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Family Matters
© 2022 by M. Mitch Marmel
Thumbnail art by
tegerio, color by 
Major Matt Mason
Part Fifty-four
Tali:
Little Westinghouse was a perfect little, well, dragon, during the service.
Of course, as soon as his ‘Mama’ left the Temple with him . . .
Ew.
[Note appended to manuscript:
“No one to talk to
Just me in here
While I do a poo
But no one around to hear
Spraint misbehavin’
I’m keepin’ myself clean for you . . . “]
[Note appended to manuscript: “Pardon me, Tali, what was that?”]
[Note appended to manuscript: “Oh, nothing, Master. Just talking to myself.”]
So, yeah. What goes in has to come out eventually.
Looked bad, smelled worse, and appeared to be corrosive from the way it hissed as it hit the snowbank. The Master had angled Westie’s scaly tuchis away from himself and anyone else, so nobody got splashed. With no one willing to get close enough to look, the Master hastily took him around the corner to clean him up, while praising him for containing himself as long as he did.
“Ew!” Ooo-er said when she saw me pull on a pair of gloves, fish a sample bag from a pocket of my jumpsuit, and scoop some of the poop. “What are you doing that for, Tali?” the otter femme asked as she tried to hide behind Missy.
“We don’t have dragons where I’m from, Ooo-er,” I replied as I sealed the bag with the gloves inside it. Sure, I’ve taken readings and pictures of Westie, but a sample, even of his wastes, can provide some insights into his metabolism. It’ll give something for Professor K. T. at HQ something to scratch his head over.
When he’s not scratching his head about the Gaps.
I was taking the sample bag back to my mobile when I paused. The little wolfess inside me had decided to demonstrate a letter-perfect bicycle kick, without the benefit of ever having watched a football match. Oof.
Thank Kai I hadn’t much to drink so far today, or that could have been Messi.
Just a few more months to go . . . I hope, and I’ll have a lively little pup in my arms who might have a career as a dancer ahead of her.
I t’ported the bag up to the Musashi, with orders that it needed to be handled like it was a biohazard (which, yeah, it was), and the screen suddenly displayed Matt’s grin. “Hiya, honey bear!” I said.
“Hi, pretty kitty,” he said, giving my gravid belly an appreciative look-see. “Listen: Do you have any plans for the Solstice?”
“I had planned on inviting Missy and Ooo-er here for dinner. What do you have in mind?”
“Low and I were thinking of dropping in on you.”
I grinned. “I see no reason why we can’t do both, you know.”
“Fine then. What should Low and I bring along?”
“Just your appetites.”
***
Low:
Tali’s a really good cook, which shouldn’t come as a big surprise. Temporal Corps operatives and agents learn all sorts of useful skills, and a Solstice dinner gives her a great opportunity to strut her stuff.
So, roast feral goose with all the holiday trimmings, and I admit I made rather a pig of myself with the stuffed dates. There were no brandy-marinated bees on offer, which suited me just fine. Dates stuffed with peanut butter and rolled in sugar, though; yummy.
During the meal, I noticed that my husband was spending a lot of time looking across the table at the wolfess. Finally Missy put her fork down and said, “What?”
Matt put his wineglass down and shoved back from the table. He circled around it until he stood near Missy, who had also gotten to her feet.
My and Tali’s honey bear looked the wolfess up and down, and smiled. “I just wanted to meet the father of Tali’s child.” He stuck out a paw. “Welcome to the family.”
Missy gave him a very calculating look before taking the paw and shaking it. “So, I’m family now?”
“You got my wife knocked up, you may as well be,” Matt said as he went back to his seat.
After dinner, Matt and Tali were regaling Missy and Ooo-er with stories about their adventures on the Galaxy Express (a real blast from the past, let me tell you), and I decided that a breath of fresh air was on order. It might have been the deepest part of winter for the region, but I had a heavy coat, and a heavier coat.
See what I did there?
The air was cold and dry, and the sky was moonless and clear as crystal. High above, I knew the Musashi was up there, but the vast nebula the locals called ‘Fuma’s Musk’ drew a broad stripe across the darkness.
Beautiful. Yes, I know the science behind it, and the technology that put me here, and in this guise; but I can appreciate it for its beauty, and understand why the people hereabouts can think that it’s a sign from their mother goddess.
“Hello, little lady.”
I whirled, pistols appearing in my paws like magic. Like I said, “heavier coat;” you can hide a lot of things.
The voice was male, deep and sounded highly amused. In the starlight I could dimly make out a bulky form. “Who the ____ are you?” I demanded.
A fat chuckle. “Well, that’s a fine question, coming from someone who’s only borrowing a skunk’s shape, isn’t it? Put those away, little lady. You don’t need them.”
I almost lowered my guns. “How – how do – “
A suggestion of a gloved hand, reaching up to tap the side of a nose. “Live long as I have, nothing escapes your sight. I’m only a visitor here, although there’s a contractual obligation that needs to be done.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Have to empty the Tithe Barn.”
“’Tithe Barn?’”
Another chuckle. This sounded like a guy who laughed a lot. “Ask one of the roes hereabouts.” The shadow seemed to nod. “You’ve been a very good girl this past year.”
“Really?”
“Remember what I said about sight. Yes, a very good girl. Might get your wish,” and the voice fell silent.
I blinked, and when my eyes opened again the shadow was gone.
***
Anastasia:
Winter in Elfhame. Long nights, short days, and most sensible furs stay indoors. Note that I said ‘sensible’ furs, which if you’ve guessed I don’t mean the roebucks, you are quite correct.
My mate, however, has duties to perform, both as Master of Elfhame and as a ‘mother’ to a young ice-wyrm. Both duties require him to dress warmly and go out in the cold, because as Master he has to make sure that nothing fell crosses the borders of the Vale, and because little Westie loves the cold and enjoys cavorting in the snow.
Watching him playing with and caring for his new adopted child reminded me that, for all his faults, my mate is a wonderful father to all of his children.
I’m rather harsh on him at times, Elves Don’t Lie, but it’s not just Elfhame tradition. My mate gets embarrassed at being termed ‘His Majesty’s Blunt Instrument,’ but I think he gets a certain grim pleasure out of intimidating Quality in the rest of Faerie.
But when he’s home, he needs to know his place.
The winter wasn’t as bad as it had been some years ago; none of the elderly bucks or does passed away or set off on the Long Walk, which was very good news. Some fawns had been born, and despite the rigors of the season Elfhame was thriving.
Shortly before the beginning of Spring, I was somewhat surprised when the [Doe-Moot] met and a piece of news came to our ears.
You’ll recall that the initial choice for the paw of the Sixth of His Name was Belladonna Sumac, a very prim and steady young doe who was highly regarded by the [Doe-Moot]. The tale of her Challenge-combat with Una Sawyer is being slowly turned into a Ballad by a few of the more enterprising bucks. Belladonna had come up on the losing end of that exchange, but she had done very well, with nothing at all to be ashamed of.
The surprising news was Belladonna’s announcement that she had chosen a young roebuck as her mate, and was courteously informing the [Doe-Moot] that she would wed Jacobus Crackhorn. The buck in question, an ant-farmer whose parents had emigrated from Licksburg, had been informed by her of their impending nuptials.
To our surprise, the buck seemed very enthusiastic about being informed, particularly when the name of the bride was told to him, and I asked Belladonna why.
With a quiet smile, she informed me that Jacobus was thrilled to his hooves to wed a doe who had contested for my buck-fawn. I imagined that his enthusiasm might be a topic of discussion among the bucks down at the [Sheaf of Arrows], mainly centering on whether young Crackhorn had gone mad or not.
Well, that was their business. So long as none of them got it into their heads to try and run things, it was fine.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
© 2022 by M. Mitch Marmel
Thumbnail art by
tegerio, color by 
Major Matt MasonPart Fifty-four
Tali:
Little Westinghouse was a perfect little, well, dragon, during the service.
Of course, as soon as his ‘Mama’ left the Temple with him . . .
Ew.
[Note appended to manuscript:
“No one to talk to
Just me in here
While I do a poo
But no one around to hear
Spraint misbehavin’
I’m keepin’ myself clean for you . . . “]
[Note appended to manuscript: “Pardon me, Tali, what was that?”]
[Note appended to manuscript: “Oh, nothing, Master. Just talking to myself.”]
So, yeah. What goes in has to come out eventually.
Looked bad, smelled worse, and appeared to be corrosive from the way it hissed as it hit the snowbank. The Master had angled Westie’s scaly tuchis away from himself and anyone else, so nobody got splashed. With no one willing to get close enough to look, the Master hastily took him around the corner to clean him up, while praising him for containing himself as long as he did.
“Ew!” Ooo-er said when she saw me pull on a pair of gloves, fish a sample bag from a pocket of my jumpsuit, and scoop some of the poop. “What are you doing that for, Tali?” the otter femme asked as she tried to hide behind Missy.
“We don’t have dragons where I’m from, Ooo-er,” I replied as I sealed the bag with the gloves inside it. Sure, I’ve taken readings and pictures of Westie, but a sample, even of his wastes, can provide some insights into his metabolism. It’ll give something for Professor K. T. at HQ something to scratch his head over.
When he’s not scratching his head about the Gaps.
I was taking the sample bag back to my mobile when I paused. The little wolfess inside me had decided to demonstrate a letter-perfect bicycle kick, without the benefit of ever having watched a football match. Oof.
Thank Kai I hadn’t much to drink so far today, or that could have been Messi.
Just a few more months to go . . . I hope, and I’ll have a lively little pup in my arms who might have a career as a dancer ahead of her.
I t’ported the bag up to the Musashi, with orders that it needed to be handled like it was a biohazard (which, yeah, it was), and the screen suddenly displayed Matt’s grin. “Hiya, honey bear!” I said.
“Hi, pretty kitty,” he said, giving my gravid belly an appreciative look-see. “Listen: Do you have any plans for the Solstice?”
“I had planned on inviting Missy and Ooo-er here for dinner. What do you have in mind?”
“Low and I were thinking of dropping in on you.”
I grinned. “I see no reason why we can’t do both, you know.”
“Fine then. What should Low and I bring along?”
“Just your appetites.”
***
Low:
Tali’s a really good cook, which shouldn’t come as a big surprise. Temporal Corps operatives and agents learn all sorts of useful skills, and a Solstice dinner gives her a great opportunity to strut her stuff.
So, roast feral goose with all the holiday trimmings, and I admit I made rather a pig of myself with the stuffed dates. There were no brandy-marinated bees on offer, which suited me just fine. Dates stuffed with peanut butter and rolled in sugar, though; yummy.
During the meal, I noticed that my husband was spending a lot of time looking across the table at the wolfess. Finally Missy put her fork down and said, “What?”
Matt put his wineglass down and shoved back from the table. He circled around it until he stood near Missy, who had also gotten to her feet.
My and Tali’s honey bear looked the wolfess up and down, and smiled. “I just wanted to meet the father of Tali’s child.” He stuck out a paw. “Welcome to the family.”
Missy gave him a very calculating look before taking the paw and shaking it. “So, I’m family now?”
“You got my wife knocked up, you may as well be,” Matt said as he went back to his seat.
After dinner, Matt and Tali were regaling Missy and Ooo-er with stories about their adventures on the Galaxy Express (a real blast from the past, let me tell you), and I decided that a breath of fresh air was on order. It might have been the deepest part of winter for the region, but I had a heavy coat, and a heavier coat.
See what I did there?
The air was cold and dry, and the sky was moonless and clear as crystal. High above, I knew the Musashi was up there, but the vast nebula the locals called ‘Fuma’s Musk’ drew a broad stripe across the darkness.
Beautiful. Yes, I know the science behind it, and the technology that put me here, and in this guise; but I can appreciate it for its beauty, and understand why the people hereabouts can think that it’s a sign from their mother goddess.
“Hello, little lady.”
I whirled, pistols appearing in my paws like magic. Like I said, “heavier coat;” you can hide a lot of things.
The voice was male, deep and sounded highly amused. In the starlight I could dimly make out a bulky form. “Who the ____ are you?” I demanded.
A fat chuckle. “Well, that’s a fine question, coming from someone who’s only borrowing a skunk’s shape, isn’t it? Put those away, little lady. You don’t need them.”
I almost lowered my guns. “How – how do – “
A suggestion of a gloved hand, reaching up to tap the side of a nose. “Live long as I have, nothing escapes your sight. I’m only a visitor here, although there’s a contractual obligation that needs to be done.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Have to empty the Tithe Barn.”
“’Tithe Barn?’”
Another chuckle. This sounded like a guy who laughed a lot. “Ask one of the roes hereabouts.” The shadow seemed to nod. “You’ve been a very good girl this past year.”
“Really?”
“Remember what I said about sight. Yes, a very good girl. Might get your wish,” and the voice fell silent.
I blinked, and when my eyes opened again the shadow was gone.
***
Anastasia:
Winter in Elfhame. Long nights, short days, and most sensible furs stay indoors. Note that I said ‘sensible’ furs, which if you’ve guessed I don’t mean the roebucks, you are quite correct.
My mate, however, has duties to perform, both as Master of Elfhame and as a ‘mother’ to a young ice-wyrm. Both duties require him to dress warmly and go out in the cold, because as Master he has to make sure that nothing fell crosses the borders of the Vale, and because little Westie loves the cold and enjoys cavorting in the snow.
Watching him playing with and caring for his new adopted child reminded me that, for all his faults, my mate is a wonderful father to all of his children.
I’m rather harsh on him at times, Elves Don’t Lie, but it’s not just Elfhame tradition. My mate gets embarrassed at being termed ‘His Majesty’s Blunt Instrument,’ but I think he gets a certain grim pleasure out of intimidating Quality in the rest of Faerie.
But when he’s home, he needs to know his place.
The winter wasn’t as bad as it had been some years ago; none of the elderly bucks or does passed away or set off on the Long Walk, which was very good news. Some fawns had been born, and despite the rigors of the season Elfhame was thriving.
Shortly before the beginning of Spring, I was somewhat surprised when the [Doe-Moot] met and a piece of news came to our ears.
You’ll recall that the initial choice for the paw of the Sixth of His Name was Belladonna Sumac, a very prim and steady young doe who was highly regarded by the [Doe-Moot]. The tale of her Challenge-combat with Una Sawyer is being slowly turned into a Ballad by a few of the more enterprising bucks. Belladonna had come up on the losing end of that exchange, but she had done very well, with nothing at all to be ashamed of.
The surprising news was Belladonna’s announcement that she had chosen a young roebuck as her mate, and was courteously informing the [Doe-Moot] that she would wed Jacobus Crackhorn. The buck in question, an ant-farmer whose parents had emigrated from Licksburg, had been informed by her of their impending nuptials.
To our surprise, the buck seemed very enthusiastic about being informed, particularly when the name of the bride was told to him, and I asked Belladonna why.
With a quiet smile, she informed me that Jacobus was thrilled to his hooves to wed a doe who had contested for my buck-fawn. I imagined that his enthusiasm might be a topic of discussion among the bucks down at the [Sheaf of Arrows], mainly centering on whether young Crackhorn had gone mad or not.
Well, that was their business. So long as none of them got it into their heads to try and run things, it was fine.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Skunk
Size 1280 x 1500px
File Size 1.28 MB
Listed in Folders
He's the Kringle, feared by nearly all Elves; the Happy Horror that even the Duchess of Daisies fears.
Mmm, I thought the reason why they feared him would have been something like this. The reality is far worse.
I think 'Low' as in 'doe.'
According to
EOCostello's story Red Sky at Morning, Part F, Ooo-er is the female otter's name given her by her father:
Turning his head, he made a sound that for all the world sounded like the eternal and all-purpose squaddie exclamation.
"Ooo-er."
Apparently that's just her name in Standard Elvish; earlier in Family Matters, I give her name in one of the two otter languages as 'Starlight-gleaming-on-her-breasts' (the name she was given when she reached adulthood, go figure).
According to
EOCostello's story Red Sky at Morning, Part F, Ooo-er is the female otter's name given her by her father: Turning his head, he made a sound that for all the world sounded like the eternal and all-purpose squaddie exclamation.
"Ooo-er."
Apparently that's just her name in Standard Elvish; earlier in Family Matters, I give her name in one of the two otter languages as 'Starlight-gleaming-on-her-breasts' (the name she was given when she reached adulthood, go figure).
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