#arete-verse

A Nestside Tale from the Shire Deck

A simple guided walk for first-time guests becomes a cascade of Shire Deck chaos — from Private Nook etiquette to a missing guest buried in kits, to the mysterious phenomenon known only as the Furpile. Along the way, visitors learn the Arete truth: comfort, safety, and a little mischief… all with consent.

We rounded a bend on the Shire Deck’s inner lane, the chatter of the market fading behind us. Here, the light softened, dappling across curved walls where small, rounded doorways were set like alcoves. Each had a simple carved sign above it: Private Nook.

One of the guests, a man in a neat spacer’s jacket, chuckled. “I’m not sure what I was expecting. Something like a mini brothel or bordello room.”

I smiled faintly. “Not quite. Come, have a peek.”

We paused at the first open Nook. Inside, it looked like a cozy diner booth — cushioned benches on either side of a small table, a steaming pot of tea at the center. A pair of Kin were leaning over their cups, speaking in low, warm voices.

I dipped my head toward them. “Pardon us for intruding,” I said softly, before turning the group away. We moved on without staring — Nooks were for those inside them first, and curiosity second.

The next Nook was larger, lined wall-to-wall with beanbags in every shape and size. A half-dozen kits were curled up asleep, tails draped over each other. The soft sound of purring drifted out. I smiled but made no comment, simply guiding the group past so the little ones could rest undisturbed.

Or so I thought.

It took me a moment to realize our count was off. One guest — a young woman in a wide-brimmed spacer’s hat — was missing. I backtracked quietly and found her in the beanbag Nook, trying so hard to pet every sleeping kit at once.

One hand was buried in a pile of soft striped fur, the other hovering before she gave in and stroked another tiny head. The kits had instinctively curled toward her, pressing warm bodies against her arms and legs, purring like a dozen tiny engines.

She looked up at me, eyes wide, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle laughter so she wouldn’t wake them. Her shoulders shook with the effort.

"Careful," I whispered with a grin, "if you wake them, you’ll be stuck here until they’ve all decided they’ve had enough attention. Could be hours."

Her eyes lit up like that didn’t sound like a punishment at all.

And then the pile shifted.

From the far side, a pink arm broke free from the tangle of fur — followed by a dramatic wail: "There was a time…!" the hidden guest groaned. "When I was a free man! Noooo…!"

The arm flailed helplessly before several giggling female Kin nuzzled it back down into the beanbags.

“…what a way to go…” came the muffled, utterly defeated voice from the depths.

The other guests broke into helpless laughter. I shook my head, tail flicking. “He’s fine. He’s just been… Furpiled. Warm, soft, affectionate, and utterly inescapable until they’re done with you.”

We moved on, still chuckling, and found another scene playing out under a flowering trellis.

A russet-furred Kin named Leon was sprawled on a bench, eyes half-lidded as several guests stroked his head and scratched behind his ears. "Hey yeah, can you just… uuunnnnhhhh, oh, yeah…!" he groaned happily.

One tourist murmured to me, "Isn’t that weird? I mean, he’s not a pet, he’s a sentient being…"

"For all our sentience," I explained warmly, "we still have that old, old animal side. Perfectly fine for you to pet us so long as there’s consent. Leon’s just a little more overt about it than most… so yes, you can get it out of your systehhh… huhhh…!"

I faltered mid-word as one of my guests decided to test the theory, fingers scratching behind my ears.

Luma, standing nearby, giggled behind her paw. “Told you it works both ways…”

We hadn’t gone far before the laughter started again — this time from a produce stall.

One broad-shouldered Kin farmer in a straw hat was halfway through sorting vegetables when a guest began scratching between his ears. "Are you gonna pet me all day," he grumbled in mock irritation, "or can I get up and keep workinnnnokayyou’regonnapetmethassfiine… uhhhhh…!" His ears flattened in bliss, tail thumping lazily against a basket.

Another Kin stepped in without missing a beat, taking over his sorting as the farmer’s family cackled from the next stall.

His wife leaned over to the guest and pointed. "Scratch here, he loves that!"

"GODDAMN IT WOMA—UUUNNNHHHH…!" the farmer groaned as his knees nearly buckled.

We left him there, leaning against a post while his wife smirked like she’d just pulled off a perfectly harmless, very public prank.

By the time we looped back toward the market’s heart, the guests were grinning ear to ear. They’d seen the Nooks, the kits, the Furpile, and learned exactly why a hand on a Kin’s head could turn even the most stoic into a puddle.

"That," I said, tail swaying lazily, "is your first lesson on Arete. Comfort, safety, and a little mischief… all with consent."

The guests nodded. And somewhere back on the Shire Deck, a certain pink-armed Furpile victim was probably still under there.

Kinfield Echo

As the guests dispersed into the market, their laughter still trailing behind them, the Kinfield caught the mood and carried it. A warm, amused ripple spread deck to deck — soft chuckles in the Forest, a smirk from a Shire Deck baker shaping loaves, the quiet purr of a lounging Kin in the City gardens.

It wasn’t loud or showy, just a shared, unspoken we saw that from the Ark itself. Somewhere deep in the beanbag Nook, the Furpile shifted, a muffled groan escaping before a dozen purring bodies resettled.