[Mkguild] Divine Travails of Rats - Pars III. Descensum (a)

[C. Matthias]

And at long last I can begin posting Pars III!  I 
apologize for the large delay between these large 
scale sections, but I am trying to keep one 
section ahead of what I'm posting.  There will be 
six sections in total for this story once it is finished (sometime next year).

Recall that scenes set in 724 are 16 years after the current timeline.

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Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats
by Charles Matthias and Ryx

Pars III: Descensum

(a)


Tuesday, June 22, 724 CR – Early Evening

“Charles Matthias Sutt, you stop right there 
young man!” Misanthe's sharp bark cut through the 
air with the snap of a catapult's release. 
Charlie bristled but did not slow, catching the 
heavy wooden door and shoving it behind him. They 
were upon him like magpies; first his father and 
now, before he could find any refuge in his own 
chambers, his mother; relentless in their pursuit of him.

“Do not call me that!” He yelled at the emptiness 
of the foyer before him though intended for the 
vixen, his adoptive mother, who slipped deftly 
through the door before it crashed shut.

“Charles Matthias Sutt, you stop! Stop right 
there, right now, and tell me what in the dark 
dream that was all about?” She challenged in a 
harsh growl as she caught up to him in the main 
hall of the Sutt residences of Metamor Keep. She 
caught at the sleeve of Charlie's shirt and 
hauled him up short. With an irritated hiss past 
his teeth Charlie stopped and turned on his mother.

“Don't call me that!” He snapped again, his ears 
and whiskers back, his tail lashing furiously 
behind him. Misanthe met his angry gaze glare for 
glare, her vulpine tail motionless behind her 
diminutive frame as he turned to face her. Her 
tapered muzzle, teeth gleaming, came only to his chest forcing her to look up.

“Call you what, young man?” Her growl was a low 
churr, one full of warning and menace. He had 
heard it many times in the years of his youth, 
when he had overstepped himself in some way that 
displeasured her, and it often heralded the 
application of a willow switch to his backside. 
Despite her petite stature she had not hesitated 
to mete out just discipline when it was warranted 
to such a degree that the child Charlie had often 
wished that it had been delivered by his father 
instead. But he was deaf to the warning in her 
tone and could only hiss a growl and throw his hands in the air.

“Matthias!” He bellowed furiously, leaning down 
until he was almost nose to nose with the vixen, 
his blue eyes wild. “I am not a Matthias!” He 
slapped his breast with one hand releasing a 
cloud of tourney field dust. “I have never been a 
Matthias, and I never shall -” Charles' outburst 
chuffed into shocked silence as his head was 
turned by a surprisingly strong slap across his 
muzzle. Misanthe may have been small, and a 
Duchess, but she was not averse to menial labor 
and it showed in the strength hidden under her 
lush russet pelt. Stunned, Charlie clapped a hand to the side of his muzzle.

“Don't you dare, Charles, belittle the blood from 
which you sprang!” She fairly snarled up at him, 
the tip of a black claw wagging an inch from his 
startled nose. “You have no right to treat your 
father as you did out there!” Her arm swung to 
point back behind herself toward the distant tournament field.

Rubbing the side of his muzzle Charlie scowled. 
“He's not my father,” he groused with a back-eared, flat-whiskered scowl.

“He is,” Misanthe growled warningly. “As much as 
Malger is. Moreso, even. He loves you no less for being a Sutt.”

“How can you say that, mother?” Charlie railed. 
“He gave me – no! No, he sold me away!” He waved 
his hands helplessly with a loud groan of anger. “For a ghost!”

Misanthe rocked back on the pads of the paws 
hidden beneath her voluminous skirts and sighed, 
her ears and whiskers backing as she blinked. 
“No, Charlie, he did not.” She sighed slowly with 
a shake of her head. “He resisted the very 
thought of it with all of his being.”

“He did not!” Charlie protested. “I've seen his 
dreams, his memories. He sold me, like a cull, 
for the ghost of my dead – brother.” He hissed 
the last word short, loathe to admit he had a brother, alive or dead.

“I know full well what he did, Charlie, I was there.”

Charlie's brows knitted with a scowl. “Malger was 
there. Nocturna was there, bargaining for me like 
a damnable fishwife. You were not in the dream 
with them, but in the waking world watching over 
them.” He crossed his arms and glowered down at 
her with an expression perfected only for 
youthful rebellion. “You countenanced this?”

With a frown Misanthe nodded slowly. “I was not a 
Sutt then, Charlie. I served your father, I did 
not tell him what to or not to do.” Her fingers 
brushed his arm lightly. “That you are a Sutt is 
one of Charles' greatest regrets, Charlie, and it 
pains him still, even after fifteen years. He 
feels he failed as a father, having lost both the 
eldest and youngest of his firstborn. You should 
not denigrate him for your having been brought 
into our family. He had little choice.”

“But,” Charlie argued, his anger cooled but his 
frustration hardly lessened, “he bargained with 
Nocturna for my very soul. He gave me to her – to you. Why would he do that?”

“Because he must, for you. As for why, that is a 
question I cannot answer, my son.” Turning about 
Misanthe strode back to the door. “I was not in 
the Dream, and for months afterward even Malger 
would say nothing about it to me. Charles never 
has, it was that upsetting. If you want to know 
more, you need to ask him. But don't press; 
you've seen his memories, his nightmares. If they 
are so unpleasant now, imagine how they impacted 
him when he was living them.” Grasping the door 
latch she drew it open. “As well, you need to 
find him and apologize for your childish 
behavior.” Wagging an admonishing finger toward 
him, she added, “You have many to apologize to, 
young man, beyond your sire. Maysin, for one, 
whom was left saddled and ready to bear you from 
the field and you left her there, neglected as if 
she were merely a common horse.”

Charlie tightened his hands into fists, hiding 
the wince from the prick of short claws. “I don't 
want to hear it from Father. Why should I listen 
to it from the one who gave me up?” Misanthe 
glared, a tightening of the eyes and a subtle 
lifting of her jowls that only a mother could 
perform for her children. “Why should I listen to my sire?”

Her voice held that steely edge of disapproval, 
but there was a soft gentleness too, as though 
her reprimand had been given in full already. 
“You cannot know about this in part, Charlie. 
Your sire is the only one who knows the rest. He 
will not force himself on you, he loves you too 
much for that. You must go to him. And it would 
be best for you, young man, if I were not to find 
you here again until after you have spoken with him.”

With that final promise, his adoptive mother 
swept back out the door, leaving Charlie all 
alone in the main hall of their home. He stared 
at the door for more seconds than he could count, 
simmering and smarting. Charlie pulled the short 
chewstick he'd brought with him to his teeth and 
gnawed as he tried to sort out his thoughts.

Behind him he heard a door opening – likely one 
of the servants going about their task and 
pretending not to have overheard the entire 
confrontation with his mother. Charlie was in no 
mood to be disturbed by them either. The stick 
between his teeth he stormed out of his home and 
then through the passages of the Keep.

He found the tower stairs after only a few turns 
and began climbing. To keep his mind from 
everything else he counted the steps as he 
usually did. After only a hundred he lost count, 
but in the exhaustion from climbing so many steps 
at the very least he had a brief respite from his anger.

After several minutes of climbing Charlie at last 
emerged onto a balcony overlooking Keeptowne to 
the south. He collapsed into a stone seat as the 
wind picked and clawed at his fur. Formerly 
belonging to an old astronomer of Metamor who'd 
vanished the year before his birth – some bird 
named Channing – the balcony was warded to 
prevent anyone from accidentally falling to their 
death. It was not used much anymore and so 
Charlie had taken it as his personal hiding place when he wished solitude.

He could clearly see Keeptowne and its streets, 
and in the distance the tourney fields, the High 
Box, and all of the festivities. Beyond that and 
down the hill was the town of Euper but he only 
could see its edges. To his right Metamor river 
snaked through the folds of hill and forest, 
while the valley opened up before him, the woods 
retreating in favor of farms and pasture. Only 
the faintest of echoes from the city could reach 
him at so high a height and that day, the sun 
glimmering above the western mountains as it 
descended in its evening course, he could hear 
only the wind crying against the stone.

And then, lowering his face against the cold 
railing, Charlie could only do the same. His 
chest heaved with sobs as all of the anger melted into sorrow.

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May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias
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