
The Rise of the Raccoon Queen
Or The Big Grey Fluffy Butt Matter
A Story of Faerie
© 2019 by M. Mitchell Marmel
(Additional characters by E.O. Costello and W.D. Reimer.)
Thumbnail art by
tegerio, color by
marmelmm
Part Nine.
Tessie:
It was strange, but we were arguing, Ooo-er and me, for a while before I realized something.
She was talking Standard Elvish, and using language that I recall hearing in the FAFI. So, sure, I was giving as good as I got until she yelled, “What the ____ are you doing wearing HER armor?!” And she grabbed the tiara off my head and chucked it to the far side of the pond.
I ducked, but it didn’t help. That damned thing came straight back and hit me in the head. Again. “OW!” When I put it back on straight, Ooo-er was staring at me, her muzzle open. “What?” I said.
“I – I never saw it do that before.”
“I wish it’d stop doing it,” I grumbled, “it’s giving me a headache.” She started to tear up. “What?” I don’t like seeing people cry, especially someone as happy as Ooo-er, and when she started sobbing I hugged her. “What’s wrong?”
“Does – does this mean,” she choked out, “that she’s dead?”
“She is not dead.”
“Huh?” I turned my head to see who was talking, then looked back at Ooo-er. “I don’t think she is,” I said. As if I had such luck. “I’ll be happy to give this stuff back to her. I’m used to wearing more – except when I’m with the Master, that is.”
“Raccoon doesn't look good on me.”
“Who’s that?” I asked, looking around.
“Who?” Ooo-er sniffled. She wiped her eyes. “Are you okay?”
I shook my head. “I think I’m hearing voices or something. This damned crown must have hit me too had.” I dug a finger in my ear.
“Don't do that. I don't know where that's been.”
“Who the – “ I started looking around and yelled, “Come on out and say that to my face, you!” I shook a fist and I felt my right earlobe throb. “Ow! There it is!” I grabbed at it, then felt around. “The earring – “
“Her earring,” Ooo-er said. She started looking angry again.
“It won’t come off!” I said, tugging on it. “I can’t – OW! That HURT! It felt like a bee sting!”
“And it’ll keep on hurting, sweetie, until you settle down. I have chosen you to Wear me, so no more backtalk.”
I blinked at Ooo-er.
She blinked back. “What?”
“I – I think it’s the earring. Talking to me.”
She nodded. “What’s it saying?”
“Th-That it’s chosen to Wear me –“
Tears started again. “S-So she is . . . “
“Tell her that her wife’s not dead.”
“It says that she’s not dead.” I hugged the otter femme again, and I think she tried to crush my ribs. When I got a chance to breathe I said, “Maybe it wants us to go look for her.”
“Got it in one, girl.”
“Yes, it wants us to go look for her.”
Ooo-er straightened up and looked really determined. “Then we need to do that.” Her wings appeared.
“Wish I could do that.”
“You can’t.”
“That’s okay, I’ll carry you.” She got behind me, hooked her arms under my armpits and started flapping.
And flapping.
And flapping.
I looked down and I was about two feet over the pond, with a few of the Frogs [RAE-BEET]ing as we flew over them, and I was happy when my feet touched the ground.
Ooo-er landed, her wings disappearing as she put her paws on her knees and panted. “You’re – “
I raised a paw. “I know.” I didn’t want to get mad at her for mentioning my weight. Dangit, I’m not fat; I’m pleasingly plump. “This isn’t going to work.” My ears dipped, then went up. “Let’s ask Princess Anastasia.”
“Do you think she can help?” Ooo-er asked.
“Would you rather ask Bridget and Trixie?”
***
Winterbough:
There was nothing for it.
As soon as we were on the other side of the river the Dog told us that he was unable to help further. The ‘signal’ he said that he heard faded out before we reached Glenallid, so he said, and he yelped as the Bear fetched him a clip to one ear.
He huffed at the canine before turning to me. “Ideas, Master?”
I looked around before my shoulders slumped a bit. “We’ll have to ask around. You know, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” I stuck out a paw. “Westersloe.”
“Matt.” The bear indicated the mink. “This is Michael, and this,” and he rolled his eyes, “is a complete twit.” He waved a paw at the dog, who grinned.
We shook paws. “What’s your name?” I asked the brown and black-furred fellow.
The canine in the pilgrim’s shirt threw his chest out. “Falstaff Hieronymus Threophrastus von und zu Smith.” His grin widened, baring his teeth as the mink took off his straw boater and bopped him on the back of his head with it. The straw hat took a mortal wound to the brim, leaving the mink looking dolefully at it.
“Damn, now look at what you made me do!” Michael said. “I've wrecked another boater!”
“Never mind,” Falstaff (I was sure he was taking the piss) said. “I’ll get you another one. Come on, let’s ask around,” and he walked off, jauntily singing a song about a wreck.
“When did he lose his wits?” I asked quietly to Matt as we followed him.
“Years ago. Either in a card game or when someone dropped a brick on his head when he was a pup.”
“That explains . . . quite a lot,” I muttered. “What’s his actual name?”
“Fred.”
We caught up with Fred as he was asking one of the Gypsy wolfesses if she had seen a new wagon in the area. She was smiling as he turned on the charm, completely oblivious to the looming presence of her father. I apologized and we got him away from her as soon as we could. Asking a few more of the Gypsies didn’t glean any results, and I was about to suggest that we split up when my ears swiveled.
“Cool autumn mist in the gloaming :: Clouds in the dusk glowing still,
Take my paw and let's go roaming :: Through the heather on the hill.”
Fred’s ears flicked. “Sounds a bit derivative.”
“Sounds like someone we can ask,” I said, and we followed the sound of kenning to its source.
Namely ex-Sergeant MacGonagall, who we found sitting on the steps of one of the wagons. He had pencil and parchment in his paws and a faraway look in his eyes as he’d murmur another line, then write it down. I cleared my throat, and after two repetitions of this finally got his attention. “Arra, Master,” he said pleasantly, “’tis that glad I am t’find tha here. What’s a word as rhymes with ‘bladder?’”
Before I could say anything Fred piped up with “Stepladder,” causing the former Gray Horde wolf to nod sagely.
“Sergeant, have you seen any new wagons here in Glenallid?” I finally managed to ask.
“New wagon . . . hm,” the wolf mulled the question. “Brand new, nae sign o’ any ants, fine feline femme wi’ nut-broon fur an’ headfur black as jet?”
“That’s her,” Matt said.
“Nae, ne’er seen her,” MacGonagall said, “but her wagon’s doon that way.” He pointed.
We left the former sergeant-turned-bard to his kennings and headed to the wagon. It looked quite a bit like the other gaily painted structures favored by the Gypsy Wolves, but Michael ran a finger along one line of decoration.
The mink grinned. “Got to be hers, Matt. I don’t think they know Egyptian hieroglyphics in Faerie.”
I went up the steps, tugged on the door and then started knocking. “Tali? Anyone in there?” I kept knocking.
“Master?”
“Gah!” I almost fell off the landing and saw Nippy looking up at me. She had in her arms, neatly folded, a gray one-piece garment, small-clothes, and boots. “What are you doing here, Nippy?”
“I found these near one of the ponds, Master,” the erminess replied. “I have taken the liberty of cleaning them and brought them back here.”
“You KNEW where she lived?” I demanded. “How – you know what, never mind. I’ll take them, Nippy, thank you.” I knew that it wasn’t worth it to go around and around with her regarding her Service. She gave them to me with a placid expression and shimmered off, not paying any attention to Michael ogling her tailfur.
“Here, let me try.” Matt took off his ant-driver’s hat, fished around in it, and produced a rather intricately designed key. He fitted it into the lock.
A disembodied voice immediately said, “Ooh, cheeky! Who are you?”
“Colonel Mason,” the bear said crisply, and recited a string of numbers. The lock clicked and the door opened a little.
“Why didn’t you do that before?” I asked.
“You never gave me the chance.” He pulled the door open and we went inside.
I was gobsmacked. Again. Second time today.
The inside was far larger than the outside. The Colonel noted my awed expression and winked towards the mink and the dog. "Gallifrey make, eh, chaps?" Grins duly returned, Mason turned to a nearby cabinet. "Those of you not sworn Temporal Corps agents . . . you didn't see this, all right?"
For the life of me, I couldn't have told you WHAT was in there, except for flashing lights and what looked like light up glass panels. The Colonel pushed a button, looked at a brief, pulsing flash of light on one panel, muttered something awful about "___damned low bidders" and picked up a weird object.
Holding one end of the object to his muzzle and the other to his ear, he spoke into it. "Mason here. Yeah. Yeah, MIA. Her and a civ, AKA The Wolf Queen. At least part of her. Looks like her Regalia stayed behind. The otteress found her missing." He frowned, sat down and took off a shoe. "Eleven wide. Yeah, she did. Brief burst from-" he looked at a panel and rattled off some numbers and letters. "Right. Have the nearest stations do a BOLO. What's the nearest? Them? Hmmm. Yeah, we got it here. Right, we'll use one to go to the LKL. Out."
Matt put the object back in its cradle and tied his shoelace. He looked up at the other two. "Sorry, boys, we're back on the regular clock. Into uniform."
“Right,” said Fred, who was already headed for the far end of the wagon. He went around a corner(?) and disappeared.
"Bah," Michael growled. "I look much better in seersucker. The stripes are slimming."
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Or The Big Grey Fluffy Butt Matter
A Story of Faerie
© 2019 by M. Mitchell Marmel
(Additional characters by E.O. Costello and W.D. Reimer.)
Thumbnail art by


Part Nine.
Tessie:
It was strange, but we were arguing, Ooo-er and me, for a while before I realized something.
She was talking Standard Elvish, and using language that I recall hearing in the FAFI. So, sure, I was giving as good as I got until she yelled, “What the ____ are you doing wearing HER armor?!” And she grabbed the tiara off my head and chucked it to the far side of the pond.
I ducked, but it didn’t help. That damned thing came straight back and hit me in the head. Again. “OW!” When I put it back on straight, Ooo-er was staring at me, her muzzle open. “What?” I said.
“I – I never saw it do that before.”
“I wish it’d stop doing it,” I grumbled, “it’s giving me a headache.” She started to tear up. “What?” I don’t like seeing people cry, especially someone as happy as Ooo-er, and when she started sobbing I hugged her. “What’s wrong?”
“Does – does this mean,” she choked out, “that she’s dead?”
“She is not dead.”
“Huh?” I turned my head to see who was talking, then looked back at Ooo-er. “I don’t think she is,” I said. As if I had such luck. “I’ll be happy to give this stuff back to her. I’m used to wearing more – except when I’m with the Master, that is.”
“Raccoon doesn't look good on me.”
“Who’s that?” I asked, looking around.
“Who?” Ooo-er sniffled. She wiped her eyes. “Are you okay?”
I shook my head. “I think I’m hearing voices or something. This damned crown must have hit me too had.” I dug a finger in my ear.
“Don't do that. I don't know where that's been.”
“Who the – “ I started looking around and yelled, “Come on out and say that to my face, you!” I shook a fist and I felt my right earlobe throb. “Ow! There it is!” I grabbed at it, then felt around. “The earring – “
“Her earring,” Ooo-er said. She started looking angry again.
“It won’t come off!” I said, tugging on it. “I can’t – OW! That HURT! It felt like a bee sting!”
“And it’ll keep on hurting, sweetie, until you settle down. I have chosen you to Wear me, so no more backtalk.”
I blinked at Ooo-er.
She blinked back. “What?”
“I – I think it’s the earring. Talking to me.”
She nodded. “What’s it saying?”
“Th-That it’s chosen to Wear me –“
Tears started again. “S-So she is . . . “
“Tell her that her wife’s not dead.”
“It says that she’s not dead.” I hugged the otter femme again, and I think she tried to crush my ribs. When I got a chance to breathe I said, “Maybe it wants us to go look for her.”
“Got it in one, girl.”
“Yes, it wants us to go look for her.”
Ooo-er straightened up and looked really determined. “Then we need to do that.” Her wings appeared.
“Wish I could do that.”
“You can’t.”
“That’s okay, I’ll carry you.” She got behind me, hooked her arms under my armpits and started flapping.
And flapping.
And flapping.
I looked down and I was about two feet over the pond, with a few of the Frogs [RAE-BEET]ing as we flew over them, and I was happy when my feet touched the ground.
Ooo-er landed, her wings disappearing as she put her paws on her knees and panted. “You’re – “
I raised a paw. “I know.” I didn’t want to get mad at her for mentioning my weight. Dangit, I’m not fat; I’m pleasingly plump. “This isn’t going to work.” My ears dipped, then went up. “Let’s ask Princess Anastasia.”
“Do you think she can help?” Ooo-er asked.
“Would you rather ask Bridget and Trixie?”
***
Winterbough:
There was nothing for it.
As soon as we were on the other side of the river the Dog told us that he was unable to help further. The ‘signal’ he said that he heard faded out before we reached Glenallid, so he said, and he yelped as the Bear fetched him a clip to one ear.
He huffed at the canine before turning to me. “Ideas, Master?”
I looked around before my shoulders slumped a bit. “We’ll have to ask around. You know, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” I stuck out a paw. “Westersloe.”
“Matt.” The bear indicated the mink. “This is Michael, and this,” and he rolled his eyes, “is a complete twit.” He waved a paw at the dog, who grinned.
We shook paws. “What’s your name?” I asked the brown and black-furred fellow.
The canine in the pilgrim’s shirt threw his chest out. “Falstaff Hieronymus Threophrastus von und zu Smith.” His grin widened, baring his teeth as the mink took off his straw boater and bopped him on the back of his head with it. The straw hat took a mortal wound to the brim, leaving the mink looking dolefully at it.
“Damn, now look at what you made me do!” Michael said. “I've wrecked another boater!”
“Never mind,” Falstaff (I was sure he was taking the piss) said. “I’ll get you another one. Come on, let’s ask around,” and he walked off, jauntily singing a song about a wreck.
“When did he lose his wits?” I asked quietly to Matt as we followed him.
“Years ago. Either in a card game or when someone dropped a brick on his head when he was a pup.”
“That explains . . . quite a lot,” I muttered. “What’s his actual name?”
“Fred.”
We caught up with Fred as he was asking one of the Gypsy wolfesses if she had seen a new wagon in the area. She was smiling as he turned on the charm, completely oblivious to the looming presence of her father. I apologized and we got him away from her as soon as we could. Asking a few more of the Gypsies didn’t glean any results, and I was about to suggest that we split up when my ears swiveled.
“Cool autumn mist in the gloaming :: Clouds in the dusk glowing still,
Take my paw and let's go roaming :: Through the heather on the hill.”
Fred’s ears flicked. “Sounds a bit derivative.”
“Sounds like someone we can ask,” I said, and we followed the sound of kenning to its source.
Namely ex-Sergeant MacGonagall, who we found sitting on the steps of one of the wagons. He had pencil and parchment in his paws and a faraway look in his eyes as he’d murmur another line, then write it down. I cleared my throat, and after two repetitions of this finally got his attention. “Arra, Master,” he said pleasantly, “’tis that glad I am t’find tha here. What’s a word as rhymes with ‘bladder?’”
Before I could say anything Fred piped up with “Stepladder,” causing the former Gray Horde wolf to nod sagely.
“Sergeant, have you seen any new wagons here in Glenallid?” I finally managed to ask.
“New wagon . . . hm,” the wolf mulled the question. “Brand new, nae sign o’ any ants, fine feline femme wi’ nut-broon fur an’ headfur black as jet?”
“That’s her,” Matt said.
“Nae, ne’er seen her,” MacGonagall said, “but her wagon’s doon that way.” He pointed.
We left the former sergeant-turned-bard to his kennings and headed to the wagon. It looked quite a bit like the other gaily painted structures favored by the Gypsy Wolves, but Michael ran a finger along one line of decoration.
The mink grinned. “Got to be hers, Matt. I don’t think they know Egyptian hieroglyphics in Faerie.”
I went up the steps, tugged on the door and then started knocking. “Tali? Anyone in there?” I kept knocking.
“Master?”
“Gah!” I almost fell off the landing and saw Nippy looking up at me. She had in her arms, neatly folded, a gray one-piece garment, small-clothes, and boots. “What are you doing here, Nippy?”
“I found these near one of the ponds, Master,” the erminess replied. “I have taken the liberty of cleaning them and brought them back here.”
“You KNEW where she lived?” I demanded. “How – you know what, never mind. I’ll take them, Nippy, thank you.” I knew that it wasn’t worth it to go around and around with her regarding her Service. She gave them to me with a placid expression and shimmered off, not paying any attention to Michael ogling her tailfur.
“Here, let me try.” Matt took off his ant-driver’s hat, fished around in it, and produced a rather intricately designed key. He fitted it into the lock.
A disembodied voice immediately said, “Ooh, cheeky! Who are you?”
“Colonel Mason,” the bear said crisply, and recited a string of numbers. The lock clicked and the door opened a little.
“Why didn’t you do that before?” I asked.
“You never gave me the chance.” He pulled the door open and we went inside.
I was gobsmacked. Again. Second time today.
The inside was far larger than the outside. The Colonel noted my awed expression and winked towards the mink and the dog. "Gallifrey make, eh, chaps?" Grins duly returned, Mason turned to a nearby cabinet. "Those of you not sworn Temporal Corps agents . . . you didn't see this, all right?"
For the life of me, I couldn't have told you WHAT was in there, except for flashing lights and what looked like light up glass panels. The Colonel pushed a button, looked at a brief, pulsing flash of light on one panel, muttered something awful about "___damned low bidders" and picked up a weird object.
Holding one end of the object to his muzzle and the other to his ear, he spoke into it. "Mason here. Yeah. Yeah, MIA. Her and a civ, AKA The Wolf Queen. At least part of her. Looks like her Regalia stayed behind. The otteress found her missing." He frowned, sat down and took off a shoe. "Eleven wide. Yeah, she did. Brief burst from-" he looked at a panel and rattled off some numbers and letters. "Right. Have the nearest stations do a BOLO. What's the nearest? Them? Hmmm. Yeah, we got it here. Right, we'll use one to go to the LKL. Out."
Matt put the object back in its cradle and tied his shoelace. He looked up at the other two. "Sorry, boys, we're back on the regular clock. Into uniform."
“Right,” said Fred, who was already headed for the far end of the wagon. He went around a corner(?) and disappeared.
"Bah," Michael growled. "I look much better in seersucker. The stripes are slimming."
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Raccoon
Size 71 x 120px
File Size 55 kB
Listed in Folders
Shoes. That little aside got me wondering if Maxwell Smart was ever part of the Temporal Corps himself
Another, different comment here:
https://www.furaffinity.net/view/41.....#cid:155673932
Another, different comment here:
https://www.furaffinity.net/view/41.....#cid:155673932
Possibly!
It's actually a reference to a Monty Python sketch: https://montycasinos.com/montypytho.....ebrig.php.html
It's actually a reference to a Monty Python sketch: https://montycasinos.com/montypytho.....ebrig.php.html
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