This is a short work of erotic fiction containing furry, or anthropomorphic, characters, which are animals that either demonstrate human intelligence or walk on two legs, for the purposes of these tales. It is a thriving and growing fandom in which creators are prevalent in art and writing especially.
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The Joust
"Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!"
The crowd chanted, all manner of furs stomping and clamouring for the next bout of the joust, the silver dragon hefting his lance high, clad in a full suit of armour. His family crest of a blue drake splashed across a black background was prominent on his shield, known to all. Everyone knew who Silver was, even though his scales could barely be seen under the heavy coat of armour, visor flipped down over his eyes, although it was shaped to fit a draconian snout.
He spun his mount, his horse rearing, picking their front hooves up from the sand, worn and beaten in a track down the tilt. He was not aiming for a quintain, however, but another furry, a wolf that had already been neatly popped out of the saddle and was rolling around in the dirt, striving to catch his breath. There was no greater struggle than to catch one's breath after being felled and the wolf, whose name Silver had already forgotten, limped away to be consoled, his entry fee tipped into the winner's purse, his pride and his coin lost for the round. At least, for the time being.
Undefeated, Silver pumped his lance to the roar of the crowd, baring his teeth like a wild animal.
"Silver! Silver! Silver!"
Their chanting lifted him up, heart pounding for the thrill of it all. Yet there was more to come from the wooden stands as he pranced his steed around the jousting floor, the lowered pit that had raised champions and sent them too tumbling from such lofty peaks. The crowd clamoured in clashes of colour, flags flying and whipping in higher winds than they could have anticipated for such an occasion, the lord of the castle who was hosting the tournament at that time sitting in the nobles box, in prime position to take note of all that went down.
"Now... For our next challenge! It is Gabriel of the Dales to step forward! Meet your competitor in the battle of the joust!"
The dragon's eyes locked on the next creature, although it took him a moment to realise just who he was, a hunk of muscle and broad shoulders to rival even his. He stood tall and proud with his ears pricked, dark slices protruding through the slits in the top of the helm, as if he knew without a doubt that he was meant to be there. Gabriel took in a deep breath, the pound of the crowd driving down on his helm as if they were striving to cleave his equine head in two, the din deafening, rising and throbbing.
Calm yourself...
Ah, there was nothing for it but to rise to the challenge, even as his companion and friend rode up beside him on a lighter grey warhorse that may have been better suited to a lady's palfrey if not for her wicked eye and proud-stepping gait, a mare to be reckoned with in the heat of battle. The stallion atop her was grey too but his dappled coat was hidden under his own armour, stopping Gabe from riding out even as his mare pawed and snorted, churning up the dirt.
"This is madness, Gabriel," he hissed, urgent in his intensity. "You know... There are other ways to go about this."
Behind the helm, Gabriel smiled, the draught horse's lips twitching unseen. Oh, that may have been true... But not even Madoc could understand that there were just as fun ways to get what one wanted while acquiring just a spot of practice too along the way.
"No..." Gabe shook his head gravely, clasping Madoc's arm as it was extended to him, in time with the might and formality of the situation at hoof. "It is meant to be. I need to do this."
The troubled grey stallion snorted and stepped back, tail flicking uncertainly, although he could not quite settle, shifting his weight constantly from one hoof to the other. Madoc, by far, was not in any sense of pain, however, watching with bated breath as Gabriel rode down to the tilt, his warhorse pounding the sand beneath the two of them, a centaur readying themselves on the brink of flight, as if they were driving to the warfront itself.
The crowd roared. They powered down the tilt, lances levelled, shields raised. There was no manner of slow-motion to be had as the announcer sent them at one another, sun blazing down, glinting off helms. The first blow had their lances glancing off one another's shields but there was more to be had still as they wheeled about, their mounts obedient to the lightest of touches and shifts of weight, aiming for one another again with deadly intent that may very well have just been ever so slightly misplaced. It was not a real battle, of course, and the problem with that very bout, put on for the adoring nuances of the screaming crowd, was that one of the competitors intended to lose for what came after.
He did not fall gracefully. And he tried, bearing down into the saddle even as Silver's lance smashed into his shield, arm aching from the impact. Gabe did not fly but he hit hard, panting and gasping, eyes bulging. It was a strange sensation to suddenly find himself on the ground, hard and unyielding, when he had only been up on the back of his gelding a moment ago, now looking very concerned that his master was not upon his back. But it was meant to be and, as Silver cheered and proclaimed his own victory as the champion of the joust, the stocks were brought forward, Gabe's ears slipping back, breath catching.
It was time.