Orson stumbled forward, his feet making their best efforts to keep his body upright. Wherever this was, the ground was uneven and misshapen, which didn’t give him many clues by itself. It could’ve been a natural feature, it could not. More important was that he hadn’t crossed a ray of sunshine, or felt a single breeze through the dank sack on his face. This space was clearly somewhere specially removed from the waking world of Tyria.

Just when he’d steadied himself, one of his captors’ hands returned, shoving him further along to their unknown destination. Maybe this den of theirs was spacious and they feared him going off-track, or maybe they thought him more dangerous than he actually was. Rebels and bandits were stupid like that. Something about choosing life in the wilds, away from warm baths, must’ve done something to their minds. He kept the thought to himself: provocation wouldn’t go well if he was outnumbered.

His escort’s helping hand returned, wrenching Orson’s upper arm this time to stop his advance. It was safe to assume he’d reached their destination, which was confirmed by iron rattling ahead. The noise gradually moved to his right.

A cell.

“Toss ’em in!”

Orson was just about thrown in, which meant he couldn’t stop himself from tumbling over. Twisting mid-fall let his shoulder take the brunt of the impact, but his jaw smarted from where it’d tapped the floor. Internally, he scoffed—rope and a bag were nowhere near enough to keep someone fitting this treatment in check. As it was, waiting out the smarting before he figured out how to deal with either was best.

Waiting it out also gave his ears and nose time to acclimate. The stuffiness or the air spoke to how disused this place had been overall, though the man got the sense that he wasn’t alone. A beast would’ve already made themselves heard by now, or ripped out his throat. The mustiness of the room would mask anything else. He still couldn’t shake the feeling.

“They grab humans too? Go figure,” a voice rumbled nearby.

Orson swiveled his sack toward the source, and snorted. “I bet they’d grab skale off the riverbank if they could stop getting bit.”

That earned him a laugh in response—loud and growly. “Hey! You’re not half-bad!”

“I’d be better without this bag,” Orson griped. “How’d you get here?”

“Beats me,” they replied, “I already don’t know what goes on in your heads. This fan club? No chance.”

His wrists had been bound behind his back. The rope around them didn’t budge when he tugged. “Think you can help a guy out? I’d like to see my head.”

“You too, huh? Guess they shared a braincell, because I can’t see from my bag either. All your limbs bound too?”

“Just the arms,” he replied, shuffling his body around to point in his cellmate’s direction. “Say something again?”

“Sure.”

Now certain of his aim, Orson worm crawled toward his cellmate, the sack proving useful in keeping his face dirt-free.

“Those don’t sound like footsteps. Aren’t your legs free?” they questioned.

This cellmate had a good pair of ears. Pair that with the fact that they likely hadn’t left Ascalon, and he could guess pretty solidly what they were.

“I don’t feel like finding something new to trip over.”

“It’s a cell,” they deadpanned, “I doubt separatists can afford more than 'flat'.”

“Affording? They’re just stealing,” he grunted.

They snorted. “What’s the diff—”

Orson cut them off when his head bumped into a softer mass. He scooted closer to nudge it again, but the sack made it hard to tell what he was touching. “This you?”

“You got it,” they replied above him. Up this close, the growly undertone he heard was unmistakably charr. Target reached, he rose to a knee, then turned around and backed up until his hands felt fur.

Orson turned his head toward one of his shoulders. “Which way’s your head? I get your bag, you get mine.”

The charr was silent for a moment, before a thick tail slid against his right arm, pushing left. Taking that for agreement, he scooted along in that direction, tracing his hands up their fur until he crested a hump, and felt their body narrow away from him past it: the shoulder. Inching backwards a little more to avoid straining his arms, he followed the slope of their neck until there were coarse fibers under his fingers instead of fur.

He grabbed the sac in his fists, tugging so the charr noticed the spot he’d chosen to pull from. “Is this good?”

The fabric pulled lightly against his hands. “A little further up. Find the bit that feels like it’s strung up on a clothesline.”

Orson’s hands found just that, a saggier flap that seemed to be hanging above their head. This was probably between her horns. “I’m yanking this,” he warned, leaning forward.

“Good. Try taking one of my horns with you.”

He took the word to heart, setting his feet, then pulling toward himself. The bag quickly snagged, earning a grunt from his cellmate, who started pulling in the opposite direction. Feeling the strain in the fabric, he pulled harder, raising his foot to lunge. This quiet tug-of-war continued until the sack gave up, the low sounds of snapping fibers starting up behind him. Another tug finished the job, sending him a few steps forward with the torn piece of their sack in his hands.

The charr sighed. “Feels good to see again, even if it’s only barely in here. Thanks.”

Orson turned to face them once again. “Think you can get mine?”

“Shouldn’t be too hard. You wanna come closer?”

Orson retraced his steps until his leg bumped into them. “Just tell me where you want me.”

“A few steps right. Kneel here, lean over. I don’t bite.”

The man was now leaning his chest on a wall of fur. “Don’t poke me too hard with those horns of yours.”

Their body pulsed from a chuff aimed his way. “Hrrns?” they replied. The sack tugged, then slid as it was pulled all the way off. He squinted up at his cellmate.

Their head blended well with the darkness in the room, except for the white patches around their eyes and at their snout’s end, which when combined with the sabreteeth made it impossible to miss where her mouth was. Overall, it looked sleek and angular: features more in common with their females, though he couldn’t be sure in this lighting.

The charr spat away the bag, then looked down at him with her own pair of pale yellow eyes. They spent a few moments there until Orson figured he’d break the silence.

“Thanks. Miss?”

His cellmate groaned, rolling her eyes. “You couldn’t tell?”

“ 'I can barely see in here.' Your words.”

“But I can smell the balls on you. What’s that nose of yours for?”

Orson sniffed. There was the dank and dust that he would’ve expected from the room, but there was some kind of thick scent emanating from her pelt.

“Do you need a bath or something?”

She blinked at him in complete silence. “Weird,” she murmured.

He shrugged, which was awkward to do with his wrists still tied behind him. They were getting off-topic. “My nose works well enough for me. You got a name, by the way? I’m Orson.”

“Zira.” Simple and short, but it felt like something was missing. Orson leaned off her, straightening his back.

“Isn’t there a second name charr usually have?”

As far as he knew, it usually came as a mash of two words, not so much a family name as it was a title. Two nouns, two verbs, or one of each, like ‘Tree-slasher’. Charr seemed to put a lot of pride in those things.

Zira’s eyes turned to slivers. “Yeah?”

Maybe he was pushing his luck, but her stillness suggested that the charr was bound a lot more securely than him. “So?”

“You gonna chat until they come back?” she shot back.

It was a fair point. They’d both be in hot water if any of their guards came back to see them without their sacks. Figuring a way out of this place was worth a go at this point. She handled the sack well enough, so maybe she could also take care of his rope.

He looked over Zira. Her ankles were shackled so they lay crossed, forcing her into a knees-apart style of sitting. Her arms ran behind her, likely fixed to the wall she sat against in some way, but it was too dark behind her back for him to see.

“How’d they do your wrists?”

She flexed her arms to no avail, and he heard no jingling of chains. “Same as the legs. Pretty sure something in there’s rusty, but I’ve got no leverage like this. Any ideas?”

“One,” he replied, turning around to show her his wrists. “Think you can get through these?”

“Bring it closer.”

Zira waited till the rope was nearer before she sniffed. It smelled pretty old. “My claws would do better,” she mused. “I can scoot a little, so try shoving your arms behind me.”

She leaned forward, ignoring her own discomfort to give him space to reach. Turning his back toward her again, he shuffled onto his knees, leaning onto the wall as he slid his arms into the gap. It took a bit more shuffling to adjust his aim, but he eventually felt the rope snag.

Zira sighed in relief. “Good. Now make like you’re sawing. Not too hard, or we’ll make a racket.”

He started with long passes, trying to pass her claw through the same spot.

“Don’t try to get them all. Focus on one,” she chided.

“It’s hard to go slow when you’re sawing one.”

Zira frowned. “‘Sawing’ was a bad word. Catch one of the rope’s loops on my claw, and tell me when.”

Orson humored her, wriggling his wrists around until he felt one band being pulled. “Ready.”

She curled her claw, and felt some of the fibers give way around the tip. “Again,” she urged.

So they repeated the process, working through the rope until it’d been loosened enough to free his arms. Orson pulled them in front of him, taking a moment to rub more feeling back into his wrists. Zira looked at him expectantly.

He looked toward her ankles. “Think those shackles are any newer than my ropes?”

Zira scoffed as he moved to get a closer look. “Doubt it.”

His fingers agreed, feeling a decent set of rust on the outside. The shackles were like tongs, fused at one end, and bolted at the other. Acting on a whim, he thumbed along the groove where the plates at the fused end met. The metal seemed flaky there. If there was a stray metal piece lying around here…

Orson rose, crouching around the room to see if any such thing existed. A sweep of his palms in a far corner returned a decent enough piece. Zira watched him return with the pointy metal piece. She glanced over at the cell bars, spotting a broken segment near the floor that was just as long.

“Gonna try to pop one,” he explained. “Hold steady.”

He crouched over her ankles, feeling the groove again to be sure of his aim.

“That’s my favorite leg, you know.”

Orson chuckled in response. “Lucky me.”

He laid the pointy end on the groove, then put his weight into the bar, trying to drive between the plates like a stake. He tried again, wiggling the bar side-to-side when the bar made a bit of progress. Zira, now aware of his plan, kept the metal still.

It was a slow process, but with each cycle, the bar sat a little deeper, until he was confident enough that he could use the bar like a proper lever. The worry of inadvertently harming Zira passed through his mind, but a glance at her told him that it was largely unfounded. She seemed near twice his height. He placed his foot on the bar.

“I can’t promise this’ll be quiet,” he warned.

“Cross that bridge later. Free my leg now,” she replied.

He gave the bar a test push with this foot, and found it disturbingly solid. Sparing her a glance, he stomped the bar with his full weight. The metal gave a solid creak, then a louder groan. A pass with his fingers showed that the plates had widened, but not fully split. He stomped again, snapping more metal apart. There was an echo of a shout in the distance. Wiggling the bar gave the sense that the plates were only only holding together around the edges. A final kick split the shackle, launching a shard sending a shard to clang against their cell bars. He heard footsteps approaching now, sounding hurried.

“Leverage, right?” Orson asked in a terse whisper.

“Yep.”

Zira’d already collected her legs under her, pushing up from a squat against the wall. Her thighs rippled, and she burst away from the wall with a grunt, and a terrible screech of metal. The angry shouts had just reached their hallway. Orson glanced between her and the iron bars, then grabbed the piece he’d used to free her, brandishing it as a makeshift weapon. Zira, on the other hand, was busy stretching to her full height, paws rubbing the fur where her arms had been bound. They were unchained, but not free.

Now what?

“Stick close,” she murmured, voice barely above a growl. Orson stepped behind her, looking suspiciously past her arm at the cell door, which looked leagues sturdier than the rusty shackles these separatists had found.

“You don’t seri—”

Zira suddenly roared in rage, charging the door with her horns. The impact turned the gate crooked. She kept up the pressure, grabbing the bars with paws on either side of her head. Another grunt snapped the gate off its rail, but instead of stepping over it, she hefted it over her shoulders, stepping out into the hallway, and threw it at blinding speeds. The crunch cut the nearest voices short. He blinked, and the charr was gone.

Orson stepped out into the hallway, charging after Zira before he could take in his surroundings. Luckily, the darkness was only in their cell, as there were torches further along the wall. He leaped past the remains of an advance party gurgling on the floor. The gate that crushed them was nowhere to be seen in their pile. A glance forward showed Zira carrying the frame like it weighed nothing, even threatening to widen her lead despite the mass slung over her back.

He chased her around a few more corners, strings of dying or injured bodies marking a clear path until the narrow passageways opened up to a wider cavern. A crash to his left showed Zira busy shattering a pile of boxes, then tossing a blur his way. He caught the item on reflex, realizing a moment later that it was a pair of holstered pistols. His pistols. She pulled out an oversized pair of swords, then seemed to stagger, falling to a knee and gasping.

Her charge thus far would’ve taken its toll sooner or later. Best that it’d happened now. Orson fished out his weapons, discarding the holsters as he scanned the room. “How long do you need?”

“I’ll catch up,” she wheezed.

Orson raised his pistols, looking at where the cave seemed to narrow. It was probably their way out, and where the next waves would come from, if any. He shared a look with Zira. “No can do, we shouldn’t stay here long. Can you walk, at least?”

Zira bared her teeth, but nodded. “Yeah.”

“It looks like this cave narrows somewhere ahead. Probably our way out, so head that way. I’ll cover you.”

Zira had spent all the adrenaline in her system. It made standing up again hellish, but she overcame the burn to do it anyway. Orson nodded in approval after she’d walked halfway over to him, then backed into the nearest shadow.

She watched his form dissipate with interest. Getting knives in her back wasn’t a concern anymore, at least. She looked over in the direction he’d pointed, sensing that the air did seem fresher than here. His guess was as good as any, given she’d simply been following the strongest scent of people to get here. Two gunshots rang from that direction—he’d already gotten to work. The charr started moving.

Single bodies were strewn haphazardly along the way. She spared glances at some of them, noting the single gunshot wounds on most of them. Bullets were cleaner than a makeshift iron club, at the very least. The numbers here meant her rampage probably killed a good chunk of them, though she hadn’t stopped to check.

Couldn’t.

It was good to see him appear in one piece, and better that she’d been out of fodder for long enough to think again. The skin and bone breaking under the iron had felt good, a welcome workout for muscles that’d been idle too long. An impulse had pulled at her as she ran, even as she crushed more and more ahead. Just one more.

She walked up to a stairway cut into the rock that led up to a hole in the ceiling. The light shining through seemed to be from the outside, and the air was freshest here. Orson’s scent appeared next to her.

“There’s some ruins up there, but no one’s around. We’re clear.”

Zira would’ve clapped him on the back, if her arms weren’t so drained.

. . .

The duo sat around a campfire, moa meat roasting on a spit over the flames.

“Think we’re far enough?” Orson wondered aloud. Travelling off the beaten paths in this region wasn’t his forte.

“We’d better be, or I won’t only be eating moa tonight,” she replied, which made him raise an eyebrow. “What? You want to get between me and a real meal?”

Her aftermath flashed through his mind. “I’ll pass.” He chose another topic. “What happened to your people?”

It was Zira’s turn to be confused. “My what?”

Orson raised his index finger at her. “You know, that surname-troopname question you dodged back there in the cell. You seem as legion as charr come.”

Zira paused, then swung her head up to look at the canopy. “Had one,” she grumbled.

The man leaned closer—she was barely audible. “Huh?”

“That warband kicked me out,” she hissed.

He recoiled. “Oh. You seemed plenty capable down there, though. I thought the legions were all about that.” His hands mimicked one of Zira’s blows with the gate.

The charr leaned her face on a paw. “That’s only half the game. The other’s discipline.”

“So you slept in on one too many patrol days?”

“Worse.” Zira grinned briefly. “Things get hazy for me sometimes in a fight. Had an escort job, we got ambushed. I just kept finding one more to kill. Next thing I know, the caravan’s out of sight, and I find out later that we’d lost half the goods.” Her claws raked a line in the dirt. “Someone had to take the fall, and I looked the worst.”

Orson grunted in acknowledgement, letting the fire be the only noise between them for a while. There was only one question to be asked after a story like that. He peered over at her. “Where do charr without—”

“Gladia. That’s the term for charr like me.”

Orson cleared his throat. “Where do gladia have to go?”

A dry laugh came from her side of the campfire. “Truthfully? An overrun, rickety shithole, shoved away in the lowest levels of the citadel. Might as well be nowhere.”

An idea started forming in the man’s head. He spoke his next words delicately. “Any place you’d like to go?”

Zira gave him an odd look. “I’m already out of the cell. Does it matter?”

“Doesn’t feel like you’re specially tied to life here.”

She paused, peering at the meat before flipping the other side toward the heat. Her gaze turned distant. “Thought I was. Don’t know if I am anymore…” Her eyes refocused on him. “... I don’t care, either.”

“I’ve got somewhere to go, if you want,” he blurted, “Can’t really leave my savior wandering Ascalon.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “What’re you planning, thief?”

“There’s a few safehouses around that I can visit if I ever need to. They house charr pretty well, and it’ll be no problem, since you’re with me.”

Zira raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You some sort of spy?”

Orson started drawing in the dirt with his finger. “We have a post in the citadel. I’m sure you’re aware.”

She squinted at the lines until it clicked: the Order of Whispers. “Is this my initiation?” she asked, voice low.

“Doesn’t have to be. I’m guaranteeing you some safe harbor until you get back on your own two feet.” A grin worked its way up his face. “But I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t miss that brawn of yours.”

Zira stretched out a leg, erasing the symbol with her paw. “Say I join. What’s in it for me?”

Orson started listing off with his fingers. “Food…gold…many home bases…gold…” He glanced up to gauge the reaction, and found her grinning his way.

“Beats shithole canton?” she offered, tearing off a well-cooked piece of moa meat.

“In cities? Guaranteed, even in the citadel. In the field it’s more of an 80-20.”

Zira watched him tear off some of his own, knowing that her question had truly been rhetorical. A new life had just walked into her lap. “I’ll take it,” she spoke through her mouthful, then swallowed. “But we gotta do something to seal the deal, since there’s nothing to sign with out here.”

“You don’t have to be that eager,” he chided, “we can just handle that at the safehouse.”

Zira shook her head in disagreement. “If your order’s anything like these Ash types, you’ll need a better alibi than that to bring a loose charr in. Something that really lets you claim that you know me inside and out as a good candidate, and that I know you.”

He motioned for her to continue. “Figuratively, right?”

Zira rose, cracked her knuckles, and stretched. “50-50. We will start with a physical, though. You already got somewhat of a sense of me in the cell, right? We’re halfway there already.”

He made a neutral grunt, more interested in finishing his moa, but acquiesced. “Be my guest, then.”

She motioned at him with a claw, which he found confusing. Then she pointed at herself, patting the bare torso that’d been on display since meeting her in the cell. He hadn’t thought about it before, but the pteruge had been her only piece of armor this entire time. There were times where work called for varying levels of dress, so this did work in her favor. Not to mention that he’d only been left in his padding clothes by the separatists.

Orson stood up, figuring he’d humor her, and tossed his tunic and braies aside. Zira began circling him, peering intently. He stood a little straighter.

“You’re a thief, alright. Low on the brawn,” her claw poked under his scapula, making him jump, “but not malnourished.” He felt her heat approach his back before her paws grabbed his arms, gingerly moving to raise them above his head.

“Hold them there,” she droned with a level of monotony, sliding her palms down to his shoulders. It almost felt like his days as an initiate, but there were no secrets his body could share just from being seen. “Tense?”

He clenched his fists, waiting for her fingers to squeeze their way up to his wrists. “Zira,” Orson began testily, “this doesn’t seem—”

Her tail slapped his shin. “Don’t give me that, soldier.”

After finishing with his arms, Zira circled to his right, then crouched to grab his legs. One of her paws easily took up half his thigh. It wouldn’t take much effort for her to do some damage. “Thought humans were flimsier here,” she mused, earning a scoff from the man. “Tense?”

He humored her once more, pointedly ignoring the weight and warmth of her paw. She was being rather thorough. He felt a claw hike up his thigh, resting at the rim of his briefs. Her eyes flicked up to meet his. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t nick a comrade,” she teased.

Orson glared daggers down at her. The charr squinted, tail flicking, then shoved his stomach, forcing Orson a few steps back from the fireside.

“Doubting me?” Her tone was neutral, and the perfect example of someone with hidden intentions.

“Caution’s healthy with anyone,” he replied.

“And a liability for allies,” she deadpanned. “Let’s handle this now before it costs us your plan.” Zira cleared the distance with a long step, then crouched in front of him, settling her paws on his thighs so that a few clawtips hovered near his crotch. The end of her snout was just behind them.

“We’re going to stay here until your pulse relaxes. I’ve got time, Orson.”

Waves of heat washed over his hips as she spoke. It clashed with the phantom danger sense from her claws hovering so close to his most tender area, as well as the thought of how this must have appeared to an onlooker.

She’d led him into a corner, and probably wouldn’t be talked down from this without some form of outside interruption. They were far too deep in the woods for that. He forced down the urge to shiver, focusing on her squatting form.

“Have my claws moved?” she asked.

He had to admit that they hadn’t. Even in this crouched position, her paws felt as solid as when he’d broken her shackles. The realization must’ve been written on his face, given how she chuckled below. At least he didn’t have to express that with his own words. The anxiety he felt from those clawtips left soon after, leaving his other senses to fill the gap unchecked.

Zira hummed below, pondering the new line growing under his briefs. Her partner seemed to be in a daze, so she leaned forward to rest the end of her snout against it. Orson flinched at the contact.

She kept up an indifferent air, like her nose wasn’t currently blasting air back and forth through his last barrier of fabric. “Seems healthy.” Her snout then lowered between his legs, scenting his scrotum next, before pulling back to give her a clear look at him. “Used these lately?”

Orson stared down at her, processing her words. If this was how she wanted to play… He forewent a reply, and simply flipped down the waistline of his briefs enough to pop his erection out in the air. Zira caught his momentum, pulling the underwear the rest of the way off, and then palmed his crotch, slotting his cock between her middle and index fingers.

“I had a whole speech for how a good fuck made for trust-building,” she said, sliding her nose up to his shaft, “but I guess you kinda knew.”

Her fingers squeezed his base with just the right amount of pressure, keeping him steady while she dragged her muzzle all over his shaft. The whiskers on her muzzle tickled him as they went, tempting him to thrust for a little more stimulation. A bead of precum oozed from the tip of his shaft not too long after, and the sudden swipe of moist, rough tongue to collect it made him press heavily into her palm.

Zira purred in delight, giving more light laps along his shaft to tease out more of the same. The sensation was equal parts pleasure and discomfort, neither building to or retreating from an orgasm. Unable to make sense of it, his brain simply forced more blood into his cock until Zira couldn’t tease the sausage in front of her any longer.

One paw flew to her waist, fiddling with the armor there until it slid free. She reached a paw between her legs and moaned—the fur down there was soaked enough for them both—and brought up the wet paw to slather his cock in her juices. Zira had to stop herself from jerking him off right there. She needed that pressure on her palms somewhere else.

Keeping her drenched hand on his shaft, she rose, setting her hips just above the standing height of his cock, and then slid her paws over his shoulders. Orson stepped closer, teasing his cool cockhead along the outside of her folds. The heat made him hiss against her chest.

“You’d better get used to it,” she huffed, dragging her tongue over the back of his neck. “We’ll be getting very familiar with each other on the way there.”

Orson obliged, wrapping her midriff with his arms and slammed himself balls deep. He quickly realized that trying to last inside a cunt like this was a fool’s errand. It felt like a roiling heatwave had concentrated on his shaft, and her body hadn’t budged at all: the same trick from before! He groaned, willing his hips to leave and return to her hot oven. No rocking at all in her body, like Zira’d turned herself into his doll to fuck. It drove him crazy.

He snuck a hand down her stomach, feeling for a nub he expected at the top of her cunt, and grinding himself up into her. His success was rewarded with a hard clamp on his dick, and a rush of hot slick onto his balls. Zira purred. His hands returned to her waist, taking death grips as he leaned away from her chest, and started pounding her cunt for all he had.

Zira yowled and purred, the man’s desperation stirring her walls into a fever pitch against his rod, though her hips stayed in place. He would climax soon. She looked down at the thief pounding her, and felt a new wave of lust overtake her.

“Let’s seed the deal, Orson.”

He hilted himself in a blur and shivered against her, the shaft inside swelling to shoot cool pulses of human cum into her depths. It felt different. Exotic. Zira licked her lips. She could use more of this, maybe find a way to get assigned with him when this was all over. For now, she pressed a paw into the small of his back, keeping him against her till he was spent.