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Chapter Text

The man sauntered into the rural village as if he was returning home from a long trip away since such was the life of a hunter like him. His chatter went on and on from a mouth full of mirth, walking with a strength and confidence that could rival hunters of old, ones of legend; or if not them, at the very least the current village elder, but such was not any different of a feat in this land. Two trophies of his greatest triumph secured his cloak closed like old friends, however his weapon was humble and no bits of iron or monster scrap were worn upon this hunter as armor for in truth he was no hunter of this village, Kamura. Instead, that hunter was being carried at his side, an arm slung around his neck with his own arm secured around the waist of the Kamura hunter; canyne companions faithfully following at their side with the palico felyne even pulling a cart just in case.

                  One after another the local village folk all came round to see, saying all sorts of things and asking all sorts of questions, making sure their young hunter-in-training fared alright to which their guest answered as best as he could. But, very quickly from first greetings, one of the children had scuttled off and located their village elder in hopes that perhaps he could make more sense of their new foreign friend.

                  “What do you mean ya can’t understand him 'cause he ‘talks weird’?” Elder Fugen said with a pinch in his face that made him look like he had seen something strange, but the bit relayed about their guest and his appearance made him rub at his chin knowing he had yet to see that strange thing. Supposedly, this presumed hunter bore a kindred face to the likes of Elder Fugen to which he had assured his family—parents, siblings, and the like—have all been accounted for in their village history. There was in fact no secret, forgotten other one who hunted so strangely abroad.

                  Because he was the elder, well versed in its demands, Fugen halted his business to meet with their new guest. Ever loyal, the canyne Homura too rose from his sitting posture with a dense woof and then a stretch to ease into a mosey alongside his hunter.

                  It was true. The hunter wore rather plain clothes, merely a green cloth shirt of some kind and a maroon cape adorned with fur as a mantle and on its tail tip. His belt was untanned and had neither a skirt wrap nor myriad tools. It simply had a single, small leather pouch at one side and a simple quiver secured at the back to pair with a rather nondescript wooden bow. At least a palamute accompanied him at his side—one of common patterning and coloration even, a fine blue-gray coat with a white underside—and yet it was still odd looking in terms of its apparent build. Perhaps its longer fur was to accommodate a colder climate or add empty size to strike fear in another’s eyes, Fugen considered, and given it wore no saddle, this hunter must have simply ran alongside his buddy as he used to see an old hunting partner of his do back when they were both young, capable men.

                  If this man truly was a hunter, then surely he was to be one even Elder Fugen would possibly need to recognize as his better. A hunter who had to have been in middle-age maturity for some time, from the looks of his face, who not only remained in speed and endurance but also so secure in his skill and shot must certainly be a fearsome one indeed.

                  However, it would not matter who claimed to be mightier because the differences would barely be enough for a poet who had never seen either man with their own eyes. The hunter’s skin was tanned from many years of work, but even still was lighter than Elder Fugen’s own. Deep wrinkles carved the corners of his eyes, and his cheeks were thinning, however it was his wild, unkempt hair that made him see the resemblance and caused a mighty uproar out of him upon first glance. It was short and graying much like his own at the front, receding too from time and age, but instead of longer strands fastened tight, it was styled back loose like he was being swept away by the strength of ten wyvern. Even his jaw bore a short, rugged beard as if to compliment that both of them had good taste towards their personal grooming choices.

                  Just as surprised, matching spirit in kind, the man gave his own enthusiastical roar, letting everyone know very well why those wrinkles were as deep as they were. However, with the hunter’s reply, it became far clearer why the child said what they did about his speech.

                  “Well now. I hath hearde strange beast livened these lands. But, to thinketh my own doublewalker answeren such call. Hah! There art worse creatures to face, I supposeth. Although, as mineself, 'tis good hands to ben in for the job, if I canst sayeth so. Gahahaha!”

                  Kamura Village was by no means developed in high, city culture. It stayed close to its roots and traditions, with its forge as its most industrious display, and its only industrious display. Merchants and traders of all sorts found themselves traveling in an out of Kamura for the quality steel goods produced by those coals and flames, so a variety of foreign speech, dolled up and down dialect, would pass through every once in a while, but never before was Elder Fugen so taken aback with the words of this particular guest of theirs.

                  Wherever this hunter was from, Elder Fugen surmised he could only have hailed from some land far beyond their reach and then farther still. But, finding out for sure would have to wait for now given the state of their young hunter-to-be.

                  The poor trainee’s scrapes and bruises were not of serious degree, so Elder Fugen gave a good guess that they simply had a run-in with a monster too big for their breeches and fainted half from the hunt and half from terror. Knowing that relief, Fugen then took the unconscious hunter-in-training upon him as his own burden, and set him off with the village doctor just to make sure they would be well enough, even if he figured simple bedrest would be enough to be right as rain again. Worrying about why they had seemingly set off on a quest without a master or at least a senior would have to wait given their guest apparent.

                  “Thanks for the help, Hunter,” Fugen said, returning with a shift in his weight upon one foot and hands resting on his hip, “I s'ppose hellos are in order. Welcome to Kamura. Jokes aside, the name’s Fugen. I’m the village elder, so whate'er else brought ya here I’m sure I can see that sorted out.”

                  “Oh, is that so? Thankenee, Elder Fugen. I am Z'aanta of the Darkwood, onst commission for a peculiar beast saidde to be seeneth aroundst here. Long and far I needenst hath traveled, so mayhap thee canst be of help.”

                  It was for a beast of monstrous size, scaling as high as houses per claim, with appendages, claws, and fangs of such power that sounded like Z'aanta was to partake in a legendary hunt, one of dragons, once again. However, his commissioners from far away did not give him much else to identify his quarry with, so Fugen was left to say the unfortunate truth that with so little a description in details, whatever the hunter Z'aanta tried to describe could have been any number of monsters native to these parts. Hearing the news, Z'aanta’s eyes had grown wide for a split second, but just as quickly turned hard with skepticism to which they both arrived at the same conclusion: it seemed that he was to be a guest to Kamura for more than initially thought. This hunt never seemed simple nor straightforward when he had agreed to it, but it certainly had taken shape into something worse.

                  “You’re welcome here as long as ya need,” Fugen said with a smile, “and for then consider yourself an honored guest to Kamura. So, rest up. Go eat. Perhaps even get yourself a drink. If your willin' to relax THAT much after a long day, that is, bwahaha!”—calming down, Fugen cleared his throat—“Ahem… I can show you the way to our Guild if ya want. It’s not too far.”

                  To that suggestion, knowing he was a fish not out of water but certainly in a different pond, Z'aanta took up that offer, and so Fugen pointed at their course with a gesture of his thumb and took confident lead.

                  Now without concerns, Kamura took a different shape to eyes that were not used to seeing its structure and style, its finer details finally coming into focus. Z'aanta by all means was a well traveled man, having trekked through every region of his home continent of Orsterra, gone to its farthest corners no man dare bother with, ten times over in chase of the hunt, but never before had he seen architecture like that of Kamura. Its homes, though still mainly wood, had strange doors that would slide back-and-forth upon pulling or pushing them; humbler structures were covered by straw for their thatching while buildings of note bore beautiful tiled roofs that could not be discerned if it was styled ceramic or in fact monster scales to the likes of dragons. With how some roof edges would curve upward instead of staying straight were almost as if done in homage of the beasts’ tails that they could have been taken from.

                  Canvas flags in all manners of designs, colors, and writing lined the streets alongside stalls and hung from storefront eaves. Their lanterns were covered with paper instead of glass, and instead of wondering why no one worried about them catching alight at any moment, Z'aanta only imagined how easy, and therefore pitiful, it would be to destroy such a thing, for their craftsmanship was beautiful because of that seeming fragility. In their glow, wonder and awe shined through his eyes like small flames, glistening in honest glee.

                  The girl Komitsu at her candied covered setup could not help but giggle as the two passed by towards the neighboring tea shop, yelling and waving hellos towards them to which Fugen hoped it was from finding kindred happiness through curiosity and not from the fact the he was the elder caught softening in the shoulders because in truth Komitsu was not the only one who caught those glances of their guest.

                  A little ways farther out towards the village docks there was a gathering spot under the cover of a batch of trees where something presumed to be an owl flew into to perch itself and watch. Some villagers were eating something round on a two pronged stick and others were chatting over cups of tea, and to Z'aanta’s surprise, it was in fact an eatery for a hunter to get their fill. But, Fugen continued on and walked past, merely waving without word to another young girl, Yomogi, and a pair of creatures hard at work that Z'aanta figured must have been caits considering their cat-like form, posture, and intelligence. Instead, they entered the building next to it, formed around a patch of trees on the hillside there.

                  It was cool and dim inside, and its air was immersed in all tints of red. From the planks underneath their feet to its smaller stands of services to its decorative lanterns above were dyed or painted to sport the auspicious color, and the pink petaled trees that helped support the structure wafted a fresh scent. Though, farther in, the smell of sweets and spices, treats and meat, and other fixings being prepared easily overpowered its delicacy. Immediately upon entering, a wyverian man, addressed by Fugen as “Ol' Hoj,” could be seen sitting atop a horned and tusked creature to likes Z'aanta has never seen before; its scaly hard hide also a rich earthen red, unless it was trickery of the light.

                  Amidst the man’s painting, whether it be work or pastime, he had immediately stopped and recognized Z'aanta’s escort, and caught his attention with a jolly and personal greeting, saying how it has been a long time since he had seen the elder step foot in this specific section of the village unannounced on an ordinary day. Fugen returned that acknowledgement with laughs at his own expense like a duck to water, and quickly explained he was not the one here to hunt and neither was his guest, at the moment at least, jesting that perhaps such planned to change by tomorrow for at least one of them.

                  Then, guiding Z'aanta off to the side towards the canteen, Fugen gave his explanation.

                  “This is our branch of the Hunter’s Guild. Everythin' you could e'er need to prepare for your hunt can be done here. More about your quest is probably on record if ya go ask Minoto o'er there.”

                  At its end, Fugen gently kicked a nearby stool a little farther away from the bar table and sat himself down in a way that certainly everyone was to know.

                  “But! For now, we eat!”

                  With it, Fugen gave him a wide toothy grin that allowed Z'aanta to finally take in the full fact that the man had quite a set of canines. He tried to push their sharpness aside because of the fact that such a feature could come and go amongst man depending on parentage, but they were a bit long in regards to human teeth, making their keen points all that more noticeable and pronounced. Z'aanta did not know whether he should spout curses at Draefendi, his Huntress, deity above, for his lack of them or if he should instead be holding back a blush.

                  He did neither for now, and instead did the same to the stool next to Fugen and sat down with equal zest.

                  Over their meal, Z'aanta revealed more of himself, how he was a hunter mainly because of the circumstances determined by his birth, born of a people who long excelled in the skill, and the reasons not from his birth were written into the stars at the goddess Steorra’s hand. His people long lived in the region of deep forests of Orsterra, known locally as the Woodlands, and finer still, he specifically was of the Darkwood, a southern stretch of its land vastly overcome by coniferous trees. There he lived in a small, remote village called S'warkii, and it was not all that different from this one. Its people were few, but close, or if not, it seemed that way given his stature and because it was his home.

                  However, whether it be from the renown in his trade or because it was what was in his heart, he was also a traveler, one who went all over with his companion—who was no canyne at all, and yet could still be considered a palamute—his direwolf, Hägen.

                  Long winded tales of Z'aanta’s exploits then filled the hub, energy and exuberance pouring out from all parts of him, going as far as to charade actions and mimic sounds in his words when consumed by the stories’ climaxes. It was a sight to see for everyone around, and its most daring feature was the tale of his infamous dragon slaying, which he eventually realized was probably less impressive around these parts. Even still, Fugen found himself deeply engrossed by what he could only imagine was the hunter’s true favorite pastime as he explained things still not so easily believable.

                  There were stories of triumph and stories of sorrow, some were silly and rather hard for him to admit, but towards the end, he started to slow and mellow, for the last story was not his own, but the tale of another hunter that was told to him from her own mouth with her own words. It pained him as his realm’s greatest hunter, at least for its current age, to admit he had fallen to quarry, even if it was a beast beyond measure with magic he could not counter, but the shame mattered so little because the story was not told by a hunter, but a father, one who took much pride in the feat of his prentice who he loved and raised as his own. Her name was H'aanit, and she was his biggest, brightest light.

                  What seemed like only seconds were hours spent sitting and dining, conversing and drinking openly within the Guild’s canteen, Fugen having scarfed down an impressive amount of their shared meal throughout the entertainment. Probably for the kitchen’s better—worried about that day’s stocks—it had grown rather late in the evening, and the sun sat low on the horizon.

                  “Alright. 'Bout time we start headin' home, yeah?” Fugen eventually wormed his way into saying, “The Guild does a lot, but one thing it doesn’t do is house unregistered hunters. C'mon, what do ya say?”

                  Z'aanta took a moment to parse that thought to which he came up with a confused: “...‘Home,’ thou sayeth? And with ‘we’ too, even. Although, if I hath but knownst thee longer or better, that wouldst be quite the offer.”

                  “Oh. Well, I did say you’re a guest of Kamura, didn’t I? As the elder, Kamura’s guest is my guest, so you’ll stay with me. For the time being. …If ya don’t mind, that is.”

                  When not lodging under the Guild, foreign hunters often stayed with host families, especially when on long expeditions, but it had not instinctually occurred to Fugen that such might not have been so in lands far, far over. In the silence he imagined he was going to have to think of a suitable replacement, and quickly.

                  “...At this rate, I wilt be quite indebted to thee, Elder. But, I beareth no mind at all. Thankenee again. I don gladly accepte thy offer, however…”—Z'aanta sized Fugen up with his eyes, focusing intently on his height and mass—“...I maye not be as thick and as tall as a tree, but two hunters strong we wilt still be. Canst thy roof holdeth all of us, hm?”

                  The sly smile that followed made Fugen swallow hard to right himself straight, struck by something odd growing he could not quite explain, but that was a hard task to do when the comment’s tease had sparked a rival’s look in his eyes and bared teeth; a knot formed in his core that he had not felt for decades.

                  Eventually Fugen answered, mentioning that it might be a tight squeeze given all the animals, but would likely be fine, so then, after paying and good words to the chefs, they had taken to wandering their way home, canynes and all.

                  Despite being the village elder, Fugen’s residency was no different than any other in Kamura. Half of the floor was trampled dirt, bearing things like a heavy-looking chest wrapped in iron or wooden shelves with carved totems supporting the sides; its furniture dusted with loose feathers here and there and clumps of fur in odd places. At the far end there was a large sword, its sheath wrapped in red cord, that looked like it would run farther than the entire length of Z'aanta’s body, crown to heel. A perch could also be seen next to it, but nothing rested atop it, or at least that was true until an owl came rushing in through the open door at the sound of a high pitched whistle from Fugen’s mouth. It looked much like the bird that Z'aanta thought he had caught glimpses of back outside the Guild, but looking about more, where the floor was raised with architectural design, two other owls of the same pattern and coloration were cozy in their own spots by an alcove within the wall where a scroll hung open to display a painting done in a simple style.

                  Homura had moseyed his way in past his hunter to promptly plop down on top an arrangement of straw mats—left open and available for whatever was demanded of the space—as the other two did as humans do when returning home: a far more ritualistic affair of unloading. Hägen, however, waited patiently with good manners until Z'aanta relayed Fugen’s permissions welcomed in the household; his hunter having spoken in a manner that suggested he often talked to his direwolf as if it could understand his human words. To Fugen’s surprise, it did seem that way given how well timed Hägen’s huffs or howls would be placed in accordance to the conversation, but he also did not put it past his imagination to simply see it as such. The true shock between them, however, came when the housekeeping felyne tending to the hearth aside that clearing welcomed and greeted Fugen’s return and their honored guest in plain, understandable speech.

                  Z'aanta had heard tales of immensely intelligent caits able to talk in spoken human language, but even in all his years of hunting, never before had he himself seen the claim proven true. Finding out that it was neither strange nor rare in this realm for most, if not all, felynes to do such, made Z'aanta smile genuinely and laugh a bit, remarking how it must have been such a luxury then.

                  With that note, everyone was accounted for: three cohoots, two palamutes—even if one was not usually called such—two hunters, and two felynes.

                  Except, Z'aanta could have sworn he only originally counted one felyne before.

                  “Kog, you’re not usually home like this nowadays. Is somethin' wrong at the Buddy Plaza?” Fugen said.

                  Sure enough a felyne in peculiar black garb, face obscured by a cloth mask, was now amongst their ranks.

                  “No, all is well. My leave was in calm mind,” Kogarashi said in strong meows.

                  “What brings ya back then?”

                  “To welcome our honored guest. It would be ill-mannered if I did not.”

                  Kogarashi made sure to turn his head to signal his sight was now on the hunter Z'aanta. While the sentiment was appreciated, this was, however, the first time Z'aanta had gotten glimpses of this particular palico.

                  “Oh? You don’t say. Did ya hear about him from Fukashigi then?”

                  A brief silence.

                  “I swore I would not divulge such information.”

                  To that, Fugen had let out a big, hearty laugh that would have likely gotten him into trouble with the neighbors if it were late in the night, but luckily for him there was still the last stretches of daylight across the sky, warm and red. Even if there was not, his neighbors were likely used to it by now anyway.

                  Then with easy words, Fugen introduced Z'aanta to this “Kog” creature, said to be the felyne chief of Kamura, a mantle much to the likes of village elder and how Fugen spearheaded the village’s human affairs. Like Hägen to his own hunter, Kogarashi too was an old hunting partner who had taken upon many a hunt with Fugen, the two having stood beside each other as brothers in arms in their many years. In their age and experience however, they both had taken to their foreman roles very seriously, so those hunts were mainly stories of the past to only be touted around perhaps the next time they all visited the canteen for a good treat and a stiff drink.

                  Lost in reintroductions, those last slivers of daylight easily gave way to dark night, but the home’s interior was lusciously lit by lamplight, yet from either a grown habit or simply an unshakable hunter lifestyle, early rest was roused to rise well with the waking sun. An extra futon had been laid out from its holding made of a plush mattress able to be folded and thick blankets to cover them for warmth. It was a humble, traditional spread that Fugen hoped would be enough.

                  “It wilt fare just fine. Lookens just liken my own home,” Z'aanta reassured him, and explained that his usual arrangements were much the same: plush furs and blankets with not much else atop a stretch of wood planks along the walls designed to be raised floor off of the home’s dirt one.

                  What was not all so similar was in what garments the two would rest in those beds with.

                  Underneath all of his armor and plating, Fugen undressed into something that was not much cloth at all. No shirt or undertunic stayed atop his torso, to which Z'aanta immediately recalled his earlier comment from the canteen. His torso was still thick and wide, as solid as any tree of the Woodlands, despite having shed his excess bulk, and its meat curved when flexed as if to imitate a rough bark. The undergarment too was also of a strange style, fitted tight and of an extraordinarily short cut where its pant legs barely extended below the buttocks. For hunters who have taken to riding upon their canyne companions, there still was no quarter given for amassing strength and size in the thicks of his thighs and calves.

                  Z'aanta could only find himself staring.

                  “See somethin' ya like, Hunter?” Fugen teased, catching him in the act.

                  The return view hardly felt in equal fairness. There were some hot nights in the height of the summer season where Z'aanta would shed his undertunic to sleep more comfortably, but it was a rather cool night in Kamura, so simple cloth hid the skin that laid underneath; his own braies in comparison extended below his knees loosely and freely.

                  “I kid, I kid. Don’t worry. Just a little different than what you’re used to, huh?”

                  “Hah! Yes. I wouldst sayeth so. …But if thou art expecting I don the same, temper thine expectations. Thou wilt only be met with an ordinary man.”

                  “Hm, is that so? A man who can kill a dragon by himself doesn’t sound so ordinary to me.”

                  Upon hearing that thought, Z'aanta smiled, not with smugness or haughtiness, but in ease. There were times over in Orsterra at the gladiator’s arena—to which he would never learn from—where he had seen men of ordinary size and strength fall monstrous combatants who boasted about their large size and formidable weight. He gave a simple agreement, saying that perhaps he was right with claiming such of him. Satisfied, Fugen undone his hair as last preparations, revealing that, in actuality, the true length of his hair was rather deceptive.

                  As Fugen had made an example by snuffing the lantern lights, Z'aanta tried to entertain the idea of letting his own hair grow a little bit more in his mind’s eye, but anything he came up with he shook his head at, thinking it probably would not look nearly as flattering on him as it did with Fugen. He was so used to it short anyway, never bothering to change it, yet the last bits of warm, orange glow against the look enticed him like a deal too good to be true. It certainly was gone just as quickly as one when the last lamp was snuffed and Fugen situated himself in bed like an exasperated wild thing would.

                  Their futons rested rather close by each other, a neat and tidy arrangement to be exemplar of the space, and it reminded Z'aanta of the days when H'aanit was but a small thing and both of their beds were prepared side-by-side for if she ever needed something, just in case. She always had been serious and independent, and as she had gotten older there was no need for her to be so close, especially with both their animal companions often sleeping with them as well, so merely knowing someone, family chosen, was there resting was a simple delight Z'aanta had forgotten until now.

                  Like back within the comfort of home, Hägen had made his way over to cuddle close to his hunter in bed, laying his backside and weight atop Z'aanta’s open side. Homura did much of the same, but Fugen knew that the beast would stir not long after, putz around for a spell, find somewhere else to lie down, and leave him to wake up alone in the morning by himself.

                  Fugen did not rise the morning after by himself alone in his bed.

                  Instead, at some point during the night Homura had wiggled his way in between the two beds, content and unbothered in the crevice created by the hunters’ bodies, and tried a dog’s best to stretch his legs and paws out to claim more space. He was always a well mannered palamute, good with folk and patient with children, so in theory it was not all that strange he did not mind Z'aanta’s hold as the two slept like old buddies, and as much as the man gave off a lackadaisical air of sure power in his position, a master hunter rightfully earned, his hugging posture and the slack in its form could only be described as someone vulnerable. However, the fact still remained that the man was a new, unfamiliar hunter they had only met yesterday. Perhaps he was simply very good with animals and took to them with an overflowing heart, Fugen mused to himself as he stretched to pet one of his cohoots, Nim, who had also come to rest alongside Z'aanta like a pleasant ball of feathers.

                  Not much later, Z'aanta rose to the smell of fire and food. At the hearth Fugen and the housekeeping felyne were mulling over a pot that would become their early morning meal. It was plain fare. Z'aanta could recognize soup when he saw it, but this particular batch was rather thin from the looks of it: chunks of something white was in a clear, but clouded, broth and tiny green rings floated across the surface. Likely a type of onion, he surmised. From the looks of it, there was no meat, no hearty root or grain either, but it was paired with a bowl of plain rice to make up for the latter, and since Fugen was his host, there was no shortage of either dish.

                  Most of Kamura rose as early as hunters to start that day’s chores. Fugen kept to an early rise in good example, letting his people know he was there with them and for them, so before they parted ways to do their separate business, it was with good heart that he reassured Z'aanta to simply locate him if he found himself having trouble with anything he set out to do, whether it be from navigating the village to hunting preparation. Z'aanta was a hunter on commission after all.

                  He never did end up having to seek Elder Fugen out. 

                  It was Minoto who ended up being the one needing his counsel and aid instead, coming over with worries of how Z'aanta the Honored Guest apparently had set off on his quest without undergoing proper registration or regulation stationed by the Guild.

                  Hearing it, Fugen heaved a bit of a sigh.

                  “Where did he go? Do ya know?” he asked, arms now crossed with a contemplative look on his face.

                  “Down the path towards the shrine ruins.”

                  Elder Fugen raised a hand closer to his face as he often did in habit to think better. The hunter’s quest was local, if it was only to the shrine ruins, and the time’s open season was not of anything too large or unruly, perhaps a Mizutsune, in all of their fluid, slithering grace, being the most troublesome now that they were approaching the cusp into mating season. It has been some time since he needed to know those finer details after all. Surely his swords could not have grown all that heavy in retirement, because there was one easy solution to find out for sure what their hunter guest was up to doing.

                  With a flick of his head then a whistle between his teeth, Elder Fugen rallied and readied Homura and his cohoot Sanra who often like to fly around Kamura freely. With a brief thanks to Minoto on the entourage’s way out, he gave her a reassuring smile, saying that she was doing a fine job with her duties and should not worry.

                  Their path out to the ruins was paved by the same green lush and the same rugged mountains that the village and old shine had always shared. The tops of tall trees, rich and plentiful, created an in between that blanketed the earth from the heavens; ferns and foliage of all kinds to a hunter’s use also dotted the betweens of bunches and bushes. Whispers of pure streams and leaves like wind chimes kept the scene low and of silent nature. It was all the same. No rock out of place from when Fugen had traversed it time and time again as a hunter, even if perhaps the moss grew thicker and the trees taller, wider, with each passing year, and so each of his steps knew where to fall.

                  Yet, if it was truly all the same, then this strange, foreign hunter Z'aanta would not have been there. He would not have been there in the first place let alone far off in his vision amidst the hunt, ready to engage with a monster he was far unfamiliar with in a place where it typically did not traverse to.

                  A massive reptilian-looking monster with the neck almost  like that of a cobra’s hood had found its way to the shallows of the shrine’s downriver, slumped into the water deep so its body became one with the mud and earth below it. From hood to tail its hard, scaly hide glistened gray against the clear stream, the water making it shine sleek and slick, but the whiskers and beard on its face was clotted with muck and mire, the tip of its feathered tail much in the same grime. It was an almudron, a solitary leviathan that often kept to itself far away for no one to see deep within the mountains there. But here it was, resting within the river’s flow while Z'aanta and Hägen waited patiently along the riverbank as stalking predators do. 

                  Crouched in hiding, the hunter observed his quarry apparent with a light hold on his bowstring at rest, only seeming to be strung out of precaution for the unwanted need of a sudden shot, but not long after the hunter relaxed fully, undid the arrow, placed it back into his quiver, and slowly, leisurely approached the almudron deep in the water. Fugen was too far off to even know if there ever was a stray sound or change in the air, so upon its sight he picked up a far quicker pace, using a wirebug to fling himself forward with the help of its silk string. Except, it was still far too short behind him.

                  Catching the quick movement, one full with weapons and armor, the almudron’s eyes then betrayed something brutal, and Z'aanta barely had enough time to recognize all he could do was watch all of its power and might unfold, left wondering what part of his heart and soul, his flame, had startled this creature mad. But, therein laid the folly, because for no matter where or who, by what kind or which birth, a hunter was a hunter: a life built upon the grounds of taking lives.

                  It was righteous and just of the beast, this leviathan monster, to deny and defy, see a threat and prepare to fight for its life in kind, so Fugen cursed through clenched teeth, knowing he did not have the time or speed to intervene against what would follow. All he could do was call out to him, which he did twice by name and not occupation.

                  Amidst his call, a roar erupted, loud and piercing to the likes Z'aanta had never heard before, drowning out every other call of vicious nature that he imagined was now going to be brought upon him. Its deafening ring terrified his ears, its sound unable to leave them, making Fugen’s efforts all in vain, leaving Z'aanta forced to do nothing but stop his way. It was a prime opportunity, a solid shift to offense, and the almudron folded itself at the tail’s base as if measuring its length with its body, and upon release struck true, slamming square into Z'aanta’s chest, with a twist of its body and whip of its tail. The hunter—wearing nothing to lessen the blow—fell back far and hard down into the water, to which Homura, in good training, barrelled forward and seconded Hägen’s attempt at keeping the almudron at distance, snarling and snapping with sure battle prowess to create cleared way assured for his hunter companion.

                  Z'aanta’s face contorted in pain as he tried to stand himself upright, only taking to his feet once Fugen arrived to support him. His eyes were blurry, but saw straight, still aware of the massive monster readying its tail deep into the riverbed, but the sudden nausea knocked into him made Z'aanta want to bend low against Fugen’s best efforts of righting him straight and hauling him out of the foray. For a moment he was allowed to, allowed to slip closer to the river below for Fugen had lightened his grip, but in his try he was caught close in a tight embrace as a blast of mud and water washed over them with a force that would have downed even the sturdiest of hunters on solid footing.

                  Fugen did not falter, but despite his best efforts, he did not succeed in full either. 

                  A mix of spray and mud gagged Z'aanta through the nose and mouth as consequence for not tightening to Fugen quick enough; its blight burned his insides, causing him to huff and cough and choke in attempts to expel its sting. Now, Z'aanta was a sight Fugen had hoped he was to never see again: his eyes grew heavy and distant as if he had worked tirelessly for far too long, and his muscles eased in ways that was sure signal of a darkness to come. It was not a death’s knell that intended to greet him, but there was a lingering pain deep within Fugen’s heart from a tragedy decades ago where it was such solemn ring that threatened his family, friends, and village.

                  At least with Z'aanta worn it was much easier for him to move the man any which way he wanted, and before the almudron could do more damage, Fugen lugged him off to the clearing nearby, knowing that it would be wasted energy and effort for the monster to follow for creatures did not kill without purpose. That trait was something humans did unto this earth. 

                  There in the grass Fugen sat them both down in the shade of some cliff and rock, and held Z'aanta tight and upright close against him as he dug around the pouch at his thigh for an old flare stick to send off with Sanra back to Kamura. It was an easy signal with sure meaning since lighting it there would have been wasted effort.

                  A hunter’s life was wrought with peril. Fugen knew that well, that no one amongst them had gone without ill and injury. Even he in all his past prowess had gone through trials time and time again bleeding, but the grit in his teeth and the pain in his chest was not from a fellow hunter, comrade beside him, but from a leader chosen because of his honor and efforts there and with home, one who had welcomed him under his roof and its safe keeping. He was Z'aanta the Honored Guest, and it was Fugen the Elder who had failed him.

Chapter Text

Plenty of hunters before him had sustained injuries from their line of work, and plenty of hunters before him also had healed fine and well to pick up their weapon and hunt again. There will be plenty of hunters who scar over from their quarry after him as well, but it was also just as true that there were and will be plenty of hunters—either from negligence, poor judgement, both, or neither—who march on into the hunt unknowing it will be their last, even if they lived to see another day. So, among them, no one was in right to say or judge Elder Fugen over his watch as Zenchi, the Doctor, did his due diligent work on Z'aanta’s wounds.

                  Elder Fugen ended up laying him in the same spot, upon the same futon, that their honored guest had slept in safe only hours before, even now lax and limp in unconsciousness that could have been called sleep. Its peace certainly made all of Zenchi’s reassurances believable, that the hunter would in fact easily return to health.

                  Though he was a felyne, Zenchi was well standing in his trade, having healed those on the brink of death back to upstanding health; it was simply that those of Kamura often lived healthy lives, and thanks to their healthy lifestyles, he need not do so often. Elder Fugen could recall exact instances to claim such as truth, and yet he still had his arms crossed in a stiff stance, the flex in his muscles betraying a reel wound tight.

                  “Please wash up, Elder Fugen,” Doctor Zenchi said, examining the inside of his patient’s mouth and nose, “It can’t be comfortable covered up like that.”

                  Rigid, Fugen replied.

                  “I’ll get ta washin' up eventually. Don’tcha worry 'bout that.”

                  “Almudron mud is nothing to sneeze at,” Doctor Zenchi said, still focused on his patient apparent, “and you’re covered in the gunk.”

                  Fugen did not falter, not even the slightest bit.

                  “Well, I’m gonna need a hand with his shirt. Preferably a clean one. Not to mention turning him over too. Sounds like he came down pretty hard,” Zenchi continued.

                  When Elder Fugen refused to rouse even to those words, Doctor Zenchi then specifically made sure to grace Fugen’s gaze with much point, getting a sigh through the elder’s nose as his agreement. It made the felyne’s ear twitch downward, and before anything else could be commented, Fugen had excused himself out through the rear of the household where the bath lay within the privacy of a bamboo fence.

                  There was a canvas curtain over its entryway hiding all of the bath’s necessities inside, but Elder Fugen undressed with no intention of stepping foot into the bath full. Instead he had filled a washbucket to dip soapy rags into so he could scrub himself clean, not bothering to sit upon the stool intended for such either.

                  Perhaps a better explanation of how hunts went over here in Kamura could have helped him, he thought, or maybe more about the kinds of creatures that lived around these parts would have done the trick. A trip to the smithy prior might have worked too, so Hamon could have given him new gear or weapons, ones designed to damage such monsters here, but all those stipulations were but more mud piling high upon him until his ideas were nothing more than idiotic fantasy. If a salve existed for it, it was that there was something, anything, that would have and could have changed things, but the solution he surmised was no solution at all and it flashed through his core like a strike from lighting.

                  The hunter Z'aanta could have been no hunter at all.

                  All of those things he had said, stories he had told, hunts too strange or fantastical to be true because they could have been just that: fabrications and falsifications. Z'aanta could have been nothing more than charlatan, one for gain and purpose beyond Fugen’s reasoning, and that seed bore its way through the piled soil for such was how weeds took root to strangle and choke.

                  Fugen then dumped the entire bucket of soapy water over his head in one quick rush. Streams rushed down a curtain of hair soiled and clotted, dripping onto the ground from a neck bent, and what had not been washed away in the initial douse, the man scrubbed out vigorously himself.

                  A breath, then two—give him the gift of goodwill, that was all he needed to do for now. It was all he could do for now.

                  Cleaned, Fugen scraped up something suitable but far less fancy to cover his lower half, but did not bother with much else, nor was given the time because he quickly took to fulfilling his part. Fugen scrunched Z'aanta’s layers towards his neck and shoulders as much as his tunics would allow, exposing the hunter’s chest bare. Bruises of deep purple and red spanned wide across his midsection where the blow had connected, and his skin seemed unusually clammy and cool to the touch for someone unlikely to be sunsick.

                  “It’s likely from discharge,” Doctor Zenchi said, given it was the only affliction where a little bit of medical know-how was needed, “Nothin' unusual.”

                  Almudron were known for the liquid they produced naturally to help their movement and manipulation of mud; a rather irksome bit of biology for hunters at best and a dangerous one at worst on account of its concentrated capacity to kill. Most often than not the fluid it secreted did not permeate through the skin in ways that mattered since the dose would dilute in either whatever it attached to, washing off in combat, or durability of human skin itself. When the quantity was capable of killing, it turned the concoction of earth, water, and whatever else into a golden hue, and such symptoms only showed its colors in severe agitation.

                  “Hunter’s just aren’t usually ingesting the stuff. Not to mention whatever else was in the mud. Give it a day or two. It’ll work its way out of his system. But, until then there’ll likely be lingering fatigue. After that, he’ll be mostly good to go. That, I promise, Elder Fugen.”

                  Doctor Zenchi then straightened himself away from any examination, and nudged Elder Fugen to his duty by giving directions on how to properly prop Z'aanta over on his side. There upon his back was Elder Fugen’s answer, or if it was not, at least evidence that the man was surely rather committed to his false facade and its story.

                  Across his flesh there was a large scar running from shoulder to hip. It was faded, well healed in time, years upon years old, only noticeable by sheer size and the fact that it was a fellow looking upon it, one who would recognize such mettle upon a seasoned hunter. Looking again, because it was what they had set out to do, Fugen noticed the scar was not alone and another one of similar stature ran parallel to it, its flow only being lost because the claws that carved them were upon digits too great in size for the man’s body to hold them all.

                  Low moans then started to break through the silence as Z'aanta’s eyes rolled over lazily to only be pinched shut again against the aching returning to him as punishment for being in the wakeful world. With permissions from Doctor Zenchi, Elder Fugen laid the man back down flat so he would be in as much ease as they would get for any last looks.

                  Catching Fugen’s glance, Z'aanta meant to chuckle, except the sounds that came out of him were pained moans instead. That pain explained why he was open dressed, but not so much for his host.

                  “Hoho, to what honor doth I owen such a sight? A giving to soothe the blow unto my hunter’s pride, mayhap? Gahaha, well now. Surely I wouldst not minde if this be the reward.”

                  Either the man’s sense of humor did not get knocked out of him, or his brain had been rattled around too much to where he could claim such in so confidently in presence of company. If anything, Fugen smiled to the thought, relaxed and in relief; his reply sparking alive with a flare in his eyes.

                  “Y'know, I’ve seen plenty of hunters get whacked good like that. But, gotta say. In all my years usually they had something hard on 'em. You took it like a champ, Z'aanta. Bwah—! Hm.”

                  He wanted to roar. It was so natural to him that it took all of his strength and wit to hold it back because there was likelihood it would be contagious if he did not, and until he knew more, it was best to not bring Z'aanta any unnecessary pain even if it was from joy. But, luck proved favorably for it was not long until Doctor Zenchi settled them down with parting procedures, saying things like laughing and coughing was in fact good for him during this time despite causing discomfort and pain. If it came that the pain was too unbearable, a rag of ice or one dunked in chilled water would dull it, and if not enough, orders were to seek him out once more, and the felyne would bid his best, offering his best wishes for recovery on his was out.

                  Then alone, Fugen raised his hand securely around his mouth and chin as he did in thought, his eyes wandering; Z'aanta’s mind musing that he hoped to see it quite often during his now extended stay in Kamura.

                  “I certainly got some questions for ya, but right now what you probably need is a good night’s rest.”—Fugen’s gaze meet Z'aanta—“So, go on and get cozy, alright? I’m gonna go see what might be goin' on.”

                  There was something soft but dangerous deep within Fugen’s eyes as he spoke, but its kilter was easily shrouded by the glimmers from the evening light wandering its way into the home. The warmth from the evening cusp made them take on the majesty of a morning sunrise, but only when the light was willing to reveal it. Its warm gold was like the littering of sunbeams from home, dotted between the treetops, and so Z'aanta found himself kicking and screaming against it all in his mind like a child who did not want to listen to a parent or elder.

                  But, the last bit Fugen said was something of note from one hunter to another, especially when the elder had sold his seriousness with motion.

                  “Ho. Praye, stayeth thyself. Fugen,” Z'aanta said, rustling about upright awkwardly, “ 'Tis faire to leapen at felling the beast. We wouldst not be hunters if not to hunten, after all. But…”

                  It was a scene he had to paint for himself from senses that would only tarnish if spoken for even in his age, his experience, whenever he did decide to part with glimpses they only ever felt like an imitation from a child: a husk of land, withered dry; the cries from beasts, the clashing of claws. Then, an isolation of being far away from home, a place only familiar from knowing one’s own.

                  “...Wouldst thee not also wanten thy home well, and agitate when 'tis not so? I feare that beast was not of my employ. …Hmph, my quarry mighten actually be no beast at all, but whatever thing ails the deep mountains far. Don away with its ill, and the beast wilt likely returneth home on its own, eh?”

                  “Farther in the mountains, huh?” Fugen reiterated, rubbing at his chin, “It’s rather far for 'em to come down, yeah. But, I haven’t heard anythin' strange 'bout o'er there. Wouldn’t it just be easier to put in a…”

                  A sudden flash crossed Fugen’s eyes, and with folded arms, light and tempered, found himself staring at Z'aanta with the hope that a thought would pop into his head. He could only focus on one.

                  “Z'aanta, how’d ya know that? I know you aren’t from 'round here, and Minoto said you didn’t do much with the Guild.”

                  Z'aanta’s reply came quickly and unexpectedly nonchalant.

                  “The beast saidde such. An ‘almudron’ I believest thou hath callede it.”

                  There was a rather stale silence, and the most that mounted was a skeptical brow from Fugen.

                  “Ah. Letten me explaine… 'Tis a talent of mine, thou seest. My forebears and their kin long hath been chanced with inheritance to speaketh with them, amongst them as fellows. While 'tis merely hunter nature to claime—and certainly seemst quite easily done between thee and these felynes of thine—even more lies deeper than one mighten thinken.”

                  Then Z'aanta explained to the best of his ability, what it meant to be a beast master, even if they were no masters at all. It was simply just the name the scholars of his realm classified them under for convenience. It was also thanks to one of them, his scholar master—if she could even be called that—that he was able to parse it all out in a way that was elegant while retaining what it meant to be someone connecting with another on their own level. He spoke of primordial will and the fire from which its chaos was tamed, saying all it was at its simplest form was to directly touch a flame deep rooted in them all in the life brought forth for them. Verbal, human speech was mostly just a waypoint that many like them took up while young because it was what a child could understand best as expression and communication until they could refine the core. Most chose to retain such way into adulthood, however, simply because of how humans, with all their love, existed as beasts themselves in this world. Even then, Z'aanta also confessed that he sometimes wondered if he amongst them was still an oddity further because of his scholar master recognized.

                  The rest of the explanation was no different than what he said before, things any other hunter of any other realm would do and surmise: picking up pieces and putting them together simply because it was a hunter’s profession to know and do so in the ways of monsters. Migration patterns, mating seasons, a body’s tell and for each species, and how all those strings of occurrences affected each other. It was a human talent to infer and reason after all, and with it all as one, those of the Darkwood became unparalleled in might upon the hunt and as guards of the woods.

                  “This gift… We doth not knowest if it exists as a boon from the Hunteress, a curse passede down, or merely coincidence. But, here I be as I art.”

                  A moment.

                  “...I think I get what you’re sayin',” Fugen said, “Hoj is the one in charge of the nitty-gritty with handlin' huntin' and the Guild. I’ll get him to see if they can look into it. …Oh, you’re also probably hungry, huh. I can bring ya back somethin' from the canteen. How does steak sound?”

                  “Hmm… I wilt holden that promise against thee, Fugen. If thou art not to keepen it, that is,” Z'aanta said with a chuckle, but the drop in his eyes and the weight of their lids said something else entirely. At least he had seen Elder Fugen off awake with the taste of their previous night’s meal on his tongue.

                  At the Guild, Elder Fugen acknowledged the oddity of his presence two days in a row with a proposed a meal, his treat, as long as their gracious Guild Master was allowed that little bit of leisure, so much to Master Hojo’s delight, they had ordered something honest, a snack if anything: two orders of bunny dango with paired tea.

                  “Kinda weird seein' that almudron, especially when things have been so quiet,” Fugen said in between bites and niceties, “Though, gotta say, our honored guest is quite the interesting guy to shake things up. Says he can talk to 'em, the monsters, you know. YOU wouldn’t know anything 'bout that, would ya, Hoj?”

                  There were vague memories of passing conversations here and there of similar things throughout his long life, long for a human at least, and many hunting travels that might have sounded like something close—Hinoa and Minoto’s bond from being twins coming to mind—but Fugen’s memory alone could not whack the iron down flush. Master Hojo, on the other hand, had thought perhaps his ears had been stuffed with the puffed-up treats without him knowing. Either that or Fugen had mixed up a detail or two over a unique wyverian trait, which Master Hojo would not put past his old friend to do so. Except, therein lay the problem for he too had also seen their honored hunter guest but yesterday, and sure enough the man was just that, an average human man. Even if he was not, he still pondered over the possibility of one like their guest existing unmuted, one who could commune directly, unobstructedly back.

                  Master Hojo took a bite before giving his answer, needing to mull it over like the dango in his mouth.

                  “If I did not know better, Fugen, I would say you were accusing me of being deceitful. Which I would say shame on you! However, you never were one for roundabout schemes. I’ll file an inquiry with the Hunter’s Guild, but I cannot guarantee a useful answer. …Oh well. Nothing lost, nothing gained as they say, johoho!”

                  Fugen’s brow knotted up tight.

                  “You think it’s somethin' super secret?”

                  “I am not sure. This is the first time I’m hearing about this conundrum, after all. Given our mysterious guest’s lack of registry, they likely don’t know anything about him either. And it would certainly not bode well if this is how they found out… On the chance he’s not a miscreant, it could be as you say. His role might be something we are not to know! Either way, they are certainly rather exhilarating predicaments, aren’t they?”

                  Rather quietly, Fugen went back to chewing on his own dango. Hojo had a point, and he rather not think about any way the Hunter’s Guild could interpret what had happened at the shrine ruins. Even if no harm came to commit foul, it seemed this hunt had taken shape into something less than straightforward indeed.

                  When all was said and done, Fugen paid his dues to the kitchen much like the evening prior, but this time his thanks and praises were far more subdued in an average, neutral tone rather than exuberate animation. As he left, the felyne chef handed over two promised skewers of steak in hopes that the heat would retain and they would still be nice and warm for “Elder Fugen’s Hon-purr-ed Guest.” It was a tough battle against his stomach on his way home for the smell of spices never lasted as long as they did that evening, and the longer they lingered the harder it was to resist. But, eating in company was always done better than eating alone, and Elder Fugen was also not one to back out on a promise even if it involved meat that called coos against his ears through the way of his nose.

                  Fugen’s prudence went unrewarded. Z'aanta laid sound asleep upon the futon back within the comforts of the home, and he could tell as much because Z'aanta was not exactly a silent sleeper. Unbothered, Hägen laid alongside him with his muzzle resting upon the man’s shins, propping his ears up and shifting his gaze because animals did such things to noise and movement, especially when in strange places from someone unfamiliar settling in. With a friendly hand however, Fugen pet the direwolf’s head in a similar manner he would do with Homura as he situated himself next to them both upon the woven mats, a knee up with another flat out to claim his space casually. In a way, it was still true that he would not be eating alone, he figured.

                  Shifting his hand under the direwolf’s chin to scratch gently, Fugen did as any good host would do, and spoke to his guest, even if he was a wolf and knew he would not be understood in the way that he would with his own hunter companion.

                  “You love your hunter, don’tcha?” he had said, “He’ll be fine, so don’tcha worry. That’s a promise.”

                  Just as expected, there was no woof or bark, no whine or howl, to signal a reply. Hägen simply looked up at the hunter not his own, and yet his eyes still were of a worried pup, regardless of age, ones that tugged at heartstrings for looking so pitiful. It was a short lived look, however, for Fugen started going at the skewers as they sat, and sure enough, Hägen’s curiosity took to the meat as honest distraction, getting in rather close to sniff and—when he felt daring—try for a lick. As much as Fugen mused with confidence that he likely knew the answer he would get if asked, he made sure not to give in and accidentally caused Hägen to acquire a new appreciation for Kamura’s fare. It would have been an unfortunate fate for the wolf to taste something it could never have again if only because of his own human imagination.

                  Later that night, Fugen laid out his futon aside Z'aanta like he had done the night before, but after some wait and some thought, the elder pushed the mattress over until it rested flush against the other one. It was not normally done so, and with the size and spread of their blankets, their usual separation made sense, though Fugen shoved it off using the excuse that it would keep Homura from wiggling his way in between them again during the night. If the canyne still managed despite it, it would certainly be an impressive, commendable feat.

                  There was no wild thing to situated itself into Fugen’s futon, and as much as the man was mighty, one sure in power and place, the slack in his sleep that crept in upon him when well into the deep night suggested someone vulnerable. His torso had taken the place of a strapping bulwark, still towering tall even as the man laid upon his side, a formidable formation, and with how his hand engulfed Z'aanta’s closest wrist, it was a sure say in exactly what was the keep’s prize. Its drowning hold was not for some champion hunter or commander king upon the same ground; instead it was for something Fugen would have called Kamura.

                  Even though they were both men matured, grown full and have been for decades, Z'aanta in comparison only shrunk low against Fugen’s sheer size, looking as if he had lost height and weight overnight. The curl in Fugen’s neck only accentuated the stolen size for he was allowed to huff breaths atop Z'aanta’s crown, and after his eyes puttered open and shifted about in wakefulness, he silently thanked the gods Z'aanta showed no signs of waking with him. For if his guest caught glimpses of them two close, the knot deep in his gut would surely wring tighter; if their shared morning was to be anything at all, it was to be a meal, for the man must have been hungry given his missed meal.

                  The housekeeping felyne had been out on business, errands and daily chores, which was nothing out of the ordinary or extra, however Fugen still found himself at the butcher’s stall punctually early in the morning to where he was their first business for the day, gazing at their opening display that was still being set and prepared. On his way back with a fine cut in hand, he was stopped by the greens grocer practically forcing vegetables upon him, shoving them snuggly in his arm, at no cost to the elder. As she did so she prattled off a few uses and recipes for each of the vegetables offered, ending with a casual comment about their many benefits to help their honored guest get back to hunting strong. The quicker he rose meant all the better for Kamura, according to her, and when Elder Fugen had asked why that was, he had thought back to what the canteen chef had said last evening.

                  According to the rice merchants, the grocer said, Elder Fugen of all people had been spotted saving his skewered steak on his way home just an evening ago, and so she explained that if such was not an ill omen looming over Kamura then she was not Wakana the Greengrocer. At the end she smiled and winked which made the man start to sweat in a way where he had to clear his throat before his laugh instead of after. Never once before had he doubted his own straightforward transparency, considering it a strength, not weakness, but there was always a first time for everything even in age.

                  Now with more vegetables than he imagined arriving back home with—which meant to have been none—alongside his cut, Fugen struck fire in the home’s hearth to start cracking bright and hot as he situated himself into work. He had unsheathed the blade from that idle longsword next to the cohoot’s perch to prepare the meat with, handing over a leftover bone to Homura and Hägen to gnaw and tug at playfully like a toy.

                  For a blade not made from steel, it still sliced the meat the same as one, although being either would not truly matter regardless, for swords, even ceremonial ones, were designed for combat, not cooking, so it was simply Fugen who barrelled forward like a rampaging barroth, with hot breath spouting from its top into a rush, straight and strong. Once satisfied with his work, he pierced through the meat and set them to roast without any extra additions or frivolousness.

                  When the meat was well-done, Fugen tried to get Z'aanta to stir with a simple call, but when that did not work he nudged the man with his fingers and palm a bit to shake him.

                  “Hope you’re hungry,” he said with a wide smile when Z'aanta came around, but even when fully awake a lot of sleep lingered around Z'aanta’s eyes, dark and discolored, for the almudron had made it a hard ask to simply not close them back up and topple over.

                  There never were any flat-bottomed chairs with backs to pull over or enough seat cushions to prop him up fully straight ever in Fugen’s home, so instead he set the meat on a plate and down next to him, then hauled Z'aanta up and over to rest against him like a backboard support. Z'aanta let out a remark, something about him fairing just fine, and yet he let himself so easily be handled and propped up against Fugen’s shoulder and chest.

                  In his daze, Z'aanta had mindlessly pressed the heel of his palm down with a bit of force in an unwanted place, causing Fugen to bite back a curse with an irk for not donning any armor yet even this early in the day. Silently, Fugen then offered him a stick of well-done steak as Z'aanta gave an awkward apology, and the two ripped pieces clean off with their teeth. Somehow they both wound up thinking the same thing as they dined: at least Fugen’s hulking mass seemed to have more uses than just being a benefit for physical demands.

                  Although, no amount of niceties could have prevented Z'aanta’s face from scrunching up like he had licked a lemon.

                  “Bleh! Fugen! This steak… …Hngh. Whist I doth not wanten to sounden ungrateful, but I must asketh… What hath thee done to it?”

                  “Hm? What do ya mean?” Fugen answered, mouth full. He took another bite to make sure what he cooked was in fact edible, and when he found out it in fact was, he continued: “Yours taste funny?”

                  Silence.

                  “Well, for one, there’s much to desireth over the palate. As if some salt wouldst hath done the trick, mayhap.”

                  Fugen then began sputtering out coughs to make sure his meal had not gone the wrong way down his throat. They were broken and irregularly spaced to hide that he did not have a word in his defense ready let alone a whole thought, and when he had swallowed harshly to get at anything else lodged in his throat down, Z'aanta started humming low and chuckled sparsely under his breath. Easing much more of his weight onto Fugen like one would do to a friend of many years, Z'aanta poked at Fugen by rolling his head towards the elder’s chest and caught his gaze. His eyes had grown lidded in a way that suggested that it was the almudron’s doing, but the watch behind its hood was too strong to be in drifting consciousness.

                  “Comen now, Fugen,” Z'aanta said, “Thou canst not telleth me neither a village like Kamura nor a hunter of thy stature dost not finde usen of seasonings, hm?”

                  Fugen generously cleared his throat once more so that Z'aanta would not be mistaken.

                  “Well, maybe one of these days you show me how a hunter from S'warkii does it then.”

                  Z'aanta’s eyes then became the same as when he had caught full sight of his quarry amidst the hunt.

                  “Ohoho, it seemst mine assumptions were true. Thou hath taken me as a man whose heart couldst be wonne by pleasing his stomach. If not for this pain, I wouldst just taken upon thy goading now.”—a sigh—“But, ‘quarry be caught by a hunter willing to wait.’ Once the worst of this be through, I shalt showen thee.”

                  “Is that so? Bitin' back like that, ya can’t be feelin' too bad.”

                  “Well, it easens the aching. And was that not advisede for my better?”

                  Fugen’s brow raised suddenly, but lowered into something uncharacteristically soft.

                  “Sure was. Can’t argue with that.”

                  Z'aanta could have sworn he had seen something unravel in Fugen’s eyes then as he spoke, like some great burden was lifted, and as much as he could gaze deep into the hearts of beasts, Fugen was a man. He was a human man capable of the complexities that separated them from monsters. But, that gentle falter also sparked new fire in Fugen upon realizing he had forgotten something important.

                  “Oh! Lemme go get ya some water from the river. Doc said somethin' cool would help with the pain. Ice’s slim pickin' now, but Kamura’s water is very clean. Always gotta bit of a chill to it too. There’s nothin' like it.”

                  Its apparent pride held genuineness in a way that made Z'aanta wonder why he was not able to see and touch the man in the same way that he did with beasts.

                  Fugen then nudged Z'aanta with the shoulder he rested on, both now confident he could hold himself upright on his own, and was freed without fuss; Fugen shoving his half-eaten skewer in his mouth. Over at the iron-wrapped chest, he added his obi coil unto his wear and its accompanying armor around the hip to prevent any more unintentional ills unto his crotch and groin. Z'aanta long found himself staring at the spot of Fugen’s leave, measuring if the man would unexpectedly come back in some weird way, and when enough time had passed to say for sure he was not going to soon, Z'aanta let out low words of gratitude, knowing Homura could not betray him with his own honesty.

Chapter Text

“ H'aanit, dear prentice of mine. 'Tis thy master Z'aanta with wishes this findens thee well. 

Though I knoweth likely by now the seasons wouldst hath changed, mayhap it even be harvestide upon the Darkwood, if not an entire calendar, for the trek to Kamura was quite long. All things faire well upon my hunt. Ah, well — in manners of arrival, at least. But, worrye not for me, my dear girl. I shalt explaine that later. For now I wilt simply sayeth the locals welcome me with open arms and, truth be told, I feellest quite at home here… ”

“A letter?” Fugen asked as he sat down next to Z'aanta at a table out back on the Guild canteen’s patio. Though they had come to find their world was small enough for common ground with things like speech, it was equally as true that it was also wide enough for familiar things to look very different. The scratches upon the paper were made from strokes by hand in such a way Fugen would likely never know where to begin on trying to interpret it.

                  The characters were mostly vertical like hash marks to count with, and some done with swoops, swishes, or dots like built-in embellishments, extra thick and blotted if only because of the man’s lack of skill with a brush in place of a pen point. In theory it should not have been all that different a technique, but there certainly were parts of the script where Z'aanta prayed that H'aanit would be able to decipher his words.

                  “Must be to your girl,” Fugen finished.

                  “Ah, that it is. Though a woman grown she may be, I worrye—now that she hath a taste for travel—she wilt uproot after me if I don’t. Marche off halfway across the world, she wouldst. Just to scolden me over it! Gahaha! And who wouldst looketh after the village and wood then? No one, I feare.”

                  An uproar then erupted, onesure to have carried through Kamura in a way that was familiar to its open air, likely reaching as far as to the forge, so when it wound up as two set bellowing until their cheeks flushed red, surely their hunting buddies on the village’s far end had even perked their ears.

                  “Aw, c'mon,” Fugen managed between laughs, “Don’t tell me ya don’t have an Elder o'er in S'warkii.”

                  “Ha! That we doe. He is a fine man. But… hardly as fine as thee,” Z'aanta informed with a rolling chuckle.

                  “Oh, there’s no need for that, Honored Guest,” Fugen nudged playfully, “Although, I do wanna ask. You’re talkin' 'cause what happened with that… thing ya mentioned. Redeye.”

                  It was the last story he had told that day on his arrival, the one that was his apprentice’s tale to tell, but even still, he had a say in its story because it was his hunt first.

                  “Ah, yes. 'Twas not easy on her that I hath fallen. It best to not worrye her so againe.”

                  Well over a year had gone by, perhaps two, until the beast had been slain, and for most of that time, months upon months upon more unending, he had been trapped in a curse most wretched with nothing more than his thoughts to know that he was in fact still alive. He could not see, he could not hear; there was no wind or rain or heat against his skin to tell of the passing seasons, and tiredness could not take him for there no longer was anything to rest. Yet, like upon the brink of sleep, he slumbered as if it was the lull of waves of a drifting tide, so close to consciousness and yet openly engulfed by death’s depths. It was foul magic from the farthest reaches of hell: petrification of something that should not be.

                  He had been a man caught between life and death, one to be revived again.

                  “...How’d ya do it? Let go of what Redeye did to ya, I mean.”

                  Time was said to heal all wounds, and yet decades later Fugen still heard the crackling of fire and popping wood on some nights; the wood of trees, the wood of homes, Kamura crushed and burning from a wrath wrought from hellfire. Its screams sizzled and wailed in ways that he could not tell what or whom was set ablaze, wilderness or those who he loved. His longsword was so heavy then, but any weapon would have been heavy in his green hands, and the blood and sweat coated across his face painted his conviction clear that he was to repel the wyvern beast or die by its fangs.

                  “It hurt your friends, your family… …You were as good as dead.”

                  Back upon the hunt of Redeye, Z'aanta had his suspicions—its irregular movements, its uncanny intelligence, his own lack of clarity—but once it had all finally come to pass and its tale needed to have been catalogued in full, a request from his client, he had come to learn a glimpse of why those secrets where. There had been more to that beast Redeye than monster: man. Whoever they were, Z'aanta was not told, mostly given that grace on behalf that his overseer was also his friend, however if he had bothered to ask, he did not think any of the Knights Ardante knew regardless. It was, at most, wallows of pain and wishes of death carved in writing recognizable upon the desert ruins where it died to tell the Knights the truth.

                  Z'aanta had always known his answer either way, but that truth gave him pause over which words would explain it.

                  “Well, I’m not sure I hath done so. …Or felt of needen to at all, leastwise. Undeniably, it was a monster most dangerous that hath slaughterede with reckless abandon. It needed to be stopped lest innocents awaitede ruin. However…”

                  Plenty of men were monsters, even gods unexempt, committing the vilest atrocities unto their realm—for wealth, for power, for fame, for it all; to hold destruction in their hands—but whoever Redeye was, they could not bear new sins as Redeye.

                  “...Animals doth not harborre human vices… or virtues. Those art something giveneth unwantede by those who canst.”

                  Then in that moment, Fugen had wished, for once, that he was in fact a wyvern beast for there was something rooted so deep behind Z'aanta’s eyes that felt a chasm across, only flickering faint because of seer distance. It was something he feared he would never be able to touch despite them both being of the same species, knowing a pain would come in his core from longing for it like life does to water.

                  In the silence Z'aanta continued writing his letter, but after a few pages into its tale, his eyes began to rest with heavy lids and distant vision. It had been some days by now since the encounter with the almudron, but it was the first where Z'aanta ventured out of the house, having slept through much of the others. Fugen’s hand then swept some strays passing across his forehead; there was no speed or skill to it, gentle and light, and yet Z'aanta still stalled from surprise. 

                  “You feelin' okay? You look kinda…”

                  Z'aanta then reflexively closed the closest eye and tilted his head in tandem with the motion.

                  “Liken a chewed-up scrap of hide? That may ben, but if I not also be as tough as one, then I art not worth my father’s bow.”—Z'aanta hardened his tongue—“Rest assurede, I am no pup in needen of nursing, Fugen.”

                  “I can see that,” Fugen said lightly, “But, I’m no spring chicken, and you’re not that much younger than I am.”

                  “Oh? Hereth I standst ready a babe. Mayhap evenst asketh thee to tucken the blankets and parten with a goodnight’s kiss.”

                  Then that smile became far more smug, litting up Z'aanta’s face to where, if he was that young pup, Fugen was sure that his tail would be wagging back and forth furiously, and his ears would have jolted straight up to the thought of some rough loving. Its strength was so potent that certainly he anticipated a few strong strokes over his head down to the shoulders and generous scratches under his chin. For the little time Fugen’s fingers had been tangled in the tussle, it was just as welcoming as Homura’s coat, so he would not have been all that surprised if his reflexes made him do it again, blame on familiarity’s sake.

                  Instead, Fugen sized the man up fully, gliding his eyes from top to bottom then back up again, just to make sure he was not mistaken, but it alone was not good enough of an assessment, so with his fingertips sliding the letter away, Fugen leaned in rather close like an animal would do to cornered prey. His lean swiped away that smile on Z'aanta’s face, and in its place came that fabled fever, flushing his cheeks and the tips of his ears red. A huff of hot breath was even given over their lips to ease any feverish aches and pains ailing their old bones.

                  Satisfied, Fugen smiled, revealing his canines, and said: “I’ll think 'bout that and get back to ya.”

                  Retreating with a steady watch, Fugen returned the letter without damage. The fishermen had asked for a hand with handling and repairing a part of the dock that was starting to rot away, so his visit to the canteen was always meant to be a short leisure one anyway. Fugan rose without much else to say, just that he would see him later with a hefty pat onto Z'aanta’s shoulder as he left. That was what he hoped at least, though after such a stunt, he could also easily see Z'aanta simply getting up to never be seen again despite the disadvantage of his healing ribs against the savage wilderness that separated him and his home.

                  It was a hard task for Elder Fugen to wait and see what became of it, one filled with needless worry, but it would be the best he could do about it for now.

                  With Z'aanta however, whatever else he had left to write in his letter, it would have been more useful to ask the paper itself than the man. The vision out of the corner of his eye tightened his grip, and its play caused him to shift about uncomfortably in his seat. Fugen was right. He was no spring chicken and certainly no spring maiden either, and yet seeing himself backed into a corner and bent over the railing there against Fugen’s heat; it was a nice calligraphy set that the Guild Master had lent him.

                  He imagined that the quality was nice for those more accustomed to its uses, instead of someone like him, and the brush sure was rather thick in the shaft. It held well in his hand, a nice, easy, firm grip at its girth even, and it deserved to be returned back to its owner without breaks, bends, or blemishes. Hastily, Z'aanta gathered those borrowed things and handed them over, the utensil and all its accoutrements, to its rightful owner. Even Master Hojo remarked over their honored guest’s health on his way out, saying that he looked a little hot in the face. It was shrugged off by saying such was likely why he was leaving, to perhaps go lie down somewhere.

                  By the time the sun set, Z'aanta was in fact still in Kamura. The elder had wandered his way back home after a day of hard work to find the man occupying himself by watching the pot brew alongside the housekeeping felyne, a hand snaked underneath his tunics to hold a chilled rag against his abdomen. It had only been a few days after all, Fugen thought, it was foolish of him to think the man could have just wandered off alone on his own, and despite him having given much detailed thought to what Z'aanta had said, Homura and Hägen were the only one who gave the hunter a goodnight’s kiss that night.

                  Days would then go by in a similar fashion. Elder Fugen dealt with the village in the ways that he knew, and when he did not, it was Kamura and those who knew it well to fill the slack. Z'aanta the Honored Guest made appearances every now and then when he was well enough in mind and body to do so. Often enough he would sit himself down next to Hinoa the Quest Maiden and talk idle chatter with her as she shuffled through the hunting requests coming in from the locals to the point where he probably started building himself a certain reputation amongst the womenfolk. However, it was the rice merchant’s wife, Suzukari, and Wakana the Greengrocer who would sometimes pop in to gossip as well, and it was thanks to their efforts that no unsavory remarks spread. Sometimes even young Yomogi could be seen prancing over just to see what was going on as well, and all of them came to the same conclusion: he was harmless, just a man full of life and a rather funny fellow, if one wanted a good time.

                  On days when Elder Fugen manned the forge, Hamon would often find himself vying for the elder’s attention because its steps were very closely placed across the way. Stray giggles or gasps from the gaggle would break anyone’s attention quickly passing by, but it was just as true that he would also equally see Elder Fugen stare at their silence with a curious eye.

                  “Hope he’s not pushin' himself too hard,” Elder Fugen remarked there unprompted and off-topic.

                  “He’s got to get up and around to heal fine. It’ll hurt, but he’s got to do it,” Hamon said rather dryly, “Besides, I don't think it would stop him either way. Seems like he’s got a barroth’s head on his shoulders. Not unlike someone I know.”

                  That’s when Elder Fugen’s attention swiveled back to where it belonged.

                  “Don’t try and defend yourself, Fugen. I’ve seen you do the same thing. Close enough to it, at least.”

                  Even if it was decades ago, back when they both had young men’s bodies to push to their limits, the Rampage still ravaged them enough to last a lifetime. Because of his big, damned heart, Fugen never thought twice about using Hamon’s critical state and near-death to fuel both a condemning ire as well as a healing fire. Except it was the Hamon of back then that wished Fugen would acknowledge that he too had a body broken and was pushed to perish, even if it was by his own hands, ones he had given to Kamura like an offering unto the gods.

                  Hamon heaved a sigh.

                  “Go on. I’ll handle the forge for today. It’ll be good for Mihaba to get some practice with this.”

                  With crossed arms, Fugen gave his old friend a strong, skeptical glance, but without another word he took it upon himself to temper and mosey his way over to make merry with the gaggle of women and Z'aanta sitting amidst them. It was intended to be a far more silent and seamless entrance, but with a social stature as big as his physical one, it ended up being one of generous note. Hamon watched carefully as he sent for his apprentice close by at the smithy; Mihaba bounding over ready to deal with the day’s work, but slowed to catch whatever it was his master was looking at so intently. 

                  “They’re like two peas in a pod, aren’t they?” he said, turning to his master, “It’s kinda reassuring, seeing them get along. Having Elder Fugen’s approval is pretty much saying Kamura approves. And we can all rest easy about that, right?”

                  Mihaba was right in every regard. As much as Hamon remembered them well, long had the days passed where it was a young, naive boy in those sandals, and it was this hunter, Honored Guest, who proved them all wrong that someone as unreal as him could not happen twice. It was not in how he claimed to nock his bow and arrow or fell foes far beyond that of reasonable men, but how he walked and talked and laughed like someone worthy of Kamura’s fire. A smile would be plastered upon his face, and its warmth was welcomed like one would with the hearth from home. Though, as Kamura’s smith, it was that warmth to which Hamon could only think how fire was most dangerous when it felt all too familiar.

                  “But, I am a little worried,” Mihaba continued unaware, “Our Honored Guest sure does hang around Hinoa a lot… Oh no, you don’t think…? No, he’s too old for her, right? Ack! I mean! …Ugh. Nevermind.”

                  Hamon sighed with a light chuckle and small smile on his face, its rare appearance causing Mihaba’s brow to raise. The young man had always had eyes for the Quest Maiden, but he doubted Mihaba knew the weight of what he proposed.

                  “Don’t worry, Mihaba,” Hamon reassured, “Elder Fugen won’t allow that if he can help it.”

                  The master smith then turned around and waved his arm to signal for them to get back to the forge, Mihaba swiveling his head between his master and Elder Fugen. He wondered if Hamon meant what he thought he meant, but quickly enough decided it was not something worth pursuing or pushing right then, and so simply followed behind to do his job and better his trade.

                  Over with the others, Elder Fugen had opened by mentioning something about hoping his guest was not causing too much trouble to the ladies. The thought roused a couple more smiles and giggles out of them before agreeing he was no trouble at all, Suzukari lightheartedly mentioning something about it would be such a scandal if his intents turned out to not be as earnest and straightforward, given she was a wedded woman. Wakana then followed up with something about not standing a chance with the fierce competition, and Hinoa, on the other hand, made no comment at all and just happily nodded at her village elder as they all played along. Even Z'aanta too acted accordingly.

                  “Ah. Thou’st all abandon me within a moon! And what doth I doe then? Leften all alone and heartbroken. A cruel fate that…,” Z'aanta jested with a little pout and whine at the end, but was only met with the women agreeing that such an outcome would likely be to his own blame, leaving Elder Fugen to wonder what they would all get up to and talk about.

                  “Hoh! Companions I thought all thee! What curse be upon me to warrant such treachery,” he continued, “Art thy elder’s words only ones trustede true?”

                  Z'aanta then shifted his gaze towards Elder Fugen, but calmed himself given what he had to say next was in full honestly.

                  “Oh, speaketh of which. Fugen, canst I calleth upon thy word, mayhap? Back within the homestead, that is.”

                  Considering the man had shielded his midsection, pressing tenderly at his side with a finger, Fugen figured he simply needed to rest quietly with the basin and favored his company. It had become a bit of a recurring ritual after the first time he had found him wandering amongst Kamura because, in his words, being cooped up alone in the house would fare finer if he had some entertainment.

                  “Sure. Would ya rather go now?” Fugen answered with a certainty that made Z'aanta miss a breath and skip a beat, “It’s kinda early, but Ham said he can handle things here. I’m all yours.”

                  While Z'aanta was thinking, if it could have been called that, Suzukari and Wakana exchanged glances that were only discreet because Hinoa was nice and the men were too preoccupied with each other.

                  “Ah… Ha! See? Exactly as claimede. A man of his word and more,” Z'aanta barely managed given the shock running all over his face.

                  He then tried to shift upright on his own to meet him, but his face scrunched in places, betraying how he never realized just how much his body moved in the day-to-day before. Hinoa placed her things off to the side in effort to help, except, whether it was from his days as a hunter, elder, or as Z'aanta’s keeper, Elder Fugen was simply quicker, and became the man’s aid instead despite knowing it held little merit and only caused quips against it.

                  Back within the comfort of home, Fugen sent the housekeeper off to fetch some river water with Homura to tag along with a bucket between his maw. Seeing his buddy walk out with attentive ears and alert eyes, Hägen rolled his head over to his hunter with a face carrying a wallowing plea. All things considered, it was going to be better off for him if they were out of the house, so Z'aanta shooed his direwolf out playfully, saying there was no need to wait around for his sake. As Hägen trotted off, Fugen started shifting around the house for some more clean rags.

                  Except, Z'aanta cleared his throat to confess he was actually looking for a little bit of a hand with bathing. It had been some days certainly, more than he would have liked, and as Fugen had just witnessed moments ago, merely rising from a seat caused him to move in ways that were irritating. Lifting one’s arms and contorting one’s torso seemed to be an easy way to add unnecessary pain and discomfort when the elder had given him faithful word over his help on anything his guest could possibly need.

                  To his word, Elder Fugen gladly accepted his call.

                  He shuffled outside for a moment to return with the stool kept near the open air bath and a mat for it to sit on, and placed it in the center of the floor away from most passing sight, and for the ones that were not, he had closed the door and lowered some straw curtains for privacy. It was base courtesy, and for the better. The bath area outside would not have held them both comfortably anyway, let alone the pain that it would be to shuffle them around given Z'aanta’s predicament.

                  At Z'aanta’s back, Fugen notched both layers of tunics between his thumb and forefinger, but when he had gotten lazy and his fingers started grazing against the crawl, he had almost stopped from its touch. Given he had already done so once already, stalling seemed needlessly strange, but back then the man was unconscious and in a critical strait. Instead, now he was awake and aware of the calluses that slid across his skin, rolling with each muscle well tuned to the strength of his pull and fortified with fat. The way it liked to linger tenderly against the scarred lines that scored his back; he could not help it. In Kamura, it was customary to give offerings unto things of devotion. He doubted it was different in Orsterra.

                  “Thou seest something of fancy, Elder?”

                  Fugen’s eyes darted free from their trap. Twisting his head to claim his kill, Z'aanta smoothly swept the stool to the side with a foot then turned to face him in full. Watching the fire flicker behind the man’s eyes, Z'aanta fired a fatal shot: “Doe answere plain for I doth not jest.”

                  Z'aanta could have only been a master hunter, one willing to think in roundabout schemes, for no one else could lay a trap so open and obvious and still catch quarry true. A  lump was lodged in the back of Fugen’s throat, holding back a bloodlust beast that towered as tall as houses with fangs and claws to the power of dragons.

                  “Telleth me, Fugen,” Z'aanta said, “Why is a man liken thee wandering life alone? Thou art rather desirable, I’d sayeth. A renowned hunter, a beloved elder—neither easy feats, and thou art both. …Even if thee fancy men, Kamura canst not be all that small.”

                  A bit of silence. A trapped monster was just as dangerous with the thrash of its head or flail of its arms. But, instead, it simply sat there, knowing its fate.

                  “...Well, y'see, it goes like this. When I was wet behind the ears, I almost lost people dear to me. Almost everyone, actually. So, I spent a lot of time gettin' stronger as a hunter 'cause that’s what I thought would protect them. And the village too. Back then only someone as big and tough as I was would do. 

                  “After a while not many other hunters could keep up, but ya live and ya learn. Some things aren’t what ya thought they would be. Found my strength wasn’t all 'bout what weapon I wore, and Kamura had more than just me protectin' it. But, fate sure is a funny thing, huh… ...Turns out who I do want is that kinda hunter.”

                  Gently, Fugen caressed the side of Z'aanta’s face near the corner of his eye like the cradle of furs nested upon Z'aanta’s bed after a long hunt away, and the offering on his lips was to assure he rested easy and warm. But, Z'aanta was a hunter on commission with no quarter to give for a weight was given, snapping the snare alive, and in that second Z'aanta saw his shot, firing his arrow deep into the chest of the mighty beast for it was his trade to do just so. Except, he never was one that killed chase for sport, and so this once he hoped and prayed that Draefendi, his Huntress, would forgive him for claiming a gentle thing that bore no threat and caused no harm.

                  As penance, nothing was to go to waste. Its warm blood and fatty meat would serve well for a banquet of one, but just as he tore its flesh clean apart and was set to carve its innards, the beast bore its fangs and caught Z'aanta’s skin between its maw. Even as it laid open, bleeding, it could only nibble and gnaw at his flesh like how animals did at play with one of their own, yet its force was not held accountable. Neither lifted to yield, and yet both held no guard to take, grasping at each other with carving claws, so in the end there was no one to say who held victory as they laid their claims and marked their domains deep within each other’s mouth.

                  In the end, however, one would have to give, for such was the fate of all struggles. At least, Z'aanta thought, it would be to a beast he did not mind being felled by.

                  Z'aanta broke free first and retreated in clear defeat.

                  “Huh? Hold on,” Fugen then sputtered, “You don’t want this? Seemed like ya were enjoyin' that.”

                  “Yes. But,” Z'aanta replied, silken and smooth, “ 'tis because I hast that it best off perish here, thou seest.”

                  Given the dumb look on Fugen’s face, Z'aanta slowly glanced downward with a twitch at the corner of his lips and back up again. His braies were not nearly as fitting on his form as Fugen’s own undergarments, but with how the man hung his mouth open to just close it back up again tightly was enough to expose the elder’s realization. Something rolling then started to run around in the back of his throat.

                  “Well, we needed to get rid of these anyway,” Fugen growled, reclaiming the distance between their faces. A hand felt for where the man’s hip met the lip of his braies and curled a couple of fingers under its cloth to get at its strings, “You did ask for a hand with your bath, right?”

                  Slowly, Fugen tugged at the string fastener of Z'aanta’s chausses, unraveling it careful and clean. Z'aanta was a man of might, the ridges across his back and swell in his arms were enough to testify for it, and yet his breath wavered to something wobbly and weak, making Fugen’s fangs poked free from wondering about what other sounds would find their way out of the hunter’s mouth when his touch became far less chaste. Like a taunt of one’s strength, Fugen caught the other fastener with his fingers to see, but did not draw it undone.

                  A stalking beast watched Z'aanta’s jaw slack, the man begging for more with a tilt of his head up to meet it.

                  “Ah, that I didde, didn’t I? Thankenee for the reminder,” he affirmed, coy yet resolute.

                  “Heh. That’s what I thought.”

                  Fugen undid the other string with ease, then the same to the center string of the open undergarment.

                  “Just let me handle this, and there won’t be anythin' to worry 'bout,” Fugen said, lowering to his knees, “Promise me you’ll stay still, alright? I don’t wanna hurt ya either.”

                  Like a battle-worn warrior to their liege or a devotee unto their god, Fugen watched above true as he slithered his hands beneath the waistline of cloth and dragged it all clumped down to the midsection of the hunter’s calves. Freed, it was plain to see that there was not much growth to take into his mouth. If Z'aanta truly did want to forego there would be no harm, but the hunter snaked his fingers back between the tufts of hair atop Fugen’s head to ease him up slightly and see him take his tip clearly.

                  Fugen held onto Z'aanta’s hip as failsafe to keep him still in place as his mouth worked at pulling more out of him, minding his teeth as much as he could. It was a hard ask with canines better used for nibbling at one’s neck because whenever they poked in a place or scored an odd spot, Z'aanta held his breath tight against him lest he blather out to damn his dick for a moment and command the man to start gnawing on him in all sorts of places like a dog to their favorite bone. Except it would have been a pity to not even be erect and break their promise, bearing the pain. Though it must not have been all that painful if he was to suckle, taking his tongue to his breast, instead; moaning to wish it true.

                  It was luxurious, a beautiful sound that deserved to be heeded in kind, but all Fugen could provide was something rough and rich with gravel, pulled out of his mouth alongside the cock that stuffed it. Needing a breath, Fugen slid a hand down to pull out the last bits of Z'aanta’s length as he nestled his face next to it, their scruff cushioning his rest and hiding the want mounting in his face. He was not the one promised haven or guard after all, so it would have to suffice until he could wear his wounds with pride.

                  Every stroke of his hand pulled just as much of himself out between his own legs; every bit of Z'aanta’s length found itself in his hands flush and warm unlike the armor against his own groin, but when his thumb rolled over Z'aanta’s head to find it dripping, he could not help to roll his hip against it, wishing and wanting it would make more out of him. Now it was Fugen’s turn to silence his wants whole, easing himself back upon Z'aanta until his lips could kiss its base and its tip rubbed deep in his throat. No one would give second thought to why their honored guest might moan or wail, stray stings of pain as he gasped about, but for the neighbors to hear their headman, their elder, obscene, it would make nothing less than good gossip. Kamura was a small village after all.

                  Z'aanta, however, had the indecency to take a fist full of the man’s hair to stay him as he bucked his hip against a retreat, but for all of its greed, it was only done once. Fugen had grabbed both sides of the man’s hip in a vice to remind him what he had said and to warn him that if he were to forget, there were to be consequences. There was no need for needless suffering, known best by those who had walked its path, so Z'aanta yielded with a moan of pain already prodding his chest. 

                  All Z'aanta could huff out, hot and stuffy, then was that their gods—whomever they be—be damned, cruel creatures, and against them he swore between his teeth for the two of them to see a good fuck done proper. Howling, he professed his sacrilege as visions of a night that they could lie freely as he fucked him until there was nothing left between them to give, confessing with a blush on his face that he feared, if Elder Fugen was the one to take him, he doubted he could hold him all without ill or injury, not if his size leveled with the rest of his mass.

                  Coupling was a want capable across all animals, but they were men, ones who bore complexities that separated them from their beast brethren. Erratically, Z'aanta bit down on his tongue and shed a tear as he coated the inside of the elder’s mouth with all the things he could not say. 

                  Fugen lavished in his offering by holding the man firm so that no drop went to waste, that everything was swallowed whole, and when the man was proven to have been all spent, slid his tongue across the underside of his meat until it glided up and over its tip to wipe clean whatever was left there.

                  “There. No mess,” he said in retreat, “Now let’s get ya cleaned up.”

                  But, Z'aanta tightened his grip and held him down still by his hair.

                  “Oh, comen now, Fugen. What ben a bath’s worth if there’s nothing to cleanne?”

                  Z'aanta then rolled his booted foot underneath the man’s kinkakushi and met the growth in his groin with the underside of its leather. Fugen’s eyes fluttered closed with moans of defeat, and in its darkness he heard whispers guised as a spectre in Z'aanta’s speech, asking if it was not he that preached needless pain was not noble. Undoing the red cord that wrapped his skirt and all its fixings under secure, Fugen looked up upon his divine king to see that there was no god there, only a hunter he knew all too well.

                  Cries and wails long waited then filled their ears as Fugen took his length into his own hand, working it well and wet to smear a sight yet to come over his head and down the length of his shaft, but it was not enough. Frenzied, Fugen rose with a forgetful mind, one set on finding their groins flush, but the bits of pain that twinged out of Z'aanta as he had done so served as a great reminder. He was Fugen the Elder, and he had let down His Honored Guest once already, leaving him wonder all the more over why Z'aanta dare pull him closer.

                  Pressed flush against him, Z'aanta trailed his fingertip from the base of Fugen’s cock all the way along its shaft, over the lip of his head, and finally onto his own skin amidst the bruising. He may have been a man that wore his sentiments openly and freely, but it was equally as true that the thrill of the hunt was a delight he could not easily part with.

                  By feel alone Fugen boasted of a size that made Z'aanta feel justified with his earlier worries, and if it were not for the man going at himself so needily and haphazardly, he would have sized him up for certainty. Instead, he measured the man with sweet sorrows and tender touches elsewhere, pleading for forgiveness until the ruin he would lay as waste was not already damaged and broken, for there was no ecstasy in easy victory. Even still, Fugen found himself panting like a miserable thing fighting for his life, and as a hunter Zaanta knew when animals tired.

                  “Come. Claime thy take. Coatte this flesh until thee canst doe so inside it,” Zaanta slithered in with a hand finding the underside of Fugen’s tip, “Lest thy might only extend unto monsters.”

                  Between the roll of Z'aanta’s sounds and fingers across the lip of his head, Fugen released with a grubbling moan that washed over his body from his shoulders all the way down; Z'aanta on the other hand huffed hard against how erroneously little he thought the repercussions would be. Now that they were out of the thick of it, Z'aanta buckled beneath his aching with ironic laughs, joking that perhaps he forgoes the bath unless he wanted to meet his end. With a lazy smile, Fugen bantered back something about how dragons could not be all that mighty in Orsterra if that bout was enough to do him in.

                  “Ur-hrm. Thou knowst well why I be laidde low, Fugen,” Z'aanta huffed.

                  “I know. I’m kiddin'. Although… sure wouldn’t mind laying ya lower either. Maybe on a mattress next time, huh? Bwahaha!”

                  When there was no roar in return, Fugen quelled his throat.

                  “Ahem, but 'bout that bath. Want me to sit ya down?”

                  With a reluctant nod of his head, Z'aanta gave in and let Fugen lower him onto the stool he had brought in earlier. It may not have done much in regards to easing pain, but such give just meant it weighed all the more elsewhere; them now knowing it a little bit better. Once he was down and comfortable, Fugen dealt with Z'aanta’s boots, chausses, and braies, all finally finding their way entirely off. He then scuttled off to habitually retrieve the bucket, basin, and rag towels, however instead of in its normal home, the bucket was placed on the floor unusually close to the door. It was strange, but Fugen did not give much thought to it until he had turned to see the home once more. 

                  It was oddly empty.

                  There was he and Z'aanta as expected, but it was also only him, Z'aanta, and apparently the water bucket they had sent their furry friends off to retrieve. An unfortunate truth then flashed across his face as his heart sank, not even flush retaliating against it, burdened by an additional realization: Z'aanta was in this whole mess because he as a human could understand the animals in earnest. Sooner or later, one way or another, he was going to find out, but for the time being, Fugen forced himself to worry about the bath, and just the bath, instead.

                  Somehow it all seemed more intimate for Fugen to run his hands over his body with a watery rag than it was when Z'aanta’s cock was stuffed full in his mouth or flush between them with generous fingers. Though in exchange for gaining intimacy, its weight was also released and forgiven. 

                  Once clean, Fugen offered over a set of his own clothes so that he could wash Z'aanta’s clothes as well, considering it seemed like an opportune time. The garments would be rather large and certainly ill-fitting, but the argument also rested in the fact that Z'aanta probably was not likely to leave for the rest of the day, not with Fugen around like he had been promising at least. The robe’s shoulders drooped far off from where they were placed on his body, and given it was a more traditional garment than something fit for hunters, its waistline was able to be tucked and folded around an obi to shorten its length and prevent it from set to piling on top of the ground. At least there was some reassurance in how it always intended to be worn with a sash of some kind.

                  The evening then came and went with little to no note, and yet it was one they were set to remember the most, occupying their time with idle interests and flights of fancy. They merely talked to each other as people liked to do with whom they enjoyed, cradled close enough to feel the heat off of each other. Z'aanta eventually had gotten a bit lazy in their leisure and dozed off, not done because of any injury, but simply because it was a pleasant pastime when one had a whole bunch of nothing to do. However, he was left to rise in the midst of night in a bed he had not been in and alone, spare for the animals that had wandered their way back.

                  Out in darkness, Fugen stood on that stretch of pathway down towards the dock, the lights of the Hunter’s Guild faintly illuminating the wooden gate that welcomed way to the waterside. Utsushi, master hunter and the young hunter-to-be’s trusted trainer, often liked to idle out on the Guild’s rooftop there. Luckily for the elder, the man had commendable vision even at night, and caught Fugen’s generous beckoning gestures.

                   Like silent wind, the master hunter graced Elder Fugen with swift, precise motions of respect and reverence, bowing before the man with well practiced posture. It paired well with Kamura’s wear and hunter’s armor, but Fugen could not be fooled given the wildness in his spiky hair and how he always covered the lower half of his face with mail, so the elder gave him easy orders of lightening up. Elder Fugen humbly came as a friend asking for a friend in Utsushi; nothing more, nothing less.

                  Fugen glanced out over the river from the hill’s height, the white of the moon causing the water’s flow to scale like the back of a monster’s hide.

                  “There’s no real easy way to ask this,” the elder braved forward, “You’re a good-looking guy, Utsushi. Grabbin' all the girls’ eyes. You ever get afraid of, y'know, catchin' feelin's?”

                  A spark of life flared in Utsushi’s eyes signaling that the forge was at full fire.

                  “Whoa. Elder Fugen, are you asking me for romantic advice? That’s totally gnarly!”

                  Though it was the kind of answer Fugen had explicitly asked for and rather received, Utsushi still irked himself back like a fish being reeled in on a line.

                  “I mean, I do worry about scaring them off. I can get a bit excited, especially when it comes to monsters.”—Utsushi cleared his throat and straightened himself out—“If I may, is this over Kamura’s Honored Guest?”

                  After a long breath, Fugen gave him a nod of his head.

                  “It’s not like he can stay here once his hunt’s o'er,” Fugen managed, “So, what do I do? I can’t ask him to stay 'cause I like him. That’s crazy! He’s got friends and family back home. People he loves and wants to see again.”

                  Utsushi passed him a glance.

                  “Have you told him?”

                  The hunter hardly needed to know the exact details, but it did not prevent them from painstakingly replaying in Fugen’s head like a generous second helping.

                  “Yeah. I’d say he knows.”

                  One of Utsushi’s eyebrows perked up to that acknowledgement, so he tried to assess the midnight waters with sly sounds about if they had taken hands or perhaps even locked lips. Elder Fugen simply spilling his guts and laying them open and bare by telling the man was equally as available, but it lacked the thrill Utsushi was looking for. It was, however, the answer the hunter received, an abridged version of only the main, crucial points of the confession the elder had given.

                  “Then, you might as well enjoy it while he’s here,” Utsushi said, “Massive bummer he’s got to leave, but it’s better than nothing, right? Even if it’s only for a little while, would you really rather miss out? …The Elder Fugen I know makes things work out no matter what. He always believes in us. So, I’d bet a pretty zenny on him scoring!”

                  Fugen had stiffened at the end of that supposed encouragement, broadening his stance and solidifying his stature, arms folded across a broad, puffed chest, but it was his eye shifting away to the side and the following head that raised Utsushi’s brow high. Various disbeliefs then began sputtering free from Utsushi’s mouth as he gaily shifted about atop his feet, swaying closer to coax more of the dirty details out of the old dog. At least the elder had smiled at the interest, the whole ordeal making him feel young again, this drawn out desire to kiss and tell, but the most Utsushi received out of him was the decency to keep private matters private.

                  Knowing he was not going to get anywhere, Utsushi’s reply for sealing the deal was to venture out and see the torchbugs in the old shrine ruins. Catching the little critters was already a popular date idea for locals and travelers alike, and given the gathering spot, he would be able to show his honored guest a little more of the area himself as if it was a personal, private expedition. Though Utsushi also remembered that, given the season, there might not be too many of them out just yet to light up the night as famously as they tended to do.

                  It was a solid offer. It was a very solid offer in fact. Elder Fugen was the one always trekking out there to set and repair camps, and Kamura Village was expecting that batch of Guild hunters and their entourage to investigate the area thanks to their guest as well. However, it was not likely Z'aanta would heal in full before their arrival, so those actual preparations beforehand would either serve as a suave sway in the best case or a quick, easy escape in the worst.

                  “I wouldn’t sweat it, Elder Fugen. You always got your eye on the prize. On the off chance you don’t, I got your back,” Utsushi said, puffing his chest and pointing to himself with a smile and a wink, but what had come next was like water to fire, a calm douse, something earnest: “We all got your back, Elder Fugen. Because we’re family in Kamura, right?”

                  Before a blush could settle in above his mail, Utsushi then said something about the time and how they both should probably turn in for the night, especially Elder Fugen of all, if only to not worry any particular someone for being out of the house at such an odd hour. A simple comfort then held the sky very still as the two wandered their ways back. Kamura was built upon pillars, a plural attribute. It always has been, and always will be because Elder Fugen had nurtured it so. Some were thick, some were small; some were tall and some were still being carved into place, but each one had their own weight to hold so that they could all hold.

Chapter Text

Hamon the Blacksmith was not admiring his work. He was inspecting it. Held out in front of him was an iron bow to the likes Z'aanta had never seen before, one so great in size that its weight and heft were all but felt, and yet the blacksmith was able to flick it free from its folded frame with only one arm back into a shape the foreign hunter was far more familiar with. Z'aanta knew little of the smithing trade, but figured if Hamon’s hammer was enough to keep his aged figure tuned to such immense hunting equipment, then surely he, a hunter with nothing more than a wooden one, would be able to command it despite its true size towering well over his head.

                  Then, after the locking mechanism was inspected one last time, Hamon offered the bow out to Z'aanta across from his smithy setup by carefully placing it atop the wooden counter that separated them. 

                  “Here. Go on and get a feel for it,” the smith said, “Courtesy of the elder.”

                  Z'aanta took the massive bow in his hand, cueing Hamon to fetch the bow’s arrows and quiver. Even though it, to his surprise, weighed less than it looked, wielding it would still prove to be quite an act of endurance on untrained arms.

                  Inspecting it up close, there were new intricacies Z'aanta was not used to seeing. The weapon’s string was fastened into strange hoop latches welded into its ends instead of being slipped and tied into a notch, and its handle was thick and fortified for reasons he could not begin to fathom. But, even with all of those oddities, its strangest feature was a canister that protruded out on a rod, a rag dangling from its opening around the handle.

                  “That’s for your coatin',” Fugen said, announcing himself and how close he had cozied up to Z'aanta’s backside, “For a little extra edge against 'em. Nasty stuff. Bwahaha!”

                  When explained that way, the points connected. For their profession, dipping arrows was not an unheard of tactic to help deal with large, unruly monsters, but poisons and infections were slower to the kill while also at the demand of more resources. Z'aanta had never really resorted to it himself, always finding his strength and skill enough to fell fiends, but he also knew enough of his trade to say for sure that this was unlike any way he has ever seen or heard the trick done before. Given the placement, the layer looked to be added immediately upon nock, and perhaps some more when firing, the canisters contents soaking through the cloth and onto the arrowhead.

                  Hamon returned with the confirmation that it would be more than enough for both, for everything about hunting in these lands appeared to be massive. Its quiver could likely stand to reach the height of their hips, and neither Hamon nor Z'aanta were particularly small men. The points of the arrows also looked to amount to half, if not more, of its entire length, and its long, triangular grooves a perfect pathway for whatever coating leaked onto it. Z'aanta figured if he were to fetch his own arrows to compare, there would not be much to spare as extra length against the iron head alone; all of it a description fit for a dart bestowed by the gods rather than for something made by man.

                  “But, we shouldn’t be needin' anythin' too crazy. Not for what we’re doin',” Fugen finished with a strong, reassuring nod of his head.

                  Officially they were setting off as a restock and repair expedition to the shrine ruins as assistance to the survey team that traipsed into town some weeks ago. The team was only a couple of Guild hunters and handlers, but Z'aanta also knew better than to take the quest at face value. Although the Guild has cleared hunts for far less in the past, he surmised “to take my crush out on a date” would be a very crushing blow to the ego of a local legend known for his past prowess upon the hunt.

                  In hindsight, it really was a bemusing string of events. Z'aanta could have sworn his own master back home had knocked him over the head years ago, when he was the one fresh and green, for the mere thought of courting by way of the hunt. But, little could even she, the one called a soothsayer, have foreseen a fate in which it was he who was being courted by a hunter just as strong as he. In his age, Fugen may have foregone his blades, but it was enough for a soul to be steadfast.

                  “Oh, one more thing before we go…” Fugen tacked on, but before he could get to it, he set to rig Z'aanta up by taking the bow from him, unlocked it to fold, and mounted it onto the hunter’s back for easiest transportation. 

                  It weighed him down far more than his normal equipment, leaving no guesses as to why it took years of supervision for hunters here to be allowed to brandish these weapons. For a second the hunter mused as to how Fugen even was allowing him to have such a thing, a thing of the Guild even. The elder had been so particular about causing any more harm after all, but at the very least, that worry likely served as reason as well.

                  The quiver then went on similarly, Fugen securing it in standard on the hunter’s coil, which was no extra gift. Z'aanta’s coil was to be his regular belt that he had worn in from Orsterra. Though Elder Fugen never was a bowman himself, he felt fine enough in his work to smile and nod confidently over a job well done. Only after then Elder Fugen came around to offer the thing that had popped into his head so suddenly before, but immediately stopped in a daze, saying the Guild looked really good on him and would probably look even better in full armor. 

                  It was poor sense and terrible reflexes for a hunter, but Fugen never was the one to hunt with too much forethought behind him. Clearing his throat, Fugen humbly asked for Z'aanta’s wrist, preferably the arm he pulled with, given the weapon, and Z'aanta could only give him a bemused smirk as he offered out his arm. From his thigh pouch, Fugen retrieved a braided cord with a large flower woven into it from its stem. A strong scent wafted off of its petals, something clean, refreshing, but nothing overly distinctive beyond lush greenery born of nature.

                  “This is a huntin' petalace,” he said as he tied it around Z'aanta’s wrist, “What it’s for, well… we’ll get to that soon. I’d rather show ya instead of tellin' ya. So, what do ya say?”

                  “Just don’t get into too much trouble, you two,” Hamon the Blacksmith chimed in rather dryly, eyes on Elder Fugen, “Doctor just gave an okay not too long ago.”

                  Fugen could not help but chuckle.

                  “No need to sweat so much, Ham. I’ll bring him back in one piece.”

                  The look Hamon gave him in reply was as steely as his trade, carving the threat that he better stay to that promise unless he wanted to get burned. The elder always liked to talk about that warrior’s fire that burned bright deep in their hearts to the young ones, but their honored guest had become a little too much hearth and home for Hamon’s liking.

                  Yielding, the smith shoved them, and all their animals, off saying something about losing daylight, especially if they wanted to make it to the northern campsite that day, so the two took to that path to the old shrine ruins.

                  In between the rustling of trees and the winds that brought it, Fugen had filled their time traveling with something old, something the elder before him had told him when it was his turn to bear Kamura on his shoulders. Fugen was not born to have seen its events, but it was not all that strange of a story to him either, so he hoped, gambled, that its tale would be like a cherished friend to a hunter of the Darkwood. It was a sad story to most, one speaking of gods, men, and their relentlessness, and how it destroyed this place of prayer because of their vanity and hubris. It was one built into the very trees of this forest and the dirt beneath their feet, its bubbling brooks and weathered cliffs a warning, but even though it was a sad story, it was one about their place within nature.

                  When Fugen was barely a man, it only ever sounded like a fairytale to him, something parents told their children to get them to behave, but in age, the fog that would roll down from the mountainside had thinned to nothing. Now, he and his Darkwood hunter guest stood high above upon a cliff, able to see a familiar clearing bathed in open sunlight. A stream of pure water hugged the bottom of the cliffside below them, shallow and glistening, and the grass in the field was kept neat and tidy by a roving pack of pudgy beasts lazily gnawing away. There was a dirt path to bisect its space, having been able to survive thanks to passing peddlers and merchants, and its course led to a large gate made of boulders, a divide between the clearing and woods.

                  As they marveled in its beauty, faint giggles of children started to grow from someplace far off but also immediately in their ears, and soon enough there were also the clackings of wooden cart wheels against stray rocks. The murmurings of villagers going about their lives joined in its chorus, and homes erected themselves upright like ghosts from their graves despite no markers to prove where they rested. Elder Fugen heard it all as clear as the day’s sun, but these phantoms, these memories, of years gone by—Z'aanta felt bittersweet sorrow in their sound, unsure if he should be allowed to hear it, knowing he was but only a guest to this place.

                  Given there was a tent of generous size and fixings they had just passed, here could have just as well been their camp, but Fugen reassured his guest that they still needed to trek farther north to reach their planned site. That intent should have been no problem, and would be no problem for local hunters, but for Z'aanta, there was a big, blaring, blatant problem preventing them from doing that easily.

                  “ 'Tis a ratherre far drop from here, I’d saye,” Z'aanta addressed it all with, “Doth there truly layeth a path on, Fugen?”

                  On his original hunt, Z'aanta had taken a fork in the road that was meant for merchants. It was a longer route, curving around the mountainside, but ultimately easier on inclines so goods could make their way on cart in bulk. However, unlike last time, Z'aanta now had his local guide at his disposal to find out exactly why this split of the route was used by Kamura hunters, and hunters only.

                  Offering his hand and opening up access to his waist, Fugen replied: “I know a way down. But, ya gotta trust me, okay?”

                  Z'aanta shifted his eyes between Fugen and his hand warily. The elder said it all too nonchalantly. Eventually, he gave in and took the offered hand.

                  That effort alone was not enough for Fugen’s plan to work, so the elder took Z'aanta’s hand and wrapped it arm and all around his waist. Shoved in between its movements, even Fugen mirroring his own hand around Z'aanta’s waist, there was a caution for the hunter to make sure he had a fair grasp on him. Pulled close and snug, Fugen gave Z'aanta’s uncertainty a warm, wide smile and a final, boisterous command.

                  “Hold on!”

                  A flash of light then darted in front of them, only to be discerned having come from Fugen’s side thanks to the silk string trailing behind it. Before either of them could blink, the two were flung off of their feet into the open air in front of them at amazing speed, leaving Z'aanta without a single breath left in his lungs. Then, for a moment, there was only suspension, a tranquility, no wind to feel against their face or sound to say where they were. Time barely moved on as they stared down the horizon, but its slow speed seemingly compensated for the amount of memories that had to shoot across Z'aanta’s vision thanks to his long life. Unknowingly, the man clenched tighter and tighter onto Fugen’s coil and breastplate as both their weight slipped into a rapid descent towards the river bed’s rocks.

                  Just before their seemingly inevitable impact, Fugen released another insect of the same kind, its ironsilk unfurling immaculately, to ease the fall and lessen the blow onto their feet. Fugen may have taken the return to solid ground in stride from many hunts and much experience, but Z’aanta was caught floundering over his feet. It was not to the point where they tripped and tumbled; just enough for Fugen to remember how he had stepped during his first attempt at using a wirebug.

                  Stumbling to a complete stop, Fugen then bellowed much excitement and laughter from the deepest parts of his gut, still holding on to Z'aanta all the while.

                  “So, what’d ya think of that, huh?” Fugen said with a grand, relaxed sigh of contentment.

                  Nothing.

                  Nothing but the sounds of nature and heavy heaves being exhaled against his breast.

                  That was when Fugen finally noticed just exactly how tightly his guest was still clinging onto him.

                  “...Z'aanta…”

                  The man then started to shift and steady with the help of a deep inhale and a very drawn out exhale.

                  “Hrumph. Well then…,” Z'aanta said, “I have thought I’ve learnede all I coulde in my years. Alas, 'tis not so true, it seemeths. Though thrill and its pursuit art old friends of mine, solid ground is where mine feet art meant to be. Hah.”

                  Z'aanta released himself from Fugen to continue stammering around in posture and speech, trying to hide the fact that he had gotten quite shaken from the whole affair. As guise, he had sputtered on about if Hägen and Homura would be able to traipse their way down without the aid of whatever that was they just did. Sure enough though, in his fit, Z'aanta had turned around to see his direwolf companion finding his way down in relative ease with Homura’s help. The two canynes traversed a thick patch of ivy that cascaded over the cliffside, and had already reached the bottom by then, so it was not long after until their friends started bounding over to their hunters in full, fast stride.

                  There, Homura butted his head into Z'aanta’s palm, cueing the man to pet and scratch the palamute on his head, and Hägen simply looked up at Fugen towering over them all before thanking their guide with a howl. Even the cohoot Sanra high above had circled back to secure sight of them all only to fly off over the stone archway again without a word.

                  “To reach camp, we’ll have to go by wirebug,” Fugen admitted, hands on his hips and shifting his weight from one foot to another, and with the face of a palamute that felt sorry for its hunter, he finished, “But, only the last bit… That I promise to do more carefully. Everythin' else, we walk. Alright?”

                  “Ah, I see… Well, I doe believe in thee. Thou art a man of thy word, after all.”

                  To that agreement, his ears and eyes had lifted, and started them off on their journey even farther into the shrine ruins.

                  As they passed the gate, the wood quickly thickened into a place Z'aanta could have sworn he traversed back in Orsterra. From the slivers of sunlight piercing through the canopy above, to the fresh scent of dirt underfoot, overturned by some pack of small monsters he could not see or surmise. It was all too familiar to be a foreign land. Above in the lush, there were the sounds of chirps and wings, and it seemed the farther in they went, that specific sound only grew. Its melody was a soft, delicate song as its feathered maestros flocked to nearby branches to watch the hunting party.

                  At least one of each color could be seen amongst the growing batch—Fugen never remembering so many all in one spot like this—colors of red, orange, yellow, and green across the flock of pudgy little birds, and it was not long before one of them swooped in from behind, fluttering around the two hunters, to make itself comfortable and cozy on Z'aanta’s fur mantle. It must have looked like its nest, or something even better, they both figured, bemused.

                  Fugen continued to admire the little bird with a gleam in his eye, wondering what exactly was it about Z'aanta they all seemed to like so much. The ease in the man’s face as he watched was enough to hear their intent, even between the forest and all its sounds. From the shine of their feathers to the majesty in their crests, from birdsong to beastly curiosity, Fugen’s eyes asked something soundlessly, but having been too engrossed by the bird’s beauty, there was no way for him to know a return was in fact given by his guest: they were adorable little creatures indeed.

                  “These little guys are spiribirds,” he said, “They’re here 'cause they like the smell of our petalaces. But, from how many there are… looks like I got some competition. Popular guy ya are, Z'aanta.

                  “Ahem, anyway, besides bein' cute, they’re helpful for us hunters. When they get close like this, their pollen gets on our petalaces. Now they have a unique scent that monsters don’t like all that much. The more that come by, the stronger it gets, and the more we get an advantage.”

                  As if right on cue, the chirping died down and the whirlwind of numerous wings fleeing filled the air; the spiribird on Z'aanta’s shoulder too stirred and fled. Watching all of their leaves, the hunters then heard its cause wander its way down the path on heavy paws.

                  Farther in there was a bear-like beastie with blotches of hard hide and yellow fur atop its mass and blue fur underneath moving in to block their way. It putzed around upon four paws, the claws on each long enough to have been at least the size of Z'aanta’s forearm, and spiked carapaces armored the beast’s own forearms for any wandering adversaries. Its tongue was also hanging out of its fanged mouth haphazardly, slobber running down its maw. This local fiend was called an arzuros.

                  “Mayhap mine hearing hasse failedst me,” Z'aanta asked plainly, rolling his eyes towards the elder, “Praye tell, Fugen, doe I neede heed this concern once returnedeth to Kamura?”

                  “Whoa, hey. I only said they didn’t like it. …Nothin' 'bout it stoppin' them from comin' 'round completely.”

                  Then, stretching his neck and shoulders, Fugen stepped forward with a huff and patted Z'aanta on the shoulder, strutting off in confident air.

                  “You hang tight. I got this. Gonna show ya how the Fierce Flame of Kamura handles things.”

                  The old hunter then tossed Z'aanta a sly smirk and a quick wink. Homura too got his command to lay low alongside his buddy Hägen patiently, and Z'aanta, planning to do just as asked of him, hunkered down in a wider, stronger stance as he crossed his arms over his chest. With a bemused look on his face, Z'aanta started conjuring up all kinds of scenarios, jokingly wondering to himself how Fugen planned to resolve this problem.

                  Even as the village elder, Fugen preferred to wear two trusted swords upon his back day-in and day-out, but rarely have then ever been drawn. Even the older residents of Kamura could not recall the last time they were unsheathed, though most of them probably wished they were drawn more often considering their size and sense against what he could be caught using his longsword for off hunt. Though, even an arzuros did not warrant their steel apparently, for Fugen strode up to the beast’s side having done nothing else but swank about.

                  Master hunters were known to single-handedly handle hunts no matter where they were from. Orsterran hunters too, ones confident in their skill and shot, would pursue chase alone, much like how Z'aanta would prefer to do himself, but even then single-handed hunts were not meant to be taken as literally as Fugen seemed to be daring. Recognizing this, as one with such experience, that smug look on Z'aanta’s face began melting away as he started to sputter out for the elder in shock and disbelief, but in trying to catch Fugen’s attention, it caught the arzuros instead. As the old hunter ignored Z'aanta’s calls, Homura started to paw at the ground and arch his head back to tell the man to stay put.

                  Homura was right. He needed to trust in Fugen right now, for they all knew what happened to a hunter when another one feared out of unfamiliarity.

                  Despite the distance, the monster’s roar still pierced through Z'aanta’s untrained ear, and yet Fugen shook off its detriment with relative ease, ready enough to have caught a swipe of the bear-beast’s paw and stop it dead in its way. With his other hand, the hunter wrestled against the beast full force, causing the arzuros to waste no time in displaying its prowess and push back Fugen’s weight with ease. But, this was not the first arzuros the old hunter dared feats of strength with, and so Fugen swiped his stance, digging himself into the earth for support.

                  Their stalemate then went on in ways and motion that Z'aanta was expecting the man’s armor to rip and tear not from the fight, but from Fugen’s own flexing. But, it was all made of iron and monster hide, so that likelihood must have been a trick, and yet Z'aanta’s eyes were glued to the clashing fiends just in case it was not so.

                  Then, an impossible feat, Fugen’s last maneuver: the old hunter grappled the beast and tossed its shoulders and face hard into the dirt, marking clear who the victor was of this bout. Annoyed, the arzuros picked itself up, shook itself, and wandered off down the other end of a fork in their path. Not even watching it go, Fugen bellowed a triumphant laugh, roaring, and sprung his arms atop of his hips to display himself open and wide, smiling agape the whole while. 

                  He needed to catch a glimpse of his guest; anything to say what Z'aanta thought of the whole affair.

                  Z'aanta had not moved a single muscle, spare perhaps the ones in his face, and yet his heart raced in his chest and blood rushed red hot across his face. Little air was left in his lungs, and his leg bore barely any strength to stand, all of it like after he would chase his quarry for miles in haste.

                  Pleased with the sight, Fugen swaggered back over to the rest of the hunting party.

                  “Easy now,” he began, “We still have a ways 'til camp, y'know. Can’t be pitchin' anythin' just yet. Bwahaha!”

                  For all the times his empty purse outed his misjudgment of men in luck and leisure, often enough his coin wandered his way into the pockets of women and men of certain service too. Here, Z'aanta was not staring into unfamiliar eyes.

                  “Then leaven not thine guest in waiting. Even knaves knoweth enough manners, thou knowest.”

                  “Ohoho. Is that so?” Fugen sizzled like a furnace’s fire, “You make a good point. How 'bout we get goin' then, Champ.”

                  Taking lead, Fugen headed up the now opened path leading to the old shrine’s heart and its outer walls of mud, clay, and wood. Its oratory and company were to be disintegrating, its wood planks rotten and torn apart, and its stone features of guard dogs and lanterns chipped and moss grown. The walls that guarded it all, ranked as two, were to have gaping holes and spots missing, torn down by the wear of beasts and time; its pond flooded over into the neighboring land and long stagnant into something very murky and of much mire.

                  It would have been a sad, sorry sight to see, perfect for the fable it told, but its open entrance, uncovered by the forest’s shade, made for a popular spot. The local wildlife often gathered and sunbathed in its space, a gaggle of pudgy beasts, the same species as before, sat atop their round rumps relaxing. Bombadgies, as they were called, were of little to no concern for they were a docile species that minded their own business until roused by the outside. Fugen snort was not about them.

                  Standing directly in front of the outer gate was a large bird-like wyvern, an aknosom, preening the feathers clumped around the notch of its almost webbed-like wings. It was a tall, gangly beast with lithe limbs of white and grey, but held unbound beauty in its wings and feathered collar for they were painted in yellows, oranges, and reds, bearing the passion of a blazing dawn or dusk.

                  As much as Z'aanta was curious as to how Fugen might dispel this one, given his blatantly apparent favor for feathered fellows, his own pride was not to be trifled with either.

                  “Thou’st must ben weary from thine earlier feat, fierce and mighty Flame of Kamura,” Z'aanta said, strolling into an advance, “Luckily, I too a hunter be. So, resten easy, and letten me reminde thee why 'tis my kin who wards the wood.”

                  It had been a long time since Elder Fugen had heard words of such resolve to send a shiver down his spine. A maelstrom of excitement and unease started to stir deep within his gut, wondering, anticipating, what that could possibly mean. As much as he had never doubted his prowess, the scars upon his back enough to testify for him, the fact of the matter still stood that Fugen only had blind faith and his gut to tell him the hunter Z'aanta was a force to be feared upon the hunt, yet as he left with Hägen, there was only the warm words unspoken between friends: bear witness a child of the Darkwood, one blessed by their Huntress above.

                  In the wake of its silent echo, rivers of water started cascading down from all crevices of the mountainsides and rushed in from behind the shrine’s gate. As it all roared through the valley path, the form and foliage around them morphed into the wet rock and ivy of the downriver. The spray of waves and rush of falls would have swept away any unsuspecting passerby, but Z'aanta waded fearlessly, strong and true, through its current; it raging water dowsed the entirety of Elder Fugen’s face, getting into every corner, for his eyes could not look away. Far in the distance, Z'aanta no longer marched upon an aknosom but an almudron at rest deep within the mud of the riverbed, and in its awe Fugen grasped at thoughts desperately, wondering why this forsaken place held so many ghosts, so many histories that would never be.

                  Z'aanta and Hägen only stopped when the aknosom allowed them to go no further, standing tall upon one leg and fanned out the mighty collar of its crest to expand its size and strike fear in its foe, and like Fugen before him, the hunter drew no weapon to ward off any unexpected attack. Unlike the elder, however, Z'aanta instead could be seen leisurely swaying about as he talked too far away to hear anything. It was all done in a manner that felt like the hunter was enjoying a night at his local alehouse, catching up with an old friend who he had not seen for months.

                  Eventually, the feathers atop the aknosom’s head lowered to a comfortable rest, the remains of its body soon following suit after it, letting Z'aanta comfortably turn around and beckon his guide to his side. In Fugen’s hesitation, Homura moved in answer instead, making his way up to sit down patiently aside Hägen and his hunter, and when the canyne reached about halfway, walking and wagging his tail effortlessly, Fugen began his own trek up.

                  Once in earshot, Elder Fugen started catching bits and pieces being blathered on to the bird. The conversation consisted mostly of coos of reassurance and praise with an occasional jesting stumble like how he should be allowed to carry his bow and arrows. It was only fair since the bird had such a big beak and ferocious talons to guard itself. Then, one boast Fugen wished he rather not have heard: a gawking side comment that if he and his companions did anything of mind, then may Draefendi strike him down to let the aknosom have its way with him.

                  Elder Fugen had stared down many aknosom in his years. Their beady, yellow eyes like the watchfulness of the sun above, flickering just as fierce as its rays in the height of a midsummer day, and when flames were held at the ready in its beak, its fire flickered bright across their sheen like a vision of the mountainside wood burning. But, these eyes before him, they reflected something he could have wanted in some other world under some other circumstances.

                  Z'aanta’s hand rested atop the beak between its nostrils and crest, only stroking it gently when Fugen’s trepidation became all too palpable. There even was a light in Z'aanta’s eyes as he did it. Despite his love for canynes, he too understood the appeal of aves all along, even if this one was far more fearsome and dangerous than what Fugen was used to.

                  Gently, Z'aanta took Fugen’s hand. It was as if he said it all alright, that his dreams of another time and place need not be so dreadfully far away as he imagined them, and so let their touches rest atop the bird wyvern’s beak; Fugen resting between the one he loved and the thing he could learn to love.

                  “I want ya to speak to me like ya do with them.”

                  A spark of shock; Z'aanta turned his head to see Fugen.

                  “Can ya do that?”

                  It was not rhetorical for reassurance. It was an earnest ask.

                  Unable to answer, surprise sputtered out of Z'aanta as disjointed breaths and stumbling sounds. Even a simple “no” struggled to be pulled out from his mouth, let alone the explanation that he could not, that such was not, something he or any of his kin were ever able to do, and yet everything that they had shared these past weeks, weeks enough to be months, flickered faintly in the dark recesses of that truth.

                  “Comen close then. Pardon no space,” Z'aanta beckoned as he released them all and entwined his finger with the strands on the back of Fugen’s head.

                  Knowing exactly what was wanted of him, Fugen claimed this hunter of his full with a mouth gaping and wide like an offering to each other, and as their lips locked hard and flush, that bond he so desperately wanted was finally, forcefully set free like wildfire in the night, consuming him whole in a blaze of azure blue. Its flames whipped forth from all sides; ferocious, violent, a force white hot and scathing, and yet there was no char upon his flesh, no smoke in his lungs. Where there should have been screams of agony and despair, encroaching death he had lived before, was instead the thing of all of his prayers, all his village’s prayers, that were guided by their priestesses of back then.

                  At last the boy in him, barely a man, was finally satiated from this endless hunger and longing for divinity and safe keeping. Finally, he was free of pain and misfortune, his youth alight in the eyes, overjoyed from finding the one he so desperately sought out to see, and with the heart of that young thing ablaze, Fugen fanned the coals of its flame knowing that was how someone made fire grow—to never burn out. In his fervor he took and took and took and kept taking still as if consuming it whole was the only way to ensure that this all-consuming fire was in fact blessed by the gods, whomever they may be, and not damned to hell as he knew them.

                  In his greed, Fugen sought to seal it, thinking the only way was to take the hunter Z'aanta then and there. On his command, out of the mouth of a god: rip him open bare, splatter himself across his insides, deep and snug, until his Hunter salted the earth at their feet with his seed. There would be no shame in its sacrilege. This place was holy ground no longer for the old gods. It was a place long returned to nature, and under its new god it was within their order to do just so, as humans a part of it.

                  But, under its weight, Z'aanta’s eyes began to swell for his heart ached, pleading for no more burden to bear, and so broke away suddenly. Even the aknosom, a creature of fire, had seen the blaze born between the two and feared, having left to find refuge further within the shrine ruins.

                  Catching their breath, Z'aanta could have sworn he heard Fugen mutter something low, something like “I knew ya could do it,” but whether or not it happened was defined by the fact that he, nor any of his kin, were never capable of touching the Sacred Flame within man. Except now, when he looked at Fugen, he could see straight through his eyes and into everything underneath, and in return, when Fugen looked back at him, the elder understood in stunning clarity why there was nothing in this old shrine that was worth his arrow, not with why they were here in the first place.

Chapter Text

There was a path at the backend of the prayer hall that led up even higher, and the quickest—and driest—way to reach it was directly through the walled enclosure of the shrine itself. The buildings inside had been rotted through for years, looking like they would tumble down at the slightest touch from a large monster barrelling through. The pond water was stagnant and murky, yet abundant in algae and plant life, and for a moment’s rest, the party had taken to the patio of a building that used to be used for dances to their gods, leisurely enjoying some dango and balls of rice that had been packed away thanks to more than one villager. 

                  A couple of the rice balls were far larger and haphazardly shaped in comparison to the majority, and Fugen asked his guest if those ones in particular tasted any good. Surprisingly to Z'aanta, its palate leveled wonderfully between plain white rice and a generous filling of some kind of salted fish. Around it, it was abundantly wrapped in a green sheet that Fugen explained to be dried seaweed, that casing bringing out more of a maritime taste to it all. Z'aanta bothered to reply with hums of delight with each bite.

                  After then, there was not much more trekking to do, the sun reminding them of the time as the few rays of orange and red slipped through, and in that mountain corridor, Z'aanta was able to understand why the two of them would need the assistance of wirebugs to make the last leap to camp. The cliffs had rocksides that were rough and jagged, and it laid at an incline seemingly untraversable besides vertical. In Orsterra, Z'aanta knew the terrain of the Cliftlands to stand rather tall like this, however at least there, locals, beast of burden, and his own two feet could travel along on their way with flat ledges and wide plateaus. Here, however, this mountain looked as if its side would cause them to bleed if they only dared tread in the wrong place.

                  To make sure that did not happen, Fugen asked his guest to trust him once more, and opened up his arm and waist. This time, there was no flashy flying, no sudden jerks, just a careful and timed accent up the cliffside. He moved the two from one mark to another thoughtfully and skillfully—effortless too, even in his age—until the two reached an inlet at the top where their camp sat.

                  It was protected by the mountain peak on every side except their entrance. A grand tent stood generously, one as wide as it was tall, as centerpiece to fixings fit for any array of hunters who could possibly pass by on their quests. Its paneling was decorated with local emblems and designs of blue and the front flaps were done in green stripes; barrels and crates, contents pleasantly picked through, ran around its parameter rim in reply to Elder Fugen and Kamura’s merchant Kagero who had erected the site anew a couple weeks ago. However, to make absolutely sure everything stood standard, Fugen and Z'aanta spent the rest of their daylight taking tally of what was left and settling in for a later night.

                  Inside, the tent was quite cramped, packed with furniture, tools, and whatever else, like herbs and first aid. A bed rested at the far end, backed by crated, and unlike the futons in Kamura homes, it was one with a headboard and rested atop a frame in style of the ones Z'aanta would see in inns of towns and cities beyond the remote reaches of the Woodlands. Built in the center of the wooden floor was a pit to tame fire, but it had not grown late enough for the two want to turn in completely, so instead Fugen and Z'aanta had cleared a ring outside to pile wood into and rim with rocks. By then, both of their canyne companions had found their way to their hunters’ sides through a path only animals could take, and waited well mannered aside the fire as the last slivers of daylight slipped away.

                  A cool sky then blanketed the ruins, a deep and rich array of blues and purples.

                  “I do wonder if we’ll catch a few of 'em tonight,” Fugen said. “This isn’t where the kids go to see 'em, but the little bugs can’t be that picky, right?”

                  Fugen’s thoughts had come out rather low and uncertain like he was mumbling to himself.  Though he had mentioned the torchbugs to his guest, he did not exactly disclose it was an objective of their expedition either, so it had not crossed Z'aanta’s notice that none could be seen flickering about. At their elevation, the night brought in a chill that was average for the time of year, something still too cold for them just yet, even if there were plans of sleeping shirtless. If any of the little critters were fluttering about the ruins, they certainly would not be doing so there.

                  Disappointment darkened Fugen’s face even against the fire’s light dancing around to reveal it, but some of it was also from scolding himself that he, a hunter, should have remembered better. But, in their lack, the stars were that much clearer and undeniable in the heavens above. Gazing up at them, Z'aanta fixated on a curiosity over their endlessness: no matter how far away from home he wandered, he still found himself always under the same sky and the same stars. 

                  This land, however, was so far away.

                  Creeping in close, Z'aanta cuddled against the old hunter’s arm until their forearms rested against each other, hand in hand entwined.

                  “ 'Tis still a sight to beholdeth, with or without. I thankenee for it, Fugen, truly. But… I wouldst not given up on the night just yet. It feeleths almost as if, if thou but lookest away, thee mightest misseth something.”

                  At his side, Fugen could feel the grip on his fingers subtly growing tighter and tighter with hopes not to distract him, but he still returned their tension to mirror the sentiment, thinking the man was simply being cutesy. It was to ease his worries over a good time, after all, Fugen figured, yet as he had done that a low whisper began creeping in the wind, meeting his ears somewhere between actuality and imagination. Its draft bore an oddly warm current, relaxing his muscles all the way down, but then, suddenly, for some reason, Z'aanta released his clutch and the wind alongside it stopped its gasping.

                  A bit of nature’s silence, stillness only open night could bring.

                  Then, something bright flickered in the corners of their eyes, high above and far off in the distance. Before Fugen could even think about it, it shot across their vision in the wide open air before them at amazing speed.

                  “Huh?!” Fugen said while twisting his head to follow it. “What was that?”

                  Whatever it was, its light started to dim amidst the canopy of green until it ultimately ended in a fizzling flash below them, its last light piercing through the gaps of leaves and tree branches. Factoring in that blast at the end, it could have been a flashbug, Fugen considered, but if it was such a little helper to hunters, then its flare would have been far more blinding, even at their distance. Then there was to consider: if one could even fly this high, its speed and trajectory also did not appear usual of them either, leaving a rather open and unknown explanation.

                  Z'aanta started chuckling in response, and before it was too late, nudged the elder at his side to cue him back to the stars above where another string of light started shooting past. One after another rays of light swam down through the sky, illuminating the scene in a brilliant display. Eyes wide, the two watched them all rain down to earth as if they were the remnants of falling starlight.

                  One last one came shooting down, except at that one’s end, the light exploded with far more fervor than the ones before, letting out a blinding flash that could have been two or three flash bombs worth of bugs. Again, Fugen jumped to the conclusion it had to have been a flashbug’s doing, but the light’s sudden surprise made Z'aanta scrunch his nose like he had eaten one of Fugen’s unseasoned steaks.

                  “Hmph, a bit of zeal that one hadde,” Z'aanta then said. “Bah! Ah, well. I be a hunter, not a scholar. Letten that be enough reason why. Gahaha!”

                  Fugen was not sure he heard that correctly.

                  “You did that?”

                  Beaming brighter than the stars, Z'aanta replied with much confidence and pride: “Diddeth thou likest the show?”

                  A patch of silence.

                  “Hold on, hold on,” Fugen eventually stammered. “You did… But, how did ya…?”

                  Unexpectedly, Z'aanta’s next words were lathered down in both immense joy and calm honesty.

                  “Wouldst thou believest me if I claime it ben magic?”

                  “ ‘Magic’?”

                  “Yes, magic.”

                  If that was actually true, then surely he and his Darkwood kin must have been wyverians once long, long ago, ones stripped of their figure instead of their powers to cohabitate with others that way instead.

                  Fugen let out a weary sigh.

                  “Talkin' to monsters, castin' spells… Got anythin' else up your sleeve I should know 'bout?”

                  That question pulled out a long, thin smile out of Z'aanta like he was a felyne so full of himself.

                  “A late night and a good time, I’d saye.”—Z'aanta then sidled himself in front of Fugen, very close and very cozy, breast to breast—“If I doe recalle, thou wert ratherre eagerst all the while here. Art we not finally at our destination?”

                  “Oh really? Ya don’t say,” Fugen replied, growling gravely and closing any spare space all the way down. Like a cat toying with a mouse, Fugen trapped the man with his arms on both sides and cupped his kill’s ass, squeezing at the fabric with desire to get underneath. Sights dead in the eyes, he continued.

                  “Well, then. Why don’tcha show me just how long of a night ya mean, Champ.”

                  Fangs beared, Fugen spat forth fire from the sides of his face like will-o-wisps. Again, a pity, given Z'aanta’s profession, but at least he also knew it was not as if humans did not hunt to fill their bellies either.

                  Grabbing the center dip on the collar of Fugen’s breastplate, Z'aanta humbled the beast by dragging its heavy topside down to dust its hot breath with his words: it was rather unfair of Fugen to be clad so heavily, almost as if he was afraid of getting wounded; they should undo that posthaste and level their lustiness. For a monster as mighty as he, Z'aanta figured Fugen would not be all that much trouble, and the rest of their night started with that thick red cord wrapped around Fugen’s waist.

                  Iron tools and armored plates then clattered down thoughtlessly atop the wooden floor back in the tent; fletchings crushed and crumpled from arrows falling out of their quiver, it too thumping hollow and rolling around from its need to not exist in the now and then. The mail came next; with it the feeling of exactly how hard each of them were getting, for if they could not be joined at their lips, their hips flush would suffice, and when all of it was through, there was no hunter left standing amongst them.

                  In the shadows of the lanternlight stood a canine with a wild mane, its empty size meant to strike fear in its foes’ eyes. An inhuman shine flickered across the film of its eyes with every wisp and twirl of the lantern’s fire, its sight through the night, and when Fugen tried to nip back in retaliation, the beast pinned both his adversary’s wrists above his head and hard against the wooden crates that backed the bedside. Fugen was a fool for considering the beast’s lack of size in comparison to his own meant it would be child’s play to counter, that he could simply brute strength his way out of any situation like this, but this brawn against him could surely single-handedly fell dragons.

                  Then, the sneer of a jackal, sharp and thin, misplaced on the body of a wolf.

                  With his hands preoccupied, Z'aanta pressed his hip hard into Fugen’s taint as he loomed over the rest of him, scrunched up and bent in half, and started to grind in circles against it to pull out his full length. His smaller stature left his gut to rub against Fugen’s heat needily, whining as he reached his head out to the elder with intent to rend his throat clean open, but all it got was a muzzle to the mouth as Fugen shifted inward to mark what was his within Z'aanta’s mouth. Familiarity bred negligence—Fugen fed into it, moaning curses and rocking himself further into Z'aanta’s gut.

                  Earlier they had taken tallies of some bottles of cooking oil, or what Z'aanta presumed to be cooking oil amongst herbs, for the gods only knew where he had kicked his belt off to amidst their undressing. They only had a single lamp and a hazy recollection to look with, but Z'aanta was willing to gamble over letting his quarry go free. When he released his hold to, Fugen started wringing his wrists as a salve for them.

                  The bottles were glass, cylindrical, and topped with cork, but just to make sure, Z'aanta brought it over for Fugen’s better judgement. Like a good boy trained, the elder had made no alert or attack, simply waiting patiently with a dumb, hungry grin while being shown the bottle. Fugen bit his lip to correct himself, but it only did the opposite from following a lick of his lips.

                  “Gladde we are in agreement,” Z'aanta said, popping the cork topper off. “ 'Twould be no night at all if not with care, hm?”—Z'aanta cozied back up to Fugen and slid his erection between the elder’s length and thigh—“Thou hast askede for a ratherre long night, and I planne to given thee just that.”

                  Fugen was rather thick and meaty, the makings for a good meal, for where it lacked length, so all of the oil that poured out forth from the neck topped their cocks generously, enough for it to flow through the creases their bodies made and any hair crowding those places until it trickled down to Fugen’s taint. With his free hand, Z'aanta makes enough room for his fingers to slide in there and lather the oil well into the elder’s ass and opening for fun as he used their motions to do the work for his cock. It took no time at all for Fugen to follow, Z'aanta then entering him with coupled fingers. Purring Fugen’s name to grab his attention, Z'aanta slowly built rhythm in an ebb and flow.

                  “Telleth me, hath thee everst been takeneth by a man before?”

                  Gasping, Fugen answered: “A little late to be askin' that, don’tcha think?”

                  As if it was to call out a wrong answer, Z'aanta pulled a moan out of Fugen with his fingertips by massaging that spot the man probably only thought about once every blue moon.

                  “I’m, I’m just a guy who… likes to GIVE a good time, is all,” Fugen quickly retorted. “But…”

                  There were no men here, just monsters.

                  “...that’s not an excuse to go easy on me, got it?”

                  On command, just as asked, Z'aanta retreated slightly to hoist one of Fugen’s legs, its size and strength slinging over a shoulder. All of Fugen’s meat, muscle, and fat were not doing either of them favors in the way it made him difficult to maneuver, and yet with Z'aanta well against his weight, he still had folded over himself in a way that could only come from having been tossed around by some wyvern ten times his size.

                  Pulling out, Z'aanta used that hand to flay Fugen's other leg out wide, the mass of the elder’s ass being pressed away by his palm and opening him up clear. There was no point to tease, no worth in waiting. The call to mate is what had gotten them there in the first place; Z'aanta entered as instinct demanded of them.

                  His take was rather shallow, never exceeding half of his length as he pressed and pulled against the elder’s insides, but for the rest’s absence, Fugen began rocking himself as a taunt to tell them both he could take more—more of his length, more of his ferocity; all of him in every way. “You’re goin' too easy,” the rolls of his hip lulled, except Z'aanta was still levelheaded enough to know that more was not always better, and it was Fugen who had left him in charge.

                  Left unsatisfied, Fugen then started resisting Z'aanta’s strength, pushing himself farther and farther with each return of a thrust to get as much as he could. Deeper and deeper, he forced the other to give him until the two started crashing against each other, skin to skin, in their back and forth. Now, it was no longer the spot that brought forth their pleas and moans, but a frenzy from the wilds, its point to move faster, harder, ecstasy out of the sheer thought of it. 

                  Down at the base, there should have been a knot. It would have made much sense with how Z'aanta had worked in digging his claws deep into the flesh of Fugen's thighs, ripe and plump through his fingers, and his muzzle huffing hot breath with wishes of things like pups and litters. Nature could not give it to them like that, but it did not stop Fugen from egging on the beast to tell him every little detail of how he would make it so. 

                  Fill him full with everything he had, had come first, coat what was his to claim it as his own, and if nothing took, then he would do the same all over again. Whether it be his young or what made them, make a mound of his belly for them both, and if they were more than just two old men, perhaps it could have been. But, in the end, it was nothing more than fantasy to make sure that knot was in place with not a drop to waste, swollen and ready, while the claw marks between Fugen’s legs began to run red.

                  Amidst the treetops and starry sky: a howl high to a fulgent moon from an animal not native to the mountains of these old shrine ruins.

                  A few drops of white had trickled out onto the bedsheets from the fervor, the monster too muddled to have bothered to stop. More of the color was atop Fugen’s torso, a few splotches attempting to drip down, although given how his mouth was slacked open on a head rolling in a dazed, the man could not have been aware of it. In his own daze, Zaanta had started to smear the cum up on Fugen’s torso so that it did not drip too far. It clumped in the spots of hair regardless, but it was also to hide how his lips pressed themselves long and thin in concern.

                  Fugen was a large man, a very large man, Z'aanta told himself, sturdier than any he had ever seen forged by the hunt, and yet a man’s pleasure was never as easy as that to assign. It was not as if he himself had particularly liked coming home from a chase with an open wound either, so Fugen had straightened his head to a rather pitiful sight.

                  “Wh, what’s the long face for?” he managed, the last bits of haze stripping away. “Wait. Don’t tell me ya don’t think I enjoyed that?”

                  Z'aanta did not respond, but mostly because Fugen was too quick to settle.

                  “Z'aanta. You, you fuck like a dog in heat, hah-HA! I think I was seein' stars for a bit there… Don’t think for a moment I hadn’t had the same thoughts runnin' 'round my head 'bout you either. 'Cause fuck, Zan.”

                  Like a dog hearing their name from a master, Z'aanta did take attention to that, ears up, however somethings else were still cluttering the space between his ears.

                  “Thou… thou thinkest of me a bitch…?” Z'aanta groaned, tired and uncertain. “Hmph, that be a rathrre bold claime giveneth 'twas I who hadde— —!”

                  Unwilling to listen, Fugen tutted cheekily and wrapped the man in a tight squeeze around his chest, playfully dragging him downward atop his own mass and into a haphazard kiss. Flush at their bellies and chests, Z'aanta held himself a bit awkwardly until remembering there was not much more harm to sheets that were already soiled. Eventually, he steadied himself with a hand and forearm until Fugen had his fill, the elder’s retort at the ready when he was, dripping of both sweetness and spice.

                  “Excuse me for not rememberin' mammal matin' right. But, can ya really blame me after… all that?”

                  “Oh-hmm, I suppose it canst be forgiveneth, yes,” Z'aanta affirmed. “Although, we best keep tally for thine own sake. Who knoweths what else thy mind mightest forgetten after this outing ben through, if that ben the case.”

                  For a split second, Fugen entertained and calculated the option that Z'aanta meant immediately because that proposition went straight down to his dick. They both knew they could not even if they tried, but it did not stop tens of new wishes and positions from popping up perfectly into Fugen’s head to start with, each and every one a fun, new way for him to forget things like his own name. Knowing the fact of the matter, Fugen eventually mentioned something about cleaning up, and with Z'aanta’s fickle graces, saying how he was rather fond of laying where he was, the two took to setting up for bed proper like fools soused from merrymaking.

                  Except, with the even later hour came even more darkness, and the cramped quarters were less than desirable in it. Fugen caught himself stumbling over discarded clothes and tools and whatever else dotted the camp’s tent floor because of how little the lantern lit.

                  “Hey, Z'aanta,” Fugen said plainly. “Can that magic of yours help for a sec? Just so we can see an' get a fire goin'.”

                  Typically, the answer was no. Magic of his realm—or at least how Z'aanta was ever told and experienced—existed as the release of penned energy. It was a pressure built up until a climax as an intense explosion to then wash over like a wave. Z'aanta definitely needed to backtrack for a moment about which part of that last bit was actually true and which part he merely thought was true thanks to their night, but ultimately, he still arrived at the same conclusion: spells were not held continually, they were released once to unfold.

                  Z'aanta held out his palm, wondering. In theory, someone who studied the spellcasting craft intensely could have the concentration and stamina for such casting, but the thing was, in the end, he himself was only a hunter. He may have been one lauded over in physical strength and stamina, but such still remained something else entirely.

                  Then, a small light sputtered forth at the center of his palm, flickering faintly. Fugen had not waited for a response and shuffled through the tent’s contents well before the light in Z'aanta’s palm grew into something substantial. When it did, however, a bit of curiosity peaked over his shoulder for a gander. It was a brilliant warm white glow, lighting up their faces fully, and there was something about watching it that put Fugen’s heart and soul at ease. Except, the longer it went on, the less Z'aanta could mask its toll, even if it only was a few mere moments of time.

                  Winces started to slip and there was even a bite to his lip and cheek. At the foot of a cold firepit, Fugen assessed those tiring eyes, ones too fixated on their task, and lowly offered: “If it’s too much, don’t worry about it, alright? I can manage.”

                  Still, Z'aanta did not yield, at least not until the kindling caught, bearing a small flame. Rapidly, the light fizzled and sputtered out into nothing with one last quick, pungent flash. Then, having fed the fire, Fugen quietly prepared a pot with some water and set it to warm over the flames, and to settle down and wait, he huddled close to Z'aanta where he sat, pulling the man in close by the waist. It was rather eerie, agitatingly so, in how easily the hunter’s weight obeyed, but it was mostly the silence that made it that way—no chatter, no goad or gloat or despite from a man so accustomed to prattling on about every little thing. In its place, Fugen praised him instead, kissing his words tenderly onto the side of Z'aanta’s temple.

                  “That was something else, y'know that? …Ya really are amazin'. I mean it.”

                  Even to the compliment, the two simply sat there like that, quiet and relaxed, until the pot started to sprout forth clear wisps of steam over its broad opening. A rag was tossed in, then another, to get the cloth warm and wet. As much as Fugen had not minded all those baths he had given his guest in his stay, for it had become snides built up upon themselves, the two worked on their own respective bodies separately with one exception. Fugen had taken a quick swipe to the spoiled spot on Z'aanta’s abdomen before he could do anything about it since that one was the elder’s fault. At the very least, it finally bore a small cracking response out of his honored guest.

                  For the rest of that night, the bed was also stripped and dressed again, and there were no qualms over its space since Z'aanta groggily took to cuddling up flush against Fugen’s nakedness without much other thought. The elder’s open chest was hot to the touch, blazing even. It reminded them both exactly of all those mornings where Z'aanta clung to at least one of their animals in sleep, or if not that, nested amongst them like one of their own. If it was truly just heat the man was after, there was far more than enough to give, so Fugen took him whole in a warm embrace until he too fell asleep, wondering if all this was the doing of that goddess of his—not his patron, but the one who oversaw the stars.

                  It turned out Z'aanta only needed a good night’s rest and a hearty, hot meal to straighten himself right again. When asked about it, why go through such strenuous lengths for so little, the answer was the same as why Fugen had asked that question in the first place: curiosity mostly, and when it was not, on behalf of the one who asked.

                  Even still, the days before their leave were long and lazy, but their nights were spent too much of a hurry to end. Although, on the third day, they learned a not-so-quick fuck while the sun was still up was not going to get them struck down since it was not as if they were in Kamura where plenty of people passed by going about their business. Here, high above amongst this vast openness, it was only them and the wilderness that witnessed the obscene, mewling and howling each other’s names in ecstasy.

                  For the last night, however, they had wandered back into Kamura to polite greetings, ones wondering if the pair had seen the torchbugs that night or perhaps the one before. Some of the villagers had gotten their first sighting of the season, and surely, they all thought that seeing them must have been a treat to brighten a rather boring, routine expedition like theirs. Without missing a beat, Elder Fugen answered for them both, saying they had not, but it was not without a lack of trying.

                  Then, the night after that one, it was the Guild hunters who had returned to Kamura, bearing news that the next time the northern campsite be met with restock and repair efforts, it should be done completely earnestly and for a far larger survey team. The hunters, Guild Master, and Village Elder then occupied themselves with talks and headaches from rather concerning import.

                  According to the Guild hunters, there was evidence of a settlement farther in, which in itself was not the trouble. Humans built homes, made villages. That was something they did to survive. Except, it was the apparent smithing and damage to the surrounding area that caused the concern, having driven much of the wildlife there out of territory and home.

                  The Guild hunters imagined displaced monsters could be captured, relocated, and released if gotten too far away from this habitat, but they also considered it a good sign that the almudron they had seen only met the shrine ruins, something still a part of its habitat. In the end, further investigation was to wait until a higher hand could see it through. Elder Fugen knew how it was, having done similar motions many times over in his youth, so the best he could do was see the hunter Z'aanta off back to Orsterra with only a few pieces of pulpy parchment. The bottom of each one was stamped twice: one of Kamura Village’s regional delegation, the other of the universal signet for the Hunter’s Guild. Both stamps were derivative of a cross quartering a diamond shape.

                  “I dunno who hired ya, why they did, or what they told ya, but whate'er it was, it’s no longer your hunt to handle,” Fugen said with misplaced trepidation. “We ha'e a way we gotta do things 'round here. So, the Guild’s offerin' some compensation for your troubles. And to get’cha back home. When ya do, show your employer this, and tell 'em the job’s considered done.”

                  Offering out the notes, he continued with something far more expected of the elder of Kamura Village: “If they end up givin' ya guff, tell 'em Ol' Elder Fug will be waitin' in Kamura. Got that, Zan? Bwahaha!”

                  That laugh of his was as full of fervor and cheer as the first day Z'aanta had walked into Kamura, but now, it served to bury a sadness deep in both their guts, ones knowing that it might only be shared again like this in their memories.

                  Z'aanta took his resolution from Fugen’s hand and examined it.

                  “Oh, is that so? Well… a hunter empty handede liken this certainly not ben good for one’s reputation,” he said, tone playful. “And upon a dragonslayer no less! Is mine legacy’s bane verily meant to be idle gossip? Hmph, what a wound! …Lest, thou hast mindedest that as well, Fugen.”

                  A big, dumb grin then broke out all over Elder Fugen’s face, and the old hunter started undoing the petalace wrapped around his wrist. From all the recent commotion, he had forgotten to take it off from their expedition, but thankfully now found a good home for it by lifting up Z'aanta’s open hand and pressing it into its palm.

                  Unlike the one Z'aanta had worn on their outing, the flower woven into Fugen’s petalace was a rich red, and the smell it produced was as fierce and pungent as the color it bore, a spiced, woody bark. On the underside of the weave, where the bud of the flower rested, the leather of the cord was embossed with the same icon stamped onto the parchments, the one that denoted Kamura Village.

                  “When no one believes ya, you show 'em this,” Fugen reassured. “That way they’ll know ya had been to a place called Kamura, and that ya had seen monsters beyond their wildest imaginations.”

                  Z'aanta gently curled his fingers around the bracelet to mark it as his.

                  “Oh, just liken the scars upon my back,” he teased. “Mine prentice H'aanit, thou knowst, she believeths every word of their story, after all.”

                  “Ah, well, uh… That hasn’t stopped ya before, right? That and… I think you knowin' it’s true is good enough.”

                  “Gahaha! That it be!” Z'aanta agreed with a beaming smile. Calming down, Z'aanta eased into something far more subdued but not the less joyful: “...Bah! All this time here and I hadde never the chance to showe thee how a hunter from S'warkii prepareths his meat.”—a sly smirk twitched at his lips—“Well, asideth from our outing, that be, gahaha!”

                  Fugen wasted no time in bellowing along, mirth loud enough for all of Kamura to hear: “That just means you’ll have ta come back, right?”

                  But, that was the last Fugen had left in him—no further stronghold to hide behind, no more iron or armor to shield him—and mellowed with a sheen growing across his eyes as pure as the river that ran through Kamura. 

                  “I’m gonna hold ya to your promise, Zan,” he continued. “So, whene'er you decide to make the trip again, remember ya have a home to come back to here. Okay?”

                  Damned it all be in how Fugen had made him hold so many things, Z'aanta thought. Unable to do much about it; his simple solution: tucking the petalace into a shoulder strap on Fugen’s breastplate before bringing him down by both its straps into a final kiss. It was an ask of good will and blind faith, to hold his belief firm unto his heart and soul that what he was about to say would come to pass. Luckily for him, if Z'aanta came to know one thing from all this, it was that Elder Fugen was a hunter he knew all too well.

                  “Fret not, Fugen.” Z'aanta soothed one last time. “The tales I don planne telleth of this place, I believen they hath not yet all been made. Gods be damned and I too if I doe not wanderre my way backeth here. A hunter for hireth, I be roving. …And as much as I ratherre not admitte it, when 'tis my time to hangeth mine bow, I praye it be uponne these walls. If that is not to be so, well… 'twould not ben the first time I’ve defiede Their fate for me.”