Chapter 317 - The Northern Brigade
It was evening by the time Claire finally got home. Feeling much more tired than usual, she creaked open the door without a word, slithered her way up the stairs, and sought the comfort of her bed. It wasn’t exactly capable of supporting her full size, so she shrank to her humanoid form to better experience the softness of its embrace. No sooner had she shapeshifted than she collapsed on top of the mattress; she spent a few moments rolling around and relishing the full extent of its softness before surrendering her mind to the void.
She didn’t bother visiting any of the usual locations even as her consciousness was shrouded in the usual abyss. She basked in its comfort instead, enjoying the sensations that covered her body as the clock slowly ticked itself away.
The gentle warmth lasted until her ears caught a strange sound. Something humanoid was making its way into her room, its feet carelessly tapping against the floor as it made its way across. At first, she thought it was Chloe. She was ready to fight the maid off and call her a pervert for sneaking into her room at night, but a more careful examination of the sound confirmed that it wasn’t her. Chloe’s footsteps were heavy, thanks to all the things she carried under her skirt. The person approaching the bed was nearly silent in spite of an unsteady gait and her tail made a swishing sound as it slowly passed through the air.
It was Sylvia, present in her humanoid form. After reaching the bedside, the vixen seemed to hesitate for a moment or two before lifting the sheets, crawling in behind the lyrkress, and wrapping her arms around her waist.
The actions themselves were normal—they always slept together, and one often ended up hugging the other throughout the night—but the accompanying ragged breath and pounding heart roused the lyrkress’ suspicions. The warning bells in her head only grew louder when Sylvia heaved a hot sigh into her ears and slowly brought her lips closer and closer.
“What are you doing?” She used the assaulted ear to smack the fox’s nose before rolling over to face her.
Sylvia tried pulling Claire closer instead of speaking a reply, but the lyrkress pressed a hand against her face and pushed her away. Her breath reeked of alcohol and her eyes were still spinning from its overconsumption. The only thing that remained clear was her embarrassment; her face was as flushed as the evening sky, dyed in a neverending sea of red.
“What are you doing?” repeated the moose.
The fox tried pushing forward again, but her face was held firmly in place.
“Stop pretending to be drunk. You suck at acting.”
Sylvia blinked. She caught herself before she repeated the motion twice, but it was too late. She had given herself away. Still, she stubbornly refused to speak. She continued pushing forward, putting more and more force into the motion as her face grew redder and redder. Perhaps because her mind was genuinely clouded, she didn’t notice when Claire suddenly stopped pushing back. She catapulted herself straight into the nightstand and smacked her head into the sharpened corner.
“Ow! What the heck!?” she cried.
“I should be the one asking you that,” muttered the lyrkress. She grabbed the fox’s cheeks from behind and pinched them. “Care to explain what you were doing?”
There was no longer any way for her to deny that the cat was out of the bag, but she still didn’t answer. The fox only buried her face in the sheets instead, with her cheeks somehow even brighter than they were before. It was a reaction that prompted a sigh on the lyrkress’ part. Somewhat annoyed, she sat the vixen up and gently peeled away the hands she was using to cover her face.
“Be honest and I won’t get mad.”
Sylvia averted her eyes, but it was clear from the way they were wavering that it was only a matter of time before she gave in.
“Was it Alfred’s fault?”
The furball nodded as she placed her hands in her lap and twiddled her thumbs. She opened her mouth a few times, but her face only reddened again with each attempt to speak.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me,” muttered the lyrkress. “We can just pretend it never happened.” She moved to lie down again, but a hesitant tug cut the motion short and drew her eyes back to her vulpine companion.
“Uhmm…”
“Uhm?”
“Sorry,” said Sylvia. “Alfred told me that he’d help me help you with the Langgbjern stuff if I uhm…” She lowered her gaze and flushed again. “N-nevermind! Y-you’re right, let’s just pretend this never happened.”
“Stupid fox,” said Claire, with a sigh.
“Hey! That’s rude!” mumbled Sylvia. “I’m not stupid.”
“Then you’re a pervert.”
“I’m not a pervert either!”
“Then why are you naked? You’re either a pervert or an idiot that let her great-grandfather trick her into something dumb.”
“Ughhhh, gosh, Claire. You’re so mean. I’m just trying to help.”
The lyrkress averted her gaze. “Sorry. Habit.” She took the foxgirl’s hand in her own and squeezed it. “Now, how about you tell me what that stupid old pervert’s put into your head?”
Sylvia’s face flushed again as she nodded. With her free hand, she played with her tail, twiddling the fluffy furs until she was finally ready to speak. “He told me that I had to kiss you.”
Claire blinked. “I don’t see how that has anything to do with you breathing all over my ears. Or pretending to be drunk.”
“Well uhmmm… that’s ‘cause it felt like it’d be kinda wrong to kiss you while you were asleep. I thought you’d probably be more inclined to forgive me if I woke you up with something silly, kissed you, and then played the whole thing off like I was just being dumb ‘cause I was super drunk.”
Claire pinched the bridge of her nose. “Touching my ears isn’t silly. It’s lewd.”
“M-maybe for you, but for me it never really felt like it was supposed to be naughty,” she muttered. “Foxes play with each other’s ears all the time.”
“I know,” said Claire. “That’s why you paw at mine whenever you’re bored.”
“Mhm.” Sylvia nodded as she turned around and buried her face into the pillow. “Ugh… what the heck, Claire! Why did you have to go and figure everything out? Now I’m never gonna be able to bring myself to kiss you.”
“I don’t see how that’s supposed to be a problem,” said the moose.
“It’s a huge problem! We’re not strong enough, and I can’t use my ultimate without Al’s help.”
“We’ll be fine,” said Claire. She leaned on the fox’s shoulder and pulled the blanket over their laps.
“I dunno. Al’s pretty sure we’re just gonna get ourselves killed.”
The lyrkress almost opened her mouth to retort, but she soon closed it again and wrapped her arms around the fox’s. “We’ll be fine, Sylvia. I’ll be careful, and we’ll only push forward if we feel like we’re ready. I promise I won’t be reckless. I’m not going to die.”
“Mmmnnnn… that doesn’t really sound all that convincing, with how careless you are most of the time.”
Claire frowned. “I promise.”
“I don’t believe you,” huffed Sylvia.
The lyrkress stared at her pet for a few seconds before digging her fingers into her sides and tickling her with the ferocity of a vengeful spirit. Sylvia squealed. Nearly jumping out of her skin, she broke into an uncontrollable laughing fit that carried her straight to the floor.
“What the heck!” she shouted, between air-deprived gasps.
“You’re worrying too much. I never fail to kill things when I set my mind to it.”
“Mmmnnn… what about Melly?”
The obvious counter-example was met with an annoyed stare. “Okay, fine. I’ve messed up once.”
“Oh, and the frog I made. The really big one.”
Claire stared blankly for a few seconds before initiating another assault. Unlike the first time, she kept going even after the fox started complaining about being completely out of breath.
“Stupid fox,” she muttered, as she finally removed her hands.
“It’s not my fault you keep messing up.” Sylvia stuck out her tongue before allowing herself to fall back onto the bed and into the pillow. She spread her arms wide, almost as if to take up as much space as she could, and turned her eyes on the window. The sun had finished setting. The reds and purples that had dyed the sky were gone, and the moonlight kept the room just barely illuminated enough for her to watch the curtain as it fluttered in the evening breeze. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should’ve just asked, but it was really embarrassing and I figured you’d just say no anyway.”
Claire didn’t reply. She got under the sheets instead and pulled them over their shoulders.
“And I mean, I guess it’s kind of a weird request in the first place. I don’t even like girls. I don’t know why Al keeps tryi—”
Sylvia froze.
Her mind suddenly stopped working in its entirety.
It took a few seconds for her to finally process the soft sensation that had suddenly grazed her lips.
“I don’t really see why you’re making such a big deal out of it,” said the cause of the error.
The words invaded her ears, but the fox was unable to reply.
“A simple greeting is hardly too steep a price to pay for power.”
“Y-yeah. R-right,” said Sylvia.
“Stupid fox. Can’t even run a simple cost-benefit analysis.” She was completely unfazed. Simply closing her eyes, as if nothing had happened, Claire was asleep in a matter of moments.
The confused fox, on the other hand, was unable to send her consciousness away. Unable to even roll over, thanks to the qiligon wrapped around her arm, she lay wide awake until the crack of dawn.
__
Seven hours and one poorly made breakfast later, Claire was back on Temple Street. She stood in front of Vella’s church with her eyes narrowed suspiciously and her guard up all the way. She really didn’t want to visit her father’s patron, and seeing the temple in person only served to amplify her distaste. It was too fond of its identity. Banners and broken weapons lay scattered in the courtyard—spoils of war that, in all likelihood, none of the priests present had earned. Such was the norm for Vella’s followers. Rare was the religious scholar with a thirst for combat. It was a trait whose scarcity fell second only to the propensity to clean. Vella’s church wasn’t filthy per se, but the dusty stone building was far from being neat and tidy. The stone bricks that made up its exterior were haphazardly stacked, with each jutting out to a seemingly random extent. There was a bit of a buildup of dust; it was especially visible where the sun streamed through the windows and highlighted the images of the spider god’s heroes.
The carpet that led inside was also tacky and distasteful. She hated the way its fibres were woven entirely with gold. The whole thing stank of the nouveau riche; it wasn’t even a high-quality item. The bristles were so thick that she was worried they would scratch her scales, in spite of her ability to resist swords and arrows.
Even worse than the aesthetic were the eyes resting upon her. Starrgort’s presence drew an excess of attention. The people looked upon the spider on her head with their eyes shimmering and their hands clasped in prayer. The reverence only extended to the lyrkress after Starrgort was fully observed and praised. And even then, she hated it. It was like she was an accessory to one of the useless goddess’ pets.
She would have very much preferred her usual hat to the obnoxious substitute, but Sylvia was unlikely to wake in the foreseeable future. Perhaps thanks to the previous night’s stressful event, she didn’t even stir when Claire pinched her cheeks come morning.
Boris, on the other hand, had gladly tagged along for the excursion. He was waddling a bit of a ways behind her, moving through the crowd with the lethargy of a snail. Every once in a while, after getting too far away, he would suddenly appear by her feet, so that he could start the process of falling behind all over again.
It was a bizarre, eye-catching phenomenon. But even with his sudden teleportation, all eyes remained on Starrgort and his supposed handler.
“Good morning!” One of the priests walked over with a smile. He was a giant of a man with the face and hooves of a bull. His skin, which was only really exposed near his fingers, was nearly the same tanned brown as the fur that coated his frame. He was built with so much muscle that his biceps were as wide as Claire’s body; two fully grown adults could easily sit on each of his shoulders. “We’ve been expecting you,” he said. His voice was gruff, completely unsuited to his reverent tone.
“Great,” muttered Claire, under her breath.
Despite her complaints, she followed him into the temple and through its halls. The warriors contained within it were overwhelmingly male, but not for no reason. It was mainly to men that Vella appealed. It was commonly known that the goddess spread her legs more often than she swung her weapon, and many gathered in hopes of one day receiving her blessings. To be bedded by the goddess was to be acknowledged, be it as a powerful warrior already, or perhaps one with potential to grow. It was an honour that only played second fiddle to being granted a weapon and acknowledged as one of her champions.
It was precisely the bed-related practice which caused many soldiers’ wives to protest against the goddess. They accused her of thievery and harlotry, but their complaints fell on deaf ears. Vella only ever replied to gloat. And evidently, the Primrose situation suggested that the practice extended beyond the mortal realm.
Claire’s mind continued spinning idle thoughts until they reached the atrium. A sense of impending danger struck as soon as she stepped through the door.
She dodged to the side, just in time for a massive, mechanical arachne to land exactly where she had stood.
The world distorted with the goddess’ advent. The atrium was transformed, converted into a massive corridor lined with long-dead guards. It was the Hall of Heroes—the realm that served as the goddess’ domain.
“You dodged,” said Vella, with a smile. “I knew you’d dodge.”
Claire didn’t reply. She silently grabbed her lizard between her teeth and glared at the arachnid threat.
There was nothing to be said.
Their capacity for speech had regressed to a means of deception; the goddess’ trial had already begun.
Chapter 317 - The Northern Brigade
It was evening by the time Claire finally got home. Feeling much more tired than usual, she creaked open the door without a word, slithered her way up the stairs, and sought the comfort of her bed. It wasn’t exactly capable of supporting her full size, so she shrank to her humanoid form to better experience the softness of its embrace. No sooner had she shapeshifted than she collapsed on top of the mattress; she spent a few moments rolling around and relishing the full extent of its softness before surrendering her mind to the void.
She didn’t bother visiting any of the usual locations even as her consciousness was shrouded in the usual abyss. She basked in its comfort instead, enjoying the sensations that covered her body as the clock slowly ticked itself away.
The gentle warmth lasted until her ears caught a strange sound. Something humanoid was making its way into her room, its feet carelessly tapping against the floor as it made its way across. At first, she thought it was Chloe. She was ready to fight the maid off and call her a pervert for sneaking into her room at night, but a more careful examination of the sound confirmed that it wasn’t her. Chloe’s footsteps were heavy, thanks to all the things she carried under her skirt. The person approaching the bed was nearly silent in spite of an unsteady gait and her tail made a swishing sound as it slowly passed through the air.
It was Sylvia, present in her humanoid form. After reaching the bedside, the vixen seemed to hesitate for a moment or two before lifting the sheets, crawling in behind the lyrkress, and wrapping her arms around her waist.
The actions themselves were normal—they always slept together, and one often ended up hugging the other throughout the night—but the accompanying ragged breath and pounding heart roused the lyrkress’ suspicions. The warning bells in her head only grew louder when Sylvia heaved a hot sigh into her ears and slowly brought her lips closer and closer.
“What are you doing?” She used the assaulted ear to smack the fox’s nose before rolling over to face her.
Sylvia tried pulling Claire closer instead of speaking a reply, but the lyrkress pressed a hand against her face and pushed her away. Her breath reeked of alcohol and her eyes were still spinning from its overconsumption. The only thing that remained clear was her embarrassment; her face was as flushed as the evening sky, dyed in a neverending sea of red.
“What are you doing?” repeated the moose.
The fox tried pushing forward again, but her face was held firmly in place.
“Stop pretending to be drunk. You suck at acting.”
Sylvia blinked. She caught herself before she repeated the motion twice, but it was too late. She had given herself away. Still, she stubbornly refused to speak. She continued pushing forward, putting more and more force into the motion as her face grew redder and redder. Perhaps because her mind was genuinely clouded, she didn’t notice when Claire suddenly stopped pushing back. She catapulted herself straight into the nightstand and smacked her head into the sharpened corner.
“Ow! What the heck!?” she cried.
“I should be the one asking you that,” muttered the lyrkress. She grabbed the fox’s cheeks from behind and pinched them. “Care to explain what you were doing?”
There was no longer any way for her to deny that the cat was out of the bag, but she still didn’t answer. The fox only buried her face in the sheets instead, with her cheeks somehow even brighter than they were before. It was a reaction that prompted a sigh on the lyrkress’ part. Somewhat annoyed, she sat the vixen up and gently peeled away the hands she was using to cover her face.
“Be honest and I won’t get mad.”
Sylvia averted her eyes, but it was clear from the way they were wavering that it was only a matter of time before she gave in.
“Was it Alfred’s fault?”
The furball nodded as she placed her hands in her lap and twiddled her thumbs. She opened her mouth a few times, but her face only reddened again with each attempt to speak.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me,” muttered the lyrkress. “We can just pretend it never happened.” She moved to lie down again, but a hesitant tug cut the motion short and drew her eyes back to her vulpine companion.
“Uhmm…”
“Uhm?”
“Sorry,” said Sylvia. “Alfred told me that he’d help me help you with the Langgbjern stuff if I uhm…” She lowered her gaze and flushed again. “N-nevermind! Y-you’re right, let’s just pretend this never happened.”
“Stupid fox,” said Claire, with a sigh.
“Hey! That’s rude!” mumbled Sylvia. “I’m not stupid.”
“Then you’re a pervert.”
“I’m not a pervert either!”
“Then why are you naked? You’re either a pervert or an idiot that let her great-grandfather trick her into something dumb.”
“Ughhhh, gosh, Claire. You’re so mean. I’m just trying to help.”
The lyrkress averted her gaze. “Sorry. Habit.” She took the foxgirl’s hand in her own and squeezed it. “Now, how about you tell me what that stupid old pervert’s put into your head?”
Sylvia’s face flushed again as she nodded. With her free hand, she played with her tail, twiddling the fluffy furs until she was finally ready to speak. “He told me that I had to kiss you.”
Claire blinked. “I don’t see how that has anything to do with you breathing all over my ears. Or pretending to be drunk.”
“Well uhmmm… that’s ‘cause it felt like it’d be kinda wrong to kiss you while you were asleep. I thought you’d probably be more inclined to forgive me if I woke you up with something silly, kissed you, and then played the whole thing off like I was just being dumb ‘cause I was super drunk.”
Claire pinched the bridge of her nose. “Touching my ears isn’t silly. It’s lewd.”
“M-maybe for you, but for me it never really felt like it was supposed to be naughty,” she muttered. “Foxes play with each other’s ears all the time.”
“I know,” said Claire. “That’s why you paw at mine whenever you’re bored.”
“Mhm.” Sylvia nodded as she turned around and buried her face into the pillow. “Ugh… what the heck, Claire! Why did you have to go and figure everything out? Now I’m never gonna be able to bring myself to kiss you.”
“I don’t see how that’s supposed to be a problem,” said the moose.
“It’s a huge problem! We’re not strong enough, and I can’t use my ultimate without Al’s help.”
“We’ll be fine,” said Claire. She leaned on the fox’s shoulder and pulled the blanket over their laps.
“I dunno. Al’s pretty sure we’re just gonna get ourselves killed.”
The lyrkress almost opened her mouth to retort, but she soon closed it again and wrapped her arms around the fox’s. “We’ll be fine, Sylvia. I’ll be careful, and we’ll only push forward if we feel like we’re ready. I promise I won’t be reckless. I’m not going to die.”
“Mmmnnnn… that doesn’t really sound all that convincing, with how careless you are most of the time.”
Claire frowned. “I promise.”
“I don’t believe you,” huffed Sylvia.
The lyrkress stared at her pet for a few seconds before digging her fingers into her sides and tickling her with the ferocity of a vengeful spirit. Sylvia squealed. Nearly jumping out of her skin, she broke into an uncontrollable laughing fit that carried her straight to the floor.
“What the heck!” she shouted, between air-deprived gasps.
“You’re worrying too much. I never fail to kill things when I set my mind to it.”
“Mmmnnn… what about Melly?”
The obvious counter-example was met with an annoyed stare. “Okay, fine. I’ve messed up once.”
“Oh, and the frog I made. The really big one.”
Claire stared blankly for a few seconds before initiating another assault. Unlike the first time, she kept going even after the fox started complaining about being completely out of breath.
“Stupid fox,” she muttered, as she finally removed her hands.
“It’s not my fault you keep messing up.” Sylvia stuck out her tongue before allowing herself to fall back onto the bed and into the pillow. She spread her arms wide, almost as if to take up as much space as she could, and turned her eyes on the window. The sun had finished setting. The reds and purples that had dyed the sky were gone, and the moonlight kept the room just barely illuminated enough for her to watch the curtain as it fluttered in the evening breeze. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should’ve just asked, but it was really embarrassing and I figured you’d just say no anyway.”
Claire didn’t reply. She got under the sheets instead and pulled them over their shoulders.
“And I mean, I guess it’s kind of a weird request in the first place. I don’t even like girls. I don’t know why Al keeps tryi—”
Sylvia froze.
Her mind suddenly stopped working in its entirety.
It took a few seconds for her to finally process the soft sensation that had suddenly grazed her lips.
“I don’t really see why you’re making such a big deal out of it,” said the cause of the error.
The words invaded her ears, but the fox was unable to reply.
“A simple greeting is hardly too steep a price to pay for power.”
“Y-yeah. R-right,” said Sylvia.
“Stupid fox. Can’t even run a simple cost-benefit analysis.” She was completely unfazed. Simply closing her eyes, as if nothing had happened, Claire was asleep in a matter of moments.
The confused fox, on the other hand, was unable to send her consciousness away. Unable to even roll over, thanks to the qiligon wrapped around her arm, she lay wide awake until the crack of dawn.
__
Seven hours and one poorly made breakfast later, Claire was back on Temple Street. She stood in front of Vella’s church with her eyes narrowed suspiciously and her guard up all the way. She really didn’t want to visit her father’s patron, and seeing the temple in person only served to amplify her distaste. It was too fond of its identity. Banners and broken weapons lay scattered in the courtyard—spoils of war that, in all likelihood, none of the priests present had earned. Such was the norm for Vella’s followers. Rare was the religious scholar with a thirst for combat. It was a trait whose scarcity fell second only to the propensity to clean. Vella’s church wasn’t filthy per se, but the dusty stone building was far from being neat and tidy. The stone bricks that made up its exterior were haphazardly stacked, with each jutting out to a seemingly random extent. There was a bit of a buildup of dust; it was especially visible where the sun streamed through the windows and highlighted the images of the spider god’s heroes.
The carpet that led inside was also tacky and distasteful. She hated the way its fibres were woven entirely with gold. The whole thing stank of the nouveau riche; it wasn’t even a high-quality item. The bristles were so thick that she was worried they would scratch her scales, in spite of her ability to resist swords and arrows.
Even worse than the aesthetic were the eyes resting upon her. Starrgort’s presence drew an excess of attention. The people looked upon the spider on her head with their eyes shimmering and their hands clasped in prayer. The reverence only extended to the lyrkress after Starrgort was fully observed and praised. And even then, she hated it. It was like she was an accessory to one of the useless goddess’ pets.
She would have very much preferred her usual hat to the obnoxious substitute, but Sylvia was unlikely to wake in the foreseeable future. Perhaps thanks to the previous night’s stressful event, she didn’t even stir when Claire pinched her cheeks come morning.
Boris, on the other hand, had gladly tagged along for the excursion. He was waddling a bit of a ways behind her, moving through the crowd with the lethargy of a snail. Every once in a while, after getting too far away, he would suddenly appear by her feet, so that he could start the process of falling behind all over again.
It was a bizarre, eye-catching phenomenon. But even with his sudden teleportation, all eyes remained on Starrgort and his supposed handler.
“Good morning!” One of the priests walked over with a smile. He was a giant of a man with the face and hooves of a bull. His skin, which was only really exposed near his fingers, was nearly the same tanned brown as the fur that coated his frame. He was built with so much muscle that his biceps were as wide as Claire’s body; two fully grown adults could easily sit on each of his shoulders. “We’ve been expecting you,” he said. His voice was gruff, completely unsuited to his reverent tone.
“Great,” muttered Claire, under her breath.
Despite her complaints, she followed him into the temple and through its halls. The warriors contained within it were overwhelmingly male, but not for no reason. It was mainly to men that Vella appealed. It was commonly known that the goddess spread her legs more often than she swung her weapon, and many gathered in hopes of one day receiving her blessings. To be bedded by the goddess was to be acknowledged, be it as a powerful warrior already, or perhaps one with potential to grow. It was an honour that only played second fiddle to being granted a weapon and acknowledged as one of her champions.
It was precisely the bed-related practice which caused many soldiers’ wives to protest against the goddess. They accused her of thievery and harlotry, but their complaints fell on deaf ears. Vella only ever replied to gloat. And evidently, the Primrose situation suggested that the practice extended beyond the mortal realm.
Claire’s mind continued spinning idle thoughts until they reached the atrium. A sense of impending danger struck as soon as she stepped through the door.
She dodged to the side, just in time for a massive, mechanical arachne to land exactly where she had stood.
The world distorted with the goddess’ advent. The atrium was transformed, converted into a massive corridor lined with long-dead guards. It was the Hall of Heroes—the realm that served as the goddess’ domain.
“You dodged,” said Vella, with a smile. “I knew you’d dodge.”
Claire didn’t reply. She silently grabbed her lizard between her teeth and glared at the arachnid threat.
There was nothing to be said.
Their capacity for speech had regressed to a means of deception; the goddess’ trial had already begun.
