Disclaimers:
-All characters depicted in this story are of legal age both in real life and within their respective fictional societies.
-Given the inclusion of certain power dynamics, there might be instances where the consent given is questionable. This is not an intentional theme, but rather a consequence of the cultures within the fictional world.
-The romantic and sexual scenes in this story primarily revolve around gay male relationships, with some feminisation undertones that develop as the plot unfolds.
-The story's setting features humanoid characters with animalistic traits such as fur and fangs, which is an integral part of its lore. While this content may be labeled as furry, it is not the central focus of the narrative or prioritised over other themes.
Author's notes:
Welcome to my first story! I wholeheartedly appreciate any feedback you may have, but please be merciful!
My goal is to construct an engaging sci-fi world and narrative to get lost in.
But rest assured, this includes a lot of smut!
Chapters 2 to 4 are already in the works, but they will take some time to complete and polish. As a slow writer, I find the behind-the-scenes world building fascinating, but very time consuming.
Thank you for reading and enjoy the journey!
Chapter 1: The Forthcoming
The fifth year had come and gone, and the time of the Forthcoming was nigh. The valley of Sanfloch buzzed with the wishful whispers of young thrael neglecting their chores. The quintennial visit of the Host had a long-standing tradition of suspending duties, compelling even the strictest elder to tacitly forgive. While the youth indulged in promises of possibilities, their seniors somberly reflected on their respective might-have-beens.
Yet, while the mind of the community converged upon the ceremonial altar in its center, two young exceptions slipped out of the valley to gaze outwards at the harsh world beyond. The motley brothers seemed a poor fit, their attire comprised of coarse fabric, strained and stretched by their recent growth. Seral, an unorthodox figure with golden eyes and hair, radiated confident curiosity as he took the lead. Shaylin, dark and nervous, his fur gleaming with ink-like worry, panted unsteadily as he brought down the rear.
They ventured past the outer perimeter, a mantle of trees that obscured the lakeside village within, and onto the mossy greenish-grey expanse of Talus, flat but for some craggy pockmarks. The wasteland had forever been forbidden to the brothers, holding both promise for the one and treachery for all. Yet once again they found themselves treading upon the unyielding fields beyond their home, their hair tousled by unfettered gusts of wind.
They said little, for it was best left unspoken. Seral had proposed the adventure and Shaylin had welcomed it, both in tones that failed to convey the matter-of-fact nature that this was not. To the former and eldest, it was a final chance to grasp an ever-elusive purpose. To the latter, it was a precious time, not to be squandered apart from his sibling. For it was to be their final moments together.
And so the duo wandered aimlessly as the afternoon light began to wane, the lack of direction growing increasingly urgent in their minds. It took until they began to tire for Seral to raise his golden arm and point at a nearby divot of black rock in the mossy ground. "Should we?" He asked, glancing back at his brother for confirmation, one that he rarely needed.
[...]
Manilogn sighed as his weary back settled against warm baked clay. The day had been long and fruitless, and the evening chill seeped into the valley. Manilogn, the oldest thrael in the village, had sought solace for his creaky bones and tender joints with daytime warmth that ebbed from the stout walls of his cottage as dusk settled. He told others, not altogether untruthfully, that his pelt had grown thin and patchy, leaving him weak to the nocturnal elements.
But he had another reason for sitting before the ceremonial altar throughout the evening, covered in weathered skin blankets under the growing aurora of the Talus sky. As the Forthcoming approached, the Orb of the Hosts had dimmed, its unnaturally spherical surface clouding over with only the slightest hint at its former radiance. This was expected by the eve of its periodic replacement, but like his predecessors before him, Manilogn couldn't shake his unease. Would the Hosts return once more to renew the valley's growth, as they had for so many generations hence, or would they finally abandon his people on the precipice of uncertainty?
Manilogn realized the pointlessness of his concern. The Hosts had never failed to arrive before, not once and not ever, and so they would return again tomorrow, and in five years, and so forth. But the fear would not dissipate, and so, like his predecessors before him, old Manilogn sat before the Orb, scouring its depths for weak shadows of life to ensnare him.
Reflected within the glass, he glimpsed the lights of the heavens dancing across the grassy shores of the lake and disappearing within the protective embrace of the dark forest beyond. The trees formed a ring of inky blackness, in which two dots of yellow light flickered. He looked up, seeing the spotlights as they exited the woods, one straight and sturdy, the other lagging behind as it swayed. Manilogn sighed resignedly, slowly and painfully pushing himself aloft to intercept the troublemakers.
"Tonight, of all nights, Seral?" Manilogn's voice carried as he stood, coughing to clear the rasp within it. "Have you no sense of propriety or respect for tradition? What about your future? Would you be willing to abandon it for your foolish thrills?"
Seral met his gaze silently, his golden eyes unflinching. Manilogn knew well that the young man's good nature left no room for insolence. He was kind, and could be made to bow, but his drive would never bend to the will of elders. The old thrael found it exhausting, and so he peered past the man's golden locks to the boy sheltering in his shadow. Shaylin, as always, had been pulled into his brother's mischief. Disheveled and dejected, his posture reflected both physical and mental strain. Manilogn chose not to inquire further.
Turning his attention back to the elder brother, he noticed dirt caked under his claws and matting his fur, but not quite enough to cover the sheen or waft of old sweat. This had been a difficult outing on the both of them, and the next day would likely be harder still.
"Just this once," Manilogn declared, his tone resigned. "I will let you return home unpunished. Clean yourselves up, go to bed, and be ready for the ceremony tomorrow." He fixed a firm gaze on Seral. "That means that you should be here early and presentable, is that clear?"
The young man nodded stiffly. "Yes sir, we will."
With that, Manilogn dismissed them with a flick of his knobbly wrist. They hurried past as the old man stood still, listening to their panting breaths and fading footsteps, his heart heavy. He had witnessed countless ceremonies of renewal in his lifetime, and for each Forthcoming, the five chosen for ascension were different. The selection was random, but Manilogn knew better.
There was a subtle pattern to the madness, an identifying quality that made each chosen thrael unique. In the last few decades, Manilogn had even learned to predict with reasonable accuracy those that were likely to be chosen, not that he ever shared such thoughts.
Despite, or perhaps thanks to, all the worry and trouble he brought to the community, Seral was most certainly one such special youngling. Manilogn was convinced of it. He would be chosen, and the valley of Sanfloch would become a lonelier place. The elder sighed, and slowly lowered himself back against his cottage wall, his eyes fixated on the Orb. His watch was not yet over.
[...]
Shaylin trembled, clinging to a precarious shard of rock that dug into his palm. One leg angled toward too small a foothold, the other dangling over an abyss of unknown depth. Absolute darkness surrounded him, broken only by the sound of Seral scrambling across the stone beneath him, looking for an easy descent. Shaylin took a deep breath in an attempt to remain calm.
The rope had proven too short, and so they were now clambering down a steep wall of basalt, hoping to find something that would allay Seral's curiosity. Shaylin tried to mask his terror, not wanting to stifle his brothers' intoxicating zeal with unnecessary worry.
"Move your foot to the right... That's it. Now lower yourself with your arms until you find the next ledge." Came the reassuring voice of his exploratory companion, guiding him from below, down the cold rock face. Shaylin cautiously shifted his weight, only for his new foothold to betray him at the last moment the last moment. His foot slipped, snapping his hand from its grip as he tumbled down, his voice filling the air with a cry.
"I've got you!" Came his brothers' voice. "I've got you."
He sounded excited, even filled with wonder. The cave was no longer pitch black, but was instead lit by a gentle red glow. Shaylin knelt down next to his brother before the artifact he had found in the dirt, a red variant of the Orb kept by the elders upon the village altar.
"How do you think it got ended up here?" Seral wondered aloud.
