Chuleigh was a little nothing of a hamlet, growing off the edge of the Choking Wood with all the care of a pastoral zit. Home to a scant few families, it was a footnote inside of a footnote in every ledger of the kingdom. Its population seemed to refuse to grow. Or shrink. Its buildings were more or less unchanged from when its residents' ancestors first put down stakes. The only thing that changed is that nature made attempts to reclaim the village, choking the walls and fences with ivy and other plants small enough to not be considered a nuisance.
Of course, "nuisance" was relative. Sure, dedicated pruning and hard work kept the invasive plants out of the fields where the actual crops were being grown, but significantly less attention was paid to the ones around the dirt paths between the buildings. Presumably, the natives were all so accustomed to their presence they knew where to walk to avoid them. That was the theory Beckett went with, around the fourth time his foot caught in a vine and he nearly face-planted into the dirt.
He did not need any other reason to stand out, among the locals. Beckett was a short, soft little dormouse, clad head to toe in even softer velvets. On his back was a rucksack almost as large as him, loaded down with so many extraneous goods he had cause to regret not packing light after the first hour on the road. He also regretted venturing out in mid-summer. By the time the town was in sight, he was an absolute wreck. Huffing, puffing, unsteady on his feet, and absolutely roasting in the multiple layers of fabric on his body. Staggering forward like a drunk on his way home was only one of the reasons he cut a strange and comical figure. Despite all of that, however, he was in good spirits, smiling the smile of someone who could see the end of a long and arduous task.
At this time of day, with the sun just beginning to set, most of the villagers had finished any tasks that would keep them outside. Many were under shade, waiting for the air to cool, or in their homes attending to dinner. Beckett had decided he was going to stop to speak to the first person he ran into on the street, but having arrived later than he expected he found there wasn't anybody to bother. Passing by the open door of a barn, he saw a shape moving around that looked enough like a person that he decided to call out to it. "Excuse me!" He leaned against the old, ivy-choked fence, waving an arm towards the figure with as much enthusiasm as he had the strength for. "Hello there! I was hoping to get some directions! Could you kindly...?" The shape came closer. Beckett lowered his hand. "Oh. Oh, dear."
Out of the barn came a burly chestnut horse, a decade or two Beckett's senior, naked from the waist up and obviously in a lather from the work he had been pulled from. He fixed the rodent with a patently unamused half-glare, already convinced that this was an unwanted distraction. His mood did not lighten any when Beckett turned his head to the side and put a hand against his temple to shield his eyes from the horse. Even so, he let out a simple snort-sigh and said "Aye?"
Beckett talked from behind his cover, enthusiasm blunted. "Y-yes, well, I was hoping to find... um, say. I am in the village of Chuleigh, aren't I?"
"Aye," replied the horse, "though that ain't how you pronounce it."
"It's not?" Beckett bowed awkwardly in the direction of the fields to the right of the barn. "Terribly sorry, friend. I've only ever seen the name written down, never spoken."
The horse's eyes narrowed. "Why ain't you lookin' at me when you talk?"
Beckett's face burned. His fuzzy tail twitched in agitation. "M-my apologies. It's, um... it's modesty, you see." He decided to press the issue before he was expected to explain himself any further. "I'm looking for the old manor house. The estate of old Duke Maiselle."
"What do you want with a place like that?"
"I live there, now." Despite his discomfort, Beckett could not help a hint of pride creeping into his voice. "Thanks to a bit of lucky research in the capital, I managed to convince the King that the manor house is my birthright."
"Aye?" The horse's eyes narrowed.
"Oh, not to worry. Not to worry. I'm not here to declare myself your new Lordship or anything. As I understand it, the village has not paid anything more than the cursory tribute to the Duke for generations. No, I'm merely there to live, not to rule."
A more neighborly person would have advised Beckett to turn around. They would have told him that nobody had so much as set foot in that blasted manor for as long as the horse had been alive, at least. They would have told him that nothing good would come from messing with the place. At that very moment, however, the horse was not in a neighborly mood. He had babies at home, squalling at all hours of the night, and a backlog of chores that would have been tiresome enough to deal with if his damn tools did not keep breaking. Now he was being pulled from all of that by a garishly colored burgher fop who wouldn't even deign to look him in the eye? He would probably regret this decision later. He might not. What mattered was that at that moment, he was inclined to do the most unneighborly thing he could thing of.
"You'll want to keep going down this road," he explained. "Turn right when you get past the church, and head up the hill. Towards the forest. The manor's going to be a little ways past the treeline."
Beckett beamed, behind his hand. "Excellent! Thank you, sir. Well, I'll not trouble you any longer. When next we meet, we'll be neighbors of a sort. I hope I can be of service to you, as you have to me." With that he turned (the long way around, so as to not see the horse) and resumed his march as fast as his march-aching legs could get up to speed.
The horse snorted, then disappeared back into the barn to resume his labor.
The rest of the walk was pleasant and uneventful. As the sun sank lower and lower into the sky, a cooling breeze prevailed. The thick velvets of his travelling clothes blunted their effectiveness immensely, but Beckett was relieved to feel it on what few patches of fur he felt comfortable exposing to it. Around him, a handful of people were leaving their homes and shaded resting spots and beginning to move again. A small tavern clamored with the start of a crowd. Somebody was testing the strings on a lute. Chuleigh (however you pronounced it) seemed like an all right place. It was quiet, compared to the bustling streets of the capital, but there was so much more space between buildings and people, here. The only thing that broke the illusion of unlimited space was the forest ahead of him. The Choking Wood was certainly earning its intimidating name, silhouetted against the sun and casting long shadows over the town. Beckett shuddered, then picked up his pace. He did not want to imagine what wandering through those woods would feel like, once the light failed completely.
A short hike through a stand of trees, along a path barely more developed than a game trail, and shortly the woods opened up to a large clearing. Here stood a large fence, also overgrown with vines (though, thankfully, they had all been pruned around the area of the old wrought-iron gate. Beyond that was Maiselle Manor, an immaculately kept two story home with large windows and architecture dating back to the reign of King Harken. Beckett was amazed. He had been certain that the building was abandoned, that he was stepping in to a home long past its prime and in serious need of fixing. And yet, as he looked the place over, he could find nothing wrong. Even the lawns around were completely sheared, devoid of the choking masses of ivy that infested every other unattended bit of this region. The walls were clean white paint, oranged by the light of the sun which gleamed off of the windows. Glass windows. He stared at them for at least a minute, before the thought clicked in. The old house had glass windows! And from the looks of things, they were all somehow intact! Beckett could not get to the door fast enough. He had to know what was inside.
The rusted old key in his pocket barely turned in the lock, but after a bit of fiddling he was finally able to get the large oak doors open. Inside, the foyer was dark, but even in the failing light Beckett could see that it was improbably clean. No dirt, no dust, no obvious signs of wear or storm damage. Candles sat in brass candleabras, unlit but fresh. A vase sat on a nearby table, full of freshly picked irses that, on a brief inspection, showed no signs of wilting. As Beckett marveled over these things, one of his round ears swiveled towards the hallway, where he could hear the faint notes of a lilting song trickling towards him. Curious, he followed the sound. He did not need to follow long, because just a short ways down was the faint orange flicker of firelight, bleeding in from underneath a doorway. The voice continued, half-humming and half-singing in a language Beckett couldn't place, occasionally punctuated by the wooden scrape of some mechanical part. He hesitated at the door, a moment. Then, remembering that the place was his, he turned the knob and stepped through.
He entered into a sitting room, or at least a room that might one day make for a fine sitting room. At the moment, its only furnishings were a well-stocked and roaring fireplace, a humble wooden stool, and a massively elaborate loom. On the stool, in front of the loom, sat a young bobcat maid in simple country garb. Her thick, short fingers worked with practiced dexterity, threading linen across a lattice of strings, tamping it into place, and pushing down a pedal to cause the warp threads to cross over one another. She already had half a bolt of cloth made in this fashion, and several more in a pile behind her. She looked up from her work, unbothered, her green eyes smiling as the song slowed to a stop in her mouth.
"Lord Beckett, I take it?" she asked, with a voice as bardic as if speech were just another part of her song.
Beckett looked to her, then to the loom. He looked back out into the hallway. Then he turned back to her before speaking. "Um... no lord, I. But I am the new owner of this manor. Who are you?"
"I am known as Dierdre." She stood, smoothing out her skirts before folding her hands together and giving a perfunctory curtsy. "I've come to welcome Your Lordship to his new home."
"As I said, I am no lord." Beckett folded his arms. "The property came with no title. I was not told it would come with a servant, either."
Dierdre shrugged. "It did not. However, I have a history with this place, same as you."
"Do you?" Despite a gnawing misgiving in the back of his mind, the part of him that yearned to comb through archives jumped at the chance to learn something. "What kind? Are you descended from house-staff that served here?"
The bobcat did not answer right away. There seemed to be a moment of calculation in her mind, as if she was searching for the right words. When those words came, however, they came without hesitation. "Of course, Sir Beckett. My family's ties to this manor are quite close, indeed."
Beckett could not keep the boyish excitement out of his expression if he tried. A clean and stately manor, all to himself, and a line to someone with knowledge of his ancestral home's history? Tracing back his lineage was the greatest decision the young dormouse had ever made. His mind bubbled with possibility, thrilling at the works he could perform with this place as a repository of his books.
"Fantastic," he breathed. Then, more loudly, he continued. "Stupdenous. Magnificent! Exemplary!" He surged forward, taking Dierdre's hands in his own and pumping them avidly. "Good Dierdre. Good Dierdre! This is an auspicious day. I have the feeling you will be a great friend to me, going forward."
"That is a kind thing for you to say, sir," Dierdre replied, before carefully removing herself from Beckett's grip with the dignity of an unwed maiden. "In the meantime, perhaps you would like to settle in." She lowered her snout, and her voice. "Perhaps wash off the dust of the road?"
Beckett needed a second to get the hint. When he did, his ears flattened against his head and he backed away. "Oh. Oh, dear. I'm... t-terribly sorry, Miss Dierdre. I've been walking non-stop for hours in this heat. Forgive me, I must be absolutely uncivilized, right now!"
"Worry not," Dierdre said. "I understand entirely. As it happens, I took the liberty of drawing you a bath. You can find the bathroom just around the hall."
"Good. Good. I'll just... go avail myself of that, then." Beckett turned on his heel and prepared to leave as fast as a person accused of smelling could possibly leave a situation. When he got to the door, however, he froze. Then, he turned back. "You knew I was coming today?"
Again came that moment of quiet calculation, before Dierdre spoke. "We shall have plenty of time, I think, to talk about that. After Your Lordship is comfortable."
Almost instinctively the protest came to Beckett's lips, but embarrassment and the allure of finally being able to get off his feet a while won out. He slipped out of the room, following the hallway down until he turned a corner. The bathroom wasn't hard to find; candles had been lit and the light shone through the open door. Here was about what he expected, a bare stone room wtih a large tub in the center and pewter candlesticks in the corners.
The water was steaming, still plenty warm from when it was bucketed in.
Beckett wondered if his luck was ever going to stop turning in his favor.
He closed the door behind him. Then he checked to see that it was properly latched. He double checked. He pushed at the door, to see if the latch was going to fail at a bad time. Only when he was entirely sure that he was completely safe did he put his rucksack on the floor, prop it against the door, and begin to disrobe. He peeled sweaty velvet off of his body, exposing more and more fur to the relatively cool air. He pulled off his tunic, revealing his weak chest and round, soft belly. He climbed out of his travelling boots, pulled off gloves and undershirts. When it came time to doff his breeches, he paused. He quadruple checked to see if the door was still going to stay put. Then, with a shudder, he hooked his thumbs into his belt loop and pulled down. His soft, fuzzy asscheeks stuck out, tail thrashing in agitation. He had to scramble out of the leg holes so he could stand up, covering his modest cock and balls with both hands despite being entirely alone. Then, he clambered into the tub, fast enough almost to cause water to splash over the side in his haste to sit down and be even a little bit covered.
Luckily for him, his anxieties were gone, mere moments later, replaced with the most exquisite kind of mind-numbing. His muscles, protesting over having to do work for so long, now sang with relief as he half-floated in water that was just the right temperature. He was going to be stiff and sore for days, he knew. He was never one for physical exertion more taxing than the lifting of a tome onto a pedestal. For now, though, he could forget that. He was home now. Home. No longer sharing a dingy sleeping quarter at the University. Tonight he would sleep in a home so opulent, it would make some of his former classmates weep with envy. If all the other things around here were in such fine contdition, could he dream of sleeping in a proper bed? Perhaps one of those stately four-posters that royalty was wont to sleep in? The thought of sleeping in such luxurious surroundings was already making him...
...making him...
He awoke with a start, when his head slipped below the water almost to his nose. Groggily, he shook his head. He could not tell how long he had dozed off. The water was cooler, but still comfortable. Even so, he decided it was best to get out. Slowly, he sat up, one eye on his clothes. He prepared himself to snatch up his pants as quickly as possible, before grabbing everything else.
This was around the time he realized his pants were gone.
Beckett got onto his knees, pulling his upper body over the lid of the tub. He looked again. And then he looked again. His pants were gone. There was only empty stone where he had shed them. Not only his pants; belatedly, he realized with dread that all the clothing he had worn into the bathroom were gone.
He sloshed his way out of the water, rushing to his bag. Panicked, he opened the main flap. Inside he found books, travel rations, books, some documents he copied about his family tree from the University archives, and more books. But no clothes. Not a stitch. Every article, from shirt to small-clothes, were completely missing.
Bewildered, he checked the rest of the bag. Nothing else was taken. The small pouch of gold coins he had carried for the trip was still intact and heavy with the stuff. None of his books were missing. Nothing... nothing else was taken. He started to panic. His breath came in ragged gasps. One of his hands reflexively snaked down to try and cover his genitals while he thought about what to do. He tried to wrack his brain for any kind of way out, though at the moment it was too preoccupied with repeatedly asking what sort of madman would rob a man and only take his clothes.
Suddenly, a memory came back to him, Dierdre! Dierdre was just down the hall! He could... his ears flattened. The thought of having to get help for this kind of problem was beyond humiliating. He knew he had no other option, but even so, he stared up at the door for a long while, as one stares down a maddened drake. It took a while longer, for him to marshal his courage. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet.
"Dierdre?" he said to the door. Then, when no response came, he raised his voice. "Dierdre! Dierdre, are you there?" Still no response. With a nervous gulp, Beckett put his free hand on the handle, hiding behind the door as he snaked his head out. "Dierdre! Dierdre, I need... you..."
The hall looked entirely different. In the darkness, everything seemed immediately older, dingier. The smell of dust came to his nose, thick and cloying. A crack had formed on the plaster of the wall in front of him, old enough to have yellowed at the edges. The only light was moonlight, filtering in from the windows. Not even the fire of the candles... Beckett's fur stood on end. Slowly, he turned around.
The bathroom was pitch black. The candles in the corner were completely burned down, caked in dust and cobwebs. He could barely see his pawprints, where his wet feet had padded across the room. Inside the tub was only a thin sheen of water, sickly-dark and reeking of decay.
"What...?" Beckett could not swallow hard enough, to get the knot of fear out of his throat. He could only talk around it in plaintive croaks. "What sorcery is this?"
His only response was a quiet ripple of laughter, echoing down the halls, from a bardic little green-eyed bobcat.
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