The Outer Veil, Ch. 01

Disclaimers:

-All characters depicted in this story are of legal age both in real life and within their respective fictional societies.

-Given the inclusion of certain power dynamics, there might be instances where the consent given is questionable. This is not an intentional theme, but rather a consequence of the cultures within the fictional world.

-The romantic and sexual scenes in this story primarily revolve around gay male relationships, with some feminisation undertones that develop as the plot unfolds.

-The story's setting features humanoid characters with animalistic traits such as fur and fangs, which is an integral part of its lore. While this content may be labeled as furry, it is not the central focus of the narrative or prioritised over other themes.

Author's notes:

Welcome to my first story! I wholeheartedly appreciate any feedback you may have, but please be merciful!

My goal is to construct an engaging sci-fi world and narrative to get lost in.

But rest assured, this includes a lot of smut!

Chapters 2 to 4 are already in the works, but they will take some time to complete and polish. As a slow writer, I find the behind-the-scenes world building fascinating, but very time consuming.

Thank you for reading and enjoy the journey!

Chapter 1: The Forthcoming

The fifth year had come and gone, and the time of the Forthcoming was nigh. The valley of Sanfloch buzzed with the wishful whispers of young thrael neglecting their chores. The quintennial visit of the Host had a long-standing tradition of suspending duties, compelling even the strictest elder to tacitly forgive. While the youth indulged in promises of possibilities, their seniors somberly reflected on their respective might-have-beens.

Yet, while the mind of the community converged upon the ceremonial altar in its center, two young exceptions slipped out of the valley to gaze outwards at the harsh world beyond. The motley brothers seemed a poor fit, their attire comprised of coarse fabric, strained and stretched by their recent growth. Seral, an unorthodox figure with golden eyes and hair, radiated confident curiosity as he took the lead. Shaylin, dark and nervous, his fur gleaming with ink-like worry, panted unsteadily as he brought down the rear.

They ventured past the outer perimeter, a mantle of trees that obscured the lakeside village within, and onto the mossy greenish-grey expanse of Talus, flat but for some craggy pockmarks. The wasteland had forever been forbidden to the brothers, holding both promise for the one and treachery for all. Yet once again they found themselves treading upon the unyielding fields beyond their home, their hair tousled by unfettered gusts of wind.

They said little, for it was best left unspoken. Seral had proposed the adventure and Shaylin had welcomed it, both in tones that failed to convey the matter-of-fact nature that this was not. To the former and eldest, it was a final chance to grasp an ever-elusive purpose. To the latter, it was a precious time, not to be squandered apart from his sibling. For it was to be their final moments together.

And so the duo wandered aimlessly as the afternoon light began to wane, the lack of direction growing increasingly urgent in their minds. It took until they began to tire for Seral to raise his golden arm and point at a nearby divot of black rock in the mossy ground. "Should we?" He asked, glancing back at his brother for confirmation, one that he rarely needed.

[...]

Manilogn sighed as his weary back settled against warm baked clay. The day had been long and fruitless, and the evening chill seeped into the valley. Manilogn, the oldest thrael in the village, had sought solace for his creaky bones and tender joints with daytime warmth that ebbed from the stout walls of his cottage as dusk settled. He told others, not altogether untruthfully, that his pelt had grown thin and patchy, leaving him weak to the nocturnal elements.

But he had another reason for sitting before the ceremonial altar throughout the evening, covered in weathered skin blankets under the growing aurora of the Talus sky. As the Forthcoming approached, the Orb of the Hosts had dimmed, its unnaturally spherical surface clouding over with only the slightest hint at its former radiance. This was expected by the eve of its periodic replacement, but like his predecessors before him, Manilogn couldn't shake his unease. Would the Hosts return once more to renew the valley's growth, as they had for so many generations hence, or would they finally abandon his people on the precipice of uncertainty?

Manilogn realized the pointlessness of his concern. The Hosts had never failed to arrive before, not once and not ever, and so they would return again tomorrow, and in five years, and so forth. But the fear would not dissipate, and so, like his predecessors before him, old Manilogn sat before the Orb, scouring its depths for weak shadows of life to ensnare him.

Reflected within the glass, he glimpsed the lights of the heavens dancing across the grassy shores of the lake and disappearing within the protective embrace of the dark forest beyond. The trees formed a ring of inky blackness, in which two dots of yellow light flickered. He looked up, seeing the spotlights as they exited the woods, one straight and sturdy, the other lagging behind as it swayed. Manilogn sighed resignedly, slowly and painfully pushing himself aloft to intercept the troublemakers.

"Tonight, of all nights, Seral?" Manilogn's voice carried as he stood, coughing to clear the rasp within it. "Have you no sense of propriety or respect for tradition? What about your future? Would you be willing to abandon it for your foolish thrills?"

Seral met his gaze silently, his golden eyes unflinching. Manilogn knew well that the young man's good nature left no room for insolence. He was kind, and could be made to bow, but his drive would never bend to the will of elders. The old thrael found it exhausting, and so he peered past the man's golden locks to the boy sheltering in his shadow. Shaylin, as always, had been pulled into his brother's mischief. Disheveled and dejected, his posture reflected both physical and mental strain. Manilogn chose not to inquire further.

Turning his attention back to the elder brother, he noticed dirt caked under his claws and matting his fur, but not quite enough to cover the sheen or waft of old sweat. This had been a difficult outing on the both of them, and the next day would likely be harder still.

"Just this once," Manilogn declared, his tone resigned. "I will let you return home unpunished. Clean yourselves up, go to bed, and be ready for the ceremony tomorrow." He fixed a firm gaze on Seral. "That means that you should be here early and presentable, is that clear?"

The young man nodded stiffly. "Yes sir, we will."

With that, Manilogn dismissed them with a flick of his knobbly wrist. They hurried past as the old man stood still, listening to their panting breaths and fading footsteps, his heart heavy. He had witnessed countless ceremonies of renewal in his lifetime, and for each Forthcoming, the five chosen for ascension were different. The selection was random, but Manilogn knew better.

There was a subtle pattern to the madness, an identifying quality that made each chosen thrael unique. In the last few decades, Manilogn had even learned to predict with reasonable accuracy those that were likely to be chosen, not that he ever shared such thoughts.

Despite, or perhaps thanks to, all the worry and trouble he brought to the community, Seral was most certainly one such special youngling. Manilogn was convinced of it. He would be chosen, and the valley of Sanfloch would become a lonelier place. The elder sighed, and slowly lowered himself back against his cottage wall, his eyes fixated on the Orb. His watch was not yet over.

[...]

Shaylin trembled, clinging to a precarious shard of rock that dug into his palm. One leg angled toward too small a foothold, the other dangling over an abyss of unknown depth. Absolute darkness surrounded him, broken only by the sound of Seral scrambling across the stone beneath him, looking for an easy descent. Shaylin took a deep breath in an attempt to remain calm.

The rope had proven too short, and so they were now clambering down a steep wall of basalt, hoping to find something that would allay Seral's curiosity. Shaylin tried to mask his terror, not wanting to stifle his brothers' intoxicating zeal with unnecessary worry.

"Move your foot to the right... That's it. Now lower yourself with your arms until you find the next ledge." Came the reassuring voice of his exploratory companion, guiding him from below, down the cold rock face. Shaylin cautiously shifted his weight, only for his new foothold to betray him at the last moment the last moment. His foot slipped, snapping his hand from its grip as he tumbled down, his voice filling the air with a cry.

"I've got you!" Came his brothers' voice. "I've got you."

He sounded excited, even filled with wonder. The cave was no longer pitch black, but was instead lit by a gentle red glow. Shaylin knelt down next to his brother before the artifact he had found in the dirt, a red variant of the Orb kept by the elders upon the village altar.

"How do you think it got ended up here?" Seral wondered aloud.

"I'm not..." Shaylin noticed his brothers' fingers reaching for the unknown orb. "No, don't touch it!" He shouted, panicking as he swiped the fingers away, his arm brushing the smooth surface.

Then the scene changed again. Shaylin was now standing in an angular cave of cold metal, pressing against a pane of glass. Beyond it he glimpsed two thrael holding hands, both unknown and unreachable. He pressed harder against the glass, feeling it vibrate under his touch. The vibrations intensified, growing stronger and stronger.

"Wake up!" Seral's voice pierced through Shaylin's dream, shaking him awake. "We mustn't be late for the ceremony!"

Shaylin blinked the sleep away. "What... What time is it?"

"Time to bathe and get dressed! We have maybe half an hour at most."

The outside air carried the warmth of dawn as the brothers rushed to the shallows of the lake, shedding their clothes as they went. The village seemed enveloped in an eerie silence, broken only by the splashing of water and the rustling of branches. With their damp fur still drying in the daylight, the two younglings skirted the shore, hurrying towards the square and its ceremonial altar.

There, villagers of all ages gathered, talking in hushed anticipation, hugging, smiling, and crying. Amidst the crowd, a portly middle-aged thrael stood near the outskirts, a knowing smile spreading across his paunchy face as he spotted the approaching brothers.

"There you are, boys!" He exclaimed in a carrying whisper, beaming with pride. "I was wondering if you would show up."

"I'm sorry, pops," Seral answered, his tone conspiratorial, "I may have gotten us into trouble."

Their fathers' grin widened further, his expression indicating he had expected nothing less from them. He gathered the boys in for a tight hug, his broad cheeks compressing against theirs. "I thought I heard old Mani grumbling about something this morning. Not that anyone should care."

He leaned back, looking at his charges, his eyes welling with tears as he continued. "You both know what happens now, so look ahead, and live your best lives, wherever they may lead you. I'll be cheering for you, whatever the outcome." He then kissed Shaylin's forehead, playfully tousling Seral's barely brushed golden locks. "Go."

It was time. The brothers smiled as best they could, turning to join their fellow younglings in the center in the center of the crowd. Amidst exchanged words of good luck and anxious anticipation, even the murmurs of the crowd began to subside. They slowly backed up, prodded by the walking sticks of the three elders, creating space for the youth to line up.

These were the thrael that had come of age since the last Forthcoming, their duty and privilege to present themselves before this years' Host. They stood nervously, palms damp with sweat, stomachs fluttering with anticipation. Each wondered which five among them would be chosen to embark with the Host, ascending toward the Outer Veil.

Suddenly, the spac before the altar cracked open like a whip, revealing blinding light, quietly shaking the ground in a slowing rhythm. The crowd squinted as the light dimmed and became bearable, just as a figure immerged, clad in pristine white from head to toe. The being, vaguely female and towering above the thrael, surveyed the gathered villagers with confidence, before approaching the elder, Manilogn, to exchange a few words.

The elder's eyes widened as she spoke in the ancient language, his hesitation evident. Eventually, he nodded in agreement. The figure then turned towards the tear in space left in her wake and, for the first time in Sanfloch's recorded history, another Host emerged.

[...]

Impatience gnawed at Dreik as his pod descended from the upper decks. Part of him resented this interruption to his meticulously programmed schedule, knowing it would cost him days and distract him from a crucial juncture in his career. He knew better than to argue with the Council, yet the purpose of this new responsibility eluded him. Lost in thought, he nearly collided with a kravlen waiting for him as he exited the pod. She didn't even flinch.

"You're the enforcer, correct?" She asked, her low, flat voice reverberating across the steel walls and ceiling.

"Yes, here for the extraction," Dreik affirmed. It took a lot to shake Dreik these days, but a kravlen's gravely skin and emotionless demeanor always left him a little on edge. She merely chirped in acknowledgment, beckoning him to follow her to a sealing room for preparation.

There she handed him adjustable bioshielding gear, instructing him about the extraction taking place in a small Talus community as part of a ritualistic tradition established with the culture. While she had a list of candidates, Dreik had the freedom to exercise his own judgment in choosing whom to extract. He could choose any subjective parameters, as long as it was part of the new generation, identifiable by their fibrous clothing. He would then have access to his own processing chamber on the way back.

With her explanation out of the way, the extractor squeezed into her own purpose-fitted gear and activated the biosealant. With their suits now hermetically locked, Dreik and the kravlen descended a ramp towards the transfer chamber, where she picked up an atmospheric probe and signed for him to wait for a minute before following. She then pulled a lever, and vanished in a flash of light. Dreik dutifully waited 60 seconds, and followed.

He arrived in a small community of rocky huts built along the edge of a swampy lake, reflecting back the diffuse lights of the bright sky. A few dozen dark furred thrael milled before him. The distinction between the young and the old was immediately obvious, as the newer generation stood near the front in roughly woven cloth strips tied together with string and rope. Meanwhile the elders mostly wore layers of animal fur and skin.

Dreik turned and spotted his guide standing next to what was clearly a very old thrael. She gave him a quick nod, before turning back to speak to the diminutive figure with patchy fur and withered whiskers. Dreik began to scan the row of young thrael one by one as they silently awaited judgment, unsure what to look for. Some displayed strong wiry musculature, a few had white meshes streaking across their heads, one was golden, a couple thrust their chests out proudly, one was lanky with eyes of differing colour that seemed fixated on empty space.

But near the end of the row of presenting thrael, Dreik spotted a smaller individual, slim but for the slight curve of his hips, with shiny black fur and large purple eyes. His bare thighs appeared to be trembling slightly against his loincloth, and the tight strip of cloth that crossed over his little chest was moving up and down in quick shallow breaths. Dreik was unsure what it was about this young adult, but it was strong, something beyond the obvious fear and anxiety emanating from him. He could smell it. He leant down, deciding in the moment to be direct.

"Will you be mine?" He asked.

The thrael's eyes widened, his dark purple irises glinting with what almost looked like tears. It occurred to Dreik that he knew not what the conventional selection process looked like, but it was too late to back out now. The small creature paused for what felt like an interminable second, before taking a step forward.

"I am your Shaylin." He assented, his voice clear and beautiful, kissed by an exotic accent.

A sense of relief hit Dreik, and he felt a wry grin stretch across his masked face despite himself. He somehow knew that he had chosen well. He gestured for Shaylin to follow him as he straightened back up and turned to the transfer wake he had just arrived in, only to feel the boy collide with him. He looked down to see him clinging to his side, his soft warmth bleeding through the bioshielding suit, and his head facing back towards the crowd of onlookers in one silent goodbye.

Something within Dreik melted in that instance. He sighed, placing a hermetically sealed hand on the boys' shoulder and gently pulling him along into the transfer wake. And then, in a flash of light, they were back. The furry crowd, crumbling huts and and luminous lake replaced by calm, sturdy, functional steel. Dreik could feel his muscles relax a little as he glanced around, noticing that they'd been transferred straight into a processing chamber.

"Welcome aboard." He said, glancing at his new companion. "But before we move on, we need to undergo decontamination."

Shaylin looked around the room, his eyes round as saucers as he took in the new, dimmer environment, not showing the slightest comprehension.

"Hey!" Dreik called, raising his voice slightly and causing the thrael to flinch. "You need to take your clothes off."

The boy blinked, before slowly stripping out of his loincloth and chestband. His breathing grew slow and regular as he did so, his eyes fixated on Dreik as he uncovered his body, revealing slim shoulders and a lightly toned torso, with slightly wider hips and thighs flushing out into a padded posterior with a narrow tail, overshadowing the smallness between his legs. Below his knees, his calves narrowed down to limber digitigrade feet, on which his movements appeared lighter than a shadow. Dreik felt almost stunned before this cross between animalistic grace, elegant beauty and ambiguous masculinity.

"Your... Your clothes." He struggled to add, his arm stretched out. The thrael, looking surprised, bent over to collect his rags and handed them over with quivering fingers.

Dreik took them to the waste chute just as the room activated its decontamination sequence, and heard a high-pitched scream the moment that the clothes began their tumble down and out of sight. He turned to see Shaylin hugging himself, a half dozen nozzles spraying him from across the room, soaking his fur and muffling his yells of protest.

He hurried over to comfort the boy, feeling a handful of other nozzles turning to hose his suit down in turn, deafening him with the loud pitter patter of a high powered jet. He reached for Shaylin's shoulder, turning him around, but unsure how to help the anxious creature as he cringed away from the decontamination fluids. Eventually, it stopped, leaving a soaked and naked thrael on the verge of nervous tears, curled up on the metallic floor.

"I'm sorry..." He whispered. "Let's get you dried up."

He reached out to tug a towel off a rack as it descended from the ceiling, carefully wrapping his charge in it. Shaylin pulled it around himself, clearly appreciative of the scrap of modesty it afforded him as he calmed down and began to dry in the warm air that was now being channeled through the vents.