Late night.
Humming happily to himself, the young male coyote climbs in through the window at the end of the corridor and is about to pad silently through the building, to his own quarters when he notices something laying by a wall. When he prods it with his foot it rolls over and reveals a bushy, black-and-white tail. "Hey sis!" he shouts at a door, "can't you even carry out the remains?"
Groan...
Surprised, the coyote grabs a blood-soaked shoulder and rolls the raccoon over. "You're still alive?" he asks, not really expecting an answer after seeing all the wounds and blood. "Well, we can't have you dirtying the floors here," he states, grabbing the raccoon with both arms and dragging him towards the back of the house.
As he reach the kitchen, the staff -- a lioness and her two slaves, a rabbit and a raccoon -- have just begun their work. "If you've got a moment," he begins, looking around, "could someone take a look at this one?"
"Well, you're up early, Larr," the lioness grins, "or were you on your way to bed?" Then, casting a glance at the raccoon, she adds, "put him on the bench and we'll look at him."
As soon as he deposits the unconscious raccoon on the bench the small female rabbit steps up and begins to poke and prod. "He's got a couple of nasty claw-marks on his back and and sides," she states, and there's bite-wounds on his arm. I can feel a very large bump on his skull, but no broken bones. None of those are too serious, but there's a gash on his belly, large enough for me to see his innards. Remarra?"
"That's right," the coyote responds. "He's from the pens, so wouldn't be likely to run into her by accident. I can't imagine how he managed to get her this angry."
"Always the caring male, aren't you?" the lioness retorts.
"Well," the coyote begins, "if this slave annoyed my sister that much I figure he must be worth keeping alive, if only to irritate her."
"Well, girls," the lioness orders, "bandage him up, but hurry or the breakfast will be late!" As the two slaves set to their task, she pulls the coyote aside. "I know what he did," she whispers, conspiratorically.
"And?" he asks.
"He's the father of the child she's carrying!" Seeing the disbelief in his eyes she quickly adds,
"There's supposedly a medicine of some sort that makes it possible."
"And where did she get it?"
"Not she, but he!" the lioness chortles. "A badger gave it to him some time last year."
"Well, it couldn't have happened to a more deserving little brat!" he exclaims.
"But you haven't heard the best, yet," she states, "it seems all the slaves in the pen got the medicine!"
"All?"
"Yes."
"Even the females?"
"Yes."
"Oops. Got to go!" Then the coyote turns and hurries out of the room.
"What got his tail in a twist?" the lioness wonders.
"Probably the skunkette he kept in his room this spring," the female raccoon responds. "I don't think she was out of the room at all during her heat."
Four days later.
Treel is still in the kitchen, but now awake and resting, watching as the lioness, the mistress of the kitchen, he realises, and her two slaves work on preparing dinner. Strange. She doesn't treat them as slaves, and they seem overly fond of her.
There's a creak, the door opens and the large, male coyote the raccoon only knows as master enters.
"Good afternoon, Medara."
"And a good afternoon to you, too, Malarr," the lioness responds. "What brings you here, today?"
"Is the raccoon well enough to move?"
"He's healed very quickly," the lioness replies. "Another day and I'd probably have to hurt him myself, the way he's oogling my girls, so yes, he can move, but no hard work for a while."
"Good enough," the coyote states. "I have other plans than sending him back to the pens." Turning to Treel, he orders, "Put on your pants and follow me."
"Yes, master," the raccoon mumbles, then grabs his trousers and -- while the two female slaves giggles -- quickly frees himself from the blanket and pulls them on before hurrying after the coyote.
The coyote leads him through the house, out into the back yard and into the smithy. Pointing at the raccoon's neck he asks the smith, "Think you can remove that collar?"
"In the blink of an eye," the smith, a brown bear states. Then he puts his large paws onto the raccoon's shoulders and pushes him down until his head is just above an anvil. "Don't move," he mutters, "or I get docked for damageing the masters property!"
Remove my... At first he can't believe that it's actually happening, then he feels the heavy metal band being rotated until the locking pin is resting above a hole in the anvil. It's really happening!
The bear picks up a thin rod and a hammer. A couple of thuds, then a tingle as the pin is driven out and falls to the floor.
"Good," the coyote states. Then, grinning towards Treel, he pulls a package from a pocket and continues, "Now put this one on instead!"
"A nice one!" the bear exclaims, unwrapping the two halves of the new collar and holding them up to the light.
A new collar? B-but...
"You were born a slave, and will die as one," the coyote states, crushing Treel's hopes, "but since you're getting new tasks, you need a new collar." Seeing the expression in the raccoon's eyes, he adds, "This collar covers more of your neck, though. It might be useful in case my daughter decides to go for the throat."
As the raccoon is too stunned to struggle, the smith quickly clamps the new collar in place and drives the locking pin in. "That's it!" he announces, "and I didn't even maim this one!"
"Good!" Gesturing to the raccoon, the coyote orders, "Report to the kitchen. The mistress will supply you with clothing suitable for household work. Then you will begin in your new position as Remarra's personal servant!"
Remarra's personal? With a whimper, the raccoon faints and slides bonelessly to the floor.
"I didn't touch him!" the bear exclaims, "I swear!"
"Just carry him to the kitchen," the coyote states, sighing, "I have to talk to my daughter about responsibility."
When Treel comes to again, his head is resting on something soft and warm, and above him there's something white that moves almost in step with his own breath. Slowly he realises that he's back in the kitchen, his head is resting in the lap of one of the females and that the white is the simple blouse covering her bosom. Sighing happily he closes his eyes again to enjoy the sensation more fully.
"Mistress!" the female calls, "he's awake!"
There's the sound of footsteps, then, "Doesn't look awake to me."
"Just look at him!" the female slave -- the rabbit, he realises -- exclaims. "Have you ever seen a male both unconscious and happy at the same time?"
"Only once," the lioness replies, "but that was during my first heat. He died a few days later, though, still happy." Then she growls, "Get up!"
"Yes, mistress!" he exclaims, bolting upright, then swaying and almost fainting again.
"Here's your new clothes," the lioness states, pushing a bundle into his paws, "put them on now."
"Now?" he asks, looking around for a place to change, away from the staring females.
"Now!" the lioness growls.
He quickly examines the bundle, then steps out of his old, rather tattered trousers and pulls on the new pair. Then he puts on the vest, marvelling at the feel of it.
"You're responsible for keeping them clean," the lioness states. "We'll get you a second set in a few days, if you survive that long."
If I survive? Remarra!
Handing him a simple brush, the lioness continues, "As long as you work in the household you're expected to keep clean. Your mistress will tell you where to sleep and where to store whatever items may be entrusted to you. If you wear out the clothes they will be replaced. Anything broken or lost, either wilfully or by carelessness will be paid for in blood, and I have the final word on the amount."
"Yes, mistress," he mumbles, weakly. Then, not knowing what else to do with it, he stuffs the brush into a pocket. A brush! Clothes with pockets! "What shall I do with my old clothes?"
"You can leave them under the bench for now," the rabbit offers, "just roll them up so it looks tidy. Then, if you survive until you get your other set, you can always drop it off by the pens."
"The roast is ready!" the female raccoon suddenly announces from the other end of the kitchen.
"Good!" the lioness exclaims. "Is the brat still sulking in her rooms?"
"Haven't heard anything else," the rabbit responds. "I'll put a tray together." Then she picks a silver platter from a cupboard, cutlery from a drawer, a glass from a rack and places it all on a large tray. While the lioness carves meat from the roast and dumps it on the platter she fills the glass with juice from a large earthenware jug.
"Your first task as Remarra's personal slave!" the lioness announces, "carrying the meal to her rooms."
Probably my last, also, he adds to himself. "Do I have to?" he pleads.
"Afraid so," the rabbit responds, grinning widely, "we've been forbidden by her father, the master of the house, to do such personal tasks for her."
"Before you get any ideas," the lioness interjects, "if you try to run away or kill yourself or her, not only will you be severely punished, but so will also eight slaves from the pens."
I'm dead! Whatever I do, I'm dead!
"Don't be so glum!" the rabbit exclaims. "Who knows, when she sees the food, she may forget about maiming you..."
Yeah, right! Sighing, the raccoon picks up the tray and begins the long, slow walk to Remarra's rooms. Maybe if I get her angry enough, she'll lose control and kill me quickly.
Much sooner than he would like, he reaches the door to his mistress' rooms. Placing the tray on a small table -- probably placed there for just that purpose, he reasons -- he takes a slow but deep breath, then reach out to scratch on the panel to announce himself.
"How cute."
The deceptively sweet voice coming from right behind him sends shivers down the raccoon's spine, all the way to the tip of his tail.
"Open the door, pick up the tray and carry it inside," she continues in a low hiss.
Treel, moving as if someone else controlled his body, does as she said.
"Place the tray on the table," she orders, "then remove the chair."
Y-yes, mistress," he stutters, then hurries to comply by placing the tray on the table and pulling the chair away.
"Further!" she growls, "place it by the wall."
"Yes, mistress." Hurrying to move the chair he can't help but wonder if she prefers to eat while standing up, or?
"Down on paws and knees!" she orders with an evil grin and pointing on the now empty space in front of the table. When he hesitates to do as ordered she grabs his shoulder and throws him to the floor. "The next time you disobey a direct order I'll rip your balls off!" she hisses at him. Now stand still!" Then she steps around him and sit down on his back before starting on her meal.
By the time she is finished, and have dried off her paws on his tail, Treel is barely able to keep from collapsing. "Wasn't that a nice meal?" she asks in a pleasant voice. "Now I feel like taking a nap. Carry me to the bed!"
Groaning from the strain imposed on his abused body, the raccoon begins to inch his way across the rug.
Hearing his groans, the coyote twists around until she's laying flat against his back and her muzzle is uncomfortably close to his left ear. "You're not complaining about the weight, are you?" she hisses. "If I'm heavy it's yor fault!"
"N-no," he stutters weakly, "I'm..." Then his arms fails him and with a soft whimper he collapses on the floor.
"You're useless!" she exclaims, getting up and kicking him in the rear.
"Yes, mistress," he whimpers, "I'm sorry, mistress!"
"Listen, you useless pile of fur!" she hisses, bending down and grabbing his muzzle, forcing him to look her directly in her eyes, "my father have forbidden me to kill you, or even do anything that reduces your ability to serve me -- like break all the bones in your paws -- but I can still have you whipped to an inch of your life, or castrated if I choose! Understand?"
"Y-yes, mistress!" he squeals, terrified.
"Good! Now get up and take the tray back to the kitchen before I lose my patience with your lazyness!"
"Well, isn't that a turn-up?" the lioness asks, grinning, when the raccoon stumbles back into the kitchen and deposits the tray on a bench.
"What?"
"You're still alive!" she exclaims. "I figured we'd be picking up bits of fur all over the building tonight."
"Hopefully," the female raccoon interjects, "you'll last longer than poor Reeba."
"Reeba?" Treel asks, "black rabbit, rather small? She never returned to the pens, and the rumour was that Remarra killed her."
"In some ways, it would have been better," the lioness responds. "Since you're the one who are most in danger from her tantrums, you may as well learn the whole truth. About an eight-day after Reeba gave birth to a son, when the master allowed the females to be assigned household tasks, Remarra picked her as her personal servant. For a while it worked, but then came the spring. One night Reeba's son started crying, and she was slow to silence him. Remarra went berserk and tried to kill the child and Reeba tried to stop her. By the time the master managed to stop Remarra, the rabbit was more dead than alive, but incredibly enough, even with both arms broken she still held on to her child."
"She was a mess, though," the raccoon female adds, "she lost both ears, an eye, both arms were broken, her right paw never healed properly, and I still don't understand why she didn't bleed to death with the horrible gashes on her back and feet."
"But if she survived?" he asks, "where is she now?"
"We healed her as best we could," the lioness replies, "but something in her mind was broken. Whenever anyone but a rabbit entered the room she would just curl up with her child in the middle and whimper. Only if we tried to take her son away did we get any reaction from her. The master finally decided to give her her freedom, and she was bundled up in blankets with her son and loaded onto a wagon. Then a badger transported her to a free village far to the north."
Freedom? She got her freedom!
"Don't even think about it," the lioness states. "If you try to fight Remarra and survive, the master will kill you himself."
Later in the evening.
Treel is sitting in the kitchen, rubbing a bruise on his left arm from when the lioness dissuaded him from trying to get too friendly with the rabbit, when a small bell high up on a wall begins to chime.
"Another task for you," the rabbit states. "Your mistress wants her evening tea."
"Tea?"
"You do know what tea is, don't you?"
"It's a hot drink we sometimes get when we work outside in cold weather," he replies, confused, "but it's not cold tonight."
"Remarra and others often drink tea when they want to relax," the femle explains. "now, watch what I do, because the next time that bell rings you'll have to do it." She quickly fills a small kettle with water and hangs it over the fire, then starts filling a tray with a fine cup, a pot, a small jar of sweetener and a plate with a few cakes. When the water boils she dumps a cuple of spoonfuls of some dark leaves into the pot and pours the water over them. Gesturing towards the tray, she adds, "Don't try to eat or drink from this. If she tells you to take it back here while there's still tea left in the pot you can drink that, but don't touch the sweetener or cakes. If any of the masters catch you eating those..."
"I get it," he responds testily while rubbing his bandaged belly, "Remarra finishes gutting me?"
"Possibly," the rabbit replies, "but if she heard you now, she wouldn't need that excuse."
Sighing, the raccoon picks up the tray and makes his way towards Remarra's rooms. That pot is awfully large, he thinks, she can't drink all that, can she? Then, much before he's ready, he finds himself at the coyote's door. He places the tray on the table, then scratches on the door.
"It's open!"
Treel pull open he door, then picks up the tray and enters. At least she didn't attack from behind, this time.
The coyote looks up from the book she's reading to watch him enter. "Oh, it's you," she mutters.
"Your tea, mistress," he mumbles, nervously.
"I can see that!" she snaps, "I rang for it! That means I expected a slave to bring it. A slave who is expected doesn't scratch or knock, he enters, does what is expected of him, then leaves again without bothering his betters! Is that understood?"
"Yes, mistress."
Placing the book on a table, she gets up from her chair and approaches him.
As she moves closer to the raccoon, every nerve and instinct in his body screams for him to run. She's going to hurt me again.
"Place the tray on the nightstand," she orders, pointing at a small table by the bed, "then get out of here."
He hurries to place the tray, then almost runs towards the door before hesitating and stopping to look at her. "Mistress?" he asks nervously, "where am I supposed to sleep? The mistress of the kitchen..."
"A slave doesn't speak unless spoken to!" she growls, "is that clear?"
"Y-yes, mistress," he stutters.
"Good! I don't care where you sleep as long as it's nowhere near me. Now get out!"
"Yes, mistress," he mumbles and steps towards the door, looking longingly at the thick carpets.
"Wait!" she suddenly exclaims, lunging for his tail and pulling on it. When he turns to face her, she runs her paw along his muzzle and down his neck to rub his chest. "You would like to sleep on this carpet, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, mistress," he mumbles, uncertain.
"Maybe I do care about where you sleep after all," she whispers, seductively.
Smack!
"You can sleep on the floor outside the door," she states, "that way you can block the draft coming in through the gap."
Midnight.
Walking silently through the house the coyote happens to glance down the corridor leading to his sister's rooms and noticing a black-and-gray bundle just outside her door. "Not again!" he exclaims, then walks over to see if there's any hope of saving the raccoon.
When a large paw lands on his shoulder, Treel is startled awake. "W-who's there?" he stutters.
"You're alive?" the coyote counters, "how?"
"Bad luck," the raccoon grumbles, sitting up and fluffing down the fur on his arms.
"I get it you don't like being my sister's personal servant," the coyote comments, grinning.
Sister? I managed to insult her brother, too?
Seeing the raccoon's fear, the coyote hurries to add, "I'm her brother, but that doesn't mean I have to like her, either. But I'm still curious about how you've survived today..."
"The master have forbidden her to kill me," Treel replies, quietly, "it's some sort of lesson for her, I think."
"And why are you sleeping out here?" "She ordered me to lie here and block the draft," the raccoon replies.
"That sounds like her, yes," the coyote comments, "but where's your blanket? Or didn't she give you one?"
"She didn't give me any."
"Probably hoping that you'll get sick and die," the coyote mutters. "Can't have that." Then he hurries off down the corridor, to return a few minutes later with a thick blanket which he gives to the raccoon.
"Thank you, master," Treel mumbles, marveling at the thick fabrics, "but why are you helping me?"
"Because I enjoy annoying my sister," the coyote replies, grinning mischievously. Then, before heading off again, he adds, pointing to the table next to the door, "You can store your stuff on the shelf there."
"Thanks, master," Treel mumbles.