"That's 'Milady Wench' to you!"  The shrieking bellow precedes the
body of a husky black wolf out of the tavern doorway by about three
seconds.  The shout echoes around the street; the wolf just bounces
twice and lands in a heap.  From inside the tavern come the sounds
of breaking furniture, loud grunts, and the thud of fists against
flesh.  The door, already wrenched off one hinge by the wolf's
exit, slams to the packed dirt.  An enormous figure fills the
doorway, glaring down at the half-conscious wolf.  A foxtaur, the
unmistakably female figure's pointed ears nearly brush the twelve
foot high lintel beam, and her fat curves stretch almost as far
from side to side.

 Robyn of Lakeshire tosses her head, flipping a thick lock of red
hair back from green eyes.  The motion sends waves billowing
through her immensely over-plump body.  Three more bodies slung
over her broad lower back groan at the movement.  She reaches back
to grab the loudest groaner, a heavyset badger with a stink of ale
on his breath, by his head with one huge hand.  A shrug of her
shoulders, heavy muscle shifting beneath layers of fat, and he
flies through the air to land near the wolf.  The other two, a
short human and a disheveled mountain cat, are hefted by their
ankles to join the pile of living refuse.

 Robyn dusts her hands together, setting her tremendous breasts and
belly to jiggling, like a mountain range crafted from pudding by
some demented god.  The late afternoon sun catches the red gold of
her fur and forges it into a coat of invincible mail as she braces
herself across the doorway.  "You boys can come back when you learn
to hold your ale without starting any trouble.  Until then," her
muzzle sets like a bloodied spearpoint leveled at them, "don't let
me see you around here."  She pierces each of the four with her
endless eyes, then turns her back to them, her long, bushy tail
flirting contemptuously.  Kneeling on her forelegs, she picks up
the heavy oak door easily, examining the damage to the hinges.

 Behind her the cat rises to one knee and draws a wide-bladed
dagger from his belt.  As he pulls back his arm, the wolf notices
his intent and lunges at him with a yell.  But the would-be hero
trips over the stunned badger, and the knife flies.  End over end
it spins toward Robyn's back.  At the wolf's shout, she twists her
massive upper body around, swinging the door around with her as a
shield.  The knife thunks into the thick planks a handsbreadth from
her fingers.  She turns to face him, and her eyes harden.  She
advances, the inexorable onslaught of a glacier, hurling the door
aside into a pile of fallen leaves.  Deep in her throat she growls,
and the cat's eyes grow wide.  "That was a very stupid thing to
do."

 She rears up on her hind legs, towering over the others like a
vengeful mountain about to fall.  The human drags the badger back
in a dazed slow-motion parody of hurry, fleeing her wrath.  Her
forelegs lash out, grabbing the cat's shoulders in hand-paws only
slightly less nimble, and far stronger than her true hands.  She
pulls him up and in, pinning him against her immense stomach, and
siezes his wrists in her hands.  "Time for you to learn something,"
she snarls as she drops down on top of him, her belly burying him
from the chest down, crushing the breath from him.  He writhes and
squirms, but his struggles are useless against the monstrous weight
that covers him.

 The wolf watches his companion's struggles and gasps for air grow
weaker for several stunned moments before he can react.  "Stop
this," he says.  "Please.  He's suffered enough; you don't need to
kill him.  I'll make sure he never causes trouble around here
again.  Please."  His blue eyes plead with her, and her expression
softens.

 "You're awfully sober all of a sudden," she comments dryly.  But
she takes up most of her weight on her forelegs, allowing the cat
to draw shallow, shuddering gasps of air.

 "Being thrown fifty feet has a remarkable sobering effect," he
replies.  "So does seeing a comrade tortured to death."

 She shifts uncomfortably, wrenching a grimace from the cat pinned
beneath her voluminous belly.  "I won't kill him; I never planned
to.  But he would have killed me."  She gestures angrily at the
discarded door, knife still protruding from it.  "Someone who gets
drunk and throws knives around needs to be taught a lesson he won't
soon forget.  Call that torture if you will."  She locks stares
with him defiantly.

 His eyes are the first to drop.  "No, I cannot.  In the short time
I've known him, he's always been too quick to settle things with a
blade.  Ah, Keller, you idiot.  I hope you'll remember this next
time."  He sighs and seems to shrink in on himself.  "But it's my
fault for getting us all drunk in the first place.  It should
probably be me under there instead of him."  Robyn notices an odd
glint in his eyes as he says that.  "You don't want to hear my sob
story, though.  You hear too many of those in a tavern anyway. 
I'll just take him and go."

 She steps back, freeing Keller, who doubles up with a whoosh of
indrawn breath, clutching his flattened stomach.  She glances over
at the badger and human, huddled in a fearful mass near a rain
barrel.  "You two!" she barks, "take this piece of garbage and get
out of here."  Turning toward the wolf, she adds, "It's against my
better judgement, but I think I will listen to that sob story.  I
get the feeling you're not usually a bar-hopping drunk, and I think
there's a serious reason you wanted to get plastered.  So come with
me, and let's talk."  She picks up the door and leans it against
the tavern wall.  Leaning inside the doorway, she shouts "I'll be
back by dusk to fix the door.  Have Gretchen cover for me inside."

 When she turns back, the human and badger are half dragging and
half carrying Keller, whose squashed legs lack the strength to
support him.  All three cast frightened glances over their
shoulders as they hurry away.  The wolf watches with a bemused
smile.  "I think they expect you to chase them down and sit on
them," he says, with a quick glance at her abundant rump.

 She shakes her head.  "No, they've learned.  If they cause any
more trouble, I'll hit them with the door.  It's a lot harder than
I am."  A glance at her lush, billowing body confirms that notion.

 "I certainly hope so."  He ventures a hesitant grin, rubbing the
back of his head gingerly.  "That was a very hard door, and if you
don't mind my saying so, you look much softer and more cuddly than
oak."

 She looks at him curiously for a moment, then gestures with a
thick, soft arm.  "My home is this way.  I'll fix up those bruises,
and we can talk over some tea.  I think this is a conversation we
should be comfortably seated for."  He follows her quietly, without
another word.  When she glances back to make sure he's still with
her, she notices that his eyes are fixed on the wavelike motion of
her hindquarters, and she hides a smile.

 Her home is a massive one-story structure of finely fitted beams. 
She opens the door, thick enough to withstand a battering ram and
large enough to easily accomodate even her bulk, and ushers him
inside.  Waving him to a low, padded bench, she moves to the large
stove in the corner and kindles a fire.  While she fills the kettle
and sets it on the stove, he looks around, trying to force the last
vestiges of drunkenness out of his head.  The room is spacious, as
befits a foxtaur of her formidable girth.  The ceiling is high
enough to allow her plenty of head room, and the three doorways are
as wide as they are tall.  The main room holds two low benches,
each large enough to support her.    The corner where the stove
rests is filled with cupboards and shelves, including a covered
firewood bin.  A high table sits near one of the benches.  A
tied-back curtain in the doorway to the right reveals a broad,
thick sleeping pad; he glances swiftly away from that portal, ears
darkening in a slight blush.  The other door, next to the stove
corner, is closed, blocking his view of what he guesses to be a
closet, or perhaps even an enclosed bath.

 His mind wanders as his eyes traverse the room, absently taking in
details:  the carved scrollwork on the cupboards; the heavily
shuttered window, cast open for air and light; the thick cushions
on the benches, embroidered in simple patterns.  He starts when she
hands him a large mug, one that takes both his hands to hold.  She
raises her own mug in salute.  He returns the gesture, and
surprises her by offering a toast.  "To your home and hospitality,
milady.  'Milady Wench,' if you will, since I have no other name to
call you.  You honor me."

 Taken aback, she hesitates a moment before replying.  "Robyn," she
says at last.  "My name is Robyn of Lakeshire.  Thank you.  And you
are...?"

 "Pasha," he says with a smile that is almost shy, totally unlike
the drunk rowdy she had to hurl from the tavern.  "Late of
Skysview, now of nowhere."  He drops his eyes, then winces and
raises a hand to the back of his head.

 Robyn takes the mug from him and sets both mugs on the table, then
leans over him.  "Let's take a look at that," she murmurs, cradling
his head in her hands and tilting it downward.  His eyes grow wide
as his position brings his muzzle almost inside the low neckline of
her loose blouse, which hangs halfway down one fleshy upper arm and
barely touches her other shoulder, leaving both shoulders, a wide
expanse of back, and a bottomless valley of cleavage exposed.  With
every movement her breasts surge and roll against one another in a
tantalizing display.  He digs his claws into the edge of the bench
until he feels splinters in his fingerpads.  His muscles tense
until his back is a block of iron holding him back from plunging
headfirst into the soft wonderland before him.

 Apparently oblibious to his turmoil, she gently parts his headfur
and the manelike ruff which flows from between his ears.  "Yeah,
you've got a nasty bump there.  Don't tense up so much, you'll make
it hurt more."  She places one hand on either side of the bump, his
head enfolded like an apple in her grasp, and concentrates.  A soft
wash of warmth flows into him, rinsing away the pain as though it
were a stain being laundered out of a tunic.  His surprise is so
great that it distracts him from her undulating breasts.  He pulls
his head back when she releases him, and stares into her eyes.

 "You're a healer?"

 She laughs at the shock in his voice.  "You catch on quick," she
teases.  "Yes, I am.  That's partly why I have such a panoramic
physique, if you see what I mean."  Faced with his blank stare, she
sighs.  "You don't see.  Okay, you know that healers use their own
energy to heal people, right?  We can't just tap into ley lines
like a sorcerer, or beg off power from a god like priests do.  You
follow?"  He nods silently.  "Well, bigger people have more energy,
to use themselves or to share.  That's how a lot of healers work;
they get themselves a nice plump partner to share energy with.  But
some cases still take too much energy - if you can't scrape
together enough extra healers, you can't save the patient without
killing the healer."

 She straightens and spreads her arms, posing before him in all her
voluptuous splendor.  "Which brings us to me.  My healer-clan
follows the goddess Mielikki.  A long time ago, She spoke to us
through Her priestesses, and offered us a choice.  We could remain
as we were, healers undiminished in Her eyes.  Or She could change
us, make our bodies able to store more energy than we'd ever
dreamed possible.  We all knew what that meant; even a goddess
can't change some things.  But every one of us accepted the change,
and we're all happy with it.  The Sisterhood was a special group of
people even before.  And now we're the best healers in the world. 
Any questions?"

 "Only one."  Pasha looks at her gravely.  "How is it that a healer
fights so well, and is so quick to inflict pain?"  She starts, hurt
showing on her face, then drops her eyes.

 "I'm not proud of what I did today," she almost whispers.  When
she looks up, her expression is firm.  "But that fool was
dangerous.  If not to me, then to you, or the next person he
fights, or to himself.  The only way I could make an impression on
the ale-soaked mass he called a brain was to give him a thrashing
he won't forget any time soon.  Maybe it wasn't the best thing to
do, but with luck the next time he tries to knife someone in the
back, he'll remember and think better of it."

 A smile crosses her muzzle, and she plops down on the bench across
from him.  "As for how I fight so well, what makes you think
healers don't fight?  Granted, many healers are pacifists.  But
most of us who run onto battlefields to tend the wounded don't have
that luxury.  I'm a fair hand with a mace."  She gestures toward
the wall beside the front door; following her gaze, Pasha sees a
massive iron-bound mace hanging on wooden pegs.  It is easily as
long as he is tall, and he would have to strain to wield it. 
"And," she continues, "I think you'll agree that I know how to
throw my weight around in a fight."

 Pasha laughs, his first real laugh in far too long.  "And how to
throw other people's weight around.  You're very strong, but tell
me, how did you throw me so far so easily?"  He pats his broad,
muscular chest.  "I'm no slouch at infighting myself."

 She smiles mischievously.  "Well, I confess, I cheated a little. 
One reason I move so well for my size is that I'm kinetic.  Most of
my power is internally bound.  I can't levitate things from across
the room, or catch arrows or anything.  But when I'm touching
something, watch out.  I've lifted nearly twice my own weight,
between raw muscle and kinesing.  I'm very popular when wagons get
stuck in mud.

 "Now, I have a question for you."  Her smile widens into a grin. 
"What was that look you gave me when you said it should be you
under here?"  She pats her ponderous belly with one hand, and
strokes both hand-paws teasingly over her soft flesh.

 He swallows his voice, and no sound emerges the first time he
opens his mouth.  Clearing his throat, he tries again.  "I think
you're very attractive," he begins hesitantly.  A deep red blush
spreads through his ears.  "And, well, I have a fondness for heavy
women.  Especially women so plump and buxom.  I fantasize about
being pinned under a belly like yours."  He breaks off in
embarassment.

 She laughs, a deep, rolling sound that sends waves billowing
through her body.  "Maybe I should have sat on you."  She shakes
her hindquarters, her rump jiggling.  "I saw the looks you were
giving me back there, too.  Haven't you ever seen a fat 'taur
before?  You're looking like you can't decide whether to put me in
a museum or jump on top of me."

 His blush deepens until his ears are as dark on the inside as on
the black-furred outside.  "Robyn, I've never seen anyone as
magnificent as you.  I've never seen anyone even close, except way
up north in the Darnarian Mountains, among the northern titans.  I
am deeply sorry for what I said and did at the tavern."  He drops
his eyes to the floor.  "It is not my habit to insult beautiful
ladies.  I am rarely so drunk that I forget that, and I regret that
I was today."

 "Don't be too remorseful," she replies, laying a massive, soft arm
across his shoulders.  "If you hadn't been so toasted, we probably
wouldn't be having this conversation now.  Which reminds me."  She
fixes him with a stare that is at once firm and gentle.  "You said
you had a 'sob story.'  What I've already heard tells me you've
been hurt, badly.  And I can't ignore a hurt as deep as that.  Tell
me about it."  She settles back on her bench, the short wooden legs
creaking a habitual complaint.

 He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, blowing it out slowly
between his fangs.  "I was born in Skysview, the village near
Titan's Peak.  For ten years now I've traveled, going with the
merchant caravans, escorting diplomats, anything that would let me
learn about the world.  Last month I went out on my own, a simple
journey to visit a friend in a nearby village.  When I returned, my
home was... gone.  There were only a few bodies.  My father and
brother were two of them."

 He breaks off and glares at the floor.  Robyn leans over to lay a
comforting hand on his back, and he slowly continues.  "The
buildings were all demolished, crushed to the ground by some
tremendous force and then ripped to shreds.  When I searched them
later, I found that every bit of metal had been taken, from the
good weapon-steel and the blacksmith's anvil to the last bent nail
and copper coin.  But first I found the only survivor, if you could
call him that.  He wasn't from Skysview; he was a titan ferret from
the Peak.  And never have I seen a more haggard, pitiful creature. 
They had crucified him between four trees.  He'd been tortured; he
was covered in wounds and was half-mad from pain.  And half-dead
from exposure.  I managed to cut him down, but he was too far gone
to save.  It looked like they had torn chunks out of him by claw
and fang."  He shudders at the memory.  "Hunter and prey is one
thing.  But this... to torture a sentient like that...

 "I don't know how, but he was still conscious.  Most of what he
said was incoherent madness.  But he told me three things, even
through the pain and insanity.  He gave me the name Maloch.  He
told me which way they'd gone.  And he said the word 'yoroshi.'  Do
you know what that means?"

 She shakes her head slowly.  "No, I've never heard it before.  It
sounds like Tenalish, but no one around here speaks that."

 "Damn.  I need to find someone who knows.  That's the last clue I
have.  I followed the trail to a few miles east of this town.  Then
it just vanished.  Over thirty people from my village, at least
fifty titans, plus whoever took them all, and I lost the trail. 
Even Jacobs couldn't pick it up."  He pauses and glances up at
Robyn.  "Jacobs is the human I was with.  I met those three a
couple towns back; they were going the same way, so we traveled
together for safety.  When I lost the trail, I crashed headlong
into all the grief I'd been holding back by force of anger.  They
got me here, I got us all drunk, and... well, you know the rest."

 Pasha slumps forward, dropping his head into his hands.  "Now I'll
never know what happened.  How can I track Maloch if he can make so
many people disappear?"  His voice trails off, his breathing
ragged.  Robyn pulls him against her broad belly and wraps her arms
around him in an all-encompassing hug, stroking his ruff of hair
soothingly.  He stiffens for a moment, then collapses against her,
burying his muzzle in her soft flesh, her lush fur soaking up the
tears he finally cries.

 Some time later the tears stop, but he remains curled in her
embrace, nuzzling her comforting softness.  Finally, she breaks the
silence.  "I know someone who can track a mage."  He yanks his head
up from her plush belly and stares up at her.  "He's called the
Stormdrifter.  He follows the mage-storms when they appear.  We
were friends, long ago.  Even lovers for a time.  But his travels
always called him, as strongly as my healing calls me.  I haven't
seen him in years, but I can take you to his home.  He always seems
to know when he's needed.  He'll be there."

 He looks deep into her eyes, and takes her hand in his.  "You have
your place here.  I can't ask you to leave everything behind.  You
don't even know me."

 With her free hand she caresses his cheek.  "I know you better
than you think," she says.  "I heal minds as well as bodies. 
You'll find, I think, that your grief is a little more manageable
now.  Not gone;  I could never rob you of any emotion, not even
sorrow.  But it won't control you any more."  A smile crosses her
muzzle, quickly replaced by a more serious expression.  "I had to
go pretty far into your mind to do it, though.  I'm sorry for
prying, but I couldn't leave raw emotional wounds like that
unhealed.  I won't tell anyone what I know.  You trust me, and I
won't betray that.  I also know how you feel about me."  The smile
returns, twisting up the corner of her mouth in spite of herself. 
"All of it."

 His ears darken yet again as she grins at him.  He holds up his
hands, blood clotting on the fingerpads, a few splinters from the
bench still stuck in them.  "Then would you mind fixing this?  I
had to give my willpower a little boost when you were working on my
head.  The view was... inspiring."

 She puts a hand to the neckline of her blouse as she realizes what
he means, and her own ears darken slightly.  "Oh, I'm sorry.  I
usually try not to be a tease.  I just didn't think about it."  Her
grin returns, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.  "Here, give
me your hands and I'll make it all better."

 The playful tone of her voice makes him pause, but he holds out
his hands.  She wraps her own hands, easily twice as broad as his,
around his wrists.  Once more, the warm tingle of healing flows
into him.  He relaxes, and suddenly she pulls him forward, slipping
his hands under her blouse and placing them palms flat against her
mountainous breasts.  Folding her arms, she pins his hands in
place.  "Now you can see if those fingers work right," she teases.

 He stares up at her in a startled mix of panic and desire.  She
squeezes her fleshy upper arms together, pressing his hands farther
into her and making her cleavage surge halfway out of her blouse. 
"I told you I saw how you feel about me, and I like what I saw.  So
if you're too chivalrous to do anything about it without an
invitation, consider yourself invited."

 For a few more seconds he just stares as she leans down toward
him, bringing her breasts down to his eye level.  Then he grins and
throws himself against her, wallowing into her fat curves.  She
smiles and engulfs him in a hug that completely covers him from the
waist up, gently squeezing him into her soft flesh.  His hands
stroke her lush fur and the mammoth rolls of flesh beneath it.

 Their embrace is interrupted by a loud growling sound that echoes
from her ponderous lower belly.  She giggles, making her bosom
quake against him.  "I always get hungry after a healing.  Time for
dinner."  She slowly pulls him out of her; overwhelmed, and a bit
smothered, he stumbles back onto the bench.

 When she turns toward the stove, he puts a hand on her round rump. 
"Why don't you let me cook?  To make up for breaking the tavern
door," he jokes.

 "You cook?" she asks with a smile.

 He shrugs.  "I've been told I make a shrewd highlands stew," he
says.  Robyn licks her lips hungrily, and he laughs.  "It's getting
close to dusk.  You go and fix that door.  I'll have supper waiting
for you when you get back."

 "Be sure to cook plenty," she says.  "You wouldn't want me to
waste away to nothing, would you?"  She trots to the door with
exaggerated steps that make her rump jiggle and bounce
voluptuously.

 "Mielikki forbid!" he gasps in mock terror.  "And deprive myself
of such a wonderful fantasy figure?  Now scoot, and leave the
cooking to me."  With a last laugh over her shoulder, she slips
outside and shuts the door.

 Left to his own devices, Pasha takes stock of the kitchen corner's
supplies, and starts working.  He lugs out the cauldron, easily
large enough to fit himself inside.  "Hm.  If I don't cook enough,
she might pop me in the stew.  There's a thought."  Chuckling under
his breath, he gathers ingredients, finally jogging out to the
butcher and grocer.

 When he returns, he starts cooking with a fervor.  The terrible
events of the past weeks step to the back of his mind, leaving room
for thoughts of meat, vegetables and, most importantly, a full and
contented Robyn.  He hums quietly, surprised at how happy he is. 
But a part of him says to enjoy the evening, and save quests and
vengeance for tomorrow.

 Evening creeps on, the autumn sun sinking low.  He lights the
lamps in their wall sconces, and places a single candle on the
table.  Shortly he hears splashing from outside at the well, and he
smiles, fetching a thick towel on his way to open the front door. 
Framed in the doorway, Robyn wrings water and dust from her hair. 
When she sees him waiting, she smiles.  Bending down, she licks his
muzzle playfully and takes the towel.

 She steps inside and sniffs deeply, thrusting her chest out in an
awesome display.  "Mmmmm, that smells delicious."  An answering
growl from her stomach makes her giggle.  "Sounds like my tummy
agrees.  I hope you made plenty."

 "Of course, milady," he replies.  "Just sit that delightful bottom
down, and I'll have you stuffed till you can't move in no time."