Kindred

Chapter 1- The Wayward Inn
Aging oak floorboards creaked beneath my heavy paws as I stepped inside the threshold of the destination I’d so wearily wandered towards for near on a week’s travel now.  They felt good beneath my frozen pads, the well-worn, charming scars of so many other claws embedded deep in the memory of this place.  Much like the many rings of scarred tattoos along my forearms, they marked the years this structure had seen.  A sign I’d glimpsed between puffs of cold air and the ongoing flurries outside proudly declared ‘The Wayward Inn’ in four different languages.  One was Amurescan, the other were three local tribal dialects.  It had immediately put me at ease, because one of them was close enough to my own.  I could read Amurescan too by now, but it was a comfort to know I was welcome.  I’d been recommended this trade post, and indeed this particular Inn, but one never knows.  We Northerners are not always greeted with open arms, not even in border towns like this.  Not since the Otherwolves’ settlements had become more numerous than our own.
But from the moment I stepped inside, I knew that would be no issue here.  I’d caught the cacophony of voices, sounds and scents from outside, the windows were at least an inch thick of glass (necessary with the cold in these regions, if you were going to risk glass at all) but even that hadn’t dampened the noise.  And of course, the chimneys had been venting various enticing odors, grilled meat and bread, probably some kind of stew. . . my mouth was watering already.  Hardly odd for me, but still.  I thought to wipe my jowls before I stepped in.  Big slavering bears made people nervous, even in a place like this.
Much to my delight, I drew nary a glance.  A few wolves and foxes were engaged in a rowdy game of cards at the table immediately to the right of the door, but only the foxes spared me the briefest of nervous looks before flicking their tails and getting right back into the argument they had previously been engaged in.  It looked like a traveling party of some sort, no real animosity there, just a lot of beer and friendly competition.  
My gaze swept the crowded, cluttered dining area, taking in another two dozen or so patrons and at least half a dozen servers, as well as two dogs tending a busy bar.  Proudly displayed along the walls were moose, caribou and great stag antlers, butting up against shelves of glittering canned food and a menagerie of wines and liquor, as varied as the guests staying here.  The proprietors clearly liked to have a broad variety of food and drink for what was certain to be a broad variety of guests, in a trade hub like this.  Anukeetsik, or as it had been recently renamed, ‘Kingsdale’, (don’t ask me to explain Otherwolf names, they’re all strange to me) was just down river from the Long God Lake, one of the greatest bodies of water in the North Country.  It connected via another great river to the ocean, eventually.  Or so I’d heard.  I’d never been so far east.
On the way here I’d seen some of the Otherwolves’ mighty canoes.  They called them ‘barges’, and it was no wonder with such a mastery of the rivers they had come so far inland and settled so much land as fast as they had.  My tribe hailed from much farther north, so we’d never suffered the ill effects of their incursion, only benefited from trade.  And for a fisherman in particular, especially in the winter when I could move frozen fish from far north to the traders here, there was no better time or place to do said trade.  I’d offloaded my entire month’s catch of salmon in a night, the Otherwolves were hungry for any fish that could be salted for their seafarers.  And everyone else in this region had cod. . . my catch was exotic here.
It had been a gamble, to be certain.  I’d come down the river many times before, but never towing such a haul on my raft, and never so far as this.  I’d been lucky and only gotten locked in the ice a few days’ time, for the most part the river spirits had led me on safely.  But if worst had come to worst, I could have hunkered down and lived off my catch through the winter and tried again next season.  That’s what I’d told my family, anyway.
	Of course, I was a bear.  I could well understand why my father and siblings, and anyone from my village, would find the journey I’d taken too dangerous.  They were otters.  Not to say I’d be in any doubt of their skills at negotiating the river, or bringing in a good haul during the spawning run.  But as to whether they’d have been able to transport their haul safely. . . that’s less certain. 
	I’d definitely drawn a lot of attention, traveling for weeks down-river, alone as I was with such a large raft.  But although there had been a few times I’d felt less than comfortable with the sorts of people I’d passed, or the attention I’d gotten at the various stops and camps I’d made, no one had apparently felt up to the task of making trouble for me.  And the reason for that was simple.  I’d met very few other men, even in my travels, who could rival me in size.  Even other bears.
	That was thanks primarily to my mixed lineage, split between two of the largest bear tribes from our country.  A turn of fate that had nearly doomed a young cub was now my saving grace.  And a boon for my otter family, if this run continued successfully.  I’d already sold my catch earlier today, the weight of the coins in my satchel were a comforting reminder of my success, and what it would mean for my family.  I’d spend a few days here, rest and eat well, and then I’d re-supply and head back upriver as far as I could before the ice really set.  I already had a halfway point picked out, a town I’d stopped in on the way down where I knew I could hire a guide and a few good mules, and I’d make the rest of my way back home on foot.  My clan was waiting for me.  The season had been good to us, and we were self-sufficient if pressed, but the coin would be a welcome relief.  The influx of the Otherwolves’ goods into our lands had made life easier in many ways, the little ones in particular certainly enjoyed some of the foodstuffs we were able to buy from their traders. 
	But it also meant that, in a way, you had to keep up.  I couldn’t help thinking on that as I walked through this obviously Otherwolf-owned establishment.  The foreign canines from across the sea, not quite like the wolves from our lands, had brought many things that had changed the landscape of our world.  The first of our hunters had bought a rifle last year, primarily for hunting.  Otters mostly fished, but a little variation in our winter meat had been welcome this past year.  Usually we had to barter with wolves for it, and those trades were never in our favor.  Fish weren’t much in demand in a land so rich with them.  
	The hunting aside though, things changed once we had a gun in our clan.  The wolves began to look at us differently.  At first it had seemed a good thing.  They weren’t fearful, but. . . respectful in a way they hadn’t been before.  A similar change had come about when I’d come of age, towering over my brothers and sisters, and eventually even my father.  The neighboring tribes had to take stock then of our clan’s ‘big brother’. 
	Weapons change things.  Weapons you’ve never had before can change a lot.  Like a big bear amongst a tribe of otters. . . or a gun.
It’s not that my tribe had ever been at war with anyone, at least not in my lifetime, but otters were often the meat-eaters of ‘smallest regard’, as my father liked to put it.  Even the fox clans, who kept close relations with the wolves, were invited to the tribal gathers, whereas we hadn’t been in nearly a generation.  Otter chiefs like my father used to be the lords of the rivers, but that had changed once the Otherwolves came with their barges.  So I suppose in a way their incursion was having an effect on us, if not a completely devastating one.  It was changing the landscape.
But now, with the trappings these foreigners had brought, my father thought our best chance was to adapt to the new changes in our world.  To ride the current forward, he had said.  Not fight it, not paddle hopelessly backwards, like some of the other clans were doing.  He wanted us to adopt as many of the new things coming into our lands as we could.  So we had been trading as much as possible, we had welcomed many of them into our village, to varying degrees of success.  We had allowed a small town of them to settle along our river, and offered our hand in friendship.  And we had bought a rifle. 
	But then the wolves got guns of their own.
	We weren’t the only ones adapting.  It was inevitable, of course.  I had never fired one of their weapons, traveled on one of their barges or used any of their complicated tools, but I’d eaten some of their food and helped build a structure on our clan’s land using their ‘bricks’, and there was no denying that their strange ways were seductive.  I’d never forget the ‘apple pie’ they’d brought us.  Oh. . . maybe they had that here?
Before the travelers from across the sea had come, this land had been a more varied place, that was for certain.  It was swiftly becoming a country for canines.  One glance around this Inn verified what I’d until now only heard the elders speaking of in hushed tones.  On the surface, the two different groups of canines looked to be the same people, although I’d heard you weren’t supposed to say that to the wolf clans.  Amongst themselves they drew a very serious distinction.  But there was no denying that the wolves from our lands, and the ‘Otherwolves’ who’d come in recent generations to colonize and settle in our territory. . . they were made from the same stock.  They could even intermarry and have pups, I’d heard.
	My father was intent to get ahead while we still could.  And bringing home a good share of their coin was key, if we wanted to do that.  The Otherwolves who lived on our river were willing to trade in goods, but our fish sold for far more here than it ever would up north.  And it was high time I began repaying my father’s, and my clan’s kindness in taking me in as a cub.  So if this is how I could serve my clan, I was happy to do it.
	It also meant I got to travel, which I was finding I greatly enjoyed.  In the last month, I’d seen more people than I’d ever seen in my life.  And that was just between home and a few towns along the way.  This place was the biggest town yet, and I’d only seen it at night so far!  I couldn’t wait to see how lively it would be tomorrow.  
	The Wayward Inn was lively enough on its own.  I had to push aside a few chairs as I made my way towards the bar, as in many dwellings I’d been in before, there just wasn’t always enough room for me to walk about without pushing things over.  A serving girl- a pretty weasel, I couldn’t help but note how she somewhat reminded me of some of the women in my clan – moved past me with a tray of bread held high, the aroma wafting right past my nostrils and setting me to licking my lips again.  She glanced briefly in my direction and I blanched, caught in the act.  I lowered my muzzle and nearly stumbled past her, and I swear I heard her giggling.
	The majority of the patrons here were canine, of course.  Tribal wolves and Otherwolves, the latter mostly recognizable by what they were wearing, their odd fur coloration, and in some cases, their bizarre features.  The more of them I’d seen, the more confusing the variety.  Their pelts were spotted, brindled and even short-furred sometimes, and their muzzles were often pushed in or drooping.  As were their ears.  I tried very hard not to stare, but you get used to seeing wolves looking one way your whole life, and it’s hard not to be shocked when your whole perception of them changes.
	I was hardly one to speak on looking odd, of course.  My own pelt was strange, even amongst the Great Northern bear clan I had likely come from.  My father- my adoptive father- had always told me they’d lived in the peaks near our clan’s land for generations, before the Ice Bears had driven them out.  They’d gone too, in time.  The Bear clans did not get on well with the Otherwolves, and even the Ice Bears, despite their size, had fared poorly in their skirmishes with the armed Otherwolf communities.  Again, rifles made all the difference.
	My adoptive mother believed I was the child of a union between the two tribes of bears, before they’d been driven out.  But if that was the case, something terrible must have befallen my parents, because my father’s clan had found me clinging to a fallen tree in the river when I was a cub.
	For my own part, I could remember none of it.  But I’d seen Great Northern bears and even one Ice Bear, and it was clear I carried the bloodline of both.  My fur was not pure and white like the Ice Bears, my undercoat was brown and cream-colored in places, especially along my spine and flanks, as well as my muzzle and eyes.  And my muzzle was shorter, like the Great Northern bears.  
	I had never known to be conscious of my appearance, because my family had never made me feel as though it were something to be ashamed of.  But since I’d reached adulthood and begun traveling to fish, and now to trade, I’d learned that to many others, I was. . . not normal.  And that it was shameful, at least to them, that I was not normal.
	It seemed strange to me that in a world so full of such a variety of people, something as small as a brown stripe down my back, or a muzzle that wasn’t quite like other bears’, would be something of ridicule.  But I’d gotten a taste of what it was that unnerved them all when I’d seen my first Otherwolf with a pushed-in muzzle.  Just like how I was used to seeing wolves looking one way, the world was used to bears looking a certain way.  And I didn’t fit that.
	It made me mindful even now, not to stare.  And not to think ill.  I wouldn’t want them to feel as I had on many occasions, when I knew someone was staring at me and thinking how strange I was.  
	So when I at last made it to the bar and the woman who greeted me was a stocky Otherwolf with spots over her eyes and muzzle, a short, wrinkly face and small flopped-over ears, I smiled at her and pushed aside my thoughts on what wolves ‘should’ look like.  It wasn’t even that hard.
	“Ain’t you a big fella!”  She exclaimed with a broad, jowly grin.  She finished wiping a tankard in her paws with her apron and put it on the counter for me, gesturing behind her to the various barrels and bottles.  “What’ll be your pleasure, love?”
	I gave an easy smile, instantly won over by her pleasant tone and round, kind features.  “Mead, if you’ve any,” I asked.  “Please?”
	“ ‘Ow’d I know!”  She barked out a laugh, turning and gripping the tankard to empty the sweet-smelling, frothing drink from one of her barrels.  She filled it to the brim and then some, pouring with care to avoid any spill or frothing over.  “You’re new in town,” she noted as I gripped my drink and brought it to my muzzle, greedy for the brew after so long on the river with nothing but water to drink.
	“Just came in off the river,” I said after I drained the tankard down by half.  “Got in a bit later than I was expecting, I was surprised how busy the market was despite that.”
	“Oh tha’place never shuts down,” she chuckled, wiping her hands on her damp apron.  “But most’a the rush should be comin’ in from there shortly.”
	I glanced around.  “It gets busier than this?”
	She just gave me that broad grin again.  “Oh, sweetha’t.  You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
	She wasn’t jesting.  An hour later I’d received my dinner, a welcome break from fish, a whole round loaf of bread, a thick slab of butter and roasted venison, and the place was alive.  I don’t think I’d ever been anywhere so crowded or so loud.  Many of the folks I’d seen earlier in the waning hours must have ended their day at the market and come here for spirits, dinner and company.  Most were drinking, many were enjoying bread, butter and cheese, but far fewer could afford meat, I noticed.  This was a buying season down here, I had to remind myself, not a selling one.  Many of these men would be taking to the river or the roads moving their merchandise tomorrow.  Winter was sweeping down in from the mountains and it was likely that very few people here would be heading further north, like I was planning.
	It just meant I should enjoy my time here while I could.  My Amurescan was decent, but I wasn’t usually one for talking to strangers. . . but I could watch, take in the sights, and have many stories to tell when I got home.
	More card games had erupted throughout the bustling tables, and I’d briefly entertained the idea of entering one, but dismissed it as irresponsible outright.  My father wouldn’t have approved of gambling, especially not with the coin I intended to bring home to my clan.  I mean, I was my own man now, nearing twenty years in fact, so it wasn’t just that I was afraid what he’d think of me if he knew I’d partaken in the Otherwolves’ vices.  I just wasn’t that bold.  Maybe later, I thought, I’d work up the courage to meander over to where a few of the bigger lads were arm wrestling.  That, at least, was a far surer bet.
	A lanky coyote had sat himself down near the fire awhile back and begun playing some kind of string instrument I’d seen once or twice now in the Otherwolf communities.  It was sharp and plucky, with a hint of melancholy now and again depending on which songs he played.  I liked it after a while, although it took some getting used to.
	The nice woman at the bar had gotten far too busy to continue any kind of conversation with, although she did periodically check on me to ensure I got as much mead as I needed.  I’d drained my fourth tankard and was feeling pleasantly full and fuzzy when a sudden hoot caught my attention.  
	I turned in time to see a coyote woman taking to the floor with some kind of rough-furred big cat, a stocky man in well-worn clothing and thinning suspenders stretched over his broad chest.  He took her by the arm and spun her once, and another few of those hoots went up throughout the crowd, as the coyote playing the instrument cackled and stomped his foot, and the music suddenly picked up to a more excited pace.
	They were dancing, I realized.  Before long a few of the other men joined in on the stomping, and one of the women I’d seen earlier serving bread unstrapped her smock and stepped out with a lean young wolf, who began to move with her like the other couple were.  It was a lot of quick turns and intermittently holding hands before clapping along to the furiously sawing string instrument.  I wished I knew what to call. . . well, all of it.  But regardless, it was engaging.  I couldn’t look away.
	So it happened that, when he entered the room, taking his time down a staircase I’d seen earlier but not taken much note of until now, I was looking in his direction.  Otherwise I might have lost him amongst the crowd.
	On the surface he wasn’t much different than many of the Otherwolves here.  A bit shorter, slighter of frame, with primarily dark fur except in a quasi-mask around his features and a flash of white down his throat.  His paws were lighter as well, and I think I saw a white tail-tip.  But it was more the clothing he wore that caught my eye.  Nearly every man here, Otherwolf or tribal man, had come into this place wearing layers.  Many of them were heaped in furs, or old leather coats or cloaks.  Since it was practically blazing inside with so many furred bodies, the ovens going and a roaring fire in the center of the room, most were stripped down to threadbare, worn cotton shirts, or just the fur on their chests.  This wolf had a long, dark coat and a forest green vest, the white cuffs of a long shirt, and breeches beneath it, and he hadn’t come from outside. 
	But it wasn’t just the fact that he wore dyed, well-fitted clothing that caught my eye.  Clutched in one hand was a head covering. . . a hat. . . of a type I’d never seen before.  I had to assume it was a hat, anyway, based on the ear holes.  It was almost like a small bucket, black and with a rim, which is where he was gripping it by.  
	He seemed as intrigued by the dancing as I was, as he slowly picked his way through the crowd past it.  Well, intrigued might not be the right word.  Maybe more ‘baffled’.  Still, I think I saw him smile a bit.
	By the time it became clear that he was heading for the bar, I had to remember myself and look away.  I was doing the ‘staring’ thing again, and if I didn’t stop now I wouldn’t.  His eyes in particular were striking, and I felt them etched in my eyelids even after I averted my gaze.  I dropped my gaze back to my food and brought the haunch of venison back to my muzzle, trying to look more interested in my food than him.  It mostly worked.
	But then, suddenly, he was beside me.  Not in my personal space, mind you, he’d just found a place to squeeze himself up against the bar that happened to be at my side, and it became even harder than before to ignore him.  Especially when he deposited that hat on the bar right beside me.
	I figured at that point I was permitted to look sideways, at least at the hat.  It was fascinating up-close, although much like its’ owner. . . more ragged than I’d thought from far away.  The man’s clothing altogether both looked and smelled of the road, his fine garments fraying at the edges and stained in places.  And the musk about him was not much different than most of the other canines here.  Just from a cursory sniff, he smelled tired and a little damp.  For some reason, that set me more at ease.  He was just another traveler.
	The bartender noticed him and padded on over towards us, greeting him with a familiar “Finn!  ‘Aven’t seen you since breakfast.  You been up there all day?”
	“My business can be a cruel mistress, I’m afraid,” he said in a surprisingly deep voice, with an accent I couldn’t quite place.  He was speaking Amurescan, but not like any man I’d heard before.   One of his hand paws was resting on the bar very close to mine, and I chanced a glance at it, something out of the corner of my eye making me take note.  His fingers were stained.  With what I couldn’t say, but it seemed dark.  Like soot.
	“Thas’unfortunate,” the bartender tutted at him.  “Y’ought to get yourself a proper mistress who’ll treat you right.  Keep you up all night’n’day for the right reasons.”
	He laughed at that.  “Perhaps.  Once my work is done, anyway.  I think a proper mistress would prefer a man dedicated to his work above a lazy one, wouldn’t you say?”
	“Aye but you need t’make some time for livin’, love,” she said as she pulled a glass from behind the counter and filled it with something from a pale brown bottle. 
	He took the glass in one paw and downed whatever the spirits had been in a gulp, before setting it back down and giving a sigh.  “Soon,” he promised.  “Soon, I’ll. . . be done. . . .”
	Something about his tone caught my attention and I finally turned to look at him completely.  He’d turned away from me, from the bartender as well at that, and his eyes had gone as distant as his tone.  He was staring off into the crowd near the door, it seemed like.  I would have had to crane my head entirely around, which would’ve necessitated moving my whole body to the side, so I couldn’t see what he was seeing.  But I knew the scent I caught from him just then.
	Fear.
	“D’you need me to get you more ink from town?”  The bartender asked him, clearly oblivious to his sudden change of mood while she poured me more mead.  
	“Yes, please,” the man said quietly, “I’m nearly. . . out. . . .”
	Just like that, he’d risen from his seat and folded himself into the crowd, surprising both me and the bartender.  All I caught was the white tail-tip as he shimmied between a raucous gaggle of badgers and was gone.
	“And he’s off again,” the bartender sighed, leaning down to scritch at something she had beneath the counter.  “Put that’un on his tab too, I guess.”
	My eyes were drawn to my left, specifically down by where his hand had been resting on the counter.  “Do you know where he’s going?”  I asked.
	“What, Finn?”  She snorted out a breath, shaking her head.  “He comes’n goes since he got here.  Spends most o’his time in his room.  Some kind of writer, ah think.  Or he fancies himself one, anyway.”  She glanced back up at me.  “Why?”
	“He forgot his hat,” I said, lifting it in one hand.

Chapter 2 – A Tussle

	Sometimes I do things I can’t well explain after the fact.  Foolish things.  I dare say, even stupid things.  Most of the time I’m a fairly deliberate person, my whole family says so.  ‘Tulimak is a good boy’, they’d say.  ‘Always my most obedient son’, my father would say often while deliberately glaring at my otter brothers.  The twins are good boys too, of course.  Just not always as willing to listen to our father as I am.
	I wouldn’t say I’m a complicated person, either.  I tend towards being obedient I suppose, trying to do right by my family and most other living souls in the world because. . . well, because I don’t see a reason not to.  I hate fighting, I don’t like arguing and even being the cause of frustration can make me nervous.  And when I get nervous, my stomach hurts.  Sometimes if it lasts too long, I can even get so nervous, I grow sick.  So why would I ever make trouble?  It just doesn’t seem worth it.  I don’t honestly understand why so many other people in the world are so angry all the time.  Even if they’re one of those people who don’t care about others, don’t they realize how bad it is for them?
	I’m not a troublemaker.  But sometimes, for reasons I can’t explain, I do things that get me in trouble.  This night was to be one of those times.
	If I had to trace my impulse back to one thing, it would probably have been his eyes.  It isn’t just that they were pretty, although I do like pretty things more than a big bear should.  It was more that they seemed so. . . tired.  Drawn.  Aching.  
I fell down a cliffside once when I was a toddling cub, it’s one of my first memories in fact.  My otterfa – my father, couldn’t help me get back up.  Even then, I was too heavy for him to carry, at least while climbing.  I had to claw my way back up that steep, rocky hillside, out of the gorge and back up to where my family was calling to me and encouraging me.  My father helped me as much as he could, and in the end I obviously made it, but I remember being so tired.  The exhaustion, the way my little limbs burned and hurt for days afterwards, that’s what stuck with me the most.  That and the knowledge that while my family would support me as much as they could, there were some times in life I would simply have to, by necessity, pull my own weight.  Both their strength and my own had been essential that day.
	That man, ‘Finn’ the woman behind the bar had called him, had that same sort of exhaustion about him.  I can’t say exactly that it had been something I’d felt through one sense in particular, it was more an overall feeling.  And for some reason it had brought back that memory.  That particular one.
	Maybe I wanted to reach out.  Help him up whatever cliff he was struggling to climb.  I know that sounds overly poetic, but hear me out.  Even in this crowded, busy place, he seemed alone, apart from the rest of the people here.  His dress was different, his affect unlike the people here, even his accent noticeably foreign.  He looked and felt like someone who needed help.
Or maybe it was that whiff of fear I’d caught on him.  It was distinctly that, not apprehension or something else more subtle.  Fear had a very sharp prickle to it that made you scrunch your nose back.  I had no idea what it was he’d been looking at when he’d quietly slipped back into the crowd.  But whatever it was had aroused his fear so quickly, I’d caught scent of it without even trying.  Even now, I felt some of my fur standing on end.  This was mortal fear, the same as you’d pick up on the wind of prey you’re hunting.
	I turned the rim of his hat over in my big paw-pads, looking over the smooth, velvet-clad curves of the odd object.  A long line of the fabric was torn and blistering near the edges, and there were a few pockmarked stains.  The underside of the rim felt worn and tacky.  It was well-used now to be certain, but it had definitely been expensive once.  By my best guess, anyway.  That only furthered my worries.  He’d left it behind.  He’d been in such a hurry, he’d left this costly, obviously well-loved possession behind.
	Maybe it was for my own sake, the hat after all provided my best excuse to get to know someone in this strange and interesting place.  Or maybe I honestly just liked his eyes, and wanted to see him again.  But regardless of the reason, I gripped that hat in my paws, stepped down from my stool back onto the creaking floor, and began looking for him.
	Honestly, I thought it would be harder than it ended up being.  Given the crowded nature of this place, coupled with its age and all the various food and drink I was contending with, he would have been impossible to track by scent.  But I got lucky.  I’d made my way towards the staircase area, thinking perhaps he might have headed back to where I’d seen him descend from, (a silly thought really, if he’d gone back up the stairs I’d have seen him go).  But the staircase happened to be near the main doorway into the place, the threshold I’d crossed an hour earlier.
	His scent had been no more particular than most others here, and the profuse amount of canines didn’t help that any.  But his voice had been.  It was quieter near the door, the din of the establishment and clatter of tin cups and plates fading somewhat as I was drawn towards an unusual sight.  There was a crack of bluish-white, a sliver of cold slipping inside, and if I really cupped my ears forward, the hint of voices muffled by snow and wind.  The door had been left open.  The hostess must not have noticed yet.  
	One of the people talking outside was unmistakably him.  I couldn’t make out words, but he had a certain cadence to his voice.  And there again was that prickling hint of fear.  This time I could hear it.
	I paused at the door, paw on the cold handle.  That familiar feeling welled up inside me, that anxiety of being a nuisance.  Of intruding, causing drama or conflict where there might well be none.  Whatever was happening outside, whatever had caught this stranger’s attention and brought about his sudden flight from the bar- I couldn’t know what it was, but it most certainly was not my business.  And I couldn’t even make sense of my rationale for following him to begin with.
	I felt this way often, usually in less suspect situations, but it was generally why I didn’t speak much in public places, or introduce myself to new people.  When you’re the biggest, most cumbersome thing in your family, in your whole world, you learn to tread lightly.  I hated how much. . . space I took up, everywhere I went.  I didn’t need to be nosy or loud on top of that.
	But something about this night, this situation, just wouldn’t let go.  It’s like that feeling you get sometimes before the weather’s about to shift for the worst, or you feel an illness coming on.  Something wasn’t right.
	Pushing open the door, I stepped out into the night air.  The street was lit by flickering torchlight, covered in a downy coat of soft snow that furrowed up around my paws as I stepped off the stoop.  There were fresh tracks here, and more than just one set.  I hadn’t noticed in my moments of indecision at the bar, but a few of the patrons had clearly stepped outside, not just him.  They looked smaller than most canine pawprints, but not by much.  
	I breathed deeply, immediately catching the unmistakable scent of foxes.  I wasn’t much for tracking, but I hardly bothered taking heed of their numbers, I could hear their voices tucked between the inn and the building wedged up alongside it, a general store long closed for the evening.  There were at least three men speaking, maybe more.  That probably should have worried me more than it did.
	The worn hat clutched in one paw, I strode a bit more purposefully towards the edge of the building.  It was becoming more and more clear the closer I got that there was trouble afoot.  I’m not sure what my plan was when I rounded that corner, but at that point I was committed.  
	A sudden shout and a clamor of activity greeted me almost immediately.  I barely had time to open my mouth before a complete stranger- one of the foxes I vaguely remembered seeing inside earlier- stumbled backwards into my chest.  I barely felt the impact, but was stunned nonetheless and had begun to ask if he was alright, before I noticed the glint of something in his right hand.
	My fur stood on end.  He was holding a knife, and not one used for skinning or de-scaling fish like I had.  It was long and curved, with a barb that could only serve to do unnecessary damage.  I’d only ever seen its like before on warriors or marauders.
	Another two sets of eyes stared out at me from the darkness of the alley, catching the torchlight behind me.  My own eyes were still adjusting, but I could make out silhouettes.  One was canine, one another fox.  The fox stabbed a hand out in my direction, shouting, “Wot’re you now?!”
	I wasn’t sure how to answer that question, but in the time it took me to stammer out nothing, the fox who’d presumably been thrown into me got his footing, and swung his blade out in an arc in my direction.  It didn’t even come close to connecting, but I suspect the point was to frighten me back.  Which it did.
	“He’s boltin’!”  The one ahead of me shouted, and I lifted my muzzle to see the canine, whom I now could see for certain was the man I’d come out here to find, springing low beneath the clawing hands of the man who was yelling.  He managed to his credit to duck away from him, but the second man with the knife was still in his way.  I was, too.  It wasn’t exactly a wide alley.
	With a start, I realized the fox with the knife wasn’t just trying to block him, he had the weapon out with every intent to use it on him.  He swung it again, this time at the near-panicked canine, catching the edge of his coat and tearing off a button with an audible pop.  His hooked knife served its purpose, catching in the fabric.  He twisted his arm and half his lean body, managing to bring the canine lurching backwards, splayed out on the lightly snow-dusted ground.  He hit the dirt hard enough that I felt it in my tail bone.
	I hadn’t been in a whole lot of real fights in my life, so I can’t say I acted fast.  The reality was, I had no idea what was going on here. . . but I knew an unfair fight when I saw one.  And this wasn’t just some scuffle, the fox with the knife hadn’t just been aiming for his coat, someone could get seriously hurt or killed here.  Whatever this was over, it needed to stop.
	Taking a deep breath and summoning forth a roar I barely ever had cause to use, I bellowed, “Alright, enough!”
	The two foxes, one of whom at this point had the canine pinned down with one foot on his chest, the other of which was still brandishing the knife, froze in place.  I was glad at least that I still could have that effect on people.  I didn’t use my ‘bear voice’ often.
	“I asked who you were, stranger,” the darker-furred one who’d spoken earlier snarled out.  He pulled a knife as well in that moment, smaller and less intimidating than his friend’s, but no less lethal if he was any good with it.
	The other leaned over and yanked his knife out of the canine’s coat, ripping the jacket as he did so.  He stepped as far back from me as he could get in the cramped alley, licking a dripping nose and glancing worriedly past me.  “He was s’posed t’be alone. . .” he muttered, his voice thick with an obvious cold.
	“Look, whatever your disagreement,” I put my broad paws out, “it shouldn’t have to end in blood.”
	“That ain’t your place to determine, now is it?”  The dark-furred fox replied through his teeth.  “Now who’r-“
	“He was s’posed to be alone, Clay!”  The other fox interrupted manically, his back near against the wall now as he clearly made to move past me.  I was fine with that, so I gave him a little breathing room.  I was twice their size, but unarmed, and I didn’t want to fight them if I didn’t have to.
	The other fox cast him an irritated look and visibly pushed down with his foot, stamping the canine more firmly into the ground.  I heard him whimper, and the sound made me wince in sympathetic pain.  He must have hurt himself when he fell.
	“Let’s just talk this out, a’ight?  Don’t nothin’ unfortunate gotta happen,” the dark-furred fox said to me in a far calmer tone than his friend was managing.  He spread a paw out, the one not holding the knife.  “You on the hunt too, friend?  We can split the take.  I don’t like trouble with the Jackwalds.”
	I arched an eyebrow.  “The Jackwalds?”
	His eyes widened at that in surprise, then just as quickly a look of resolve crossed his features and he began reaching down for the canine.  “Free agent, then?  Should’ve lied to me.  Now I know you’re alone.”
	I felt rather than heard his friend behind me as he sprung at my back, and I swung my arm out blindly in what was more a fearful retaliation than anything planned.  Thankfully in such close quarters, I couldn’t help but hit, my big paw clapping into his shoulder and spinning him until he struck the opposite wall with a dull thud.
	My breath left my lungs in a smoky puff of air, the scent of blood hitting my nostrils.  The fox slumped down against the wall, his knife dropping out of his paw, a spatter of dark ichor on the bricks.  I barely had time to register what had happened before I heard an unmistakable metallic click ring out in the dead night air, and I turned back towards the other two men to find. . . .
	The canine had a pistol.  He’d had a pistol this entire time?
	Now the dark-furred fox finally looked scared.  He was lifting his foot slowly from the canine’s chest, stepping back away from him gingerly.  The man had the weapon pointed at him, and he was panting visibly into the cold, his body shivering and his voice wavering when he finally managed to say, “Whatever. . . they’re paying. . . now. . . it can’t be worth your life.”
	The fox glanced briefly between the man on the ground and past me, to his friend.  And he seemed indecisive for longer than I would’ve been.
	“Is it?!”  The canine demanded.
	Without any further last words, save a hateful look directed at the both of us, the fox darted towards me and wove to my left and beyond to the street.  He paused only briefly to take stock of his friend, before abandoning him and making off into the night.
	The canine slumped back, the hand he had holding the pistol falling to his side where he let it rest unceremoniously in the snow.  He sucked in greedy breaths of air, closing his eyes and leaning against the very same brick wall I’d knocked the other assailant into.  A quick glance assured me the fox probably only had a broken nose, he still seemed conscious, just stunned.  I was glad for that, at least.  I still didn’t know what was going on here.  Who were ‘the Jackwalds’?  And why had that man thought I was one?
	“Thank God for you, friend,” the canine huffed out, looking back up at me with those same eyes I’d found striking earlier.  Right now, caught in this strange, dangerous situation I had no grasp of, they scared me.  He held up the pistol, and I briefly bristled, before realizing he was holding it up limply like a dead fish.  
“I haven’t had powder for this thing in months,” he chuckled wryly.  “Good thing these country lads are pinheads, eh?”   

	“Finnegan Ambrose, of Ambrose Park,” the canine told me over his shoulder as he limped up to the doorway of his room.  I was following at a short distance, mostly out of concern at this point that he’d fall.  He was favoring his right leg and his tail was limp, I think he’d mostly fallen on his hip, but I was no healer, so I couldn’t guess at what sort of injury he’d sustained.  I’d followed him upstairs mostly to ensure he’d make it, after he’d insisted up and down he didn’t need a healer and didn’t even want to go to the friendly bartender for some alcohol.  
	But I was giving him a wide berth, because I was spooked.  No, that’s really not a strong enough word.  I was afraid.  I hadn’t a clue what had just gone down in the alley outside, or who those men were, or who they’d assumed I was.  This strange man was armed with a pistol he insisted wasn’t loaded, but I had no reason to believe him.  By all rights, I should have left him in the alley.  Gotten my things.  Left town.  I didn’t know much of the world outside my tribe and my river, but I knew enough to realize this stranger was in mortal danger, and every moment longer I spent with him, I likely was as well.  I’d gone outside because I’d sensed something was troubling him, but I hadn’t expected. . . this.
	I’m not sure what I’d expected, or what I’d been hoping for.  Less knives, though.  Less knives would have been good.
	The lock in his door clicked loudly as he leaned into it with his key, stopping briefly to rest against the wood on his elbow and forearm.  His head tipped forward, and without thinking, I found myself crossing the distance between the two of us, putting a paw on his shoulder to steady him.  He swayed for a moment, then turned to look up at me.
	I snuffed back a breath.  His eyes were the color of spring shoots, green and clear like lily pads in a pond.  But he looked even more tired now that I was so close to him.  He wasn’t weak because of the injury. . . he was falling asleep.
	“You’re a good man, aren’t you?”  He asked me, exhaustion tugging at a threadbare smile.  
	I thought he intended to say more, but he didn’t, so after an awkward silence, I stammered, “I-I. . . guess.  I try.”
	He huffed something like a laugh, before pushing the door in and moving from my steadying paw, limping inside.  His voice continued into the room, but I dared not follow.
	“Does the good man have a name?”  He asked, maneuvering his way through the small, cramped space.  The little room looked and smelled stifling, with no window, only an iron pipe through the center of it that must have come from one of the ovens downstairs to heat it, and his possessions scattered about in a manner that suggested he’d been here for some time.  An overturned barrel with a few planks laid across it seemed to be serving as a makeshift table, pulled up alongside a bowed wooden bed frame with an obviously straw mattress.  A travel bag and several worn blankets were bunched in one spot near the barrel, providing a raised area where he must have sat to work at the table.  His laundry, presumably some he was drying, was strung up by twine across two corners of the room, the rest stacked as neatly as one could manage in a place like this on the bedside table.  And then there were the papers.  Papers. . . everywhere.  I don’t think I’d ever seen so much paper in my life.  Some of it was even tacked up on the walls, for some reason.  I couldn’t read Amurescan, save a few words I’d picked up over the years, so none of it meant anything to me.
	The bed creaked suddenly as he sat down on it, and I realized with a start that he was looking at me.  “Well?”  He asked, tipping his head.
	“O-oh!”  I glanced briefly aside, having trouble keeping his gaze.  “Tulimak.”
	“Just. . . Tulimak?”  He pronounced it fairly well, given that he’d only heard it once.  For an Otherwolf, anyway.  They often had trouble with our names.
	“Yes,” I responded simply.  
	“You tribal peoples aren’t big on surnames, I’d forgotten,” he murmured as he leaned back against the wall the bed was pushed up alongside.  He twisted his body for a moment, clearly testing his hip.  The wince told me all I needed to know.
	“You’re hurt,” I reminded him quietly.  “You should see someo-“
	“Are you coming in?”  He interrupted me, gesturing to where I was still standing in the doorway.  “I’d rather you not leave the door open, all things considered.”
	“Oh,” I paused, at this point realizing I had to commit to some kind of decision.  And that was difficult.  I’d followed him this far because I’d been worried he’d hurt himself on the stairs.  And then he’d had that near-faint at the door.  But at this point I could walk away, and comfort myself in knowing I’d gone above and beyond, done all I could to help the man.  Whatever trouble he was in, my conscience was clear.  I didn’t need to-
	He unshouldered his coat, whining softly as he twisted to do so.  Beneath the bulkier coat, he wore a tailored vest over a thin cotton shirt, britches and spats.  The fact that his outfit was tailored to his figure, and still obviously baggy in places only made it more obvious how lean he was.  The scene tugged at a place in me that physically hurt, and I found myself stepping inside and closing the door, if only so I could approach him from behind and help him pull the coat down over his arms.
	He glanced back at me as I did, huffing again, like a laugh that didn’t quite emerge.  “Where do they make big, helpful bears like you?  I could have used one throughout. . .” he paused, “. . . most of my life.”
	“Well, you have one now,” I said as I gingerly removed his frayed coat and hung it over the bedpost.  He gave it a brief, dismayed glance, doubtless seeing what I’d already seen.  It was badly torn.  Perhaps not worth salvaging.  “For the moment, anyway,” I said, forcing a smile and doing my best not to make it a ‘scary’ one.  I’d accidentally terrified many young otters with my smiles over the years.
	“Yes,” he said, suddenly sounding wary.  His gaze flicked briefly between me, and the door.  “Thank you for that.  For everything in the alley.  Who-“ he paused, visibly checking himself.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.  Tulimak,” he again pronounced it correctly.  “But who are you, exactly?  Why did you come to my aid?”
	“I didn’t mean to,” I blurted out before I realized how bad that sounded.  “I mean,” I said quickly, as his brow raised, “I mean it wasn’t my intention in coming out there.  To get in a fight.  I-I didn’t even realize. . .”  I gestured aimlessly, before sighing.  “What did happen out there?  I really don’t mean to pry, it’s just-“
	“Oh god,” he said suddenly, his eyes widening.  “You really aren’t a hunter.”
	“Fisherman, actually,” I cleared my throat.  “It’s a certain kind of ‘hunt’, really.  It has its own challenges, people don’t realize-“
	“No, I mean,” he smoothed a hand over his roughed-up headfur, “a bounty hunter.  You aren’t hunting me.  Are you?”
	“Why would I be hunting you?”  I asked, aghast.  “Why would anyone?”
	“Aha,” he chuckled.  “I’ve been asking myself the same question for quite some time now.”
	“Is that what those men in the alley- the foxes, is that what they were trying to do?”  I asked uncertainly.  “They were hunting you?”
	“Are,” he replied tiredly, stretching his leg out on the bed, clearly still stretching his hip.  “Are hunting me.  And they’ll be back, I’m certain.  Probably not so long as you’re here, but once you leave. . . .  You didn’t kill that one who hit the wall, did you?”
	“No!”  I said emphatically.  “I mean I don’t think. . . he just had a broken nose.  Spirits, do you think it was worse than that?”  My mind reeled at the possibility.  I’d heard him breathing, he’d seemed conscious.  What if I’d really hurt him?  I’d abandoned him to follow Finnegan, was that really any better?  They’d been the aggressors, sure.  But still.
	What would my father think of all of this?  What would my tribe think?  My stomach clenched as my thoughts spun in on themselves.
	“Calm down,” Finnegan urged quietly, his calm voice bringing me back to the present.  I looked down at him, and some of my nervousness must have still shone through, because his gaze turned sympathetic.  “Look, for what it’s worth, you’re not in any danger.  Those two aren’t the first I’ve shaken, and they didn’t seem well-outfitted.  I don’t think they’ll like their luck with you any better the second time around, and it isn’t you they’re after, at any rate.  Honestly men like that, they might give up the chase after a foul-up like that, take their chances elsewhere.  Plenty of other work around here.”
	“You said they’d still be after you,” I countered.
	He let out a breath, closing his eyes and nodding.  “They might wait me out, yes.  If the bounty’s anywhere near as high as it was last I heard, they might even go in with another outfit.  Now that they know where I am.”
	“Then you need to leave,” I insisted, reaching down and grabbing for his coat.  “You need to get out of here.”
	“Not that you’re wrong,” he said wryly, his gaze sliding back towards me again.  “But it would take half a day at least to gather my papers and somehow re-supply for travel, and I’m in no state.  Nor do I have the resources any longer.  I sold my pony two towns back, my coin’s near run out. . . .”  He blinked tiredly, his eyes threatening to stay closed this time before he wearily opened them once more.  “Is there a reliable post in this area, do you know?”  He asked, not bothering to complete his previous statement.
“I don’t, no,” I said, my claws itching at the hem of my travel cloak.  “This is my first time here in this settlement.  And I don’t really know what ‘post’ you mean.”
“I know you asked once and I had no answer for you, but you seem to have moved on pretty quickly,” he noted with some amusement.  “Does it no longer concern you why there might be a bounty out on me?”  He asked, tipping his ears briefly towards the door, while still looking at me.  I’d been doing the same since I’d come inside, albeit by turning my head.
“I-I don’t know what that means,” I admitted.  
He blinked at that, then simply nodded.  “Alright,” he said, adopting a more informative tone.  It wasn’t patronizing exactly, but it was close.  “Those men outside were hunting me for money.  For coin.  A bounty is like a reward.  Like any other hunter being paid for their catch.  Those men were paid to kill me.  Or take me somewhere.  I’m not sure which.”  He paused, “I wish I could explain to you why, honestly.  But while I have some ideas. . . .”
“I understand war,” I said flatly.  “We ‘tribal peoples’ still kill one another.”
He held his hands up.  “I’m sorry, no offense meant.  Language barrier and all.”
“You’re the only one here with a language barrier,” I pointed out.  “I’m speaking your tongue.  I learned it from a young age, and I’m told I’m very fluent.  My father said it would be all but essential, considering how many Otherwolves have moved into our lands.  He was right.”
“ ‘Otherwolves’,” he repeated, something like a smile toying at the edge of his muzzle.  “That’s right.  That’s what you all call us.  How self-explanatory.  I think I like it, honestly.”
“Get back to the part where your people want you dead,” I pushed.  “I’ve never heard of a ‘bounty’, but I know what reasons men usually have for wanting other men dead.  Grudges.  Land.  Food.”  I arched an eyebrow, remembering something I’d heard about some of the Otherwolves in the west.  “Gold?”
“You left out ‘information’,” he said, gesturing loosely to the room around him.  “I’m not certain who placed the bounty on my head, but all I have of value in the world is what you see before you.”
I stared blankly at the many papers scattered across his ‘desk’ and around the room.  He must have seen the confusion in my features, because he clucked his tongue and said, “I see.  You speak it, but you can’t read it.”
“I-“
“For the best, honestly,” he muttered.  “If this blasted box of papers is what sealed my death warrant, best that no one else read it until it gets where it’s going.  First the poisoning on the Aranthine, then the hunters. . . God, what a miserable end,” he slowly ran a palm down over his muzzle, dryly chuckling.  At what, I couldn’t understand.
“Wait, hold up now,” I stammered.  “You aren’t- this isn’t an ‘end’.  No need to be so melodramatic.”
“If I can at least find a reliable post, I’ve gathered the most critical manifests, made the most important connections,” he continued, speaking primarily to himself.  “I could send them off and stay here to distract the hunters. . . .” 
“You aren’t going to die!”  I raised my voice.  Just a little, but even a little is usually enough, for me.    
He turned towards me slowly, looking at me like I’d said something outlandish, rather than what I considered to be quite sensible.  “Well, not tonight, no,” he replied at length.  
“Not at all,” I insisted quietly.  “Please.  Please just explain to me what’s happening to you.  I-“ I stomped back on my fears for the moment.  Letting someone be hunted down like an animal and stabbed in an alley could not be the right thing to do, no matter what was happening here.  It just couldn’t.  “I want to help,” I finally said.
The canine was silent for a long time.  For the first time since we’d met, he seemed uncertain.  I could see it in his posture, the stiffness with which he regarded me.  I’d been frozen like that more times than I could remember, always thinking and re-thinking over the paths that lay before me.  It looked strange on him, though.  I’m not sure why.
“Do you know,” he finally began speaking again, and as he did so he turned his entire body towards me, wincing, “of the land across the sea?”
“The land the Otherwolves come from,” I nodded.  “The land you come from.”
“Very good,” he nodded with a smile.  “Not all tribesmen can tell Amurescans and Carvecians apart.”
“Those are your tribes, right?”  I said, trying to follow along.
“Well, there are a lot of. . . I guess you’d call them tribes within tribes,” he gestured with a hand, waving the explanation aside.  “A lot of divisions within my people.  And not just the big one between those of us who settled here, and those of us who remain living in Amuresca, our motherland.  Since the war though, we’re certainly two very different peoples.  I suppose none of that really matters out here on the frontier, but what’s important is, yes, I am from across the pond.  The ocean.  Sorry, turn of phrase.”
I just nodded.  “I noticed you speak differently than the rest of the Otherwolves here.”
“Good ear,” he seemed to approve.  “Same language, but yes, Carvecians have their own. . . flavor of dialect.  Hard for even me to make out sometimes.”
“You came from across the world,” I said softly, the realization hitting me like a solid blow to the chest.  This man wasn’t just an outsider like the traders that came down the river.  He was as foreign a person as I had ever met.
“I suppose I did,” he said, not seeming to realize the significance of that.  “Unpleasant journey, but luckily or unluckily for my sake, I had the benefit of spending much of it in such poor health, I hardly remember the months at sea.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, resisting the urge to pat his head like he were a child.  It was an urge I often had for some reason around folks who were smaller than me, which was of course, most people.  “That sounds awful,” I knitted my paws in front of me instead.  My impulse to touch others was very normal back home with my otterfa and my tribe, but they’d told me to resist doing so out here in the world.  
“Yes well, poison will do that,” he muttered bitterly.  
“You’re certain you were poisoned?” I asked, dubiously.  If there’s one thing I knew about poison from speaking to our village healer about it, it’s that it was the first thing many people tended to assume, when the usual culprit was generally spoiled food.
“I’m certain,” he said in a tone so dark, I dared not question it further.  “And in any case, the two gentlemen we just encountered in the alleyway should be all the proof I need that someone is out to kill me, yes?”
“I guess so,” I conceded.  “But why?  You said you had some idea, but not entirely?”  The man’s statement was among many he’d made tonight that had confused me. 
“I dug into a very important man’s affairs, back in Amuresca,” he said, all mirth gone from his voice now.  He was staring out the window, irises blown wide in the dim candlelight, his gaze distant.  “The trail brought me this far.”
“Trail?”  I echoed.
“I’m hunting something too,” he snarled.
“Information?”  I guessed.
He looked back at me, and all I saw was a wolf.  The softness was gone.
“The truth,” he growled out.