Lyra walked towards the local park, where she liked to go when she needed to think alone for awhile.  Her home with her father was large and there were plenty of empty rooms, but it just wasn't quite the same.  It felt stuffy and enclosed to her whenever something began weighing on her mind.  The nearby park was a large one, bordering a much larger national one.  It was several acres itself, but with the larger one at its back, it was effectively several hundred thousand.  She walked peacefully, meandering slowly towards her destination, savoring the faint crispness of the now mostly gone winter.  The tender young shoots and green leaves in the full moons' light relaxing her in a primal way.  She reached the chain link fence that served as the outer most edge of the park, following along the sidewalk upon which she strode.  She turned into the gap in the fence and headed for the swings.
	It was still early for her, but late for those who dwelled in the daylight.  Nevertheless, as the sun finally slipped fully behind the trees, there were still a few straggling individuals of that nature minding cubs, though they were clearly looking to leave soon.  This suited Lyra just fine.  She crossed the open field to the playscape, and found herself a swing.  She plopped down into it with a sigh.  She closed her eyes and echoed aimlessly, the soft, scratchy images in her mind more comforting to her than actual sight tonight.  It reminded her of her mother, who had been blind.  
	She missed her mother.  It was only a few days to the anniversary of her passing.  Lyra had been only five years old when she died.  No one could really understand why either.  She seemed to be in perfectly good health, then boom, she was dead.  Wasted away in a matter of weeks.  She remembered how she always told her to rely on her echolocation the same as her eyes.  There would be times when it would show you things that sight never could.  And it had been good advice.  Lyra sniffled a little; thinking about mom hurt.  She could almost remember that special fruit salad recipe her mother used to make that was more like a wet trail mix with all the fresh fruit, nuts and bit of jerkied meat in it.  Poor dad always tried so hard to make it the same way she did but it always fell just a little short.
	Despite her closed lids, a tear found its way out and trickled its way down her face and onto her bare shoulder.  Lyra opened her eyes and looked around, suddenly noting the absolute silence that had fallen upon the playground.  She was startled to see a young wolf boy sitting on the swing farthest away from her.  He was the only other soul left.  He sat there, starring dejectedly at the ground like he was in about as much misery as one poor cub could be in and still keep it together.  Lyra was a strong girl.  She knew that, and she had a lot of love to give.  She bit back her tears and rose from her depressive thinking to console the pup.  
	Lyra got off her swing, but the other cub didn't seem to hear or notice as she approached his side of the swings.  She moved slowly, and just a tad shyly.  But soon, she was standing at the swing next to the wolf cub, who was still completely oblivious to her presence.  She examined him up and down.  He appeared to be about her own age, maybe slightly younger.  His course gray fur was matted and dirty.  Giving a light sniff, she could smell it from where she was sitting quite clearly.  He hadn't bathed in weeks.  Under that smell was the smell of a young wolf.  But it was off somehow.  She just couldn't place how.  She chalked it up to his being dirty.
	Not noticing she had closed her eyes as she attempted to identify the offness of his odor, she opened them, and saw the young wolf cub looking at her.  He still had that look of sadness in his eyes, but now there was a look of worry there as well.
	“Wh-what are you doing?”  He asked.  
	Lyra blushed.  “I was sniffing you.”
	The cub looked away.  “Don't do that, it's weird.  I don't even know you.”
	This perplexed Lyra quite a bit.  “But isn't that how Wolves and Foxes normally get to know each other?”
	The poor wolf looked mortified, like he'd made some sort of mistake.  “I-I uhh, I th-think I should g-go.”  He made to get up and leave.
	“Please don't go.  You looked so sad, and in need of company.  I'm feeling lonely too.  Maybe we can cheer each other up, or at least be lonely together?”  Lyra reached out and lightly touched his paw, and he flinched away from her.  
	“Please don't touch me.”
	“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend.  But please, don't go?”
	“Doesn't my smell bother you?”  He asked.
	“No,” Lyra said.  Should it?”
	“Most furs say I smell weird even when I'm clean.”
	“So what?”
	The wolf boy looked taken aback by the lack of care about his appearance and his smell.  “Alright, I won't go.  But you stay there, and don't touch me.
	“Okay,” Lyra acquiesced  “What's your name?”
	He hesitated a moment.  “Landon”
	“It's nice to meet you, Landon.  I'm Lyra.”  She began to hold out her wing to shake, but then remembered his aversion to being touched, and retracted quickly.
	The conversation started haltingly, but as Landon warmed up to Lyra, he began to cheer up.  Landon refused to divulge the reason for his misery, but became increasingly friendly as they talked until they were both giggling.  After a couple of hours though, hunger became a concern to the wolf.  His stomach could be heard growling loudly. His face, all smiles and good cheer, fell quickly back into that miserable looking frown.
	“Hey, you want to go get something to eat?  I don't live far from here, you can come over eat there.  We don't have that much meat, but there is bound to be enough of something you can have,” Lyra suggested.  The wolf looked at her with baleful eyes and shook his head no.
	“Why not?”
	“I don't think I'm comfortable with that,” he responded.
	“But you're hungry, and I don't want the fun to end.  Can I come over to your place and eat with you then?”  Again the wolf cub just shook his head no, looking more and more depressed.  
	Lyra was feeling faintly hurt.  “Can I have your phone number?  Something?”
	Landon shook his head no yet again.
	Lyra looked at him sadly.  “Will we ever meet again?”
	This time, Landon didn't just shake his head no.  He sat quietly thinking for a moment, struggling with some inner voice or demon.  Timidly, he spoke up.  “Yes, I think we can meet again.  Meet me here, tomorrow.  I'll come sometime after the moon rises.”
	“You can't give me a specific time?” Lyra queried.
	“No,” was all the response she got, but she didn't inquire further; she couldn't.  The bitterness in his voice curbed her tongue.  And even if it hadn't, he had sprung off into the woods, deeper into the forest and away from her and civilization.  Lyra was confused by the direction he went.  
	Lyra went home, her paws carrying her automatically to her destination from years of traveling the same route.  Her mind wandered here and there, but spent most of the walk thinking about that strange cub, Landon.  He had been fun to play with, once he had gotten past whatever had him down.  Lyra thought he was rather handsome underneath all those mattes and the smell of dirt and grime.  His odor was certainly unique.  Similar to any other wolf she'd scented, but still exotic somehow.
	On her way home, clouds began rolling in from the east, heralding rain.  It obscured the moon, and Lyra had to echo the rest of the way home.  She was just turning into the gates of the manor in which she lived when she heard the first few raindrops falling.  She sped up, the rain intensifying rapidly.  It took her only three minutes to traverse the long drive and front gardens to the door, but she was already cold and damp from the precipitation.
	Going in through the side door, Lyra found herself in the kitchen.  She went to the refrigerator and snagged a large Golden Delicious apple.  She chowed down on it, seeds and all as she went up the stairs to her room.  On her way, she encountered Mortimer, the family butler.  He was a tall well toned rat, with well groomed dark brown fur.  He was a jack of all trades, and served more purposes than just cleaning up after Lyra and her father.
	“Good evening, Lyra,”  He said to her.  He stopped to give her a hug, but noticed she wasn't particularly dry.  “My goodness, you're wet, and not in the good way,” he further remarked.  
	“Don't let father hear you say that,” Lyra returned.  “You know he gets annoyed whenever we get naughty.”
	“You mean he gets jealous.”  Mort corrected, making no effort to keep his voice down.
	“You're damned right I do,” the two heard her father call faintly from another room two floors above.  “That's MY daughter you've been fucking!”  Lyra and Mort chuckled heartily.  They both knew that he wasn't upset.  
	“Yes, that's YOUR DAUGHTER you've been fucking!”  Mortimer flippantly stage whispered, turning the statement back on her dad.
	“I can still hear you,” he called back.
	“I best be right proper then,”  Mort said stuffily, switching to a mock servile affectation.  “Now go get showered, Mistress Lyra, we wouldn't want you catching cold.”  Lyra chuckled some more.  She took off back up the stairs to her bed room.  Popping the last of the apple core into her mouth, she strode into her personal bath, and got the shower running.  Before long, steam filled the bathroom, and had the mirrors fogged over.
	Lyra's bathroom was large and though it was pink tiled, it was not otherwise ostentatiously girly.  It had a large glass shower cubical with a bench, rain shower head and a secondary adjustable massage shower head mounted to the wall.  She stepped under the spray and adjusted the massage head to a nice, soothing pulse.  Taking a seat on the bench, she used the pulsing spray to massage her cold and stiffening muscles, running the head in long broad stokes over her fur.  She took extra care with her slightly sore legs. The spray hit her private place and it tingled.  Lyra thought briefly about calling out for Mort or her dad to come and join her, but decided against it.  She instead allowed the water to flow over her sensitive place, allowing her mind to wander.  It didn't drift far; it found and focused on the recent memory of Landon.  She hadn't spent much time looking at his fuzzy sheath.  But now, she found it crystal clear in her memory, and she allowed herself to imagine what his cock looked like hard, and how it would feel inside her tunnel.  Letting her imagination do its work, and the shower head to do its' job, she was soon gasping and heaving as the water pounded into her young pussy.  It filled her cunny and her womb, causing her tummy to swell slightly as the pressure rose.  She kept as firm a grip as she could, stopping the water from escaping until suddenly she went into orgasm, the powerful contractions causing water to squirt back out in mighty gushes that didn't ever seem to end.  
	Letting the shower head fall from her claws, she heaved, the pressure fading as the water gushed out from her.  In its wake, she felt empty, and sore.  She rubbed her wings over her belly.  She cleared her mind, and recalled a memory from a few years ago.  It had been the first thunderstorm after her mother had died, and it had awoken her.  She had been terrified by the tremendous sound, each thunderclap leaving her large, sensitive ears ringing painfully.  She had fled to her fathers bed in fear.  She remembered him, welcoming her to his bed and being enveloped in his large, protective wing membranes.  She remembered how he had soothed her, helped her to relax, and made her feel comfortable.  Slowly, the soreness in Lyra's belly and legs began to ease.
	Lyra allowed the memory to fade slowly away, and the soreness went with it.  Lyra stood, and turned off the water.  She shook as much of it from her fur as she could, then settled back down onto the shower bench.  She thought back to another time, even longer ago than the last memory; a time before her mother had died.  They were all at the beach.  They had gotten up so early to go, that the sun was still up for hours after they had arrived.  She remembered the painful intensity of the light, and that unnaturally intense heat.  She had felt like she was going to burn up, and in fact had gotten a mild sunburn in her ears and on her nose.  Lyra again let the memory fade, and opened her eyes.  The feeling of the sun's heat on her lingered, and there were curls of steam coming off of her fur.  
	Lyra left the shower bench in her en-suite and went back into her room proper.  She grabbed a large square mat from her closet.  It had a series of intricate circles drawn on it with words written on it in a language she was only just learning how to read.  Her father said that the design on the mat was actually a spell that helped to focus the mind.  He had given it to her when she was six, and told her that she had to sit and meditate on it for at least one hour, every day, until she could control her magic completely.  Ever the obedient girl for her father, she did so, never missing a day.  She laid the mat down on the floor, and sat cross legged on it.  Taking a deep breath, she settled in to meditate, and released the held breath to a long count.  The mat focused Lyra's mind.  On the second breath, she receded into her memories, and on the third, she felt the magic within her surge, a hot, electrical tingle filling her body.

	Lyra resurfaced from her meditations some time later to the call of “Dinner!”  She rose stiffly from her mat.  How long had she been there, meditating, she wondered?  Definitely more than an hour.  She looked out of the window to find it was still raining, harder by far than when she had come home.  She looked over at her bedside table, and noticed it said three AM.  'Wow' she thought.  'I can't believe I just meditated for two hours.'  She walked back and froth through her room a few more times before she heard her father from somewhere downstairs call up to her.
	“Are you coming, Lyra, or should we start without you?”
	“Coming!” she called back.  Lyra closed her eyes and concentrated hard.  She pictured the dining room, the large, mahogany table and its richly upholstered chairs, the soft fabric against her fur when she sat upon it.  The gold and diamond chandelier suspended over the table and the warm glow it cast.  She felt the hardwood floors under her claws.  Recalled with familiar intimacy each of the pictures of her family through the generations hanging on the wall behind where she would be sitting.  She reached into herself to where she felt the wellspring of her power lay and she felt tingly.  When she opened her eyes, she was at the dinner table, sitting in her chair.
	“Impressive!”  Mort said, as he heaped food onto her fathers plate.  “No noise, and almost no spatial distortion either.  Great control.”
	“It seems like you may finally be getting the knack of teleportation,” her father said, smiling.  
	“Maybe,” Lyra replied, glowing from the praise. “And thanks Mort.  It's probably just that I apparently meditated for two hours though.”
	“Two hours?” her father asked, raising an eyebrow.  That's much longer than normal.  Is everything alright?  You only do that when there is something on your mind.”
	“Well, the anniversary of Moms passing is in three days, and-” Lyra said, but she was cut off. 
	“Right you are, and it is reasonable that would weigh on you mind.”  Mortimer said to her, not realizing he had interrupted her.  Then turning to her father, he continued, “Are we doing anything special in the memory of the late Lyra Lorringer the Second, Patrick?”
	“Probably the same as usual, Mort.  A picnic at the grave-site, weather conditions permitting.”
	“I shall inquire after the forecast then, and if it is fitting, I'll see that the new cook, Hanna, makes a fitting brunch for the occasion.”
	Lyra, having filled her plate with the Cesar salad that was the nights fair, was already digging in when her father turned to her.  “After dinner, Lyra, you will be doing lessons.”  Lyra began to protest, letting go of the invisible force she had conjured to convey her fork to her mouth.  It clattered noisily to the plate, dressing coated croutons scattering.  “No, no buts.  I know that means lessons will be starting early, but in addition to tonight's normal history lesson, I have a test I wish to preform, and I'd like to do that after the regular lesson is over.”
	Lyra nodded, slowly picking the croutons up one by one and eating them.  She was still unhappy about this test, but she also didn't have anything planned for the early morning hours.  She stilled her tongue and buckled under, just nodding her understanding.
	After dinner, Lyra headed directly to the library, where all of her less exciting lessons took place.  Today was history, and they were beginning on the subject of the fall of the humans, and the subsequent rise of furry kind.  She got there before Mort did, what with him having further things to discuss with her father. She tried not to eavesdrop, though she did catch the beginning of the conversation. With her large, sensitive ears, she could hear every word as she climbed the stairs to the third floor. It was something to do with Voidstones, something she had been told of, but didn't actually know what they were. They clearly weren't trying to keep themselves quiet at any rate. She made a conscious effort to block it out. She proceeded down the hall to the library, the second door on the right hand side and closed it behind her. 
	The library was one of the largest rooms in the manor.  It was the height of the house, five floors in total.  There was also a first floor access, but she preferred to use the upstairs one anyway.  She felt more at home in the upper reaches of the room, and there were plenty of study desks for her to sit and work at while Mortimer or her father taught lessons.  The book shelves spanned from ground floor to ceiling on three sides, and there was a balcony, where she was now, with a ladder access to the ground floor.  Another ladder, attached to wheels on a track, was used to get at books on high shelves at each of the other three walls.
	Lyra went over to the reading table that was set near the center of the balcony.  She sat  facing the chalkboard that Mortimer and her father used for diagrams and the like, and waited patiently for Mortimer to come up to start the lesson.  Luckily, she didn't have to wait too long.  It was only a couple of minutes before she heard the scrape of chairs in the dining room, signaling that dinner was over.  
	A couple minutes later, Mort walked in via the third floor access, and went over to stand by the blackboard as was his custom when he was ready to start the lesson.  Lyra sat up, ready.
	“In our last few lessons,”  Mortimer began, “we studied the rise of humans, and their civilizations.  Their latest and greatest, the British, were solidifying their control over the eastern world, bringing most of Europe and even parts of Asia under its thumb.  But as we discussed, it was the last great human civilization, and it was not to last.  Do you recall, Lyra, what the downfall of the British Empire was?”
	“Ummm,”  Lyra bit her lip and thought back to the previous week.  History was not one of her favorite subjects, and it was always a struggle to remember, no matter how interesting Mort made it.  No number of spells to bring to life a description was enough to make her really like it.  “Wasn't it Lycanthropy?” she asked after a moment.
	“That's correct.  I'm glad you were actually paying attention.  I had thought you might've been put to sleep by my droning.”
	“I was a little bored, Mort.  I won't lie.  Even you can't make history that fun.  I only pay as much attention as I do because you and your spells make it look and sound like you were actually there for it.”
	“That's because I was, Lyra.”  Mortimer said, with a perfectly straight face.
	“That's nonsense, Mort.  No one lives that long.”
	“You say that because you don't know, and I'll forgive you your ignorance.  Up to this point, you've not known because you didn't need to know.  But today, I think I will be correcting that ignorance.  Today's lesson is not so much the fall of the Humans, but the rise of the Lycanthropes who replaced them, and were the precursors to the furries that populate the earth today.  And more to the point, to educate you on Lycanthropy itself.  	“You say that you are as interested in history as you are because I make it sound like I was there.  That is because I was there, Lyra.  Maybe not for all of it, but for a good chunk, including the end of man.  I was born in the summer of 1392 AD, as a human named Mortissimo Mordichaidacci, and I contracted Lycanthropy sometime in the spring of 1417.  I am one of the last true Lycanthropes left on earth.  By my estimation, there are fewer than two-hundred thousand of us left worldwide, and most of them live in their ancestral homelands.”
	Lyra sat blot upright in her chair, her mouth hanging open with a mixture of disbelief and shock at the absurdity of the claim.  When at last she spoke, it was a child's challenge.  “That's ridiculous.  I've been through some crazy shit, but a forty-five hundred year old Lycanthrope?  Prove it.”
	Mortimer looked at Lyra, taken aback more by her disbelief and her language than her demand.  He had already been planning to show that he wasn't lying, but not until the end of the lesson.  Evaluating his options,  Mortimer decided to go along with it.  Stepping away from the blackboard, he cocked and eyebrow at his charge.  “Language, young lady.” he said.  “But don't worry, I planned to.”  Lyra watched his every step avidly. 
	A look of practiced concentration came over Mortimer's face.  He grimaced, and his fur rippled, as if in a breeze.  Then he began to change.  Lyra watched in shock as the fur began to recede, leaving pinkish looking skin covered in a dark colored peach-fuzz across most of his face.  His whiskers fell out, his muzzle flattening partway into his head.  His tail shrank by about half of its overall length, becoming a limp pink tube, now just a shadow of it's former glory.  Most significant of all however, he seemed to deflate; his muscles sagging and collapsing in on themselves.  Mortimer wasn't large, by any means, but he was well built, and well toned, and the change was shocking to see; he looked so frail.  It took about ten seconds before the changes stopped, and while Mortimer did look more human, he wasn't full human.  Fur even still coated most of his body.
	“Why'd you stop?”Lyra asked.  Mortimer took a moment to respond.  He was panting heavily, like he had run a mile, and he was trembling visibly.  He worked his jaw and raised his arms above his head, trying to stretch his uncooperative muscles.  
	“This is as far as I can go back.”  Mortimer said, hobbling over to a chair.  The words came thickly, his words warped by his misshapen muzzle.  Laboriously, he hauled the chair in front of the table.  Slumping exhaustively into it, he heaved a few more deep breaths, and the shaking subsided a little.  When he was able, he continued.  “You see, Lycanthropy was a very strange disease.  It changed humans like nothing else did when it infected them, and it changed when new animals contracted it.  Most of what little you know about Lycanthropy from myths and legends when humans still ruled the earth are actually true, obscured and altered comparatively little due to our continued, if secret, existence.  True Lycanthropes are very rare now, though, and the truth becomes a little more obscured with each passing generation.”  He paused again.  Lyra could see his pectorals spasming uncontrollably from where she sat.
	“Lycanthropy gave the newly infected a new form; a feral form of whatever creature they contracted it from.  Back then, wolves, vermin, and farm animals were the most common by far.  For me, it was a rat.  At my first transformation, I became just a simple rat.  But as time went on and I gained control over my ability to shape-shift, I found that I could stop changing half way through if I tried.  I also discovered as the years went by, the feral form took on more and more human traits, while my human shape became ever more rat like.  Now, there is very little difference between the two.”  Mortimer paused again; a thin, shiny sheen had spread over his face, and he wiped his half-muzzle with his still trembling arm.  
	“Are you okay, Mort?” Lyra asked, concern for her friend, mentor, butler, and occasional lover filling her voice.  “What is that on your face?”
	“I-I'm fine.  It's just s-sweat.  Transforming, even now, is still very tough on the body, especially on my 'human' from.  The worst part is the crippling, hormonally depressive state that I can already feel coming.”
	“What do you mean by that?”
	“Well, despite the fact that I am part rat no matter what shape I'm in now, the hormone balance is quite different between the primarily human form and the hybrid from.  Humans have much lower hormone levels over all, so I am going to shortly begin experiencing a withdrawal of sorts.  Already am, it's why I am shaking; the transformation burns up a lot of the hormones.”
	“That's awful,” Lyra said.  “Can't you stop it from happening by turning back?”
	“I'm not going to.  Not now.  
	“Why not?” Lyra asked.
	“For...  Reasons,” Mortimer said evasively.  
	Lyra pouted.  “Aww, darn.”
	“Anyway, back to the lesson at hand; the fall of humanity.  Humans had long known of the disease called Lycanthropy, and through aggressive crusades, had pushed the infected population down to the point that humanity thought it was gone.  But far to the north, just beyond the British control, were the Vikings.  They were the origin, and they had not been wiped out.  You'd have thought that after hundreds of years of pushing the same people back, over and over for centuries, humans would've learned that to stop the disease, they had to wipe them out entirely.  But if there was one thing humans did not do well, it was learn from their mistakes.
	“As a result, the Lycanthropes always came back.  The Vikings were a mostly nomadic, barbarous people.  They had a few permanent villages, mostly for ship building.  They were humans, but lived and frequently acted like the animals they lived with.  They moved about and lived off the land.  When their populations got too big, they carried out raids, called 'vikings' on neighboring lands, stealing food, property, women, and occasionally infecting the local populous.  This wouldn't have ever gone out of control like it did, but for the fact that they were still humans, and were smart.  They also had the wanderlust; they settled anywhere that was remote, and they were good, hardy seafarers.  So when the British went to expand over seas to Greenland and Iceland, they found Lycanthropes everywhere; the indigenous peoples having all succumbed centuries ago.  I was one of that number.  When the British showed up and pronounced the land theirs, the Lycanthropes reacted rather violently to having their territory encroached upon.  The invaders were quickly and brutally crushed, and the British never heard from them again, assuming they were lost at sea.  
	“They then reached out to their kin in the eastern world, and so commenced the secret war that eventually resulted in the extinction of the human race.”
	“It was a war?”  Lyra asked.  “How did the Lycanthropes win a war if their numbers were so small?”  
	“Well, it wasn't quite a war, per se.  At least not at first.  And there were quite a few living in Greenland and Iceland, even if there still wasn't nearly as many as there were Brits.  But that is a good question, and there are several reasons why they ultimately ended up winning, in spite of an initial lack of real organized combat.  The first big reason was that the Vikings main populations were not on the main land, and they were fantastic seafarers.  The waterways were controlled by them, no matter how much the British tried to convince themselves otherwise.  British ships would set out, then just disappear, or if they didn't, they returned, and they were filled with infected sailors.
	“Second big reason was the fear of being infected and fear of the infected.  Humans were so terrified of the infected, that the military would immediately kill anyone who was even suspected of it.  They wouldn't wait until they had proof.  And they were known to wipe out entire towns because of only a couple of confirmed cases.
	“Those who were infected would convince themselves they weren't, and so go about their normal lives infecting others without realizing it.  And if they did realize and couldn't delude themselves otherwise...  Well, they didn't want to die, so they would flee.  If a human soldier got infected and didn't say anything, that whole arm of the militia could be infected and or wiped out, weakening the humans' army. 
	“The third big reason was math.  One unknowingly infected individual could cause an entire town to become infected in just weeks, in a worst case scenario.  Lycanthropy was and is a sexually transmitted disease, and could also be transmitted through direct contact with saliva and sweat to an open wound.  Back then, humans didn't have forms of birth control, like condoms, which could've helped minimize the risk.  Also, healthcare was virtually nonexistent, as was first aid, and cleanliness was a luxury.  It was poor in quality even if you were rich.  People got hurt, and blood would get places, including on other people.  One person could become three by sundown, nine by the next, and twenty-seven by the night after in a worst case scenario.  In a small farming village, everyone could be infected from one person in a month, when it would become obvious to all who was and who was not infected.  When an entire small village got infected, sometimes they all murdered each other, but that was actually the exception, not the rule.  More often, they would pretend it wasn't happening, and would continue on.  They pretended they weren't infecting visitors, peoples from other towns when they went to market, and many fled north, to seek acceptance, or at least find some kind of peace with their new life.”  Mortimer stopped to wipe more sweat from his forehead, random muscles still twitching here and there.  Lyra watched as his left pectoral danced and jittered uncontrollably.  
	“The fourth, by the time the British, or the neighboring countries realized that there was an epidemic on their hands, it was too late.  The infection had spread throughout huge swaths of the largest, most powerful empire, and the number of Lycanthropes then roughly equaled the Brits in numbers.  Those who had been turned and remained, and didn't wish to die fled at this time.  They were brought into the more inclusive way of life of the Vikings.  With the influx of professionals and sedentary farmers, the Lycanthropes now had more formal communities springing up all over the place, and they were forming their own militias for protection.  The Vikings surprisingly quickly assimilated themselves into these new communities.  Therefore, when the armies finally invaded, those armies met an organized resistance they hadn't counted on, and could not have anticipated.  And that is when it actually turned into a war.”  
	“Finally, there was the fact that Lycanthropes were physically more capable in a variety of ways.  Some were small, and made good spies when transformed, Like myself.  After moving to what is now modern day Sweden,  I helped do a lot of spying, often spending months at a time as a rat in the walls of important human buildings.  Other Lycans were huge, and terrifyingly strong.  If you've ever seen one of the Ursinefolk lift a solid wood desk, just think, they are weaker today than they were back then.”
	“Weaker?  But they're so strong!  How can that be?  And why is that?” Lyra asked.
	“That will be for another lesson, or if you won't be placated, I'll answer you later.  But you are a smart girl.  I think you can figure it out on your own,”  Mortimer replied.
	“Okay then,” Lyra acquiesced, just a little put out.  Coming back to the actual lesson, she asked,  “That sounds like it would've taken a very long time though, just to reach where the actual war started.”
	“Oh, it did take a long time.  Between the unofficial start and the actual declaration of war, it was just a hair over three decades.” Mortimer stated nonchalantly.
	“How does a war go unofficially for thirty years?”  Lyra asked, bewildered. 
	“That's a question I can't really answer; I just don't know.  But if I had to guess, I'd say subterfuge and national pride played a big part.  Trying to keep everything hush hush, so as not to panic the people.  And how embarrassing it must be to have to admit you are losing to a pile of disease ridden barbarians?” Mortimer responded.
	Lyra chuckled.  “I'll bet the humans didn't like having to admit that.  So then, how much of the British population was infected before open warfare was declared, and how did it get so far?”
	“Well, it touches mainly upon the fact that humans were very good at deceiving themselves about their being infected, and the sudden, deliberate intent behind infections by the Vikings.  Like I said, the Vikings hadn't been trying to infect the other humans during their raids, rarely leaving any alive, and corpses can't carry the disease.”
	“I see,”  Lyra said, leaning back into her seat some.  Mortimer leaned back too, but gave a pained gasp, and the shivering that seemed almost gone away resurged.  “Are you okay?”
	“It's been so long since I last reverted, Lyra.  The difference is... uncomfortable, to say the least, after so long.” He responded, twitching.
	“How so?”
	“It's like... It feels like a caffeine withdrawal, I guess.  A severe one.  But... It comes with weakness, in addition to tiredness and a migraine, rather than a normal headache.”
	“And why don't you turn back right now?”  Lyra inquired again, her concern increasing.
	“Because I still act like a normal Lycanthrope when I turn back.  I'm still human, after all this time.  And that would be... Disruptive.”  Mortimer let out a long suffering sigh.  “Maybe we should end the lesson early tonight.  I'm feeling less and less up to teaching like this, and I don't really want to transform back now, lest I do something I might regret.”
	“Aw, don't be like that, Mort,”  Lyra pleaded.
	“No, no buts.  I think this lesson is over.”  Looking over at the clock, Mortimer was shocked to find that they had used up most of the lesson time anyway.  Only twenty minutes remained of the hour that had been set for it.  Looking back at Lyra, he continued.  “Go to your room now, and wait for your father to call you for his test.”  
	Realizing that she wasn't going to win, Lyra pouted.  But she got up, and left the room.  She stopped outside the door after she closed it though, and waited a few seconds, before gently trying to reopen it a crack.  In the small gap she opened, at eye level, was Mort, still unchanged, staring back at her.  “Go to your room, young lady.”  He said, emphasizing his lack of willingness to entertain her shenanigans.  Lyra harrumphed, and went, grudgingly, under the watchful gaze of Mortimer.  He had opened the door fully, and braced himself against the frame to watch her.  But outside her door, she turned, and stuck her tongue out at him.  She wanted to see him transform back, and wanted to know why he was so unwilling to do it with her around.  But she had an idea to find out.
	Closing her door, Lyra walked over to her bed, and sat down.  Closing her eyes, she imagined the feel of the soft, leather couch in the lower library.  It was her favorite reading chair, and she knew her book was closed and on the coffee table in front of it.  A gas fire burned quietly on the other side.  The warm wood paneling and the intricately carved fluer-de-lis of the crown molding, and the smell of musty books.  Lyra opened her eyes and found herself in the library, sitting at the edge of her seat.  
	Quietly as she could, Lyra scampered over to the ladder connecting the upper mezzanine to the lower, and put her index and thumb claws on the rungs.  Climbing the ladder was awkward enough as it was with only two finger-like claws on her wings.  But doing it quietly was even harder.  Her claws were hard and sharp, and her wings bumped the ladder poles with every step up.  As she got closer to the top, Lyra could here a hard, loud panting sound, and the creaking of wood.  
	Upon reaching the top, Lyra poked her head over the lip of the floor and saw Mort, leaning over the table and gripping it hard enough that it was splintering under his grip.  But that wasn't what grabbed her attention.  What did was how Mort looked.  He looked more like himself, but the muscle tone was more extreme, and a look in his eyes told Lyra he was barely in control of himself.  What was more, he was sporting an enormous erection.  It was obscenely swollen, and throbbing visibly, and dribbling small a small amount of pre-cum.  She had seen it before, felt it inside of her; the tapered tip coming right up her cervix.  Lyra gasped, and ducked back under the lip of the floor as a sudden twinge of pleasure rocked through her core.  Lyra could feel herself getting wet, the moisture quickly gathering at and dripping from her immature folds to fall on the rung below.
	Through her sudden haze of arousal, Lyra noticed the panting had stopped, and the creaking of wood vanished.  It was replaced by a deep sniffing, and the sound of paws on soft carpet moving towards her.  Lyra looked up, and saw a large rat paw come down, grabbing her roughly by her face and lifting her easily into the air.  The strength in Morts paw was unreal.  She tried to grip the rungs on the ladder with her powerful foot claws, but they slipped in her own juices.  
	Mortimer was crouched low to the floor as he pulled Lyra up from her hiding place, but he stood up now that he had her, once again revealing his massive erection.  He switched her to his other paw, gripping her by a shoulder.  His grip was painfully firm, claws digging into her back a little.  He held her up, hips to his nose, and took a deep shuddering breath.  The cold, wet, and invasive nose made her shiver, making her slicker.  A single drop of Lyra's wetness fell onto his nose and he went rigidly still for a second.  A small spurt of pre-cum sprayed out onto her paws as he brought her lower and closer.  Growling menacingly, Mortimer slung her over his shoulder, and walked over to the table he had been sitting at, where he roughly tossed Lyra onto her back over it.  
	The impact knocked the breath from Lyra's lungs and made her wings ache as they were pinned awkwardly beneath her.  Still trying to catch her breath, she felt her ankles grabbed, and jerked up and apart, baring her pussy.  Mortimer leaned in, taking another deep breath of her tangy young scent.  For just a moment, he hesitated, then buried his tongue into her waiting depths.  The rough treatment didn't change anything at all, except maybe to make her hornier still.  She moaned out in pleasure as Mort's tongue reached deep inside, hitting many of her most sensitive spots.
	Lyra's breath began to hitch in her chest, the discomfort in her wings forgotten as she felt orgasm approach, but just as she felt she must go over the edge, Mortimer drew back.  His tongue left her, leaving a disturbing, aching need deep inside.  She begged, whimpering in distress from being denied release.  She wasn't sure if Mort had done it on purpose, or if he simply did not care in this state.  But whatever it was, it was driving her crazy.  She thrust her hips up, and it met with his cock.  It startled her.  His cock was hot; hotter than normal.  It felt like an iron rod, freshly pulled from the forge being pressed into her.  He ground forcefully against her sensitive vagina.    It was almost to much.  Again and again, Mortimer pushed his penis against her, dripping copious amounts of pre-cum over them both, adding to the slippery mess that their mashed pelvic fur was becoming.
	Mortimer suddenly released her ankles, and in one fluid motion, pulled back, aimed his throbbing cock with his hips and slammed it home.  It reached deep; deeper than Lyra ever remembered it going before, bumping painfully against her cervical ring.  He thrust quickly a few times, then leaned over her and bit her shoulder.  She cried out in shock, and a little pain as blood welled up from the punctures and trickled from between his teeth.  He began thrusting again, hard and fast, rutting like an animal and paying no attention to the mix of pained squeaks and pleasured cries of his willing victim.  He panted long, hot, heavy breaths into the fur on her neck and shoulder as his tongue lapped greedily at the trickle of blood pooling in his maw.
	The deep, cervix bruising thrusts quickly grew heavier as they slowed down.  With each wet slap of his pelvic bone meeting her burning, soaking pussy, he slowed further, and pushed just a little harder into her sacred place.  Finally, Mort slammed in one last time, letting out a loud, animalistic grunt.  Lyra could feel it push painfully against her cervix, spreading it slowly as it his strength overwhelmed the small muscle.  Deep inside, Lyra felt her orgasm fast approaching, in spite of the pain of the intrusion.  At long last, the muscle unclenched, and allowed him all the way inside.  She stretched wide around his tip, and finally at rest, felt him release.  And what a release it was.  Never had she felt anything quite like it, except for when using her shower head to fill her needy cunny.  But this was so much better; it pulsed into her in waves, filling her with warmth.  Even though Mort was now motionless above her, the feeling of his cock throbbing in her passage, the thought of him spilling what had to be over quadruple the normal amount of seed into her pushed her over the edge.  Her passage, stretched tight around his unusually swollen breeding tool, convulsed.  It was both pleasurable and uncomfortable, her vaginal passage clamping down on something that was a little bigger than was meant to fit in her.  His seed filled her, hot, like molten lead.  
	At last, Mortimer let out a long, shuddering sigh, and released Lyra's shoulder.  His eyes were glassy, tongue lolling out and he collapsed backwards into the chair behind him, his swollen cock rapidly deflating.  
	Lyra felt a rivulet of cum dribble out from her lightly stretched cervix as she sat up, and it began to trickle out of her and down her thigh as she sat there and watched Mort panting on the couch.  A small pool of their shared juices formed under her as she sat there and stretched her wings, thinking.  She had never seen Mort like that before.  It was true he tended to be a bit rough, but he never seemed so out of control, so thoughtless to her own pleasure as that.  Watching him, she saw his breathing gradually slow down, until he was softly snoring there on the armchair.  He continued to shrink a little more, until he looked exactly as she remembered him.  Behind her, Lyra heard the upper mezzanine door open, and the soft leathery rustling of her fathers wings as he entered.
	“What on earth did you do?” Patrick asked.
	“Me?  I didn't do anything!”  Lyra exclaimed defensively.  “He showed me that he was actually a former human though.  I don't know how I feel about that.”
	“From the smell, I'm going to say you rather enjoyed it.” Patrick said dispassionately, sniffing at the air.
	“Yeah, I suppose so.  But I'm going to be sore for awhile.” Lyra responded dreamily.  “Is that normal for Lycanthropes?”
	“It is, if they haven't transformed for awhile. Mort here hasn't transformed since you were born, but that was more his distaste for his old human form than our wishes.  So, why did he transform?  He was already in were-form when the moon rose this evening, so the moon should've had very little effect on him.” Patrick said.
	“It was for our lesson.  I didn't believe him when he said he was there for the human-lycanthrope war, so he proved that he was a Lycanthrope.  But dad, nothing lives that long.  How is Mort still alive?”  Lyra asked.
	“Well, it's because of the disease.  It makes the afflicted borderline immortal.  He's over four-thousand years old now, but has aged less than a decade.  Conservative estimates say he has aged only four.”
	“But then why isn't everyone like that then?  Aren't we all descended from Lycanthropes?”
	“It's because it changed us, and we changed it.  We evolved symbiotically with it over hundreds of generations.  It's not really even a disease anymore, though we all carry it.  It's part of our biology now, and we can't live without it.  Mort is very slowly getting closer to that, but it is far slower to progress than how it effected individuals over time as they were born with it, then passed it on to their cubs.”
	“Ah, I see,” Lyra said, having a bit of trouble wrapping her head around the time-frame that Mortimer had been like this.
	“My question is; why didn't he send you to your room?  He knows he gets like that when he changes back, and he knows that his loss of control could've hurt you, or caused you to hurt him.  I'm going to have to speak to him about this.”
	Finally slipping off the table, aided by the copious emissions coating it, turned away from Mort to face her father.  She struck a defensive pose, but the effect was marred by the seepage.  “It wasn't his fault, Daddy,” Lyra said.  “It was mine.  He did send me to my room, and he double checked to make sure I wasn't hanging around.”
	“I see then that you were hanging around, because you knew he checked.”
	“Yes,” Lyra said sheepishly, large ears flushing.  
	“So then, if he checked and caught you, am I then to assume you used your magic to land yourself in this predicament?”
	Lyra looked away ashamedly, and mumbled.
	“What was that sweetheart?  Speak up, I couldn't hear you,” Patrick said, even though he could hear her perfectly well.
	“I said, 'yes, I did'.” Lyra responded dejectedly.
	“I shouldn't be so lenient on you considering you abuse of your power, but I'm going to let this slide, since no one got hurt, and Mort couldn't be considered wholly responsible for his actions.  However, you know that what you did was wrong, Lyra, and I expected better than that from you.”  Lyra laid her ears flat, and her normally perky demeanor evaporated as the disappointment veritably dripped from her fathers statement.  She kind of wished she had been punished instead of being spoken to; the disappointment in his voice cut through her like a knife, straight to her heart.
	“Yes, Daddy,” Lyra said to the floor, her head hanging.
	“Now, go to your room, and get cleaned up.  I was going to give you a test today, but now I won't have time; I have errands to run, and can't wait for you to finish cleaning.  Therefore, you shall remain in your room for the rest of the night in lieu of a grounding.  You will behave for Mort while I am gone.”
	“Yes Daddy,”  Lyra said again, also to the floor, where she watched her shame pooling on the rich, red carpet.
	Patrick approached his daughter, and put a single clawed finger under her chin and lifted it to look her in her eyes.  “Hey, sweetheart, cheer up.  We all let our curiosity get the better of us sometimes.  But Mort, like myself, have your best interests at heart, even if we can be a bit stifling sometimes.  We warn you of things like this, and punish you when you don't listen because we care, okay Lyra?”
	“Yes, Daddy,” Lyra said, a little less miserable now.  Patrick opened his wings wide, and Lyra leaned into her father, hugging him.  He wrapped her up, and swung her around in a tight circle.  She managed to giggle a little as a trail of juices could be heard dripping softly onto the carpet and her farther.  Patrick set her back down, licked the seepage from his fur, then leaned in and gave her a kiss on her lips.  Lyra tried to deepen it so she could taste the mixed flavors of herself, Mortimer and her father, but he gently rebuffed her.
	“No, none of that right now.  Time to go get yourself cleaned up.  And tomorrow, I want this all cleaned and repaired before you go anywhere, kapiche?” Patrick sad sternly.
	“Yes, Daddy,” Lyra responded one last time, before heading to the door.  Before pulling it shut behind her, she cast a quick look behind her to check that Mort was okay.  Nothing had changed, other than that her father was now standing directly over Mort.  She left, pulling the door shut behind her, and retreated to her room.

	The next evening, Lyra awoke early.  So early, the sun was still wholly above the horizon, if only just.  She put on a pair of shades and looked out her window to watch the sun set for awhile.  As she watched the sun slowly sink below the horizon, she thought eagerly about her meeting with Landon the previous day.  'What a strange puppy,' she thought.
	A soft knock at the door startled Lyra.  How had she not heard the pawsteps coming?  Shaking her head, Lyra called out over her shoulder, “Come in.”
	The door opened to reveal the form of Mortimer.  “Good evening, Lyra,”  He said.  “How are you feeling today?”
	Lyra could hear the faint stressing of the word feeling, and knew what he meant.  “I'm fine, thanks.  You?”
	“Mildly annoyed, to be perfectly honest.  But I am grateful neither of us were injured.”  Mortimer crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame before continuing.  “I know your father already spoke to you, and I'm not interested in beating a dead person, so I'm just going to leave it at this:  One of us could've been hurt, because you disobeyed me.  I know I work for you, as well as Patrick, but I am also still in charge of you, at his direction.  And you get up to plenty of naughty hi-jinks without having to disobey an order like that.  I'm disappointed in you, Lyra.”  His voice, all serious, suddenly took on a more coy note, “Now, be a good girl, and go clean up my cum stains.”  Lyra turned completely from the window, removing her shades, and pouted at him.  He broke into a laugh as he turned and left.  
	“I thought it was the butlers job to do the cleaning!”  Lyra called half-heartedly after him, but Mort gave no indication that he had heard as his tail whipped out of sight around the corner of her door frame.  Lyra knew she was at fault, but she seethed a little anyway.  Sighing unhappily, she turned back to the sun, which had nearly set.  Since it was now mostly hidden behind the forest from whence Landon had retreated, and the horizon to which the forest spread, she left off the shades.  She squinted.  It was still painfully bright, but not so bad if she didn't look right at it.  The pinks and purples of the sunset were gorgeous, and so were the trees, blurred as they were by the distance.  Lyra turned away a moment later and grabbed a wash cloth from her bathroom, along with a bottle of cleaner.  She left her room and headed straight into the library.  
	Inside, Lyra could smell the lingering fragrance of sex.  There was some splintering of the wood at the edges, no doubt from when he was gripping it prior to her intrusion and subsequent fucking.  Lyra put her wing to the damage, and focused on the memory of the table before the damage.  A sound of cracking wood, and some movement under her wing membranes could be felt.  When the sound stopped, she saw the table, good as new.  More towards the center of the table was a small pool of sexual fluids.  It wasn't much now, since it was dried up, but it was still not so inconsiderable.  It had also dripped down, over the edge and into the carpet below, where it had crusted nastily.  The smell coming from it was quite something.  Not to far away was another smaller patch, where she knew she had been standing speaking to her father while the copious fluids dripped from her.  Luckily, there didn't appear to be any further mess but for easily removed dried pre-cum from the leather seat Mortimer had been sitting on prior to her intrusion.
	She sprayed everything, then levitated the washcloth.  In quick circular motions, she scrubbed the seat, the table, and then the carpet free of the mess.  It took time and effort to clean the carpet, and by the time she was finished, sweat was beginning to seep into the fur on her forehead.  A single drop dripped down to the carpet as she looked critically at her cleaning job.  Pronouncing it clean, she stood up and stretched her cramping wings.  Lyra sniffed the air.  The scent of sex had faded away, now just a barely detectable whiff.  The smell of cleaners were likewise quite faint.  But there was another smell, one that she had missed.  It was a subtle scent, and had been buried under the heavier, muskier scents of male, cum, and feminine arousal.  It was light, but exotic.  But what bothered her was that she had smelled if before, and recently too.  But she just couldn't place it.  She shook her head.  No matter.  I wasn't important.
	Lyra quickly ran to her room, eager to grab breakfast and leave.  Landon was on her mind, and she wanted to see the pup again.  She threw the used cloth into her hamper, and placed the cleaner in the cupboard under the sink before rushing down the three flights of stairs separating her from the kitchen.  Passing her fathers study on the second floor, she heard him call out, “Where are you off to in such a rush?  Did you do your cleaning?”
	“Yes Daddy!”  Lyra called out, already gliding down the next fight of stairs.  She heard the distinct sound of a large book being closed and her father exiting the study behind her.  
	“Hey, don't you think you are forgetting something?”  Patrick called down to his daughters rapidly retreating back.  Lyra froze mid step down on the first floor landing.  Turning around, she ran back up, flapping her wings for balance in her haste.  She flew into her father, and hugged him tightly.  “I love you sweetheart.  Have fun wherever you are going.  And be sure to be back before midnight.  I want to do my test with you after dinner.” 
	“I love you too, Daddy,”  Lyra responded affectionately.  “I will.”  
	Stepping back, Patrick kneeled down.  “And where are you off to, so quickly?”
	“To the park!”  Lyra said, excitedly.  “I met the cutest, shyest wolf pup yesterday, and he said he'd meet me at the park again tonight.”
	“Ah, I see.  Invite him over for dinner tonight, so we can meet him.”
	“I tried doing that last night, but he declined.”  Lyra's face fell slightly, remembering the pups odd behavior when they departed.  But it lit up again, knowing that he would be there tonight, and she could ask him about it.
	“Hm.  Alright.  Well, let the invitation stand.  He is welcome if he should ever take you up on the offer.”
	“Okay, Daddy.”  Giving her father a quick kiss, she departed back down the last stair case, jumping and flapping down the last few to save a precious few seconds. 
	Past the stairs, Lyra careened around the corner, down the hall, and burst into the kitchen.  Her sudden entrance startled Mortimer and Hanna, the cook, who were deep in conversation.  Hanna was startled by Lyra's abrupt entrance.  She stomped once, and her large, broad tail came up as a natural warning, but she lowered it again sheepishly.
	The light from the chandelier glistened off of Hanna's immaculately kept black and white fur as she turned and greeted Lyra.  “Goodness, Lyra, you startled me!” she said, turning around to face her.  Mortimer put a paw over his muzzle to conceal his snickering behind her back.   “There is some fresh baked cinnamon raisin bread with almond butter for breakfast this morning.”  Hanna said, pointing over to the serving table. 
	“Thank you Hanna!”  Lyra said to her, zooming over to the serving counter and grabbing a couple of buttered slices.  She bit into the bread and was washed away in the wave of flavor.  “I still don't know why you sprayed your boss at your old job, but I'm sure glad you did and Daddy found you.  You make the best breakfasts!”
	“Thank you dear, and maybe sometime, I'll tell you about why that old bastard had it coming.”  Hanna winked, not at all put off by the lack of tact in the face of the glowing reception of the breakfast she had made.  
	Muzzle filled with bread, Lyra waved her wing at Mort and Hanna.  “Seaf yewl layther!”
	“Have fun, Lyra.  I'll see you when you get home,”  Mort said, chuckling at her apparent eagerness to be gone.