A heavy, leather-bound book containing the finest celestial observations from the last few centuries lay open in the center of the table. A fox, wearing reading glasses perched on his snout, traced his paw carefully over the detailed ink drawings of stellar paths.
“We need to clear all this away,” the fox muttered, shaking his head in mild bewilderment. “When these humans arrive and see how we live, what are they going to think this time? I mean, if you look at the records from their last visit, it was a disaster after the feast…
The wolves demanded the fulfillment of certain obligations, the humans refused to acknowledge them, and things just kept getting uglier… We really ought to handle this differently. Fortunately, we happen to have a seasoned ‘traveler between both worlds’ sitting at our table right now.”
Everyone turned to look at a black wolf, distinguished by a prominent scar running through one eye, who was calmly sipping mead at the counter while whispering to a lynx merchant.
He then set his tankard – adorned with an unusual-looking logo – down on the counter, placing a note beside it that read: “Do not touch!” Picking up a crate, he strolled over and sat down at the table, looking entirely at ease.
“I find it rather ironic,” remarked a boar sitting at the table, “that we’re looking to a ‘sacred jurist’ to advise us on how to persuade the wolves not to take every little thing so literally, just because someone happened to mention something that aligns with the ‘Wolf Songs’.” The wolf glanced briefly at the boar and replied, “Ah, and why shouldn’t a wolf be allowed to think outside the box? Where is it written or sung that he can’t?” The boar drew a sharp breath, then said nothing more. “Just as I thought, my friend…” said the black wolf, glancing around the circle. “So, you asked me to join this gathering, did you?”
With dramatic slowness, Blackie opened the box he had brought to the table. Inside lay a few strange artifacts from the human world:
Something like a curiously glowing, flat rectangle of glass; a sword fashioned from soft foam; and a thick, colorfully printed rulebook for something called a “role-playing game.”
“To answer your unspoken question, my bristly friend,” Blackie began, leaning back in a relaxed posture.
The prominent scar above his right eye tightened slightly as he let out a dry, amused chuckle. “I am here precisely because I don’t just know the Wolf Songs by heart. Or in my capacity as a ‘sacred jurist for Claw and Fang’, but also because I know that what we consider sacred, blood-binding oaths are, to humans, about as binding as…”
He tapped the foam sword with a claw.
“…this weapon here is lethal.”
A murmur of confusion rippled through the group. The fox, who had been studying star charts just moments before, nudged his reading glasses up. He picked up the foam sword and brandished it about. “Wait a minute, … Are you actually saying that a human from this era would swear by the Moon to settle a debt or resolve a feud, and then head off carrying… whatever *that* thing is made of? I mean, it’s an improvement that they don’t show up with bare steel anymore, but… facing the claws of a hunter or a predator with *that* is practically suicide!”
Blackie looked around the circle. “Well, the human world has evolved in some surprising ways, some of it’s good, other parts… well, they can keep those. But that’s not the point; I need you to understand where our problem lies,” Blackie explained patiently.
“We have to agree on *who* we invite here. I’m suggesting a mix of medieval enthusiasts, ‘furries,’ and fantasy gamers: to them, our world is intelligible, but it’s essentially a construct. A game for entertainment. When they sit by the campfire, making grand speeches and swearing eternal loyalty to the wolves, they call it ‘immersive roleplay.’ But when our wolves show up outside their tent the next morning to collect a firstborn or claim a hunting debt, these humans start calling for something they call ‘organizers’ or ‘orgas’—and complain loudly about ‘intrusive NPCs.'”
The council stared at him, completely baffled. A bard took a sip of tea and remarked dryly, “I know I’ll regret asking this, but by all the ancestral spirits, what by the echo of the night is an ‘orga’ or an ‘NPC’?”
“And what, pray tell, is a ‘furry’?”