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A Night of Burns
A story of Elfhame
© 2026 by Walter Reimer
Blame assigned to
EOCostello
Thumbnail by
tegerio, color by 
Major Matt Mason
Fifteen
Overall, Prince Roland appeared well-pleased that Elfhame was making it through the winter largely unaffected, and that the area was expanding in both population and prosperity. I told him that I was heading to Glenallid, and would arrange to have regular shipments of cheese added to the portion of persimmon jam that graces the royal breakfast-table – and to see about having some haggis prepared. That also pleased him, and he broke the connection.
He hadn’t said anything about ending my semi-permanent exile to Elfhame. Part of me was happy to stay at home, but the I&RA and Blood Seal Bearer part was wondering just how angry Meadow, ‘X’ and ‘Y’ were going to be when I finally “decided to stop skiving off” (Meadow’s possible phrasing) and showed up at GHQ. That was up to His Majesty and Marshal Roland, of course, but my fellow Bearers always made it seem like it was my fault.
I hadn’t said anything about the otter-villages around the Veronka Lake, either. Elves Don’t Lie, I wasn’t planning on absorbing those settlements into Elfhame, mainly because the Royal Skunks might give me a bit of side-eye about it, and Crown Prince Gawain would likely think I was plotting to set up a minor kingdom all on my own.
As to that, no. I like my head just where it is, thank you very much.
When I reached the [Sheaf of Arrows], repairs had already started. There were a few roebucks and wolves clustered around, chatting as one broken window was carefully removed from its frame, while damage to the door was still being assessed. The tufts of wool stuck here and there that I’d seen last night were still there, and I saw one old Elhame Rangers veteran mumbling over them.
“[In fair day’s childhood, greetings and peace, Old Grimshanks,]” I said, “[and impart to my own small self’s ears what you are doing]?”
The aged roebuck straightened, easing a crick in his back with an audible pop and a soft grunt. “[Peace and greetings, Master, and this one is doing that requested him by old Bung, purveyor of the plain that pleases the palate and gladdens the heart and stomachs, to pronounce what preservation-cantrips I know upon the fleece left here by the onslaught of sheep but one night gone].”
Trophies of war. I approved and thanked Old Grimshanks for his answer and his service to such a prominent landmark in the Vale before stepping inside.
A large number of mels of both species paused in their proud boasting about their assorted bumps and bruises to raise a cheer as soon as I crossed the threshold. A pint was pressed into my paw and a path was made for me to reach the Master’s chair before the fire. Two wolves paused in arguing over whose turn it was to wipe the dust from Siobhan’s golden form and backed away, tugging their forelocks as I sat down.
“An’ will tha be tellin’ us, Master,” one of them said, “how sat yon haggis in yer stomachs last nacht?” There was a collective perking of ears and the room went quiet.
“Elves Don’t Lie,” I said, to general nodding, “but the haggis is no longer with me.”
The silence grew intent as one of the roebucks ventured to ask when my meal and I parted ways, with another one immediately adding a question about the location of its final resting place.
I smiled, already two pints to the good on the day, and replied, “We were together throughout the battle last night, but sadly it insisted on leaving me after the sheep withdrew from the field.” I raised my mug in a silent toast to my dinner last night and drank.
A few joined me in the tribute, while one wolf asked, “An’ ye didna magic it inta yon wyrm’s guts?”
“No, I did not,” I declared, “and I didn’t discuss it with her either.” All perfectly true.
There was some grumbling and coppers were exchanged as the various bets were settled. A few furs left the [Sheaf] to collect their own winnings or to pay up while I sat and savored my pint.
Deciding to delay claiming the three pints owed me by the Deed of Gift, I thanked Bung and left, headed to Glenallid to see what was going on in the new village.
Again, a couple wolfesses went out of their way to open their blouses and bare their bosoms to me, giggling as I politely doffed my cap and wished them a good morning. Provided I decided not to emulate my grandfather, I could get used to this. Some of the wolfesses were very attractive.
“Ah, Laird! Fair day ta tha!” Sergeant MacGonagall said in a booming voice. He had a group of maybe five bucks and wolves gathered around him, all with pieces of parchment and pencils in their paws. The ex-Prisoner limped (limped?) up to me and grinned. “A fine nacht it was, was it nae?”
“It was, yes,” I said. “What’s going on here? Were you hurt?”
“Ah! Turned me ankle; ‘tis nae a thing, thank ye. ‘Twas a memorable nacht, m’Laird. Och, ‘twas a smashing success! Baglutes, battle, loud noises, bruises and bloody noses. This lot here,” and he indicated the others, “are helpin’ compose a ballad, so they are.”
My ears dipped. “A ballad?”
“Aye! They’ve all got ideas, y’ken, an’ they’ve coom t’me fer help!”
My ears dipped further. For many years now, Sergeant MacGonagall had harbored aspirations to become a balladeer. A lifetime of shouting at the Gray Horde’s equivalent of squaddies, however, had turned his singing voice into what could be best described as a trackless waste strewn with brambles.
Still, I wished him and the others good luck, and gauged the weather. The sky was gray and overcast, with a breeze coming from the general direction of Mount Humbert, and for a brief moment I thought about those three pints waiting for me at the [Sheaf of Arrows].
But I still had a couple more places to visit, so I started off across the fields, waving to the occasional farmer, shepherd or ant-herd.
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<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
A story of Elfhame
© 2026 by Walter Reimer
Blame assigned to
EOCostelloThumbnail by
tegerio, color by 
Major Matt MasonFifteen
Overall, Prince Roland appeared well-pleased that Elfhame was making it through the winter largely unaffected, and that the area was expanding in both population and prosperity. I told him that I was heading to Glenallid, and would arrange to have regular shipments of cheese added to the portion of persimmon jam that graces the royal breakfast-table – and to see about having some haggis prepared. That also pleased him, and he broke the connection.
He hadn’t said anything about ending my semi-permanent exile to Elfhame. Part of me was happy to stay at home, but the I&RA and Blood Seal Bearer part was wondering just how angry Meadow, ‘X’ and ‘Y’ were going to be when I finally “decided to stop skiving off” (Meadow’s possible phrasing) and showed up at GHQ. That was up to His Majesty and Marshal Roland, of course, but my fellow Bearers always made it seem like it was my fault.
I hadn’t said anything about the otter-villages around the Veronka Lake, either. Elves Don’t Lie, I wasn’t planning on absorbing those settlements into Elfhame, mainly because the Royal Skunks might give me a bit of side-eye about it, and Crown Prince Gawain would likely think I was plotting to set up a minor kingdom all on my own.
As to that, no. I like my head just where it is, thank you very much.
When I reached the [Sheaf of Arrows], repairs had already started. There were a few roebucks and wolves clustered around, chatting as one broken window was carefully removed from its frame, while damage to the door was still being assessed. The tufts of wool stuck here and there that I’d seen last night were still there, and I saw one old Elhame Rangers veteran mumbling over them.
“[In fair day’s childhood, greetings and peace, Old Grimshanks,]” I said, “[and impart to my own small self’s ears what you are doing]?”
The aged roebuck straightened, easing a crick in his back with an audible pop and a soft grunt. “[Peace and greetings, Master, and this one is doing that requested him by old Bung, purveyor of the plain that pleases the palate and gladdens the heart and stomachs, to pronounce what preservation-cantrips I know upon the fleece left here by the onslaught of sheep but one night gone].”
Trophies of war. I approved and thanked Old Grimshanks for his answer and his service to such a prominent landmark in the Vale before stepping inside.
A large number of mels of both species paused in their proud boasting about their assorted bumps and bruises to raise a cheer as soon as I crossed the threshold. A pint was pressed into my paw and a path was made for me to reach the Master’s chair before the fire. Two wolves paused in arguing over whose turn it was to wipe the dust from Siobhan’s golden form and backed away, tugging their forelocks as I sat down.
“An’ will tha be tellin’ us, Master,” one of them said, “how sat yon haggis in yer stomachs last nacht?” There was a collective perking of ears and the room went quiet.
“Elves Don’t Lie,” I said, to general nodding, “but the haggis is no longer with me.”
The silence grew intent as one of the roebucks ventured to ask when my meal and I parted ways, with another one immediately adding a question about the location of its final resting place.
I smiled, already two pints to the good on the day, and replied, “We were together throughout the battle last night, but sadly it insisted on leaving me after the sheep withdrew from the field.” I raised my mug in a silent toast to my dinner last night and drank.
A few joined me in the tribute, while one wolf asked, “An’ ye didna magic it inta yon wyrm’s guts?”
“No, I did not,” I declared, “and I didn’t discuss it with her either.” All perfectly true.
There was some grumbling and coppers were exchanged as the various bets were settled. A few furs left the [Sheaf] to collect their own winnings or to pay up while I sat and savored my pint.
Deciding to delay claiming the three pints owed me by the Deed of Gift, I thanked Bung and left, headed to Glenallid to see what was going on in the new village.
Again, a couple wolfesses went out of their way to open their blouses and bare their bosoms to me, giggling as I politely doffed my cap and wished them a good morning. Provided I decided not to emulate my grandfather, I could get used to this. Some of the wolfesses were very attractive.
“Ah, Laird! Fair day ta tha!” Sergeant MacGonagall said in a booming voice. He had a group of maybe five bucks and wolves gathered around him, all with pieces of parchment and pencils in their paws. The ex-Prisoner limped (limped?) up to me and grinned. “A fine nacht it was, was it nae?”
“It was, yes,” I said. “What’s going on here? Were you hurt?”
“Ah! Turned me ankle; ‘tis nae a thing, thank ye. ‘Twas a memorable nacht, m’Laird. Och, ‘twas a smashing success! Baglutes, battle, loud noises, bruises and bloody noses. This lot here,” and he indicated the others, “are helpin’ compose a ballad, so they are.”
My ears dipped. “A ballad?”
“Aye! They’ve all got ideas, y’ken, an’ they’ve coom t’me fer help!”
My ears dipped further. For many years now, Sergeant MacGonagall had harbored aspirations to become a balladeer. A lifetime of shouting at the Gray Horde’s equivalent of squaddies, however, had turned his singing voice into what could be best described as a trackless waste strewn with brambles.
Still, I wished him and the others good luck, and gauged the weather. The sky was gray and overcast, with a breeze coming from the general direction of Mount Humbert, and for a brief moment I thought about those three pints waiting for me at the [Sheaf of Arrows].
But I still had a couple more places to visit, so I started off across the fields, waving to the occasional farmer, shepherd or ant-herd.
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<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Deer
Size 120 x 106px
File Size 57.6 kB
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