Fur, Fangs, and Falsehoods

Trigger Warning: Violence and Psychological Manipulation.

This story contains depictions of violence, including weapon use and poisoning, as well as intense psychological conflict.

Felix Thornes, a cunning fox with a flair for theatrics, sat comfortably within the plush interior of his personalized coach. The vibrant orange of his fur contrasted with the warm glow of the swaying lantern hanging outside. His sleek, pointed features were framed by a rich auburn coat, darkening to near-black at his ears, the tip of his carefully groomed tail, and the fur on his hands, which took on the guise of fine gloves. He wore a deep purple overcoat, tailored to perfection and draped elegantly over his slender frame, with a precisely cut hole allowing his tail to move freely. Beneath it, a dark velvet waistcoat hugged his lean torso, the burgundy fabric catching the light as he shifted. A crisp white shirt and an intricately tied cravat completed the ensemble, giving him the air of a man with well-respected authority.

His tail twitched beneath him at the sound of rain tapping against the windows as the storm raged outside. His idle hand, resting in his coat pocket, grazed the cold metal of his pistol—a small, light weapon, intricately crafted and meticulously maintained. The pistol, with its engraved silver barrel and polished walnut grip, was never far from his reach—a constant companion and an unfailing instrument of defense.

Beside him lay the latest newspaper, detailing the dark affairs within the otherwise tranquil town of Barkshire. With a smile, he picked it up and briefly perused its contents before emitting a low, menacing growl, his pristine white teeth bared in a snarl as he read the headline recounting his latest deed: “The Playwright Phantom Strikes Again; Murdered in Cold Blood, Man Found Dead in the Gardens.”

“Cold blood? Is that all they perceive?” he muttered, flinging the paper onto the seat opposite. “They misinterpret it entirely, butcher it without thought, reducing it to something as crude as the work of The Brutal Baron. How can they fail to discern the artistic beauty in it? In a garden teeming with life, a man lies lifeless, his blood nourishing the very blossoms that thrive in the crisp morning air while he rests beneath the earth. Is that not poetic? Does it not stir the emotions and provoke thought? Cold blood... I should think not. The injustice of it all—such a thing deserves to be mourned.”

Thornes’s irritation slowly subsided as he caught sight of the hand-delivered, carefully folded letter peeking out of his pocket, its red wax seal bearing the howling wolf insignia—a clear indication of its origins from the desk of The Brutal Baron, his sworn rival.

The letter’s header read, "To Felix Thornes," penned in rough, nearly illegible handwriting. The sloppy, thick ink strokes mirrored Wilde’s inner turmoil and frustration as he composed the letter. A sardonic smile curled Felix’s lips as he imagined the misery Wilde must have endured while writing the name of the man he despised above all others.

“Do not mistake this letter for any gesture of goodwill; it is a proposition,” the missive continued. “The hatred I bear for you remains as strong as ever, but I grow tired of our stalemate. I propose a resolution: you and I shall meet where neither of us holds sway—the Harebrook Woods at the edge of Barkshire—to settle our rivalry once and for all in an honorable duel. Come armed, and I shall restrain myself from firing—against all better instincts—until terms are set. I have ordered my men to stand down and expect you to do the same. Should you seek an unfair advantage, your suffering will be severe and unrelenting. Come alone, with nothing more than your pistol and a letter for those who might mourn you—should anyone be so inclined. Do not keep me waiting in the storm, or I swear, your torment shall be slow and agonizing.

Sincerely,

Jack Wilde.”

Thornes’s smile persisted as he folded the letter once more and returned it to his pocket. It was true that the rivalry between him and Wilde had long been mired in a relentless stalemate. Each attempt Thornes made to sabotage and weaken Wilde was met with equal retaliation, leaving neither with loss nor gain. The proposal was indeed intriguing—an opportunity to end their feud once and for all.

The coach rolled to a halt, the driver’s uneasy silhouette barely visible through the rain-splattered window as he shielded himself from the downpour. Securing the pistol in his pocket, Thornes stepped out into the storm. His nose twitched at the cold splashes of water crashing down onto him. The droplets pattered against his fur, soaking into his once-neatly groomed appearance. His expression displayed the annoyance he felt as the rain dampened his meticulously arranged fur. With a sudden, defiant gesture, Thornes raised his pistol and fired into the weeping sky, startling both the driver and the horses. A moment later, a shot echoed in return, guiding him deeper into the woods—presumably from Wilde’s hand.

Thornes adjusted his coat and strode forward into the dark expanse of the forest, ready to confront his rival and bring their deadly game to its final act. After venturing deeper into the woods, guided by the distant report of Wilde’s pistol, Thornes found himself in a small clearing, encircled by towering trees that obscured any view of the world beyond. At the far edge stood Jack Wilde, his imposing form nearly swallowed by the shadows of the night. The only visible wolfish feature was the sharp outline of his muzzle, piercing through the darkness, his teeth glinting faintly. A brief flicker of light caught Thornes’s eye as Wilde struck a match, struggling against the rain to light his pipe. The flame sputtered and died, defeated by the relentless downpour. With a resigned growl, Wilde abandoned the futile attempt and stepped forward, his powerful frame emerging from the shadows, drenched with rainwater.

“You took your damn time,” he growled, stepping closer to Thornes.

Thornes remained unfazed, accustomed to Wilde’s brutish mannerisms. “Forgive me for ensuring I look presentable when I finally bring you to your end. Let’s proceed before we catch our deaths from this wretched cold, shall we? What are the terms?”

Wilde’s eyes narrowed as he laid out the conditions. “We shall take our positions at twenty paces—no more, no less. On my signal, we turn and fire, one shot apiece. No second chances, no mercy. If neither of us falls, we reload and continue until one of us lies dead."

His gaze remained fixed on Thornes, unblinking. “There are no seconds to intervene, no men to carry us off. This is between you and me alone, as it has always been. The victor walks away; the vanquished is left to the mercy of the night. Should you attempt any deceit—if you fire before the signal or take more than your single shot—I’ll consider the terms broken, and I’ll ensure you suffer for it. There is no honor in a death earned through treachery.”

He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in with the steady patter of rain. “Do you accept?”

“I do,” Thornes replied, understanding the importance of the conditions presented.

The two shook hands, a gesture heavy with unspoken enmity, before taking their positions, backs pressed against one another. The water from Wilde’s rugged coat transferred to Thornes’s own, creating an uncomfortable sensation. “One,” they counted in unison, pacing carefully forward. “Two. Three—” Before the third pace could be completed, both were struck by a distant blow. Thornes collapsed from the impact, while Wilde, though staggered, remained standing, his eyes scanning the treeline for any sign of the assailant. He glanced at Thornes before refocusing on the woods. “Stay here, and stay alive. If anyone has the pleasure of ending you, it’ll be me.”

Thornes, grappling with sudden, searing pain, pulled a small dart from his neck responsible for the blow, its chamber tainted with the residue of poison. “We’ve been poisoned,” he called out. “Given that we were both the targets, I’d wager it wasn’t our men. Who else knew you’d be out here?”

Wilde emitted a low, menacing growl, frustration evident in his stance. He yanked a similar dart from his own neck and cast it aside, turning back toward Thornes. “You speak as though I’m to blame. Only two men knew my plans—my operations strategist, Edgar Ferrel, and the coach driver, whose name I never bothered to learn. What of you? And do not lie to me. I care not if this poison claims us both—I’ll make certain it takes you first.”

Thornes narrowed his eyes. “Edgar Ferrel? Weasel? Brown fur, ember eyes, sharp wit? If so, I have the very same man under my employment, to whom I disclosed my plans.”

They exchanged a knowing look. “He’s played us both,” Wilde muttered. “Working both sides.”

“I take it you didn’t pen the letter inviting me to this serene location?”

“No,” Wilde replied, “and I suspect the one I received was a forgery as well.”

In a rare act of kindness, Wilde extended his hand to Thornes, offering assistance. “Get up,” he commanded. “I’m not finished with you yet, and it appears we have a common enemy.”

Together, they struggled along the path back toward the edge of the woods, only to find it obstructed by a fallen tree and other debris, the markings resembling an axe repeatedly driven into its side. With a gruff breath, Wilde shoved Thornes aside and began lifting the thick tree, showcasing his strength against the large obstacle, creating a small gap.

“I trust you don’t expect me to sully my clothing and crawl under there like a common beast,” Thornes remarked with disdain.

“Shut your muzzle and crawl, before I drop this tree on you and haul your carcass the rest of the way,” Wilde growled.

Thornes removed his coat and, with condescending intent, draped it over Wilde’s shoulder as if he were nothing more than a coat rack. “I would much prefer being hauled,” he quipped, before shifting and hurrying under the muddied tree, effectively ensuring any remnants of his once well-maintained appearance were but a memory.

Wilde let the tree drop after Thornes made it to the other side and clambered over it with ease, his claws digging into the bark.

“Where’s my coat?” Thornes demanded.

“On the other side,” Wilde replied coolly. “Keep moving. You should have considered that before treating me like your servant.” With that, Wilde shoved Thornes forward, his strength clearly overpowering Thornes’s slighter frame.

Wilde cocked his gun, his gaze unwavering as he muttered, “Damn pretentious cub.”

“I am no cub,” Thornes retorted, bristling at the insult. “Is it a sin to indulge in the finer things in life?”

“The manner in which you do, I should think so,” Wilde replied tersely.

Thornes and Wilde pressed on through the woods. In a childish attempt to irritate Wilde, Thornes deliberately released a branch, allowing it to snap back and strike Wilde in the face. Wilde growled, his patience wearing thin. He seized Thornes by the collar, dragging him back until their muzzles were nearly touching.

“I strongly advise you not to provoke me further,” Wilde barked, his voice low and dangerous. “A man’s tolerance has its limits, and it wouldn’t take much for a bullet to be fired and a grave to be dug.”

“The question remains,” Thornes retaliated, “from whose gun and whose grave—yours or mine?”

Wilde continued forward without a word, now five paces ahead, unwilling to engage in any more of Thornes’s antics. A deep, rumbling growl echoed around them.

“Must you insist on creating that irritating sound?” Thornes complained.

Wilde’s ears twitched as he paused, his attention snapping toward the source of the noise. Another growl followed, louder and clearer—it wasn’t from Wilde. Thornes instinctively reached for his gun, only to find it absent. Panic flickered in his eyes as he remembered it was left behind in his coat when they scaled the tree. His calm demeanor shifted to one of worry, realizing he was defenseless against the increasing threat.

Suddenly, a beast lunged at Thornes, pouncing on him with savage force—untamed and vastly unevolved compared to the rest of life in Barkshire. Wilde acted swiftly, shooting the hound before its teeth could sink into Thornes’s skin. He stepped up to the fallen creature, pressing a boot against its chest before delivering another shot to its head. Thornes staggered to his feet, his breath heavy, his clothing now torn. He watched as Wilde inspected the carcass, his boot still pressed against it. Satisfied, Wilde lifted his foot and resumed their journey onward.

Thornes, still taken aback by the display of brutality, remarked, “Well, that was barbaric.”

Without looking back, Wilde replied, “You’re breathing, aren’t you? Not every kill needs to be elaborate and outdone. It’s arrogant. Murder is a tool, not a spectacle.”

“I disagree,” Thornes retorted. “It’s a form of expression.”

“How so?”

“Death provokes emotion; it forces one to confront the inevitable. In doing so, it resonates deeply, compelling a sense of compassion and grief for the fallen, even if they knew nothing of the man. They take pleasure in mourning, often seeking solace from others to satisfy their own need for connection.”

“I can’t say I share your sentiment,” Wilde replied, his tone still aggressive, though softened by thought. “Yet it is a pattern I’ve observed often enough. Perhaps there is some truth in your words.” He slowed his pace, allowing Thornes to once again walk beside him. “But what of those who do not mourn?”

“They are those who better grasp the nature of death,” Thornes answered. “Why mourn someone to whom they have no personal connection? Death is a common event, occurring every hour of every day. Should one mourn the thousands lost in the last minute of our conversation? It would be an impractical waste.”

Finally, the two reached the edge of the woods, where Thornes’s coach awaited—but the driver lay dead, struck repeatedly from behind. The horses remained tethered—a deliberate act. Thornes’s nose twitched at the lingering scent of pipe smoke, the source coming from within the coach where none other than Edgar Ferrel sat comfortably, unbothered.

“Ah, you’ve arrived. I trust the journey wasn’t too troublesome?” Ferrel’s voice was smooth, almost cordial. “You’ll have to forgive the obstacles—I needed time for the proper preparations, and you weren’t giving me enough. But no need to worry; everything is in hand now. Please, have a seat, unless you prefer soaking in the rain.”

Wilde, angered by the weasel’s games, raised his gun, aiming at Ferrel’s head, his expression cold and unyielding.

“You don’t intend to kill me here, do you?” Ferrel remarked lightly, showing no fear, asserting control. “It would be unwise to shoot the man who holds in his hands the antidote—and, by extension, your lives in his paw.”

Ferrel produced three vials from a briefcase, each containing a clear, identical liquid. Unfolding a small table connected to the interior of the coach, he placed them in a neat row, looking to Thornes with a sinister smirk. “Three vials. One contains the antidote to the poison afflicting you; the other two, additional poison. Drinking one vial of poison will have no effect, but drinking both would be fatal. I present you with an offer: If you shoot Wilde in the temple when you hear my pistol fire, you will gain control over both yours and Wilde’s criminal organizations. I will then drink a vial containing poison, leaving only one vial of poison and one with the antidote. You may then choose which vial I drink from next. Should I drink from the second vial of poison, I’ll drop dead before you, revealing the antidote.”

Ferrel turned to Wilde. “The same offer applies to you: If you shoot Thornes as soon as you hear the shot from my pistol, you will command both organizations, and I will drink a vial of poison, leaving you to decide which vial I drink next. But…” Ferrel paused, turning back to Thornes, “should you choose to spare Wilde, I will drain all three vials and present a new set. This set includes one vial of fast-acting poison and two containing the antidote. I will pass one of the antidotes to Wilde, leaving you to pick from the two remaining—a fifty percent chance of selecting the other antidote.”

Ferrel’s eyes flicked back to Wilde. “And if you spare Thornes, the antidote will go to him, leaving you to choose from the two remaining vials. Are the rules clear?”

Wilde’s gaze met Thornes’s, a calculating expression on his face. There was no time to discuss—no choice but to play Ferrel’s game if they hoped to survive. Sensing Thornes’s absent weapon, Ferrel handed him his own pistol, retrieving a second one from his pocket, previously belonging to the coach driver. Thornes and Wilde, their gazes locked, knew a single misstep would cost them everything. Neither wanted to be outmaneuvered, and the idea of relying on mutual trust was as dangerous as it was foreign. Yet, pulling the trigger would mean abandoning the satisfaction of a rightful kill—the culmination of their long rivalry.

Time stretched as they pressed their pistols against each other’s foreheads, the cold metal a stark reminder of their impending fate. Both knew that sparing the other was as much a gamble as pulling the trigger. If Thornes spared Wilde, he’d need to trust Wilde would do the same, fighting against his own inner bloodlust. The thunderous roar of wind and rain drowned out the rest of the world, leaving only the deafening silence of their shared tension. Ferrel, eager to see their instincts take hold, fired his pistol with a sudden flash and a crack of thunder, forcing an immediate response.