This day a young virgin (not the girl) learns that dreams can come true.
Readers, welcome to the new series I hope will be enjoyable and interesting for you. This story takes place in a "dungeons dragons" type of world, where magic is a part of life among those called the plane-walkers, those who dwell in other realities and worlds.
Center to the series is the young cat-girl Charity (patterned after the anime favorites such as Dragon Pink), who is both a magician (the practice is called the arcane Art, or THE Art) and a practiticoner of psionics - the magic of the mind.
Please let me know how you think of it.
Also, as a twist the lead virgin of the story is not the girl -- just a hint of what awaits.
Among the roads of the plane-walkers, there is one community, Stars Rift, notorious almost above all the others; it is a place of commerce and of hedonism run rampant with almost no constraints on what can be done, bought, sold, traded or taken by force of arms. People of many species, worlds, trades and the like are to be found; with ten times as many deals being forged and ten more time the same of betrayals, plots, and revenge laid bare or to soon be.
The only thing keeping this powder keg under even a semblance of control is the Academy of the Arts, a school famed for its scholars, libraries, and teaching of mages. None better are to be found, and all know that their plans are only advanced as the sufferance of the school masters will permit; then comes one warning, at the most.
One young scholar, a cat-girl by the name of Charity is even now busy with her own plot; though not of a wicked nature, she has only three things on her agenda – dinner, studying her new books, and most of all getting home to her rented room before the thrice blasted rains commences YET AGAIN!!!
Even though her hood is pulled up, to keep the first sprinkles away, many of the folks about the shops and the street vendors mark her passing; murmurings follow, with curses, hostile looks and threats directed to her alone – as here the cat folks are barely tolerated, due to a band of them causing so much chaos in which by the time they were chased off, more than half the town was smoldering ruins.
As the rains increased to a drizzle and then towards a downpour, she added two more things to her list to do – a very long and hot soak, and some ‘self enlightenment’ in which her hands will do their walking; all over each and every sensuous and tender of spots. It is what she has planned, which for her, so, so often go wrong in the most exciting of ways.
Three sets of red streaked eyes, filled with cold anger, bodies tense with the impending mayhem of their hunt watch the lone figure of an old man wander down the street. Deep in thought he is, or just out of his mind with age or madness. So oblivious to events, even the sheets of rain coming down hard and as cold as a waterfall; the winds howling like the death keen of a thousand banshees of the moors do not draw attention.
An all too easy hunt, one well paid for and about to be fulfilled; these three have never failed, nor shall they ever do so.
The old man, cloak and long coat both shut tight, cane tapping steady in sync with the rhythm of his steps, is indeed deep both in thought and concern. For this very night another of the mysteries of the nine – a series of tests one must solve to win accord as a true scholar and master of the art – has been solved; and yet…
“Not by the traditional methodology of leaving their answers engraved in the stones next to where they are found. This has been done by one who added to the enchantments; having subtly wove their own path into my own art, something that should be all but impossible…”
He all but failed to see the figure rushing out in front of him until the inevitable impacting instant of body upon body. Untouched and unmoved in the least, he sees the other sent tumbling and skidding onto the slickened and muddy roadway; their harness bag landing in the mud with not a splash, yet more of a slight “splutting” sound. Always there seems to be more nonsense he has to deal with, while the real sets of troubles go around and around without being conquered.
Irritation turned to puzzled astonishment (raising his eyebrows slightly at that, for one who has walked the worlds for nearly a thousand years). Not only has the fallen figure gotten up so quickly, and now is in the process of daring to thump HIM in the chest with their finer, berating him, voice growing more and more in volume and rage; SHE is also a furiously frustrated feline female – a cat girl.
For the first time in nearly a century, the people of the town hear something happen, the old man simply laughs in delight. A quick gesture and a word of power spoken extends his ward against the rain unto her as well; something that takes a minute for her to notice, look about and finally break the tirade. Looking into his eyes, she just stands there waiting, sudden calm and iron willed compared to the lashing fury of a woman scorned moments before.
Practicing a form of etiquette not done by him in a lifetime or more, he does a formal quarter bow with one hand on the opposing shoulder, a sign of peace and apology. Yet as he stammers with the words so long not spoken, its all he can do to not try and stare at her figure, soaked though she is, and at her partial exposed bosom – partially exposed, glittering with the raindrops upon it, and heaving from the unleashed fury he just rightfully deserved.
Ladies of Luck and Love even covered in mud and soaked to the gills she is a beauty! Such a wonder that walked across my path this very night; those eyes, flickering across the spectrum, so focused and narrow when filled with anger or wrath, now suddenly softer than a gaze of a doe, gentle as a dove, and expectant as the gaze of a sailors woman watching for his ship to return her love home.
Brazen brain barnacles, get yourself together! He sees she has been saying a question to him, and he has to acknowledge his error of attention, she has extended her hand forward, and asked of him yet again what his name is for a proper introduction.
“Charity good sir, my common name is Charity, as the humans pronounce it.”
“Then with all due composure for a ‘muck brained, mule headed, and moronic misfit’ such as myself; I go by many names, most of them very insulting, very accurate, and few of them with the term ‘good’ used in a good way before them…” He bows again, a graceful court gesture, cane crossed in his arm and hand in motion as if removing a hat with flourish.
Such was the showmanship of his display it set her into giggles and clapping of hands rapidly. An impish smile, lips puckered just so under her petite little nose made her even yet more wondrous in his eyes. Old stirrings and longings long supposedly past arose again, and he desperately hoped she did not see it as well.
“I am the Grandfather of Mages of the Academy, Teacher and Scholar extraordinaire, Master of the Art (as magic is known) and so forth; also I am called the Chancellor known as Storm Dragon.”
Her sudden gasp, and rapid gulp as one in extreme danger drew his gaze to her face, where fallen ears and absolute shock interwoven with fear; eyes widen in terror of doom coming to the fore, body locked in the strain of fight-flight move soon to happen.
“Miss Charity, please,” assuming her terror was due to the reputation (reasonably deserved true) about the community; he wanted to do nothing that would cause even more panic in this most interesting of beings before him.
Her scream, one of keening terror ripped through the storm, leaving many to forge another story of the Storm Dragon at play.
As the last echoes of thunder comingled with the storm, he just looked down at the smoldering sets of boots the hunters have left behind. Annoyance declared as a most minor huff of breath showed the utter contempt and lack of concern to any real danger he may have been in.
Three hundred feet down the roadway, residents of a small quartet of buildings run outside and stand in disbelief and shock at what their eyes behold. Shadowy outlines cast in a photo negative of the stone wall, sparks of electricity still dancing about, shows where the hunters went after Storm Dragon dealt with them. Once again they see the ample demonstration of his command of lightning and the storm.
“Hunters, they failed after all…now where did she go off to…”
No footprints or any other trace that either his Art or the naked eye could find; save for a very faint glow of golden sand. “Concealment dust, almost no way I can find her now…ah!”
On a mental summons, his familiar, a small field mouse comes to hand. Quick are his instructions, and sent on the trail of Charity to observe and learn more about this most delightful of mysteries. Then he is on his way again, the minor irritation gone, and a joyful new mystery found.
Once again the son of the innkeeper, a young lad between youth and manhood, is polishing the already ice slick and smooth floors of the bathing room. His self loathing is proportional to the constant heat, and swirls of steaming mists rising out of the large pool. As much as he longs to do, his concentration remains fixed on his task – or their will be Hades to pay at the hands of his father.
Scents convey to him the mixture of clients and servants; those of the men and women bathing, the sweet perfumes and colognes of exotic lands, stale sweat entwined with sand rosewood candles burning softly in their holders. Even the bouncers of the place, six huge, hulking half ogres of pure muscular wall and power, could be figured among the aromas.
Steam masked the greater sights, yet the tapestry woven of sounds let him follow much of what is going on. Here are men and women chatting about this and that partnership for the evening, while there is a trio of ladies climbing into the pool – sounds of momentary shock at the heat, and cooing as one does when the body is adjusted and soothing begins of the sore muscles.
Soft footsteps of the hostesses – he knew each one by sound, and envisioned their bared chests bouncing and heaving just so as they bent over to deliver drinks and take orders – echoed here and there. For him this place is a cornucopia of wonder, and of dreams he knows will probably never come true…so long as he does not fully enter into manhood and win some approval of his father.
Work, work and more work again. This is the life now and forever. His father treated him with scorn and hostile filled contempt every turning of a days hours; driving him relentlessly and without mercy, while the staff are permitted to do the same, actually encouraged to do so, as a common wager among clients is to figure how long until he fouls up yet again.
The sound of a brief scream passing by ended abruptly as the progenitor of it went through a closed door, the work of a bouncer when a guest had some unwanted advances made to her. Without even looking up, he gave a thumb up to the bouncer indicating a good toss.
Almost falling into the pool itself he barely managed to catch his forward momentum. Too close, just too close by far, for he feared the water – even though knowing how to swim. Redoubling his efforts he went to town on the stonework, determined to take his fears out upon each and every one. The light tapping of a feminine foot behind him revealed the near slip was spotted, knowing as well Mabelle is who it belong to…once again ready to skew him with the venom filled voice and temper.
“Thank you Justine,” declared a melodious voice sounding like a swift running brook and wind chimes.
Partially out of the water next to him was that young cat-girl, her name eluding him…right.
“Miss Charity you are most welcome.”
To behold such a wonder as her, a living embodiment of sensuality just inches away and talking to him. Though for what reason he has no idea, then did as many a male in his situation would – when in doubt fake it. The fine art of fakery he has mastered well over the years.
Floating with head and shoulders exposed, water slowly running down those curves and flush with heat cheeks, her hands held a trio of flowers intertwined. Her smile melted his heart, sent steam bursting out of ears while eyes threatened to burst out of their sockets.
“If not for your swift rescue these would have been lost.”
Knowing his main tormenter was watching he did as formal a bow and nod of appreciation as possible, and then almost underwent self-ignition as she moved cheek to cheek. Daring not to move, he focused on breathing steady envisioning some coming torment from even her. Soft was the nuzzling she did, lips pressed once in a peck of a kiss, and the warmth breath from mouth and nostrils caressed him in a manner he wanted to feel again.
Her own scent, to his chagrin and delight, was not of a wet cat as most would expect. She smelled of one among the flower filled mountain meadows mixed with lilac and cinnamon. To him it is absolutely wonderful.
He smashed back to reality as her soft leg strokes guided her into the mists again.
Mabelle walked off, more actually stormed off in rage at not catching him failing yet again, while he went back to work. He hoped to see more of Charity, and crushed those same desires at once, knowing fully it will never be – due to his father especially.
And yet about an hour later while ringing the sodden towels into a bucket, he noticed through the mists a pair of figures near one doorway. Both in conversation just above a whisper, one in which sound will not carry far – most people would be shocked to hear how far a whisper on its own carries. One is his father and the other is Charity who looks in his direction, an impish grin about her face.
Seeing him as well, the innkeeper storms over, full volume roars shattering the peace and unions ongoing about the pool. The bouncers check quickly what is going on and withdraw faster as they see it is only the young Justin in danger of imminent execution. Once again he has to listen to the barrages of scorn and of shame bearing upon him, and once again he has to see Mabelle by the door posed wickedly, knowing the source of his torments once again.
All he could hear with his fathers roaring is partial words of “…tonight…disappointed…again…work…” and so forth. Wagers passed between hands as the latest of berating is over.
Observing all of this is the small field mouse, not wanting to be seen and dreading the excess of heat and damp about the air. Swiftly even for a mouse, it ascended the walls via a ‘mouse trail’ of jumps, leaps, and flat out runs along beams and boards. For it, the only greater thrills are to be found in cheese raids, and doing battle with cats – claw to spell (the mouse is also a practitioner of the Art), until the feline finally surrenders and flees.
Approaching the room of Charity, it now realizes there is yet another challenge to be found; a shifting form of colors, perfection in camouflage to all the eyes, and barely traceable to the mousse keen smell. In a slow pattern of paw movements, a floating symbol appears, a communication of non-hostility and a job it is sent to do…the set of eyes appearing flash once green, then to blue, amber and finally red, letting the mouse of Storm Dragon know clearly, it will be watched - closely.
A confrontation the little mouse will do its best to avoid; for in a battle of familiars – for that is what it has run into – he knows that ‘outmatched’ is an understatement.
Prompt and customary as always, Charity is deep into her studies; glad she fully and truly is to have been able to purchase the needed lore, and that the magic of her harness bag kept them dry. Indeed, that bag and all its contents has turned out to be one of the few – in her opinion of herself – good decisions made in her life.
“Even with tutoring, writing, and the occasional bit of teaching; its getting harder and harder to keep at the studies, rent, expenses, and especially the academy fees for non-students like myself.”
The sudden popping sounds of a hip joint and the accompanying strain of muscles in the lower back and thigh all too remind her of how long she has been in one position. Cramping muscles turn into a full scale Charlie horse – for a moment only, as she focuses inward, accessing the Art of the mind called psionics, to focus on the muscle itself part by part until it again relaxes and unwinds. Only a soft and gentle tickle remains to provide proof of what happened.
With another thought, focused upon a bowl of fruit on her desk, she forms the air about a pear denser and denser in count and form until it is able to hold that mass; easing it along to her hand, and into it. Pleased for once not to have the crushing headache the telekinetic studies usually inflict.
People treat me with enough scorn now for being of the cat-folk, AND for being a practiced mage of the Art; if they knew just how my abilities are in ALL, especially of the mind and otherwise, freaking out is the least, and would send me on the run once again.
With the chiming of the clock she observes there is another hour left before meeting with the innkeeper once again – that boy of his Justin. Some things just cannot be avoided. And, with a most wicked grin, some things should never be avoided…
Hands placed first on her stomach, she slowly moves them down to her stomach and to her most sensitive of spots. Memories of the most impassioned, wonderful and sensual times past she walks down again, to relive their joys and wonders, reliving old loves of a day or a lifetime…
For over an hour, she strove to blend the sensations of the passions released with the iron discipline of the mind. And as usual, as her body reacted more and more with pleasure coming in waves from a stream to a river to a flowing cascade of waterfalls in rhythm over many levels, it was the passions who won in the end.
Diamond like gleams of sweat covered her body, back in a undulating rhythm of rising and falling, legs parted yet one crossing the other over the knee; her eyes rolled and lips pursed silently open and close over and over, muscles in all parts twitching with delights untold save for her and to her alone…meaning without words, artwork of the senses, hearing engorged with the sound of her heated blood flow from the heart to each portion of herself, the smell of the furs and her own mixed with the cold and wintery air itself to tease and delight.
Suddenly, and unexpectedly she hit her moment of rapture and transcended to Nirvana. A smile of delight on her face until the loud scream of wood splintering gave only a scant notice of the bed falling down to the ground.
From among the cloud of dust swirling around came one single sound…”Oops.”
The innkeeper just shook his head yet again at the cacophony of sounds and cries of pleasure echoed from above. Not just from Charity and the collapsing bed, as hers mixed with squeals and groans from so many he wondered how many more beds will need to be fixed this very night.
Some things are so predictable about people, especially with his chief disappointment of Justin.
Always I have to take matters with him into my own hands. Bargained well indeed, and may it force him to become the man he needs to be, even if it kills him in the process.
Sleep is all that he wanted after this exhausting day. Save for that small moment of contact with Charity, who now filled his dreams and desires, Hades itself had come for him. Yet after that wild, raw and utter rapturous scream of primordial bliss slashed his ears like a knife, no sleep is to be found. Only those most desired fantasies and fears were his companions.
Almost in whisper quiet was a brief conversation on the other side of the rug that served as his room’s only door. Clutching the covers about him even more, he wondered what his dear father will shortly roar and rage about now; with a quick recounting of the day, none he can recall having insulted.
The brief showing of light and shadows, accompanied by two distinct sets of footsteps let him know it was not his father entering. One set belonged clearly to vicious Mabelle; the other…unknown, save it had to be another prank and torture she was planning. Another set of abuses to be heaped upon him as soon the laughter will come then the rage of the old man.
All he wants for them to do now is get it over so he may try and get a little sleep.
Even the scraping of a chair on the floor, creaking as one of the two sat; grated on nerves becoming raw by the moment. He pretended to be asleep as the smell of Mabelle’s perfume – smells like a rancid mix of whale blubber and unwashed socks – threatened to make him retch then and there.
He felt the momentary bounce of the mattress as some weight landed upon it; not like a solid and heavy form, more like a pillow or such. Seconds passed, then a full minute, and nothing yet has exploded or covered him in molasses. Per chance is there something going right for once, or is he in a dream that will shatter the instant he looks?
Something soft and gentle rustled his shaggy hair making him wonder what game was being played. Must be some new disgrace they intended to inflict. So, bucking up his courage, let’s get this over and maybe I can still get some sleep…until the rampaging father of all rages comes in once again.
What his eyes beheld when opened a slit trapped him in a state of uttermost shock.
Next to him is a dream, a vision of such magnificence as to rival the wonders of the heavens themselves. Resting on crossed hands is her face, the mixture of light and shadow playing across each ridge and delve; the smoothness abundant within freckled cheeks more then abundant. Hair the coloration of honey-amber wrapped about the sides, curling about them in a twin French braid.
Of all this though, it was those eyes that drew him in, deeper blues than the finest sapphires, shifting to a green of emerald richness and alive with the inherit fires of iridescent in an opal. Into them he wanted to fall, captive of forces that promised unlimited passions, raw delights, and ecstasies no mere human male could conceive of.
He could hear her breathing soft and steady – not a sign of doubt or deception heard, just patient waiting for his next move. And yet, not her lips caught his attention as most things would have; what did are those ears. Slender, twitching here and there in response to instincts unfathomable; and tufted they are, as only a member of the cat-folks….
“Oh Hades Hands a harvesting. Is this a dream again?”
One hand moving to twine his hair around the fingers, teasing with a stroke, accompanied her widening smile and melodious voice.
“Nope, no dream, just me here and Mabelle there; you get to have the fun tonight and not do anything in the way of work. So just try to relax.”
MEGA-FREAK OUT MOMENT!!!
(Use your imagination, anyone familiar with the amine ‘teen boy meets girl’ style gets the idea.)
As with the orchestra playing to the rising of the curtain of a operetta production, with characters and scene of the opening act ready for motion, comprehension dawned in fullness to him.
Charity…here, in my bed, next to me!!!
In the same instant he could feel the heat rising in his manhood. Desires of heart and brain crossing blades in battle between the union he feels may be in the offing, and the instinct to bolt for the door, down the road, and out of the city.
Flushed red in embarrassment he did, deeper still as Mabelle snickered like a jester boldly proud of a good prank on a sworn adversary of his liege. The look he observed on Charity at her momentarily made his blood go cold and body flicker and flutter in nervous reflex of one who has their grave walked over. It DID silence the target for once, one major benefit.
She moved aside his blankets, momentarily chilling him as cooler air of the room met his bared skin. From her position all of him, including a much grown manhood, is visible and her eyes appeared to burn each muscle, limb, and awkward portion of anatomy in her memory.
Thanking the Ladies of Luck and Fortune, that Mabelle could not see his form; he turned his attention to the fullness of the lady before him. Oh and what a vision of bliss awaited for his eyes to feast upon. In a instant that lasted an hour and shorter than a thought in one, a garden harvest of vision is feasted upon.
Shadows and light wove a ever shifting mantling of cover and sight. Perfection met each of her feminine curves, heightening muscles developed and firm yet tender. Arms appearing delicate, crooked just so at the elbow belied the strength within, while revealing her iron control over each part of her body. The abdomen solid and stout from a life of hard work and harder dangers conquered – the faint traces of scars like a spiders web testified well of.
Her breasts rose and fell in the measured cycle of life; in and out, each time fixing his wonder on those two firm objects of his long sought desire and foreboding. Smaller than he imagined on her, (about a ‘B’ cup in our world), yet it did not matter the size. Those nipples firm and swollen in the open air called to him as a sirens call – enticing and danger of death enshrouded into one melody.
Then he focused upon her most distinctive of markings, uncommon even of the cat-folks. Honeysuckle colored stripes running along her stomach and hips, while a black, ink brushed style of a “W” swept up about both breasts…one genuine and fully formed female here at his side.
With that flick of the wrist, she caused the blanket to go partially airborne. Between the time of its apex and landing, she slid against him fully, one arm encompassing his neck while the other explored over his arm, shoulder and chest. Unlike all the ballads and rakish tales told by the skalds, his brain kept freezing as his heart demanded action; not one movement towards her he did nor could make.
One hand now ended its roaming on his hand, fingers entwining with one another, gentle and firm are hers, sweaty and nervous his. She leaned in closer to his face, caressing it with her cheeks and hair, giving the tenderest of pecks with her lips while inhaling the mixture of scents about him. Her warm breath exhaled on his skin is a rainbow of excitement, as one obtains when a lost coin has again been found.
She drew his head against her neck and breastbone; one leg entwined between his, her pelvis against his and almost causing him to lose it then and there. It felt as if his eyes rolled about and from one socket into the other while spinning as a struck billiard ball. Into the corner pocket did the nine-ball of his terror filled brain did thus go.
Breathing so shallow and rapid, as if caught in a pool of water makes him feel as if he is in danger of drowning; of passing out due to the need for air not about in his exhausted and burning lungs.
Now he knows the passing out is imminent with death to follow; he is hearing her voice, though clearly by sight and sensation her lips are not moving.
“Justin, it me Charity, let me in please.”
Death and/or complete insanity now await his shattered mind; how is he supposed to let her in? Is she not already ‘in’ the room and bed with him? The image of her with hands extended formed, and advanced as he reached back for their embrace.
Something wonderful beyond comprehension just occurred.
“Justine this is my gift to you for tonight, something I share with few others; we will both walk this night as one, you and me will be WE.”
A communion is shared by this joining of mind to mind he understood at least in part; wanting to learn and experience it all. And understanding that there were parts she will not permit anyone into, not at this time. Pain and hurt so raw and absolute hidden away and confined by a will he clearly gets is controlled by no one save herself.
She eased him down onto his back, straddling him fully along her length. He knew fully what she plans to do, and that she is keeping his fear and terror in check; trying only to him and not torment. Through their bond, each move she made along his body, her pelvis moving so teasingly on his manhood, her chest on his as she exhaled and inhaled; scents of mountain flowers, lilacs and cinnamon along with the damp of her hair, was exchanged in return with what she experienced.
A unique totality of union; her nose picking up the scents of him – stale sweat and musky male odor of the blankets and pillows, stale sweat in the air, his musk scent of mixed shades of odors he could not fully describe other than a ‘rightness’ of it being ‘himself.’
She moved her arms both about his neck, pressing breasts against his chest, while he moved his hands to the small of her back, knowing via her just where to put the fingers. As she arched upwards suddenly from it, the waves of pleasure running like streamers of feathers and tingling electricity flowed unto the depths of recognition of her mind. Waves of warmth flowed as a river back and forth over her body from top to bottom and reversed again.
Each wave generated by his touch of here, and then there in that small area of her back redoubled in and on itself; a constant feedback building like lightning and the storm coming together from the sea. Breath came in rasps and gasps, small and silent to his own ears yet sounding as a yearning in her. The eyes did behold upon her face – eyes rolling upward as lips were bit softly. Those soft ears turned downward and twitched with each gyration of their bodies.
One hand he moved teasingly up her spine, drawing forth shudder after wondrous, pleasuring shudder. To her ear it went, resting softly behind and then moving in soft circles which sent her into the heavens. Her eyes he sees close and head turn into the palm of his hand. Miraculous it is to him to see her reacting with so much passion and pleasure.
On his own skin is felt the wetness of her womanhood, to which his hand moves as if of its own violation, so in tune are they he knows just where to place it and elicit a gasp of delight and a mental roar of a pride of lions shared by them alone. When the third such occurs, he knows from her, the point of no return has been reached.
He feels the flesh encompassing him as she shares the wonders of him in her; two bodies becoming one in physical as the minds are one. Almost as fast as it begins it then ends, him releasing the life of his seed into her body – and the smashing downward flow as she too hits her climax.
Both breathing hard, smiles encompass their grins, they giggle and chuckle falling together in exhaustion and satisfaction. He felt the bond slowly dissolve as she drew back into her own mind.
As his mind reels yet with the wonder of the events so far, the mystery of sharing in love making with a woman now parted for all time to him, a sharp retort of words snapped him back to reality. Once again his world is going to come crashing down completely. For there at the door next to Mabelle stood his own father. ..He just turned away to await the storm coming for sure. Hand over eyes he just tuned all out and thought over each moment of this wondrous encounter – and what he expected to be his last.
Then the movements of Charity focused again his attention; discovering her posed with legs parted, one bent at the knees as she rested on one extended arm. By the soft light of a glowing sphere, conjured for the moment, showed the both of Mabelle and his father her own body fluids mixed with his.
Right there, the established evidence of their union his father has demanded.
His father heaped praises upon him for now being a ‘proper man’ and seemed happy with him for once in his life. Unlike what he hoped, and expected, this praise felt hollow; the dawning of the facts that his dad never would or could respect him for being HIM, the son as a person. Only for what he did or could bring to the business.
“Justin shush for once,” he heard Charity mind-speak to him.
“I did this because I wanted to, since we met downstairs; AND to spite that harpy Mabelle. Your father did agree to give me free rent for a time if I would see ‘to you becoming a proper man for the business.”
He sensed she spoke the truth.
He also understood that the world is a lot more confusing than ever could be imagined.
Picking up his familiar in hand, the entirety of the night’s events with Charity passed into his mind. Each image played over and over from a mouse height of view, causing him to smile and laugh while doing a bit of a dance. All about him on the academies walkway are treated to the amazing sight of such a man who is stern, reserved, and all too prone to (by reputation only) eradicate anyone in his way, dancing and twirling his cane about with the grace of a dancer.
“Are you kidding?’
The sight of her familiar, one known as a Jen, bespeaks of her abilities and origins.
“Chancellor, are you alright here this night…we heard there was an incident in the town …”
Turning to face Headmistress Pele, he just scoffed at the sheer idea that anything would actually rise to the level of an ‘incident’ with him. A quick glance about showed many of the teachers, journeymen and many of the masters and mistresses gathered about to listen for his answer.
“Oh very well then,” he stated with a dismissive wave of a hand, “there WAS a small irritation that did make itself known and is now dealt with…”
Master Foxglove boldly interrupted, “Chancellor, there are also statements of all things, a cat-folk was the bait they used…she needs to be found and thoroughly questioned before execution…”
No one dared move a finger or mouth as the Chancellor stood over the crumpled pile of clothing pooled on the ground. Smoke reeking of brimstone filled the area, while the echoes of thunder rolled along outbound to the horizons horizon. Sitting on the pile was a weasel that had eyes wide in absolute fear.
“Understand this clearly, all of you.” Anger and rage mixed in his voice, the molten fury visible to all in the eyes tearing into souls as looked upon.
“ANYONE, absolutely anyone who threatens Charity – a up and coming scholar at this very academy – will face ME. I expect better of all of you, than of the former master here. He spoke of shedding innocent blood, for the sake of what she is, for crimes not ever done.”
Striking the ground with his cane, the entire academy shook greatly, yet not one bookcase or glassware toppled or broke; such is the control and mastery of his Art.
“Remember, threaten her, and you threaten me.”
Fully they understood terror, and taken with the smoldering crater of the hunter’s guild house, home of a band of deadly assassins few could stop, believed him in the absolute.