The next couple of hours are dreamlike: you see and hear and feel, but it's in a detached, almost listless state of being. Your escorts, exchanging jokes over how "lucky" you are to be granted a private audience with the Empress, march you straight to a large door with a series of water drops carved in relief on its front, as if descending from the heavy gold knocker at its upper center. One of the guards uses the knocker almost too enthusiastically, the loud banging temporarily robbing you of your hearing.
After a moment, the door is hauled open by a jackal, who blinks in astonishment when she sees you. She fumbles with a question, no doubt about who you are and where you come from, when the other guard informs her, "Empress Nara wants him cleaned up for her private attention later."
You're roughly pushed forward into the jackal's arms, and your now-former escorts turn and leave, one cackling "No pressure!"
The jackal curses angrily as she moves you out of the way to close the door. "Bullies!" she seethes. "Drop one bottle of elixir and they never let you live it down!" She sighs and gestures; you follow her indication and notice the large, porcelain-tiled tub in the room's floor. The tiles are a muted cream color, in stark contrast to the dark brown of the rug laying next to it.
As you absentmindedly study the contents of the room, the jackal begins removing your arena clothing. There are shelves with multiple levels lining each wall of the room, in turn lined by dusty scrolls, dusty books, or dusty bottles (the last two coming in a whole variety of colors). A rack with an assortment of clippers, scissors, combs, brushes, and all such grooming devices occupied the wall opposite the sunken bath. Finally, there was a basket of fresh towels to your right and a much larger basket of fresh clothes to your left.
The jackal finishes with your arena gear and pushes you forward, and you comply, getting into the surprisingly warm water. As you lay down, sinking up to your chin, the jackal deftly collects a couple of bottles from her shelves and a comb and scrubbing brush from the rack. She pays you no heed when she pours some blue liquid into the bath, which causes it to immediately bubble like Coca-Cola; oddly enough, the bubbles release a sweet scent.
"That's just a bonding agent," the jackal says to you, examining her remaining two bottles as if deciding which to use next. She shrugs and sets both down, scooping up a handful of the bubbling water and dousing your face with it. "Faces aren't cleaned very often, I think," she says before wetting your hair with another handful. She then uses her brush (which, thankfully, isn't hard-bristled) to work up some suds. After a few moments, only your face is free of the foamy white mess.
She quickly pours a bottle of red liquid into the bath, making sure it washes over your head.
The effect is instant: the bubbling ceases and you're left feeling like you've been put through the car wash on the deluxe payment plan. While you're busy marveling at this, the jackal replaces the three used bottles, also replacing the brush.
"You need to get out now, so I can dry you off and get you dressed for Empress Nara."
Doing as you're told, you carefully get out from the bath and stand on the rug, letting the jackal wipe you down with a towel. Finishing with that, she takes a rag and proceeds to carefully nab any remaining moisture from your armpits, toes, fingers, ears, and nether-regions (which cause you to jump slightly at the ministrations). With that out of the way, you spend the rest of the time going through the basket of clothes with your temp groomer. Predictably, all of the garments are feminine, but some are mildly androgynous and therefore wearable.
With the jackal's fashion sense lighting the way, you settle on a navy leather mini skirt (which would probably be a micro skirt on an anthro), which has the sides slit and a second layer of silk to fill the gap, giving you the appearance of wearing a very strange kilt. Your "shirt" is a sleeveless tunic and its pea green color was almost depressing.
"Done at last!" smiled the jackal, handing you your sandals, which she swiftly cleaned. "And don't forget this!" You shift uneasily as she returns your equally-swiftly hand-washed bikini.
A knock on the door pulls her away from you, and you both find the guards have returned, to escort you to Nara. You slip on your sandals and follow, forced to endure more banter. After several minutes of walking, turning down huge corridors and striding past impressive sculptures, your group reaches a gigantic pair of doors, each one with a roaring lion's head in their center. The guards don't knock or call out, and yet the doors part, granting you entrance.
You enter alone and the doors silently close behind you, but you're too busy looking into Nara's eyes. She's lying on her side, watching you, propped up on her elbow.
"Sit," she says, nodding at the table and chair ahead of you. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions."
Taking your seat, you immediately ask, "Why did you tell me I could be a citizen if you were just planning on putting me in a brothel like some sex slave?"
"Technically, you are a citizen. It's just that males are second-class citizens by necessity."
"What!" you gape. "What kind of necessity is that?"
"The necessity of a low population. There are less than ten thousand of us on this island, and it is rather difficult for a male anthro to impregnate a female. The chances are approximately one in twelve. When a human is factored in, there is a marginal increase; the chances become one in ten. Oh, don't fear that I'll play the dirty trick of telling you how plenty of other humans have enjoyed their breeding obligations. Some of them were pleased with their fate and others learned to be content enough. I'm not going to belittle you by telling you that sort of nonsense; everyone reacts differently to this."
She pauses to crack her neck, the vertebrae popping like rifle shots. "Now, then, we've tried a host of solutions throughout our history. Our various cults pray to our gods; our alchemists concoct potions to affect the procreation process; and we have even resorted to making blood pacts with our gods by sacrificing particular gladiators in their names from time to time. Not a single bit of difference has been made through those methods, and they're frankly wasteful, so we've taken up for a few generations now the practice of making all males into servile breeders to keep ourselves from dying out. So far, it's kept our population steady."
You stare at her, overwhelmed by the revelations. After a moment, you give her your response.
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