Open Vulpinsula & Surroundings A Little Hex by the Sea

[Thistle Brambledew]

The wheels of the cart squealed like a frightened piglet as they trundled over the sun-baked stones of Kenny’s Bunk Point. Gaudy pennants flapped overhead, their colors painfully bright under the midday sun. A whale-shaped balloon bobbed against the sky, tethered to a saltwater taffy stand.

Thistle squinted up from the cart at a storefront that proclaimed SHELL YEAH! – Souvenirs & Curios in blocky blue letters. His nose twitched at the mingled scent of sugar glaze, fried crustaceans, and pink coconut oil.

“Hrm. This place has too many teeth.”

The cart creaked to a halt beside a shaded alcove between a claw-painting kiosk and a puppet theater. One of the cart’s wheels bumped up against a misplaced paving stone, and a crate inside clattered loose.

The Porter hissed. He had already begun to wilt in the southern heat, cloaked form swaying as he righted himself.

Thistle stepped down and began the elaborate process of setting up. The awning had warped slightly from the journey. He muttered curses as he wrestled it upright. A gust of ocean wind caught one edge and nearly toppled it again.

Meanwhile, the Porter struggled to steady a stack of trinket boxes shaped like sea cucumbers, bumping the cart’s back wheel in the process and sending a pouch of Brightmirth Brew tumbling into the dust.

A few onlookers gathered. A child pointed and giggled. One adult muttered, “Street magic”, and dug for a coin.

“Not a show,” Thistle muttered, affixing a sign to the front of the cart with a crooked smile painted beneath the words: Fortunes Told. Spirits Heard. Unsolicited Honesty Available.

Business came quickly. A wobbling sea-tourist bought a vial labeled Wavetamer’s Reprieve without reading the fine print. Thistle handed it over with a flourish.

“No refund if your fur grows back in green, dearie.”

Sales picked up. Some mistook Brightmirth Brew for a novelty liqueur and bought three at once. Thistle didn’t correct them. The Porter, half-draped over the crate, made a low, tired sound.

Then came the moment. A seagull gave a sudden shriek, then pitched out of the sky like a stone. It landed directly on a sagging overhead banner, and the added weight tore it free. The whole length of garish canvas came tumbling down, taking with it a busker’s hat stand and knocking the poor beast clean off his stool. Coins clattered. Bystanders shrieked and began grabbing at the spilled coinage.

Thistle didn’t flinch.

“Bad air. Perfect for business.”

He turned to the Porter, who now sat slumped like a wet sack of laundry, robes tanning in the heat.

“Go on, dear Porter. Barrel just there.” He gestured toward a shaded corner where a half-covered water cask stood near a melted lemonade cart. “Slow sips.”

The Porter creaked off, cloak dragging behind him. Thistle adjusted the curtain over the cart’s reading nook and lit a twist of incense that smelled faintly of lavender and old pine.

Then he sat in a garish, flowery printed folding chair wearing darkened glasses contentedly, in wait.

 

[Lord Yaro Ashpaw]

This wasn’t Yaro’s scene. The shadows of the Harbour and its harsh realities were of far more comfort compared with the kitsch and open space of Kenny’s. It was hard to do Yaro’s favourite kind of jobs here. Still, he had managed to carry out his latest task. Another apparent danger to the Empress was now stuffed inside a barrel of fish heads, sharing room with a weasel who had been overly aggressive in trying to sell his jam tarts.

Yaro leant in the shade of one of the shops facing the pier, licking crumbs and jam from one paw. He had stashed his cloak in a safe place and rolled his leggings up into makeshift shorts, the heat too abrasive for his usual style. Tools of his trade wrapped and tucked into his belt alongside his daggers, he could easily be mistaken for a regular mercenary.

He watched the hedgehog and his cart, listening to what he could catch, studying every customer, gullible or otherwise.

His eyes and ears flicked toward the calamity with the seagull, taking the surprise in his stride, though he could not deny the increased pace of his heart. More odd happenings around this creature. Could it really be true ill luck, or was the hedgehog a mastermind of trickery and murder?

For now, Yaro decided to dare getting a little closer. The wildcat ventured toward a café a short distance from Brambledew’s cart and ordered an overpriced lime cordial. Something in his eyes told the vendor that was all he was buying, and he should thank him for it.​

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

The air had grown thick again, this time with the scent of fried oil and an approaching thunderclap of cheap cologne.

A stoat arrived like a foghorn in fur. Round, red-faced, and glistening from snout to shirt-buttons, he waddled straight up to Thistle’s cart and stopped next to sun-bathing Thistle with a wheeze and a grunt.

“Right then,” he said, slapping a paw down. “I need you to hex my ex.”

Across the promenade, a gull screamed in protest. The Porter shifted behind the stall, rising like an offended shadow, but Thistle only blinked once.

“Do tell.”

The stoat adjusted his cap. “She left me. Packed up n’ took my good boots. Walked right off with a crab-seller from Downel. Said I was ‘spiritually stagnant,’ whatever that means. Can ya give her boils? Nothin’ serious. Just... embarrassin’.”

There was a pause. Thistle placed both paws on the chairs edge and leaned forward, voice soft as moth-wing dust.

“Spirits’ll pass on your message, sure... but karma is a devilish beast. You’ll get it back double, friend. Boils an’ all.”

The stoat blinked, unsure if that was a threat or just the way these things worked.

With a flick of his wrist, Thistle pulled a small, corked vial from a pouch from a crate at his side. Pale liquid shimmered inside, kissed with lavender and sage.

“Tonic of Forgetfulness*,” he said. “Take before sleep. Dreams will change. Hurts less with time.”

The stoat sniffed. “Looks like perfume.”

He reached for it anyway, but missed.

The vial hit the wooden edge of the counter, bounced once on the cobblestone. It did not shatter. Instead, it clinked gently along the ground and curved, as if guided, toward the open-air café where a certain short wildcat had been watching all this unfold.

Thistle tilted his head, unbothered.

“Hm. Looks like it picked its own path.”

Behind the cart, the Porter squealed. A long, rising whine, like a kettle too proud to boil over.

*It's actually just a simple sleep aid. No tonic can make a beast forget or cure a broken heart.

 

[Lord Yaro Ashpaw]

Curious.

Yaro sipped his cordial and side-eyed the rolling vial. Had the hedgehog clocked him as a spy and intentionally sent this to draw him in? It wasn't as if Yaro was truly trying to hide. Call it a personal interest that he thought the Duchess might want to hear what he could find out about Brambledew. Of course, he had to be cautious. Whatever the beast's situation, a con or otherwise, the collateral had been very real.

Something told the cat that he should not resist this calling, forced or not. He did not like to be manipulated, and yet he was open minded enough to respect the possibility of the occult.

He downed the cordial and set his vessel down before delicately reaching and plucking the tonic from the cobbles.

"I believe you should follow the hog's advice," Yaro remarked to the stoat. He hopped to his feet and sauntered over, vial held between two sharp claws. "Your alternative is to meditate at midnight in the Slups of Bouillabaisse. Infinitely cheaper, unpredictable side effects."