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jeriendhalIn which Rolas receives a startling revelation.
"What are you doing Rolas?" Salli demanded, as he stepped out and began to shut the door.
"Hunting!" he replied, scooping up the wounded Kris' stunner and running in a zig-zag pattern towards the copse. Behind him, he heard the minder shouting for him to take cover, as another shot zipped past him, the supersonic crack temporarily deafening his ears. He leaned forward and ran faster, trying to close the distance, trying to figure what he was up against. Someone with an old-style chemical propellant rifle or gauss needler, possibly a hunting piece, not a military grade x-ray laser, likely. If it was that and the shooter knew what he was doing, they’d all be dead by now.
Another shot cracked by him, and he felt something hot and painful rip through his jacket and the muscles of his right forearm. The stunner fell from his hand, but he kept running forward, not daring to pause and pick it up. Finally he came to the edge of the copse and flattened himself against the bole of a tree, pricking his ears up and trying to hear for signs of movement out of the ringing sounds filling them.
Hearing nothing, he quickly leaned out to look around, drawing back again. Nothing. But the shooter had to be on the edge of the tree line to fire. He could be hidden under a stealth suit, making him impossible to see. But not to smell. Rolas closed his eyes and drew in a breath, trying to ignore the burning pain in his now useless right arm, ignoring the memory of Melika’s body on the pavement, ignoring everything except the scents in the rain soaked air.
There you are, he thought, as a scent came drifting from the left. Not a recognizable Vulpine scent, but rather that of a female grass chaser in heat, of the sort used by hunters going after wild game. Completely inappropriate for this civilized area, And it’s laid on so thick to mask him, it’s a wonder he hasn’t been eaten by now anyway.
He leaned out, trying to see. Rain was dripping from the leaves and onto the ground. Mostly on the ground rather, for now he could see the ghostly outline of a figure, the spattering drops making a sort of halo around their form. It was kneeling, and he was just able to draw his head back again as another shot ripped past him. And then he heard the distinct click of a magazine dropping out of the rifle’s stock and a muffled curse.
Rolas charged forward, slamming into the ghostly figure, knocking the rifle from its hands as he tackled it to the ground. He wrapped his good arm around their throat as they tried to throw him off, claws digging into his jacket and trying to swipe at his face. Then Rolas managed to tangle his legs with the figure, pinning with his body and slamming their head back repeatedly against a nearby tree’s thick root cluster.
He was just getting a really therapeutic rhythm going when the hood of the shooter’s stealth suit fell back, revealing his face. Hotclaw stared up him, face fur matted and bloody, real fear in his eyes as Rolas pressed down on his windpipe.
“You!” Rolas breathed. Hotclaw let out an inarticulate gurgle and he tightened his grip on the traitor’s neck, silencing him. A few more grams of pressure and it would crack his windpipe, choking him to death.
But no, a quick death like that was not what Hotclaw deserved. “Hotclaw,” Rolas breathed into his ear as he hauled him to his feet. “You have two choices now. You can choose to live, let me drag you back to be arrested and then spill everything about how we-know-perfectly-well-who put you up to this to the authorities. Or I can just take your rifle and shoot you in the stomach now and watch you bleed to death.”
“You wouldn’t do that!” Hotclaw croaked.
“You may have just murdered Lady Melika, the vixen I love. Why by the Cold and Dark shouldn’t I?”
“What? I was aiming for Lady Salli!”
Rolas let out a low growl. “And that makes everything better, does it?” He slammed Hotclaw’s head down hard against the root cluster, knocking him unconscious. Some minutes later, he met the gaggle of Civil Protection officers in full protective gear jogging towards the copse, as he pulled Hotclaw’s unconscious body out into the open in a one handed dead man’s drag, the traitor’s arms bound behind him with his own belt. There was a CP flyer parked on the front lawn of the manor, an ambulance unit nested beside it. He dropped Hotclaw in front of the officers and ignored their pleas to let them help him, as he ran back towards the ambulance. There he found Melika already inside, laid out on a stretcher, next to Kris, a wide bandage wrapped around her head. Salli was beside her, gripping her hand as she berated the emergency med tech trying to treat her. IN the other, he couldn’t help but notice, was a plasma pistol. It was proving remarkably effective at keeping the med tech at bay, even as it remained in her lap.
“I am fine,” she said. “You need to get these two to hospital as soon as you possible can. I’m sure my brother… Rolas!” she cried out, upon seeing him.
“You all right, Salli?” he asked.
“I’m fine, you need to sit down and get that taken care of!”
“Is Melika alive?” he demanded, waving off the tech.
“I'll be all right," Melika answered weakly, eyes shut against her pain. “A nasty head wound that bled horribly, but nothing worse I think, at least until they can do a proper scan on me at the hospital. Holy Den Mother bless my head hurts though.” She sniffed the air. “Why do you smell like an over-sexed grass chaser?”
“Holy Den Mother be thanked. Oh, blessings of the Den Mother on you,” he breathed, kneeling beside Melika. She opened her eyes to look up at him, another question on her lips. But she was silenced as he placed his muzzle over hers and kissed her deeply. She tasted…
…familiar.
“Hello, Lord Rolas,” the Red Vixen said, looking up at him with a smile as he broke off the kiss. “So good to see you once again.”
TBC
"What are you doing Rolas?" Salli demanded, as he stepped out and began to shut the door.
"Hunting!" he replied, scooping up the wounded Kris' stunner and running in a zig-zag pattern towards the copse. Behind him, he heard the minder shouting for him to take cover, as another shot zipped past him, the supersonic crack temporarily deafening his ears. He leaned forward and ran faster, trying to close the distance, trying to figure what he was up against. Someone with an old-style chemical propellant rifle or gauss needler, possibly a hunting piece, not a military grade x-ray laser, likely. If it was that and the shooter knew what he was doing, they’d all be dead by now.
Another shot cracked by him, and he felt something hot and painful rip through his jacket and the muscles of his right forearm. The stunner fell from his hand, but he kept running forward, not daring to pause and pick it up. Finally he came to the edge of the copse and flattened himself against the bole of a tree, pricking his ears up and trying to hear for signs of movement out of the ringing sounds filling them.
Hearing nothing, he quickly leaned out to look around, drawing back again. Nothing. But the shooter had to be on the edge of the tree line to fire. He could be hidden under a stealth suit, making him impossible to see. But not to smell. Rolas closed his eyes and drew in a breath, trying to ignore the burning pain in his now useless right arm, ignoring the memory of Melika’s body on the pavement, ignoring everything except the scents in the rain soaked air.
There you are, he thought, as a scent came drifting from the left. Not a recognizable Vulpine scent, but rather that of a female grass chaser in heat, of the sort used by hunters going after wild game. Completely inappropriate for this civilized area, And it’s laid on so thick to mask him, it’s a wonder he hasn’t been eaten by now anyway.
He leaned out, trying to see. Rain was dripping from the leaves and onto the ground. Mostly on the ground rather, for now he could see the ghostly outline of a figure, the spattering drops making a sort of halo around their form. It was kneeling, and he was just able to draw his head back again as another shot ripped past him. And then he heard the distinct click of a magazine dropping out of the rifle’s stock and a muffled curse.
Rolas charged forward, slamming into the ghostly figure, knocking the rifle from its hands as he tackled it to the ground. He wrapped his good arm around their throat as they tried to throw him off, claws digging into his jacket and trying to swipe at his face. Then Rolas managed to tangle his legs with the figure, pinning with his body and slamming their head back repeatedly against a nearby tree’s thick root cluster.
He was just getting a really therapeutic rhythm going when the hood of the shooter’s stealth suit fell back, revealing his face. Hotclaw stared up him, face fur matted and bloody, real fear in his eyes as Rolas pressed down on his windpipe.
“You!” Rolas breathed. Hotclaw let out an inarticulate gurgle and he tightened his grip on the traitor’s neck, silencing him. A few more grams of pressure and it would crack his windpipe, choking him to death.
But no, a quick death like that was not what Hotclaw deserved. “Hotclaw,” Rolas breathed into his ear as he hauled him to his feet. “You have two choices now. You can choose to live, let me drag you back to be arrested and then spill everything about how we-know-perfectly-well-who put you up to this to the authorities. Or I can just take your rifle and shoot you in the stomach now and watch you bleed to death.”
“You wouldn’t do that!” Hotclaw croaked.
“You may have just murdered Lady Melika, the vixen I love. Why by the Cold and Dark shouldn’t I?”
“What? I was aiming for Lady Salli!”
Rolas let out a low growl. “And that makes everything better, does it?” He slammed Hotclaw’s head down hard against the root cluster, knocking him unconscious. Some minutes later, he met the gaggle of Civil Protection officers in full protective gear jogging towards the copse, as he pulled Hotclaw’s unconscious body out into the open in a one handed dead man’s drag, the traitor’s arms bound behind him with his own belt. There was a CP flyer parked on the front lawn of the manor, an ambulance unit nested beside it. He dropped Hotclaw in front of the officers and ignored their pleas to let them help him, as he ran back towards the ambulance. There he found Melika already inside, laid out on a stretcher, next to Kris, a wide bandage wrapped around her head. Salli was beside her, gripping her hand as she berated the emergency med tech trying to treat her. IN the other, he couldn’t help but notice, was a plasma pistol. It was proving remarkably effective at keeping the med tech at bay, even as it remained in her lap.
“I am fine,” she said. “You need to get these two to hospital as soon as you possible can. I’m sure my brother… Rolas!” she cried out, upon seeing him.
“You all right, Salli?” he asked.
“I’m fine, you need to sit down and get that taken care of!”
“Is Melika alive?” he demanded, waving off the tech.
“I'll be all right," Melika answered weakly, eyes shut against her pain. “A nasty head wound that bled horribly, but nothing worse I think, at least until they can do a proper scan on me at the hospital. Holy Den Mother bless my head hurts though.” She sniffed the air. “Why do you smell like an over-sexed grass chaser?”
“Holy Den Mother be thanked. Oh, blessings of the Den Mother on you,” he breathed, kneeling beside Melika. She opened her eyes to look up at him, another question on her lips. But she was silenced as he placed his muzzle over hers and kissed her deeply. She tasted…
…familiar.
“Hello, Lord Rolas,” the Red Vixen said, looking up at him with a smile as he broke off the kiss. “So good to see you once again.”
TBC
