Wolf Pack - 7. Astara

He stood quietly to the side, head lowered respectfully. The man who purchased him for the evening closed the door with a sigh, and examined the room, ignoring the boy for a second.

“You’re very quiet,” the man spoke finally.

He didn’t answer, didn’t feel the need to answer. The man who took him made sure he knew his place and his place was silent obedience.

The man shrugged and shed his clothes, sitting on the bed in his underpants.

“My name’s Danuva, though I don’t suppose you care much,” he smiled thinly.

Silence.

Crossing the room, the boy knelt before the man, reaching for his underpants.

“No, you don’t need to touch me. How long has it been since you’ve had a decent night’s sleep?”

Years… He didn’t remember when he had last slept through the night.

Danuva placed a hand on his back, and a warm glow pulsed through him. He felt good suddenly. The toe he stubbed earlier stopped throbbing, his eyes cleared up, and best of all, his ass was no longer sore.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

The man smiled again.

“Get comfortable. I want you to sleep well tonight.”

He removed his clothes, leaving on his underwear as Danuva had done. Sliding onto the bed, he watched the man warily, waiting for the touch he knew was coming.

“Do you mind if I touch your ear? I’ve never seen a… a neko? Before,” the man said.

He knew what he was. That was a first. Slowly, he nodded, and Danuva lightly ran a finger over his calico ears, the source of his shame, and his slavery.

“Thank you,” the man smiled. “It’s really soft.”

Danuva paces his arm gently around the neko, and slowly lowered both of them until they were laying in the bed. A hand brushed through his hair, and he purred quietly, surprised that the man would stroke him like that.

He fought to stay awake as Danuva continued brushing through his hair, but he was exhausted. Slowly, his eyes drifted shut and he fell asleep.

A knock at the door caused Paelius to sit up in bed. The elf pulled on his clothes with a grumble. Sandor sat up beside him, sniffing the air.

“Fucking lavender,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose.

“Deal with it,” Paelius said, grabbing the silver sword as the person outside knocked again.

He passed into the main room of the house, closing the bedroom behind him. Stopping in front of the door, the elf took a deep breath. His nose picked up nothing but the smell of Danuva.

Sighing, the elf opened the door.

“Hello, I’m-”

The man outside gasped at Paelius’ appearance.

“You!”

“It took you long enough to track me down, oh great and powerful hunter,” Paelius yawned.

The man yanked out his sword, his cloak falling to the ground.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not destroy this place. The owner is rather friendly,” the elf continued, walking through the door.

“That’s my sword you beast,” the hunter spluttered.

“You seem to have replaced it.”

Paelius parried a blow and stepped off the porch, slowly circling until they were on the dirt away from the building.

The two traded blows again before Paelius backed off.

“Not so good in a fair fight, are you?” he said.

The hunter growled and lunged, nearly tripping over a rock. It was all Paelius needed.

His blade slide home in the hunter’s throat and the human’s eyes widened in shock. He dropped to his knees, and Paelius kicked him off his sword, picking up the other blade that fell from the man’s dying hands.

“Well he won’t be bothering us much anymore,” he yawned again.

Wiping the man’s blood on his clothes, Paelius picked up the cloak and carried it inside. Sandor would have to use it until they found some other clothes for him. They would deal with the corpse in the morning.

The city was quiet in the morning, waking up slowly from its rest. It made things easier for Masia. She slipped through the alleys, heading toward the temples. It was not her first time in Astara, though the previous time had been almost ten years ago. Nonetheless, the layout of the city was coming back to her now.

A young boy slipped past her on a narrow road, and she felt her hip lighten. Whipping out a dagger, she cut along his pocket and caught her bag of coins as it fell through the torn fabric. With a smirk, the woman secured the bag again and continued her walk.

Finally, Masia turned out of the alleys and onto the main roads. She stopped in front of the Temple of the Moon. It was as good a place to start as any.

Stepping through the door, she stopped a young man.

“Excuse me sir, but my friend is in need of healing. He is diseased.”

“What is the nature of his disease?”

“Lycanthropy.”

“Has he shifted forms already?” the man asked.

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“Then there really isn’t anything we can do for him. If he bites you, we can give you some wolfsbane extract to counteract the disease. Other than that, you should stay away from him. Lumara be with you.”

“Thank you.”

Masia left the temple with a sigh. If the gods couldn’t help Paelias, was there any hope for a cure?

She made her way back toward the inn as the city came to life around her. She spotted Danuva already haggling over the price of the chickens he had brought with him. A woman called out for fresh bread nearby, and a man’s voice nearly drowned her out, yelling about potions said to cure any malaise.

The woman froze, her head turning toward the alchemist. Her brain told her it was a scam, that there was no way a potion could cure what the gods apparently couldn’t. But her feet still travelled in the direction of the voice.

“And what can we do for you young lady,” the man outside the alchemist shop smiled, showing broken teeth.

Masia combatted her urge to recoil from the stench of rotten eggs around the man.

“I need a cure,” she said quietly, nodding toward the shop.

The man stepped inside with surprising quickness, and with some trepidation, Masia followed, a hand on her dagger.

“So, what kind of cure are you searching for? A broken heart? Something to cure your monthly ailments?”

“Lycanthropy.”

The man cocked his head, studying the woman.

“You’re much too pretty for a wolf to have gotten his fangs in you.”

“It’s for a friend.”

The alchemist hummed thoughtfully.

“The curse of the werewolf is a difficult one. Five hundred years of prayer and alchemy, and no one has found a true cure yet, save for death.”

Masia winced at the word.

“However, my master, Zasar preserve his soul, created a potion that would allow one to fight outside influences. I don’t believe he ever used it on a werewolf, but it could work.”

He turned and walked to the back of the store. The sound of clinking glass could be heard, and a minute later he returned with a sickly green concoction.

“I have no guarantees this will work, but when the only alternative is death…” he shrugged.

“How much?” Masia asked, studying the small vial.

“Three silver.”

The woman handed over the coins and accepted the glass.

“He only needs one or two drops at the time of the full moon. Any more than that and he might die from the ingredients. It’s a subtle line between life and death, I’ve found.”

Masia nodded, concealing the vial in her clothes.

“Thank you sir,” she said with a smile.

They picked a spot far behind the house. With only a single shovel, Sandor began digging first.

“So you didn’t kill him last time?” he grunted, his muscles tensing as he tossed a shovelful of dirt.

“Apparently not. I thought he was dead. I cut him up pretty bad.”

“Maybe he had someone nearby who saved him?”

“They didn’t save him this time,” Paelius shrugged, scanning the land around him.

Sandor worked in silence for half an hour, before handing the shovel to Paelius. The elf took the shovel and dug out a final foot of dirt. Nodding to Sandor, he watched the elf head back to the small house.

They couldn’t stay here. Danuva had been more than generous, taking care of them for the past several weeks. But Paelius was tired of sleeping on the floor between Danuva and Sandor. The tension between the two could be cut with a sword.

Sandor returned with the body of the hunter and dumped him into the grave. Paelius began shovelling dirt onto the corpse.

“We need to leave,” he said as he worked. “We’re targets at an innocent man’s home. Besides, I do not want to put Masia through any more stress than I have.”

“Danuva isn’t innocent,” Sandor spat.

“We slept together. I slept with him. It was not his fault Sandolin. Just as it isn’t your fault I’m not married to Masia.”

Sandor grunted.

“Where are we heading then?”

“If Astara didn’t have the answers we seek, then it’s of no further use to us. I have to imagine the humans do not know how to cure this. We’ll try our own people.”

“Will you return from exile then?” Sandor asked hopefully.

“No. Not until the wolf in me is silenced. I have a plan. Te Hara pei Arudan.”

“Overrun with bandits,” Sandor reminded him.

“Yes, and my father has been repulsed every time he has tried to take it. However, if a band of werewolves were to clear the halls, then he’d be free a thorn in his side, and we would have a home.”

He dumped the last bit of dirt over the grave and handed the shovel back to Sandolin.

“I need you to ask my father for permission to reenter the realm.”

Sandor nodded as they returned to the house.

“If Danuva returns with some clothes for us, I’ll head out the morning after. I’ll try to return with some provisions to help out a little.”

Danuva walked through the market, his feet making a path to the auction block. It was a journey he made every month, and he wearied of it, but it was a journey he must make.

Men and women stood shackled together, not a scrap of clothing on them. Danuva’s heart ached for them, but he had learned long ago that he couldn’t save everyone.

The man stepped into the viewing line, and as he began walking among the slaves, he placed a hand on each of them, pretending to examine them. His hand glowed briefly over each, and he often heard a gasp as he passed, or occasionally a whispered thank you.

His steps faltered as he reached a man covered in dirt. Long black hair ran in tangles down his shoulders, and when he looked up, Danuva recoiled at the vibrant green eyes of his brother.

“Hey. Long time no see,” Quarian smirked, his voice cracking.

“You let them capture you?” Danuva breathed, his hand running over his brother’s face.

“As if. I chose the wrong place to bed down for the night. You smell… different.”

“I had a run in with some friends of yours.”

“And good friends of yours apparently.”

A whip cracked, and Quarian winced. He let out a quiet growl as a man stalked toward him.

“You still have the coin?” he hissed quickly.

Danuva nodded, scowling at the slave master.

“There’s a neko, Elias. Take care of him.”

“Silence!” the master snarled.

Quarian smirked at Danuva, and the younger man chuckled bitterly. He placed one final touch on his brother, transferring some of his vigor to him, before moving along the line.