A Captain's Homecoming Farewell (Old VI Thread)

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

(Captain Tarrin throws an officers' party. Shenanigans devolve into chaos. Flirtations, dancing the can-can, drinking competitions, and food fights. Warning for lightly salacious content and ?drugs mention. Starring: Frostbite R. Tarrin, Ladorak Fugate, Caden Freemont (as a smol), Jeshal the Ironclaw, Blinky, Anithias Freedom, Armina Rogue, Molly Serra, and Tanya Ryalor)


A CAPTAIN’S HOMECOMING FAREWELL
First post Humidor 22, Yr. 1729, 9:34 pm



Frostbite R. Tarrin
Frostbite adjusted the collar on his brand new black captain's uniform, complete with boots and triangular hat. He stood at a podium in front of the tables, which were placed in a domino effect so everyone could see him.

The albino ferret raised his arms in the air. The crowd and band grew slowly dimmer, then quiet as he began to speak. He glanced down at his scrawled notes laid out in front of him before speaking.

"My honored guests, comrades, acquaintances, and friends. You know why you're here, so let’s skip to the end. I'm great. Thank you." With that, he gave a great smile and wave of his arms toward the food. "Let the feast begin!"

Almost immediately, a crowd of hoodlums rushed at the food tables, some of them skipping the main course food and snatching dessert. There were more tables than Frostbite was used to counting all at once, but he knew there would be plenty of leftovers... that he'd have to dispose of somehow. Mold had its way of affecting his own food the most.

Frostbite smiled at the ruckus as he made his way to one large circular table where he had invited his closest friends, with Rianna and her guests at his right, and Captain Zilaco Wyndshard at his left, and the rest fitting in all the way around. Maids of all species brought each of Frostbites honored guests a plateful of their choosing as they had stated in their RSVPs. So far, everything was great.

"Dig in," said Frostbite with a smile.



Ladorak Fugate/Caden Freemont
There were four very familiar faces walking through the streets of the harbor. Accompanied by a clop, clop, clop sound, one might mistake the noise for a horse hoof... but there were no horses in the Imperium. Indeed, the noise came from a cane that one of the beasts was using, given that he walked with a noticeable limp. He was a pine marten with a heavy looking overcoat on, his cane striking the stones of the sidewalk before lifting only to strike back down again, like a hammer to an anvil in a forge.

"Ah yes! The oddly sweet yet at the same time slightly disturbing scent of Bouillabaisse Harbor! Smells like...like...." after taking a snorting whiff with his nostrils, the marten shrugged and shook his head. "Well, something. I was going to say that ship we arrived on except that ship had a scent that reminded me too much of the jimson weed you used to chew on for those bogus recuperative qualities." Looking over at his rather tall companion, Gregory Kasal might have laughed now had he been any other beast... but his look was one of mocking seriousness. "Too planty for me. Can't beat the smell of this place though!"

His companion, a stoat of rather deep, rusty brown fur that was almost red, shook his head, his golden pince nez spectacles catching the glint of the sun a bit as it was tossed off the glittering walls of his castle that loomed ahead of them. Doughoregan... a place that Ladorak Diomedes Fugate did not in all honesty ever think he would be returning to. He said nothing... and why indeed was he back? He had left nearly a year ago for Corona, a city on distant shores. To make a long story short... he'd sought a new command, been granted one, seized a few ships... and was promptly sued by their captains for "illegal" seizure despite his adherence to the law. The prize courts had ruled against him, and Ladorak Fugate was now one of the poorest beasts in Corona... in debt as well. Fortunately, though... it turned out he was one of the richest beasts in the Imperium... 10th richest according to the latest news. What a bunch of ridiculous luck. To be broke and in debt in another country and yet to be (publicly at least) one of the richer beasts back in a place he'd willingly left.

Sighing, he still did not respond. He had come here to settle his debts... tap into his fortune, get rid of his creditors, and hopefully move on with his life. What was his wife doing now? Did he even have a wife? He had last seen her several months before he had cut himself off... from everything. It had become too painful... life itself. "Well anyways... I've got to head to work." Kasal was saying.

Ladorak merely gave the marten an odd look. "Work? The hospital was closed last I heard..."

Kasal considered the stoat's words for a moment or so, then nodded. "Precisely!" he said, and limped off away from the rest of the group to who knew where. Turning his head in the general direction (though not facing) of Isily Sconers, his rather drop-dead gorgeous attaché, the stoat spoke a few words to her.

"Go ahead to Doughoregan... make sure everything is in order... and do something about changing the name. I've always hated Doughoregan. Nobeast can spell it, it's hard to pronounce, and it was a wanton name my father chose for the place." he said in disgust.

"What name would you prefer then sir?" the weasel asked quietly.

"Oh, I don't know... I've always liked Shalebridge," the bespectacled stoat said now after a moment's thought. "Let's go with that for a while..." Nodding, the weasel slunk away from his side, her attractive form catching more than one glance from jacks in the streets. Ladorak looked down at his last traveling companion, a small, albino pine marten kit who may be familiar to some and not to others. There was a great anger within his pink eyes... the eyes of youth that did not yet fully understand the world and its workings. Around his wrist was a leather sort of leash, a tether really, to ensure the dibbun didn't run off into trouble. The two said nothing to each other, and it was clear there was animosity there... at least on the kit's part. Time to head home...

**********

Huna blentyn yn fy mynwes
Clyd a chynnes ydyw hon;
Breichiau mam sy'n dynn amdanat,
Cariad mam sy dan fy mron;

The soft, dreamlike melody drifted in through the open windows of the newly renamed Shalebridge Castle as Ladorak carefully set down his great sword, the Midlight Hammer, upon some wall hooks. He could see his face reflected in the carbonized steel. It was sad... unsure of itself. Some homeless kits were singing a carol of sorts out in the streets for pittance. It was in a language Ladorak could not understand, but it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard.

He reached into his pockets, pulling out the post he had gotten this morning. Some jimson weed floated down to the ground, its green leaves beckoning him... calling to him. Addiction... illness... debt... loneliness... it had seemed to follow him for his return. He could see a dampness in his eyes... the beginning of tears, reflected back at him from his blade. Narrowing his eyes, he hurriedly looked down at the post. Nothing from Rashki... bills... bills... and an invite from Frostbite Tarrin? To a party? Furrowing his brow, the stoat angrily crumpled up his mail, tossing it into a nearby trash bucket. Frostbite Tarrin... no thanks.

A crash behind him from somewhere in the castle caused the stoat to cringe. Great...

"CADEN!" the stoat called out at the top of his lungs. Rage briefly crossed his face before fading again. No... mustn't get angry... mustn't lose temper. He hadn't taken Caden in just to berate him after all... despite the kit being quite the little monstrosity he was. Turning on his heel, Ladorak began to exit the room, only to stop in mid-stride. Frostbite Tarrin... why would an albino ferret who he typically didn't get along with invite him to any sort of social gathering? Pausing, he picked up the slip of paper, unfolding it and trying to smooth out the creases.

"Sir?"

He started, looking up at Isily, who stood in the doorway. "Yes, Ms. Sconers?" he asked, ruffled.

"I'm sorry sir...Caden's proving quite the... troublesome little kit... I thought maybe you'd like to come and..."

"Thank you. Start looking through my ledger, and allocating funds in order to pay off my debt. No swindling either. I've memorized that ledger inside and out, I'll know." The stoat fixed her with an icy stare. Of course, she knew never to try and pull the fur over his eyes... he was too stern and too observant of an employer for that. A party... what did he have to wear?

Heading over to his wardrobe, the stoat opened it up and sighed, his shoulders sagging as he leaned against the double doors. Not that stupid red, black and gold uniform he had from his captain days! He angrily slammed the doors, but realized it was all he had. He'd really need to buy something else one of these days... that thing was oppressive, beyond him, and just downright gaudy. Sadly though, it was all he had. Some party this was going to be...

*************

"Who did you say you were again sir?"

"Ladorak Diomedes Fugate... of the HMS Boreas... now unemployed."

The concierge at the entrance to the party looked quizzically again down at his guest sheet. "The what?"

"Never mind." The stoat snapped, immediately hating his quick trigger temper. It had never existed before. "Am I on the list or not?" He tapped his black booted paw impatiently.

"Yes you are sir. My apologies... just didn't recognize you at first."

"Doubt anyone does." The stoat said crossly as he moved into the hall, a very rambunctious albino marten kit tugging unsuccessfully at the leash as he was pulled after Ladorak. Ladorak had no sitter... or rather he did not trust any sitter with Caden... which might lead to the chagrin of many guests here, but it wasn't on the stoat's mind at the moment.

"Disembobble all o' ye!" the kit was saying darkly under his breath as he was dragged along and into the hall. Being among so many familiar (and not familiar) faces at once nearly sent the stoat into cardiac arrest. He tried to blend into the crowd as best he could. There was Frostbite Tarrin, at the head of some table at the front. Best to avoid that one for now... as he could see Zilaco Wyndshard there... and the two of them the mustelid was positive had nothing beneficial to say to each other.

His nostrils took in all the smells; his ears all the sounds. He was tempted to reach into his rather lavish pocket and chew on some of his precious jimson but not here... not now... he didn't want to give into his petty addiction. Plus, the darn thing was dangerous after all... caused him to hallucinate if he took enough of it and messed with his body in other unpleasant ways.

Taking a seat, he glanced nervously about him. Caden was working on getting free of his leash so that he could run amok, but Ladorak seemed not to notice. He felt surrounded by a sea of beasts, even though there weren't so many in here. He was dressed in that black half cape of his, the red jacket, the white pants, the black, knee-high boots. It was too much for this place... at least in the stoat's mind. What to do... what to do. He picked one of the first tables out, far enough away from Wyndshard that he was hoping he would go unnoticed. Unsure of his next move, the stoat looked down at some food that was shoveled under his snout. Eat? Yes eat. Why not?

Taking up his fork and constantly glancing back and forth as if in some sort of anxiety over something, the stoat began to eat. So much had changed... and yet the more things changed, the more they stayed the same...


Jeshal the Ironclaw
Contrary to popular opinion, Jeshal very much enjoyed social gatherings and, aside from hovering at the back of Captain Zilaco's wedding, this was the first official gathering to which he had been invited. It was strange to him that he should attend a to-do so full to the brim with creatures he had yet to meet, and there was something altogether alien about having to sit near the high ranks now that he had somehow accumulated the position of first mate. He imagined that, were he anybeast typical, he would probably be feeling sick to the stomach at all the expectations of an officer, wishing that he were having less mature and all around more fun conversations with the rest of the crew who appeared to be having a frivolous time at the back of the great hall. But Jeshal didn't believe he was typical.

The news was Tarrin's transferrence to captain of the Skeered, both a beast and a ship with which Jeshal had had no experience, but he was eager to learn more. Knowledge meant a lot at this stage in his career. It also gave him a giddy feeling of elation. He was drastically thirsting for more of it, and this room was gaping with possibilities.

This time he was not really able to hover in the background. He stood out from a lot of his crewmates now that he more frequently wore his black frockcoat ensemble. His patchy cavalier and the sandals always remained. In the light of this comely place, the Ironclaw was shown to be the handsome creature that he was rarely perceived to be. The unnerving metal gauntlet that served as his left paw often caused an association with ugliness. Then again, perhaps it was just his misleadingly cruel smile. He could have been a ladykiller, if it didn't appear so much that he truly might kill were one to get too close. Here, amid company, he seemed almost approachable.

With a glass of brandy in his gauntlet and a plate of shellfish in his good paw, the Ironclaw scanned the room in a leisurely fashion. His eyes settled on a group of his own crewmembers. There were the Ashpaw cousins sitting somewhere in the centre, enjoying their meals alongside Lin and Sokea, not too far off being the 'lovebirds' Tomias and Armina. Master Larks was also amongst them but it was a fair bet he nipped across to converse at the officers' tables to speak with Captain Freedom. The young fox looked up to Anithias, that much was clear. Perhaps one day that would change. Jeshal took a swig of his brandy to erase his smirk.

Another sweep of his gaze and he watched the bigwigs for a while. Captain Tarrin, Captain Wyndshard, Captain Freedom, Admiral Ryalor, most of them smiling in that formal way that disguised friend from rival. His eyes roamed longer on Ms Ryalor, peering subtly over the rim of the glass. For attire she had gone for a spiced-up concoction of her admiral uniform and gender-accentuating garments. Underneath her formal ruffled shirt, overlaying her black breeches was a befitting dress of dark green; upon her feet were the maritime black boots and, almost tomboyishly, her tricorne of the same colour perched between her ears. It was delightfully confusing. One didn't know how to address her, which was probably the intention.

Jeshal chose not to join his fellow Hide officers just yet and instead selected a table with a mix of strangers and acquaintances. He took up a seat beside a tall, well-dressed stoat whom the copper fox had never met. Had he done so, he would perhaps not have altered his decision to offer small talk, for he had not been in the Imperium long enough to know Fugate by face. Still, there was the slightest impression of 'fallen star' coming from the quiet beast.

"So, thinks I," said Jeshal to Ladorak as he set himself down, "yer food must've told ye the most tragic story, mate, fer ye look like ye don't know whether ter sob o'er it nor scoff it down out'f impert'nence. I don't believe we've 'ad the potential pleasure o' bein' on first name terms." The Ironclaw grinned in his half-sane manner at the stoat before suddenly whipping a crustacean from his own plate and placing it on Fugate's. "'Ere's a cheerful lookin' prawn ter be gettin' on with."

All the while he spoke, his dark eyes flitted over to the Admiral, unable to tear his sights away completely.


Ladorak Fugate/Caden Freemont
The noise was all blending into one for Ladorak. He was trying to drown it out... and was doing a rather good job, as he quickly became lost within the depths of his own troubled mind now. Yes... he could hear things... see things... but none of this should be happening! He hadn't partaken of the jimson yet! Why was he...

He jolted a bit, his head coming up from where it had slouched slightly. He turned to his left to face a curiously smiling fox. There was something... mysterious about this fellow, and something that just felt a tad off about his optimism. It was almost as if this vulpine were too happy about... something. What that something was the stoat could only guess at. What had he been saying? Something about his food.

The stoat's snout pointed directly down at the prawn as it was whipped up and tossed onto his own plate. For a second, all the mustelid could do was stare down at the steaming morsel. At least it wasn't crab... Ladorak was actually allergic to crabs. "In a way yes..." the stoat said distantly as he considered the fox's words. "You wouldn't be far off saying my food told me a tragic tale. And you're right... I don't believe we're on first name terms. I've been gone for about a year. It's Fugate... Ladorak Fugate,” he said, looking dolefully away from the prawn and up into the eyes of the fox... who curiously enough wasn't fully looking at him. Ladorak's eyes darted off to follow the fox's gaze, but he wasn't quite able to catch who Jeshal was looking at. Was it Tanya?

A tug on his wrist meant that Caden was up to no good, and it brought Ladorak's face around to peer down at the kit, who was currently sawing away at the leather with a knife. Where in blasted seasons had he gotten his paws on a knife!? Reacting quickly, the stoat snatched the blade out of the marten kit's paws. Ah... it was one of the cutleries from the table. "Caden..." Ladorak sighed, replacing the knife.

"Disembobble ye!" the albino exclaimed, glaring back at Ladorak.

"Disembowel! It's bowel Caden... speak properly... and no... you won't." Suddenly remembering Jeshal, Ladorak quickly smiled in an innocent manner. "Apologies... that's my um... ward you see. Both of his parents are dead and well... so is his legal guardian so... I've taken it upon myself to look after him. Sorry I... don't believe I caught your name." Ladorak said, feeling a sudden sense of nausea wash over him as his head began to spin. Great... just what he needed.

Reaching out for a passing server, the stoat's paws clutched at his rather spiffy suit, pulling him in with a gasp. "A gin and tonic... make it quick,” the mustelid breathed into the younger server's face before pushing him away again. Doing his best to appear focused on Jeshal, Ladorak subtly used one forepaw to wrap around the carved backrest of his chair, helping to support him without hopefully making him look as if he were in some sort of physical trouble. "I used to be employed in the Navy... predecessor to Captain Tarrin there,” he said, nodding vaguely in the direction of Frostbite (thanks to his vertigo he wasn't exactly sure where Frostbite was in this instance). It was a real juggling challenge for Ladorak tonight. He had Caden to watch, guests to avoid, a new face to meet, and of course... his illness to fight off, which had so unexpectedly decided to give him a nice kick in his rump right when he wasn't looking.

To give the appearance of normalcy however, the stoat went directly for the prawn with his fork, fortunately managing to stab it on the first try despite the tilting, turning room, and raise it up to his mouth. Oh dear... he only hoped he wouldn't vomit all over this bloke. After all... he did seem rather friendly, if not a bit out of sorts. Biting into the prawn, Ladorak put on his best smile and chewed slowly, hoping that gin and tonic would be here within the next minute or two... better make it twenty to thirty seconds just to be safe.


Jeshal the Ironclaw
Jeshal continued to display his discomfiting half-grin whilst the well-spoken stoat responded. There was something in the beast's eyes, like a lantern quavering in a storm, that betrayed ill health. The Ironclaw made no comment but felt a pleasant tingle of control through detecting some flaw in his acquaintance. It was only a flicker, however, and gave no measure of how serious his condition. Could even have been a spot of poor digestion. Ah, no matter, another beast's discomfort was still his private gain.

The revelation of the stoat as Ladorak Fugate caused a slight rise in Jeshal's brow. He had heard the name in passing, in topics of captains past – so it was true, he had once been in higher authority. Inwardly, Jeshal gloated at his assumption of character. His eyes met Fugate's a little unexpectedly and it took effort for his cheeks not to flush at being caught at less than full attention. To compensate, he deepened his smile and ceased watching Tanya for the time being.

Perhaps fortunately, the moment of potential awkwardness was interrupted by the antics of the marten kit in Fugate's care. Jeshal grinned at the child in its eager violence. It reminded him somewhat of the admiral's kits, Vald and Aille, who had taken to bothering him on duty and even on occasion calling him 'Uncle Jesh'. Complicated though this could have been, he allowed it, just for the look of anxiety it put on Ryalor's face. He wouldn't let on too strongly but the Ironclaw quite liked kits.

"Apologies... that's my um... ward you see. Both of his parents are dead and well... so is his legal guardian so... I've taken it upon myself to look after him. Sorry I... don't believe I caught your name."

The copper fox straightened himself up presentably, turning on his chair. He offered his right paw, a gesture often made to those he respected, for Jeshal frequently enjoyed offering his left paw to new recruits and watching them squirm in their decision.

"Ye can call me Jeshal. First mate 'board the Golden Hide. The Ironclaw be me term of endearment." He chuckled softly. Hearing it was like rubbing velvet the wrong way, enriching but set your spine on edge. "Fugate, is it now? The name flicks me ear, so it does, though I can' say I've been party ter much gossip concernin' yerself. Went travellin', did ye not? How'd that fare for ye?"

The server returned as promised with Ladorak's beverage. Jeshal placed his drinking vessel upon the beast's tray and asked saccharinely for a repeat, using the opportunity to steal another gluttonous stare at Ryalor. What a collection of gilders a beast might give to see his thoughts and a further thousand to, if not have them banished from their skulls, upgrade their security sufficiently to sleep safely in their beds that night.

Three-quarters of his focus remaining on Fugate, the remainder of Jeshal's mind occupied the dream of a room plunged in darkness, spotlights capturing a select few beasts and freezing them in their seats, expressions succumbing to fear. Little Miss Rogue with her tear-stained fury; Macavity Ashpaw, the cat subject to the Ironclaw's blackmailing, cowering in a corner; Captain Freedom putting his paws up to fend off the cries of stirred mutiny; and, of course, Tanya in simply the green dress, silent, but pleading for him not to take the revenge he had plotted obsessively all these years.

Perhaps more brandy was not the best option.



Blaine “Blinky” Hinkly
Bread. Two slices. One on either side of the plate. Now... what was next?

Mayonnaise, no; looked like gull droppings. Butter, too tasteless. Peanut butter? A dab on one side. And for the other side... hm. Not cream of caviar, not relish, not chutney, aha, mustard! That would do.

Now, for the real goodies ... a few sliced pickles, mm, yes ... and those little eyeless fish, some of those; that would take care of the peanut butter side. For the mustard side ... more pickles. And possibly some extra jam in the middle, to hold it all together. Apricot, or raspberry? Decisions, decisions ... Strawberry, then.

Oh, and two olives.

Blinky stared at the massive spread before him, eyed the plain pieces of bread on his plate, and sighed. It would have been a great sandwich, but there was no way in 'Gates he was going to put that much effort into it. He'd actually have to lift things and spread them and place them – this place was too fancy. He much preferred the BlackShip's kitchen, where he could just lay out some bread on the counters and then swipe lazily at the open cupboards with a broom and just eat whatever managed to stick.

The stoat reached up, swept his Fogey beret – he'd only just come in off the street from his beat with Callix – off his head and, fishing out a half-eaten week old sandwich from it, carried it over to the sitting tables. Several beasts swore at him as he dragged his blanky over their footpaws.

Blinky stared at the tables, looking for a spot. There was Frostbite, ferret of the hour (what hour, Blinky was not entirely certain of; he had not read his invitation nor listened to the gossip), and there was Zilaco and some maiden of some sort on either side, and some other random officers and strangers. There did not seem to be any spot at that particular table for the bosun of the BlackShip, however. The stoat shrugged and sidled over to another one that had an empty chair.

He sat down, tucked his yellowed blanky into the collar of his Fogey jacket, and bit into his sandwich with a crunch. He chewed, once, twice, thrice, then lowered the sandwich to his lap and leaned back to let his jaws rest before chewing the rest of the way. He'd probably need a ten-minute nap to recuperate before attempting a swallow.

My, but this place was noisy.

Blinky closed his eyes.

Not that noise ever bothered him.

"Sir. You're sitting in my chair."

"Huh?" Blinky said, opening his eyes and, unfortunately, also his mouth.

The fox whose seat was stolen stared at Blinky for a moment, until his eyes began to water.

"Nevermind ... you keep it."

"Oggs," Blinky said, and chewed twice more before trying to resume his nap.


Ladorak Fugate/Caden Freemont
It was definitely building up. A bile that was rank and disgusting, rising up and up, hitting his throat in its mad rush to get out and just explode, gush all over the table and the fox. The spinning tilt-a-whirl of a room didn't help either. It scrambled all of his senses and turned his brain into a finely whisked egg. He had to do something!

Reaching quickly into his pocket, the stoat tried to stealthily retrieve the jimson as best he could. He was just pulling it out, doing his best to conceal the plant leaves with his paw when he felt broiling, tempestuous stomach nearly give out. Gagging a bit (but without actually opening his mouth), he figured it was too late... this fox would be taking an unpleasant bath in a matter of seconds...

But then his drink was set down in front of him. Gratefully shoving the weed back into his pockets, the stoat instead reached out for the drink, grabbing it, wringing the glass as if it were the most precious substance in the world, his knuckles actually blanched white under his fur as he raised it up to his lips. Taking a sharp, brisk drink, the mustelid managed to down a quarter of the glass right off, the coniferous tasting fluid doing its job to wash down the bilious build-up that had plagued Ladorak's throat and had been about to breach the walls of his mouth before he had administered the remedy.

Swallowing with his eyes closed, the stoat gave the tonic a few seconds to kick in. Just relax Ladorak... just relax... When he opened his eyes, the room had stopped turning, settling back onto a level plain of existence. Taking another sip of the bittersweet liquid, the stoat finally managed to set his glass down and give off a contented exhale. "Terribly sorry about that, had a rather large thirst you see," he said in a guarded yet friendly manner. Of course, he wasn't just going to let on as to why he had required a gin and tonic so hastily.

Sticking out his right paw to shake Jeshal's (normal) paw, the stoat gave it two firm shakes before withdrawing. "It's good to meet you Jeshal. The Ironclaw sobriquet does fit," he stated, emphasizing the word does. If only Ladorak could see inside the recesses of this fox's brain... see how he really viewed this room. If it had been the old Ladorak he might have jumped on top of the table, pointed down at the atrocious vulpine, declared him a blight on the Imperium and proceeded to draw his blade in order to smite him in the name of righteous justice. But that was the old Ladorak... and furthermore he wasn't wearing a blade with him tonight. The present Ladorak was a rather broken, twisted, and some might say bitter individual. If he could see into the mind of this vulpine well... the stoat might very well approve of it. Ladorak had lost quite a bit of his past life... most of it in fact, and what was left was a cold, hollowed out ghost that was part stoat, part former naval officer, and part well... something.

"Traveling?" Ladorak asked in response to the Jeshal's last bit. Caden was below them, hiding under the table and muttering dark things as he tried to bite into the leather, realized it wasn't a good idea (the tannery done on it was nothing short of phenomenal in the kit's mind), and started to twist and gyrate his wrist, trying to get the leash off of him. Ladorak had no idea whether Jeshal would recognize the albino marten or not. He was in fact the son of the very late Minister of War, Nuori Sken Freemont. How he had ended up here... under this table worming his way out of a leash was well... a good question.

"No... it wasn't exactly traveling," the stoat said with a bit of something in his voice. Regret? Sadness? Something further perhaps? He paused to take another sip. "I... left this place... due to some unfortunate circumstances." His condition, whatever it had been, was subsiding now that he had gotten the valuable quinine into him. He hadn't had to use the jimson after all (though in reality that probably would have amplified his symptoms to an unnatural degree). "It's given me... mixed feelings about coming back here." The stoat's green eyes were off to the side, then back up to study Jeshal again. "Turns out I'm in quite a bit of debt in another country but fortunately and some would say rather ridiculously." He muttered that last part under his breath. "I have quite a bit of wealth amassed here, so I'm currently working on paying off any outstanding debts I've got. Should be able to do it quite comfortably from what I've seen... thankfully." he said, rolling his eyes behind his golden pince nez.

"So..." Ladorak swirled his drink with a claw a bit before taking another taste. "How is the Imperium working out for you then Jeshal?" he asked, failing to notice that Caden had at long last broken free. His wrist had been transformed into a red welt but at least he was out! Eagerly darting away into a forest of legs and knees, the albino tried to determine what to do from here on out. His pink eyes darted here and there. Well... best get out from under this tablecloth.

Emerging into daylight (not really, just the interior lighting of the place), Caden looked about him. He made his way towards another table, wanting to stick to the tables and wreak havoc from underneath. Unfortunately, though, a marten's tail is a bit longer than a stoat's, and as Caden was deftly avoiding the long legs of a waiter, some other beast managed to step squarely on his tail. Giving out a yelp of pain, Caden stumbled back underneath the table he'd been making for, colliding with, stepping on, and then stepping off of a dozing stoat's (Blinky as it turned out) footpaws. Stupid legs... they were everywhere! Why couldn't he be the only beast with legs? That way... he'd tower over them all.

Backing into the center of the covered table, Caden took up his sore tail and tried to rub it a bit in order to get the pain to subside...


Frostbite R. Tarrin
Frostbite saw that the appetizers were well under way. Lightly spiced lettuce leaves, carrot shavings, and small bowls of vegetable dipping sauce lay at regular intervals of each table and were being thoroughly enjoyed by... well, some of the guests. The albino ferret himself remained sipping on his lemon water awaiting the main course.

"LADIES AND GENTLEBEASTS!" came the announcer, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I now present the first of tonight's entertainment!"

Light applause roared as an orange-hued fox came into view with a box in one arm and a stool in the other. He set the stool down and proceeded to pull what looked like a pile of cloth from the box. It was actually a puppet, carved and shaped like the fox himself. "Richard R. Hummington at your service!" he said with a big grin. The puppet on his arm turned to him. "Good, I want a glass of water!" it demanded. "Not you, the audience." "Then you shouldn't have asked me." "What would make you think I'm asking you?" "Last time I sat on your lap you wanted a list of my demands." "That was for Dismembreween." "Well, shove a calendar in that box with me next time."

The act went on for a few more minutes with some corny jokes about wood, captains, and how spyglasses shouldn't be used to clean your ears. A few courteous chortles came from the crowd, but not much. The second act was a duet of stoats singing "Wouldn't It Happen That Now You're A Cap'n." It was better received than the puppeteer, who was still pulling tomato bits from his eye after the stoat song was over.


Jeshal the Ironclaw
For a moment there Jeshal had felt a sudden overwhelming sense of skin-of-the-teeth disaster, which wasn't a very helpful sense to have, particularly where something fatal was concerned. The feeling had come on at the precise second Fugate had chugged back his gin, and made itself known with the faintest grip of his metal claws into the tablecloth.

"Terribly sorry about that, had a rather large thirst you see."

The Ironclaw offered his usual smile but made no comment. He caught a glimpse of Caden tirelessly yanking at his leash but did not think to ask of the child's heritage. Had he done so it may not have made a world of difference. Jeshal had never personally known a Minister of War, let alone Freemont. Just another name to him. Perhaps he really should've got off the ship more often and rubbed elbows with a few more beasts.

He listened to Ladorak's summary of his leave from the Imperium with a concealed curiosity. He had learned from an early age that information was a spectacular currency and had made a point to himself of accumulating as much dirt as possible about beasts he met. Not necessarily for any purpose. It always helped to have a backup plan when there was something you wanted. Perhaps it was this sort of thinking that had sparked MAUL's interest in him.

As the stoat tossed the question back to him, Jeshal masked his knowledge that the kit had just broken free. The fox was not really intentionally cruel, he just did not make things his business until he had a reason, which was probably the largest factor of why he allowed Master Redford to skimp on his duties on ship so often. Mind you, since the impertinent todd had been upgraded to Cook he had been much happier about his work.

"The treatment be fair, matey. 'Tis naught ter be sniffed at gettin' a decen' wage bein' from the sort o' background o' mine. Unsavoury ye might say but ter be missed on occasion. Aye that it be simpler ter ascend the rankin's in these times, at least on account o' less blood spilled, fer beasts be always comin' an' goin' fer changes o' scenery. It be a little slow fer me tastes sometimes. I be not one fer gettin' tangled up in battles but it do give a beast a kind o' rush that has been too long dormant."

He took his newly-arrived refill of brandy from the returned server and placed a few gilders in its place.

"No mistakin' I be fortunate fer continual duty, almost obsessive-like. I work hard because there be naught much else ter do. Got me a comfortable livin' space when ashore. Me only main rub be the trouble wi' behaviour in the Navy of late. Now I be not talkin' o' yer expected pushin' an' gut-stabbin', but there 'as been a distinct attack of emotions what be enough ter make me sick. Beasts're lookin' all lovey everywhere ye turn yer eyes, huggin' an' goin' on harbour picnics like a bunch o' ninny woodlanders. I 'ave no quarrel with love, but when it presents itself in that kit-like naivety I be only wonderin' what factory be losin' its cotton wool ter the stuffed-up ears o' the Imperium."

Jeshal paused to sip his drink as entertainment was loudly brought forth. He stayed silent for the duration of the ventriloquist, although he was sure he'd heard a voice sounding like Ashpaw's calling out: "I can do better than that twit!" In the hope that Tanya's attention would be stolen, he watched her for a while. For a reason he could not ascertain he wished he could see her laugh. The view of her was short-lived, for he was certain that on more than one occasion she had glanced back in his direction and did not look overly pleased. As singing inevitably took up the act's place, the Ironclaw turned back to the stoat.

"Yer pardons, Master Fugate, 'tis not often I find meself in a position ter ramble on. Ye must blame the brandy. In keepin' with the reason for us bein' 'ere, 'ow much do yer know of ol' Frostbitten over there?"


Anithias Freedom/Armina Rogue
Anithias had not been so much surprised to receive an invitation as surprised by the immense formality surrounding the request. The entire letter was written in elegant, curving script, utilizing many grand and important words to 'cordially request the presence of The Emperor's good Officer and fellow Commander in Mar'kan's Navy, Captain Anithias Ambicilus Enulli Goldfur Freedom, at a celebratory Banquet commemorating the commission of Captain Frostbite Tarrin as Commander of His Golden Divinity's ship The Skeered of Nothing. There will be cake.'

After reading the note through several times Anithias determined that the letter was indeed the typical stock of the Ministry of War and not a personal invitation from the captain himself. The greatest clue was the hint about cake, which was a typical marketing ploy employed by the Ministry clerks to ensure mass turnout. It had come about in the early 15th century when cake was scarcely available to the masses, meaning that naval banquets were the only opportunity for the common seabeast to consume the rare confection. The term had fallen into the ancient crevices and grooves of tradition, becoming a common phrase for 'All are welcome'. Even Julia had signed her kit shower invitations 'There will be cake'.

And indeed there was cake. 'Was' being the operative word. It had crumbled under the viscous onslaught of a hundred hungry crewbeasts, a mad army reducing the tower of sugared bread and icing to the merest of rubble. The majority of the dessert was smeared across the snouts of various crewbeasts or squashed underpaw as a few gluttonous seabeasts wrestled for the last remains of the vanilla fortress. Anithias could easily pick out Jeb wrestling with Bootnose, both coated in crumbs and sticky icing. In a disturbing display Jeb once licked Bootnose's cheek in his desperation to save the dessert, leaving a slimy trail across the weasel's fur. Anithias wrinkled his snout before returning his attention to the table.

Anithias had once heard his father testify that there was nothing more uncomfortable than a gathering of captains. Anithias could now believe him. An awkward silence hung between the two Captains of the Hide, one current and one former, and the respective captains of the BlackShip and Skeered. The groups of two seemed to be comfortable within their own private nexus; however, as a group there hung a wall of lack commonality between them. It was understandable; neither group had a particularly friendly relationship with the other. The last time Anithias had seen Captain Zilaco was when Zil had bartered freedom for himself and two other beasts from Captain Mottle of the Blood Leacher. As for Captain Tarrin, their last meeting had been in a dingy shack near the Bilge in the Bucket where a treasonous discussion of Mar'kan III's rise to power had reigned between them. It was not exactly the sort of friendship one could proclaim at a banquet.

The rest of the crew seemed to be enjoying themselves, however. Lin and Sokea, perhaps the oddest 'couple' on the Hide, were quietly sitting two seats down from the Ashpaws, whilst Armina and Tomias held paws under the table across from them. Anithias frowned in disapproval. He still felt Tomias was not a proper todd for a vixen like Armina. For one, he was so... relaxed. Very little sense of regulation or duty about the boy. He'd never become a senior officer that way, no sir. At least, not on Anithias' ship. Besides, it was having no good effect on Armina. The last time Anithias had tried to calmly explain to her that she needed to find somebeast a little more proper for her companionship the vixen had nearly bitten his head off. Anithias had been forced to confine her to quarters for a week.

Armina leaned in to listen as Tomias whispered something to her. Chuckling quietly, she shook her head, but shot a peculiar glance down the table. Anithias followed her gaze to a grey todd seated near the end, one who seemed to be glaring-- no, not glaring, staring -- at Armina obsessively. Between his pawfingers he quietly kneaded the tablecloth, twisting the linen about with little form or pattern. His eyes seemed to carry a suppressed hurt, one which he clearly blamed on the vixen whose paw was clasped in Tomias'. Anithias watched the todd with interest. There was a story behind him, that was to be certain. And there had never been a story which Anithias had not heard.

Anithias returned to his scanning gaze of the room. There were a fair share of other Hidebeasts about, chatting with each other or their counterparts from the two 'minor' ships of the Navy, as Anithias tended to think of the BlackShip or Skeered. Anithias was surprised to note Kesey's absence. He would have thought the renegade marten would surely be in attendance with all his mysterious cohorts, a great deal of which seemed to have originated from the Hide. Anithias frowned as he pondered the marten. Kesey was involved in something, that was certain. And whatever it was, it could not be good news for the Hide.

Anithias' search of the room was diverted as the night's entertainment came on. Anithias kept a polite expression on his face throughout the ventriloquist act, which quite frankly lacked talent or comedy. The one time Anithias genuinely smiled was in agreement with Mr Ashpaw's statement. The cheeky cat's skill for insubordination could be put to good use on the comedy stage, that was certain.

The following act was far more satisfying. The male duet's comedy romance "Wouldn't It Happen That Now You're A Cap'n" received top marks in Anithias' eyes, combining elements of dance and vocal talent. The Smelt had recently given a great deal of acclaim to the pair of talented stoats from the tiny village of Vaude, calling them "The next great wave in musical production!" Anithias shook his head in amusement. As gifted as this pair might be, it would never upstage the opera. That was immortal.

When the act was finished Anithias turned back to his fellow commanders. "So, Captain Wyndshard," Anithias remarked, "I have heard rumours that the BlackShip will be losing much of its crew to Tarrin's new command. Surely this must be false?" He sipped his champagne, allowing the needle to drive itself into Zilaco's skin. The BlackShip and Hide had always been at odds, and Anithias simply couldn't miss the opportunity to point out the desertion of his rival's vessel.


Ladorak Fugate/Caden Freemont
During the interlude they became quiet. Ladorak didn't even think to look down at Caden. His attention was rather focused on why this fox seemed to be looking continuously at... was it Admiral now Ryalor? What fascinated this todd about her so? It was very short-lived though, as Jeshal kept looking away every other minute or so. Their conversation resumed once the song started. Songs... comedies... what was this, a ten-year-old's nameday party? So pretentious... so... horrid.

Jeshal was talking however, and Ladorak shifted his attention accordingly. Though with the mention of "Frostbitten" it seemed to strike a discordant cord within the stoat. He immediately tensed up, his eyes giving off a bit of a distant look and his paw clenched tightly about his glass, sharp claws digging in. "Frost... bite? Frost... bite?" Ladorak asked, enunciating the word in a most peculiar manner. "What do I know about Frost... bite?" a grating noise could be heard from the glass as Ladorak's claws scraped and dug in even further. "From what I remember... he was quite the insubordinate little upstart. Showed disrespect to his superior officers, and the worst of it was... he was allowed to get away with it too... thanks to a certain rogue captain who had no sense of discipline!" The stoat's eyes were intense, staring past Jeshal right at Wyndshard, before seeming to just zone out all together as he appeared to enter into his own little world now.

"He should've been flogged every day that one! And I mean flogged! There was nothing respectful or charismatic about him and yet... and yet... he's in command of his own ship now... my ship." The stoat hissed those last words in very, very low tones, barely audible. Truth be told... it wasn't Ladorak's ship anymore, and furthermore, it hadn't been his to start with. True, he had held tenure as a commander, but it didn't necessarily make it his ship. His knuckles were really showing some white now as they pushed his claws even further into the glass. Clearly, the possibility of having to serve under someone who had once been his subordinate was making Ladorak fume, and there was an obvious envious wrath bubbling within him.

"Look at all of this..." he went on, his eyes still fixed on nothing in particular as they gazed off into space. "All this formality... all this noise... all this... this party! I never threw any such thing when I made captain! It's almost saying look at me, the new big shot on the block! So disgusting.... so nauseating... so repulsive so utterly...!" But then a clear chinking noise was heard, and a very small fragment of Ladorak's glass chipped off thanks to his claws and went spinning onto the table top. That seemed to bring the stoat back to reality.

He blinked several times, as if awaking from a trance. Looking down at the small crystalline shard, he sheepishly extended a claw and flicked it down off the table and into his lap. Sighing, he seemed to slump a bit in his chair. "Ahhh... what's the point of holding grudges eh Jeshal? I'm not even sure I'm cut out for Navy life anymore." His voice had returned to normal, and was very even and calm. "Maybe Captain Tarrin does have some good qualities now? I can't really say... I've been gone almost a year after all." As much as the stoat hated to admit it, the sea was his life's blood. It coursed through his veins, thicker than even the thickest of his plasma. Could he really expect to stay away from the sea for too long? "I suppose the only reason I showed up here is because he invited me... and I have to admit I can't think of a reason in the world why an invitation to anything would be extended to me, considering I just got back. I guess my curiosity got the better of me," he stated, shrugging now and looking only at the tablecloth.

He should be more careful... that sort of "episode" that had just happened... that most definitely was not like the old Ladorak at all. He had never been prone to fits of anything other than depression. It seemed his experiences however had had their say in molding the mustelid into something a little different from before. He raised his eyes to Jeshal, there being not much emotion in them now as he awaited the todd's response and or reaction. Ladorak shouldn't really get so upset... he wasn't even actively employed in the Imperium's Navy as of right now anyways... though that could change, given the stoat's inability to stay away from the water for too long. He took a tired swig of his gin, finishing it off. No sense in getting so upset over things after all... it was over and done with.

He shifted his seat back, balancing on two of the chair's legs for now. Ah well... best get back on track with this conversation...

***********

Caden was busy making his preparations. He was peeking out from under the tablecloth (still under Blinky's table) and choosing who to systematically strike first. It might have been humorous, how calculating this five-year-old* was. Caden was selecting targets and trying to pick routes where he wouldn't get caught though of course his limited mind had plenty of room for error.

He'd need some disembobbling tools though... and those could only be had from the tables. Moving out slowly from the table, he stood in between two diners' chairs. One of them, a weasel, noticed him, directed a smile his way, and pat him on the head, to which Caden quickly shoved the offending paw away. The weasel only chuckled, and went back to his meal. He'd have to time this right...

Caden's pink eyes watched the weasel with a muted intensity, and just as the weasel's attention drifted back to the singing stoats, the marten's paw darted out, grabbing hold of the knife but knocking over a glass of wine as well. Before anybeast could really tell what had happened however, the kit was back under the tablecloth. Good... now to sit here and either wait until he had an opportunity to move between tables... or his patience ran out. Whichever came first.



[*Jeshal’s note: Changes have since been made to Caden’s age, he should be about 3 here]



Blaine “Blinky” Hinkly
Blinky had successfully left behind the world of the waking. The stoat was in another reality now, one filled with pleasant maidens, sacks of gilders with which his dream-self was paying them not to run away, and a string of trees upon which many hammocks were hung willy-nilly. As usual, Blinky's paradise-dream involved him lounging in a hammock doing absolutely nothing, while the females conspired to steal all the gilders and brain him over the head before running away. This was not how things went this time, however.

When napping, there is a certain amount of reality that seeps in through the ears and subtly twists the threads of dreams to its own purpose. Blinky frowned as the stoat maids began doing a comedy routine. It was a bit better when they started doing a song and dance, but for some reason their voices had dropped...

Real-Blinky smiled in his sleep. Dream-Blinky looked up as the stoatmaids hovered over him with their clubs.

Crack. They were off now.

Real-Blinky's footpaws began kicking, as Dream-Blinky got out of his hammock and lumbered after them, shouting, "Wait now, m'pretties, if'n ye need more gilders I c'n get 'em, don' go! Do th'singin' again, tha' wos nice!"

Real-Blinky mumbled something unintelligible as his half-eaten sandwhich dropped out of his mouth and stuck firmly to his chest fur. His footpaws kept kicking, upsetting his area of the table and earning him a viscous prod or two from those seated beside him. More dangerous than that, however, was that his flailing footpaws were just inches away from catching Caden upside the head.

Somebeast poured a complimentary drink on the stoat's head, but this did nothing to wake him up. It simply made his beret and neck stick... ier.


Jeshal the Ironclaw
Ahhh... what's the point of holding grudges eh Jeshal? Egad, was he talking to the wrong beast.

Nothing could have more delighted Jeshal at that particular moment when Ladorak became suddenly incensed and began his rant about Captain Tarrin. His line of sight flicked intently now between the enraged stoat's face and the claws gripping at the glass. The moment reached its peak as fuming Fugate's dislike of the party's reason escalated until at last, with a small 'plink', a fragment of his drinking vessel broke off and lay pathetically upon the table.

Eager to hear as much as Ladorak was willing to offer, the Ironclaw had postponed his typical sneer in favour of a sombre and polite expression. He waited patiently until the becalmed stoat at last met his gaze.

"Take me advice, matey," he said, the smile slowly returning, "this place, this event, it be a farce just like anythin' else. Yer think anybeast be carin' who threw it or why? They all came 'ere fer the cake, the booze an' ter make eyes at one another. Or settle grievances..." He raised his brow at a couple of deckhands getting into the fisticuff position at the far side of the room. "But mostly fer the cake. Honestly, somebeast must 'ave the maid what makes these cakes hidden away somewheres so she don't get rampaged wi' pleadin' faces."

He grinned.

"'Ey, may'aps it be ol' Frostbite 'imself in a frilly apron what baked 'em? Anyways, what I be sayin' is, enjoy yerself. Take advantage o' what gets laid out before ye, smile an' nod, an' by an' by..." Jeshal slurped his drink. "Time be gettin' back ter ye with 'er recompense. Bide 'er, mate. 'S what every sensible beast be doin'." The last of the brandy wetted Jeshal's throat and his glance was hurled once again in the admiral's direction. Hitting the table with the finished glass, the Ironclaw said to Ladorak, "Live outside everyone else's game, Mister Fugate." The fox got to his feet, plate of shellfish clutched in his gauntlet. He patted Ladorak on the shoulder, taking care not to push the chair off balance, and swanned off towards the entertainment.



Molly Serra
Molly was enjoying herself immensely. Nobeast had invited her, but she had come anyhow. There was, after all, cake.

The stoatmaid stood not far from the stage, grinning winsomely at the singing duo. If they played their cards right, their hats would be brimming with gilders by the end of the evening. And then, a few brushes of the cheek, a pinch or two, a receipt slyly slipped into their pockets ... She would wake tomorrow with an unusual fervour for life, she imagined. And if there was enough alcohol to go around before the party dissolved into fisticuffs, she could do it without getting her paws dirty, too. That was always a worthy goal.

She turned away from the stage briefly, to scan the crowd. Last she looked, Blinky hadn't arrived. She half hoped the dozy blighter would have forgotten but ... oh, no, there he was, snoring away. He must not have seen her, then. Fantastic – and for once, she thought this word without a set of sarcastic quotes clamped around it.

Molly had dressed up in a deep red and black affair that was more slink than poof and yet still managed to leave quite a lot to the imagination – actually, almost everything was left to the imagination. The dress was long, sweeping the floor, and the neck was high enough to reach her jawline. Black lace gloves adorned her paws, and she'd even gone so far as to splurge on a fishnet stocking for her tail – unless somebeast flailed at her face again, or tripped up and tried to grab her footpaw in passing, there was no way she would be accidentally touched. While it was a good way to make a bit of easy gilders, the risk in this setting was too high. Who knew what diseases riddled these high-class types? After the rumours about that Minister of Niceties weasel ... At least if she caught a disease from Blinky, the chances of surviving were so low she wouldn't have to worry about anything for very long.

She began swaying her way through the crowd. Her glass was empty. One thing she always relied on was a glass or mug full of liquid. If it was cold enough, it could cool down a flustered male. If it was hot enough ... well, that's when things got interesting. Too bad the drink she enjoyed tasting the most was rather warmish. Drinks never were that great during summer.

"Oi, you," she said, picking out a fox who'd just come over from the tables. Thinking him a waiter, she thrust her glass at him. "Another Bearhugger's with cherry and lime."


Jeshal the Ironclaw
Jeshal had hardly moved into the ranks of the standing audience before he was accosted by a curvaceous stoatmaid's drinking vessel. He turned to face her, a look of annoyed incredulity tainting his expression. Her mistake was probably down to the plate he carried with rather too much grace than he should have done. His gaze swept from her floor-length dress back to her proud face. The Ironclaw made no motion to take the glass from Molly.

"'Tis more than ye ter be mistaken, marm," he said coolly, a hint of challenge to his eyes. "'Ow many servers do yer eyes tell yer be wearin' the hat of a sailor an' a frockcoat fit fer weekend best, says I?" True enough, though a little tatty from the pleasure of use, Jeshal's black coat, which he had taken into the habit of wearing every day since his promotion, was almost the standard of a captain's.

The copper fox placed a piece of crab in his mouth and crunched provocatively, keeping his mouth closed to mask the disgusting nature of the action. He grinned.

"If yer be so sloshed this early on, per'aps 'tis best if ye lay off a while, nay?"


Molly Serra
Molly cocked a brow.

"Ah. I was under the impression this was something of a festive affair, with silly hats to differentiate between lowly serving staff and guests with a sense of taste."

Smiling at the fox, she brushed past and tapped the shoulder of a true waiter. The ferret took her glass and hastened toward the drink corner to whip up another. Molly hummed under her breath while she waited, making no further effort to communicate with the piratical-accented vulpine.

This, she knew, tended to drive males wild.

Being rude was oodles of fun.


Jeshal the Ironclaw
The trying stoatwench had thrown back Jeshal's comment with ease, proceeded onward and, still purposefully within his hearing range, struck up a faint alluring hum. He was only too glad she wasn't of his type. She was sure to be sending more than a few gentlestoats leaping off the piers. The Ironclaw rolled his eyes and shook his head. Keeping his back to Molly, he cleared his throat and spoke as if to another beast beside him:

"Her? One in the black'n'red number? Nay I did not catch 'er name but she seemed ter be a little lackin' in social sagacity. Poor marm, that she be a pretty thin', but 'tis a shame the dress be all everted wi' the label pokin' out. What a blunder. Mus' be 'er first party, thinks I. Don' be too 'ard on the cupcake, matey."

Still not turning to her, Jeshal smirked and, with a slight increase of pace, pushed through the gathered onlookers to ensure he was standing in the front row, from whence he continued to watch the party's acts. He allowed himself another quick peek at whatever Tanya was up to and scoffed down a pawful of mussels.



Ladorak Fugate/Caden Freemont
It was now that Jeshal the Ironclaw decided to take his leave. Ladorak didn't mind... he could suddenly sense a real lack of tugging... which meant that Caden had gotten loose. Absolutely... fantastic. The stoat gave off a small smile at Jeshal as he patted him on the shoulder. Live outside everyone else's game he said? Hmm... bide time... well... might work, but Ladorak wasn't exactly sure for how long he'd be staying here. Just to settle his debts right? He wasn't actually staying long... or was he?

Oh right... there was a kit on the loose. Letting his chair fall forward so that it sat upright, he pushed back, stood up, and began scanning the room, beginning to indiscreetly make his way to Frostbite's table. He was here on business after all... or at the very least to satisfy his own curiosity. Clasping his paws behind his back, the stoat adopted a serious air (though inside he was massively worried... not so much for the missing Caden but to the guests he'd be going after).

When was the last time he'd been to one of these things? Was it in celebration of Sir James Saumarez's smashing victory at Algeziras? This was back when Ladorak had briefly sojourned on a distant island known as Welkin. Sir James had been one of the naval heroes there, having taken his naval squadron up against the fortified enemy harbor of Algeziras. He had launched a reckless attack on a heavily guarded position and had come out on top... it was just the sort of attack that Ladorak liked. Daring and accomplished. That at least had been worth celebrating. As a matter of fact, Commander Fugate planned to include that battle in his book, Stoater and Commander, that is, if he ever managed to get it started.

Now... where was Caden? He was in fact behind the stoat, and was nearly kicked in the head by the sleeping Blinky. A whoosh of air and fast ruffle of his fur and Caden swung around with his knife, fortunately missing the stoat's swinging hind paws by just a bit. Snarling, he began backing away. What was this beast's problem!? Caden decided that now was the time to move, as he did not want to get distracted by sitting under here for too long with those swinging... legs. Too late did Caden realize his knife was a butter knife and not a steak knife. Throwing it angrily aside so that it struck the floor (and actually plunged in blade first, standing at an angle), the exasperated kit charged out from underneath the tablecloth, heading right for the captain's table. Oh yes... those three looked important... and soon they would be covered in funny things like mashed potatoes and peas and shrimp and other disgusting foods that Caden abhorred. He caught a glimpse of a food cart and made a dash for it...

*********

"GENERAL QUARTERS! The Welkin Navy is coming out!" Ladorak's head jerked up from where he'd been staring down at the dinner table in the captain's cabin. Welkin Navy? It was about time! Sir James was finally coming across the way to get him out of here! His head shot over to the windows, and there he could glimpse the royal blue and red flags of the Welkin Navy flying serenely and majestically from the tops of the masts. Like stallions of war they were making a good heading and swooping down towards his position, intent on wrecking everything in their path. The captain of the vessel that he was a "guest" aboard, one Mr. Palliere, snapped some unheard orders and commanded his vessel to be warped in towards shore as far as possible. There was a thrill rising up in the stoat's breast now as he realized his rescuers were at paw...they were coming! They would thrash his captors and...and...

Ladorak was suddenly thrust out of his very real reverie by something that seemed to make time itself stand still. It was as if a bolt of lightning had blasted apart the roof and struck the stoat where he stood. There was only one thing visible in his line of sight... red, black. Classy. It was a jill... and a jill that was nothing short of stunning. He was consciously aware that he was no longer breathing but it wasn't a big deal (who needed air anyways, right?). How had he gone from Algeziras to this ravishing creature? Was his condition really that bad that he'd hallucinated being back in that harbor only to be yanked back into reality on a tight collar? He still hadn't chewed on the jimson yet either so... this was just a further sign that all of Ladorak's marbles weren't exactly rolling right.

He wasn't sure who she was, but was positive she hadn't been here since his departure. Was that... was that a trace of a fishnet actually on her tail? What style! It most certainly scored marks in his book. Wait... wasn't he married? Was he married? It was hard to say at this rate, and so just to make sure, the stoat shook his head, trying to clear it of the jill bewitching his thoughts. He caught a white flash out of the corner of his eye. Smiling slyly, he knew his quarry was close at paw. Diverting his attention from Molly Serra for now, he darted off to his right. Business before pleasure sadly... Captain Tarrin and Caden would come first... and then if he had time...

His paw shot out and enclosed on the scruff of Caden's neck right as the kit jumped for the food tray. No longer was Caden running on solid ground. The floor shrank away from him and he found himself looking into the face of Ladorak Fugate. "Caden!" Ladorak said with a long exhale, pulling the kit up and into his arms. "There's no point in telling you not to wander off since you never listen anyways but please... try and keep yourself on my leash! It's not... it's not... oh I don't know!" he said with resignation, just as the albino kit socked him ineffectually on the jaw. Caden had as much force behind his punch as maybe a frog jumping up and trying to ram itself against Ladorak's masseter, and thus Ladorak was completely unperturbed by this show of bravado on the kit's part. "Nice try... but you're staying right here."

"You always spoil m'fun." the kit grumbled, contemplating whether or not to sink his teeth into Ladorak's shoulder, but deciding not to since after all, the stoat hadn't actually placed the leash around his wrist yet. Maybe he could get away with it... and then try and break loose again.

Heading quietly (well almost, Caden managed to reach his paw out, grab a bowl of stew and overturn it onto a guest before Ladorak could stop him) over to the captains' table, Ladorak approached Frostbite from behind, both to avoid Zilaco but Anithias as well. He had absolutely nothing to say to these two, and his business was with Tarrin and Tarrin alone. "Captain Tarrin," he said softly, tossing his invitation down on the table in front of the albino ferret. "Care to explain this? I have to admit I was rather surprised to receive an invitation from you considering I've been gone from these shores for close to a year now. Just wondering if there was some reason for calling me out here to your gathering." He tried to remain nonchalant, and looked at everything in the room except the captains. He would shift his gaze to Frostbite briefly, but wouldn't linger there long.

He hadn't used "sir" because Ladorak was not currently serving on a warship and thus he and Frostbite were of equal rank right now, though he did throw in the Captain Tarrin bit, mostly because he did respect titles. His own title would be simply Commander Fugate since he was no longer a captain anymore and reverted to his Commander rank by default. It was fine with the stoat. He had no plans for his stay here so far, and thus his situation worried him not. Caden placed a paw on Ladorak's coat so that he could turn around and look down on the captains. He narrowed his pink eyes, trying to determine whether he'd like any of these strangers or not. Fugate's eyes invariably wandered up to Molly again but then reverted back down to Frostbite. Well... this would either explain things or make them more mysterious. There would be no in between tonight, Ladorak thought.



Molly Serra
Molly hissed quietly at herself. That low-down, funny-accented, bad-headgear-sense ... fox! ... how observant he was. While she was quite sure her dress was not inside out, this was indeed her first real party. If he could so clearly see this was her first foray into social elegance, there was a likely chance that the rest of his comments were true. Such as the fact that she was pretty.

Molly spun slowly once her drink was returned, and sipped at it while she scanned for anybeast that looked like they might have just been talking about her. She spotted several; all blushing mustelids who glanced away. She hid a smile behind another sip. Ah – and there was the fox now, in the front row of the stage audience. Good.

The stoatmaid made a pretence of cricking her neck, but really took the moment just to eye her backside. She felt no tag at her neck, and could see none behind ... wait a minute! Hadn't she ordered this dress special? She had! It hadn't even come with a tag.

She was an idiot. No ... she was out of her depth. Eager, awkward, but graceful. Learning. She had to keep a better head in this crowd. And any moment Blinky would reach the part of his dream where the stoatmaids crowded him and kicked at him and he'd fling his arms up and cry out and somebeast would wake him up and then he'd spot her because she fully intended on making a scene at some point, and then she'd have to work out how to lie to him and everybeast here. That was going to be fun.

Hmm ... Who to tease now? There was that bespectacled stoatlad talkin to Tarrin, but Molly didn't take kindly to youth. Especially little albino freaks that ... was that a pine marten? No, there had to be a better score than him around. Where had those two singers gotten to ...

Weaving her way to the stage, Molly found herself standing yet again next to the fox with whom she had shared insults.

"Pray tell, where have those stoats gone, do you know? I should hope he knows," she added, glancing sidelong at a wildcat beside her. "It was probably his face that sent them off the stage in the first place."

"Huh?" the tom said, hefting a large, overripe tomato in preparation for the next segment of entertainment.

"You are a rank, odious disgrace to your species," Molly said, smiling sweetly.

"What, but ... huh?"

"I must apologise." Molly turned back to Jeshal. "When I said the thing about your face, I was not expecting someone here to be less bright than you."


Jeshal the Ironclaw
As the stage became vacant in between acts, Jeshal was unsurprised to find the 'fatale' stoatess had chosen so far to resume their traded jibes rather than start up a conversation elsewhere. He smirked to himself as she baffled an unsuspecting viewer nearby with her ribbing. The interlude gave his mind a chance to wander onto the prospect of crushing her drinking glass and allowing the contents to drench her fabulous dress, or perhaps to scratch a 'beauty scar' into her cheek as had been fashion in the days of old. The daydream was more entertaining than the real scene would have panned out.

Instead, the Ironclaw drummed his metal fingers on the underside of his plate, causing an awful high-pitched scraping. He smiled an overtly saccharine smile at Molly.

"Apology be noted, m'lady. 'Tis me pleasure ter cause ye surprise an' wonderment with regard ter me mental capacity. No sense ter be boastin' it about else all the vixens'd be crawlin' all o'er me ter 'ear me speak, an' that be 'ardly appropriate fer enjoyin' minglin' at a social occasion."

Again the todd's eyes took in the sight of her less-than-casual wear.

"Be there some kind o' unfortunate beast wi' a vault-load o' income ye 'ave yer beady little ones on this eve, Ms..." He circled his paw, realising he had not yet snatched her name. "Belle-o'-the-Ball?"


Molly Serra
"Serra." Molly grinned – the kind of grin where one showed the other one's incisors. "Molly Serra."

She liked this fox. He was challenging. Not the sort of challenging that led to brawl fights; not with a maiden – or at any rate, not yet with this maiden – but the sort of challenging that rolled with the punches and offered a few kicks in return. That was a trait hard to find in most vermin. They usually just took a beating and bawled for their mummies before coming back with friends.

"And yes, there is – those two singers, as I asked about. They seemed to please the crowd enough ..." She sighed and scanned the sidelines of the stage again, looking perhaps for some backdoor the performers used to vanish. "Should have some decent makings to share after the party, mm?"

Had she known, of course, about Mr. Fugate's fortune, she would have instantly overcome her dislike for albino pine marten kits. Had she known about his marital status as well ... well, that wouldn't have changed anything, come to think.

Maybe they could have charged for tickets to the slappy fight afterwards, though. Ooh, now there was an idea, if those performers had anybeast special in their lives ...

Molly cleared her head of such thoughts with another – longer – sip of her Bearhuggers'-with-assorted-intrusions.

"Are you here with anybeast, then, Mr. Metalglove?" Molly turned back to him, smiling again, and flashed her eyes towards his strangely-garmented paw. Nope, only five. Oh, well, the myths had been about a ferret anyway. "Perhaps some dusky vixen with a bowl of fruit on her head and a vest fit for river fishing?"


Jeshal the Ironclaw
Ah, derisive comments. What better way for beasts in the Imperium to get acquainted? Jeshal drew breath and looked ceilingward at Molly's suggestion for his perfect lady.

"Yer be not far off, Ms Serra, me fashioned name be Ironclaw, on occasion proceeded wi' the definite article. Only one I e'er grew up with be that of 'Jeshal', only I'd appreciate it if ye refrained from contractin' it. Adm'ral Ryalor appears ter be the sole benefactor o' that sort o' thin', an' that I only allows on account of 'er capability ter hold back me wages."

He selected an oyster from his plate, tilted the contents of the shell into his jaws and swallowed as though he were taking a shot.

"As fer the company I keeps in the feminine regard... well, ye know what they be sayin' o' sailorfolk." He frowned for a moment and then added hastily, "By which I mean we be married ter the sea an' don't 'ave much time ter fix ourselves ter one beastie. 'Gates knows 'ow Freedom copes with 'avin' a family aboard on such a cramped space as a ship. Then again, I wouldn' be naive enough ter presume there won' be some beauty what'll knock me fer a dozen. I jus' –" he shrugged, "don' seem ter 'ave eyes fer anybeast. Sometimes it be me thinkin' I don't 'ave the capability ter care beyond the boundaries o' companionship, ye know?"

He wasn't altogether sure why he was ladening this maid with what might be construed as so personal, but to him it seemed trivial. Not even conscious of the action, his sight drifted yet again to Tanya. He shot his gaze back toward the stage, fighting back a slight panic as she noticed yet again.

What be wrong with yer, Jesh? Do yer want 'er ter remember ye, yet? Not that she ever noticed ye all those years ago, not that she'd even remember the Skullbait. Sooner or later, she'll think o' nothin' else...


Frostbite R. Tarrin
Frostbite's attention wandered around and was soon caught by Ladorak's sudden appearance and inquisitions. He picked up the invitation to look it over as his old shipmate spoke. "Ah, so this is what they look like. I actually had my underlings do the invitations for me. They were supposed to send it to everybeast from the BlackShip, Skeered of Nothing, and even spread some randomly throughout the imperium. I'm surprised you don't have enough of them to keep your fire going through winter. Or maybe you do, I dunno. But I suppose I'm glad you made it. The entertainment's just started, and there's drunken games afterwards for prizes."

Frostbite grabbed a dinner roll without looking down at the table. It wasn't hard to identify being the only thing he'd put on his plate so far. The soft fluffiness kept from too many crumbs, and what did fall bounced off his uniform like skipping stones.


Ladorak Fugate/Caden Freemont
Ladorak could surprisingly detect no subtle hints of mockery or aggressiveness in Frostbite's tone, which struck the stoat both as unusual and yet disarming at the same time. He had come ready for a verbal match but there was nothing to indicate hostile tendencies in the ferret. It left Ladorak with nothing left to go on. So, this was just an invitation to a party? Nothing beyond that? Blinking a few times, the stoat sighed, and nodded slowly, contemplating it all. Well… maybe he should just enjoy himself… enjoy himself… those words stirred something within him, and a sudden thought popped into his mind.

“Captain Tarrin, I would like to speak with you in private, but as I don’t wish to interrupt your merrymaking, I’d prefer we wait until the party winds down. I could either follow you back to the Skeered, we could meet someplace else or we could stay here, it really doesn’t matter to me. I am however back in town and would like to have a word or two with you if you’re free. Right now, I’ll be mingling and otherwise enjoying myself.” He hoped this last part was indeed true. He still had his reservations about tonight. There was one pressing thing on his mind however.

Taking his pocket watch out, he glanced at the ticking second hand, trying to determine how long he would stay here. Long enough… but first he’d have to lose Caden. For more reasons than one. “Let me know what works best for you then. I’ll be around.” He spoke graciously as he edged away from the table now, having no reason to speak ill towards the albino captain, as oddly enough and for perhaps the first time in as far as Ladorak could remember, he had not rubbed his fur the wrong way. It was now late enough that Caden, who was only five, should have been beat, but seeing as this was a lively atmosphere well… but first things first.

Heading for the entrance or in this case exit, Ladorak fished around in his pockets for some gilders. “Alright Caden… time to get you off to the castle and into bed. You’ll like it there I think, lots of room to run around in.” If he was lucky, Caden would grow tired on the carriage ride home. This was true what he said as well, and not just about the castle. Caden's bed could easily swallow the kit whole if it were a living creature.

“Why do I have to stay with you anyway?” the albino was demanding darkly, his pink eyes trying to drill holes in Ladorak’s skull with no success. The words however, had a bit more effect, quite like a knife turning about in Ladorak’s ribs, but he knew that the kit wouldn’t understand at his age.

“Because… there’s no one else anymore who will take you in. I don’t want you living on the streets.” Ladorak replied gently. It was true. His parents were dead and well… so was his guardian. That part had been an accident… Ladorak hadn’t meant for it to happen but well it had and now he had inherited that title by default. He only hoped that Sken wasn’t watching him from the depths of the Dark Forest and detesting his guts for what he was doing. Swearing eternal vengeance on him in the afterlife. The thought sent a shiver up the mustelid's spine, originating from the tip of his tail up to the tops of his ears. Even in death his former boss still haunted him...

Stepping up to the porter, he spoke in hushed tones. “Excuse me sir, I wish to retrieve a coach parked in spot 289.” He slipped the billet into the porter’s pocket, and also produced what looked to be about fifty gilders or so. “There’s fifty more for you when you get back. I am not leaving the party yet but my ward here must be taken home. My servants will know what to do once you arrive. Take him to Doughoregan Castle, now known as Shalebridge… or at least it will be once I officially change the name.”

“Well sir this is very generous of you but…” the porter stammered, unsure if he should be trusted with a kit.

“I’m sure you’ll bring my carriage back safe and sound… and deliver my ward to my castle.” The stoat said, slipping a further fifty gilders into the stuttering porter’s paw. He looked down, his eyes going wide. Wow! Quite the tip he was earning, and the party wasn’t even over yet!

“Y-yes sir, Mr. Fugate!” the only reason the porter knew the stoat’s name was because it was clearly marked on the billet. He clicked his teeth in appreciation (an older form of mustelid body language) and gratefully accepted the assignment.

“There’s a good lad,” Ladorak said with a smile. He looked into Caden’s face now. “Hey there Caden. Ready for bed then? You’ll be in your new home soon.”

“But ‘m not tired…” Caden said, rubbing, his eyes and more mumbling that response than anything else. Ladorak gave him a skeptical look.

“Oh, come on… I’ll be home later on if you’re still awake, but I think you’ve had a long day.” They had after all… what with sailing into the harbor and all. “Now do behave OK? I’ll get you something if you don’t give anybeast trouble tonight.”

“Really?” Caden brightened up at this. “Disembobbling tools?”

“Maybe… just make sure you’re on your best behavior, OK? Otherwise, no deal.” Ladorak said, trying to make it sound as promising as he could. Caden nodded eagerly, always into the idea of getting things from others, especially if there was nothing he had to give up in return. The mind of a kit was truly fascinating sometimes in that Caden was in essence giving something up but it wasn't as if he noticed. Pawing the semi-tired marten over to the porter, Ladorak considered patting Caden’s head, but decided against it. The five*-year-old was as unpredictable as the weather, and it was best to just let him be for now.

Watching their departure, Ladorak took a few deep breaths. OK Ladorak… OK. Why was he doing this? He was married wasn’t he? But… in reality he hadn’t seen Rashki in close to a year or so… he couldn’t even remember. He was a rather horrible husband when it boiled down to it. He didn't even know if his wife was still alive... or if she had in fact given birth to their first kit. His pain was such that his way of “enjoying” himself as he had put it earlier was centered on one thing dominating his mind. It had such a hold right now it had almost become an obsession with the stoat. One thing…one thing…

And that thing of course was Molly Serra. The jill stood out to Ladorak namely because of the fishnet on her tail! Her tail! How incredibly novel and yet so brilliant at the same time! He had traveled to numerous venues and in all of his journeys he had never come upon a jill once who had thought of doing that. It was driving the stoat rather insane (not that he wasn’t a little messed up right now to begin with), and he had become quite literally fixated on finding out more about her… all thanks to a simple innovation in garments.

Once again, this was a demonstration of how Ladorak was just not the same stoat as before. The Ladorak of a year ago wouldn’t think twice about looking at some jill he didn’t know in his peripheral vision. He just… didn’t concern himself with that sort of thing but ah, how the mighty do fall from grace. Stealing a glance in her direction, he caught sight of her close to the stage. Relieved she was still around, he moved over to a washbasin, dunked a paw in, and smoothed his head fur back, even though it looked fine. Taking a few more deep breaths, he headed over to the bar, slapping a few gilders down and ordering another gin and tonic. Letting his eyes wander unabashedly over to Molly, he wrapped his paw securely around his drink and began moving smoothly across the floor.

Should he show her a leg? Bow? Nah… no sense in being pretentious. He wasn’t even sure who she was after all. Clearing his throat as he moved up to the two of them, he smiled over at Jeshal first. “Party treating you alright Jeshal? Would you care for another drink? I don’t mind ordering you another one if you want it. And good evening, miss.” Ladorak shifted his attention over to Molly. He decided not to present a leg, but did do a bit of a bow at the waist, sweeping his semi-cape (because it only covered his left shoulder and did drape down his backside, but left his right shoulder uncovered, thereby revealing the epaulette. Commanders could only wear one epaulette, and thus to compensate for that Ladorak’s uniform did a rather nice job when it was all said and done, making it not appear off center or unbalanced at all) back and out of the way.

“Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance,” the jack said as he began coming back up. “Ladorak Fugate, at your service. I see you currently have a drink, though if you require another one I’d be happy to oblige,” he offered gallantly, unsure if he was miscalculating her character or not. Maybe she hated ostentatious jacks, but regardless at least he had initiated conversation, so the first part of his strange little preoccupation was met.


Molly Serra
"Rest assured," she commented amusedly, in a half-whisper to herself, "I do not intend to be contracting anything tonight, let alone your name. I do hope it's not contagious."

Molly had never met somebeast with a contagious name before. She wondered how many beasts were around who had, through no fault of their own, ended up with the surname of Ironclaw. She wondered if it travelled by air, or by touch. She wasn't sure she wanted to find out. She quite liked her own surname, and thought very little of the title Ironclaw.

As the fox prattled on about what Molly presumed was love, she found her mind wandering further. Was this ... was this all there was? Standing around, sipping free drinks, snorking back crustaceans, and talking? No wonder she hadn't slipped into a party before. These things were mind-numbingly dull. It was taking half her conscience thought just to refrain from jamming a salad fork in Jeshal's neck, and he was at least attempting to be interesting. Where was the dancing, the carousing and boozing, the dart games in the corner and betting tables? The Casino's slow nights were twice as exciting as this.

"Well," she replied to Jeshal, when he had finished, "what I can't wrap my brain around is settling down with one beast at all. What a dreadful bore that would be! I like some variety in my life."

She flourished a small piece of paper from the folds of her dress. There must have been a pocket of some sort in all the frills. She slipped it onto his plate and winked. The title on it said rather clearly, Molly Serra, Personal Trainer.

"I hope you find a vixen to fascinate yourself with for a while, Mr. Ironclaw, who will not drag you down to the marriage offices, or cramp your ship quarters. And, if you know any of my sort ... stoats," she added, to clarify. "Prices are on the back."

As if answering some call of fate, the only other stoat Jeshal had met that night came over to greet them.

Eye twinkling, she smiled at Ladorak.

"I may require half a dozen before the night's through, Mr. Fugate – and if you're fetching, I wouldn't say no to some shark kebabs with cheese, as well. Molly Serra," she said, giving the smallest hint of a curtsy. "And if you like, I'll throttle you and cut your nose for a mere two-hundred gilders."

Her smile grew wider. She tilted her head back to Jeshal and nodded at the card.

"That's a #3 Special. Comes with a free clubbing over the back of the skull. You'd be surprised how popular that is."

Her eyes flickered momentarily towards the sleeping Blinky.

"Then again, some prefer a traditional beat over the head with an umbrella."


Ladorak Fugate
Ladorak was initially impressed. She didn't turn down his offer for drink (or a dozen more, which admittedly the stoat figured was a little much for a jill of her build, but eh... if she really wanted it and he was feeling generous enough...) and automatically, as if responding to a button that had been pushed, he nodded, and snapped his claws at a nearby server, getting his attention. "Right, hey! You! A plate of shark kebabs, and do add some cheese to those too right?" the stoat tossed a gilder over to the server, who caught it, studied it, nodded and trotted off and to go and work on Molly's request.

Just as Ladorak was nodding in a satisfied manner, his ears twitched, his throat went stiff and his nose sniffled in a disbelieving manner, all in response of course to what Molly had just told him. Well first she had given him her name and then... wait... what!? His head sort of snapped back into place and his eyebrows raised. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, unsure if he really heard her right. Was she... wait had she just... no... really? She had?

It took a moment for the tumblers in Ladorak's brain to click into place, but click they finally did. "Really?" he asked with almost no hesitation, shooting her a direct look. It wasn't mocking, it wasn't even judgmental it was... really just an "Oh really?" kind of look, one that was curious and yet not demanding. Several things went through Ladorak's mind.

What she had said was neither here nor there for him. Now if she had strayed into a different form of this whole... game then he'd be practically drooling over her right now. Fortunately, he wasn't, and thus he felt as if he still was on even footing with Molly. The second thing that stood out in his mind was that she was after gilders, a mere two-hundred to be precise... or quite possibly more. So, this begged the question. Who was this jack stoat standing before her now? He most certainly was not the Ladorak from a year ago. That Ladorak would've probably been freaked out to the extreme, would have told her to have gotten a better existence for herself and backed away.. .but not this Ladorak. Instead, he wanted to further this game, and decided to accept her otherwise awkward challenge.

"For two-hundred you say?" he asked, as if intrigued but by something else other than what she said. "Two-hundred? Oh... you mean like this?" he asked, suddenly producing two gold coins in his paw. He held them up, balancing them each between his claws. They were hundred gilder pieces, the kind that most beasts didn't carry around in their pockets. "What about for three hundred?" he asked, and suddenly a third gold hundred gilder piece appeared, next to the other two. "Or four?" another one slid out behind the first three, and now in between his fingers rested four gleaming coins. How they had appeared was part of some sort of sleight of paw that the stoat had just pulled, sliding each of them out from behind the previous one but leaving no visible trace of how he'd actually done it.

"Oh, what about five?" they were all pushed together into one, stacked up in back of each other, and then, just as he folded his paw up a bit and then reopened it, a five hundred gilder piece seemed to bloom as if it had grown out of the very stoat's paw itself. "Or maybe even..." he brought his voice down low... very low in fact, to a conspiratorial tone. "A thousand?" he made the five hundred gilder piece disappear, once again closing his paw around it, and now, with the reopening of the fingers, as big as all of his pawpads combined, was a thousand gilder piece, a monstrosity that no sane mustelid would ever carry with them. It said two things. One, was that Ladorak was well... not completely in the "ordinary camp", and that two, he was carrying around a large chunk of change. Why? Well, if Molly knew the answer to that one she'd probably burst out laughing scornfully. Ladorak had figured he'd have to pay for severe damages in accordance with the destruction Caden would bring, but happily Ladorak had managed to get the kit out of the door before any of it had happened. Now here he was... with gilders galore and nothing to spend it on.

A thing about his tone too. He wasn't mocking her in any way. It was almost as if he were enjoying getting sucked into the intrigues of this Molly Serra, and was presenting a challenge of his own. Just as quickly as he'd produced the thousand gilder piece, it was gone again in just a wave of his paw, leaving nothing but smooth, black pawpads in its place. "Since you were so kind as to make me an offer, I'd like to make you to one as well." he said, folding his arms across his chest and giving her a smile of his own. "Ah! Here you are..." he said, looking to the side as the server returned with the kebabs. "Your kebabs Ms. Serra... or do you prefer Molly? As promised!" He balanced the silver salver deftly upon his right paw, holding it out for her to either take from him or simply reach out and grab hold of one of the sticks.

"Looks quite appetizing if I do say so myself. Now then... getting back to what I was saying." his voice was even, collected, not strained in any way. "I would not of course offer to change any bit of your original offer. I would however like to make a few requests of my own and probably up the price of my payment," a curious thing to say, "if you'd be interested that is," he said, ending with a bit of a flourish to his voice. A rising intonation was all it was, not much else. What did he have on his mind? It was nothing as extravagant (or perhaps outlandish would be a better term) as she had suggested, but he did at least want to gain a few simple things tonight, and was eager to learn more about this jill standing before him. Indeed, he had been studying her ever since he'd flashed his first few hundred gilders, hoping to catch something in her reactions that might tell him a bit more about her and her way of thinking.

"It's your call," he said at last, that debonair, inviting smile still upon his face, his eyes looking mostly at her face as he leaned forward a bit with the tray of her food.



Frostbite R. Tarrin
Frostbite nodded at Ladorak's proposal, deciding if it were urgent, he wouldn't have offered to wait until later. "I'll have one of the weasels find you afterward. I'll try not to get too drunk on lemon water."

The evening progressed. The waiters brought out large bowls with cold, sliced fruits resting in thick fruit juice, pans of peppered meats, baskets of lightly buttered hotrolls, flask after flask of ale, wine, mead, grog, and extremely long bamboo straws for the beasts who were going to accept the tub challenge.

The tub challenge is a drinking game of constitution matched with whit. A large tub is in the center of the group of participants. It is then filled with whatever cheap alcohols (some with water and coffee instead). The contestants are given one hour to down the tub or the prize of five thousand gilders is forfeited. The straws are long enough for the contestants to remain standing during the entire contest. They can only touch the ground with their footpaws and tails. Anything else will forfeit them. If the tub is finished before time is up, the tub is refilled and the remaining contestants start the hour over again.

The last winner of such a contest used all five thousand gilders of his winnings to buy a tub with which he swam in alcohol for two days before they found him drowned to death in it. Perhaps it was murder, or perhaps he was so drunk he couldn't lift his snout out of the water. Either way, it rarely ends well for any of the contestants, but it's very funny to see their strategies... spitting down the straw... pretending to drink... trying to knock each other over... trying to use their tail for balance...

As the main course proceeded, jugglers made their way to the front, balanced on large wooden balls, and began throwing oddly shaped sticks at each other.


Molly Serra
The stoat of her dreams, Molly realised, was an insane fool. At the sight of the gilders, her eyes grew so wide that the whites began to show around the edges.* They were fakes. They had to be. Nobeast carri – nobeast had that kind of money. Especially not for the likes of her. 'Gates, what kind of beast was this, to so readily accept such an offer, to ... to do so in public, and then play it up with fresh drinks and shark kebabs with cheese (they were very good though; Molly stuffed one in her mouth immediately to keep herself from cursing out loud), and raise the price?

Part of her wanted to run. Just get away from the party and the mad upper class – Insanely Rich Area ... she'd never thought it was that true!

But the rest of her was stuck frozen to the spot, staring at Ladorak's paws where the thousand-gilder piece had vanished from sight.

"It's your call."

Molly's head snapped up, as if out of a trance. She stared at his eyes through his spectacles, then stood tip-paw to see overtop them. No change. He wasn't some sort of seer/magician using weird hidden mirrors. Those gilders ... had been either very real, or very good fakes. And she knew beasts who wouldn't care that they were fakes.

She hooked her arm through his and smiled.

"Yours for the night," she said, swallowing her bite of kebab.

Shame, though. She had wanted to see if those singers had been twins.


* I actually just spent about 20 minutes trying to find out if stoats have whites like I know hamsters do ... no luck.


Jeshal the Ironclaw
At the close of his speech to Ms Serra, Jeshal had felt the need to become quiet. He sensed that his longwinded method of conversation, likely spurred by over-consumption of brandy, was not appreciated by his company's palate. He raised half a brow as a card was slipped subtly onto his plate by his partner in jibe.

"I hope you find a vixen to fascinate yourself with for a while, Mr. Ironclaw, who will not drag you down to the marriage offices, or cramp your ship quarters. And, if you know any of my sort ... stoats. Prices are on the back."

Jeshal sniffed a laugh. The company Molly's services offered was not really his style, at least not if it was always the hired beasts that provided the pain. The Ironclaw would have preferred the tables to be turned. He'd waste a few gilders for some pretty young thing to let him drop her out of a two-storey window. His lips peeled back over his teeth in a sneer at "Special #5 – Soothing Eel Strangulation with Complimentary Tail Plucking (for those days you need to wind down)." He would probably give the service a try once or twice. Some unfortunate little vixen would run home on such a night vying never to set foot outside again let alone resume a post as a Trainer.

Before he could muse too long, however, the esteemed Ladorak had reappeared. Apparently, he had noticed the red and black ensemble and its contents too.

“Party treating you alright Jeshal?" he said. "Would you care for another drink? I don’t mind ordering you another one if you want it. And good evening, miss.”

Jeshal held up his paw in a polite gesture of refusal and remained quiet, unable to resist a smirk as the two stoats bantered with one another. Molly paused to point out one of the Specials on his card, to which he responded with a smile that implied he would rather make her eat a whole stack of her cards in front of the entire room. He turned his gaze back to the entertainment, half listening to their chatter. He could not help but take a sidelong glance at them when Fugate's money stakes soared. The Ironclaw's past pirate nature chilled his blood. He cared not for the wealth as such but it was the principle of the thing. Jeshal forced himself to ignore them, made all the more simple as Molly declared herself Ladorak's temporary property.

The copper todd rolled his eyes and snatched hold of a passing server, whispered his order and then patted the beast on the shoulder. For a little while he watched the changeover of the show. The jugglers weren't too bad, though he partly wished they had been throwing swords rather than sticks. He found himself longing for some good, hearty theatrics. Jeshal's gaze wandered in the direction of the officers' tables for the umpteenth time, and had a sudden sense of panic. Admiral Ryalor was no longer in her seat. Trying to act casually in body, his eyes darted about the room on that side, but there were too many beasts about, and with her stature would have easily melted out of sight. Uncomfortably, his attention returned to the stage and his paw reached for another oyster.


Ladorak Fugate
His for the night eh? Had he really just bought her off like that? Well… in a profession like hers it wasn’t hard to imagine. Still though, while part of him was amused by it and was tempted to treat her like his property now, another part respected her and was drawn to her for her rather daring choice of attire at this gala. She was the only one who was even remotely dressed to kill here. The “contents” of the black and red “ensemble” as Jeshal had put it (in his mind) had caught the stoat’s eye right off, and had drawn him in just like a fat juicy worm draws a fish.

His eyes lit up as she looped her arm about his. Ahh yes… it was only a shame he had long sleeves on. Brief thoughts of running his pawpads through her fur entered his mind, and while she wasn’t insanely gorgeous, she certainly wasn’t bad looking either. So, she had a weakness for money. So what? Ladorak had developed his own weaknesses over time… he wasn’t going to fault her for giving in to his offer. Most beasts in this city wouldn’t have hesitated on an opportunity like that. She hadn’t actually listened to his conditions but well… he’d go over this in a minute.

“Very well, it’s a deal then,” he said, trying out one of her kebabs. “Yeah… these aren’t bad… not bad at all.” He swallowed, impressed with the quality (for once) of these parties. He began leading her out towards the center, but moved around tables and headed in the general direction of a sleepy looking quintet. “You still didn’t state whether you like Molly or Miss Serra,” he said, a jovial sort of tone in his voice. He wanted to wager the former. He was amused by all of this; his heart was rather beating itself against his ribcage as he thought about what the “night” meant when she’d said that. The whole night… the whole… night. Visions began swimming about in his head, replacing each other like a montage that was only capable in the mind of Ladorak. It was like a mental rolodex that just… kept… going.

“Now then... can you dance? I figured we’ll start off with one of those, then,” he took another kebab into his mouth, “just sort of float around… I would like to get to know you a bit better, and finally, I guess we could… try one of your numbered specials out,” he said, inwardly gulping at the prospect. The jack was hoping to bend it a bit to suit his own interests but he didn’t want her to feel as if she wouldn’t have a job tonight either. “How does that sound?” he asked, his tail moving just a tad lecherously over to her own tail, as he just couldn’t resist feeling what a stoat’s tail felt like with… a fishnet on it! It was ingenious, glorious and outstanding all at the same time.

His tail managed to brush up against her own, and ran over the top of it real quick as if stroking it, then withdrew. Mmmmm… not bad, not bad at all. Such a unique thing to do really. He looked down at her, not wanting to be too in her face just yet. Plenty of time for that later after all. For now, he was on top of his world. He had managed to get this creature of his obsession on his arm, and it felt… good, and natural to him. He was just out to enjoy himself as Frostbite had suggested after all, and so far he was. It had been that fishnet on the tail after all… that’s how it had started… he’d have to compliment her on that later. Original, alluring, and effective, all in one. A package a real femme fatale would sport, and yet… Molly Serra wasn’t an actual femme fatale was she? Would he be laughed at later on for going after her? Maybe… but right now the stoat didn’t care. They could laugh all they wanted to… at present he just viewed himself as helping her out by supplying what she wanted in return for favors on his end.


Blaine “Blinky” Hinkly
Blinky wasn't sure how, but somewhere in between somebeast pouring half a glass of cranberry juice over his head to wake him up and, well, now, he had been once again shanghaied into a service he was not entirely comfortable with, but was too lazy to back out of.

He clutched his novelty oversized straw in both paws, waiting for the tub of grog to be rolled out. The stoat, and the rest of the participants, were nervous as the rules were read out to them.

Blinky couldn't believe his ears. Stand up? That was how this was? You had to remain standing upright?

He dearly wished he could find the beast who suggested this contest was right up his alley. The only thing that was up Blinky's alley was a lot of soggy bedding (this was certainly true of his favourite alley to wander into after patrolling his Fogey beat.)

He relaxed slightly as no mention was made of whether or not the contestants had to actually be awake at the end. He liked the idea of drinking grog, but not the idea of "for an hour straight, and then an hour more if it gets empty." Blinky, unusually for him, quickly fastened himself to a certain stratagem: to only pretend to drink. Then he wouldn't be drinking and it wouldn't get emptied and he could maybe nap while pretending to drink; his snores were often cited as sounding like somebeast slurping through a straw anyways.

Blinky wrapped his neck and head around the bamboo straw, leaning against it and coddling it like a mother her child, or a tired janitor his mop.

"So when d'we get t'... y'know?" he asked the beast standing next to him with their own straw. They glanced at him. "Nap," he said, as if it hadn't been obvious.

Blinky wouldn't know a chamber pot if it hit him in the nose. And several had.



Molly Serra
"You still didn't state whether you like Molly or Miss Serra."

"Oh, er." Molly had never been asked that before. Everybeast who knew her in any so-called "professional" sense called her Molly. She'd never really liked her name, but it was easy to remember seeing as she'd been called that her whole life. She felt it would be a little odd, to suddenly be called "Miss Serra"; she might not realise she was being spoken to. The effect was not unheard of – Blinky seldom responded to "Blaine" or "Mr. Hinkly" immediately.

In the end, she decided that tonight was a night for uncomfortable new ideas.

"Miss Serra will do nicely," she said. "What kind of dance? I only know one and it involves a lot of kicking and leaping onto tables. I don't think this party is quite at that point yet." Not until the tub challenge was halfway through, anyhow.

Molly did know one other kind of dance besides, but that was even more inappropriate for the occasion. It was a strange urge, usually coming over her right before a good meal at home and most certainly alone. A holdover, perhaps, from her days as a kit, when a beast didn't care if they were clothed in public or threw chewed fish at dinner guests. It was a dance that filled her veins with fire, her eyes with lightning.

It was the War Dance. Every mustelid knew it, in some form or another. In civil society, it was repressed, as unheard of as rats brusking or ferrets dooking. The only place it had ever been seen publicly, by beasts past the age when one learns to be self-conscious, was in certain performances in the now-extinct Opera – and even then it had been cancelled after two shows due to the effect it had on the crowd.

"I suppose," she continued thoughtfully, "I could pick up a waltz if I must – I've seen one or two of – "

Her mind went blank. She tried to process what she had just felt. It had been brief, and very light, like a brush of a feather. Only her tailfur had caught so much as a glimpse of it, but it was unmistakable. The bugger of a stoat had ... he had ...!

Molly's tail twitched violently aside, away from Ladorak. It was all she could do not to shudder in horror and slap him with one of her gloved paws. How dare he! How dare he!

"Do not," she said, her voice a low growl, her words crunchy and muffled as they slipped between her clenched teeth, "ever touch me without my express permission again, is that clear, Mr. Fugate? That feel-up alone will cost fifty. I am keeping track. This," she added, motioning to their linked arms, "is okay. But under no circumstance are you to touch my fur, my face, my tail, my pawpads, without asking. Is that clear?"

Her tiny stoatly ears strained forwards, as if readying for battle. Her tail had bushed, creating a very odd effect as tufts of fur strained against the fishnet. Whiskers splayed, fangs bristled; this was one stoatmaid who would take a #3 Special too far and would probably not even wish to call it an accident.



Ladorak Fugate
Ladorak himself wasn’t taking too kindly to her affronting nature. Well, hey lady, he felt like telling her. You were the one who agreed to become “mine” for the night… and just what did she expect in an occupation like hers? It wasn’t like she could expect to be paid for just looping her arm about his after all. Just what exactly was her problem? It turned Ladorak’s brain into a dumpling… a dumpling floating around in a soup of adrenaline. He was ready to lash out at her and give it back just as good as she’d dished it.

If it was a fight this jill wanted then… unconsciously, his arm was beginning to tighten around hers… but it lasted less than two or three seconds. He immediately let off the moment he realized he was going too far. No… no. Not here. Even in his new state, Ladorak Fugate did not fight with jills. It was something he would not do. He had to see this from her perspective. Maybe there was a reason for her not liking to be touched. Maybe she had been traumatized or… just had a negative experience. It was strange for a beast in her profession not liking to be touched… but Ladorak did not want to blow this evening with her. He would bow to her wishes and respect them.

If there had been any anger on his face it was gone, evaporating like mist under the sun. “Yes, perfectly clear Miss Serra, I’m sorry,” he said, closing his eyes and nodding in a respectful manner. “I didn’t consider that perhaps you weren’t comfortable with such a thing.” Odd though, as most jills in her occupation wouldn’t have minded. “And don’t worry about charging me. I already promised to make this night worth your while financially. I’m going way over what you initially asked for, so don’t worry about money on my end. You will get it, and I intend to cover any additional expenses you have, such as this fifty-gilder increase.”

He furrowed his brow, feeling a bit guilty now that he’d given in to his base desires and actually touched her tail like that. Just who did he think he was anyways? Ladorak Fugate did not just go around feeling up jills after all. He had changed… and he was gradually getting worse. He felt as if he had really betrayed her now, really had crossed some line of hers, and had gotten into a bad standing. That jabbing feeling, like a knife turning in his chest, was back. He felt like he wanted to confide in this Molly Serra, to just spill his guts and break down and tell her everything. But… why would she care?

Maintaining his composure, the stoat smiled slightly down at her. “Maybe the dancing isn’t such a good idea. But let’s try…” He took some gilders out, trailing off as he rattled them in his paw a bit as he considered tossing them over to the quintet (who were still just loafing around). Eh… why not? Flicking a coin their way, the loafing beasts raised their heads, blinked, and yawned, almost all in unison. “Hey! Play something! It’s what you’re here for! Give us a nice tune,” the stoat said sharply. Taking a look at the amount tossed to them, the leader’s eyes goggled, and he nodded swiftly.

Taking up their instruments, the beasts received some paw signals from their leader, and then struck up a tune… a lively tune… a fast tune. It was in fact, nothing short of the Can-Can. Hitting his forehead with his free palm, the stoat shook his head in chagrin. “Blasted idiots.” He muttered. “I’m sorry about this Miss Serra,” he said, smiling at her in an embarrassed manner. “This… dance is rather fast, as you can tell. If you don’t want to attempt it well… we could just talk. I’d be fine with that.” It seemed he’d struck out again… but at least this time it wasn’t fully his fault. The Can-Can was physically demanding and not for the faint of heart. If Molly was up for the challenge well… Ladorak would be, though it’d been oh… close to five months or so since he’d last danced it. It was in a galloping 2/4 time, and involved high kicks and lots of movement, as well as being bouncy and springy on your paws. If Ladorak hadn't known better, he would have figured that a hare had composed this piece.

The two of them could in theory dance it, as it was originally a dance for couples, but mostly it was for showjills and stage dancers these days. Which made this quintet just plain idiotic as Ladorak had stated but… eh… couldn’t win them all right?



Molly Serra
"Your apology is accepted," the stoatmaid said curtly. It could have been worse, she reasoned with herself. At least he hadn't pawed at her face or anything. It was just tails ... possibly even an accident. She shouldn't get so worked up over it, except ...

Except it was disgusting, that's what. Just... eugh! Males. She hated touching them. They were sticky and smelly and dirty and gross from nose to tailtip. She would rather be up to her elbows in fish innards again. There had been a reason she'd chosen her current profession over other options ...

Her foul mood quickly dissipated. She smiled. This was going to be amusing.

"Blasted idiots."

"Don't mind them, dear," she said, patting his shoulder. "Turns out this is the one I mentioned. What? I have other hobbies, you know..."

Sliding her drink over to a passing waiter, Molly grabbed one last kebab and held it firmly between her teeth, like a rose. Bending down momentarily, she grabbed the ruffled hem of her dress ensemble and winked at Ladorak.

Then her stockinged footpaws began to fly.



Ladorak Fugate
With a sudden change of personality, the ever-surprising Molly Serra reached out and placed a paw upon his shoulder. She even patted it a few times. His apology had been accepted. She even... she even went so far as to call him dear! Ladorak felt... well a bit unsure and yet a bit exhilarated by that comment.

He studied her with a curious and yet assured look as well as she mentioned she had other hobbies. He put his own drink down, following her lead. He made sure to set the tray down close to the empty stage, as that way it wouldn't likely be disturbed. Raising his head, the stoat noticed that Molly had deftly taken a kebab and had placed it in the position that a rose would normally go in for dances like this. Strange... Ladorak had been planning the same thing, except he had been meaning to use a rose.

This only caused the excitement to build within the stoat. To him, Molly represented a brave, new sort of jill. One that was daring, not afraid to take that step forward and well… it was alluring on top of that! It was as if she was playing some game with him, and he wondered if she was this way with all of her clients. The awkward situation had suddenly turned into one of a debonair, electrifying opportunity.

Taking time to soak in what was revealed of her legs (which also had fishnets on them), he was rather pleased by what he saw as she lifted up the hem of her dress. He didn’t linger long though… his gaze was drawn back up to her eyes. They were alive now… and Ladorak wondered if she was the type of jill he oftentimes sought. They had to be independent, not grounded in the home, and have strength to carry themselves in times of crisis. It was the kind of jill he craved, and it was pretty much what had constituted his wife’s persona (he secretly hoped she was still alive).

Watching as her hindpaws began to take up the dance, he moved out of her kicking range so that she wouldn’t accidentally clock him. Tapping his own booted paw, he tried to remember the steps. It was essentially a mix of quickstep and well… something else. He’d have to get loose… get bouncy… start hopping a bit on his hind paws. Stupid hares….

Beginning to spring minutely up and down, the jack lifted his left leg, balancing on his right and then quickly snapped the left back down and extended his right out to the side, then kicked that one forward, being careful to avoid Molly (and any other guests for that matter) as he started to limber up. Right… he could do this…

And then the chorus thundered out. Belting with all the gusto the quintet could manage, Ladorak was taken up with it. He was alight with energy, the beguiling and dazzling presence of Molly only seeming to spurn him on to greater vigor and force. Did they look like idiots? Well… Ladorak really didn’t care given the fact he felt he already looked stupid in that showy uniform he had on. It wasn’t even an official naval uniform, just something he’d picked up at a store, and its bright red, deep black, and fine gold trim just seemed too much for him in his mind. May as well make the most of the night for all it was worth.

“Oh, can you do the Can-Can? If you can then I can….hm-hm-hm-hm-hm-hm-hm-hm-hm-hm-hm!” He only knew that brief section of lyrics to this piece, and quietly hummed along with the rapid eighth notes after he’d reached the point he didn’t know. He was moving around Molly in a sort of orbit, similar to what the moon did with the earth. He was tethered to her now, whether he liked it or not (and you better believe he did!). How would this night end up for him? Would she really be implementing one of her “specials” on him? Right now though, it didn’t matter. It was as if she were transferring her energy into him through some invisible bolt, setting his very innards ablaze with a hot, searing flame and causing him to forget entirely about where he was and that others might be watching.

The second verse was starting now, though it was really just a repeat of the beginning. He twisted his back, facing her over his shoulder and then brought the rest of himself around to face her. He came in close, but not too, he was sure to leave about a half a foot between his snout and hers. Offering her his paw, his eyes seemed to shine with new light. “Want to really tear up this dance floor?” he asked, in a go for broke type voice. He wanted to feel her up against him, and he wanted to streak across the wooded floor at a blinding speed for the finale.

He knew about her boundary issues now of course, but he wanted to see just how far she was going to go with this… and they could call it quits for dancing after the song was over if she wanted to. They had come this far, and already Ladorak was afire with intensity and drive. He hadn’t felt this alive in months, and what a return it had been for him so far.



Tanya Ryalor
(Methinks this auto on Jeshy-Ironbum is permitted, but she can slap me with a wet fish if she wants it changed ;D)

Tanya had never enjoyed these formal occasions, they were just so... awkward. Seated amongst the captains, (one of whom she trusted implicitly, another she knew nothing of and the final whom she would have been all too happy to disembowel with a dessert spoon in front of the rest of the party), the little vixen kept herself uncharacteristically quiet, speaking nary a word for the entire duration of the entertainment and meal, head down and any speech a mutter as she picked over the too-fanciful dishes with the air of a petulant teenager with a fixed smile of politeness. Oh how she longed for some sort of interruption to occur like at the Chill-Marrow ball...

Well, at least her outfit had managed to cause a few stammers amongst those she'd greeted; the odd layering of her dress and Naval attire had led to a few double takes and a good deal of blundered introductions which always made her whiskers twitch in that odd show of her amusement which saved her having to smile. It was of little consequence that she looked somewhat foolish; the expressions of her elders (and the majority of betters) in this kind of situation was enough to make her positively squirm in delight. Had she not had any less self-control, chances are that she may well have done so.

Well... if it hadn't been for the eyes. The piercing stare that followed her every movement was more than the vixen so used to secrecy could bear, and every instant she found him staring, her hackles rose a little further, because every single time she looked up, no matter what she was doing, there he was, sliding his eyes off in another direction as if she hadn't noticed. Good 'Gates, though she was more than happy to mouth off to him to his stupid face, there was something so incredibly intimidating about that stare from a distance; him being clearly more comfortable in this kind of environment, it felt that, despite his need for subtlety, he was in control.

Tanya wasn't having that.
She had to even the odds in her favour, and luckily for her, the band had just started.

Excusing herself from the table without a word to any of the captains just as the band began to set up, Admiral Tanya made it her business to vanish from sight altogether. A few well-placed movements effectively erased her from being picked out of the colourful rabble that had begun to assemble on the dancefloor, and for some time, nothing was seen of her. Eventually, and without warning, a sharp chin rest itself on Jeshal's narrow shoulder as she appeared from behind the todd and a slender muzzle appeared next to his eyeline, all glittering, deadly fangs and soft purrs a contradiction to her threat.

"Ironclaw," the vixen muttered, paws squeezing his shoulders tightly enough to dig her claws in and leave marks. "I notice yeh seem to 'ave little control o'er those eyes of yours tonight. Care ter let me 'elp?"

The diminutive vixen was already moving; without mercy nor a pause in which the copper todd could react, Tanya swept back from her tiptoed position, seized Jeshal by the iron-clad wrist, and dragged him out onto the dancefloor like an executioner pulls their bound victim.


Jeshal the Ironclaw
As Jeshal lifted the oyster to his muzzle, ready to let its silky, slimy texture drop into his gullet, he was interrupted by the sudden pressure on his shoulder and the peripheral vision of Admiral Ryalor's snarling face. He was fortunate in that he had not yet allowed the mollusc to fall for he would most certainly have choked. The surprise he felt was so great that his entire facade broke and his customary sneer fell away. All of his senses panicked, fur bristling.

"Ironclaw..." He cringed at the claws that punctured his coat and grazed his fur. One of them drew blood. "I notice yeh seem to 'ave little control o'er those eyes of yours tonight. Care ter let me 'elp?"

There was a loud crash, luckily drowned out to the most part of the hall by the lively music, as Jeshal's plate connected with the floor, scattering the remainder of his meal for the delights of scrounging kits. Jaws agape in alarm, he found himself whisked forcefully into the swirl of colours. The tune was a mockery of his situation. Normally the piece was a fanfare for the display of beautifully-figured females but, somewhere along the line, a less skirt-raising series of steps had been created. Well, at least it allowed for less of it. As if to add a garnish to his gobsmacked thoughts, female vermin performers flooded in, aglow with bright hues and frilly garters, and encircled the dancefloor. They had trapped him in!

All around him, beasts were kicking and flailing. He had to work hard to dodge being pummelled and tenderised on all sides. It took him a while to be able to focus upon the cruel vixen that had brought him into this chaos. When at last he did look upon her he realised that, unlike the majority of the dancers who were at least trying to keep rhythm and to recall the steps, Tanya was simply spinning and shoving him roughly about the floor. Her movements had an uncanny grace to them, as if she were doing a dance of her own, and one that he clearly could not keep up with. It was almost like a role-reversed tango and her claws were the thorns of the rose. Her expression baffled him. He couldn't tell if she was furious or delirious with the desire to make him suffer.

With all the whirling, the Ironclaw could hardly get his breath out to speak. His eyes darted, only just able to keep track of where his sandals trod. He looked to Tanya desperately, struggling to hold back his ire. Coherence in short supply, all he could manage to utter was a drawn-out howl that not only mingled in an ironically tuneful fashion with the can-can but sounded not unlike the warcries of distant woodlander shores:

"Aaadm'raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllll!"


Armina Rogue
Armina was bored out of her skull. Why would anybeast willingly subject themselves to the suffocating, mind-numbing boringness of a captain's banquet?

Well, apart from the free food and rum and dancing and entertainment and the chance to call some officer a fishwife without getting thrown in the brig for it. Did she mention the rum?

Speaking of which....

"TUB CHALLENGE, DRINK YER FILL FER FREE! PROVE YERSELF THE STABLEST LEGS AND STURDIEST STOMACH ON THE SEAS! TUB CHALLENGE, HUP HUP!"

Armina's ears perked. Part of her, a very small sensible voice, warned her that this was a very bad idea. When Armina got drunk, her control started to slip, giving an opportunity for Narima to take over. And when Narima got loose, Armina usually woke up someplace she regretted. The voice didn't get a chance to say much more except a small eep as something slim, snaky and wearing a bellyshirt tackled it into the black hole of Armina's attention span. The conscience didn't stand a chance.

Armina didn't notice the moral conflict waging in the back of her mind. She was turned in her chair, staring after the crier at the large vat of various alcohols being poured in the center of the room. Blinky stood swaying with several other beasts around the rim, peering blearily at the competitors. All were clutching ridiculous novelty straws, almost leaning on them as they awaited the start of the competition. Saps, Armina thought contemptuously, turning back to her table.

"FIVE THOUSAND GILDERS TO THE WINNER!"

Armina nearly knocked over her chair as she flew to the crier. "I'll take the challenge," she panted, her throat dry from the sudden rush of air.

The crier examined her carefully. "How old are yer?" he inquired suspiciously.

A spark of fire leapt into Armina's eyes as she glared into his pupils. "Let me make this clear," she growled, advancing on the crier. The large, bass-voiced stoat gulped in perfect F major as his retreating posterior met the rim of the tub. "There's five thousand gilders on the line right here," she continued, her pawfingers working up the stoat's coat even as her raised hackles drew near to his snout, "and I'm not about to let a petty thing like age stop me from getting my reward. Savvy?"

This last part was purely improvisational, though it had the intended effect. The stoat nodded nervously, trying with difficulty to not fall into the vat of distilled beverages. Carefully he pulled a novelty straw from the stack in his paw, allowing Armina to snatch it away. "Welcome to the contest, miss," he said meekly, shuffling away along the rim of the tub.

Armina allowed the intimidated overseer to take his leave, moving off to a safe distance on the opposite side of the tub. Armina took her own position opposite her fellow Fogey. She eyed the pathetic excuse for a stoat in disdain. "You'll be slurping grog from the floor by the time this is finished, Blinky," she taunted, clutching her novelty straw in paw. If this was the best the competition could offer, this contest would be in the bag.

In the back of Armina's mind, a presence shifted in anticipation. It would soon be time.



Molly Serra
The dance was getting frenetic now. It could have started getting freneta, but longtailed weasels were generally not native to the Vulpine Imperium, despite the Waters clan's earlier intrusion into Bully Harbour culture.

Molly did indeed brush up against her partner, (after all, it was not intimacy she despised, but pure physical contact between fur and fur, flesh and flesh); and they did indeed streak up and down the dance floor like red and black bolts of lightning with bits of brown mixed in where tails glimmered through. Though neither stoat had quite clued in, their garb matched impeccably, Molly's ensemble mixing very well with Ladorak's storebought uniform.

And then came another pair – Molly barely had time to register the face of the male as she whizzed by mere whisker's width from his shoulder. She found herself grinning, amused by the knowledge that the stuffy fox had found himself a partner so quickly, and pleased with her own catch. Rich was one thing, but a good dancer? He was everything her usual fare weren't, and she was having the time of her life. She would have to re-think her marketing strategies.

Now dancers were lining up around them, blocking all four dancers in. Molly's enthusiasm dropped a little. What was the point of dancing if you couldn't show off to the crowd? These dancers were taking all the glory now!

"Excuse me, darling," she whispered breathlessly, her nose just barely touching Ladorak's own. She whirled away from him, giving him a slight push into the rear wall of twirling maidens, and snuck her way into the chorus line.

Now there was barely an eyeball in the place that wasn't focused on the stage – luckily, that dozy creature Hinkly seemed to be more focused on a tub of grog larger than he was. Molly ignored him and focused on keeping up with the professionals. She did surprisingly well.

Right up until a sneering, drunken fox lumbered towards the stage and began to climb up right in front of her, reaching out as if to snatch one of the dancer's ankles ...

Crack!

Molly's footpaw connected with such solid certainty that she was impressed the top half of his head didn't come off completely. As it was, the fox set up a howl that near drowned out the music, and his snout was bent at a rather awkward angle.

It took just two dance steps before Molly herself cried out and collapsed. She quickly rolled off the stage and sat in the nearest chair. Her toeclaws throbbed; she caressed her footpaw and mentally cursed the weather. No snow, no ice. It would hurt.

She glanced up to see whether or not Ladorak had gotten out of the prison of dancers, all the while cursing under – and sometimes over – her breath. Stupid, stupid fox. She hadn't meant to crack him ... it had felt good to hear his jaw snap, but if she had been paying attention she could have kicked him properly. She supposed her own footpaw might have broken.

She hoped not. She'd need both for a #4.



Blaine “Blinky” Hinkly
Blinky stared across at Armina, eyes narrowing. A challenge, was it? Then a challenge she would get! ... probably from somebeast else, because he had difficulty working up the strength to sip from a regular sized straw. Who knew not lifting a mug could be so difficult and require so much constant muscle work?

The stoat dipped his gaze into the black-brown murk, known by Bully Harbour scholars as the Ink of History, and by philosophers, Glue of the Universe.

It took a few moments, but at last he came up with a retort for the vixen:

"Yeh, well, I wos doin' that afore I got this 'ere straw, so, er. Nyah!"

He stuck his tongue out, and found he really didn't care to expend the energy to draw it back in. He let it hang out the corner of his mouth (he tasted something familiar there) and gently collapsed over the edge of the tub, arms dangling into the grog itself for a few seconds, until the referee pulled him back, ignoring the tiny splish noise that the action resulted in.

"Sir, nobeast wants to taste where your paws have been. You may only reach into the vat to collect your straw if it has fallen."

"Wot abou' my hat?" Blinky asked. Thankfully, doing so involved drawing his tongue back in.

"What hat?" the referee asked, annoyed that this creature who caused his species such discomfort should play tricks on him. "You don't have a hat, so shut up. Is everybeast ready?" he asked, turning to the rest of the competitors. They gave their assent, and he blew a small whistle.

Blinky immediately checked to make sure his Fogey-issue one was still around his neck. Well ... the chain was. The actual whistle had somehow gotten into his throat again. Shrugging to himself, the stoat – chain hanging out the corners of his mouth – put straw to lips and began.

Maybe when they were done he could get his hat back. Sergeant Starling would be very cross if he lost this one in another over-sized vat of liquid.


Ladorak Fugate
It was with some elation that Ladorak did indeed feel Molly's body pressed up against his, and then they were off at a whirling, intense pace. It was a rather nice complement to each other, his red and black on her black and red (or was that red and black?). It was almost as if they'd planned it, except of course that was ludicrous and they hadn't. It was just the sort of thing Ladorak had been craving all of these months. To very slimy pits of Dark Forest with sailing! If he could just have one night like this for the rest of his life, he'd never go back to sea again! A jill like her was the adventure!

Molly seemed to be enjoying herself as well... and then the other dancers came in. It was a bit of a spoil to their otherwise perfect dance. Who were they and why were they invited? Furthermore, why surround the four of them? Bringing her snout up within mere centimeters... and then actually touching the tip of his nose, she whispered quickly that she'd be right back. She'd even used "darling" with him.

It was a bit of a turn on for the stoat, as she wasn't really afraid to lead him on and yet was cautious too if he made advances on her. Very well... he'd let her lead him around for the night. Best to play the game her way. Pushing him back, he sailed into a wall of dancers with which he had to struggle to extricate himself. They tried to hang onto him and get him involved in their number, but he broke free and went to watch Molly instead.

From behind his spectacles he studied her movements. She was good, very good in fact. Able to match step and keep up with the best of the performers on stage. It was probably in this moment that Ladorak really started to admire Molly Serra. She wasn't just some game to him anymore. She was about having fun of course, but she carried herself seriously as well. She had to, in order to survive. It touched something within him. She no longer had just his sympathy (and of course some carnal interests as well) but his admiration now. He saw her as... just a beast that loved fun, and at least tried to enjoy what she did. So many beasts complained around him about how bad off they were, or how this wasn't good or that wasn't good... or how...

crack!

Ouch! That one looked like it hurt! The fox's jaw was obviously shattered, and Ladorak had to admit that Molly really knew how to kick a beast. But then he tensed up when he saw her virtually roll off the stage like a log and then limp into a nearby chair. And there had been that sound she'd emitted... a cry of agony.

Starting to react, Ladorak immediately pushed his way (rather roughly, knocking some dancers into each other) out of the circle and headed over to an occupied table. He almost reached down for a beast's drink... a drink with ice in it... and actually had his paws on the glass when he chided himself for being stupid. There was a better solution. "'ey now! Whatcha think yer doin'?" asked a rather irate looking weasel whose drink Ladorak currently (and curtly) had in his paws.

"Needed the ice," he murmured, shoving the weasel's reaching paws away from him as he quickly headed for the bar. Leaping over the counter, the astonished bartender could only gape, his eyes filled with fear at this rather brawny (but not overly so) stoat standing before him.

"Ice...." was all Ladorak said, as he threw off the lid of the chest, and reached into the frigid depths, the cubes biting into his fur like a thousand insects. Withdrawing his paw, the stoat proceeded to use the swinging bar door this time, exiting around the side as the barkeep suddenly got his nerve back and began hollering at Ladorak about stealing his ice and contaminating it with mustelid fur (there were some quacks who actually believed loose mustelid fur spread disease).

Ladorak couldn't even say why he'd done it. But it seemed natural. She clearly was in pain around her ankle, and better safe than sorry. Walking up to her, he held the ice out for her to see, but hesitated on touching her. "Mind if I take a look?" he asked, kneeling down in front of her chair, the ice causing his pawpads to go numb and send cold shivers straight up his arm and into his brain, but he tried not to let it show. It was like being lanced up the length of his arm by an ice javelin or something... but fortunately even that too was starting to go a bit numb.

"I've got some ice if you need it. Scared the 'Gates out of me I'll say that." There was concern, and it wasn't fake or contrived. It was genuine. He honestly did care for her wellbeing. "Wasn't expecting you to quite wallop that guy like you did. He'll be feeling that one for at least a week or two," he said, grinning up at her now but still showing clear worry. He looked to see if there was anything he could do. Best assess first, hear what she told him, and then see if any fixing up could be done.


Molly Serra
"A look," Molly hissed, nodding slightly. "But keep it below my ankle, sir."

Somebeast was picking up teeth from the floor. Off to the side, the fox was helped away by his friends. Though he struggled in a half-mad attempt to break free and pound Molly in the skull with his paw, they managed to get him out the door without further injuries.

Molly reached out and took the ice from Ladorak's paws, marveling. Where had they gotten ice this time of year? It would be another two or three months before snowfall began. Was there no limit to the fantastic that the Imperium's higher ups were able to work to their own means? She at last figured it must have been collected from someplace a little further north and shipped to Vulpinsula. The Ministry of Innovation no doubt had something to keep it cold in ... ah, marvels of the modern age.

As she pressed the ice against her footpaw, Molly stared sadly at her stocking. She would probably have to cut it, if she began to swell. The fishnet was tight already; past her ankle, where her fur grew thicker, it tufted out in spurts, much like her tail. She hadn't been able to afford a finer cloth to slip into first – such things were extravagance beyond her expenses.

"A month or two, I figure," she said quietly, referring back to the fox. "I'm pretty sure it came loose from his head."

"Here y'go, miss," the tooth-collector said, dropping the tip of one of her claws onto her lap. He resumed the search for more teeth.

"Remember," Molly said to Ladorak, "when I mentioned those other six or so drinks? I'd like the first one soon. Plain rum. Or whiskey." She paused. "Y'know, you Navy types probably know what's best. Just get me a lot of that."



Ladorak Fugate
Ladorak couldn't determine just by looking at it whether it was broken or not. He stared and stared and stared some more, but like it or not he finally realized he wasn't a doctor (and no amount of pretending he was was going to change that) and just gave up. Where was Kasal when you needed him? He had seen him earlier today, but the marten wasn't at this party. Probably getting drunk on his own somewhere.

Ladorak grimaced as the tip of Molly's claw was set down into her lap. She had a broken claw? Why... yes in fact she did. Ladorak simply hadn't noticed because he hadn't been paying attention to her claws... they weren't admittedly something about this female that drew his gaze.

"Oh? The drinks? Right... I've got something even better than rum or whiskey," the stoat said, a strange sparkle in his eye. "Hey!" he called out to a waiter, trying to get his attention. He snapped his claws a few times, and even considered throwing Molly's clawtip at the dullard before the rat finally turned towards him. "Scotch on the rocks! Oh... add some amaretto liqueur to that too!" he put in at the last minute.

"The liqueur sweetens it, as scotch by itself is rather disgusting, but the liqueur gives it a bitter honey sort of taste and even adds to the alcohol content, so this drink is really nothing but a double shot of pure alcohol, which I'm sure is something along the lines of what you were looking for eh?" he asked, a knowing look on his face as he gave her a wink of his own. "I had to get used to the gin and tonics myself..." but he stopped short of elaborating why. No sense in revealing that to anybeast just yet.

"Anyway... can you move your paw? Is it broken from what you can tell?" he asked, not wanting to outright touch her and try moving it. He wouldn't be able to tell unless he could touch her but... figured he may as well ask about it from her perspective.


Molly Serra
"How thoughtful," Molly murmured. She smiled a tiny smile. "That'd be lovely."

The stoatmaid concentrated on her footpaw. The pain was really only just starting to ebb into being now.* She rubbed the ice all over her toeclaws, until almost her entire foot was sopping with freezing water. Then she put the ice into a neat little package with a pawkerchief and let her leg down.

She tried to splay her claws. She winced and hissed; not good. There was probably movement, but she wasn't going to try it. 'Gates, did males really like this...?

But she could still move her footpaw around in a circle, she found.

"Think the ankle only twisted 'cos I couldn't put weight on the paw at all," she said. "I'll have to go about all stubby-healed. Flat-footed stoat!" She sighed and leaned back.

It was difficult to balance on flat feet. Everybeast knew you walked on your toes, more or less. Clowns didn't. Clowns learned to walk on their flats, their claws flapping about inside their giant boots. They had to lean forward to keep their balance; this made them all the more comical.

Nobeast liked a clown.

"I'll survive," she said resolutely, sticking her chin out and looking up at Ladorak. "C'mon - night's still young. Hold me 'round the waist so I can lean on you. What next? Shall we watch the Tub Challenge, or throw food at Captain Tarrin when he's not looking? Isn't it horrible," she added rather thoughtfully, "that nobeast has hardly spoken to him at all, and it's his party?"


* I actually did inadvertent research on this; slammed my hand in the doorway, got a bruise on my fingy-wingy. Hurt for a few minutes, then numbed up and got hardish, then Day 2-6, got mushy and painful to touch. Fun!



Ladorak Fugate
"Night is still young," he agreed, smiling gamely at her and hoping she was truly alright. He didn't want her to pretend to be OK just for his sake... but at the same time he did want her to do this, as it only fueled his interest. Self-reliant... doesn't let them see her bleed... was definitely his type in terms of personality.

Yet she couldn't do everything sadly, and it was with a sudden leap of adrenaline that she asked him to hold her about her waist so that she could lean on him. Lean on him!? Like really just lean on him the whole night? Oooh... she might even get a bonus in her pay for this (though it wasn't like she was doing it because she had a choice)!

"Of course... just let me know if I go too fast," he informed her, bringing his left arm around her midriff and standing up slowly so that no dramatic shift of weight would send her (probably) yelping out in pain. The stoat was strong, strong enough to wield that monstrosity of a blade the "Midlight Hammer" that he still possessed. Supporting Molly strained him not in the slightest, and it wasn't much of a burden to have the stoatess leaning up against him as they moved.

He felt that rush inside of him again. Having her right up against his chest, this magical, mystical, ethereal being was quite making his night as it were. It was almost making his previous absence fade from his mind. All of the pain he was still going through... it was overpowered and battered down into submission by that inner rush he was getting. The adventure he'd been waiting for... he'd finally found it in a night of flirtation it seemed. There were things he sought on land, and things he sought at sea. At sea it was battle, glory, and the wind in his face. On land, he had slightly different (though less clearly defined as he himself had no idea until now) goals, though (some could argue) none-the-less exciting.

He emitted a controlled chuckle at her words. "Oh yes... Captain Tarrin." He actually did want to go and chuck some food over at that ferret while his attention was diverted elsewhere. The thought of Frostbite all covered in assorted slop was probably the most (and only) amusing thing Ladorak had envisioned all night. Too bad such a thing would probably get him trouble in the long run.

"Funny you should mention him..." the stoat said, looking at Frostbite now at an angle. “I do in fact have to speak with Captain Tarrin before the night ends… or… maybe I could just skip that depending on how late you work.” He stated a bit suggestively, looking down at her now with a wink. “How late do you work Ms. Serra?” His snout was close to hers, but once again he was careful that not even a whisker brushed up against her. “Because quite frankly, a food fight with Captain Tarrin or watching a beast drowning in alcohol for the drinking challenge makes absolutely no difference to me.” The stoat concluded as the waiter arrived with Molly’s drink.


Frostbite R. Tarrin
Frostbite shoved yet another roll into his mouth as he finished his hilarious story that no one was listening to. "Amf fo I fayf, 'giffim a fory frum!!!'" He emitted a stifled laughter. Everybeast around him was already laughing from something or other, so he assumed his story was quite the hit. "Amf he fayf, 'ruffuffa furfa furrrrrrrrmmmmbuf.'" The laughter just continued. He looked about himself proudly and downed another fill of lemon water, presented to him in a finely crafted mug made of stone. It was something no often seen, and even harder on the fangs if one wasn't careful with how they consumed. It was probably meant to smash the teeth of alcoholics.

He looked a little further down the table and grabbed a full pawsized block of cheddar cheese. It seemed to just glisten (or perhaps that was condensation). Things couldn't possibly be better.

He held on defiantly to his cheddar block as the dishes were being cleared by the waiters to make room for dessert plates. A few dibbuns in the crowd moshed the dessert table, grabbing pawfuls of whatever was covered in frosting... which was pretty much everything. The mess of it made quite the spectacle for charmed giggles and laughs.

A weasel stepped up to the podium and in a loud voice boomed, "THE TUB CHALLENGE WILL COMMENCE SHORTLY! HAVE YOUR STRAWS READY!"



Molly Serra
"My ... customers," Molly said carefully, "don't generally last very long into the evening." She grinned, again showing incisors. "But it all depends on their stamina, I suppose. I've no pressing business in the morning, myself."

Letting Ladorak support her, she reached out and snagged various plates from the passing waiters. One in each paw, she balanced them perfectly as they moved towards a quiet corner to watch the proceedings of the Tub Challenge.

Molly surveyed her goods. Some sort of shellfish as Mr. Ironclaw had been partaking of, it seemed, and the other, vulpuzed eggs. She licked one off the edge of the plate, chewed and swallowed in just a few seconds. It was delicious ... and boasted a grand aerodynamic design. It would be like skimming pebbles off the ocean.

"Hold this, would you deary?" she said, holding up the plate of prawns to Ladorak. Her paw now empty, she selected a particularly large half-egg from her own plate and hefted it.

Aha. There was the new captain, clutching a block of cheese with quiet desperation. His attention seemed to be elsewhere; Molly let fly.

The egg missed him by only a few inches, splatting the beast to his left – but it was a direct hit, and the egg covered their face entirely.

Molly let loose a chittering giggle. "What fun! Toss a prawn, see if they catch on, mm?"

Already another egg was being aimed ...



Ladorak Fugate
Adopting a mischievous smile on his face (indeed, it was rather devilish for the stoat), he looked back and forth with his eyes only as he hefted a prawn in his free paw, tossing it up and down and catching it each time, similar to a baseball. Who to brain though... Frostbite? He seemed almost too easy of a pick. Jeshal? The fox was an awfully tempting target... but he had shown kindness to the stoat as well... but it was a good thing Ladorak wasn't the Ladorak of a year ago.

Taking careful aim, he held the prawn like one would a dart, the tail serving as the pivot for the throw. Closing one eye, the stoat lined up his shot... and snapped his wrist forward, letting fly with the prawn. It spiraled through the air, turning head over tail on its arc towards Jeshal... but sadly the fox duo shifted a tad and the morsel sailed right in between them. Odd... Ladorak wondered what that would have looked like in slow motion... but the moment was passed, and the prawn struck some weasel on the back of the head.

"See... that's the thing. It's no fun if you have moving targets. I prefer them tied down... immobile... if you get my drift," the jack said with a wink now as shifted his attention back down to Molly and pretended as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The weasel's roving eyes were upon him, but Ladorak doubted the fellow would catch on. They were roaming about the room after all, and did not rest on him alone.

"Now come on." He nodded towards the door. "Night's still young, as you said. Why not find a smaller, less crowded tavern for a few more drinks... and then we can take it from there," he suggested in a lower, perhaps even more intimate voice. It was warm, but wasn't expectant at the same time. With a shrug, the stoat glanced about him once more at the party without moving his head too much on its axis.

He started mentally calculating how much she'd earn from him for the night. Oh... over a thousand probably. It was no fur off his back. This place was dead anyways. Sure there were lots of beasts... but none of them were doing anything! Just sitting around and talking. Aside from he and Molly, Jeshal and Admiral Ryalor had been the only ones on the dance floor (well and the showjills of course, but they didn't really count. It was their job). Rather disappointing. But there would be things in store to make up for it... at least Ladorak hoped.

Resting his eyes once more upon the jill in front of him, he raised a brow now, awaiting her response to his suggestion.



Frostbite R. Tarrin
Frostbite reared back, blocking his face after the prawn debris had already spread to him. He began wiping his snout and pawed another mouthful of cheddar. "I do say Jeefah, you look like you got prawned." The waiter turned to Frostbite and bowed, keeping a very stoic face. "Very good, sah." The second prawn zoomed in and out of view, splatting on something nearby. "EY!" The weasel jumped up from his seat, grabbed the weasel beside him, and punched him in the snout. "I told you!" The weasel grabbed his bleeding snout and scrambled to stand back up. "No you didn't!" With that, he grabbed a bloody pawful of mashed custard slop and ground it into the first weasel's face (we'll call him Prawned). Prawned picked up his plate of cake and, with custard still very much covering his eyes, threw it, officially starting an all-out miscommunication among the table of pre-drunks (the ones drunk before the party, also known as the "VIP" table). Their eruption trickled outward into nearby tables, which (because they hadn't had a good food fight in a long time) joined in the madness. Berries, honeyed chestnuts, cheap ales, jellies, jams, and even some prawn legs filled the air.

In the meantime, Frostbite disappeared underneath his own table, chowing down contentedly on his block of cheddar. "My precious..."


Ladorak Fugate
(Permission to auto Molly granted)

It seemed like it was just in time too. A fight was breaking out and that was definitely something the stoat cared to avoid. From the drinking challenge to this and seemingly everything in between. Romance, passion, dancing, fire. It was... electric. At least in the stoat's mind.

Taking a contemplative look up at him, Molly pursed her lips, nodded once or twice, and Ladorak took his cue. Exit stage right. It was time to... well not be here for one. He had meant to talk with Captain Tarrin but right now that wasn't going to happen. He had other plans, other places to see and other things to do tonight. He'd catch the ferret maybe tomorrow... onboard ship.

Leading the jill over the front entrance, he managed to stay just one step ahead of the rapidly spreading riot. And with that the two red and black ensembles were gone, out into the night. Ladorak was pleased to see his coach was back in the lot. Perfect... it would be best if Molly didn't walk as much from here on out... and he found himself hoping she didn't need her one paw for whatever it was they were going to get into.


Jeshal the Ironclaw
(Hope the autoing is still all right, dear Fluffybottom. This one is rather exaggerated!)

Whirling in the turmoil, Jeshal had hardly been aware of the ruckus that had erupted around the room. Until something shot past and splatted into a weasel. Whatever had splatted then peeled off and landed somewhere on the dancefloor, catching the footpaws of one of the revellers and consequently slipping them. Beasts invaded the floor, but they weren't dancing. They were rioting. Cream cakes, jellies, grey mush, salmon fillets and crayfish sailed in a dance of their own overhead. How long this had been going on, the Ironclaw was not sure. Admiral Ryalor had been hurling him viciously in circles, shoving him this way and that at such a blur he could barely keep his toes.

At last from the sheer numbers in the crowd they had been forced to slow down. Jeshal began to fight back against his aggressive partner, swinging the momentum in his favour. He ducked the trajectory of a projectile eclair and waltzed Tanya out of the way of a pair of beasts so covered in marmalade they might have crawled from an orange swamp at the birth of the universe. Somewhere across the way came the rude sound of a brass instrument plugged up with something gloopy.

"Yer pardons, Adm'ral," Jeshal growled, finally regaining his lost smirk. "It be seemin' the music and the mood play sour ter the steps we be offerin'. Better we give in ter the novelty o' the tune, says I. This one be my dance, so I thank ye ter let me be the gen'lebeast."

His claw clamped tightly about Tanya's wrist, his other paw gripped her middle securely enough to nigh on wind her, and then he spun her diagonally from the dancefloor. Not caring for her struggles, his sandalled paws deftly evading any attempt to be stood upon, he weaved her at varying levels to preserve them from being sullied by airborne custards. If anyone was going to alter Ryalor's condition, it was to be him.

Round and round they went, beelining for the dinner tables, for Captain Tarrin's table. The desserts were piled high, glistening, wobbling, most damaged by eager paws. One great pudding in particular remained untouched. A three-foot high blancmange encased lovingly in sparkling meringue, dollops of whipped cream and cherries circling its base, surely the pride of some sentimental chef, trembled innocently in the centre of Frostbite's table.

Jeshal drew closer and closer, dragging the Captain of the Guard all the way in a marionette spin. His bistre eyes flicked to the spread and a terrible grin lit his features. He couldn't possibly do it. She would keelhaul him for sure. Perhaps he should not have had that extra glass of sherry. Temptation was too much.

"Me apologies, Tanya," he dared to whisper. "The dress were very fetchin', too."

The Ironclaw swung Admiral Ryalor off her feet and hurled her tailfirst into the waiting mass of blancmange.​