There are many stereotypes about Opphemrian bars, and while I am one to defer from sweeping generalizations, I can not in good conscience deny that most of them are true. The room is loud and reeks with the stench of fermented grains and berries (say nothing of the scents emanating from the customers themselves). As my companion, Altair, files in behind me, a massive Canis drives another against a table with enough force to make the table they land on crack, drunken fury shining across his face. The Canis against the ground jabs the other with his blunt horns, a foul move, and the other stumbles back, hitting my companion in the rump.

Altair's tail bolts up, stumpy thing that it is, and he lowers his head so that his antlers don't scrape the ceiling. He's got more than enough room, heck, he's probably wishing he had antlers big enough to bump the wood. His thin legs and distinctively prey-like silhouette stands in stark contrast to the stout, muscular Canii and Canira of the room, several of whom are eying us both. I am lanky as he, my white fur far from practical, but I know what gives us away is the the second that jolts a critical moment of fear of both out of us.

"Rule thirty-eight," I mutter to Altair, "Nothing's happened until we say it has. Keep moving."

It's too late for that. "Who bought the toughfoot in 'ere?" I catch a Canis mutter beneath his wretched breath.

Ah, the blackest, nastiest heart of the bar.

I know better, a few slashes to the side and one to the throat wiser than my younger self, than to spit I did. Instead, Altair sways on his hooves and lowers his head so no ceiling in the world could hamper his horns. We sink between the tables, settle in the corner and watch the golden lamp swing slow over our heads.

By the end of the night, we think in perfect unison, We will take vengeance on at least one of you. And it will be enough.

A petite Canira, identifiable by her lack of the horns that distinguish the Canis and the perk of her ears, comes around and asks, tentatively, "W-would you like anything?"

I only con sober, I think, but I say, "I'll be fine. Altair?"

Altair's nostrils flare. "I'll be alright, thank you."

The Canira nods and hustles along, her ears bobbing as she runs back towards the backroom and the chef. We have adjusted to the smells and sights of the bronze-hued room, which have settled back into the ghost of past bars that linger in our minds. As in all bars, even the most filled with squallor, the totems of the current Auspicia and Natrina, guardians of all Omnia, stand watch over the filth of mortals, reminding us that no one can escape from the watchful eyes of the deities. We, too, become totemlike, taking in the dim sound of raucous, drunken conversation.

"Overseas? Who's going overseas? Hopefully no one who plans on coming back, eh?"

"To be quite frank, I haven't a clue what swill they're putting in 'ere, but this is a bad buzz."

"They'll skin toughfoots where I'm from. S'where we get the bones." (Altair grimaces.)

"Garrand's dam's gone deaf in both ears. Shame, really, now she can't hear her miserable son whining..."

The light swings overhead, a lulling pendulum that shines in my partner's eyes. He blinks it out, looking to me, and we rise. The bags on his back lurch about, their semi-valuables rattling with their own familiar, high tinkling noise. We've secured them best we can, but we've had our fair share of perished goods, especially on tight chases. We're not often chased out of cities, but sometimes you con something a little too valuable for the guilty party to take lying down-- when we're caught that early. Sometimes you piss off the wrong set of Sentients. If this bar, and the last four we've visited, are any indication, the 'wrong set' of Sentients is growing to mean all of them. Every word they say is bitter under my tongue and Altair's ears twitch. You find smaller ways to let out the frustration. Click a hoof and they hear.

"Wide-eyed, and that one... that one's definitely suspicious too, maybe barren--"

We turn predator as we cross the bar to a Canis sitting alone, watching a bowl of hard cider like the rivers of death. He lifts his head as we see him: we usually know a target from the eyes, the listful expression, and we know him now.

Altair twitches his ears forwards, a Canira gesture--perking the ears implies interest, but it is also a firm go-ahead. "Garrand," he says, false humility teeming in his voice. "A pleasure."

"So you're Garrand." I say, my tail tucked into a gesture of respect.

"And you travel with a Fauna," he says, sizing up Altair like venison. "Intriguing."

Altair responds, "Astute observation. The Fauna are known for our ability to see the stream of time earlier than when it unfolds before us, which is why... oh, you should duck."

A bowl swings through the air and Garrand jerks stiffly to the side just in time for it to hit the wall behind us. Garrand's eyes widen, the movement slight as his silent re-evaluation of the two of us.

"We needed to speak with you for a reason. There are troubling things in your future." Altair sells us both. His voice is concerned prey, loving healer, every stereotype about meek, lone Fauna. He is the gracious altruist, deigning to pity.

Garrand looks up and sees all of these things, asks, his voice little more than a rasp, "What is to happen?"

"We've foreseen a deaf in your family." Altair says with utmost sorrow.

"A death?" he asks, eyes glossy with fear.

"Oh, most certainly. A deaf." Altair says, his every word vibrating with incredible, entirely false concern. "We have the herbs to heal the malady, but we'll-"

"We leave at once." Garrand bolts to his paws. His cider is unsettled as he brushes the table, then, with a quick roll, joins that of the other spilt drink on the floor, staining the wood a sickly color. The scent of drink intensifies in the air as we pace the room, heightened by the weight of his own tension, and the night is an exhale, at last relieving the tension of the room. Garrand lopes into faster step, and we follow past the lights of the inner dwellers and close to the woods. We know where he's going before he makes it there, seeing the arc of the building's spine overhead, and I try not to crack a smile.

His property, marked by sticks on the perimeter, is more sizeable than we could have hoped for. It's a proper home, the kind that likely needed commissioned materials and architecture, and is coated in white. It looms over us, scornfully looking down at our scruffy coats and unworthy bodies. It knows something about us is amiss, but in my time I've never heard a house speak, so Garrand will hear nothing of it.

The interior is just as refined, with embellishments around the doorways and sets of lights all down the way. Each luminous orb is a treasure on its own, and the one closest to us is unset on its torch-shaped handle. I try not to salivate. Looking down the room, I see elegant wooden stands, some of which are laden with books (these alone must be more valuable than the house) and others of which serve to hold various arrangements of plants, which serve not only for decor but also lend the room a trace of scent. In one lies a skull with flowers growing through the eyeholes. It almost looks like your average rodent, but the eyes are too wide. The larger sockets, the twist of the mouth, and the post-death sediment build-up all point to Sentience.

"Is getting to walk inside your abode part of our payment?" I ask, my reverence masking the bile clawing its way through my throat, then quickly add, "That was a joke. We're still taking full payment."

"What... is this payment?" he asks from ahead, turning the corner.

"One of those orbs should be plenty. We're just doing our job." I insist.

For the first time, he turns, greasy grown fur rumpling on his neck as one of his amber eyes fixes our own. "You ask much."

"I understand your hesitation, but most assuredly we'd like to fix this malady fast as possible. Deafness makes some things... harder to do, doesn't it?"

"Truly." Altair concurs, but he bumps his leg against my flank. Rule 32: A poor joke can choke the life out of a good plan.

Doesn't matter. I can see Garrand shake.

Deathness. I'm rolling over in my grave here. Deathness. There's no way he's not educated, and still...

Altair breathes out through the nostrils. We turn into a lavender room. Unlike the white hallway, you can see the stains of paint here,the places the berry runs, occasionally congealing and making the walls appear to bleed. An elder Canis rests on silken pillows in the middle of the room, unflinching as we enter. Though her coloration has been washed out by age, her dull timber resembles the midnight forest fur of her son. "She has been ill," Garrand says, "For a while. In her age."

"Fetch the orb." I say. "We'll get to work."

Altair kneels down and I pick off the closest bag. Sifting through the layers of small, contained pockets, I grip a latch and pull open a satchel of small, white flowers. Even though they've been in the bag for half of Procyon's phases, they perk up into cupped shapes when I remove them. Altair slides another bag from off his back and slides out an empty kettle, coated in specific glazes to prevent breakage. As he tips it into another small cup, hot water emerges, and I mash the flowers, then cool it with a quick breath. The cup responds to my intent by freezing the water, ice magic having its way with it until the brew rests at lukewarm, and I smirk, fondly remembering the trade that brought us the article...

I raise it by a handle on the side, just fit for my teeth, and she sees me and raises her head so I can just tip the cup sideways into her mouth. She tastes it, tenderly, and her ears perk as Garrand enters the room, levitating the orb close to his head. I flinch at his inherent magic, my own cup looking petty in my teeth as I draw it away. The Canis casts me a shrewd look, nostrils flared, and curls tighter about herself. She shakes her head to the sides, as if trying to dislodge something pesky, and at last says, "Ay, my thanks."

"We've cured your deaf, my friend." I tell Garrand, swiping the orb out of the air. It takes considerable effort to remove it from his telekinetic grip, but once it's fallen to the floor, still glowing, it's back in the bag. Garrand, still frozen in the doorway, looks skeptical.

His dam croaks, "Did you get those healing 'erbs for my hearing?"

Garrand's eyes widen again, readjusting, and his snout furls with indignance. "You bastards. Those were herbs for her deafness, not death, were they not?" He pronounces each with painstaking detail, spitting directly in our faces.

"To be quite frank, you never asked us to clarify and she is... not dead. Still, I thought 'deathness' would have ticked you off. We're not on our game tonight at all." I admit. Altair is glaring daggers through my neck.

"Damned swiftpaws..." Garrand spits.

"No refunds," I snipe.

His mouth twitches. In the corner of the room, beneath a long trail of silken fabric, a long, lithe weapon begins to emerge.

"Garrand." warns his dam, "You'll not trespass on the laws of hospitality in my household."
"It's my household," Garrand grumbles.

"Mum disagrees," I peep.

"Get out of my house. I won't have a toughfoot and-" he starts, "if I had to guess, a damned Forhaga too-" I am dizzy and small with the lack of magic. I wouldn't be as upset if they didn't manage to pin me right every time. Forhaga. Empty on the insides, a muted soul in a world made of magic. "-in my house." Garrand's voice trembles, bringing me back to reality. The threat is like blood on the tongue, but he feigns civility, no matter what the skull in his hall says. We have taken crumbs from the baker. We are still no threat.

"Thank you for your business." I say, thinking of everything in this house I'd like to steal from under him. Take it all. Take it all and burn the house down. Oh, if only you had your father's fire... "Have a good night."

We walk out free, Altair watching both halls. The night takes us back and the roads lead us up a hill, likely still on his territory (I catch a faint reek of scent on the trees). From here we can see the dim light of the city, its artificial stars bleak and watery, all of which are slowly disappearing. They are faint glow on the horizon, soon to be snuffed out by the jaws of night.

Our new jewel rests in my bag, waiting the dealer's appraisal. It's faint glow mimics the city, longing to join it's skin, and I find new reason to be bitter. It's been a while, so, perhaps we could... I think, imagining telling Altair, but my jaw remains locked.

"Think she'll live?" he asks.

My head tilts. "Oh, sure. Besides that, it would have been so easy to brew anything. We could have given them nothing and instead we did them a good turn. Do you remember how hard it was to acquire those flowers?"

"Not very." Altair breathes.

"Rule thirty," I breathe. "Once we're offering it, it's the most valuable thing in the world."

He fakes a smile, but his gaze is stern.

"Ey. You doing alright?" I ask.

"I almost didn't see that bowl myself. I think my foresight is diminishing... damned broken horns." he says, and I freeze from the spite in his voice. The crack in the false horn he had fitted is obvious in the limelight, a searing tear that makes the top portion look all the more fake. "As if being a Fauna in any of those bars wasn't enough."

"Rule fourty-seven?" I say.

"We make our own magic." Altair says. "You win. Now, where to? It's a bad night to stall in the woods. Soon as Procyon sets," he says, indicating the larger of our world's two moons, "The Dog Days begin."

The bane of all travellers rings in our heads, nudges me closer to asking him about home, but instead, I tell him, "We go wherever we damn well want." The air smells of smoke tonight, mixed with the tepid, overwhelming abundance of the late growing season. The world stands on the precipice of something, as do we, but we are not slow as time.

The world is stays it is. We turn corners.