This one has been sitting in my story queue for a while so I figured now was as good a time as any to share. It's a commentary on the daily grind, relationships, and being a werebat postman. Episodic, too, and told out of order.

I really need to write more SFW non-fetish TF stories (and get back to my roots), hopefully this is the first of many for 2025.

Enjoy!

8.3k words

.pdf is the best way to read

(I try my hardest to proofread to the best of my ability, but if you do notice any typos, feel free to send me a message and I'll correct them)

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Leather Wings, Tropical Nights

Marquis Orias

Man & Woman -> Anthro Fruit Bats

SFW




Synopsis: Postman Cartwright goes about his daily routine as a werebat deliveryman, dealing with friends, colleagues, and clients alike.

8.3k Words





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“On leather wings, you finally came to see me. Again.” Isabella stood on her balcony with crossed arms, waiting for Cartwright to land for his evening delivery.

“You don’t exactly make it easy to find a perch.” Cartwright made another quick circle above Isabella, webbed fingers outstretched. The fruit bat shifter craned his neck over each shoulder and sought a perfect spot to land without running the risk of breaking a wing… or his neck. His attentive ears and eyes kept his bearings, but landing on anything other than a tree branch still made him nervous after years of steady flying.

Some things you never get used to.

Isabella pushed her sunbleached hair across a dark-skinned shoulder as Cartwright drew closer, his circles becoming more frequent, his flapping more labored. “You’ll make do. The delivery service always does.”

“Riiiiight.” Cartwright landed with a crash on the balcony railing, his extended wings dropping him hard, his postman’s satchel swinging forward and throwing him off balance. “Ah my knees…”

For a moment, Cartwright surrendered to instinct, letting the werebat side of his mind stabilizing him through frantic flapping and screeched curses. Anything to maintain his composure and keep from collapsing in a heap at Isabella’s feet. Anything.

“Delivery’s late and… hmm…” Isabella crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “Quite late, actually. Doesn’t Gladys assure at least a three-hour window? Moon’s up.”

“I’m a bit banged up, that’s all. Took a few knocks. Crashed through some branches… some houses… I think there was a barn at some point. It had bales of straw. And goats. So many goats.”

Yeah, he’d crashed right after day dreaming about artifacts and alien worlds. Wouldn’t be the first time. Wouldn’t be the last.

“You’re going to need some medicine for that.” Isabella watched with growing concern as Cartwright dropped his mailbag onto the balcony while he reverted, his black and gold fur disappearing back inside bronze skin. “I can fix you an herbal tea, if you’d like.”

“No, just some fruit. Preferably mango or jackfruit. But pineapple will do. Actually, anything sweet will do just fine.” Cartwright’s now hairless muzzle retreated backward, a human form taking shape. The man emerged from the beast, leathery wings retreating until–

Cartwright shuddered hard enough to let his bat form spill out again, the fur returning in a plume large enough to stretch out his postman’s uniform and make his stretched face twitch and sputter. He pressed his wings against the porch cement and wondered if maybe, just maybe, he could sleep on Isabella’s 2nd story doorstep instead of having to flap all the way home.

But no, rest… rest could wait. Cartwright needed to properly vent before he could relax, otherwise he ran of the risk of torturous dreams.

“Isabella, let me tell you about my day.” Cartwright started the task of reverting once more, his fur once again pulling inside his skin and his bones snapping painlessly into a human shape.

“Your day?” Isabella cracked a knowing smirk. “I can only imagine.”

“Yes. Let me tell you about my day, right here and right now.” Cartwright held up his dwindling wings as his clawed fingers, and the webbing between them, retreated.

No tea inside, no, he wanted that cool evening air to flow across his overworked skin. He’d flapped and fluttered for what felt like an eternity, but he didn’t dare sit. No, Isabella needed to see just how ragged he’d been run throughout a brutal delivery schedule.

He sensed that he was getting the point across with each labored breath that slipped out of his shrinking muzzle.

Isabella wavered between amused and concerned. “Your entire day? Gladys keeps you mighty busy, doesn’t she? Hmm… Didn’t think the delivery season was that bad…”

He’d finished his delivery, but he wanted to express himself before his breath failed him and he passed out across his friend’s porch. A furry mess of dark fur and leathery wings wasn’t ideal patio decor, and Isabella, Socialite Isabella, wasn’t one to let him live such things down. She’d tease him for ages.

“Gladys keeps… well… kept me incredibly busy. And today was worse than usual. Granted I took a few detours, but hey, don’t we all?” Cartwright scratched at his throat, the last traces of amber fur around his jugular retreating beneath his fingers.

“A little fun helps us stay sane. I walked around the gardens today. Inspected the fountain that I had put in last week. Solid marble, but the water pressure leaves much to be desired. It’s not as grand as I envisioned.”

Cartwright hadn’t seen the fountain on his way in, but then again, he hadn’t exactly been looking.

“It’s just a monolith, too. No ornate ancient hunter with a drawn bow. No fair maiden letting water cascade down her stony hair. Nope. Just a pillar. Simple. Plain.”

“Certain architects love simple.” Cartwright was silently thankful that he didn’t get put on heavy load hauls.

“Yes, well. I’ve got a regret or two. Perhaps your stories will take my mind off things. I’m willing to listen. And really, you need some tea… at least some rest for those weary wings.”

Cartwright could only smile at Isabella’s prompting. She wanted to know about his day, she wanted to hear about his arduous tasks. The places he’d flown to, the people he’d met.

“I suppose I should start with my orders.” Cartwright rose to a crouch, his knees bent and his wings scraping the across Isabella’s patio. “If you really want to hear about Gladys’ latest commands. I guarantee that you won’t be impressed or entertained.”

“Try me.” Isabella gestured toward another corner of her garden, a secluded spot where two cast iron chairs waited beside a small granite table topped with citronella candles.

“So it starts with Gladys, but it doesn’t end with Gladys.” Cartwright spared no time in taking a seat. He hardly used his legs while flying, but with his entire back aching, he could use the respite.

“Good old Gladys.”

“Good. Old. Gladys.”

Cartwright couldn’t wait to tell Isabella that he’d quit less an hour before arriving on her doorstep.



—

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Postmaster Gladys didn’t even let Cartwright finish his morning coffee. Instead, she summoned him into her office and alerted him to the day’s primary assignment.

“Cartwright! I’m going to need you to deliver a very important invoice to Rochester and Company’s office on Eastern Island.” Gladys, seated behind her desk, looked more like an aged rat preserved in formaldehyde than an official bureaucrat of the Archipelago Authority, but Cartwright, given his metamorphic talents, wasn’t one to judge any given shape.

Cartwright took another quick sip from his mug. “Eastern Island? Usually, we send deliveries to their P.O. box on Albany Street–.”

If not Albany Street, then they’d deposit on Great Maple… or the dead drop behind the shiny limestone deposit three paces beyond Desmond’s Crossroads… Yeah, Cartwright hated landing there at night, when the crows held court and watched him beneath the moonlight. Was the office on Eastern Island also a dead drop? A derelict shell of a warehouse for letters and packages to be tossed inside? Cartwright certainly hoped not, no, those places typically lacked complimentary coffee or even water.

“Change of plans! Get to it! Don’t want ya burning daylight and then struggling to get back at night.” Postmaster Gladys seemed to slither forward across her desk, stray letters brushed aside and her silver eyes beaming through glasses slipping down her bulbous nose.

“Understood, ma’am.” Cartwright pursed his lips. “Is this office a, well, a dead drop or–”

“Bah! Hardly. This is their primary address. Small office. Where they got their start, I reckon.”

“Okay.” Cartwright eyed up his boss and got to thinking.

What could she change into? Cartwright had a few ideas. Naturally a serpent or rodent came to mind, but that seemed too obvious. Shifters didn’t usually adopt the mannerisms of their patron beast. Usually.

“There are some other jobs that you can attend to along the way. I wouldn’t take more than four or five additional stops, however. Rochester and Company indicated that this matter was urgent, so don’t dilly-dally. I’ll know if you do, Cartwright.”

“Not an issue. Getting there early will let me make additional stops on the way back.” Cartwright already mapped out his ideal path in his head. He’d maximize his profits, take that little delivery cut when he could. Not much, but potentially worth his time.

He tried hard not to think of the exhaustion tomorrow would bring.

An intense amount of flying… he’d need another cup of coffee and meal stops.

“Perfect. Fine. Yes, good. Good.” Gladys sank back into her chair, her head tilted back, and she stared blankly at the ceiling.

“I’ll handle the job in an efficient and prompt manner.” Cartwright gave another nod of assurance.

The best jobs for the best flier across the entire archipelago. A talented werebat could get far, provided he had the drive to log those intense days of furious flapping.

“Of course you will.” Scales collected across Gladys’s flattening face, her nose merging with her upper lip. “Expedited payments bring us a windfall large enough to make the Grand Exarch himself jealous.”

Expedited payments. Overdue shipments. A backlog of invoices. And plenty of pent-up rage passed down from the highest echelons of the local government all the way down to the day laborers. A tale as old as time, but a story that Cartwright couldn’t seem to escape. No, the ink bound him, in contract and in plot. He could never really fly away. Drowning himself in delivery commissions, instead, helped him justify his station, give himself that tiniest tidbit of progress, taste a fleeting sweetness of success.

Like he’d amounted to something instead of just beating his wings.

This wouldn’t be his life forever, no, but Cartwright never could find the time to stop flapping.

Excusing himself from Gladys’ office, Cartwright slipped through the hustle and bustle of the mailroom. Different packages and letters tossed to and fro by frantic clerks trying to end their weekend grind early. His shoes trampled discarded envelopes, and Cartwright let a little bit of bat slip through as his ears lengthened to pick up coworker’s frustrated conversations.

The Fair Harbor Union wants custom stamps.

Dolores has demanded twenty packages for all members of the Notary Rotary Club.

One thousand packages went down with the sinking of the Grand Constellation, all of them filled with exotic honey. How can we even insure these!?

Braga wants parakeets shipped from Brazil. Is that even legal?


Said discussions uplifted Cartwright’s spirit, making him a little happier that he wouldn’t be sticking around for the daily crises. No, he’d be hustling up in the beautiful, endless sky. Working hard, yes, but in the moment of chasing one job to the next, he could turn off his brain and let his worries melt away, replaced by tomorrow’s sore wings.

He retrieved the invoice package, a small, yet heavy envelope, and slipped the delivery into his leather satchel. Pausing at the employee breakroom, he poured himself some water while scanning the tired faces of his colleagues. Maybe he should fetch himself coffee, too…

“New delivery?” Hitarth, one of the freshly higher runners, showed off a plume of iridescent feathers racing along his arm.

Werehawks always tended to be a little flashy, a little showy. Cartwright assumed it came with the bird of prey territory.

“Invoice. Urgent. Can’t wait.” Cartwright took rapid sips. Proper hydration now, but he’d arrange a rest stop later.

“Cartwright, the upper brass works you like a dog.”

“Fruit bats are occasionally called sky puppies. I certainly feel that way some days.” Cartwright tightened his satchel strap, making sure it hooked securely around his shoulder. “All happy… energetic… dunno if today is one of those days, man.”

“You have all day to deliver the invoice though, right?”

“I’m going to make a few stops along the way. More coming back. Moon’s supposed to be full tonight.”

“That makes all the difference. Wish I could echolocate at night like you–”

“We can’t echolocate.” Cartwright saw the chance for a learning opportunity.

“I guess I’ve never heard you scream while you’re delivering.”

“Sometimes, I wish I could have a built-in horn like echolocation. Announce myself for each delivery. People then might actually open windows for me to land.”

“Heh.” Hitarth went back to watching his undulating feathers. Not quite preening, not quite cleaning.

Cartwright drank another glass of water then filled up his canteen as more tired workers shuffled in toward the coffee pot.

“It’s overcooked, you know.” Cartwright couldn’t help but comment as a porter, Strongbow, poured himself a cup.

“I know, but what are my options?”

Cartwright, his ears lengthening another inch and coating with thin hair, merely shrugged at Hitarth’s question.

“Looks like the bat’s got a delivery.” Another porter eyed up Cartwright’s clasped satchel.

“The bat indeed has a delivery. Enjoy your coffee, gentlemen. I’ve got to fly.”


Fresh webbing erupted between Cartwright’s fingers while he walked down the hallway. A tail snaked its way down his shorts, choosing to twist and contort a path down his right pantleg instead of bursting free. Years on the job taught Cartwright which clothes to shift with and which to avoid. No gloves. Simple shorts and a button up short to loosen if the chest fluff grew too intense. Sandals to accommodate curling, dextrous toes. At one point, Cartwright pondered getting sneakers with removable toecaps, the kind that could handle his bat feet, but having a rubbery, inflexible sole impacted tree landings in the worst way. Nothing like missing an easy branch, going out on a limb and crashing down in a heap upon one’s own wings.

A few trace hairs, golden and glittery, curled outward down Cartwright’s exposed neck, more sprouting outward when he stepped into the blaring overhead sun. The street adjacent to the post office, devoid of buggies or trucks, made for a good improvised landing strip.

“You headed out, Cartwright?” Another package flier, Cassandra, now mid-shift into a hummingbird, asked him. Her blonde hair streamed into forks of blue and green, her face contorted into a slender beak.

“Now or never.” Cartwright forced himself to laugh.

Ah, he never hated it once he was up near the sun. Never. Up there, all the stress melted away and the islands that kept him busy looked small. Insignificant compared to the people who lived upon them. Those souls mattered, but the jungle and the rocks were just more jungle and rocks. Humidity didn’t breathe, humidity didn’t have life, it just lingered and made fur damp. All the elements could wear on his soul, but the people he brushed shoulders with day-to-day, even in the comradery of suffering through tedious, manual exertion, kept him sane.

“I’m sure you’ll make good on the deliveries.” Cassandra looked over her shoulder, past the remnants of her technicolor hair, before darting out and up into the sky.

“I’m sure he will, for his own sake with Gladys breathing down his scruffy neck.” Hitarth playfully nudged Cartwright with a wing.

Cartwright only grunted in affirmation. Yes, yes… his reputation around the delivery office was generally positive, outside of Glady’s opinion. People looked up to him, and not just up in the sky for his shadow against the sun. He made the tough deliveries that others would shrug off, pass around.

“I’ll take that as my cue to also leave.” Cartwright nudged Hitarth right back.

After a transformation, any were-carrier worth their salt checked their fit. Cartwright eyed up his uniform ahead of his delivery shift. Cap in place. Shirt appropriately tucked. Belt and sandals fastened. A single ibuprofen consumed, on a whim, to sort out yesterday’s aches and pains. The cycle of working himself to the bone in anticipation of the weekend, while cruel, also ensured that he slept well.

“Not a nocturnal creature. No matter how hard you try.” Cartwright muttered to himself before placing his sunglasses atop his broad snout. A thin cord ran between each earpiece, a string to catch his shades if a sudden gust knocked them off his muzzle mid-flight.

“Cartwright, you better get going.” Carlisle, another porter from the warehouse, poked his head into the mailroom doorway. “Gladys is pacing again. You know what that means.”

Just what was in this invoice?

Cartwright knew better than to ever pry, ever break the seal of trust with clients, but only in the middle of a delivery, when he cleared his head and reached a zen state, did he not think about what messages his deliveries contained.

“I am envious of Cassandra’s talent for near-vertical liftoff.” Cartwright and Hitarth left the mailroom and made their way to the post office’s front courtyard.

Cartwright found that the grassy field, underwatered and neglected, gave him just enough clearance to take off.

“Before you leave, can I ask you something?” Hitarth interrupted Cartwright’s lift sprint.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry, but–”

“Ah No worries, then.”

“I promise that I’ll get you a good answer to whatever your question is.” Cartwright adjusted his sunglasses and tensed his toes, bracing himself for the short sprint, the run to throw himself into the heavens.

But as Hitarth stepped out of the way, another face, a familiar yet irritating one, once again interrupted his takeoff.

So far, Cartwright’s luck for today’s run appeared to be running out.

“Cartwright! Mr. Cartwright! Please, may I have a moment of your time?!” Duke Delaney waved down Cartwright before the latter could take flight.

Cartwright cringed internally, knowing that a conversation with Delaney, ever the perpetual salesman, would set him back at least half-an-hour if he wasn’t careful. The cardboard peddler even had his latest stash of foldable post boxes tucked under arm, seven different sizes worth.

“I’m sorry, I’m in a bit of hurry–”

“I’ve got new material to show Gladys! I think she’ll love it!” Duke Delaney fumbled with the boxes tucked under his arm, pinching several of the smaller containers until he could slide up one coated in a glossy scarlet finish. “This is brand new, it has that pistachio dye that Gladys likes–”

“Mr. Delaney, I’m–”

“Hey, hey! That’s Duke to ya. Mr. Delaney, that’s my dad. Alright? Duke’s the name, one I chose to honor our lord and protector. You know that if we didn’t have such a potent aristocrat at the reins, that I’d never be able to put together these box molds. I’d be out of work, toiling off in the fields or some godforsaken mine. But, because we do have an Exarch, a Grand Duke, worth venerating, then I’m going to bear his name whenever I sell my wares. It’s only proper, you see?”

Cartwright wondered how Delaney could get through his entire pitch on a single breath. Not even werebeasts equipped for flight, such as himself, had the pipes necessary to sustain such frantic, detailed conversation. At least Hitarth knew to make himself scarce whenever Delaney showed up. The hawk had wisdom, that’s for sure.

“I have an invoice to deliver. But I’m sure Gladys would love to hire you for the evening shift–”

A lie. Gladys had tossed Duke’s applications a dozen times over. Cartwright had told Duke this, but Delaney just shrugged him off and insisted that Gladys simply misunderstood him.

“Evening shift. Evening. Shift. Is that what you take me for? Late night flyovers? Last minute rush orders? No… no. I’m a salesman, Cartwright. A proper man of the pitch. I don’t have time to fly orders… no… no, I make them.” A deep cerulean hue crept across Duke Delaney’s sunburnt face. For a moment, his pale flesh turned purple before surrendering to the onslaught of blue iridescent scales. The obsidian horns that followed only further drove home the awe and mystery of Duke Delaney’s true form, or it would have if Cartwright hadn’t seen the weredragon metamorphose a dozen times over.

Cartwright had argued his point before, hell, he’d even explained his path. Half the time, Duke seemed to think that he was secretly negotiating deals for the Exarch, the other half of the time the man seemed to think that Cartwright was just a errand boy. The truth, as it were, lay somewhere between, but Cartwright either never explained it directly or firmly enough to get Delaney to listen. Today would be no different.

“I really must be going. My schedule today is tight–” Cartwright paused to step over the weredragon’s thickening tail right as it plopped down on the ground and writhed. “Delaney, doesn’t that muddy your scales?”

“What? Letting my tail drag through the dried grass and sand? No, it’s more like polishing.” Delaney gritted sharpening teeth as his face jutted forward with an audible crack. His reshaping skull made room for his many curling horns, an array of sharp points that resembled deer antlers and yet carried a oxen sheen.

“I see.”

“What. Don’t you ever have to touch up your wings?”

Cartwright sighed and kept walking, though with his leathery arms

“I can recommend you to Gladys, really vouch for you, but it’s going to have to wait until after today’s stops. Understand?”

The dragon that now took up half the street, The Shifted Duke, snarled and huffed on steam and cinders.

With no further interruptions, Cartwright went airborne. He flapped harder than usual and found himself lifted up several paces earlier, ahead of his timing.

A personal record, maybe. At least a takeoff to match his early days on the job.


—----

The First Stop

Despite his instructions to handle Rochester and Company first, Cartwright took a detour. He wouldn’t be long, but he had a few thoughts on his mind to get out.

Refraining from shifting back, Cartwright figured he’d save a few calories for later flapping. While he could some on many of the islets for a quick snack, he wanted to prioritize finishing Gladys’ task lest Rochester and Company get antsy about their invoice situation. No, he’d visit Isabella, let her know he’d be dropping back to see her in the evening, and then be on his way.

He knocked on the door again, leather knuckles slamming against varnished wood. All he had to do was ask her about–

“The job offer’s been closed. Temporarily.” Isabella, bleached-colored hair done up in braids, stepped around the corner of her estate.

“Is greeting me at the door too–”

“Lowly for me? Yes. A servant would do it, but I’ve recently dismissed them all.”

Cartwright, as well as the rest of the entire Archipelago, found Isabella to be the mystery of all mysteries. Sensitive billionaire heiress, richer than the entire ruling council combined, and yet always seeking adventure over comfort and satisfaction. Isabella already lived the good life, designer fabrics imported from across the globe, meals served up by the finest chefs… assuming they weren’t included in her latest firing spree… and an estate that collected the finest arts and antiques that money could buy…

And a few that money couldn’t… which is where having a friend with wings came into handy. Exploring and fetching relics from faraway, forgotten places. The islands between islands that no ferry traveled to, that no fisherman anchored near, and that not even a pirate dared wander ashore.

Those trees on said island were always old growth, and Cartwright appreciated that quite a bit when landing for a temporary respite ahead of proper hunting.

“New help can be hard to come by. I guess not mine, for permanent employment, but–”

“If you bite me, then I’ll make you a millionaire. I’ll buy you your own island.”

Cartwright internally sighed at this confession, one she’d made before. That night, she’d been drunk at a party. Now, she was anything but.

“You can’t find another werebat–”

“No, actually. I can’t. You’re a rare breed. This island’s got birds for days, and all the other continents are full of bats with grotesque noses. But not you.”

“Thank you, Isabella. My nose is, well, it’s mine.”

“Like a dog’s nose! A flying fox, that’s such an apt name.” Isabella closed the distance until she stood directly across from Cartwright’s winged form on the porch.

“More of us exist, but shifting’s a bit of a dying art.”

Isabella placed one hand on the door, leaning her weight against it. Fresh fire ignited in her eyes. “Then convert me. Give me wings.”

Now it was Cartwright’s turn to smile. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?! But I can give you everything! You won’t have to work another day in your life!”

“Anybody who loves their job doesn’t really work–”

“Ha! HAHAHAHA!” Isabella nearly fell to her knees. “Unreal. You’ve got a sense of humor, Cartwright. I’ll give you that. But I know how Gladys runs you like a mule. No appreciation. She’s working you to the bone.”

Cartwright broke down laughing, too. “Those island excursions aren’t exactly easy either.”

“Maybe if you turned me, you wouldn’t have to go on those excursions.”

“Being given something is easy. Earning something, that’s a real reward.”

Was she going to assign him a proper job or would he be stuck doing purely Gladys’ business today? He hoped for the former, but Isabella herself was growing a insufferable with her pushing. Couldn’t she just accept that he wasn’t keen on spreading his variant of lycanthropy?

“But you would be earning it, you’d be passing your gift along to me. Then I can soar up above the clouds.”

“I rarely go that high.”

“I will go where you don’t. Because all the money in the world can’t free me from being stuck either on dry land or the tranquil sea. I’m bored, Cartwright. I want your gift.”

Gift. Gift. That irritated Cartwright on a deep emotional level. She didn’t understand the frustrations that arose from sprouting fur at the slightest provocation. All the difficulty in controlling one’s emotions to pull together the restraint to hold the beast at bay. But she wouldn’t understand those challenges, so Cartwright chose a different explanation. Different, but also accurate.

“It’s not a gift, it’s a curse. All werecreatures know its truth. Whenever the moon forcibly changes us, the thrill of being able to shift at will during the day lessens. Control is the critical factor here–”

“I can handle the moon. I can bathe in its light and let myself ascend toward it upon leathery wings. I’ll answer its call.”

“Can we talk about this later?”

“Will you visit me after you’ve made your special delivery?” Despite their height difference, Isabella managed to make Cartwright feel small.

“Of course. But it’ll be by the light of the moon.”

“Fine with me. Fly by whenever you can.”


—

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Delivery Misadventures

Against better judgment, Cartwright felt himself deviating from his initial plan. Gladys… she’d have his head. Oh the venom she’d spit when she found out that he’d kept her priority client waiting. But Cartwright saw the mast of the Celest Celest and simply couldn’t fly by without chatting with another old friend, one far more elusive than Isabella’s company.

Taking the long route around the harbor, Cartwright soared over the harbor, eyeing up the daily catch and delivery schooners alike. Piles of fresh fish sat upon troughs of ice, and porters unloaded cartons of exotic trade goods onto waiting trucks. Spices. The latest in electronics… newfangled radios with exotic luminescent tubes that glistened and glittered within wooden carapaces.

The ships came and went, carried by tradewinds that took them across every archipelago from Lost Continent to Found Continent. Divinity in the prizes of a discarded past, the forsaken relics of a dead world often found their way into the personal possessions of unscrupulous traders. Exotic swords, forced out metals unable to be smelted by industrial means, encrusted by glistering jewels that covered all spectrums of the rainbow, including spectrums only visible to werebeasts. A candelabra containing scattered souls erupting randomly into purple flames. A cannon that fired human ash and summoned angels.

Cartwright watched those ships come and go, some driven by steam and others by sail, but they unloaded the same bleached and burned cartons. Destroyed from within and without, containing the artifacts that made the Exarch himself blush. And, for better or worse, Cartwright couldn’t forget the alternating sacks of gold and silver dust traded for Carpathian mites that, when ground up, extended the consumer’s life span.

He’d never partaken in such mystical preparations, even ones derived from nature. Why bother? He could soar when humans, even with medicines, couldn’t dream of taking flight without being corrupted by a werebeast. And Cartwright wasn’t keen on ending his unique profession.

Swooping down a ship captained by an acquaintance, Cartwright sought refuge from the sun. Perhaps a drink of water. A little rest for tired wings. Weaving and ducking beneath the masts, Cartwright found his perch, and Captain Hastings standing on the bridge, rigid and somber after weeks spend out on the high seas.

“Hastings, I can’t be too long. I’m just staying to catch my breath and perhaps catch some gossip.”

His friend, however, made sure that Cartwright heard the full details of the latest haul the minute the fruit bat followed the captain into his quarters.

“We’ve got silk that merges with the skin, becomes armor.” Captain Hastings lifted up a thin membrane of glistening, interlocked scales.

“Lost Continent or Found Continent?” Cartwright asked the usual question to determine whether or not he should be afraid.

“Ah! That’s the kicker. It’s from… well… can you keep a secret?”

“Werebats don’t exactly have loose lips.”

“Great! This is from the Canyon Island of Grand Cyan.”

‘The blue canyon?”

“No, no. It’s not blue. It’s… silver… far as the eye can see. Silver rocks. Silver peaks. And then you scrape off the worn silver, seeing the unblemished white beneath. Every rock is a piece of the moon. It’s a sight to behold.”

Perhaps his friend spoke literally. Stories of lunar fragments, glistening meteors, crashing into the sea and spewing forth plumes of steam reaching high into the sky, practically becoming clouds. The rains that came of such impact always carried a hint of dust, little specks of dirt left behind by evaporating drops.

“Bet they fetch a high price–”

“Best not to take too many, else the island can miss what’s lost, you know.”

Perhaps his friend spoke figuratively, of how disturbing an ecosystem can leave a once verdant landscape barren and ruined–

“Because…” Hastings continued. “Within these islands, within their forests… are creatures the likes of which no man or lycanthrope has ever seen.”

Not figurative. Very real. Cartwright found himself intrigued and knew his friend well enough that the full story would come trickling out.

“Is this a monster story? Or a ghost story? Perhaps aliens? Likely aliens.”

“They are the amorphous ones. They contort their limbs and wear many masks. Frightening, but easy enough to run away from. That’s how I got this.” Hastings patted the silver rock. “But I'm not keen on retrieving more.”

Cartwright hated that he didn’t have time for this paranormal tale, a story of beings beyond comprehension that lived on the scattered islands dotting the Eternal Sea. Remnants of drowned continents lurking beneath the waves occasionally peeked up past the froth, accompanied by volcanic fury. Glorious steam, fires thrown up toward heaven. Cartwright often circled over the nascent islands, watching their birth. He had not, however, ever encountered strange creatures with warped limbs. Besides, who was he to judge? His wings didn’t exactly look normal connected to a human frame.

“Hastings, I really must be going. I have an invoice for Rochester and Company.”

“Come back if you want a cursed rock. Makes for a good heirloom. Or at least a good story. Can’t promise ya that the spiders won’t come crawling free in the dead of night.”

“You’ve been sailing with them for weeks. It would have happened by now, right?”

The aged sailor merely smirked and shook his head. “Each day is its own surprise.”

—

---

Rochester and Co.

Cartwright, wrapping up his main assignment, swooped down into the main rotunda of Rochester and Company. He contemplated using the door, the human way of handling such deliveries, but switching back now would drain what little energy still coursed through his veins. He’d sleep soundly tonight, knocked out like an extinguished oil lamp. But sleep needed to wait.

“I have an… invoice. For Director Rothblatt.”

As luck would have it, the current clerk was new on the job and hadn’t encountered a werebat before. Big, wide eyes stared at Cartwright as he shook stray drops of seawater off his wings. He hadn’t intended to put on a show today, but he was hardly opposed.

“Ah. Those must be the holiday bonus checks. Excellent. We have them notarized by Stevenson on the main island. The were-caracal? You know him, right?”

“Thanks for delivering that invoice.” Cardmaster Rothblatt didn’t skip a beat in shaking Cartwright’s leathery, webbed hand. “I know Gladys works her staff to the bone. You’re a real trooper.”

“Just doing my duty. Everything needs to get paid. It keeps these islands functional.”

Cardmaster Rothblatt gestured toward a cart covered in steaming teacups and exotic sugar blends. “That it does. Say, if you ever want freelance work as a personal carrier for our more… sensitive… deliveries… Perhaps I can work something out with Gladys. The pay is competitive.”

“Artifact running?”

“You know us too well.”

Cartwright waited to be offered a cup, customary, likely with extra sugar cubes to appeal to his bat tastes. His long tongue craved saccharine, raw refined sugar that danced across his tastebuds. But that sugar didn’t come, not yet.

“More shipments come from the Found Continent. Unearthed from the Forlorn Palaces. Are you familiar with them?”

“I’ve heard of palace excavations before, ones that produced strange technological marvels. I’ve never heard them called forlorn.”

Now the cup of tea finally drifted his way, curved loop handle just the right side for his stretched wing. Cartwright enjoyed his first sips, especially after taking a seat next to Cardmaster Rothblatt.

“I know you frequent the docks. The strange deliveries have been increasing. Some artifacts could jeopardize the safety of our entire island, you see. Especially if they come from, well, the Forlorn Palaces.”

“I take it that these palaces aren’t simply producing silver-covered moonrocks? Lunar tears?”

“Ah. I wish they were. Those have value outside of destruction. No, these artifacts from the palaces are Weapons of the Soul.”

“Sounds like something the Duke would be concerned about.”

“He wants us to salvage, retrieve, contain, and store such… potent… arms. You wouldn’t be delivering these for us, just helping move the invoices.”

So more of the same. That much Cartwright could handle. Traveling to different ports across the archipelago, but charging a premium rate. Extra cash meant more lavish vacations… an early retirement. Maybe he’d even buy the fruit farm, one with mango trees stretching as far as the eye can see.

“Why would you want me on retainer instead of just using Gladys’s services? Flexible hours?”

“Yes, flexible hours. Late night deliveries.”

“I’m not fond of flying at night.”

“We pay extra. As I said, competitive.”

Cartwright considered the opportunity, a chance at freeing himself from Gladys. No more bickering. No more commands. Instead, freedom as dictated by Rothblatt and his associates. Different faces. Different attitudes. Maybe he’d even get a bonus for expedited orders.

But, in the end, that was just more of the same.

Cartwright politely declined.


—

---

Delaney

Duke Delaney ambushed Cartwright outside the offices, preventing him from taking flight.

“Sir, I’ve been trying to get in contact with Gladys–”

“How do you keep up?” Cartwright cocked a furry eyebrow at the paper salesman. “My word, you…”

“Oh that’s easy. A little draconic lycanthropy. I’m not as warmblooded as you bats, but I can flourish under that fair sun, let me tell ya!” Delaney flashed teeth lengthening to points, enamel stretching downward with a sharpness that glistened in the sunlight.

Cartwright cocked his head as glistening blue scales crept across Delaney’s cheeks. How had the dragon kept up? Delaney acquiring speed? Unusual didn’t do the meeting justice, but Cartwright had already entertained stories about stretched creatures on moonrock islands, so a fast dragon didn’t seem too outlandish by comparison. Still, what an unusual day.

And maybe a worthy replacement, after all.

“Look. I don’t care what secrets you want to hold onto. I know you’ve got your routes, your special islands for special goods. I get that. But I hear that those in your circle have been trafficking in the divine. Touching a piece of heaven. Well. Not the actual divine. But rocks from heaven, and all the monsters that dwell inside them.”

“I don’t think the… creatures… or the rocks… are any of your concern.”

“But it is! I want to see those beaches cloaked in white obsidian dust. I want to see sand so ivory that every little drop of blood spilt on those fair shores stays forever.”

Cartwright didn’t dare venture to such shores himself. He had his hideaways, his tropical paradises that consisted of several acres hidden between the major landmarks. He didn’t need exotic moonrocks or the creatures that came from them… or because of them… or in spite of them… no, he just needed temporary respites between flying.

And maybe that’s what Delaney, despite his words, needed to. Those draconic wings erupting from his back appeared awfully tired, weathered by years, and Cartwright could relate to the sheer satisfaction of sitting on a secluded beach and letting one’s tired wings rest and recuperate. If he didn’t treat himself, he’d surely have fallen to exhaustion years ago.

“Delaney, maybe–”

Cartwright paused as Delaney huffed and snarled, the latter’s face jutting forth into a blue-scaled muzzle complete with steaming reptile nostrils. No, that metamorphosis had to see itself through. Delaney needed to flaunt his tired wings, blunted claws, and ragged teeth. The greatest of complaints, one from the mouth of a struggling freelancer. Cartwright respected it.

“Delaney, maybe you should find a refuge rather than more problems. The ships that come to port, they’re filled with excitement, yes, but they’re also rife with problems. Each exotic cargo from beyond the sea offers trouble, even if it doesn’t appear that way.”

“What, Cartwright? Am I wrong to not want to be a simple mailbat like you? Flapping around from station to station, running errands like an obedient dog? Maybe I’ve got ambition, eh? I need Gladys' blessing so that I can do the same. Flying just like you. Running routes just like you. Getting my start so that I can go beyond you. Follow your footsteps, follow in the wake of your wings, and then surpass you.”

“Do you really want to be like me, Delaney. Maybe… maybe you should speak with the runners at the docks. Maybe you should chase the horrors across the sea, because, well, I guarantee they’ll be more interesting than my routine.”

Routines. Stable consistency. A blessing and a curse that Cartwright became acutely aware each time he opened his eyes at the crack of dawn. Day in and day out he contended with Gladys’ tasks, and also juggled the fact that Isabella craved a flying fox form of her own. Specifically a gifted form from him, which made the steady routes all the more painful. Conflict simmered constantly on his mind with each flap and glide stop-to-stop, and he couldn’t quite convey such feelings to Delaney.

“I’m built differently, Cartwright. Dragon blood gives me just enough a regal disposition to know that I deserve more than simply being a wandering salesman. I should have flown for the Exarch, like you. Fly high. Fly long.”

For all Delaney’s research ahead of this impromptu and aggressive job interview, he missed a critical detail. Cartwright never flew for the Exarch’s army, never soared over galleons. He’d carried letters during that campaign, no action, no bravery. Just a duty.

But now, cornered and tired, Cartwright wanted to let Delaney have it all. The good. The bad. The downright nasty portions of the job.

“Then you should take my job. Take my mailbat routes so that you can prove yourself. Go up to Gladys and outbid me. Take it. I don’t care. Surpass me. Become the greatest delivery agent and explorer that the islands have ever seen. I… I don’t… I don’t care.”

But he did care… why, why were these words slipping his lips? Had he baked too long in the sun?

“Take your routes? Your routes. I… I’d be honored.” Delaney fell to his scaly knees, a look of absolute surprise smack across his slack-jawed face.

“I thought I was a lowly mailbat–”

“IT’S A START, OKAY!? I WAS JUST BEING A LITTLE BOLD, A LITTLE FIERCE. MY WORD, IT WORKED.”

Cartwright watched on with building concern as tears of joy flowed down the dragon’s cheeks, little glistening streams across cerulean scales. He’d awarded a great victory without even realizing.

“It’s not a great job, Duke. I’d go as far as to say that it’s made me utterly miserable. But it helped me meet people, let me hear stories that would otherwise go untold. I became a confidant, and there’s value in that. But it’s time for me to move on to the next phase of my life.”

“S-so you’ll tell Gladys?”

“Of course, I don’t think she’d want to hear it from anyone else.”


—

---

“Don’t you have a delivery schedule, Cartwright?” Gladys slipped out of the shadow of a doorframe, her withered face upturned into a sour frown. “It’s almost closing time. Sun’s dying. Can’t make deliveries at night, that’s against policy.”

Cartwright flashed his boss a toothy smirk. “About that. Delaney can have my routes from now on–”

“Bah! He’s terrible. He reeks of self-importance. No sense of modesty.” Scaly flesh crept across Gladys’ face, her nose jutting outward into an armadillo’s wrinkled snout. “I can’t accept that trade. No.”

“Then pay him less. But give him my contract.” Cartwright had kindness in his heart, yes, but he wouldn’t fight for Delaney too hard. The dragon could fight his own battles for a raise.

“He doesn’t know the routes, he’ll get lost… delayed. People will complain.” Gladys scratched at her armored neck with a scaled claw. “This is not something I’d wanted to discuss today, Cartwright.”

“No. It’s something I want to discuss. I’ve had my fill of bizarre artifacts, moon rocks, and invoices. I’ve carried other peoples’ hopes and dreams for so long that it’s high time that I start carrying myself higher.”

“You need money to do that–”

“I’ve saved up.”

“No, not enough to retire. Bah. I can do math. The company owns you, you can’t even eat without our patronage.”

God, she was wicked. Such a thoroughly vile boss made Cartwright want to wrinkle his nose in distaste, but he had to play the diplomatic route. A transferred contract would cause fewer headaches than a broken one, and while Isabella could snap her fingers and make his problems go away, Cartwright had too much pride to dare ask. No, he needed to solve this himself. Sign off his name, free himself from the grind, and fly off into the sunset.

“My contract, Gladys. Give it to Duke Delaney. He’ll surpass me. He kept up pace with me all today. Across every island, he was there in my shadow. A very draconic shadow, but a shadow nonetheless.”

“You’re joking. My… my God… so Delaney has stamina after all.”

“He’s got that draconic dedication. And he’s even more hungry for gold and glory than I was when I… signed… that…”

Gladys held his contract out in front of him, the spot where he’d given the company everything just to keep his head afloat. No family wealth to sustain him, no, no support network…

But the company had been there.

And now he didn’t need them. Not at all.

“Copy my contract. Line for line. Word for word. Promise for promise. Duke Delaney will take it.”

His co-workers would miss him. Hell, they’d curse him out for welcoming Duke Delaney into the sacred mailroom, but he did this for himself, not for anyone else.

“I… I hope you find what you’re looking for. Out there.” Gladys squinted her eyes, her voice taking on the closest thing to motherly warmth that she could manage.

—

---

“You weren’t lying about having quite a day. Now I’m tired, vicariously drained.” Isabella clutched the balcony railing, teetering out over the edge into space above her gardens. “So, you settled things with Gladys and then came right to me? I see.”

“It’s not even over. I still have to fly home. Though I’m starting to feel a second wind.” Cartwright let his other skin slip through, his fur and leather wings rustling against his strained uniform with each new crack and pop. The way his spreading fur caught and bunched against fabric always made him fidget and scratch around the edges of his sleeves and waist whenever his nerves were fried and he didn’t have the strength maintain public composure.

Isabella sighed at that news and bowed her head, her long, bleached locks drifting out into the void. “Island to island.”

But she wasn’t really vicariously tired, no, Cartwright could feel the strength returning to her voice.

“So, now that you’re exhausted and catching your breath on my porch, how about my offer?” Isabella used her position of power to the fullest, asserting herself. “A quick bite. I'll never bother you again.”

Cartwright hated his moment of weakness, his pure exhaustion. “Isabella, it’s… forever. You’ll be like me… forever. Do you really want that? I’m not going to talk you out of it, but I need to know if it’s truly your dream.”

At times he found her insistence infuriating. At other times, amusing. But she had an unmatched determination, a flicker in her eyes that she felt the call of the moon, just as he had. Did he truly… truly… regret soaring? No. Never. He just hated Gladys. Just hated the grind. Being a werebat was absolutely marvelous.

“I’d rather you bite me before I have a chance encounter with a werewolf or a weredolphin. Then I’d be stuck on land or at sea. Forever.” Isabella crouched down beside the winded bat. “You’re doing me a favor.”

A favor. A favor to be seen as a messenger. A courier. Maybe, given the proper circumstances and youthful vigor, a warrior. But a cog in the great machine nonetheless. Isabella would be stooping down in such an instance, giving up a posh aristocratic lifestyle to be seen as but another shifter, another worker in the Duke's delicately managed automaton of an archipelago kingdom.

And yet, Cartwright's current station didn't have to be so drab, so mundane. Did he not see his talent as anything but a weight around his neck, one that pulled him back toward Earth, back toward a cage gilded with golden sunshine and pristine white-sand beaches.

Did Isabella understand him better than he understood her?

“Isabella, I, I have a confession.”

“What, you’re going to tell you can’t actually share your bloodcurse?”

“No. I can. It’s just that, well, it truly is a gift. A marvel. Sometimes when I’m lost in the job, I get inside my head, and I frustrate myself to no end about how much I hate that I’ve been blessed with this incredible gift of flight. And part of what kept me from offering my bat… lycanthropy… was a deep-seated fear that you’d regret the choice. That you’d feel… trapped into a certain role. As I have.”

At last, the truth of regret came out. No greater fear than being trapped. No greater fear than offering a chance of being trapped.

“Trapped?”

“I’m a mail carrier. A courier. That’s my duty, that’s what I’m good at for the sake of my ‘talent’, and trust me, I’ve thought about pivoting over to other lines of work. I really have. I just… I just quit employment with Gladys as if I have other options. And maybe I do on paper. Maybe. But no matter which firm I join, I’ll be doing the same task. Maybe the boss will be nicer. Maybe not. I had a moment of strength when I stood up to Gladys and sold off my contract. Truly. But now… now I wonder if I just dug myself a deeper pit. I… Isabella, I don’t actually have options.”

Isabella raised an amused eyebrow. “So change me and we can run off on an adventure. No mail. No packages. Just using your talent for fun. What a thought, right?”

Maybe she did get him. Maybe she understood that monotony rotted out his mind, no amount of vacations or the prospect of retirement giving him the steadfast resolve to actually take risks. Delaney craved the monotony. Others despised it. Isabella understood that the boring engine of society still needed to chug along, but it didn't have to grind itself to dust.

“Just a simple nibble. Just break the skin. Make me a werebat, just like you. I want to fly Cartwright, I want to fly far away from here. Find new continents, find a new house to call my own.”

Her offer that he could accompany her weighed heavy on his decision. Regardless if he was freeing here, he certainly had a shot at freeing himself. Just a nibble. Just a quick bite. She'd feel a little pain, he'd feel a little embarrassed, but then they'd fly together across the sea, above cresting waves white and shimmering in the moonlight.

Isabella already raised her arm toward him, palm and wrist facing up. No hesitation. Her determination on full display.

“Let's take an extended vacation. But you're going to have to help me. Let me escape my station as an aristocrat. Let's explore.”

Cartwright brought her hand to his muzzle, his teeth bared and ready. No chomp across her palm, that kind of scaring would ruin any psychic readings in the worst way… no, he had to leave barely a mark.

The gentle bite down on Isabella's pinky finger brought a gasp from her lips, surprised pain that yielded to a confident laugh.

“That heat, traveling up my arm. Shifter magic works fast, no?”

“I've never thought about the speed.” Cartwright wiped a single drop of blood off his lips, smearing Isabella's sacrifice across his leathery palm.

Isabella raised her face to the moonlight, patchy fur already emerging across her cheeks. Her nose and jaw jutted forward, merging into a proper bat snout. Wide nostrils to detect stray pieces of delectable fruit. Large eyes to see every necessary color of said fruit dotting a landscape of green, green, and more green. Her sunbleached hair now rested atop shoulders covered with russet fur, and she brushed aside these locks with stretching fingers flanked with webbing.

“Does it hurt?”

“You do this every day, multiple times, and you’re asking me if it hurts?”

“Everyone’s different. Just worried, that’s all.”

“Well don’t worry, silly. This is great… no… more than great… this is grand, outstanding… I mean, look at this! Wings! I have wings!”

Isabella cast back her head, her stretched muzzle yawning wide to flaunt her new fangs.

Cartwright couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride. Such beauty in the her form, she made his shifting look bland by comparison.

“Wow… wow… I… I completely hate this. Why did you do this to me!?”

“Wha–” Cartwright felt his heart drop.

“Relax! I’m teasing!” Isabella planted a quick kiss on Cartwright’s muzzle, instantly making the other fruit bat blush. “This is incredible!”

“That was a bad joke, terrible, even. I was about to fly off to some deserted island in shame. Maybe not after cussing you out, first. The persistent requests for me to turn you to were getting old, fast. But I’m stubborn, too, and I could have gotten myself out of this hellish routine if I’d just said yes the first time that you asked. I could have done it on the spot.”

Isabella wrapped her leathery fingers around Cartwright’s free hand. “I know, I know. I was obnoxious. Utterly, so. And I shouldn’t have been. Dreams of flight can drive a person mad. But we can fly together, now. And you can crack jokes about my desperation all you want.”

Cartwright grinned at the offer. Oh, he most certainly would. “Same little island we talked about?”

A tiny piece of paradise resting at the edge of the world. Beyond the Exarch’s reach. They could go native, living as they pleased, darting from tree to tree and feasting on whichever fruits they pleased. Pineapples. Mangos. Jackfruit. Starfruit.

“Unless you have any other ideas?”

“Would you want to hop on a boat to fight some alien spiders?”

“No.”

“Tropical island it is–”

“Cartwright, that sounds perfect.”

Cartwright nuzzled the scruff of her neck before exhaling. “Say, what was in that parcel that I had to bring you? An important letter, I bet? I saw the sealing wax.”

Isabella tilted her head back so that her dark eyes met Cartwright’s own. A moment of silence passed between them.

“It was blank, Cartwright. It got me what I wanted.”

His last delivery completed, Cartwright and Isabella soared up toward the moon, past the lowest clouds, and into a steady ocean breeze that they rode straight until dawn.