"Everybody has 'n animal." He smiled, leaning back in his rocking chair and pulling his worn blanket around his knees. Something creaked when he moved - old wood or old bones - she couldn't tell. "Their animal shows isself in diff'rent ways. Maybe they're 'n artist or writer, an' 'at animal is their muse. Maybe they're a scientist, an' 'at animal pulls 'em t'learn about living things. Maybe they're 'n occultist, an' 'at animal is their spirit guide or their animal totem. Maybe they're a furry, an' they think they chose 'at animal t'express 'emselves. Maybe they're s' hollowed out by the world around them 'at th' animal is just a favorite, a passing name or image, an' nothing more. Maybe they're s' worn thin an' grey-eyed 'at their animal died right along with their heart, years 'go.

"Or, sometimes, 'at animal isn't separate from us. 'At animal is us." He lifted a wrinkled, spotty hand, tremors racing through his crooked fingers. His fingernails were yellow and cracked, but they were thick and heavy and unusually rounded. "Our bodies start forgetting 'at they have t'be human, 'specially if we change a lot. My nails're a dog's claws now. Sometimes, my eyes don't go back t'blue for days an' days." He smiled again, showing off worsening teeth. "We live a long time, us animal-people. And 'ere's never any telling when an animal-person will find 'emselves an' figure it all out for th' first time.

"We ain't werewolves like in th' movies." The smile faded from his lined face. "We ain't monsters, an' we ain't looking t'hurt nobody. We're just animal-folk, living our lives as best we can. Some take it 'pon 'emselves t'help others find their animals, howe'er their animals show 'emselves. Most of us, we just live quiet. It's getting harder, what with th' world changing 'round us, t'keep normal folks from finding out 'bout us. But we're doing alright. Just a li'l underground people, like th' old Christians or th' new pagans, like th' Irish back in th' railroad days - just living our lives, not wanting trouble." He peered at her with white-clouded eyes. "D'ya understand what I'm saying?"

She nodded with a little smile. "I do, sir."

He chuckled raspily. "Don't need t'call me sir. I ain't a stranger t'ya."

Her smile widened, showing teeth. "Alright. It's just very wordy to call you Great-Great-Great-Grandfather all the time."

His eyes crinkled as he chortled, slapping his knee. "Then just call me Great!"

I've been asked so many times who I am. Usually in a shout of outrage, or after a shriek of fear, or sometimes before a plea for mercy. I always stop and take the time to explain, just in case there's a chance I might not have to kill somebody that day.

Never fails... they have to die. People don't -get- it.

I am Zilosj Farscin. I am part of the Mvem special forces, assigned to the lifelong career of clearing out inhabited planets to make way for Mvem colonists and soldiers. Once upon a time, worlds and worlds ago, I was one of the beasts being conquered. One of the invaders took a moment to explain to me who he was and what he did, and gave me the same choice I give to anyone who asks.

No one ever chooses to join us, even when the other option is death. It's sad, really - you'd think more species would've retained self-preservation instincts. It's not that bad, in the fleet; you get good food, your own quarters, whatever supplies you need to survive and be moderately happy, and you're as free as anyone with a profession can be. Considering the alternative... really, why is 'death' such a quick choice for people to make? Is the thought of change and travel just -that- terrifying?

Well, I and a few of my fellows that day chose life over death. It wasn't easy at first; Mvem never trust quickly, and we were shoved around a lot, deprived of equal rights for the first... well, while. You lose track of time in space, I've found; that's why I like being on-world so often. I weaseled my way into a rather special position; I'm in the first platoon to go down to new worlds, right alongside our ambassadors. (You'd be shocked at how much shorter their life expectancies are than the troops' own.) Once the terms for surrender are given, and normally thrown back in our face, we start the fight.

It's rough for the first few seasons. These planets that the Mvem choose are never space-capable; they're primitive. Usually too primitive to even have a centralized sort of government, but the Mvem actually make an effort to go out and send ambassadors to each major government. Those who accept our terms don't die; those who fight us do. It's pretty simple, really.

You know, the worst part of my job is the waiting. Before we go down on a new world, we spent cycles in orbit above them, carefully hidden from their sight, studying their culture. Translating their languages. Mapping their world and their settlements out, and trying to figure out tribal or national boundaries so that we know where the governments probably are. The probes have already established the world is habitable by the Mvem and worth the trouble of subduing it, as well as lacking enough technology and firepower to fight back with any success. They try to make it a clean sweep, and I respect that... but, just waiting, looking at the holos of the world below, new and alien and waiting to be explored... it makes my skin itch and the muscles in my legs bunch, wanting to run the length and breadth of the whole planet.

I wish more people would decide to join us. I mean, it's as fair as fair gets: we offer you terms of surrender so that your people don't die, and it isn't our fault if a tribe or country has stupid leaders that choose death for everyone. And most of us, especially the non-Mvems of the force, will offer promising individuals a chance to join us and avoid the death sentenced by their leaders. It's not like we mass-slaughter the whole populace, either; we fight until they're subdued, and we move on from there. Granted, I mean, if you fight, you lose your rights to a decent life. Even then, the Mvem don't sell them into starways trade or butcher them for meat - like I said, pretty fair!

After the fighting's over, there're always the seasons spent on-world, establishing clear dominance, taking care of rebel forces, and setting up Mvem outposts. We get everything arranged so that when the colonist ships show up, all they have to do is land and disembark. Maybe build a few houses, if the people were smart and surrendered, because then we don't have thousands of empty buildings to use.

That's the best part, you know. Post-battle, when things are cooled and wounds are healed. Some of us try to teach the survivors how to live best with the Mvem; they even listen, sometimes. But mostly, it's time to run, explore, taste alien winds and race down alien streets and paths, climb alien mountains and swim in alien waters. It's fantastic, this part, and makes it all worth-while. Freedom, as far as I want to go, and the smaller Mvem ships will pick me up when we're ready to move on to the next world that the probes have approved.

It's not a bad life, really. I liked it back home, I really did, and I'll miss the old places from time to time, and some of the people I used to know. But I have three others of my kind with me on this ship, going on these missions, and I'm okay with that.

But, I don't care how much I might miss home, being alive is better than being dead and gone. I don't regret the choice I made back then.

...I will now be doing three writing bits a week. Of no exact length, just three separate writing bits done by Sunday night.

Some of these will probably be evenings spent on novels, which may or may not wind up publically posted. Some others will appear on LJ.

Here's the first (and possibly my only for this week, since we're only started today).

( You know you're curious. )

A chiming bell echoed discordantly with the natural sounds of the forest, and the kuscra's triangular ears twitched, the angular muzzle swiveling to regard a neglected green pouch with many straps. Curiously, the ivory-furred mustelid skittered over to the pack and dug past the array of buckles and flaps with deft hands until its short, clawed fingers closed upon a round object. The bell chimed again, vibrating the smooth device just slightly, and the kuscra sat back on its haunches to lift the sphere to its nose.

Snf. Snffff. No, there was nothing important if the sphere smelled only of cool metal. Bright, inquisitive eyes scanned the surface, tiny hands turning the object around and around to inspect it. No, there were no ripples on the skin of the device, nothing to be touched and understood by the discriminating pads on the tips of little fingers. The kuscra sighed, then chirruped an inquiry.

The bell only chimed in response.

Annoyed now, the lithe creature dropped the sphere back into its particular pocket in the pack and started to turn--

A set of gaping jaws half as long as the mustelid's own lengthy body descended from above, huge teeth gleaming with saliva, and closed around the smaller mammal's ribs. Gently, the tar'kran lifted its charge high into the air, a guttural snort steaming from wide nostrils in admonition. The kuscra chittered and wailed in protest, but another snort silenced it, and its big ears twitched again.

The bell chimed, and now the sphere seven feet below the mustelid's anxious feet released a musky odor instantly read by both creatures. The kuscra squealed in alarm and clung to the bony ridges of the tar'kran's face with its fingers and toes, scrambling over the broad forehead and thick neck to hide between high-rising shoulderblades. With a breathy growl, the tar'kran bowed its snout to carefully pick up the abandoned, reeking pouch, then turned its head and awkwardly made sure that at least a few straps snagged on the bony protrusions rising from its shoulders. Once the bag was hung reasonably securely, the dark-skinned beast began moving at a swift lope.

The kuscra stayed hidden, curled up with its bright eyes behind its plumed tail, sharp claws nigh-gluing its light frame to the tar'kran's back. Pheromones that betrayed fear brought an acrid stench to the air, and the tar'kran huffed, displeased, as its talons pounded the uneven terrain in a steady gallop. Minutes passed, and the sphere ceased releasing scent, but now its formerly sleek surface dimpled and stretched into strange symbols that shifted and disappeared and reappeared. Once the kuscra caught the faint whirring noise, it stretched up and over the tar'kran's high shoulder, soft stomach resting on the smooth curve of exposed bone as it dug the sphere out and then retreated to the safety of its ward's back. Almost comically, the long-furred mammal juggled the device in its hands, palms and fingerpads reading the message being broadcasted.

It was a disturbing message, and when the sphere smoothed into blankness once more, the kuscra was whimpering in the back of its throat nervously, beady eyes darting left and right at the foliage the tar'kran was bounding past. The reek of fear rose again.

There. There, ahead and to the right. The deep, throaty cough of a predator.

The tar'kran veered instantly to the left but did not slow. The kuscra on its back ducked low and clung, whining, to the leathery hide of its ward.

To the left, almost even with them, another cough. The first predator answered, and the pair of hunters began a conversation as the second kept pace easily with the running tar'kran. The now-prey grunted its displeasure as it broke through the treeline and left the forest for a more grassy area that stretched towards another, distant, copse of trees.

The predators burst from the treeline simultaneously and began narrowing in on the fleeing tar'kran and its now-shrieking passenger. The second cougher was the faster of the pair, and it leapt for the tar'kran's haunches before its partner was close enough to do the same.

Smoothly, the tar'kran stopped and whirled, presenting its slavering jaws and horned temples to the swift ursine's face. The collision of beasts of similar size should have sent them both staggering backwards or seen them writhing in a heap where they crashed; instead, the tar'kran's attacker crumpled bonelessly upon impact, and the tar'kran itself only slid backwards a few inches from the shock.

The tar'kran shook its heavy head, now spattered in grey matter and shards of bone from the ursine's shattered skull, and twisted about to greet its other hunter. The other ursine was standing stiff-legged with shock, blunt muzzle contorted with a snarl.

After another shake of its muzzle, the tar'kran grunted and took a few steps forward, challenging the widowed hunter. The ursine hesitated, stood its ground, and cough-growled loudly. The tar'kran took another two steps.

The ursine fled.

After the tattoo of running paws had faded, the kuscra clambered onto the tar'kran's broad skull and deftly picked off the strings of gore and remaining bone shrapnel, chittering in distaste as its off-white paws became stained red. Once its ward's face was uncluttered with biological debris, the kuscra scraped the blood off against the tar'kran's tough skin and skittered back to its place between the shoulderblades.

With a soft huff, the tar'kran resumed its steady lope towards the place both creatures called home.

Title-- Subreality: Proposal
Rating and Warnings-- PG. Little bit o' language.
Species and Characters-- Species are humans, modern-day on Earth. Specific chars are Sasha, a therian, and Jack, the ringleader of a vigilante force.
Summary and Notes-- This is a continuation of the subreality idea from earlier, though chronologically earlier than that piece.

( She'd known Jack for a month. )

Title-- Subreality: Shard
Rating and Warnings-- PG-13 for nongraphic death & violence. Oh, also vulgar language.
Species and Characters-- Species are humans, modern-day on Earth. Specific chars are Sasha, a therian, her unnamed boyfriend, and Jack, the ringleader of a vigilante force.
Summary and Notes-- Please note that this is the equivalent of a very rough sketch of an outline of a .. thing. I had to get the concept down in words so it would stop chewing on my brain. The situation is thus: It is possible, with enough willpower and training, to warp reality into something called 'subreality' - almost a different dimension that overlaps ours. Subreality can be manifested in the physical realm as almost a different layer of reality, and thusly normal people ('sheep') either avoid that area subconsciously, or don't see what goes on there even if they're present. There are several gangs who use subreality to wreak havoc and chaos in the world, bringing monsters to life and adopting terrifyingly surreal powers to get what they want. However, a man named Jack takes up residence in a particularly besieged city and begins gathering allies to him to combat these gangs. Training his recruits in the theory and manipulation of subreality, as well as combat techniques in subreality, where weaponry and technology are useless, Jack builds up a guerilla force - including a new recruit, Sasha, a therian who joins his side when he promises her that he can teach her to physically shapeshift. She agrees, on the condition that he doesn't let anyone she knows get dragged into this surreal war. Jack, so far, is the most powerful vigilante of his little group, but most of the others never thought about things like alternate realities before he found them; Sasha, on the other hand, is rather knowledgeable in such concepts and shows great promise.

( She'd been curled up... )

((A note that any and all accents used in any of this are not 100% mockups of real-world accents. I can't do them accurately. So I mix and mash.))

...

"Roigh', see 'ere, wot if... wot if, yeh see, yeh had nae skin. Yeh had nae skin, an' everything wot touched yeh, touched yeh heart. Yeh couldna esscape anythin'. Everything wot yeh heard, wot yeh thought, wot even o'ers felt, touched yeh heart. Yeh felt it all.

Wot then? How does a person deal with thot sort o' thing? Do 'ey try to find some way around it? Or do 'ey just... feel?"

A little like dying, went the thought process. Drowning in experience. It couldn't be any other way, if one had no skin.

...

Human faces get old and wizened with age, hair dying into a grey shag, wrinkles condensing around their eyes and mouths. Wolf faces don't. Wolf fur greys a little bit, but most wolves are dead before their pelts die. The oldest have silvered muzzles and scars putting fake wrinkles in the waning gloss of their fur. They die in battle or in the hunt before age has gotten enough of a grip to put fog over their yellow eyes - long before time has stiffened their bones or beset their minds with cobwebs.

This wolf was so old that he moved stiffly, like an old human, and that his once-black fur had almost all gone lifelessly grey. His gold eyes were hazed with too many years, but the mind behind them showed no slowing of wit.

"'Ware the beast, boy," he croaked, lifting a handpaw to settle the withered thing on my shoulder. His knuckles were large and twisted, the blunt claws tipping his digits cracked and flaking. His muzzle was inches from my face, but I couldn't recoil from the musk of death long cheated - the scent clung to his breath. "'Ware it, an' it won't kill ye... don't hunt it, an' it won't hunt ye..."

He paused, looked me straight in the eye, and then his colorless muzzle twisted into a yellow-toothed grin. With his other handpaw, he pressed a fine stone spearhead into my lax hands. "...but ye can't ne'er stop hunting. The hunt is Death, lookin' ye in the face every time."

I knew the words now, knew what he was getting at, and I mouthed along with him as he wheezed, "...but the hunt is life itself, too."

The wolf realized I'd lip-synched his words, and he smiled crookedly again. One fang was missing. "Then ye know, boy, that I'm already dead."

I nodded soberly. He gave my shoulder a weak push, his elbow popping audibly. "Go hunt, boy." The smile had faded from his face. "Go live."

When a snarling, hulking werewolf looks down at you from its perch on a rickety old wagon and extends a hand, you kinda hesitate to grab it, you know?

( So, more o' that... )

The realtor was a lady in a very chic, classy, and yet somehow friendly business suit and sturdy heels; she had permed blonde hair, pale skin, and green eyes with a polite smile on her face. Unlike someone who may have been less experienced, she didn't shift her weight where she stood next to an empty house's front door, and her smile never wavered as she watched the road attentively. She'd heard the car. Why they stopped at the bottom of the drive, she wasn't sure, but she'd heard the car.

And then she heard laughter--a woman and a man, laughing. A finely plucked brow was raised, but she quickly schooled her expression into courteous welcome as someone walked into view. Walked? He was a tall bear of a man, broad-shouldered and muscular, with shaggy blonde hair and a grin splitting his handsome face. She quickly stepped forward to greet him, rattling off her name and other polite nonsense as he shook her hand gently. He had to have been fairly young, mid-twenties or so--still dressed in jeans and a white shirt with a second, striped shirt open over that one. College faire, probably just graduated.

The realtor peeked around him, looking for the car or woman she'd heard, but there was no one else. The man's voice caught her attention--warm and laid-back--and she began her practiced spiel on why he should buy this house in this neighborhood. The spiel had yet to work, granted, mostly due to the land's rampant greenery and seclusion from other people, but it was still the best she could do.

In the acre of forest that made up the property's front lawn, there was a young woman moving like a wolf--high-stepping over soggy branches, deftly winding a path around trees and brush and rocks. Damp, curling tendrils of hair hid her eyes from a casual observer--not that there were any--and her own jeans and loose grey hoodie nicely camoflauged her among the greys of the autumn wood. The realtor wouldn't see her, and at the thought, a feral grin flashed white teeth at no one in particular.

The man seemed interested in the property, gesturing enthusiastically to the forested yard and to the small but sturdy house itself for more details. He hadn't talked prices yet, and the realtor took her chance to run with the extravagant descriptions--all true, but all sweetened to be more palatable. Perhaps the sales pitch would be enough to soften the inevitable talk of finances when it came.

The young woman stalked the entirety of the property, just a shadow among the trees. Every few strides, she would pause and tilt her head, close her eyes, and reach out a hand to touch a nearby tree trunk. May I? was asked, and the answers were yesses in various forms, occasionally startled. These lands had been alone so long that humility and respect were unheard-of, that being acknowledged at all was foreign. And she smiled as she continued circling the little house.

"Lookin' good to me!" the man announced jovially, putting his fingers to his lips to let out a whistle, as though calling a dog. Within a few moments, the realtor heard a car start, and the vehicle meandered up the drive, a young woman with brown hair behind the wheel. She parked, got out, and greeted the realtor with unexpected social grace. When the man hugged the younger woman and went off to take a closer look around the property, the newcomer smiled with unnerving sweetness at the realtor.

"So, what did I miss?"

With a deep breath, the blonde prepared to go through her spiel again. But perhaps she'd get lucky this time... if she could convince both halves of the pair, maybe she could sell this lonely house so many miles out of town.

Title-- Carnivores
Rating and Warnings-- PG-13 for violence.
Species and Characters-- R. "Red" Jaguar, president of DinoHunt Corp, his son Zenth, his secretary Cody Alberson, and Zenth's girlfriend Samma Anderson. All humans.
Disclaimer-- I do not own or hold copyright to Carnivores I^tm or anything related to that excellent PC game such as the term DinoHunt Corp. The only thing copyright to me is the story itself and the chars. All else is copyright to the games' creator. Don't sue me, I'm poor.
Summary and Notes-- Oh gods, yes, it's a fanfic. You hush. Carnivores is a first-person dino-hunting game that I just have waaaay too much fun with. It's an older PC game, but oh teh fun. Oh, and this was written years ago. It's just fun enough to post here.

( A young man, blonde hair held tightly in a bun at the nape of his neck but otherwise very sharply dressed in a grey suit, tie, and a conservative expression, lightly rapped upon a thick oaken door... )

Title-- Rainwalk
Rating and Warnings-- G; no warnings.
Species and Characters-- Species are, I guess, kinda furries--anthropormophic animals. Felithrope (feline furry) & allothrope (allosaur-family "furry"). Chars are Kidynne, female felithrope, and Black, male allothrope.
Summary and Notes-- This is for birdzilla; she requested that I write an original ficlet including a wet kitten, the color blue, paired pistols, and a chance meeting in an out-of-the-way place, genre sci-fi. This is what I came up with, just off the top of my head. XD!

( 'Who the /trech/ makes a spaceport's biodome capable of /rain/ ?!' )

Title-- Flight
Rating and Warnings-- G; no warnings.
Species and Characters-- Species = Canis, which are copyright to poetrywolf. Char = Tarjhi, a black-and-brown Mavra Verdani female.
Summary and Notes-- 222-word drabble for poetrywolf. >D

---------------------------------------------------
Small, sturdy paws pummeled the unforgiving earth in a brisk but steady rhythm, powering the runner through a sparse forest.

And then the earth abruptly ended, dropping out from beneath sharp claws in a steep cliff-face, and the fall began. For a moment, it was as though gravity had no hold on the blackened tawny beast--the small, compact body shot out at a parallel to what once was ground and was now air, thrown far from the rocky slope by her own momentum. Then, the planet looming below reached up invisible hands and began dragging her in an inevitable arc towards the unyielding soil that would break her upon impact.

With a well-practiced snap, angular feathered pinions unfurled from where they'd been clamped tightly to heaving flanks, and the fickle breezes suddenly became saviours as the currents buoyed the falling form of the Mavra Verdani. After a moment of gliding downwards, feeling the chill wind race invigorating fingers through thick fur and long feathers, the extended pinions flapped once, sending the small femme upwards again.

A dropped-jaw grin bared small but sharp fangs as those self-same yellow eyes, once rushed but now relaxed, peered into the crimson sky smeared with hazy magenta clouds. Every time she flew, it was as though she left all her worries on the earth so far below.
---------------------------------------------------

I wrote this rather brief shidbit trying to get a feel for the species... and, while the initial omgdifferentpronouns! was a shocker to both me and probably you-the-reader, I came off feeling pretty good about both the race (physically & culturally) as well as the emotions this piece seemed to radiate.

Title-- Calm Night
Rating and Warnings-- G; no warnings.
Species and Characters-- Species = Rochoi, one of two(?) sentients on Racamarai. They're a basic nomadic, quadrupedal, sensual, omnivorous, social species; basically feline in build with "feelers" looking much like an Eastern dragon's "moustaches". They are cyclically hermaphroditic, their mindsets altering from masculine to feminine as the moon (Sfacad) changes from waxing to waning, and at the time of Kud ("both"), when the moon is new or full, their mindsets are equally male and female. They take many mates, usually, but the "permanent" mate is called the firstmate (others are heartmates, for the heart can change). And, finally, characters are Kurralis and hirs firstmate Chialia.
Summary and Notes-- Well, should warn you: hirs = his/hers, hirm = him/her, se = he/she. So get used to it. XD;; And, for a summary... well, this is just... a calm night, as the title indicates. =^_^=

( It was the height of Kud, the time when Sfacad, the Changer, had both halves of hirs glorious disk bathed in light to guide all choi from one mindset to the other... )