[More writing fun times with Massani, my D&D character.]

    Whispers of a standing lion spread through the towns as a baseless rumor. It spun through the ears of travelers, who spun the tale with greater exaggerations, with ten foot claws, with fangs dripping in blood. So great did the tale grow, that by the time it reached the ears of those who took it seriously, it was not one lion hunting along the roads. It was an entire tribe, with numbers that fluctuated depending on who whispered around the campfire, who pointed to the distant reflection of an animal’s eyes in the woods. It was here that a man of great importance, with a wealth and love for exotic wares, took pause as the guests at his dinner table told him of the story. It is here, that this man of money looked to the large bhastan pelt hung up on his wall like a tapestry. 

    Bhastan, he was well aware, were the lions who walked on two feet. They were the lions who spoke, who crafted weapons. Who were as sentient as he was, who rarely left their home of Moravia far to the North. 

    Who were hunted for their pelts and sold to the highest bidder.

    “Where,” he asked, his dark voice cutting through the talk that cluttered his table like the spread of wild boar and farm-fresh carrots and vegetables laid out before him, “pray tell, was this group headed?”

    Though his table stretched to take up the majority of the dining hall, all fell silent upon hearing him. The man at his left cleared his throat. 

    “West, my lord. But I would not put much stock in tales such as these. They are traveler stories, and are often exaggerated.” 

    “Quite,” said the woman several seats down on the lord’s right. Her red hair spilled down her shoulders and her vibrant robes identified her as a mage of the Chalice. She bit into one of the carrots. “I would not worry, my lord. As a member of the Chalice, I will ensure your safety this night.”

    “Thank you, Lady Sabine,” the lord said. “I am certain there is nothing to be concerned over. But I look to you and your… companions to do an acceptable job.” 

    “It will be our honor to serve, my lord,” Sabine chimed, dipping her head pleasantly with a smile. 

    Dinner concluded nearly an hour later. Those that were not human from Sabine’s strange band of hired swords – which were many – ate in a separate room, but were then beckoned to do their job. They were to protect the mansion while the lord slept, and while his guards aided in the patrol of the grounds. As Sabine and her comrades bid him a good night, he stopped the woman and allowed her companions to leave. He lingered in the dining hall, before the dark pelt of a bhastan, the mane splayed out and beautifully tended to. The fur had hardly a scar on it, which truly was a rare sight to see. The pelt of sunset sand with a mane of blackened earth drew the eye, and as he reached out, he ran his fingertips across the soft hairs on what was once this creature’s shoulder.

    “Do you know much about the bhastan?” he asked, looking to the mage.

    “Little, sire,” she replied, her eyes shifting from the pelt to him. “I know they are a hardy race from Moravia, but I’m not aware of many that travel South. I would not worry much about these rumors.” 

    “It is… concerning, however,” the man murmured. “To have these rumors spread while I hold in my house a pelt of one of that kind. Are they smart enough to hold grudges? To try and hunt me down?”

    “They are a smart race, sire, but why would they hunt you, and not the people who took the pelts originally?”

    The man scoffed. “That brute? He’s been doing this for years, mage. I do not believe he will be caught now. I would be an easier target. Maybe a warning to future buyers?”

    “You met those who sold you the pelt?” Sabine asked, her brows furrowing. “Forgive me, sire, but I believed… well, the black market is not something…”

    The man laughed. “You did not see me buying such a prize myself? I had to be assured of its quality. It’s a young bhastan, you know. You can tell from its size.” He gestured to the pelt. “I’ve seen a few in my time. I’ve owned a few. But eventually age and use will deteriorate them. I’m always glad to see a new one hung up on my wall.”

    “Quite,” Sabine said, her voice a little more curt. “And the people who sold you this… you’re familiar with them?”

    “Oh, yes. We’ve done business a few times before. I really wanted the white pelt one – it had a few scars, sure, but a white bhastan is truly a sight to see! But the mage among them had taken its eyes and teeth and claws. Not much good with that.” He shook his head, frowning. “The mage was new, actually. Certainly damaged the price they’d get on the white pelt without any of the cool features a bhastan holds. I think the pelt went off to some other bidder in another city. I’m not sure. They mentioned a delivery.” He sighed. “Saints was that pelt gorgeous, though. I am curious, though, do bhastan parts make good materials for–?” He turned. Inches from him, a bhastan loomed at just over six feet tall. The smell of water-soaked earth and pine spilled from her fur and a dark mane just started to grow out around her ears and jawline. Scars laced her body, cut across her left cheek, dug into her left side, bit into her arms and neck. Her yellow eyes did not look to him. Instead, they remained tearfully on the pelt he had mounted. 

    “By the–Lady Sabine!” the lord cried, scrambling back. The bhastan stepped forward, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Lady Sabine, stop this–”

    The bhastan opened her mouth and from it, a mournful, horrifying cry crashed through strained vocal chords, a cross between a dying animal, a scream, and some sort of strangled roar. Fear stabbed into the lord’s chest and he scrambled out of the way, rushing from the room, fleeing his mansion, and running head-long into one of Sabine’s companions. A monster of a man with horns bursting from his skull, scars across his flesh, and a gaze that dripped with murder. 

    The bhastan’s cries echoed twice through the mansion. With careful hands, she pulled the pelt of her brother free. She held him in her arms, the formless pelt limp in her arms as she carried him from the room and to the outside where the others waited, gathered around a growing fire. Flames danced across the forlorn expression that haunted bhastan’s face. She bent her head down and rubbed her cheek against the shapeless one in her arms before, with a breath, she tossed him into the fire so his soul would be free to join their family in the afterlife. 

    Over the crackling of the wood, no one heard the lord screaming for mercy.