Well, this has been around for quite a while now, appearing in issue 1 of
Anthropomorphine back in January 1994. Part two followed in issue 2. (how remarkable)
As yet there isn't a part three. But who knows, there might be, one day.
        Anyway, here it is. Enjoy, delete, or whatever. :)

        Sean Charlesworth (Prask @ FM)
        <cm4mssc@bs41.staffs.ac.uk> , <otter@nether.net>




                             Lonely Peace, Deadly Friendship
                                (c) S. Charlesworth 1994
                                         Part One

        I.

        The sun rose slowly over the mountains, its pale spring rays dispelling the last
patches of mist hanging over the dark valley forests. Occasional flashes of silver indicated the paths of streams, fed by meltwater from the snowy peaks. 
        In places, the forest thinned out, the soil being insufficient to support trees. 
One small rocky plateau overlooked a pool, formed by the meeting of several small streams. 
A crude wooden hut stood at the forest's edge, overhung by the branches of an elderly oak 
tree. The sun's light slowly filtered through the trees, illuminating a single window in 
the small building. Inside, a small figure stretched, yawned and got to his feet.
        Tarl poked his whiskered muzzle out of the hut doorway, glancing around. He blinked 
several times, before emerging fully into the morning light. He stood about five feet in 
height, with a long tapering tail resting on the ground behind him. He wore a loose cotton 
tunic, half-heartedly tucked into a pair of old leather trousers, covering much of his light brown fur. His feet were bare, with short webbed toes digging into the ground.
        The otter shook himself once, and trotted across the outcrop towards the pool below. A rough set of steps had been carved into the steep bank, next to a worn mud slide, leading 
into the crystal clear water. Tarl gazed at the slide for a short while, before shaking his 
head sadly. Perhaps once, but no longer. His interest in such things had passed. Snapping 
out of his reverie, Tarl made for the steps. Those memories were better forgotten.
        An old wooden bucket lay at the top of the bank, and he picked it up before 
carefully descending to the pool. The recent rains had turned any exposed soil to mud and 
the steps were now very slippery indeed. His low centre of gravity, and heavy tail, made the climb far easier however, and Tarl hopped off the last step onto the short grass at the edge of the water. He had just bent down and lowered the bucket into the pool, when he heard a 
rustling noise coming from the bushes on the far side. Something was approaching, and making very little effort to conceal its progress. Very few large creatures lived in these woods, 
none of which Tarl was all that eager to meet, and this sounded at least as large as he was.
        He hauled out the bucket, and ran over to a thick stand of trees overhanging the 
pool, dropping to all fours, and slowly crawling forwards through the tangled branches to 
get a better look. The bushes across the pond were now shaking, as if something was trying 
to force its way through. Tarl shrank back into a more concealed position and waited.
        Suddenly a figure burst from the vegetation and looked wildly around. Tarl blinked 
in amazement, the last thing he had expected was a morph. He had come to this desolate 
valley to be alone, and for the two years he had lived here, had seen no one. He looked 
out again at the figure, now kneeling by the water's edge.
        She was a young vixen, obviously in some distress. Her clothes, once elegant, were 
torn from her passage through the forest, and barely held together, revealing large portions of her cream and pale orange fur. Her heavy breathing reached Tarl from his hiding place 
across the pool, and he realised she must have been running for some time. But from what? 
The thought of more people invading his personal territory made Tarl's fur bristle.
        Then he heard it, a distant sound, but getting steadily closer. It resolved into 
several voices, shouting, presumably to each other. The vixen heard it too, freezing with 
her head half raised from the pool, her muzzle dripping water. She jumped to her feet, and 
as she did so, her tired, frightened eyes met his. For a split second she paused, then 
turned and fled back into the forest.

        Tarl stepped out from behind the trees and headed for the steps, retrieving his 
bucket on the way. This was none of his business. In a while they'd be gone and he could 
resume his peaceful existence. But she needed help. He knew she would find no one else up 
here. But what could he do? She had gone now and although he could probably track her, he 
could offer little in the way of protection. He stood, gazing into the water, trying to 
come to a decision. Maybe some people could rush gallantly to her rescue, but he didn't 
feel gallant in the slightest. The voices were still getting louder and he wished he had 
brought his stout wooden staff with him, to at least offer some kind of protection, whoever 
these pursuers were. He turned and started to climb the steps, deciding he would feel much 
safer once inside his hut. Once at the top he walked swiftly towards the hut, losing much 
of the bucket's contents in the process. Suddenly a harsh shout made him freeze in his 
tracks.
        "Hey, otter."

        II.
        
        Two large wolves emerged from the woods and halted, silently hefting their weapons. 
They both stood at least seven feet tall, with thick black fur and decidedly menacing 
expressions. One, apparently the leader, from the shoulder insignia on his leather uniform, 
stepped up to Tarl and looked down at him.
        "Who are you? What are you doing here?", the wolf demanded.
        Tarl stared back up at the wolf. "I live here. Who are you?"
        The wolf snarled and his hand dropped to the heavy sword strapped to his belt. 
        "I'm asking the questions here. We're looking for a vixen. We know she's around here somewhere. Have you seen her?"
        Tarl thought it best not to ask how two such fine warriors could lose one small 
vixen, or to comment on the wolf's somewhat limited speech patterns.
        "No, I've seen no one."
        "You are sure? She must have passed close by."
        Tarl was getting rather fed up with this crude questioning. "Well, as you can see, 
this is a thriving metropolis. Maybe she just slipped by in the rush of people."
        As he suspected, sarcasm was completely lost on the wolf, who merely looked 
confused. The second soldier cleared his throat. "Captain, we should keep looking."
        He nodded, and waved dismissively at Tarl. "We must move on. Keep a look out for 
anything unusual, we may pass back this way."
        The two wolves walked over to the forest edge, stepped into the shadows and were 
gone.
        Tarl shook his head and waited until he was sure they had moved well away. Then he 
walked over and looked down at his earlier place of concealment. He called quietly down.
        "It's alright, you can come out now."
        The leaves rustled and the vixen crept forwards, looking up at him nervously. Tarl 
gestured for her to join him at the top of the bank and she climbed the steps, staring at 
him through liquid amber eyes.
        "How did you know I was there?", she asked. "Have they gone?"
        Tarl smiled slightly, "I didn't know. But it seemed likely. And if you weren't 
there, there's no one here to see me talking to trees."
        She visibly relaxed. "Thank you. I don't know how much longer I could have gone on."
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