Howla ’tmuhn was a unique city, all personally tunnelled by a race known as the Garuw. Usually a city is built by slapping stones on top of each other, but not a Garuw city. Loose stones bad, digging good, that was their way. It had taken centuries of digging to get to how it was now. The buildings stood as strong and proud as in any human city, but they were all hollowed out of a massive cliff face. (What a quarry on that must have been.)

Then the edges had been carefully and delicately shaped in ways that would have been impossible to do had they been made by stacking stones, they really only worked because everything was one gigantic piece.

The Garuw themselves were best described as little dog people. They had big floppy ears, and paws half as big as the rest of them put together, reaching on average the waist height of a human, and capable of moulding rock like a child would modelling clay (except with less irate parents and permanently sticky patches on the carpet, oh and eaten material.) They walked on two legs (sometimes, due to their height they went on all fours in human spaces because human stairs are big and any other approach was just embarrassing, almost as bad as booster seats, which is another reason they prefer their furniture to be on floor level, though the primary reason was that no Garuw ever needed an excuse to be closer to the dirt.)

They were great lovers of art, though anybody who subjected them to a violin was in deep trouble (you try listening to a violin lesson with human ears, them imagine that ten times screechier for canine hearing and you’ll understand why, penny whistles and recorders were on the same list.) Though it was hard for humans to appreciate Garuw art as human noses are pretty much ornamental, and black and white art seldom appeals to the human eye, which fails to comprehend how many hues dark and light were possible if you used your eyes properly. Garuw artists also used scent heavily in their art. (The piece happy-smell in a field of flowers marked by me had to be smelled to be believed, mainly because without a proper nose nobody would ever believe it was art rather than a piece of canvas dipped in a bunch of stinky stuff with three stick figures and a lot of grey splotches, while any Garuw who saw it would truly be moved to tears over the camaraderie of the main subjects, and the beauty of the background.)

As for sculpture, most of the city was made of it, and every Garuw was encouraged to make their own contributions to their homes and communal spaces, from their first paw print, (carefully pressed into the door above their house and then marked with a scent, which made postal delivery within the city much much easier,) to magnificent multi

tiered decorative rafters which were used for storage. (Basements weren’t a thing in Howla ’tmuhn, why would you want such a space as one surrounded by dirt to be a storage space? Better it be bedrooms, much more secure from the elements, and a much nicer place for the litter.)

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The Garuw were led by two siblings, Mawri (technically molly, but you try pronouncing that with a muzzle.) Was a beautiful black and tan Garuw, well liked by most. With a patchwork coat, floppy ears, and sad eyes (a highly admired trait amongst Garuw which triggered the instinctive urge to provide the bearer with bigger meals and more treats.) They were very much a thinker, and were usually coming up with new and creative ways to improve upon their home. Nest-beds had been one of her proudest creations, and demand had outstripped supply so quickly they had to order fabric in from human markets.

Her sibling Kawn (Again technically Khan, their family had been very fond of names that were practically unpronounceable with a canine muzzle for some inexplicable reason,) was similar to his sibling in colours. But the tan was limited to the mask like markings of his face, and four tan legs. Oddly he also shared a splash of white, and somewhat more mischievous eyes. Obviously something of his grandparents Cowwee clan blood had gotten to him. He was more a doer, and deferred to his sibling on all things logistical.

Mawri looked out over her city again, carefully barking out instructions to the repair crews. The damage to the city lately had been extensive, nothing she couldn’t handle. But still problematic. She had tried sending messages out to The King, but never got a reply. She feared her calls for aid were either being ignored, or even more worrying were being intercepted. She had to let The King know what was going on.

For now though she had more pressing concerns, as a fresh group of humans charged the wall. They had to be restrained, killing humans brought nothing but trouble, and they weren’t to blame for this....... Well almost. But they needed to be stopped. The fresh wave charged the wall, and were mercifully tranquillised before things got messy. But they were getting more and more determined with each passing day, and all it would take would be a single suspicious death to cause no end of grief. Autonomy while living in another entities kingdom really did have far too many pitfalls sometimes. You were a subject when orders came, yet responsible for all the mess when things went wrong.

Mawri huffed in frustration as another wave were captured. She was running out of places to contain them.

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Mister McDonald was about seventy years old, and felt he should have retired from farming a long long time ago. He was out in the woods when it happened. He found himself drawn to a clearing, with a goblet upon it. Never one to pass up a free drink, even of dubious origin he picked up the chalice and drank deeply. Suddenly he felt young again, he was a HERO. He had a purpose, he would obey the blue boxes. There was an evil threatening the land, and he had been CHOSEN to save it. He always knew he was destined for greatness, and he looked down at his newly empowered body with glee. He was young again, and he would do whatever it took to stay that way.

Anybody observing would just have seen an old man drinking something dodgy, and waving his hands in the air. But now not even a herd of wild horses could drag him out of the world that he had spun around himself. Nor would any injury. The Curse of Itse’kai had claimed another victim, and he would do whatever the boxes willed.