nine silver, twenty-three and a half copper.”
Ayyub’s ears dipped a bit. “You sure?”
“Elves don’t lie,” the feline pointed out.
“True,” and the fennec opened a pouch at his belt and counted out exact change. “I’ll be seeing you both again,” Ayyub said. “After all, I do still ride out with the Yeomanry, and I might not be able to sleep at home all the time.”
“A room’ll be waiting for you – and we’ll be at the wedding, of course.”
Ayyub grinned widely, baring his teeth. “Looking forward to it.” He shouldered his bags and walked out of the hostel.
His next stop was the livery stable, two streets away from the hostel. “Geoffrey!” he called out as he walked in.
“Hi, Ayyub!” and a shorter, tortoise-shell colored copy of the feline stable owner appeared behind the counter.
“Hi Fred. Your father in?”
“One of the Lancers asked him to look at his ant,” the kitten replied. The Regiment garrisoning the district was reinforced by a contingent of Imperial Lancers.
“That’s a bit odd,” Ayyub said. “They’ve got a farrier up at the Keep.”
Fred nodded. “But the guy told Father that they’re busy up there.”
It happened, and Ayyub nodded. “Could you bring my tack? My paws are a bit full.”
“Sure thing.”
The stables were dimly lit and filled with the woody odor of ants. Elves who made their livelihood around ants knew how important it was to keep the creatures’ living accommodations as close as possible to the traditional underground burrows. The fennec said, “Chrrrr, chup,” and several pairs of antennae poked up above the stalls. A few dipped back down, but one pair angled toward him as he walked over to the stall.
“Hello, Beauty.”
Ayyub set his panniers down and held his paws up, palms outward, as the ant’s feelers tapped and stroked. His ant gave a soft gronk and chirped.
“Thanks, Fred,” and the fennec took the saddle and bridle from the kitten before climbing over the wooden divider and into the stall. Beauty stood still as he stroked the creature’s chitinous body. “You’ve taken good care of her, Fred. Thanks.”
“It’s no problem, Ayyub. She’s a good ant.”
“Yes, she is. Aren’t you a good ant, huh girl?” and he chuckled as the creature shook herself.
“Gronk.”
“Right you are. Hold still now.” Beauty held still as Ayyub set the saddle on her thorax and made sure the girths weren’t too tight, then affixed her bridle and made sure that the reins were properly set around the bases of her antennae. Fred passed the saddlebags over, and Ayyub secured them by a longer network of straps to her abdomen.
As he walked behind her, the fennec was careful to not touch her too far down her back. Ants had stingers, even domesticated ones; Elves who treated their mounts too familiarly could end up with a nasty puncture wound at the least, or very sick from an envenomed wound at the worst.
His ears perked at an anguished gronk a few stalls over, followed by several voices. Leaving Beauty to get adjusted to the extra weight of his saddlebags, Ayyub let himself out of the stall and walked over to investigate.
A trooper of the Lancers in a drab fatigue uniform was holding his ant, one arm around its neck as he stroked it between the antennae. Fred’s father was pressing one ear against the mount’s abdomen, tapping the exoskeleton as he listened. “Hello, Geoffrey,” Ayyub said softly. “What’s the problem?”
“Problem with her fodder, poor thing,” the feline murmured. “Colic.”
“Have you clystered her yet?”
Geoffrey nodded at the metal syringe laying in the straw. “Waiting to hear – yep, there it is. Sergeant?”
The canine replied, “Yes?”
“You might want to start stroking her antennae now. She’s going to be a bit frisky.”
“Right.” He started murmuring softly to the ant to comfort it as a slight gurgling sound could be heard.
The ant gave a loud, drawn-out “Gronnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnk!” that caused all the other ants in the stable to startle. A huge gout of greenish-brown, vinegary-smelling spraint gushed from her cloaca. Some of it spattered against Geoffrey’s leather apron and a few droplets struck Ayyub’s boots.
“That’ll do it,” the farrier said with a satisfied smile. “She’ll be right as rain soon.”
Ayyub nodded. “Good. I’m riding out.”
“Safe journey,” the feline said absently as another load of spraint came out of the ant.
The fennec went back to Beauty’s stall and opened it, then took her reins. “Easy, girl,” he said in a quiet, reassuring tone. The other ant’s distress had affected all the other ants, and it took a few moments to calm Beauty enough for him to lead her out of the stable.
He set a foot in the stirrup and mounted, settling himself on the saddle as Beauty huffed a breath through the gauze veiling her breathing vents. He chirruped and her antennae perked. “Ready, Beauty?”
“Gronk.”
“Good girl. Let’s go.”
He kept to side streets to avoid riding through the press of the crowd in the marketplace, picking out a route that led to the road leading northward out of town. An ant has six legs, and a well-trained and healthy ant has a gliding gait that will give an Elf a smooth ride over most terrain.
He didn’t need to tug on the reins as two vixens in traveling cloaks started across the street in front of him. Beauty was used to pausing to let pedestrians pass. One of the vixens, a redhead, gave him a sultry look that he barely resisted. Elvish women were taught Wiles, but he was already betrothed and that knowledge gave him some resistance.
Her companion, a blonde, was saying, “It might be a good idea, you know, to study the sociopolitical ramifications of increased trade between Tel Afon and Mont Rose – “
“I love it when you talk dirty,” the redhead said, and both giggled.
Ayyub shook his head as he rounded a corner. Out of towners. Rajjan Tor was an important trading center, but at times it attracted some unusual types.
© 2015 by Walter Reimer
This is a sequel to Blunt Objects, which is a sequel to
Mont Rose, which is itself a sequel to
Rajjan Tor.
The stories are set in
tegerio's Realm of Faerie universe, as shown in his Zandar's Saga here on FA, and The Ballad of Adler Young.Also check out
eocostello's Realm of Faerie stories:The Thin Line
From Whom All Blessings Flow
Personal Diplomacy
The Font of Honour
It's Only Funny Until Someone Loses Their Dignity
. . . Is In Another Castle
The Coin of the Realm
Dance, Ballerina, Dance
Dulce Domum
8100 Years of Solitude
Apparel Oft Proclaims the Wolfess
. . . And a Child Shall Lead Them
___________________
Art by
tegerioPart 1.
Early summer in Rajjan Tor, the fortress district on the Kingdom of Faerie’s southern border, was marked by a number of festivals as the caravans stepped up their traffic between the town and the cities known as the Four Sisters. The marketplace was filled with the odors of flowers and spices, and was noisy with the cries of vendors and hawkers, the murmured voices of shoppers, and the gronking of dray-ants hauling wagons.
An Elf didn’t need ears as large as his to hear the hubbub, Ayyub Sharpears thought to himself as he leaned out the window of the hostel. The fennec tod’s nostrils flared as he breathed deeply and savored the variety of scents.
He had gotten up shortly after dawn and availed himself of the breakfast Gareth and Marjorie, the hostel’s owners, had on offer. The wheatcakes had been slathered in fresh butter and was served with fruit compote, with plenty of hot, sweet tea to drink.
Not FAFI tea, though. The Faerie Armed Forces Institute obtained good quality tea from farms up in the mountains west of Rajjan Tor, but what they did to it after acquiring it could only be described as unseelie, something akin to dark magic. FAFI tea could polish armor, or take the rust off a sword blade. The Imperial and Royal Army’s soldiers grumbled and made jokes about it, but drank it anyway.
Ayyub leaned on the windowsill and took another deep sniff of the breeze coming from the direction of the marketplace before turning toward the bed. A pair of ant-panniers sat open, both nearly half-full of clothes or assorted items from the years he’d used the room as a home away from home.
But now he was packing up.
His formal uniform lay on the mattress, waiting to be folded and placed carefully on top in one of the saddlebags. Its khaki color wasn’t the same as the Army’s; Ayyub was a member of the Rajjan Tor Yeomanry, an all-volunteer force drawn from the local population and charged with defending the border and supporting the Regiment that currently garrisoned the District.
A small pile of scrolls and two furbrushes lay at the other end of the mattress. The fennec snorted at one of the scrolls and tossed it into the satchel. Jane, the Low-Folk Femme was among the most popular written entertainments in Faerie, and the edition he’d just packed was one of his favorites.
He just had to be careful to keep his mother from seeing it. Hannah Sharpears was a firm believer that any depictions of undraped femmes or sexual activities were the proper province of the Mephitist Church, and not popular literature. Shortly after discovering his younger brother Jake looking at a copy he’d found, Hannah had wasted no time in taking him to the Temple.
Jake had come back looking a bit bewildered, but the nine-year-old kit thought girls were still a bit “icky.”
Ayyub chuckled at the memory. He’d learn.
Under the scrolls and brushes was a small framed portrait that he looked at fondly before kissing. The painting was his betrothed, Isabeau Weatherwright. The vixen was a pure-blooded fennec (as opposed to himself; the slightly shorter ears and grayish cast to his fur proclaimed that to the discerning eye) from a village up in the western mountains. They’d met the previous year.
He kissed the portrait again before packing it away carefully and closing up the pannier, then packing away his formal uniform and closing up that saddlebag. The tod was dressed in faded dark blue trousers, a white shirt and boots, as he wasn’t expected to ride out with his troop today.
“Almost forgot,” he muttered to himself as he lifted the panniers, then set them back down on the bed and turned toward a small niche set in one wall. Being a good Mephitist, he would pray daily before the holy symbol, a crossed circle for the world with vertical wavy lines emanating from it to represent the Holy Musk of Fuma.
The fennec bowed to the symbol, the knuckles of his right paw scrubbing at the fur between his ears in the approved Benedicto Interphalangeal. Murmuring a prayer, he rubbed his knuckles between his ears again.
Then he scooped up his bags and left the room.
“Got everything cleared out, Ayyub?” Gareth asked. The feline grinned as the tod placed his key on the counter. “Hate to see you leaving for good. You’ve been one of me and Marjorie’s best customers.”
Ayyub gave the hostel owner a sheepish grin as he rubbed the back of his head with a free paw. “Well, it’s not like I’m leaving town, Gareth. Besides, your wife makes the best date cake in the district.”
“Hah! And well I know it, too,” Gareth laughed.
“So you know I’ll be back.”
Gareth snickered. “Marjorie gave your Isabeau the recipe, I recall. Can’t beat home cooking, you know. Now, about your bill,” and he pulled a small slip of parchment from a pocket. “Care to guess?”
Ayyub put a paw to his chin. “Hmm. Twelve silver?”
“Lower.”
“Ten.”
“Lower.”
“Are you gouging yourself? It’s not good business, Gareth.”
“You know what the rates are. Keep guessing.”
“Nine and a half silver.”
“Getting a bit warmer.”
“Nine and a quarter.”
Gareth placed the slip on the counter. “Nine silver, twenty-three and a half copper.”
Ayyub’s ears dipped a bit. “You sure?”
“Elves don’t lie,” the feline pointed out.
“True,” and the fennec opened a pouch at his belt and counted out exact change. “I’ll be seeing you both again,” Ayyub said. “After all, I do still ride out with the Yeomanry, and I might not be able to sleep at home all the time.”
“A room’ll be waiting for you – and we’ll be at the wedding, of course.”
Ayyub grinned widely, baring his teeth. “Looking forward to it.” He shouldered his bags and walked out of the hostel.
His next stop was the livery stable, two streets away from the hostel. “Geoffrey!” he called out as he walked in.
“Hi, Ayyub!” and a shorter, tortoise-shell colored copy of the feline stable owner appeared behind the counter.
“Hi Fred. Your father in?”
“One of the Lancers asked him to look at his ant,” the kitten replied. The Regiment garrisoning the district was reinforced by a contingent of Imperial Lancers.
“That’s a bit odd,” Ayyub said. “They’ve got a farrier up at the Keep.”
Fred nodded. “But the guy told Father that they’re busy up there.”
It happened, and Ayyub nodded. “Could you bring my tack? My paws are a bit full.”
“Sure thing.”
The stables were dimly lit and filled with the woody odor of ants. Elves who made their livelihood around ants knew how important it was to keep the creatures’ living accommodations as close as possible to the traditional underground burrows. The fennec said, “Chrrrr, chup,” and several pairs of antennae poked up above the stalls. A few dipped back down, but one pair angled toward him as he walked over to the stall.
“Hello, Beauty.”
Ayyub set his panniers down and held his paws up, palms outward, as the ant’s feelers tapped and stroked. His ant gave a soft gronk and chirped.
“Thanks, Fred,” and the fennec took the saddle and bridle from the kitten before climbing over the wooden divider and into the stall. Beauty stood still as he stroked the creature’s chitinous body. “You’ve taken good care of her, Fred. Thanks.”
“It’s no problem, Ayyub. She’s a good ant.”
“Yes, she is. Aren’t you a good ant, huh girl?” and he chuckled as the creature shook herself.
“Gronk.”
“Right you are. Hold still now.” Beauty held still as Ayyub set the saddle on her thorax and made sure the girths weren’t too tight, then affixed her bridle and made sure that the reins were properly set around the bases of her antennae. Fred passed the saddlebags over, and Ayyub secured them by a longer network of straps to her abdomen.
As he walked behind her, the fennec was careful to not touch her too far down her back. Ants had stingers, even domesticated ones; Elves who treated their mounts too familiarly could end up with a nasty puncture wound at the least, or very sick from an envenomed wound at the worst.
His ears perked at an anguished gronk a few stalls over, followed by several voices. Leaving Beauty to get adjusted to the extra weight of his saddlebags, Ayyub let himself out of the stall and walked over to investigate.
A trooper of the Lancers in a drab fatigue uniform was holding his ant, one arm around its neck as he stroked it between the antennae. Fred’s father was pressing one ear against the mount’s abdomen, tapping the exoskeleton as he listened. “Hello, Geoffrey,” Ayyub said softly. “What’s the problem?”
“Problem with her fodder, poor thing,” the feline murmured. “Colic.”
“Have you clystered her yet?”
Geoffrey nodded at the metal syringe laying in the straw. “Waiting to hear – yep, there it is. Sergeant?”
The canine replied, “Yes?”
“You might want to start stroking her antennae now. She’s going to be a bit frisky.”
“Right.” He started murmuring softly to the ant to comfort it as a slight gurgling sound could be heard.
The ant gave a loud, drawn-out “Gronnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnk!” that caused all the other ants in the stable to startle. A huge gout of greenish-brown, vinegary-smelling spraint gushed from her cloaca. Some of it spattered against Geoffrey’s leather apron and a few droplets struck Ayyub’s boots.
“That’ll do it,” the farrier said with a satisfied smile. “She’ll be right as rain soon.”
Ayyub nodded. “Good. I’m riding out.”
“Safe journey,” the feline said absently as another load of spraint came out of the ant.
The fennec went back to Beauty’s stall and opened it, then took her reins. “Easy, girl,” he said in a quiet, reassuring tone. The other ant’s distress had affected all the other ants, and it took a few moments to calm Beauty enough for him to lead her out of the stable.
He set a foot in the stirrup and mounted, settling himself on the saddle as Beauty huffed a breath through the gauze veiling her breathing vents. He chirruped and her antennae perked. “Ready, Beauty?”
“Gronk.”
“Good girl. Let’s go.”
He kept to side streets to avoid riding through the press of the crowd in the marketplace, picking out a route that led to the road leading northward out of town. An ant has six legs, and a well-trained and healthy ant has a gliding gait that will give an Elf a smooth ride over most terrain.
He didn’t need to tug on the reins as two vixens in traveling cloaks started across the street in front of him. Beauty was used to pausing to let pedestrians pass. One of the vixens, a redhead, gave him a sultry look that he barely resisted. Elvish women were taught Wiles, but he was already betrothed and that knowledge gave him some resistance.
Her companion, a blonde, was saying, “It might be a good idea, you know, to study the sociopolitical ramifications of increased trade between Tel Afon and Mont Rose – “
“I love it when you talk dirty,” the redhead said, and both giggled.
Ayyub shook his head as he rounded a corner. Out of towners. Rajjan Tor was an important trading center, but at times it attracted some unusual types.
Category Artwork (Traditional) / Fantasy
Species Vulpine (Other)
Size 960 x 644px
File Size 71 kB
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