Marianna felt a wave of heat run from her cheeks straight to her core at Ivo's murmured words and that bold, playful lick on the side of her muzzle. She should be horrified by the prospect of kits; after all, she and Ivo had only known each other for a matter of months. And yet, somehow, it instead filled her with an aching desire. Perhaps it was her body, recognizing the limited number of years left, betraying her mind and soul to satisfy a hereditary imperative. After all, from what she'd discovered, she was by far and away the oldest unmarried woman in her entire lineage (if one exempted her aunt and namesake, Marianna, who had taken her own life at the age of twenty-seven after the collapse of her engagement), to say nothing of the oldest without kits. 'Gates, her own parents had been only a little older than Ivo when they'd each been murdered. As far as her genetic history was concerned, she was an abnormality on every count.
But, she considered, it might be more than that. Ivo felt safe, far safer than anyone she'd ever known. He'd been there for her, supported her, even in the face of danger, vouching for her to a powerful, violent gang when he'd barely known her as anything other than an ambitious outsider. He'd stood beside her in their den, his reputation and life both on the line as she argued for an unproven innovation. Time and time again he'd trusted her, not just with entry to his sanctum or his professional reputation, but with his heart and mind. Marianna knew, with a confidence that rooted itself in her soul, that Ivo would be right beside her, tearing a path to the Hellgates themselves, if that was what it took to protect their kits. Neither of them would ever be model parents - but then, that was what her own parents had tried to be, and it had failed spectacularly. Maybe, just maybe, what their kits would really need would be a pair of scoundrel parents instead.
There was a brief whoop of approval from one of their artistic classmates as Marianna pulled Ivo into an embrace, then an awkward cough from the instructor as she dared a brief lick across her lover's cheek, smoothing and dampening his fur, before she whispered in his ear. "Well then, Mr. Suresight, we'd best start looking for somewhere with enough space, shouldn't we? Knowing your mind, I'm sure you've a number of apartment buildings already in mind." His small, cramped little apartment might last them through the first year or two of a kit's life, and while Marianna knew that plenty of beasts raised kits numbering in the dozens in such spaces, she'd want to have a little more space for her family in the long run. I don't need a mansion like Vito's, she decided, but perhaps a nice townhouse will do. We'll just need to make enough money to afford it, I suppose.
~~~
Aramaeus stiffened at the revelation of the strange gray fox's identity. The son of Vaelora Ryalor? He tried to decide how he felt about that. On the one paw, he knew that Mayor Freedom had been an implacable enemy of the Ryalors, Vaelora in particular, and that history had blamed him for her death (a bit unfairly, in Aramaeus's personal opinion; after all, the Mayor couldn't be held responsible for the actions of one rogue actor who had misinterpreted his well-founded calls for professionally-administered justice as an invitation to assassinate a sitting ambassador). In a way, the current status of the Ryalors posthumously validated all of Mayor Freedom's warnings about their ambitions. They were now the most powerful clan on two continents, held two of the six ministries directly in their paws, and, if rumors were to be believed, held significant sway over the Empress herself. It was hard to argue that, based upon the outcome, any of Mayor Freedom's hypotheses had been hysterical in nature.
On the other paw, they did have really, really cool swords.
Aramaeus eyed the one at the fox's side, ignoring the stricken expression on the Fyadorian's face in favor of analyzing the blade. It was wrapped with nice cloth, not cheap crab hide or flaxen weave, and capped with a kashira of what looked to be pure silver. That wasn't the kind of ornamentation one gave to any old blade. Was it auldurnian steel? Such blades were worth a small fortune, and as such were only given to the most capable and trustworthy warriors, even among the royal family themselves. A son of the famed princess certainly would count. Did the blade have a name, he wondered; such blades nearly always had a name, a thought that filled him with brief envy. He'd give his right paw to own a named blade. Part of him wished that Mayor Freedom's blade still existed, but according to all the sources he'd read, the Goldfur family blade, Enmity, was believed to have been lost sometime before the Mayor's death. Several fakes had turned up on the market in the years since, but all had inevitably been exposed as forgeries. Aramaeus himself had proclaimed one such when he'd met a sketchy antiquities dealer to inspect the blade for a potential purchase, recognizing that the dyed red leather on the hilt, while flashy, was entirely anachronistic.
The stunned Ryalor, at last, accepted the vice minister's paw, shaking it a bit stiffly. Aramaeus caught him start to do a bow concurrent with the gesture before remembering his protocol and straightening up instead. Either he's unaccustomed to Vulpinsulan manners, or he's a bit of a dolt, Aramaeus mused. He felt a flash of pride for his own competence in pawshakes. He'd spent over two weeks as a schoolkit practicing the gesture with one of the mannequins in the classroom during his lunch break. That had been a hungry two weeks. "A pleasure to meet you, Ma'a- Miss- Minister," Daniil fumbled, shaking the squirrel's paw for far too long. Aramaeus caught movement from the corner of his eye as, through the disbursing crowd, two femmes approached - a young marteness with light fur that, in contrast to the older albino's, registered as comparatively dark, and beside her a vixen with gray fur, the fur on her head grown long, dark, and braided back in a style not uncommon among the elite these days. Aramaeus briefly wondered if she dyed the fur, or if she was one of the rare few with the recessive gene that darkened the headfur. If she was, Aramaeus felt for her; the Mad Minister, the notorious serial killer Armina Rogue, had certainly lent that coloration an unsavory association. The other todd confirmed the suspected family relationship when he glanced to her, his face falling in relief, before gesturing to her in explanation. "My sister, the Lady Mileya of House Ryalor," he introduced the vixen.
Mileya looked at Aramaeus, seeming to notice him examining her, and he was too late in averting his gaze to avoid noticing the apprehension in her eyes at his attentions. He coughed as a pretense to look away, fixing his gaze upon the vice minister instead. He hadn't realized that she had a connection to the enigmatic Minister Rainblade, but it certainly made sense, with the circles she swam in, that she would be socializing with the upper ranks of influence and power. Really, it was more a surprise to him that anyone in Misanthropy would admit to having friends. Then again, she is from Niceties; that view of the relationship might well be one-sided, he mused. He mulled over that thought as the royal vixen gave a flawless Amarone-style curtsy to the squirrel. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Vice Minister Emberkin," she remarked, her tone the amiable cheer of a practiced diplomat. She put a paw on Asta's upper arm, introducing her in turn. "This is my dear friend Asta Delgaard, the daughter of Mr. Freemont." She indicated Caden with her paw, seemingly unaware of the charged family name she'd just dropped into the conversation.
Aramaeus felt his stomach plunge into the depths of the earth at the namedrop, and he looked to the albino marten in wonder and apprehension. Surely he couldn't be that Freemont, could he?
Fortuna Survivor
