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[Duct Tape Fanatic]

The bonfire could be seen for miles around against the night sky, it stood easily as a tall as a castle and around it danced and sang lupine figures of equal size. The Risian Winter Solstice Gathering shook the earth, the giants celebrating the end to another season, the return of their tribesmen who had gone to foreign lands to ply themselves in trade.

“Well it’s not a perfect job; I’ve gained a few pounds,” Ranca admitted, patting her slightly lumpy middle. “King Dorhe purged his court every other week. I know insane tyrants have a reputation for being paranoid, but this guy was so bad I think they went through half of the nobility in the first month. Or, I did.”

Mercia, her coat a light gray contrast to her sister’s black, nodded sympathetically, “it’s hard to keep your figure slim when food is practically thrown at you.” Though the winter months were still far away, snowfall dotted the landscape. The north was cool in the summer, freezing at any other time, and harsh all year long.

“At least you get a workout as a war machine; my job is sitting in a pit all day waiting for someone to ‘displease’ the king---it’s actually a pretty short wait---and get dumped down the trapdoor he keeps in his throne room.”

“Yeah, but failed jesters, ex-queens and messengers who spoke the wrong message don’t come with spears and swords,” the older she-wolf sucked on several scarred fingers in painful memory, appearing to have been made by pins and needles though at the time of the wounding she had towered above the highest parapet and turret, “and they don’t try to shoot arrows into your eyes, either.”

“I thought you were given body armor as part of the contract?” The pair sat around a campfire with the rest of their pack debating the last season; it’d been a good one, every major power bloc was trying to destroy each other while dozens of smaller kingdoms and tribes were trying to use the chaos as a chance to carve out their own territory.

“You’d be surprised how good they are at finding the gaps. Where’s Phara anyway?”

“I dunno, she signed up with the Visdal tribe to go raid the southern kingdoms; haven’t heard from her in four months; hope she’s okay.” Ranca let her amber eyes scan the camp subconsciously, as if their third, youngest sister was hiding nearby.

Her gaze fell on the Spoils section of the camp, divided into loot and captives. The latter were divided up into two matching sets of wicker cages, one, containing petty nobles and one or two deposed rulers was labeled in crude Risian FOR RANSOM, DO NOT EAT. The second label, hanging over the cage holding the common soldiers or peasants read FOR RATIONS, DO NOT EAT WITHOUT QUARTERMASTER APPROVAL.

Ugh, she thought, I’m sick of those things. She made a note to go hunting for some proper venison as soon as she had free time.
Merca followed her gaze, licking her lips subconsciously. “Well Phara better get home before the Winter Solstice Festival ends.”

The Risians, being a warrior culture, had strict guidelines about when to employ themselves, and when to come home and tend to the clan. Only the more senior members were occasionally granted leave to operate after the Solstice, and having left on her first contract this year, Phara was hardly considered senior.

“Do you think they might have killed her?” No strangers to death, plying its trade, every pup learned to speak of it without the horror or reservation of others.

“No,” she adjusted her personal set of armor, nothing too fancy beyond a mail and leggings with sparse plate covering her vital organs and a belt from which several empty pounces hung—for collecting more “spoils” of course. “Every time one of us gets killed, it’s a celebration and a new bard’s tale for the lucky insect that did it.”

“The southern kingdoms don’t commune with the northern tribes that much,” Ranca’s outfit was more ceremonial than function, a loose top and a mere loincloth. Her fur would keep her warm anyway; this was just one of her last employer’s eccentrics. “She could be lining a Teag feast hall and we’d never know it.”

“Oh, we would eventually,” Merca smiled, displaying her sharp teeth, “after I routed a Hyn cavalry charge and saved his life, King Gothrar of the Cerasans invited me to sit on one of his war councils.”

“Oh?” Ranca was genuinely impressed; typically the “giants” were viewed equally by enemy and employer alike; savage, unthinking brutes whose size was the tradeoff for their puny intelligence.

“It was a sales pitch.”

“Oh.” Disappointment this time.

“They’re moving against the Southern kingdoms in the spring,” Merca continued. “It’s not an alliance…but there is sort of an unsaid agreement between all the tribes to start pillaging at will.”

“Poor things,” Ranca tisked, “when was the last war down there, anyway?”

“About forty years ago.” To a Risian, peacetime was when you farmed, raised pups, made alliances, repaired broken ones, and secured contracts for the next season. The only packs that didn’t join the Great Expedition every year were those who’d lost too many members to continue fighting.

“Phara will come back,” Merca patted her shoulder reassuringly, voice gentle and encouraging “we both trained her; she knows her craft, and though young, she’s a full-blooded Risian. If she isn’t here now it’s because she’s tearing a keep apart with her bare hand, routing armies and feasting on the blood of her enemies.”

A flash of movement, however, drew their attention to the edge of the camp. A tawny young female clad in wyvern hide armor entered the circle of festivities, from her belt hung a single spoil bag. “Phara!” Ranca called out, waving excitedly.

The Risian girl jumped as if in startle, then when she realized who the voice belonged to visibly relaxed. Waving back she quickly picked her way over to her sisters and hugged each one in turn. “And here we were beginning to worry the Teags had killed you,” Merca chuckled.

“No, no they didn’t.” Taking her place next to them she smiled, “how did the season treat you?”

“I was well-fed,” Ranca muttered, “and incredibly bored. It got so bad I started---playing with my food.” Her inner ears turned red with the confession.

“Sacked two castles razed five villages; got to keep anything I could carry. I do so like fighting for the Cerasans.” From a pouch Merca produced a handful of gold, silver and precious, tiny, yet valuable. “Did you bring anything home, youngling?”

“My contract wouldn’t allow it. Had to give it all to the Visdals.”

“It’ll get better,” the more experienced warrior encouraged, “make a name for yourself, and in a few seasons you’ll be able to dictate your own terms. It was just some raiding this time, next season you might get to siege a fort! Castles are the next step up from there.”

“And eating a King,” Ranca offered, “before my contract expired, the little bastard got overthrown, right down his own trapdoor. Guess you could call it poetic justice.”

Phara stared at them for a second, as if fidgeting over a decision. “Sisters…I lied a second ago. I did bring something home.” Her hand dropped to her belt, the lone spoil bag. Carefully unfastening it she tipped the burlap sack sideways until a small, orange fox slid into her palm clad in simple cloth garments.

He curled up reflexively, not used to the sudden cold, having been kept warm by the close proximity to her body. Though he didn’t start shivering until he saw the other two giantesses looking down at him curiously. Merca and Ranca stared for a full minute. The latter spoke first, “leftover snack?”

“No.” Her fingers quickly wrapped around the Teag and pulled him to her chest protectively.

Merca guessed next, “a pet, then?”

“I—I prefer not to think of him as such. But he is dear to me. Don’t be frightened, my dear Kacj, these two are my pack mates and sisters, they won’t hurt you.” She spoke the last words in Grish, the trade language, looking at them for reinforcement on the statement.

Ranca shrugged, “I’ve had nothing else for four months, I’ve lost my taste in them; he has little to fear from me.”

Merca, however, held reservation in her dark features. “He is a pet, then.” She repeated her first assertion with a bit of implied warning. “The clan will accept you taking one of your spoils for yourself.” Her eyes finished the rest: as long as he’s nothing more.

“Thank-you,” Phara replied. She gave her prize a gentle kiss then lowered him down to her waist, lifting the bottom of her armor and tucking him into waistline of her leggings, loosening her belt to be snug rather than tight, cuddling him against herself.

Silence reigned for several seconds then Merca chimed, “I think I’ll go join the dance. This is getting a bit---odd---for me.”

Very odd indeed, Ranca thought, but they were together again and all had something to show of it, especially Phara. Oddities aside, it’d been a good season.

[Kusanagi]

Got to say thank you for this. It's always nice to see there's something new to be written in the genre. Great work for a short story.

[gadabout]

Indeed, quite original, well written and engaging. Just what I would expect from you ^_^

[eviscerator]

WHOOOO! MERCENARIES!!!

[Thames Aldwych W. Mines]

This story is GAY as FUCK.

[gadabout]

I do suppose everyone is entilted to thier own opinion and all that... provided they present a plausibly logical explination that is. It appears that you failed to provide that so please...

...Do enlighten me...

[kool kitty89]

[crazyfox22]

[crazyfox22]

and now, to break off and to praise the artist, like I mention earlier.

DTF, Excellent work like always. Captivating, and moving with a good 'mental hook.' You shall have my attention from begin to end. So write on friend, write on