This erotic story features anthropomorphic (furry) characters, intelligent humanoid beings with both animal and human characteristics.
"Kowtow"
SHORT STORY
Aren didn't feel at home. He missed the forests of his youth. Where he could roam without fear. And with his current destination looming into view, he cursed his choice to venture beyond what he'd known.
Led up the long stairs, dull stone painted 'gainst the canvas of night, the wolf held his knapsack tight against his exposed chest-fur. Guards, clad in solid metal plate, knocked and jostled the assembled crowd — those who were headed likewise. Aren glanced sideways, wary of cutpurses exploiting the closeness of everyone in motion. The wolf's belongings were few, and certainly wouldn't afford one much for bartering. Small splinters of carved bone, marked and polished by a village craftsman. Of sentimental value. Nothing more.
"Move!" He heard a cry ring out as a guard whacked a traveller. The cloaked person struck the stone steps with force, weighed down by the heavy load on his shoulders. Bright metal spilled onto the path. Ingots, cast for transportation — though Aren knew aught of the concept — jingled loudly, summoning enterprising souls from among the shifting masses to snatch and grab. "My tribute! My tribute!" Aren heard the man cry, guards surrounding him and forming a wall of armoured flesh.
He pressed on.
Caution shadowed his every step. Bare paw-pads pressed down on the damp stone. It had been raining, and the mossy smell of wet hillside filled his nostrils.
Aren's fur bristled, visible to all bar the small amount of cladding acting as trousers. The crudely-sewn leather patches chafed. A sign of wear. He sensed a gloomy presence in the back of his mind, the reason he'd come this far.
Enter the palace of the Great One,
the beggar-merchants in the streets miles below whispered to each other in the mist-cloaked evenings,
and prostrate yourself before her.
She will have use of you, and your offerings.
The Great One.
Aren avoided any thoughts about her. She had many names. Addressed by many titles. Empress, by those in these lands. Kadon Aur, by the pale-skinned half-apes ten seas away. Miznak, by the beasts of the vast Southern Jungle. Queen Of Queens, Master Of The Mountain Keep, Mistress, Supreme One, Qordas, Eleusthron, Gardiel, Gahrukh Mor, Divine Fazeema...many names, all for one being: the ruler of many lands.
Aren looked ahead. There, at the crest of the next hill in his mountainous trek, was a gatehouse. Marble arches covered the path, hanging tall overhead. Braziers hung from iron mounts, their glimmer visible to Aren, far from the structure. Red-hued dots of flame flickered in the wind. A breeze rustled the leaves of nearby trees, and lifted under the robes of weary walkers.
Still, the gatehouse was some time away. Aren dug into his knapsack, fishing out a strip of dried meat. He devoured the morsel, insufficient for the gnawing hunger that had set in yesterday, after his rations dwindled to almost nothing.
He climbed — come rain or storm — climbed and climbed some more. All to scale the mountain. His journey started two days prior, such was the enormity of his task.
He had nothing to his person. Not a shred of anything. Except hope.
Hope that he would survive, and carry on.
* * *
Vast gates parted. Fires burned, and the well-worn road carried him — and the restless throng — inside the legendary palace. At last, Aren was closer than ever to finding his way home.
The crowd was large, and seemed to grow larger with each passing minute. New people surged into the grand keep; clambering, clattering cacophonies of peasant, burgher, and noble alike reigned. Another entrance, far smaller, lay ahead. Over time visitors entered, and exited...their eyes filled either with hope...or despair...
Aren waited patiently for his turn. Hours later, his rumbling stomach sated with the last of his rations, it was his turn to pass through the inner gate. Inside, after breathing a sigh of relief, he looked out over a wide hall. It impressed him — as did much of the architecture he'd seen on his way here. Beyond that, and the mingling of soldiers and ministers, he spied a solitary white spot — a veiled cradle, draped in silk finery. He chest tightened as he realised the one everyone spoke of was near.
He advanced past several broad columns, getting lost in the hall's sheer size, before meeting the gaze of a uniformed lackey.
"Approach," boomed the majordomo — leading Aren's eyes with a sweeping gesture. The wolf stepped forward, cautious. He'd seen others make the long walk, weighed down with offerings to give to their divine ruler. He had nothing to offer, except his pleas. Still, he continued unperturbed...the slow nagging in the back of his head crushed by the sheer scale of the audience chamber. It was too big to comprehend, let alone worry about.
Nearing the isolated throne, he heard another voice: "supplicant," it said, tinged with surprise and...interest, "you approach with little on your person."
"A fool. Or a wretch," came the counsel from the majordomo.
"Now now, my lord," the feminine voice said, "that is no way to treat someone...new..."
Aren bowed his head as he approached, unsure if they knew he heard their whole conversation. The expression of the man's face told him everything he needed to know about their disagreement. This one — this 'Great One' — controlled her own will, and would not be told otherwise.
"Majesty—"
"Enough, a man approaches the throne. Come, supplicant, and make your entreaty."
The young wolf felt very naked in the eyes of the court. His top half a mess of ill-kept fur, and his simple clothing signalled a primitive origin. Despite his apprehension, constantly trying to escape its containment, he held together.
Aren looked up from his bow. Several yards away a shining throne perched atop many wide steps — immaculately decorated stonework; tiered in slices of marble, obsidian, and plain sandstone. Behind a veil sat the most powerful being in all creation. He glimpsed scales in the partial openings created by the slightest movement of her imperial majesty. Scales of green and dull yellow. Sixty silent sentinels — towering men and women bound in armour — surrounded the throne. Beyond the entrance he'd walked through, no others remained. No supplicants stood waiting nearby. Nobody, except the Great One and her entourage, faced him.
He gulped.
"State your name, and province," the majordomo demanded.
Aren cleared his throat, and spoke: "my name is Aren. I do not know what such a 'province' you speak of is."
The sneering courtier raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? Can you name your realm, your...people?"
