Olive hobbled over the flagstones, trotters tapping, chains ringing, filling her ears with terrible music. The good news was she had made it into the city, the smells of oil, spices, food, and industry all around her, brick tenements lining the streets, signs creaking on hooks. At least she wouldn't need to squat in the woods, for a night.

Though, spending that night in a jail cell wasn't an immense step up.

At least her 'escorts' were quiet, and the streets were bare enough. Earth, Yor, it seemed no one liked working overtime no matter where you went. The few, stooped figures that passed gave her sour looks, crinkling their noses as if she were a foul odor.

God, she did stink, didn't she? Maybe I can convince them to let me take a bath, at least.

A gust of rich, buttery air passed her nose, made her mouth water as they passed an open door, windows lit by hearthfire, a sign wobbling, a loaf of bread painted on. Her trotters began to scrape, head turning, snout wriggling longingly.

"No, no, we don't want any of that," Frey said, giving her a shove between Olive's shoulder blades, sending her stumbling. Her ankles caught, the hobble catching, and she began to fall forward with a shrill squeal.

Arms behind her back, she jerked them, felt the cold certainty of iron as time moved in crude oil. Was this how it ended? Smashing, snout first, into the hard flagstones? Was it better or worse than being shot?

Would anyone care, this time? Not like she had the chance to make an impression, not on anyone but the beggar.

She closed her eyes, turned her head, and braced.

Then stopped, her shirt tightening around her shoulders, her breasts, pinching them painfully.

"You should really watch your step!" Frey snorted, letting her dangle there a moment. "Don't they teach you how to use those things?" Olive felt a tap on her foot. "Or are they just there to make the rest of us hungry?"

Olive grunted, wiggling haplessly. "Y-you pushed me!" She whined, tail twitching. "I could have died!"

"I did not!" The elf said, affronted, towing the Porcene back on her feet. She turned to Eryck, smiled. "Did I?"

The man simply rolled his tired eyes, then kept moving.

"And there we have it!" Frey grinned, poking Olive between the shoulder blades. "So quit whining! Oh, am I pushing you, now? Could you die?!"

Olive liked her quiet sneering better. She snarled, insides simmering as she hobbled on, snout creased.

"Good hog!" Frey sang, as Olive's pot boiled over. Being arrested by nobodies in a world she'd invented was one thing, but to be bullied by them was beyond her tolerance. Bitch is going to die today.

"What the fuck is your problem with me?!" Her hands balled in her manacles, face rhubarb red as she glared poniards up at her.

Frey stared back, blankly. "I need one?"

"Generally, yes!"

Frey scraped to a stop, her nostrils flaring. "How about I give you a story, instead?" She paced a line in front of the Porcene, her leather boots scraping over stone, as Eryck stopped, leaned against a post down the road. "It was fifty years or go, give or take the better part of a decade. I was a scout to the east, by the border, cozy posting, just keeping track of unauthorized crossings, detaining them, turning them over. Me and my team, we played cards most nights. Ate stew. Gods, Gerret loved stew." She sighed, skidding to a stop inches from Olive's snout. A knot began to twist in her belly. "He'd keep a pot going, from rise to set, and make us go mad with the smell of it. Brought that pot everywhere, peak or valley. That's all he did, cook. He didn't carry a sword, never stepped on an ant, as far as I can remember.

Anyway, one day, like most others, we split up. We were six of us, covering dozens of miles. It wasn't something we hadn't done before. I went up north with the fastest, a few others went south, but Gerret stayed put, watched over the camp, minded his pot." The light of a faint, true smile shone on her lips. "It was a hot day. Scolding. I was sweating like one of you before noon. It had rained the night before, so it was a wet heat, which made for muggy trails. It was miserable work, and I almost gave up on it, almost called it a loss, but you know what kept me going?"

She crouched, her yellow eyes burning. "The thought of a hearty stew when I made it back. So I trudged, and trudged, and trudged some more, until my legs were mashed yams. Even found a few crossers, dropped them off with the locals, got a nice shiny coin for our work. What started as a bad day became a good day." A dry snigger floated out. "The power of stew, I guess. But still, I was dead tired by the time we made it back. And dire hungry. We reached camp, dropped our loads, loosened our belts..."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Her gaze hardened. "But no Gerret. The tents were there, the latrine we dug, our traps, even his pot, boiling over a fire. We figured he must have ran out to gather herbs or take a walk. Not unusual: the man loved the fresh air, loved to stretch his legs. He was a free spirit, I think you'd call him. And anyway, we weren't worried: the stew was going, and it smelled divine." Her cheek twitched, forced a rigid smile. "So, we all grabbed our bowls, our spoons, opened up the lid..."

Her smile flattened, and Olive's stomach churned. "There he was. Or part of him, at least. Never found the rest. But we did find tracks." She gritted her teeth. "Porcene tracks. We followed those and found a camp filled with fat little beasties like you, licking their chops. We didn't know if they were planning a raid, or just happened by for a quick snack on the road. Didn't matter." She stood, straightening her back. "We told command we'd found them slaughtered, probably by orcs or a rival band. They didn't care. Probably knew, but didn't pry." Her eyes were wan, strangely glossy before she turned, stalked down the road. "Don't have much appetite for stew these days."

Olive felt small, nauseous, her ears drooping down her scarlet head. That wasn't right, she hadn't written Porcenes to be brutes, hadn't written them to be anything but charming pig folk!

This is all so fucking insane, she thought, trotting quietly behind.

----------------------------------------

Jail wasn't as bad as it could have been, at least. A stumped building of sheer stone, windowless, stooping in the shadows of its neighbours. The inside was a margin better, with worn wooden desks, tables tucked in corners, groggy men playing with dice. A number of alcoves lined the walls, cots stacked on top of each other, a snores emanating here and there.

Her escorts shoved her into a chair by the door, Frey watching over her as Eryck spoke with a pinched-face gnome behind the counter. After a few traded words, of what must have been a torturously unimaginative conversation, judging by the gnome's hooded eyes, he returned with a new pen, a new clipboard.

"Female. Porcene," he said, voice hueless as he looked her over. "Weight?"

Olive huffed, nose twitching.

"One-twenty," Frey said, cocking her head, staring. "She looks one-twenty."

You look one-twenty, Olive almost spat back, before thinking better of it. Besides, at the elf's height, it wouldn't even be an insult.

Eryck shrugged, sketched it down. "Height?"

"Ten foot thirty-two!" Olive snorted, before she could think better of it.

They didn't laugh.

"I'll get the tape measure," Eryck sighed, passing the pen and clipboard to Frey. "Finish the rest." Before she could respond, he turned, returning to the counter.

Frey shrugged, lithely gripped the pen between her svelte fingers. Used to holding small objects, are you? Olive grinned, but knew to keep her mouth shut.

"Name?" Frey asked, pleasant as a warm breeze. Warm as a fart.

"Olive Farrier," she said, flatly. Let's see what they think of the truth. She thought, with a restrained giggle.

Frey cocked her brow, but continued. "Place of origin?"

"America, home of the free!" Olive brought her hands to her brow, made a clumsy salute as the chains smacked her snout. And the very dumb. She had to admit, giving it a tender rub.

"And where does freedom make its home? Geographically?" Frey asked, deadpan.

"Geography was never my subject." Olive shrugged, ears bouncing gaily. "But it was between Canada and Mexico! I knew that much!"

Frey rolled her eyes, jotted it down. "And what is your true business here?"

Olive took a deep, sharp breath. "I got shot by a masseur, woke up as a pig, dug out of my grave, realized I was in the story I wrote when I was stupid, still trying to process how that's possible but I think I'm nailing it, and then you showed up!" She told her, with a wide smile.

Frey merely blinked, then jotted it all down. "I'm sure this will all look very good to the judge," she said, blankly, with a faint curl in her lip.

Olive wrinkled her snout. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Means we're done, Olive," she said with a sneer, as Eryck returned, a tape measure in hand. "Now, get your ten foot thirty behind up!"

She was not, in fact, ten foot thirty. In fact, she barely cracked four feet. Her face pinkened, teeth gritted tight, but she could only puff out her cheeks and stew as they passed over her paper work and dragged her deeper inside, down a dank and musty stairway.

So, how the fuck am I gonna get out of this? She thought, trotting between empty cells, lined with hay, the smell heavy on her snout. Find a hair pin and sneak out? Ask nicely? Get a good lawyer? Awaken hidden magic and become their new god? Worked for Alys... She snorted, as they steered her down another dim corridor. The one little twist to her story was that the main character was not the King Arthur surrogate, but Merlin's. A girl raised in squalor, downtrodden, who discovered in-born talents during a Snarling raid, fought her way to Opaline, joined the prince and founded the Furies, an elite order of magic-infused knights, devoted to the Last Empire's security and legacy.

The power behind the throne. The CFO of Yor.

She couldn't suppress a giggle at that, as a last, iron door groaned open.

A clangour poured through, a dozen voices overlapping, a thousand smells overwhelming her. Sweet, sour, rich, putrid, making her squeeze her eyes, tears squeaking through.

When she opened them, she saw a wide, limestone room, a large, black-iron cell shaped inside it. Thirteen figures crowded it, pacing, sitting along benches bolted into the wall, stooping in corners. A large one, with bristly grey fur, shoved another, a green-skinned elf, into the bars with a sneer.

"This is my side of the cell," he said, voice like gargled gravel, a claw making a circle behind him. "And this?" He jostled the man in place by his tunic. "Is your side! Got it?"

The green elf nodded, quickly, his lean face hunted. "Y-yes sir! My side! I like my side!"

The furry one grinned, wolfishly, then let him drop. "Good. No worries!" He told him, pleased as a pup as he stroked the elf's pale hair. "Just a misunderstanding is all, long as you don't do it again..."

His mouth broadened further, sharp, canine teeth shining through a muzzle. A black, spongy nose lifted, tufted ears rising, and he turned, grey-blue eyes staring deep into Olive's.

Her heart dropped, bowels turning to butter. She turned, looked up at Frey, saw her eyes twinkle with a smile.

"Well, look over here!" He exclaimed, the others raising their tired heads. "Fresh meat for the stew!"