Chương 10: Vol 1. The Uncovered Bosom

Prince Tahir groaned as the sun beat down on him. He was panting, his tongue lolling and dripping saliva onto the ground. His legs were tremulous and felt like brittle sticks about to snap. Every muscle in his body seemed to be filing a formal complaint demanding immediate respite from this agony. His footsteps throbbed. There were clumps of dirt that clung to the wet fur of his muzzle. Every time he attempted to brush it away, he only succeeded in spreading it further across his face.

"Come on, kid," Morton said.

"Pick up the pace!"

"I… am… trying…" Tahir protested. The poor prince fell face-first into the dirt.

"Please," he mumbled against the road, "let us rest for a while."

"I think you might wanna go a lil' further."

"I do not," Tahir said.

"Really?" Morton said smugly.

"Because it looks like the village is just up ahead." Tahir begrudgingly lifted his head just enough to see the faint shapes of rooftops past the rise.

"Oh," he said, deadpan.

"How wonderful." With all the dignity of a wilted flower, Tahir lifted himself upright and limped over to Morton.

"Before anything else, Sir Christian, we must first find a place to bathe and groom… and find you a shirt."

"Heh, suppose it has been a little chilly the last few days."

"That is the … least of your concerns." Tahir tugged at Morton's hand, instructing him to bend over so he could whisper in his ear.

"You mustn't walk around without something covering your breasts, especially someone of your … unusual aesthetic and race. It is—how do I say this in a way that is dignified and not smeared with degradation? —most uncultured."

"Ah," Morton said, "it's trashy. I get ya."

"Something like that," Tahir said.

"But you must be careful when walking through the town; be quick and discreet. We must find a tailor immediately." The two made their way down the hill and through the village. It was quaint yet bustling, with throngs of Kharani, young and old, men and women, pushing and shoving to get where they needed to be. A church bell tolled somewhere beyond the rooftops, resonant.

Voices fought one another and mingled with the cries of vendors, the creakcreakcreak of cartwheels, and the occasional unhappy bleats of goats being herded into the back of said carts. The air reeked of damp hay, liver and other meats being fried, charcoal being burned, and wet fur. It was fifthday, a day of religious observance for those who followed the Universal Church of the Dual-Gods, and so a market day for most Kharani. Everyone around them unmistakably belonged to the peasantry.

Tahir's eyes were drawn to many of the men, some out with their wives, their cubs cradled gently in their arms, others dangerously walking the streets alone, but they all had that unique sort of lower-class fashion with which he was familiar, but had never truly stopped to observe: flowing kirtles of coarse linen, practical and tight-fitted bodices, dull reds, faded greens, and russets, depending on the fur of the wearer; the married men wore coifs over their heads, with little holes cut for their ears.

They were not decorous, far from it, but Tahir liked it. There was beauty in simplicity. Not the elegance one would expect of the court, but there was practicality to it that one had to admire. Then a little cub, holding the hand of her mother, looked deeply at Morton and said, "Mama, why does that person have no fur?" The mother looked at Morton, recoiled with her muzzle snarled, and covered her cub's eyes. Stolen story; please report. Tahir felt his soul scratching and shouting as it attempted to leave his body.

"Walk faster," he hissed. Tahir could make out a tailor's sign, and just as luck would have it, a bathhouse sat right beside it. They would have to… walk through an alley. Oh, Seroth, help him. They stepped forward between the brown and reddish buildings. The sunlight vanished behind the narrow brick walls, leaving them in shadow. The ground felt somehow dirtier. It reeked of bodily fluids and perhaps a few things more solid. Broken crates were scattered about.

Kharani cubs skittered off when Tahir caught them rustling through a vendor's discarded boxes.

"I must say," Morton said, tipping his hat and smirking, "I haven't seen a bustlin' city like this in a long time. Reminds me a bit of when my grandpappy used to take me into the city."

"That is wonderful," Tahir said in a low voice. He tugged Morton closer to the wall.

"Please stop looking so cheerful. It draws the eye." The noise of the market dulled behind them. Somewhere nearby, water was dripping steadily into a puddle. Flies were gathering in a cloud black as thunder around something Tahir refused to identify.

"Hey," a gruff, feminine voice said. Tahir's ears flattened; his heart fluttered. Leaning against the wall of the alley was a woman, chewing on a piece of straw. She was young yet had a craggy and coarse visage that screamed a life of hardship. The tip of her left ear was nicked. Her fur was a russet, with black stripes along her arms and legs. She wore sandals, brown trousers, and an open tunic that revealed her slightly pudgy midsection and breasts. A short knife hung from a threadbare sash on her hip.

The woman smiled, wiggled her ears, then stepped towards Morton and Tahir. She bent down and fixed her greenish eyes on Tahir, as if trying to pin his soul in place. He could feel her hot breath against his skin.

"Well, aren't you a cutie?" she said in a patronizing voice.

"You're a little dirty though… bet it wouldn't hurt to get you a little dirtier." Then she stood tall and looked into Morton's eyes. Her head cocked quizzically at first, but when her eyes settled on his bare chest, her expression turned coquettish.

"Oh my, aren't you an interesting fellow." Tahir cringed as she started to rub Morton's chest hair gently with the tips of her claws, then dragged one paw through his beard. Her gaze dropped to his denim, not-so-subtly lingering where she had no business lingering.

"I always wanted to try a womanish man," she said.

"And an elf no less." Morton said nothing. His face remained stoic. Tahir's claws curled into his pads. He wanted to say something courtly, high and mighty, let her know she was addressing a prince of House Orien. Unfortunately, his mouth had gone dry. Besides, in his horrendously filthy state, would anyone recognize him as royalty?

"How much do you charge, baby boy? I can make it worth your while…" Her hand slowly reached down towards Morton's pants, but he gently pushed her off him.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm afraid I ain't interested," he said. The woman frowned and swished her tail in annoyance.

"Why not? Is my money not good enough for you?" Her paw hovered over her knife. Morton mirrored her, slowly pulling his own knife out to show the blood-stained blade. The woman's expression softened at once.

"Your money's just fine, ma'am," he said.

"It's your damn manners I'm havin' some trouble with." The woman's muzzle snarled. She spat in Morton's face, but he did not flinch.

"Whatever… bastard whore," she grumbled, then stormed off behind them. Tahir tugged at Morton's hand.

"This is why we must get you a shirt." They continued to walk.

"Heh, first time that's ever happened to me," Morton said.

"And hopefully the last," Tahir said softly.

"This is why you should never have your bosom exposed; it makes women think they have an invitation."

"Huh," Morton said.

"I ain't never had that issue before; different cultures, I suppose. But is it not dangerous for her to have her breasts out like that?" Tahir's head turned quizzically.

"No, why would it be?" Morton looked down at Tahir.

"Why would it be dangerous for a man to have his breasts out?" Tahir tried to think of an answer, but couldn't.

"It is just how things are." The answer sounded perfectly reasonable in his head, but when he said it aloud, it felt logically circular. Tahir frowned at the ground, annoyed by the question because he could not think of a better answer. Morton said nothing for a moment. Then he tipped his hat.

"I understand that, for sure."