…although not many will agree, the common speculation on the topic of the Great Riots of the Red Spring during the brief rule of Queen Ermintrude, in the greater academic houses, all center upon Queen Ermintrude’s austere economic policies and general hostility toward the Eastern Kingdoms of the continent. …(page torn) will note her majesty’s oft cited vitriol directed at the Kingdom of Fluronsee (ink faded) ...during a period when the populace of Reeta suffered under a devastating grain blight. (page torn) …marmot populations hunted to near extinction. All, however, fail to consider the Queen’s younger brother, Jerbamie -later King Jerbaim I, had moti… (ink faded) … newly married to the Princess Queiscemence of Selmet. …(obfuscating stain) …sadly, Queen Ermintrude would later be… (ink faded)

King Rossig III, Book of Histories, First Empire

Like striking a match on the hearth, consciousness bloomed in Hoab’s head with his thoughts running at their usual speeds, and in their usual directions.

This room smells funny… is it even a room? …Why do I taste salmon? Did I eat salmon today? Where is my stub of glabra root? I need to scrub my toofs… all my toofs, not just the ones up front… I can’t see anything, this could be an open courtyard, or an alley…or the stomach of a bear… no… not a bear, maybe a dragon… no… stomachs are decidedly wet inside… learned that just the other day… last month… whenever… great… now I have to pee… thought Hoab in a jumbled slew of random mental statements as consciousness abruptly returned.

Blinking didn't work to clear his vision. As fast and hard as he could alternate squinting and blinking, Hoab tried to clear his eyes of obstruction. It took him a moment to realize he couldn’t feel his arms and hands when he attempted to lift his hands to his eyes. I took him a good deal of time beyond that to realize he couldn’t actually feel anything; so much so that his body may as well have not existed.

In a frenzy of inactivity, Hoab directed his body to rock back and forth, to flail his arms and legs about, and to stick out his tongue in an attempt to possibly nab the hood that must have been obscuring his senses of sight, smell, and hearing.

None of which happened, and no result of any sort had been produced, as all of these attempts had happened only within the confines of his own mind.

In desperation, Hoab tried to speak.

“...hello…?”

His own voice sounded far away from him, as though someone else, possibly trapped in a mine shaft far away from both sunlight and fried eggs, was now speaking in a tiny voice. It shocked him slightly, and made him risk another attempt.

“...is there anyone out there…?”

Laughter greeted him.

Big, bold, rolling peals of jolly, chortling laughter bounced back at him, circling around and about him from whatever stygian depths in which he was now being held. It continued for, in Hoab’s opinion, much too long. Had he been able to hear or feel his own heartbeat, he was certain the duration would have been well beyond the acceptable limits “Courtesy,” and far into the rough areas of “Rude.”

Before he could muster up the concentration to answer the laughter, it stopped, and a distinctly feminine voice roiled out of the darkness to address him.

“Please, Hoab. Pull your tongue back into your head, we do not need to see it. You are not auditioning for any role that might require anything like that from you.” She said it all in a calm, and possibly condescending, tone.

She was of indeterminate age, but spoke with a cultured, Eastern Rhiadan accent. He didn’t think he had been to any of the Eastern lands in the kingdom for at least a decade. Possibly a week. Time was weird, and Hoab had not been able to accurately judge its passage in… however long it had been, how would he know?

“I beg your forgiveness, Lady!” He practically oozed at the voice from the surrounding blackness. “I have been given no parameters for what kind of encounter this is to be, aside that it is rude. You have taken me away from, and made me stray far afield from, my daily tasks. This encompassing darkness and lack of sensory input makes me wonder what kind of magic you may be employing. And to what cost, Madam?”

“Odd that you would ask me about cost, Hoab. It was my understanding that you no longer cared about such mundanities as money.” There was a smarmy grin on the face speaking these words to Hoab. He could hear it better than he could hear his own voice as he spoke. It made him angry in ways he didn’t want to think too deeply about. There was something in this woman’s voice that he wanted to stab. Possibly it was the woman herself that he wanted to stab.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He could imagine chewing on her remains.

Not being able to see the speaker didn’t change that fact that he could see himself tearing into her flesh with his teeth. Do I know this woman…? Is she something to me? No one is anyone to me but Iztha… Iztha is the ONLY person that matters…

“I can see you are getting a little worked up, Sir. But, let me assure you, your delicate sensibilities should not become too anxious. Not yet. We have made some concessions to your very dangerous nature in waylaying you today. We have even arranged for a payment for your time and inconvenience.” The voice told Hoab, circling around him where he sat, imobile, and simmering in an ever growing spiral of suppressed rage. He thought he would enjoy killing whoever this was.

“No. You won't.” She said, and his mind froze at the possibility that she might hear his very thoughts. He attempted to swivel his head around for a better view; but a better view of a “void of all consuming nothingness” was exactly the same as his current “Slightly worse view of a void of all consuming nothingness.”

“As I said, We, and by we I mean Myself and a group of concerned citizens, have gathered our resources together, and will be acting to make sure our Kingdom does better in the coming days than it is doing today.” There was a broad pause. “And to that end, we have formed a consortium of interested parties who will be recruiting several agents, like yourself, who have a selection of abilities that make you perfect to disrupt this city. We want chaos the likes of which haven't been seen here since the Riots of the Red Spring.”

“Well, you're not doing a great job of it so far, EASTERN Lady.” A hiss popped from someone’s mouth just off from his right ear.

He didn’t grin, but Hoab was satisfied at the hit he had scored. An Eastern Lady… he thought. Someone who used the term ‘Riots of the Red Spring’ would be well read, formally educated, this possibly makes her from not just a wealthy House, but she is a Baroness… maybe a duchess… maybe a teacher from one of the Colleges, an Eastern College… Markensess? Nos’Beallte?... His mind was racing with possibilities, and the blood soaked rage from moments ago was slipping away as the details of the odd puzzle in front of Hoab coalesced.

“Yes. You're very clever, Hoab. That’s one of the reasons we chose you to work on our behalf. Are you … wooed… yet?” This voice was male. It was older. With a grinding edge of whiny to it that made Hoab want to slap its owner. Possibly with a wool carder. This new speaker had a solid, wide stripe of petulance that only spoiled lordlings who had never grown out of their infantile natures because their parents had never told them “No” never lost.

"Am I wooed…? Am I wooed?! Absolutely NOT!” He yelled into the void. “Not to put too fine a point upon it, but a centaur's body, cosmic or otherwise, is not one to court lightly. The caloric intake alone needed to keep such a fine physique in top form is high enough that even a casual dalliance can be quite costly. How deep is your current bank? Is it a full vault? It had better be. I ain’t cheap, I can tell you, Lordling.” He smiled coquettishly into the blackness, blinking his eyes to emphasize his long eyelashes around his wide, dark eyes. He hoped whoever held him appreciated the show.

“And not to be indelicate, but intimacy on a centaur's scale can be intimidating for mortals. If you're just centaur-curious, ya'know, suffering from that ol' Stable Fever, well, let me tell you, this is the wrong path for you, mate. Even your ‘best efforts’ may not be ...felt. Not at all. I mean really. Maybe you should find a nice human woman. Someone with a small bum, very pure, intertwined bloodlines, and prospects for surviving childbirth on the low side.”

Hoab smiled so wide now he knew his jaw, wherever it was, would crack at the edges, possibly even bleed at the corners of his mouth.

“And think of me, would you? The effort it takes? Have you ever tried to convince a professional ferrier to give you a "Hamurian Manicure?" And a fresh Mani/Pedi on a hexapod, sir... well. Ten fingers, four hooves... I dare say, it may take the better part of a day, and cost the better part of whatever monthly allowance your parents have you on before I can even begin looking for a good dress to match my tack!" He shuddered in equine exhaustion, and made a broad-lipped, flapping noise he had seen horses make before dissolving into high pitched cackles.

Disgusted, possibly amused, the original speaker took up the conversation again. “Hoab, we have left you with a payment for your time. We will contact you again. Soon. For now, take the payment. Use it as you see fit, as we know you will, for your beloved Iztha.”

At her mentioning of Iztha’s name, Hoab froze in fear. How could they know about Iztha? Where did they learn of her? And of his connection to her? Some of that earlier anger began to bubble back to the surface just as the world again exploded in light and sound.

Hoab awoke on the floor of the little room in which he had left Iztha that morning. He knew it was still early in the day from the limited smells being produced by Iztha where her mindless body lay on the little bed. There was now a large urine stain on the dress he had put on her after he had washed her, before leaving to go in search of the whistlepigs.

Between where he now sat up, and the edge of Iztha’s bed, there was a large canvas sack, and next to the sack, on the floor, rested his knife. It’s a good knife…

A soft, mewling cry came from the canvas sack.

He smiled as he reached for the dagger with one hand, and the rough sewn edge of the cloth bag that moved and twitched slightly.

Hoab smiled. The edge of his mouth trickled a few drops of red as he leaned toward the bag.

It’s a good knife…