The Beast Beneath the Furs
[02:31:42] Crow entered his tent, already looking forward to the few hours of quiet that passed for sleep in the life of a Killer. He had barely begun to loosen the fastenings of his tunic when something caught his attention. A smell. An unmistakable, rather unpleasant smell that had no business lingering quite so strongly within his quarters. His brows drew together as he paused, taking a moment to locate its source. It led him towards his bed. Crow stood beside the furs, peering down into the darkness. The scent of animals had apparently decided to invade his tent along with whatever else had found its way inside. He had been alone for long enough that the possibility of company beneath his bedding was not the first explanation that came to mind. Then he felt something warm beneath the furs. Which one of the camp slaves had decided that crawling into a Killer’s bed without permission was a sensible way to spend the night? He reached towards the edge of the furs, lifting them just enough to investigate, his voice low and dangerously calm. “Whoever you are, I suggest you have a very good explanation for being in my bed.”
[02:36:30] Crow hears the heavy breathing, yet it did little to ease the unease settling over him. Quite the opposite. Every instinct told him that something was amiss. He abandoned the furs and turned towards the place where his weapons were, moving without haste but with deliberate care. Sleep could wait. Steel, at least, offered more reliable company. There was no answer to his earlier warning. Whoever occupied his bed seemed entirely uninterested in waking, let alone explaining their presence. Crow’s fingers settled around the familiar grip of a dagger as his gaze returned to the dark shape beneath the furs. He did not draw the blade just yet. Instead, he listened, measuring the rhythm of that breathing, searching for anything that might reveal what had invaded his quarters. A slave with poor judgment was one possibility. Something far less ordinary was another. “Wonderful,” he murmured dryly. “Either someone has mistaken my tent for an inn, or I am about to discover why the animals smell worse than usual.”
[02:43:50] Crow retrieved a candle from his desk and lit it, allowing the small flame to push back the darkness as he approached his bed once more. Only now did the light reveal that the shape beneath his furs was decidedly not human. Crow paused, holding the candle a little higher. The smell was unmistakable now. Livestock. The very same livestock that had been barging into the Port in such numbers lately. His gaze narrowed as he studied the still form beneath the bedding. Had one of the beasts somehow wandered into his tent? And, more importantly, how had it managed to get under his furs and into his bed? “Of all the places in this Port,” he muttered, the disbelief in his voice. “You chose my bed.” He held the candle steady, keeping a cautious distance while trying to determine precisely what sort of unexpected guest had taken possession of his furs. Before he attempted to remove it, he would very much like to know whether it had horns, hooves, or perhaps was th larl he had been hearing others about.
[02:48:23] Crow stared at the creature in his bed, the candlelight finally revealing the full extent of his misfortune. A bosk. An actual, living bosk, sound asleep beneath his furs as though it had paid for the privilege. For several long moments, he said nothing. Centuries of training had taught him patience, restraint, and the ability to face death without so much as a raised eyebrow. Apparently, none of it had prepared him for livestock claiming his bed. He slowly lowered the candle, then raised it again, as if a second look might somehow produce a more reasonable explanation. It did not. The beast continued to breathe heavily, utterly unconcerned with the fact that it had invaded the quarters of a man who made a profession of dealing with unwanted visitors. “Of course,” he murmured at last, his voice dangerously mild. “The Port is overflowing with bosks, and naturally, one has decided to sleep with the Black Caste.” He glanced towards the tent entrance, then back at the sleeping animal.
[02:53:30] Crow glanced towards the tent entrance, then back at the sleeping animal. His eyes narrowed as a new and deeply unwelcome thought occurred to him. If the beast had found its way inside, there were a few guards that would pay for it. He didn´t take it light when those that have no business here could get within the camp. He set the candle one one of the trunks that were in his sleeping quarters and folded his arms. First he would study the sleeping intruder with the cold calculation he usually reserved for troublesome clients and candidates. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” he told the unconscious bosk. “You have offered no payment, presented no contract, and I have absolutely no interest in your herd’s political disputes.” The bosk snorted in its sleep and settled more comfortably into the furs. Crow stared at it. “Remarkable. My first client who refuses to negotiate, ignores my authority, and has the audacity to snore in my bed.” He exhaled slowly, then reached for his tunic again. “Tomorrow,” he decided, “I am finding out who is responsible for this livestock disaster. Tonight, it seems, I shall be the only Assassin in the Port without a bed.” A pause followed as he looked at the bosk once more. “And if anyone asks, I was clearly no match for a very large, very hairy professional.”
Leave a Reply