Recent content by Aloysius 'Ishy' Kite

Even Ishy’s ordinarily placid expression changed, as Kite’s Prioritie Ambulance Service trundled into Market Circle. Big Val had been his guiding landmark on the journey, but for a moment the weasel questioned whether or not he had somehow taken a wrong turn and ended up in the Bully Harbour Tip...

Up to now, Ishy had made few assumptions as to what Ruffano’s occupation was. The fox was clean and well-kept. Or at least, his tail was sufficiently fluffy, which was the only criteria Ishy was sure he could judge a fox’s health on. The stranger’s clothes had no visible fraying or holes, which...

((Continued from here!)) They left behind the frying pan, and two sets of echoing pawsteps - one set heavy, plodding and unhurried, the other fitful and scampering. A friendless, injured, and promisingly wealthy rat over the weasel’s shoulder gave a parting, piteous groan, and then they were...

Ishy nodded in agreement with the accusations of cheating, and hefted his harpoon. His face was blank of even feigned emotion. “Yes. The law only legalises beatings with blunt instruments today,” Ishy confirmed. “I am simply committing crimes.” Beating Day really was an excellent idea, Ishy...

Ishy was up before dawn, and already the day’s pickings were plentiful. Spotting a likely target in a quiet street, the long-tailed weasel hurried to the side of a young todd sprawled on the cobblestones. The fox might have been handsome, Ishy thought - pretty even, with a svelte figure and a...

Was Ishy getting somewhere at last? It sort of sounded like it. Relieved, he shook Firaya’s paw, the weasel’s face dropping whatever mask of emotion he had been faking. In its place was a blank, calculating expression. There were still so many unknowns about Firaya, but letting her take him to...

Ishy’s sharkskin boots crunched on the white gravel up to the manor house. The long-tailed weasel took a left, avoiding the fancy pillars and giant oak door of the front entrance, and he skulked down the side of the house, his broad shoulders hunched. He knocked at a humble single door that led...

"There will be no partnership at all, if you or your employer value me so little,” Ishy said with all the conviction of a poorly trained actor reading the script before the audition. This was the kind of line he had heard his father use a long time ago, complete with mock indignity and an almost...

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Fish breath. Dyed fur smell. Cat scent. Cat lips. Cat… tongue. Ishy was fortunate that Firaya’s… solid presence on his lap prevented him from physically hurling her off. He gripped the seat of his chair until his claws dug into the wood, and reassessed his situation, the fog of...

“Two slices of peach pie an’ cream,” the serving-jack confirmed to Firaya with a nod. Ishy opened his mouth to protest, even at the risk of jeopardising the deal. Nothing came out though - he couldn’t work his wine-numb mouth into uttering a single word before the ferret was already slinking...

((OOC: Sorry for the delay!)) Wine. Wine wine winewinewine. Wine? Whiiine! Wine tasted bad. Wine tasted bad because it was gross rotten fermented grapes that a rat maiden had stepped in. They hired rats to crush the grapes because rats have naked hairless footpaws. Which means less chance...

Ishy’s ears almost imperceptibly flattened, his snout wrinkling ever so slightly as he contained his disgust. Wine! The whaler disdained all alcohol, and had a particular aversion to beers and ales - the most foul-smelling, according to his sensitive nose, especially once it was spilled down...

Ishy sniffed as they entered the Salted Casket. The smell of sea-salt was thankfully inoffensive to him - he would hardly have made it through his years as a whaler otherwise, with far more briny scents to contend with. He remembered to take off his hat as he stepped inside, for this...

Ishy felt his stomach writhe like a grub on the end of a fishhook. Was this merchant making up her knowledge about the tree as much as he was? Or was she subtly mocking his shallow marketing ploys? He could not tell. Her words sounded as authentic to him as his own. The weasel tried to follow...

Ishy was hungry. It was mid-afternoon by this point, and his rat teamsters had just returned from one of their frequent lunch breaks, still grumbling as they eyed the wagon and resented its unsold state. Ishy had re-applied his perfume in the meantime, convinced that all this walking about had...