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Servant
© 2021 by Walter Reimer
Thumbnail art by
baroncoon, color by 
Major Matt Mason
“Derlēen-min g’Shal, lir tārintī,” the trooper-attendant of the Imperial Guard said.
The general commanding the Trackers entered Tarval XXI’s private office and saluted. “General g’Shal reporting, Sovereign. Azraa tis Azr.”
Tarval, in his Supreme Marshal’s uniform, returned the salute before smiling. It was the Tracker motto: Emperor and Empire, part battle cry and part prayer. “Greetings, General. Please be seated. I wanted to speak with you privately before the ceremony,” Tarval said as g’Shal sat down.
“You do me too much honor, Sovereign,” the kam said. He wore the Army’s mud-brown formal uniform with the khaki stripe of the Kothamarheki, with the two silver circles of his rank on the left sleeve and a collection of decorations on the right side of his chest. Three of them were wound badges, while two were Battle Honors, an award seldom granted to a Tracker. “What do you need me to do?”
Tarval’s tail gestured. “You will be retiring, General, so there is nothing you need do for me but to enjoy your rest. You’ve more than earned it; your record states that you’ve served in the Army and the Trackers for one hundred twenty years.”
“Yes, my Lord,” the kam admitted. “It’s been a very long time. I am told that I will be in therapy for five years before I can be permitted to fully rejoin society.” It was necessary; the Tracker training program created killers, who could pose definite problems if released into Imperial society without the opportunity to relearn what it meant to be civilized.
“I understand,” Tarval said quietly. “Is there anything that I can do for you?”
G’Shal opened his mouth to say something, hesitated, and said, “I had thought, my Lord, that I would join the priesthood after my rehabilitation. I have seen far too much death. I would like, and would account it a great honor, if you would give me your blessing.”
Inwardly, Tarval sighed. One of his titles was a religious one: k’chat e’t knegrhek, Son of the Savior, although it always made him feel slightly uncomfortable. Still, g’Shal deserved it, if any shlan did.
Gesturing for the general to stay seated, Tarval stood and circled around his desk to stand facing him. The Sovereign drew himself to his full height and said, “I stand in the presence of one who deserves to be honored and blessed.” He leaned forward, reaching out to cup g’Shal’s face in his hands. “In the Names of the Powers and the Deities, I, the Son of the Savior, tell you now to go in peace, in the sure knowledge that you have served well and faithfully.” He withdrew his hands and straightened up.
This was always the part that disquieted him. G’Shal looked like a great weight had been lifted off him, and he whispered, “Thank you, Azraa, lir tārintī. Thank you so much.” The Tracker general, who had served all his adult life and had personally killed over fifty of the Empire’s enemies, looked like a young kat who had been given a present as he stood, saluted Tarval, and left the room.
Tarval went back to his seat and sighed before sitting back down. “My Lord?” his secretary asked.
“Give me some time before the next item on my schedule,” Tarval said, and the vir withdrew as the Sovereign of the Race spent some time reflecting on what he’d just done. Kashlani were said to have outgrown their religion, but the impulse was still there despite all the attempts to do away with it entirely.
He finally decided that if his words could help g’Shal’s rehabilitation, then he had done well.
Because after all was said and done even the Emperor and Sovereign, the Son of the Savior, was only a servant.
© 2021 by Walter Reimer
Thumbnail art by
baroncoon, color by 
Major Matt Mason“Derlēen-min g’Shal, lir tārintī,” the trooper-attendant of the Imperial Guard said.
The general commanding the Trackers entered Tarval XXI’s private office and saluted. “General g’Shal reporting, Sovereign. Azraa tis Azr.”
Tarval, in his Supreme Marshal’s uniform, returned the salute before smiling. It was the Tracker motto: Emperor and Empire, part battle cry and part prayer. “Greetings, General. Please be seated. I wanted to speak with you privately before the ceremony,” Tarval said as g’Shal sat down.
“You do me too much honor, Sovereign,” the kam said. He wore the Army’s mud-brown formal uniform with the khaki stripe of the Kothamarheki, with the two silver circles of his rank on the left sleeve and a collection of decorations on the right side of his chest. Three of them were wound badges, while two were Battle Honors, an award seldom granted to a Tracker. “What do you need me to do?”
Tarval’s tail gestured. “You will be retiring, General, so there is nothing you need do for me but to enjoy your rest. You’ve more than earned it; your record states that you’ve served in the Army and the Trackers for one hundred twenty years.”
“Yes, my Lord,” the kam admitted. “It’s been a very long time. I am told that I will be in therapy for five years before I can be permitted to fully rejoin society.” It was necessary; the Tracker training program created killers, who could pose definite problems if released into Imperial society without the opportunity to relearn what it meant to be civilized.
“I understand,” Tarval said quietly. “Is there anything that I can do for you?”
G’Shal opened his mouth to say something, hesitated, and said, “I had thought, my Lord, that I would join the priesthood after my rehabilitation. I have seen far too much death. I would like, and would account it a great honor, if you would give me your blessing.”
Inwardly, Tarval sighed. One of his titles was a religious one: k’chat e’t knegrhek, Son of the Savior, although it always made him feel slightly uncomfortable. Still, g’Shal deserved it, if any shlan did.
Gesturing for the general to stay seated, Tarval stood and circled around his desk to stand facing him. The Sovereign drew himself to his full height and said, “I stand in the presence of one who deserves to be honored and blessed.” He leaned forward, reaching out to cup g’Shal’s face in his hands. “In the Names of the Powers and the Deities, I, the Son of the Savior, tell you now to go in peace, in the sure knowledge that you have served well and faithfully.” He withdrew his hands and straightened up.
This was always the part that disquieted him. G’Shal looked like a great weight had been lifted off him, and he whispered, “Thank you, Azraa, lir tārintī. Thank you so much.” The Tracker general, who had served all his adult life and had personally killed over fifty of the Empire’s enemies, looked like a young kat who had been given a present as he stood, saluted Tarval, and left the room.
Tarval went back to his seat and sighed before sitting back down. “My Lord?” his secretary asked.
“Give me some time before the next item on my schedule,” Tarval said, and the vir withdrew as the Sovereign of the Race spent some time reflecting on what he’d just done. Kashlani were said to have outgrown their religion, but the impulse was still there despite all the attempts to do away with it entirely.
He finally decided that if his words could help g’Shal’s rehabilitation, then he had done well.
Because after all was said and done even the Emperor and Sovereign, the Son of the Savior, was only a servant.
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Mammal (Other)
Size 99 x 120px
File Size 47.7 kB
Listed in Folders
You have to wonder how much holding onto their religion helped him through some of the things he had to do in those 120 years. 120 years of what others might consider 'sins' that he carried out to protect what he valued, washed away by a few words of someone he believed in.
There is no one 'hell' that sinners will fall into, we each make our own one brick/sin at a time. The only way out is to trust/believe that our sins will be forgiven by some higher party - or by those whose forgiveness we think we need.
You use to be able to take the boy out of the bible-belt, but not take the bible-belt out of the boy; but these days it seems most never learn or care that there was a bible - much less any rules or forgiveness in it.
There is no one 'hell' that sinners will fall into, we each make our own one brick/sin at a time. The only way out is to trust/believe that our sins will be forgiven by some higher party - or by those whose forgiveness we think we need.
You use to be able to take the boy out of the bible-belt, but not take the bible-belt out of the boy; but these days it seems most never learn or care that there was a bible - much less any rules or forgiveness in it.
From my vignette Trackers: Ironically, one of the best poets in the last hundred years had been a Tracker.
Whatever helps in their rehabilitation and in easing the weight of memory is used as an aid.
As for religion, I give you a quote, with the proper context (that so many people conveniently tend to forget):
"Religion is the general theory of this world, its encyclopedia, its logic in popular form, its spiritualistic point d'honneur, its enthusiasm, its moral sanction, its solemn complement, and the general ground for the consummation and justification of this world . . . Religious suffering is at once the expression of real suffering and the protest against real suffering. Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, just as it is the spirit of spiritless conditions. It is the opium of the people." - The Unfunny Marx Brother
In Kashlanin history, it's telling that the First Emperor, The Savior, declared a pogrom against those shlani who dared worship him. He knew how dangerous religious devotion can be, and throughout their long history it's been proven time and again. Hence Tarval's disquiet.
Whatever helps in their rehabilitation and in easing the weight of memory is used as an aid.
As for religion, I give you a quote, with the proper context (that so many people conveniently tend to forget):
"Religion is the general theory of this world, its encyclopedia, its logic in popular form, its spiritualistic point d'honneur, its enthusiasm, its moral sanction, its solemn complement, and the general ground for the consummation and justification of this world . . . Religious suffering is at once the expression of real suffering and the protest against real suffering. Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, just as it is the spirit of spiritless conditions. It is the opium of the people." - The Unfunny Marx Brother
In Kashlanin history, it's telling that the First Emperor, The Savior, declared a pogrom against those shlani who dared worship him. He knew how dangerous religious devotion can be, and throughout their long history it's been proven time and again. Hence Tarval's disquiet.
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