Nobody's Servant 1.0

Reaper [vore]

The circle of life and death twists into strange shapes here.

At the edge of town, a barren orchard dotted with stone memorials stretches up the hill toward the sea cliffs, holding up a dim lilac sky on jagged and pale branches. The oldest among the shrines and tablets rest partially assimilated by the wood of their tree, though most memorials are simply set into the grass with no other landmark but themselves. I take care to tread around them. Since settling here, Nayreans have held onto more reverence for their dead than most, though I doubt most of these stones have bodies to guard. Remains are precious.

I am not confident our last resort is waiting for us in a place like this, but my companion insists this is our best chance. That there are options for those who cannot make it on faith or patriotism alone. I do not think he is confident of that either. If he was, he would be here too. But pirates do have a reputation. Well, privateers, but I doubt getting a pass from the Empress changes things that much. They are still freelancers, bad fits for the navy, officially, but good for menacing contested waters and picking off infiltrators. They can even transport civilians in desperate times. They say this place will be a war zone in a matter of days anyway, and enough people have already left town that an eerie emptiness has crept in where they used to live. A held breath, to be released on distant, safer shores.

It almost feels like I could get lost in these burial gardens, but I calm myself with the thought that there is only so far I could go before reaching the cliffs and knowing to turn around. On another planet, a place like this might be nicer at a different time of year, but Paliputra doesn't have seasons. Some of the trees even bear fruit, though all are shriveled and unimpressive. In theory, Nayreans find the tree of an ancestor and partake of that fruit nourished by their bones, as a way to grow closer. Vessels for immortality by proxy.

Near the top of the hill, resting against one of the furthest trees, I see someone. Just one, likely here to remember old crewmates. Another morph, canid, maybe even a jackal like myself. It's hard to make out much more than that at a distance, but as I approach, a better picture forms. Long fur as red as starlight flows out as a tamed mane over the shoulder of a fitted black sweater. It's an almost human style. One of those colorful aprons they wear from the waist down around here spills over the side of her lap nearest to me. Her head is tilted back in a silent snore, unbothered by the water-damaged paperback draped from snout to crown. She seems out of it, basking in the rays of the rippling red sun for what little its heat is worth. I suppose there is no uniform by which to identify privateers, so I hope I'm not mistakenly bothering a civilian for no good reason instead. That said, having potentially found my ticket off this island, I do not give my approach any more thought than that. It's my most recent mistake in what I fear has been a long streak. The sound of my step through the dry grass is enough to disturb her repose, and as I stumble to a stop some three or four paces away, we lock eyes.

She might work for the Nayre Dominion but she must stand out; she's so much bigger than most of the locals. And me, for that matter; she is not lean, but sleek, in a way that emphasizes her height. Were she to stand, she might be pushing three meters, easily towering over me by more than a head, probably even two. Her green eyes narrow in an expression I fail to place, but she is inspecting me too. I forget myself, and the stolen, holy anatomy that marks me as a threat. I am still not used to it, not used to feeling again with new nerve endings mapping out their taxidermied bounds. But it's not fear in her eyes as she sizes me up, from my shifting stance to the far too many tails that have yet to learn to get along. As a smile kinks one corner of her mouth, nearly bisecting the black and cream markings beneath her eyes, that look finally clicks for me. It's malice.

"Alright, let's make this quick," she sighs, rolling her head to crack her neck.

I risk looking over myself to acknowledge her suspicion, and to break eye contact now should communicate trust, however misplaced. "I'm not here to–" I start, and do not finish. No confidence.