The Eale? They are the black, barbarous version of the Alae.

Anlimor "fish" guide to a tourist

After passing the Military District, Aniallu found herself above the Gray Streams Square. It was deserted and dusty, with a tiny murmuring fountain smack in the middle. The sianae dropped altitude, gliding slowly across the square, and dove beneath the arch of a hoary hawthorn that concealed this miserable place. Alu's eyes were immediately splashed with just about every shade of fire: the street that opened up before her was lined with flame-red maples. Mighty boughs coiled like black serpents in the blazing leafage. Here and there bird nests hung from them, looking like gigantic chestnuts of peculiar green.

Old Maple Street had gotten its name from its very inception, having been built several millennia ago by cats that had migrated to Briaellar from Al Emenayit – the Great Forest. The name was meant to evoke the illusion that they had been living here since time immemorial, being an indispensable element of the city, its ancient history and culture, and not some half-savage foreigners that had only yesterday – literally! – climbed down from trees.

Years had passed, and today you could hardly imagine Briaellar without House an Al Emenayit, which had become one of the city's largest and most influential clans. Still, the fact that the city had accepted these woodland felines didn't necessarily mean that they had fully accepted it: to this day the Eale had a rather dismal outlook of the "civilized" way of life, with its large congregations of incongruous creatures, the noise and the crowds, the social etiquette, diplomatic nonsense, dirty politics and other such toxic behavior. Which was why Old Maple Street featured nary a shop, hotel or restaurant.

Here the woodland silence reigned supreme, perforated ever so rarely by the call of a bird or the rustle of a predator stalking in the grass. On either side of the black pavement stretched less-than-properly-cultivated gardens. Low houses squatted deep within the growths, like giant tree stumps with hats of dark moss on top. Here and there mighty roots emerged on the surface, girdling the ovals of meadows and flowerbeds, pools and footworn training grounds.

The long street wound gently this way and that, ending in the high gates of Castle an Al Emenayit. The Eale's love affair with their native woods was reflected in this, their adopted dwelling in Briaellar, which closely resembled their familiar arboreal world. It stood in stark contrast with the castles of elves, where living branches and flowers had been supplanted by ornate fretwork and embroidery, and the lighting – perhaps nature's greatest gift – by magic lights and similar artificial constructs. Their multi-storied lair was no sham or cheap surrogate for the forest, no. Though bustling with wizardry, it lived and breathed nature – wild and savage and beautiful, incorporating even the magic element into itself.

As Aniallu flew through the street, the living building rose gradually from the ground, its gargantuan bulk unfolding before the sianae in all its grim grandeur, the embodiment of harmonious austerity. In essence, it was a grove of ancient, colossal trees that had been transplanted here from the Great Forest. Crowding the interior of the castle enclosure, the giants nonetheless differed from one another in height and complexion: from pudgy blureias that swelled exorbitantly the closer they got to the ground, with spreading ashen tentacles for roots that made the trunks look like octopus heads, to tall and lean artejians aka "dragon pines," their fire-colored trunks propping up the night sky like fretted pillars. Each wore bark of its own unique pattern and hue: some were clothed in scales or gleaming metal; others bristled with millions of sharp spikes that had become graveyards to carless insects; others still were perfectly smooth and striped like the side of a watermelon... Perhaps the most distinctive genus looked as if some great conqueror had been nailing bears of vanquished enemies to it for many centuries. Some shunned neighbors, while others embraced them, interweaving their trunks and branches to form bridges, gates and gazebos. Where one sort boasted fanciful bends of massive horny hands, another countered with veritable waterfalls of aerial roots or fruits that hung low like heavy earrings.

The thickest boughs had been made into corridors, connecting one living tower to another. At spots they flattened and interlinked to form islands of sorts, hoisting berry patches, ponds and pileups of rotting wood, bedecked with scatterings of sprouted mushroom heads. Seemingly spanless trunks sprouted external stairwells and gently winding balconies like they were fungi. From afar, the pillows scattered over them looked like handfuls of bird feathers. The fretwork on the walls echoed the bark beetle's fanciful eating patterns; withered vines framed glazed trunk hollows; giant shelf fungi housed bedrooms, their high windows illuming the surrounding space like lanterns... The only element spoiling the illusion of "savagery" was the collection of complex geometric drawings on bountiful stained-glass windows.

Woven from black thorny branches, a pair of high door leaves opened soundlessly before Aniallu. Two platforms jutted out on either side of the castle wall; upon each platform sat a large, wiry panther, watching the sianae. Their dour eyes radiated light that caused their smooth furs to glisten. The grim predators were so perfectly still that one might easily have mistaken them for statues. Alasais' cats rarely stood sentry in their bipedal form. It was understandably hard to keep the same upright pose for hours at a time: they invariably began to slouch and shift from foot to foot, their faces took on a sour, disgruntled expression, and their tails drooped. Suffice it to say such sentries had a less than formidable look to them. The blessed feline form, on the other hand, was a whole different story! For one thing, you were virtually always comfortable. For another, you could do almost anything at all, even curl up in a ball or lick clean your paws, and you would still look sufficiently menacing and somber.

Aniallu glided into the Courtyard, unusually empty and quiet, and carpeted with springy, shimmering moss. Right across the oval platform this living carpet was split open by two enormous gray roots. Rounding the broad stairwell, they bent forward and down like bull horns, tearing up the ground forty tails from the gates. Inscribed on the roots were the names of all the clan's members; tapping on a name would reveal whether the creature was home (assuming one didn't desire privacy at the time). Of course, the task was easier said than done for those with underdeveloped intuition: you try finding one name out of several thousand chaotically scattered over the surface of the roots, which also had the nasty habit of shifting their location at will. This too was a clear manifestation of the Eale's ardent love for unwanted guests.

From time to time to roots would display obscene caricatures of the ruling top of Briaellar, courtesy of His Ballsiness Enaor, son of poor Meori, matriarch of House an Al Emenayit. Though age appeared to have done little to improve his artistic skill, the boy was still ever the prankster and boasted the uncanny ability to spot shortcomings in others. Perhaps because he himself was a living, breathing shortcoming.

At seemingly random intervals and spots at the base of the roots, faces distorted with fear would appear on the smooth wooden surface. They were the portraits of thieves that had been caught within the castle walls over the years. Some said that, in his younger years, Patriarch Selorn had entertained the seditious thought of confining even their souls to these roots, ostensibly to prevent recidivism. Whether it was the priests of Veindor the Merciful that had intervened, or Selorn himself had concocted a more original solution, nobody knew.

The courtyard was curbed on either side by a three-story building, beyond which peeked the rooftops of other structures, domes of stained glass and, naturally, trees, trees, trees... The front featured galleries with light arches, and that was where Aniallu steered her gleemie. The mocking expressions on the statues, clutching at carvings on the walls with keen silver claws, reminded her that flying within the estate of House an Al Emenayit was a risky endeavor: Patriarch Selorn was known to fly into a brutal rage whenever his subjects "cheated on Alasais (who had granted them bodies prime for leaping and running) with the despicable Lord of Wind." The gleemie landed obediently; Aniallu hopped off and gave the magical board, decidedly unbecoming a true cat, a spirited kick with the ball of her foot. The branches it was woven from instantly set into motion: the board turned into a ball of golden snakes, diminishing rapidly in volume as if the reptiles were crawling into some unseen hollow. No more than several seconds later the gleemie had transformed into a short rod and landed softly onto the rug. Aniallu picked it up and slid it into her boot, and as she straightened back up... she rejoiced at having concealed the evidence of her crime in time – Patriarch Selorn himself was walking her way.

As with all Eale, he was covered in thick, perfectly black fur from the soles of his feet to the inner surface of his pressed-back ears, from the end of his mighty tail to the peevish curl of his lips. The patriarch wasn't particularly tall or broad of shoulder, wore no mantle or other such distinguishing garb, and yet Aniallu couldn't shake the sensation that his twilit figure filled the total space of the gallery, moving inexorably toward the frozen sianae like a storm cloud. The mere sight of him made one want to slip into some obscure hole in the wall, shut one's eyes and stop breathing. Alas, there were no such holes around to slip into, and it was all Alu could do to stand there transfixed, looking back at the Eale and his eyes of toxic green, squinted in anger.

"I am disappointed," he growled, stopping several feet away from her. "How dare you sully the name of your clan, o unworthy daughter?! Don't you understand that your actions could have provoked the wrath of Alasais on us all? I curse the day I took your wretched self into my house!"

"Forgive me, father! Forgive me for disappointing you. I am ready to accept any punishment," Aniallu got down on one knee and bent her head. Her fingers clasped into a lock behind her – a sign of genuine remorse for her actions.

"There can be no forgiveness for what you have done."

A heavy silence hung in the hallway. Aniallu and Selorn just stood there, frozen, opposite one another. A swarm of fireflies buzzing underneath the low vault cast trembling specks of gold on their stone-still faces. The two could probably have been molded into fine statues: allegories of shame and righteous anger... Only the sculptor wouldn't have had a lot of time to work with. It was Selorn who broke down first, as his lips, pressed together into a stern line, quivered and spread into a satisfied grin.

"Clearly, you're a better actress than the Serpent's priestess," he pronounced, picking up Aniallu's head by the chin and forcing his foster daughter to look him in the eye.

"Does that mean you forgive me, father?" asked Alu, her ears twitching playfully, yet still managing to sustain an apologetic tone.

The Eale didn't bother answering, nor did he need to. Aniallu knew full well that in the entire Infinite there wasn't a creature who would be happier to hear news of her resignation. He reached for his daughter, even remembering to draw in his claws (a rare occurrence!), helped her off her knees, embraced her shoulders and led her inside. The fireflies followed them until Selorn dismissed them with a casual gesture.

"May I congratulate you on your first normal mission?" he asked, crossing an open gallery and stepping beneath the vaults of the Outer Castle.

"You may. Although I can't testify to its normalcy, at the very least it's definitely unconnected to any serpents or Paths," Alu chuckled.

Selorn didn't probe further, surmising that silence must be one of the clauses in her contract. Though the patriarch hailed from the Great Forest, which consistently produced some of Enhiarg's finest telepaths, especially among the males, he was unable to read Aniallu's thoughts, as her mind was under the protection of Alasais herself (a fact that the Eale couldn't have been happy about).

"How long ago have you sensed me?"

"Not long. I was hunting... We were hunting. You'll see in a moment," promised the patriarch as he hastened his step.

***

They turned the corner and entered a round room with a vaulted ceiling that resembled a turtle shell from which most plates had been sawed off and replaced with thick slabs of murky brown-green glass. Here and there the uneven surface of the glass protruded with blister-like bulges, marked by brown stains and dark patches of lichens. Wisps of gray grass hung off the bone frames. Fittingly, this modest hall had been dubbed The Swamp.

A modest fountain bubbled in a gap in the middle of the floor, with a large cat overhanging it like a lump of snow – an albino leopard of sorts, plump with an unkempt coat of fur. Wearing an expression of indescribable disgust on his rose-colored snout, he was bathing one of his sugary paws in the fountain's lower streams; as with the other three, was spattered with blood. Upon sighting Selorn the poor creature jerked the paw out of the water and started backing away, looking like the spitting image of a house cat that had been caught stealing liver from the cupboard. But it was too late. The patriarch grabbed him by the ear and, ignoring his whimpering, dragged him away from the foutain with the words:

"Cats wash themselves with their tongue. Their ton-gu-e. They used their tongue."

The victim's whimpering had escalated to howling, his blue eyes popping out of their sockets and his other ear pressed flat against his head. At some point, roughly halfway to the wall, the creature dug his splayed claws into the floor and refused to bulge. Selorn stopped as well.

"I see you remembered the purpose of those hooks on your feet. That's progress, I suppose," he scowled and sent the cat flying.

Aniallu observed the "heart-rending" scene with a smile. It was the perfect representation of Selorn – the ever-vigilant guardian of the Cat's Essence, his own and everybody else's.

"Look at the beautiful specimen we'd brought down with that oaf. Almost got away, too. Tough old bastard," said the patriarch, leading his daughter to a hairy, blood-soaked carcass. "I was sure that, having exhausted himself pursuing the beast, master wizard had gotten hungry and had dug into the prey ears deep. But no. His mightiness can't even put a piece of meat in his maw without levitating it!"

To that, "master wizard" twitched a tattered ear and dropped his eyes. He was an an Meanor – one of the feline mages. And, evidently, he must have exhausted himself with work so thoroughly as to end up being treated by Patriarch Selorn. Personally.

What was the one thing that could drive an Alae crazy? Was it living in Nel-Ileyn, where wetness and dampness were as ubiquitous as air? Or the honorable duty of dining in the company of Elidanite nobility, whose customs forbade tucking one's legs under oneself, purring, swallowing large pieces and eating with one's hands? Aniallu and Patriarch Selorn both knew the answer perfectly well – intense practice of magic.

If you spent some time hanging around the gates of an Meanors' castle, you might grow accustomed to the sight of yet another visitor tumble down the stairwell at breakneck speed, losing paperwork and any remnants of their dignity, and wailing, "They're all mad in there! MAAAAD, I tell you!" And try as you might, it would be extremely difficult to argue such a diagnosis. Every Briaellarean knew that an Meanors were capable of anything. Anything. It was as if they had a dedicated, full-time post, held by someone with a particularly rich and twisted imagination, to concoct and assign each of them a unique set of genuinely mindboggling habits.

The Alae were fairly decent sorcerers, but their constitution was clearly ill-fitted for fundamental magical research, which wound up harming not only their physical and mental health, but also, and this was far more horrifying, the very tel Alait, the Cat's spirit. Upon indulging in the magic arts, many an Meanors would forget their true nature, lose touch with their feline essence, and, consequently, most of their innate Alaean abilities. Those that crossed a certain point of no return in the process of their self-destruction would plunge into a terrible depression, withering like plants without water, showing nothing but utter apathy for weeks at a time, staring at a wall or into a book, even as they understood not a word of its contents. Every once in a while a soul healer would succeed in pulling a soul out of such a state, but all too often the poor bastards were beyond help. The only solution then was to fully erase their memories and initiate a new birth (hence the Alaean exclamation "Birth me anew!" took on a special meaning when uttered by an an Meanor.)

Patriarch Selorn, ever the champion of treating one's Ealean essence with the utmost respect, naturally couldn't stand idly by and watch an Meanors systematically obliterate their Cat's spirit. He endeavored to ease their lot as best he could. And not by putting the victims down mercifully in their sleep, as one might presume, knowing his... methods. Rather, he admonished them, checked them whenever they slipped, and frightened them half to death. The especially obstinate would earn an anti-magic collar that kept them from assuming their bipedal form, or get dropped in some remote wood (or, in extreme cases, in the wild section of his own castle.)

To his credit, the "huntotherapy" consistently proved most effective for returning an Meanors who had lost their way in the maze of magic back to their roots. And they all felt nothing but gratitude toward Selorn afterward. Still, few would dare argue that the actual treatment process was easy or pleasant... But then, neither were most encounters with the Ealean patriarch.

All this explained the hate-filled sidelong glances cast at the patriarch by the battered cat wizard. He glanced at Aniallu as well, though with a mix of bemusement and empathy, as if crying out, "Why is he still at large? He is the craziest of us all!" Alu merely smiled in return.

She relished this, playing the tyrant's favorite cat, being petted tenderly with his one hand while the other tightened its grip around someone else's neck (of which the naive kitty hadn't an inkling, since she only knew the gentle, loving side of her master.) She loved making her eyes round as the moon and exclaim breathlessly that "Selorn is not like that at all!"

In truth, though, Selorn's personality was indeed a hard one. The patriarch of House an Al Emenayit was unpredictable like a wild animal, and his bursts of anger were the stuff of legend. Few managed to feel at ease around this shameless telepath, capable of forcing his way into your consciousness at any moment... or, conversely, knocking the wind out of you with a strike of the mighty paw.

And though Aniallu knew perfectly well that Selorn was neither the mad despot nor the banal brute he was purported to be, she too had initially struggled to understand how she could feel so safe and comfortable around someone whose very name caused most creatures' blood to run cold, lips to start muttering prayers, and hands to reach for the closest weapon. Moreover, her spiritual anguish always seemed to diminish, disappear even, in his presence! Admittedly, cats were notoriously fond of the teasing, sense-tickling thrill of nearby danger, but... Recently Aniallu began to wonder (or rather, admitted to herself) that the reason was something else entirely: Patriarch Selorn was the only one who had never fully accepted her service to Tialianna, the only one who wouldn't hesitate to defend her inner cat from her inner serpent, just as he defended the tel Alait of that woebegone an Meanor from the magic devouring his mind. And Aniallu was infinitely grateful to him, both for herself and for the would-be mage.

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Illustraton by MariaFiddy1990 (http://fideliada.deviantart.com/).