The rumors arrived before the suitors, and the suitors arrived like a plague.
Marx leaned against the iron gatepost, arms crossed, watching the line stretch down the winding dirt road toward Bowral's crumbling main street, and it was a line, an actual physical queue of beastmen forming in the apocalyptic wasteland like they were waiting for concert tickets. Except the concert was his Felicity, and the tickets were marriage proposals, and every single one of these idiots was about to learn what it felt like to be emotionally dismantled by a panther beastman who hadn't slept properly in three days because a certain blonde fennec fox had smiled at him over breakfast, and his brain had simply stopped functioning.
He counted silently. Thirty-seven so far this morning, and the sun hadn't even hit its peak.
Thirty-seven men who thought they deserved to breathe the same air as her.
