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Rhidian's Offer

By

Adrastos Onca

Thumbnail

By

WildKitFox

Lyrics From Raw/Tân

© The Alarm

Originally Written:

4th of March 2022

Revised and Expanded:

21st of February 2026

As dusk's darkening glow washed over the canopy of Radnor Forest and the distant Welsh countryside, it finally occurred to you that perhaps you trod further off the trail than you had meant to.

Flanking you, the roots of trees which must have stood for centuries past firmly entwined the hills and stone outcroppings, almost as if watching over the numerous trunks of their fallen brethren. The scents of jasmine and thyme mixed and mingled; the drawn out hoot of a short-eared owl sounded just east of you, followed almost immediately by the skittering of what may have been mice or shrews to the south.

With a bit of patience and persistence, the end of these woods was soon in sight, framed by two firmly planted oaks. Reinvigorated, you started to break into a jog, clearing the canopy as you are bathed in the bronze light of a descending sun.

The winds of the evening breeze battered against you, and the air turned to a chill you felt in your very bones. For a moment, you wrap your arms around yourself, mayhaps wishing you were back in the soothing warmth of the hotel. However, there was no chance you would have passed up a good hike like this.

Far below you, in the distance, you can just make out the town of New Radnor, said hotel, along with the streets and the steeple of her church seeming absolutely minuscule in the expanse. Off to the side, weaving and winding through the hills, is the Black Brook. At least, according to the map you've brought with you.

Dotting each rocky incline and grassy hill are groves and woodlands which could almost be considered small forests in and of themselves. One of them in particular caught your eye, seemingly nestled comfortably among the moorlands; or more specifically, a dim light cast outwards from within.

You find yourself drawn inexorably toward it, carefully making your way down the hills and the moors until finally you pass under the canopy of the surrounding trees. Brushing some shrubs out of the way, you continue further inward focused on the little light. The scents of thyme persist, now along with rosemary and the salty aroma of a nearby watering hole.

However, beneath them all, you caught the overwhelming stench of fox. Perhaps one had decided to buckle down and establish a territory here.

It may be best to leave, the thought had certainly occurred. Yet the mysterious light drove you further in and before your eyes, its source became clear.

Before you stood a leaf-laden, wooden shack on stilts. Its walls consisted of simple paneling. Its windows complimented by raw, plywood shutters on firm hinges. A simple hammock was hung out back, tied between one of the willow trees and a hook screwed to the rear-most wall. Flanking it were a stack of barrels filled with who-knew-what. Out front, a sign which seemed to have been cannibalized from part of a picnic bench swung perpendicular to the entrance. It read 'Y Castell Gwyrdd.'

'The Green Castle.'

The light which had drawn you near, as it turned out, had been coming from a lantern hanging just above the door, which seemed to have been made from part of a picket fence with a handle crudely hammered on.

You approached the entrance, where the elevation of the land was higher. Perhaps whoever dwelt here could offer directions, or respite. Gently, you gave what passed for a door a tentative rapping. Until your ears caught the sound of footfalls from within.

The shutter covering the left window raised a moment later, revealing fiery vulpine eyes, before quickly coming back down with a soft thwack.

The next minute or two passed in silence, as if nothing had happened. Tilting your head, you knocked again. This time more firmly.

The answer came with the sound of two padlocks being unlocked, along with the ringing of a chain being loosened and pulled aside before, at last, the picket door swung inward. It let loose a torrent of lantern light and a menagerie of smells: Alcohol, herbs, spices, berries, and chief among them - Vulpes vulpes.

"Evening.” Came the thick South Wales accent of the shack’s sole occupant. “Not often someone stumbles 'pon my doorstep this time of night."

It wasn't a man who stood before you, but one of the zoomorphs you had seen every so often in town.

"At least," he continued. "Someone who isn't after my pelt, I would hope."

His features were undeniably Vulpine, from his black ears – one of which had a chunk of it torn off – to his bushy, russet tail which swayed behind him. It seems you had caught him in the middle of slipping something on, as his chest was left bare, revealing a nasty bite mark which had scarred over near his left shoulder.

This left him in a pair of sage-brushed trousers which accentuated his curved hips, worn suspenders connected at the waist and dangling against his thighs topped things off.

"You though...you seem lost, little wren." He stepped over the threshold, his foot paws flexing as they touched the damp Welsh earth.

He wasn't particularly tall by morph standards, but certainly not small by those of humans. Still, you found yourself unable to tear your gaze away from him.

"There's no need t' stare." He said matter-of-factly, a foxish smirk on his muzzle as he took a couple confident strides toward you, his left paw casually slipping into his trouser pocket while his right went to his chest.

"Rhidian Hadyn, at your service." His eyes locked with yours then, mighty intense they were - a fire which seemed it wasn't snuffed out easily. "Why don't you come inside, I'll fetch you food and drink, a warm bedroll if you need it or perhaps...would you be so bold, something more."

The red fox stood there up against the forest canopy, his right paw held out and beckoned with a single digit and the lips of his muzzle pulled back into a grin. His teeth, they brightly shined.

You felt your gut churn at the fox’s offer. Was it too good to be true perhaps? You could feel the ache in your joints, the fatigue weighing on your body. Even as you felt as though you stood on the knife’s edge.

“C’mon now, I won’t bite if you won’t.” The fox – Rhidian – insisted with a slow blink of his eyes. “Promise!”

Tentatively, you find yourself reaching out and taking the vulpine’s paw in your hand. Perhaps against your better judgment, but there was a feeling that maybe, just maybe the fox didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Blinking again and with a flick of his large, black-tipped ears. Rhidian gently guided you inside his disjointed shelter. The scents of alcohol and spice, the scent of him, overwhelmed you. The interior of The Green Castle was awash in candlelight.

Straight in front of you stood what seemed to be a bar of some sort, looking to be made of driftwood and junk. Whatever was around for the fox to use, you supposed. A few crudely carved stools sat in front.

Behind the bar and held within a chipped frame upon the wall, was something you can’t say you expected to see – a sketch of a human woman with long raven hair. beautiful but somehow off-putting, It seemed as though it was drawn hastily and aggressively.

Around it were several small holes in the wood, along with a small dart which had become lodged there. Just above it lie a deep gash, as if a blade had been hurled in the portrait’s direction.

It was at that moment you became aware of the sound of music off to the right, lyrics being belted out in Welsh, which you understood immediately.

“Raw!

Burnt back to the bone.

Raw!

You gotta leave this child alone.

Raw!

I ain't got no home.

I burn right back!

Burn right back to the bone!”

Slowly you ambled to the corner of the bar, while the fox leaned against the door frame and watched with an amused tilt of his head. You peered around to catch sight of an old portable FM radio with a cassette deck.

“Like it? Filched it off of an old man in Cardiff.”

You spun to face the Vulpine. Partly in disbelief that he just outed himself as a thief.

“But you didn’t hear that from me, did you?” Rhidian winks, tail swishing as he crosses the threshold fully.

Hesitantly, you nodded. Not wanting to potentially get on the wrong side of your foxish host as he pulled out a chair made from what looked like a log and part of a park bench, motioning you to sit. You approach him and collapse onto the seat, letting out a heavy sigh.

“There we go, you’re safe with old Rhidian now.” The fox reached up to give you a soft, reassuring pat on the head, only stopping when he felt you tense up. “Easy.”

You allow yourself to relax, and then peer up at the red, who stared right back and smiled softly now. He then scratched the back of his head, ears lowering. “Want me to get you a drink, lad? I can’t imagine all of your stumbling through the country has left you very hydrated.”

You freeze up, and remain silent a moment longer.

“Alright then, I’ll fetch you a pint of water.” Rhidian spun on his heel and made for the bar, but not before stopping to glance at you over his shoulder. “I’ve some bread in the larder too.”

The vulpine was soon out of sight, leaving you to your thoughts. You allow yourself to catch up with the course this evening had taken. What had started as a brief diversion from the Warren trail now found you as the newest guest in the den of this zoomorphic fox. His pub likely not found on any map. You couldn’t help but feel some fear at the thought, should this fox prove not to be as friendly as he seems.

In the meantime, you merely waited for Rhidian’s return. Calmly tapping your feet or bobbing your head along to the music he had left playing. Then gradually, you began taking in more of his Green Castle. Looking up, above the bar, you could make out a modest loft with a lantern in the corner. Next to it was a rolled up bedroll and a travel pack – a scabbard was stitched onto one side, which held a rather mean looking Bowie knife with a polished wood hilt. Outside, you could hear rain beginning to fall.

Higher now, the roof appeared mostly flat, composed of the expected wooden beams, but the coverings seemed made of a patchwork of debris and other stolen objects. It wasn’t ideal, as every now and then, some rainwater leaked through, but otherwise it held sturdily.

The walls however, in some places, seemed as if they were held together with little more than tar and duct tape. For a moment, you wondered how this place would ever hold up in a storm. Or if it would even stand firm this night. The rain didn’t seem to be coming down too hard at least. Though the rumbling of this distant thunder made it clear this may only be but the calm before.

“Here we are.” The fox’s voice yanked you out of your reflection, and a moment later his russet paw slid a tankard full of water down in front of you, along with a few slices of toast topped with baked beans with a handful of onion cakes on the side. Rhidian, who had thrown on a white, tan striped coulter shirt and tugged his suspenders back into place, slipped into the chair opposite you. “Eat your fill, little wren. Then, perhaps you can tell me what you were doing skulking about my den.”

You wasted nary a second before you pulled the tankard to your lips, sipping the water gratefully before you dug into the beans and toast, the warmth of it helped to chase away the evening chill which had not abated you on the way here. You hadn’t eaten since leaving the Bed and Breakfast that morning.

Through the following minutes, you calmly explained that you were visiting from across the pond, an escape from the tribulations of home. You had figured a hike or two through the county of Powys would help allow your spirit to heal. Without any fear of scrutiny or pestering. And how spying a light in the forest overlooking the village of New Radnor had brought you here.

Rhidian brought a paw to his muzzle, then smoothed out his whiskers. There was a spark of sympathy in his eyes. “Sounds like your kind don’t want you around either then, all for things you can’t help. I’m sorry, lad. I’ve been down that path myself, even felt the bite of those who once...” He glanced over at the portrait of the sketched woman behind the bar. “...meant a lot to me.”

You nodded, and continued to eat, feeling grateful for the fox’s hospitality. He really didn’t have to help you. And from what you could gather, he didn’t seem to have any reason to hurt you either. Wasn’t this the same tod you had heard ghastly things about back in town? The Reynardine? The Little Devil? He didn’t seem to match any of those monikers.

At the same time though, you felt that one gnawing feeling in the back of your mind; was Rhidian being genuine or was every word of his a lie? Was his sympathy a lie?

You could ask, sure, but who was to say the answer the vulpine gave was a truthful one.

“Having doubts about me, little wren?”

Your eyes widened in panic. The bushy tailed bastard was reading you like an open book.

“I don’t blame you at all, many would.” He smirked, a dangerous look flashed in his orange irises. “And perhaps they’re right to...after all, they made me.”

What could he possibly mean by that? You dare not take your gaze away from Rhidian, lest he try any funny business.

“Reynardine, yes, that’s what they call me.” The fox continued, taking a moment to lick his chops before reaching over and taking one of the leftover onion cakes in his paw, dipping it in the beans and slipped it into his maw.

“After some quaint old-fashioned tune. The hominids of Old Radnor believe a simple fox such as myself is not to be trusted.” He leaned back, chuckling softly. “But trust, I suppose, is in the beholder’s eyes.”

You tell him you aren’t sure, he’s given you reasons to trust him and reasons to fear him, but how could you discern who he really is?

“I’m not a tame fox, I will tell you up front, I’m not sure I would even consider myself to be a good one either.” Rhidian said, pondering before his eyes focused on you again. “But I am being truthful with you here tonight, little wren. You need not doubt, if only for now.”

The fox’s raised his head and let out a yawn then, for two minutes more he simply sat there in silence, watching you eat and drink. Until he raised himself onto his foot paws and flicked an ear.

“It may be a while before this storm is done, perhaps you’d like to stay the night? I can prepare an extra bedroll in the loft for you, and see you off come morning.” He smirked and stroked his paw along your cheek. “Would you like that?”

You were caught off guard by this, panic welling up in your mind for just a brief moment before it passed like a ghost. His words from just before still stuck in your mind. Standing up and allowing the tod to gather up your plate and tankard, you let him know that you wouldn’t mind staying beneath his disjointed roof for one night.

Not long after, you were in the loft. Laying your body down and pulling the covers of the bedroll close until you were warm and all bundled up. Nearby, the fox was preparing to finally retire himself. At last, you allowed your eyes to slip shut. The last thing you hear, is the tod’s voice, as you began to slumber under the care of sly, bold Rhidian.

“Rest well, little wren.”

This story is dedicated to the memory of

Mike Peters

Of

The Alarm

1959-2025

_Keep marching on, outlier.

Rest in Strength_

_ _