Ah, another glorious day as part of the Marquis de Cat’s army. The river otters have helped you reclaim this section of the forest from the Lizard Cult, and you’re here to keep the peace until the Marquis’s war machine can start building sawmills and recruitment centers.
The local rabbits know which side their bread is buttered on, and you barely have to bare your claws or steel to keep yourself fed. Recently, though, the number of locals in their burrows at night have diminished. You swear you hear more activity in the forest than usual. More footfalls, ominous chanting, and eerie green glowing than you usually expect from the Vagabond.
But you’re a mere foot (paw?) soldier. You’re certainly not being paid enough to start poking around in the scary woods at night.
You retire to the burrow you’ve claimed as yours. There’s a lot of books and pots and pans and stuff. The previous owner probably didn’t make out too well during the initial occupation. You’re helping yourself to their torches and tea when you hear the doorknob turn. You reach for your sword, but you hung it up by your coat. The door creaks open, and a pair of hooded figures spring in. The breeze from the door blows out the torch. You’re tackled to the ground, blinded until your eyes adjust to the dark.
The figures communicate in quick, alien whispers. They shove something over your head. Something hard and light, like wood or bone, with holes for your ears to poke through.
You can hear one of them banging around in the kitchen and dragging a big, heavy pot out. It lands on your chest, and then the figure sits in it to press you to the ground. The other starts hissing and whispering in your ear. It’s all nonsense at first, the same inscrutable lizardtongue you hear when you crush the lizards and their gardens. You’ve heard lizards curse the Marquis’s name in it, and you’ve heard them ordering each other around in it, but this is the first time you’ve heard it so intimately.
Something unlocks in your brain. Your breaths stutter, then deepen. The words start to make sense. A lot of sense. Words about a powerful dragon god and the beautiful peace She will bring to the forest. How all will be harmoniously united under Her welcoming wings. The same words twist your tongue, and the conversation flows through the vessel of your body.
The weight on your chest vanishes. You are rewarded with your robes and your hood.
Your eyes, rimmed with glorious green, adjust to the light. The brothers and sisters who welcomed you into Her blessing are bunnyfolk, their ears poking through the eye holes of the skulls they wear. Just like yours.
The next day, there’s a beautiful garden in the village. The bunnies are much happier. And so are you. And soon, so will everyone.