Alura Quinn stood outside the hut on the edge of Mossflower Wood, watching her son playing in the small stream.
She was the image of an ideal ottermaid: Tall, sleek and powerful, with the shining fur that hotroot soup brings. Her eyes were a soft, warm brown, like chocolate, and just as comforting.
Her son, Gideon, was playing in the water with a toy wooden gun. Already, he was developing the lustrous fur that was easily recognizable as his father's. He was a healthy, happy Dibbun, the ideal Abbeydweller…had he been one.
Alura let this last thought pass with some bitterness, but let herself ignore it. It didn't do to dwell on the past, and on things that couldn't be changed. She, Dirk and Gideon were on their own, and that was that. They were exiled, and that was that. As long as they were happy, that was all that mattered. And happy they were.
Her husband, Dirk, stepped outside the hut, as Gideon had just let out a whoop of delight as he smote another imaginary foe with his wooden pistol. "What're you up to, son?"
"I'm fighting the desperados, Dad, wanna help? They're pretty tough!"
"Grr, no son of mine is going to face bandits alone!" growled Dirk in mock ferociousness, grabbing a thick branch as though it were a rifle, charging into the imaginary fray of robbers.
As they battled against the mock foe, Alura smiled. There had been times when she had almost believed her family and the things they said about Dirk. He was, after all…what he was. But it was times like this, the way he interacted with his family on this loving, caring level, when she knew that they had all been wrong about him. Nothing could ever shake her faith in Dirk Quinn.
Nothing.
--------------------
He had reached the outskirts of Abbeytown. Here were led the lives of the saddest creatures. The beggars, the exiles, the diseased, all those whose presence wasn't desired around the Abbey.
He passed through the shantytowns and the campfires of the hobos. Reaching a part of town that was more established but still low-down. Here one could find the gambling houses, the booze halls, and the brothels.
He sneered with the thought of an Abbey fostering whores. What a world.
He was still thirsty, and Merdigo hadn't given him any water. He rolled his one eye like a searchlight over the various drinking holes before him. Not much had changed, after all.
His tongue rolled the thin cigar across his cracked lips as he saw one that was as good as any. He brushed the dust off of his heavy coat that was the color of sand and walked in.
The interior smelled of sawdust and whisky. It was calm enough, but the stranger's imagination could easily picture a Saturday night knife-fight happening here. The walls were sturdy but unpainted. All of this establishment's money had gone into the supply of drink behind the bar.
The barmaid was a particularly pretty ottermaid of about twenty seasons with unusually reddish fur. She wore a green dress that was neither plain nor utterly showy, and her eyes were a soft emerald. She gave him a cursory, businesslike glance as he sat down at the bar.
"What'll it be, mister?"
"A glass of Scotch, please."
"Any label in particular?"
"Rakkety Tam, if you've got it."
Inwardly, she grimaced. One more tough guy who thought he could handle a glass of Tam. After all, no other drink created an angry drunk faster than the only brand of Scotch that kicked like a horse.
But to her surprise, the stranger didn't lose it. He just sat there, sipping the whiskey as though it were water.
When he had finished (without any sign of losing his cool), he withdrew a golden coin from within the folds of his coat and dropped it on the table.
She looked at it, incredulous. "I don't carry enough change for that, sir."
He looked at her, his one eye boring into her. "Keep the rest for yourself."
Ordinarily, she would have thanked him (she had been raised a gentlebeast, after all), but there was something distinctly hostile about this beast that she found herself mumbling something and returning to the other customers.
The stranger, meanwhile, was lost in thought. Abbeytown was not very different (save a few unimportant details) from his last visit. Mortenoir was still in power, as expected. The overlords were as oppressive as ever, and the woodlanders were every bit as spineless.
It was times like these that he was glad not to belong to either group.
It was while he was concluding this last thought when Merdigo Ferez entered the bar, followed by Rosa Munoz, the regional overlord of the northern side of Abbeytown.
Rosa was a ferretess, and every bit as pretty as the barmaid. But whereas the barmaid's beauty was an innocent, caring, kindly beauty, Rosa's was a haughty and cruel sex appeal, the kind that only comes from a girl living her life via the abuse and shunning of others. She was dark, with sneering brown eyes, and immaculately white teeth. She was about thirty seasons old, and her appearance indicated she had spent all of them putting down those she commanded as an overlord.
Rosa wore a flashy black and red dress, the kind more suited to dancing than a bar scene. Rosa's sexual appetite was renowned across the northern part of town, especially her trysts with the local woodlanders. It wasn't as though the unfortunate workers had any choice: refusing Rosa meant death.
However, Merdigo presented the real threat. The weasel had re-armed himself with a sawed-off shotgun, and the stranger realized that if he got the chance to use it, the weasel would virtually disintegrate him at this close range.
He pulled the flat preacher's hat low on his head, and kept his gun paw low under the counter by his holster.
Silence followed. Wherever Rosa went in this part of Abbeytown, she commanded the respect of everybeast. Failure by anybeast to do so would mean a punishment beating - or worse.
The stranger slowly pulled the hammer back on his gun, still in its holster, and waited.
Rosa's harsh voice rang out. "You!" she cried in recognition.
This is it, the stranger thought, bracing himself as Merdigo and Rosa came towards him. His paw closed around the butt of his revolver.
But the two overlords rushed past him, bringing themselves down on the unfortunate barmaid.
Rosa rushed up to the ottermaid, slapping her hard across the face. The otter gave a small wince of pain, but otherwise didn't let the pain show.
However, Rosa then took out a set of brass knuckles and really laid into the ottermaid. The sadistic ferret put her metal-fortified fist into the barmaid's chest.
With a gasp, she went down, the wind completely knocked out of her. Rosa began kicking her in the ribs, until the otter could do little more than gasp and sob, utterly motionless on the dirty bar floor.
"You owe me six ounces of silver for last week, woodlander! You gonna give it to me? Do I have to hurt you more?"
Rosa was about to give another crushing punch with the brass, but a paw whipped out across the bar, grabbing her wrist so tight it was numb in seconds.
The stranger took the brass knuckles off of Rosa's numb paw and laid them on the table. "I think you've made your point, marm," he said evenly.
"Who the hell are you?" spat Rosa.
The stranger's voice kept the same placid tone. "No need for profanity, marm. I just asked a question. Just tell me how much you need from the otter."
Rosa's face contorted in fury. "Nobody – I mean nobody – talks to me like this."
The stranger heard both hammers on Merdigo's shotgun being pulled back as the weasel shoved both barrels of the sawed-off into the stranger's back. Inwardly, the stranger cursed himself for allowing himself to ignore the weasel's prescence.
"This is the guy I told you about, milady. He took my gun and made me run from my post this morning."
Rosa smirked. "Not so high and mighty now, eh? But since you're interested in how much money she owes me, how much silver have you got on you?"
Slowly, the stranger reached into his coat and withdrew another gold coin. "Is this enough?"
The greedy eyes of Merdigo and Rosa followed the coin, captivated by both its beauty and its value.
Just then, the stranger flicked the coin into the air. Aghast, Rosa's and Merdigo's eyes still followed it as it flew above them.
It was then that the stranger took advantage of the distraction. With his right paw, he grabbed Merdigo's gun paw, pushing the shotgun towards the ground. With his other paw, the stranger powered his fist into Merdigo's jaw.
There was a crack as Merdigo's jaw broke, and the weasel dropped backwards, completely unconscious. The stranger kicked the shotgun away from his limp form.
Slowly, he walked over around the bar, helping the weak ottermaid off the floor and onto a stool. He took from behind the bar a bottle of brandy, and filled a large glass, passing it to the barmaid's paw. "Drink some of this," he said, not passionately, but not emotionlessly either.
The warming beverage seemed to have immediate effect on her, and after several gasping breaths, she relaxed visibly, passing out shortly thereafter.
Rosa was still standing behind the bar, almost next to the stranger. Slowly, she began to reach for the small skinning knife concealed in her ample bosom.
Before her paw was halfway down her cleavage, she found herself staring down the barrel of the massive revolver, which had seemed to appear into the stranger's outstretched hand in under an instant.
"Don't even think you're in my league for speed, sister," the stranger said patronizingly.
"You have absolutely no idea who you're fucking with here," growled Rosa. "I am a regional overlord. I report directly to Mortenoir's court, and when he hears of this insult from a woodlander –"
"I am not a woodlander."
It was then that Rosa fully appreciated that she knew absolutely nothing about this beast – not even his species.
The stranger continued. "I'm just a gentlebeast making a stop for a few days, trying not to upset too many people along the way. What I say now is exactly what I said to that weasel this morning: Get in my way and I will raise hell for you."
She smirked.
"Think I'm joking?" shot the stranger, his gun paw twitching.
"You're a gentlebeast, ain't you?"
"Exactly. So you can expect me to let a lady such as yourself leave here with her life." He put just enough irony in his tone on the word "lady" to get his point across.
"Pathetic," she said, making for the doorway.
The stranger kept his gun leveled at her the whole time.
As Rosa reached the Dutch doors, she turned dramatically. "You're a true gentlebeast – at least for a piece of half-breed drifter trash, you are."
The effect was immediate. Almost faster than Rosa could see, the stranger was right behind her, his gun still out, point-blank against the side of her head, and his other paw clasped over her mouth.
"I said I'd let you go, but now you've really pissed me off," he snarled in her ear.
He dragged her backwards, as if she weighed no more than a ragdoll, kicking open the door to the backroom of the bar.
He slammed the door behind him, throwing her on the cold, moist floor of the storage room. She fell audibly, with a soft "oof" coming from her lips.
He pulled back the hammer on his gun again, so she could hear it in the dark. The click echoed off of the solid walls.
"What happened to 'I don't kill the ladies', Mr. Gentlebeast?" she leered.
Silence followed, soon broken by a snigger that seemed to be coming from right in front of her.
"Who said anything about killing?" came a mocking voice.
In the darkness, Rosa Munoz felt something metallic touch her chest, cold and sharp. With dread, she felt her dress being cut away from her body.
With a low moan, she slumped backwards on the cold earth, now knowing exactly what the bastard had in mind. She gritted her teeth.
And then he was on her. Her hindpaws were spread forcefully, and then his onslaught began.
It would have been hard for Rosa to say if it lasted five minutes or five hours as she was raped into hysterics…
---------------
Out in the bar, the woodlander customers all listened to Rosa's moans and grunts with wry smiles upon their faces. Rosa had been a bully, and seeing her being bullied was enough to make anybeast's belief in justice fortified.
A little while later, the stranger reemerged, carrying the sobbing Rosa over his shoulder. He passed the still-unconscious Merdigo, scooping the weasel up and placing him over his other shoulder.
All in all, his strength was remarkable, if he was a woodlander.
He kicked open the Dutch door with his heavy riding boot. By now, a crowd had gathered outside the bar, looking for any bits of gossip in town.
The stranger threw the ferretess and the weasel into the gutter and went back inside.
By now, the barmaid had regained consciousness at the table. She looked up. "What happened?"
"You don't want to know," came the placid reply.
Normally, she would have asked anyway, but looking at this fearsome…whatever he was, she believed him. She remained silent.
"You're kind of banged up, but it's nothing a couple days in bed won't solve," he said, examining her.
She laughed. "I haven't got a couple of days. I need to tend this bar."
"I'll take care of it for a little while, if you want."
This surprised her. "You know how?"
"I did it once before. I should be okay for two days."
"Where are you staying?"
He smiled, a meaningless movement of his face. "Nowhere yet."
"I rent rooms here. Half an ounce of silver a night." She smiled at him. "But since you've saved me and you're looking after my bar, I'll give it to you half-price."
"Thank you," he said.
"My name's Miriam, by the way. Miriam McCall."
There was a sudden flicker in the stranger's eye, as if the name meant something to him.
"Do you have a name, or what?" Miriam asked.
"Do I need one?"
She thought about this. "No, maybe not."
"Can you walk?"
She grimaced. "Not well."
He picked her up, bridal-style, and carried her up the steps of the bar to her room, depositing her on the single bed in the room. She was asleep in moments.
After inspecting the rooms, he selected one that was neither too large nor too small. It had a bedroom, a cloakroom, and a side room with a small kitchen and a washtub. However, he selected it mainly because of the lone window in the kitchen, which overlooked the Abbey itself.
He lay down on the bed, not sleeping but considering the circumstances of his return.