Open The Slups Completed A Harbinger of Dread

[Thistle Brambledew]

The fog came down like a second night, thick and quiet as wool over the slurps, smothering the sounds of Bully Harbor’s meanest quarter in a heavy silence that stuck to the throat. Smoke rose lazily from crumbling chimneys and half-smothered firepits, curling like the fingers of some dreaming giant through the alleyways and over the crooked rooftops. Muck clung to every cobble, and the stench of fish guts, moldy grain, and yesterday’s regrets turned the air thick enough to chew. Most decent beasts had gone to bed hours ago, their shutters latched and hearths banked low—but one light creaked into the valley where no lantern should be.

The cart emerged as if it had been carved from the mist itself. It was an aged, many-wheeled contraption festooned with bottles and jugs, strange bundles and charms made of twine and dried roots, and painted planks bearing faded, flowery script. The words were mostly illegible now, but a few could still be made out if one squinted:

"Cures & Curios"
"Elixirs from the End of the World"
"One Swig to Sweeten the Soul"

The cart bobbed gently, amber and gold and greenish-blue, like some lumbering insect with too many eyes, the wheels hissing as they pressed through dew-heavy grass. A squat figure guided it, cloaked and hunched, bristling with twigs and beads and charms that clattered like teeth in the mist. The porter beast hunched low, swathed in strips of black leather and layered cloaks as dark as the sky above. Long fingers gripped the reins like claws, and a great black sack, bursting at the seams, slumped across its back like a tumor. Another bulge rested below it, lumpy and shifting, tied down with coarse twine and bone toggles.

No one had ever seen the porter’s face...not fully. Not that they wanted to.

Occasionally it would let out a horrid chitter-chchchkt, the kind of sound that made teeth itch. When it spoke to its master, it used no words at all, only those squelched and squeaking syllables, dry as parchment and twice as brittle.

The cart glowed warm from within, casting glimmers on rows upon rows of little glass bottles: tall ones like towers, squat ones shaped like onions, twisting ones that looked like sea creatures. Each was filled with a fluid brighter than the last -crimson, violet, turquoise, amber- dyed with roots and petals and strange powders whose names the villagers hadn’t spoken since the grain store burned.

Some beasts still told stories. They remembered the old hedgehog’s last visit. They remembered how he came in quiet, and left just as quick, and how a week later the granary exploded in fire and smoke and screaming. Two had died. Three more never walked right again.

His name was whispered now. Thistle Brambledew. Some say he’s a healer. Others say he’s a death omen. But no beast had ever proven he’s the cause of the fate he towed in his wake.

A low chime rang as the cart stopped in the square. A wooden sign swung from its side, stenciled in looping letters:

• CURES • CHARMS • FATE DIVINED • NO REFUNDS •

Thistle stepped down, his cloak stirring like old leaves. His quills had been tied with dried chamomile and battered feathers. A bone spoon hung from his belt.

He lit a pipe with fingers so thin they looked like dried stems, then puffed it once, twice, and held the match just a little longer than necessary, watching the flame. Then glanced toward the porter, who had gone unnaturally still. Its head twitched sideways and gave a soft, guttural krrk-kreet.

“Aye, I see ‘em,” Thistle muttered in reply, casting his gaze toward the empty windows and tightly locked doors, as if they were portals to another realm. One of deities and fates. “I smell it too. Sickness. Hunger. Old debts unpaid.”

The soft throws of sunbeams stabbed through the waning mist as it hailed a brand new day, though storm clouds lurked on the purple and pink horizon.

He turned and faced the square, lifting his paws wide as if greeting old friends at a funeral.

“Come out, come out,” he crooned into the void, as if laying fourth a dare for anybeast brave enough to tread forth into his web. “There’s plenty t’share... and plenty t’fear.”

A light flared in the back of the cart. His shop was open.

---

[OOC: Are you a Slurps local with a bone to pick? A fool with a coin and an ache in your belly? Or possibly a sharper beast with suspicion in your eyes and a dagger in your belt? Step into the fog. Thistle Brambledew has returned to Bully Harbor. And trouble, as always, rides close behind. NPCs welcome and encouraged.]

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

The beast who cautiously approached was no denizen of the Slups. They were dressed far too nicely for that; their fine crimson and marigold dress, while stained around the hem from weeks of travel, was still of beautiful design, and the leather corset that bound their waist and less accentuated a bust than conjured up the illusion of one was of fine make. They did not grow their headfur long, as was the style among some femmes, especially vixens; instead they kept it short, letting the softer fur and more feminine angle of their jaw present a gender for them.

"Good evening, sir." Her voice was soft, even hushed, barely carrying in the dense, foggy streets. She kept her eyes averted, her head slightly bowed, almost as if cowed. Her accent was impeccably upper-middle class Vulpinsulan, the vowels neatly clipped by the consonants that bound them into syllables as tidily as if she were wrapping them with ribbon and a bow. For all that her manners screamed 'old money', however, there was none of the haughtiness that normally accompanied such beasts. If anything, she seemed to fear intruding upon the hedgehog's time.

"I..." Her blue eyes, pale as arctic ice, glanced up to meet his for a moment before they lowered almost in shame again, "I do not mean to bother you, sir. Only, your sign states 'fate divined'. Are you perhaps a soothsayer, sir? Do you think that, perhaps, you could divine fate for... well, for someone whom fate seems to have divided?"

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

The fog curled like question marks around Thistle Brambledew’s spiny form, dampening the scratch of his steps as he approached the voice. His quills jostled faintly, a few dried sprigs of chamomile rustling with soft clicks of bone and feather. The vixen’s words hung in the air like an offering, and his narrow eyes—one bloodshot, the other disturbingly clear and bright—studied her from beneath the fold of his hood.

“Aye,” he rasped, voice dry and soft as parchment. “I am he who divines what others dare not see. Or rather... what they would prefer not to.” The corner of his mouth ticked into a foxlike smirk, not unlike a sliver of rotten pear.

He stepped closer, letting the glow of the cart lamps catch her fine corset and dirtied hem, his beady gaze flicking with interest. “You've come a long way, haven’t you? Far from home, and far from answers.” He let the words linger, then added with cold precision, “You’ve lost something. Or someone. Not recently, no—but the ache is still fresh in the marrow. And now you wonder if you’re following their shadow, or if it’s your own fate chasing you.”

Thistle turned, drawing the cloak around himself and shuffling back toward the cart. “Come, then. If fate is to be divined, best we do it where pryin’ eyes don’t twist its meaning.”

But before disappearing into the wagon, he veered toward the hunched creature chained to the shaft of the cart—its black fur matted and slick in places, the shape of its muzzle sharp in the foggy gloom. A pair of long, bald toes shifted in the grime. With a creaking chain, Thistle unlatched the harness binding the hunched beast to the cart. From within the folds of his cloak, he produced something wrapped in grimy cloth—something wet, and pink, and reeking. He tossed it low.

The beast caught it with grotesque enthusiasm, retreating to crouch beneath the cart, where the sounds of slurping and chewing echoed, moist and rhythmic.

“Good lad,” Thistle muttered, and for a fleeting moment, his voice held something gentler. Almost... paternal.

He pushed back the faded curtain of the cart’s rear, revealing a cramped, cluttered space choked with bundles of dried herbs, greasy glass bottles glinting like dragonfly wings, and a low stool surrounded by hanging charms and strange carved symbols. He gestured the vixen inside with a crooked paw.

“Now then... before we begin, answer me this.” His eyes caught hers, unreadable and ancient. “When you dream, do you see yourself... or someone else wearing your face?”

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

The vixen's eyes widened at the hedgehog's question, the way it seemed to reach directly into her. Her lips started to move before she knew she'd spoken. "My brother's," she whispered. "When I sleep, I dream of him living his life through my eyes. When he's awake, he's happy. I've never been happy. Sometimes, when I'm tired of being unhappy, I go to sleep, and I let him be happy for both of us. Then, when things are bad, sometimes he goes to sleep, and I wake up to live out the unhappiness again."

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle’s ears twitched ever so slightly, the vixen’s words curling into the cramped air like incense smoke; sweet, mournful, and thick with meaning. He did not blink.

"A brother, is it?" he murmured, tone soft as mildew on stone. "Tied together in dream and dread. Yours is not a common wound, miss. No... this sorrow is stitched tight. One soul, bruising for two."

As the vixen ascended the cart steps, Thistle turned his head slightly, his voice lowering with the familiar rhythm of repetition. He shuffled slightly in the swaying gloom of the cart, leaning into the lantern light. It caught the glitter of his eyes-too clear, too sharp for his threadbare face.

"But not before I give something to the porter," he said.

He knelt near the crooked, silent thing hunched beneath the cart. He reached into a hidden pocket, fingers curling around the cool glass of a small vial, its contents a murky violet, sluggish and oily, as though reluctant to be of use. He held it up, weighing it, then tossed it lazily underneath the cart.

The shadow beneath the cart stirred.

A wrapped paw reached out with unsettling speed, catching the vial midair with a soft clink. No thanks were spoken. The figure retreated again beneath the wagon's undercarriage, curling in the dirt like a worm beneath a rotting log.

Back inside, the vixen’s seat was a crooked cushion pressed between dusty curtains, surrounded by glinting bones, half-melted candles, and bottles that sang quietly if you listened long enough. The cart creaked as the old hedgehog mystic returned.

“Mind like that’ll chew through the veil if left alone too long,” Thistle muttered, brushing his paws together. “But this’ll dull the teeth a while.”

With one spindly paw, he reached into a cabinet of corked and crusted vials. From its depths, he drew a small, square bottle with dark glass, sealed in wax, the color of bruises. It clicked softly against another bottle as he handed it over with a dry rattle of his bracelets.

"A tonic, then, for the tremors in your mind. A draught to still the surface of the pond, so you may see what stirs beneath. Bitter as rainroot and dark as regret, but it'll calm the pull between wake and dream... at least for a time."

"The first dose is always a gift," he crooned. "For those brave enough to open their fate."

He cackled, not unkindly.

Then, with a sidelong glance toward the narrow window of the cart, he added in a rasp, "And now. Let us go deeper."

He beckoned toward a shadowy corner of the cart, where cushions and hanging charms dangled like old prey. The divining space. Thistle lit a new taper with a snap of his claw and watched the flame dance.

"You see," he began, voice low as a gravewind, "there is an old tale of a fox and a mirror. Not a mirror of silver or glass—no, no, but one made of flesh and breath. When one fox laughed, the other bled. When one fell in love, the other lost their voice. Two lives twisted through the same thread."

He lifted a worn shard of crystal, catching the flickering light and letting it splash over her pale features.

"One was real. The other... necessary."

He let that linger.

"Tell me, miss," he continued gently, "have you always been the one who wakes up when things hurt too much? Or have there been times... when you’ve stayed asleep far longer than you should have?"

[OOC @Corda & Cordan LeConte : the 'potion' is camomile (natural relaxant) and juniper berry (used to treat indigestion) tea, reduced down for potentsy and colored with beet juice. Yum yum!]

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Corda hesitated, sniffing at the bottle's contents, before bracing herself and downing the whole thing. It was indeed bitter, and yet Corda found it... Well, she found it appropriate, somehow. It tasted like memories, which, for her, meant regret. This diviner seemed to know what he was saying.

She settled in on the cushions, listening to his story. It seemed too apropos, and yet... She wasn't quite sure if she agreed. She'd resented Cordan the ease with which he made friends, his fearlessness, how he never froze, always acted... Yet, at the same time, that was what she appreciated about him. When the world was too hard, too cruel, she could retreat, go find him, and have him deal with it instead. Then, when he was done, she would come out and patch the wounds and scars he left in his wake. That he hurt her so much in the process was alright. It was better than letting everyone else hurt her, like her father used to do.

Corda shook her head. "When things are really bad," she admitted, "when it's too much, when I can't just keep quiet and bear through it, when somebeast needs to fight... That's when I go find him. Then Cordan protects me. He fights, and he keeps me safe. Sometimes, though... Sometimes he doesn't know when to stop. He fights, and he doesn't stop fighting. He scares me sometimes. He's not an angry person, he just doesn't know when he's fought enough. The world is full of too many hurts, and sometimes, all he's doing is making more of them."

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle turned the empty bottle over in his paw, the hollow clink of glass faint against his calloused pads. For a time, he only watched the flicker of the lanternlight dance in its curve,letting the hush breathe between her words and his thoughts.

“He fights for you. Hurts others so they don’t hurt you.”

He turned the bottle upright. “But hurt is a clever thing. It always finds its way through, one shape or another.”

His voice dropped softer, like moss underfoot.

“And when he fights, he doesn’t stop.”
A pause. “Perhaps he isn’t just fighting for you.”

There was no accusation in his tone. No judgment. Just quiet observation, like a bad dream whispered out loud.

“Spirits don’t always wear hoods and rags, nor drift through walls.” His eyes, suddenly too steady and bright, met hers. “Sometimes they live in the mind. Sometimes in the scars we carry. And sometimes… we inherit them.”

He set the bottle aside with a final, almost ritual clink.

“If he were gone, truly gone… would you be freer?
Or simply lost?”

The hedgehog didn’t lean forward or draw back. He simply sat there, like a stone beside a river. Patient, unmoving, and waiting to see which way the current would turn.

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Corda was quiet as she weighed that prospect. What would life without Cordan be like? She'd been with him so long, had him there to fight her battles... Her mind flashed to her father's face, the smell of whisky on his breath and hate in his eyes. She shuddered, knowing what her answer is in that moment. "I would be trapped," she whispered. "I need Cordan. I need him to fight for me, for both of us. I can't be who he is. I just..." Tears came to her eyes as she confessed, "What if he doesn't need me? What if I'm the one holding us back? Maybe I'm the spirit who needs to let go, let him live while I fade away."

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle sat quietly for a while after her words faded into silence, the gentle creak of the cart settling around them like a heavy cloak. The strengthening daylight painted slow-moving shadows across shelves of hanging herbs, jars of dried petals, and bundles of bones and feathers.

He didn’t move to comfort her right away. That wasn’t his role. Not yet.

Instead, he exhaled slowly through his nose, reaching toward the low table between them. “You’ve given me truth,” he said softly. “That’s the first thing a seeker must offer.”

He reached for a square of linen draped over something round at the table’s center. With a small flourish, he peeled it back to reveal a crystal orb roughly the size of a large apple, its surface clean and glossy. The outer layer was perfectly clear, but a cloudy swirl lay locked in its core, milky and stormlike. Beneath the orb, a brass stand caught the flickering light of a cleverly hidden lantern and danced it back upward through a nest of hidden mirrors and carved prisms. The result was subtle—but unmistakable. The orb glowed, just faintly, with a warm and otherworldly hum of color.

Thistle leaned forward slightly. One eye, red-rimmed and weary, fixed on the glass while the other, crisp and keen as icewater, seemed to almost be watching her as she wept. Then, without asking, he reached out—not rough, not sudden—and gently caught a tear upon his clawtip. He studied it like it was a rare ingredient.

“Tears are useful,” he said plainly. “They tell us what the heart can’t say aloud. They sharpen the mind like whetstone to blade.” With careful precision, he let the drop fall onto the orb’s surface, where it slid down and caught a glint of prismed light.

“Now we see,” he murmured. Thistle leaned in, letting his sleeves billow theatrically as he adjusted the position of the softly glowing orb with a reverent touch. Motes of shifting color swirled within the glass like trapped wisps of fog. With a quiet, breathy hum, he narrowed his eyes and peered deep into the heart of the orb.

"Mmnn… there it is," he murmured, his voice gone gravel-soft and faraway, as if he were listening to words not spoken aloud. "Like moonlight through a cellar door, barely there… but there all the same."

He tilted his head, squinting, reaching one paw to slowly swirl the air just above the orb as if stirring unseen currents. The illusion was all choreography. His pacing, his hushed tones, the carefully timed flash of light from a hidden prism, wove a convincing veil between what was real and what might be. The kind of veil a hurting heart might want to believe in.

“There is more than you and your brother in this dance,” he said, voice low. “A third soul. Larger, heavier. Angry. Its weight has shaped the paths beneath your paws without either of you knowing how deep the paw prints go.”

“Your brother is not just fighting for you. He’s fighting it. And whether that soul is gone from the world or not, it still breathes in your brother’s bones.”

He leaned back slightly, the gleam in his bright eye catching the orb’s soft glow.

“But not in yours,” he added, gaze returning to her. “Not anymore. You’re not the ghost, little fox. You’re the reason your brother hasn’t faded, too.”

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Corda leaned in as the soothsayer spoke, peering into the orb. She seemed transfixed, letting his words washing over her, her eyes caught by the shifting hues within the glass. As his words suggested it, she could see him in the glass: her father, hate in his eyes and spittle flying from his mouth. Her heart thumped as she remained transfixed, frozen, unable to move, her mind caught up in the terror it had conjured from the past. She could feel herself slipping, retreating, her mind screaming at her to flee while her body remained locked in place...

The light dimmed, and she tore her gaze away, her heart slowing down from racing. She'd been so close to slipping into herself, retreating and leaving Cordan to deal with the danger. That, in retrospect, would have gone very poorly. Cordan sometimes seemed to have trouble distinguishing between real and perceived threats, and his use of force could be disproportionate at times.

"I don't know who I'd be without him," Corda whispered, "but he must feel the same about me." It made sense; she'd always thought of Cordan as the one who was allowed to be free, that he'd been born to live life while she was trapped under her father's thumb, but perhaps that hadn't been it at all. Maybe he'd arisen to protect her from their father in any way he could. At an age where she'd needed a protector, she'd found one, a hero right out of the adventure novels they so loved.

"I don't know where we go now," she admitted. "I don't know who we are anymore. Our family is gone, our home is gone... We have no one to be. In this new world, is there room for beasts like us? An adventurer and a..." She almost started to call herself a coward, but that wasn't quite right. "...a damsel in distress?" she stated instead.

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle said nothing for a long while, allowing the moment to breathe. The glow within the crystal faded to a soft flicker, its earlier storm of color now resting like a pond after a stone’s been thrown. He made no move to cover the orb, only watching Corda with that unsettling stillness of his.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and coaxing. “You saw someone in the glass, didn’t you?” he asked, not prying, but inviting. “It showed you what you already carry. The past is a louder ghost than most.”

His paw traced a slow circle on the tabletop, echoing the movement of the vision that had just passed. “Would you share who it was, or shall we leave their name unspoken, for now? The orb listens best when the heart speaks freely.”

He leaned back then, letting his bracelets clink softly as they settled, and gazed into the wavering light. “You speak of loss. Of roles cast aside. Heroes, damsels, home, family…” He chuckled dryly, adjusting the fringe of a dangling charm above the orb’s base.

“Funny thing about stories, kit. They don’t end when the curtain falls on one act. They shift. They grow teeth. Sometimes even wings.”

Thistle’s paw hovered over the glass again, simply casting the soft shadow of his fingers across it. “The Vulpine Imperium… ahh. A curious place, that. Built by those who no longer fit in the world they came from. Misfits, wanderers, broken things seeking a shape that feels like home.” His tone grew hushed, almost reverent. “You ask if there is room for beasts like you. I tell you: that is why it exists. You and your brother aren’t relics of a dead story… you are its prologue.”

Then, with a small smile curling one side of his mouth, he leaned forward and asked, “tell me what the ghost looked like. Let’s describe the shark that swims those waters, and see if we can’t drain its power.

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Corda took a deep breath, clutching her skirts in her paws. She focused on the texture of the fabric, the feel of the wooden boards beneath her footpaws, the scent of candles and incense burning, some indeterminate hum that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere in the cart. When she felt herself grounded enough in the moment, she finally spoke. "I saw my father," she whispered. "He was so angry, so... He hated me. He hated who I was, and who I wasn't. Cordan was the only one who could stand up to him. I... I never could." She grew quiet before stating, "He killed our mother. I remember the blood, trying to staunch it all, to bandage her up, but... She didn't last the fortnight. When Cordan was done with him, there wasn't anything to be done for Father. If the servants hadn't hated him as much as we did and agreed to cover up his death, I would probably be in a cell for what Cordan did." She looked up at the soothsayer plaintively, asking, "Does that make me a murderer?"

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle’s quills rattled as the vixen spoke, not with surprise, but with the gravity of a beast who had heard the secrets of many broken hearts before. He said nothing at first, just gently reaching out, one paw brushing a patch of dried herb across the lip of a copper dish. It hissed and crackled as it met the flame beneath it, a curl of bluish smoke rising and curling like the tongue of an ancient spirit.

"You are not a murderer," he finally said, softly, yet every syllable carried weight, as though it were being etched into the woodgrain of the cart itself. His voice trembled like a low spell, lilting and strange. Thick smoke the scent of dried myrrh, crushed violet, and some rare, earthy root that no common apothecary could name coated the air.

"You were a candle in the storm," he said, lifting his paw and letting a few glimmering flecks—crushed beetlewing, perhaps?—sprinkle over the glowing brazier. They flared, bright green and gold, and cast eerie, dancing shadows over the walls. "The darkness that claimed your father was older than you, older than him… a blackness that festers when promise is broken, when love is lost. It seized him. It used him. And when your brother struck him down, he became its vessel."

He leaned forward, motioning slowly with his paws in a spiral, conjuring more of the cart’s hidden mechanisms. A series of spring-loaded flues opened beneath the brazier, sending fragrant fog rolling out across the floor in gentle waves, wrapping her legs in a sweet-smelling mist. From above, a hidden funnel released a tiny spurt of silvery sparks that fizzled through the air with soft pops and crackles, like the laughter of distant stars.

"But you, dear heart… you have not been claimed. You have survived. That is no crime, nor is it cowardice. You bore the pain. You held the dying. You lived to carry the tale. The guilt you carry is not your own. It is a shadow that clings, undeserved and uninvited."

He paused, raising both paws now. One holding a loop of tarnished silver wire, the other a tiny vial of crimson liquid. "But shadows can be cast out."

A sudden gust, manufactured from a hidden bellows, sent the smoke swirling upward around them. The crystal ball pulsed faintly within its mirrored cradle. And then, with a subtle sleight of paw, Thistle crushed a palmful of dried moonblossom and flung it into the flames, producing a flash of light and a burst of shimmering smoke that momentarily filled the entire cart with an otherworldly glow.

"The Vulpine Imperium," he said through the haze, "is a land reborn from flame and ruin. A place where even those whose pasts are steeped in sorrow may find purpose, redemption, or, if nothing else, a future they may choose for themselves. You are not a creature of ruin, Corda. You are the one who walked through ruin… and came out with her soul intact."

As the smoke began to settle, and the glow slowly faded, Thistle leaned just enough for her to see the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "And for those who seek healing of spirit and body alike… well, I do have a special on soul-soothing elixirs, this very evening."

He turned a paw dramatically toward a shelf of carefully arranged vials, each glinting with soft, opalescent light. "This blend," he said, selecting a small cobalt flask, "offers protection from dark energies and the creeping entities that skulk in the night. And this one—" he held up a curiously clouded vial sealed with green wax, "eases tension in the limbs and calms the racing mind, like a lullaby steeped in starlight."

Then, his tone softened—genuine now, with less mysticism, more intent. “And should your brother find himself tangled in his own shadow. If the entity the crystal ball saw still echoes in his heart, I would care to speak with him too. His pain carries a story of its own. I would know how deeply it lingers.”

Thistle gently set the vials aside, claws tapping the wood in rhythm with the final fading notes of the smoke’s song. The air now smelled like spiced forest and sweet moss after a rain.

“No beast escapes shadows without seeking the Divine themselves,” he murmured. “But once the path is chosen… even the worst darkness may give way.”

[The elixir of protection in the night is absinth (alcoholic spirit) and poppy (codene), with sharp mint. Think Niquil!

The elixir of ease is a willow bark (Aspirin) and nepeta (known to produce a slight, gentle high) reduction with sweet berry juice added for flavor.

For those wondering how Thistle commands the mechanisms to work as if by magic, let me remind you that the Porter lurks below, and the cart is a contraption of many secrets... And hidden levers]

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Corda listened to the selection of draughts carefully, considering her remaining coin. She didn't have much; she'd been able to afford a small room at the Bilge near here, and had been wandering aimlessly in the night, searching for either divine inspiration or a 'help wanted' advertisement, whichever came first, when she'd run across the hedgehog. She could probably afford at least one, she decided at last. That would depend on how much the reading came out to.

At the hedgehog's suggestion that he speak to Cordan, Corda's eyes widened. "I can go get him," she admitted, "but... Well, he can be a lot. I just want you to be prepared. Also," she glanced up at a spare floppy-eared, worn-out hat and a positively ancient cloak tucked away in the small cart, "he'll want a hat and a coat. He sulks if he doesn't get one. He hates seeing... well." She gestured toward her chest a bit awkwardly. She didn't have much in the way of 'feminine charms' so to speak, but even that little, she knew, was deeply upsetting to her brother.

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle chuckled softly. Not a sharp laugh, but one warm and dry as kindling catching flame.

“A coat and a hat,” he murmured, rising slowly from his seat, bones creaking like tired floorboards. “Of course.”

He stepped to a cluttered corner of the cart, where odds and ends hung like the memories of strangers. Bits of costume, mismatched scarves, half-broken masks. With a delicate hand, he lifted the ancient cloak Corda had glanced at, shaking it once to release a puff of dust and rosemary from its folds. From a nearby hook, he plucked the floppy-eared hat, its brim sagging just so, the fabric threadbare from age and wear, not unlike Thistle himself.

“These have seen many heads,” he said, almost reverently. “None quite the same… but every one searching for a shape that fit.”

He turned, holding the garments folded neatly over one arm. “He may be a lot, but I’ve room enough in this cart for beasts of all sizes, shapes, and storms. Let him be who he must be here. The cart holds no judgment.”

Then, after a beat, his tone dipped to something quieter, gentler still, almost conspiratorial.

“But if he sulks, tell him this one’s on the house.” A grin flickered across his lips, sly and flickering. “The spirits are in a generous mood tonight. I suspect they’d like a word with him.”

He placed the cloak and hat by the cart’s entrance with care, as if laying out an offering. The smoke from the brazier had calmed to a soft, steady thread, and the vials on the shelf caught the low light like stars waiting for dusk to deepen.

“Oh,” he added, as if it were a mere afterthought, “when you step out, leave a gilder and sixty-six pence with the porter. He handles the gold. Money’s too heavy a thing to pass into the mystic realm.”

He glanced toward the shadow under the cart, where the silent, hunched shape remained utterly still save for the faintest twitch of a claw at the mention of coin.

“I’ll tidy the reading room,” he said, giving a soft tsk and adjusting a few hanging charms. “Give your brother my regards, and tell him his seat’s still warm.”

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Corda clutched the hat and cloak a little nervously, nodding and bobbing her head in meek acknowledgement of the hedgehog's instructions. "Thank you," she whispered. "I... I will go and fetch him." Keeping her head bowed, she slipped from the cart, then fished four gliders from her pouch and tentatively offered them to the porter. "For me and my brother," she explained. "He's bad with coin, so I wanted to pay for him upfront." Of course, four gliders was itself nothing to sneeze at; in the Slups, such would probably have been six months' rent at an upscale hovel or a particularly well-appointed ditch, though flashing it about in the daylight would more likely have bought them a pauper's rough pinewood casket.

The payment made, Corda stepped out into the night, walking a few paces from the cart. Taking some deep breaths of the foggy night air, the rich and pungent aromas of the harbor forming murky tastes on her tongue, Corda tried to calm her racing heart and focus on tying the frayed cords of the cloak into a knot before her. Cordan would get into all sorts of trouble if given the chance, and he would be greatly vexed by losing his cloak. She could have gone back to the Bilge for a proper change of clothes, but that was a long walk, and she didn't want the cart to disappear in the meantime. Taking one last breath, Corda placed the hat on her head, closed her eyes, and fell into dreamless slumber.

Cordan awoke.

His eyes scanned the section of the Harbor in which he found himself, scanning the alleyways. At this time of night, there were bound to be scoundrels and brigands lurking in the shadows, eager to prey upon unfortunate innocents and damsels easily placed in distress by their vile depredations. It was the duty of every gentleman warrior, heir to the noble knights errant of old, to seek out and destroy such evil creatures, making the world safe for-

He stopped, feeling at his side. He was missing his rapier. Well, that was a problem. When he was younger, a study stick was all he needed, but against the horrors of the world at large, a proper blade was needed. He really needed to find a way to impress upon his sister the importance of going armed; there were plenty who would see her as an eager target, and he could not always be there to protect her.

The aspiring adventurer frowned as a glimmer of purpose flitted into his mind. His sister was rarely transparent about her desires; sometimes she wrote him notes, but more often she expected him to simply understand what she wanted based on context. And she always wanted something; she was a damsel constantly in some form of distress, and Cordan was there to be his sister's protector. The perfect arrangement, really. This time it was... ghosts? Ghosts in a carriage? That was a bit bizarre; he rarely fought off the supernatural, certainly not unarmed, but he supposed that would make it an interesting challenge. Straightening his posture and shifting his cloak to better obscure certain elements of his body he preferred to ignore, he fixed his gait to approach the cart.

"Ho there, porter," Cordan hailed the beast as he approached. "Be this portage for the conveyance of the living or the damned? I have heard tell that dark and pernicious spirits haunt your vessel, and I, Cordan LeConte, chivalric warrior for Her Majesty's good name and honor, have come to cleanse the foul forces that haunt your craft! I beseech you, take me upon this voyage to the underworld, that I may return its wayward denizens to Vulpuz's gates post-haste!" He struck a heroic pose, fist against hip, hand out to the sire. If he'd had a sword in it, the gesture might not have looked so silly and ineffectual.

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

The cart shifted subtly as a new presence approached. Beneath its frame, something stirred. A low, rattling breath like wind hissing through split bark. The porter, nestled in the shadows near the wheel well, unfolded just enough of himself to make a noise.

“Krrrtchtch.”

It wasn’t quite a cough. Not quite a hiss. More like a wet scraping. A sound that stuck to the ears like damp moss. His spine curled and popped as he rose a few inches taller, peering at Cordan with unblinking eyes too round and too still. One skeletal claw twitched at his side like a broken metronome.

He said nothing. Just watched.

From the cart's entrance, Thistle appeared with a dry rustle of herb-scented linen. He stepped down with the unhurried grace of someone used to interruptions, his paw curling a ceramic tea cup that had somehow survived the jostling.

“Well now,” the hedgehog said, tone neither alarmed nor amused, “he only makes that noise when he senses a shadow in the aether. Ghost, maybe. Something’s clinging close to you, sir knight.”

He gave the porter a knowing glance. The creature made no move to disagree.

Thistle turned back to Cordan, taking a quiet sip from his cup before setting it aside.

“Not the first time spirits’ve clung to a bold soul. They’ve a fondness for drama, I’ve found. Especially when swords and honor are involved.” He sniffed lightly at the air, as if tasting the energies on the wind. “The divining space is prepared. The spirits have been very well compensated. They’d best behave.”

A pause. His quills trembled, not from fear, but from something stirring on the edge of sense.

“There’s a current runnin’ through the night,” he said, voice softer now. “Like a calm before a clash. A gallant fight between good, evil... or somethin’ that thinks it’s both.”

He stepped aside and gestured with a paw toward the interior of the cart.

“Come in, Cordan. Let’s see what the dead have to say about your hero’s path.”

@Corda & Cordan LeConte

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Cordan raised his chin, intent on showing his bravery in the face of the supernatural. It was rare that an adventurer such as himself faced down such; usually that was the domain of ancient epics, not modern pulp fiction, but he could bridge genres for a night. "Lead the way then, shepherd of the dead," he declared, striding forward into the cart. "I fear not any ghost nor demon. I have slain one such vile monster already, and I will send all of his kind to the torment that awaits them!"

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

The cart welcomed him without a word. No creak, no groan. Just a hush, like breath held between heartbeats.

Thistle gestured silently to the same bench seat Corda had occupied earlier, its worn cushion still slightly indented. He offered no fanfare, no ceremony. Only a soft nod, the tip of his snout angling toward the chair like a master of ritual acknowledging a returning guest.

Cordan, of course, did not simply sit. He swept his cloak aside with a gallant flick, dramatic and practiced. The motion was graceful, almost theatrical… until the edge of the cloth clipped the side shelf.

A cluster of tiny glass vials tumbled. Two thudded to the floor, and one spun in a wobbling circle before rolling beneath the bench.

From somewhere beneath the cart, the porter hissed sharply. It was an ugly sound like a rusted hinge catching on bone. A long-fingered shape twitched near the floorboards before retreating once more into shadow.

Thistle didn’t flinch. He simply moved with careful ease, touching a hanging bundle of dried sage and hyssop, then blew a long, slow breath across it. The air shifted, somehow. Cooler. Closer.

“She saw it, y’know,” he said quietly, drawing the curtain across the back of the cart. “The dark thing that follows. Lingerin’ just outside the light.”

He didn’t look at Cordan as he spoke, but his eyes flicked to the seat, then to the floor. Then to the closed door.

“The damsel didn’t name it. Not proper. Spirits get strange when y’call ‘em out too early. Makes ‘em shy. Withdrawn.”

He struck a match. The flare of flame lit the side of his face in golden relief as he lit the tiny brazier tucked into a carved alcove between bottles and vials. A few herbs crumbled in after: mugwort, dried orange peel, and a pinch of something violet that burned with a scent like rain-soaked earth.

With the curtain fully drawn and the brazier casting shadows, the interior of the cart no longer felt like a place meant for wheels or road. It was enclosed now, like a burrow or a shrine. Quiet and pressed in by the hush of something watching.

Thistle’s quills bristled faintly in the dim.

“The veil’s drawin’ in. Door to the waking world’ll stay shut ‘til the spirits give their say.”

He turned at last, facing Cordan directly now, though his gaze seemed to pass through the fox as much as rest on him.

“If you’ve got secrets in your shadow, hold ’em gently—but don’t twist the truth. Spirits don’t mind what you hide… ’til they think you’re hidin’ it from them.”

He crouched beside the brazier, paws hovering near but never touching the flame.

“You ready for this, Cordan? Not every ghost likes bein’ woken.”

@Corda & Cordan LeConte

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Cordan kept his chin raised, obscuring any signs of fear. Heroes didn't feel fear except for reasonable caution. Fear was weakness, and he couldn't be weak, not when Corda was relying on him. "I fear no spirits, ferryman," he declared. "Carry us straight through the Hellgates themselves to the great lakes of fire and ash, and I shall stare Vulpuz himself in the face! No shade shall cow me today!"