Anthropomorphic

Furry Vixen 

Character Portrait

Gloria Widdershins

In Anthroxville, an ill-famed township swathed in eccentricity and neurosis, weddings are far from the teary-eyed, love-drenched affairs known to the outside world. Instead, they are theatrical spectacles, dark parodies where jubilation is replaced with a somber gravitas, more befitting a wake than a wedding. Here, guests don't pour in with gifts and blessings; they arrive in a procession of sorrow, draped in hues so dark that even shadows seem bright. Each step is a dirge, each congratulation is a lament.

It begins in the aisles, as guests file in, whispering and glancing furtively, the atmosphere is thick with tension. The towering stained-glass windows, usually a beacon of hope and light, cast elongated shadows on the ground, adding to the melancholy. The bride, swathed in an intricately woven gown that seems more shroud than bridal wear, stands in stark juxtaposition to the groom, his suit echoing the sobriety of a final judgment. Their faces both wear expressions of resigned despair. Their eyes, pools of trepidation, dart around, searching for an escape that isn’t there. Each is clearly pondering whose fate is more tragic, as they grip the altar's edge with white-knuckled tension. This isn't the joyful procession of shared dreams and a future imagined, but rather a tug-of-war of silent reproaches and unvoiced regrets. The onlookers can almost hear the internal monologue of each, calculating and recalculating the weight of their impending commitment. In this dance of reluctant acceptance, neither the bride nor the groom wants to concede that they might, in fact, be the one who has drawn the longer end of the proverbial straw.

This ludicrous tradition can be traced back to Anthroxville's most peculiar of laws: the mandatory marital raffles. On one fateful day every month, the town square buzzes with reluctant anticipation. The names of all eligible souls — those yet to be shackled in matrimonial misfortune — are written on forlorn pieces of parchment and thrown into a massive, ornate tombola. As the drum rolls, Anthroxville holds its collective breath. The bizarre ballet of fate sees pairs being formed in a matter of moments, dictated by the whimsical hand of luck, or perhaps, calamity.

Should any unfortunate be absent — perhaps indulging in a brief escape from reality or nursing a hangover from drowning their sorrows — they would find their wedded destiny in the 'Mandatory Matrimonials' section of publications such as Spencer Godwottery’s Well Magazine. The next morning, as they slurped down a cup of brew, they would unfurl the paper of their choosing to discover, much to their dismay, the name of the person with whom they were destined to exchange their begrudging “I dos.”

Yet, the absurdities don’t end there. A recent addendum, drenched in salacious undertones and known as the droit du seigneur, empowers the voracious and waiting-in-the-wings, Agatha Collop, with an unbridled prerogative. She is now entitled to cast her lurid gaze and claim first dibs, if only for a night, on any of the fresh newlyweds that catch her fancy. The aftermath? Chaos unleashed; a spectacle of frantic tussles and raw emotions, bearing closer resemblance to a barroom brawl, such as those seen at Erm Wotsischop’s active slugfest of a pub, The Knotted Knacker, than to the genteel pirouettes of wedded pairs. The air gets punctuated with futile pleas of "Anyone but her! Please!" echoing the sentiments of hearts that wish to escape her clutches. The couples might be mismatched, but they find harmony in their unified desperation against Collop's institutionalized advances.

Given this backdrop, it's little wonder that Anthroxville's "Welfare Weddings" have never been poster events for marital bliss. Making it past twenty-four hours is not just an achievement; it's a veritable cause for celebration, marked by the clinking of glasses filled with the town's signature bittersweet brew, Mithradites, 99% proof. But there exists a glitch in this well-oiled machine of matrimonial misery. Often, the same names find themselves paired together, not once, not twice, but multiple times.

As is the case with the anthropomorphic furry vixen, Gloria Widdershins, one such a victim of the system's caprices. Three times, she's been yoked to Julian Jodhpur — a closeted arm-wrestler, who speaks only on such matters as morphology, force-multipliers, or bursting-biceps - and on rare occasions, his long-lost Binky Pettifogger. Six times, she's suffered the comedic misfortune of being paired with the serial cheat, Luther Popshot, whom one would be well-advised not to trust as far as they could throw. And a mind-boggling seventeen times with Ludo Snufflesack, a union that by its eighth repetition had become the stuff of Anthroxville legends. Their repeated trysts at the altar would invariably commence with a mutual sigh, a rolling of eyes, and Gloria's acerbic, "You? Again?"

During one particularly tumultuous tie-up with the notorious Cactus Reus, a twist occurred. Piper Yuwot Gloria's ever-faithful bridesmaid, in a move that shocked Anthroxville, stepped forward. With a combination of bravery and madness, she offered to switch places with Gloria. Her rationale? "How much worse could it be?" A shared gasp amongst all in attendance rang out, murmured, then cheered. It was the most excitement in Anthroxville's wedding scene had witnessed in decades.

In the aftermath of this scandalous switcheroo, Anthroxville's weddings became the topic of hushed conversations and wild speculations. Would it work out? Would there be more swaps? Would the raffle system finally see a revolt? Or would things go back to their usual state of resigned despair. Meanwhile, the furry vixen, undeterred by her matrimonial travails, started to have...