Open Vulpinsula & Surroundings A Little Hex by the Sea

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.
 
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.​
 
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.
 
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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."
 
The stoat blinked up at the wildcat, mouth slack, brow furrowed like he was trying to recall the order of ships in a harbor queue.

“Right,” he finally muttered. “No hexes then. But I’ll have a couple more of them tonics.”

He dug into a pocket and slapped a few gilders into Thistle’s paw, then reached to reclaim the vial from the wildcat’s grip with a sheepish, dismissive grin, more embarrassed than grateful.

A faint chchkt sounded at the cart’s flank. The Porter emerged at a sideways scurry, holding a crumpled paper bag in both paws. The stoat took a nervous step back as it was offered, then gingerly accepted it, eyes not quite meeting the creature’s.

With a smooth motion, the Porter slipped another identical bottle from his cloak and passed it up to Thistle, who tucked it neatly into the display, right where the previous demonstration vial had sat. The gilders changed paws. The Porter gave no sound, only retreated to his shadowed corner and resumed his quiet vigil.

Thistle had said nothing through the whole affair. Only now, with the transaction completed, did he nod.

“A wise turn. May the new season bring clearer skies and quieter waters.”

He turned then, slow and deliberate, toward the wildcat.

Eyes sharp, voice low.

“Dropped bottles roll toward those with open paws. Fate’s fond of such things.”

He paused briefly, the sound of beach play, happy crowds of tourists, and seagulls filling the void.

“Makes you wonder if you were meant to take a sip instead.”
 
After the briefest glance to the intriguing Porter, Yaro's unnerving stare did not leave the purchasing stoat until the hedgehog addressed him.

Fate. The wildcat did not believe in such things. To him, there was only chaos and what sweet control one could savour as best one could within the pockets of attempted order. Nothing was a certainty. Nothing except death, and even that was an unknown too great to be perfectly sure about. He wouldn't rule out the idea of Fate; it was simply a word to him that had no bearing on the things that occurred.

Yaro took in the momentary saccharine sounds of enjoyment. Noise, idle chatter. So tempting to disrupt.

"You can wonder, friend, but my sleep is undisturbed. Are your dreams so peaceful knowing the misfortunes that chase your back?"
 
The gulls shrieked overhead. A sugar-slick breeze wafted from the direction of fried dough and brine. Thistle didn’t blink.

He tilted his head at the wildcat.

“What misfortunes?”

A breeze passed, ruffling the edge of the cart’s faded awning. Thistle blinked once, then gave a small sniff, as if testing the wind.

“Stormclouds don’t follow me.”A small shrug. “I check.”

He angled his head sideways toward the Porter.

“Have I cursed anything this week?”

The Porter let out a slow, unimpressed chchkt from somewhere behind the stall.

Thistle leaned forward in his seat now, tinted glasses sliding slightly down his nose.

“You’ve got a thread tugging your thoughts, and I’d dearly like to know which spool it came from.”
 
“Oh, I wouldn’t go looking for the source of any loose threads this fellow might have: he looks unravelled enough as it is.” Beaming as he sauntered closer, Matisse delicately blew on freshly painted claws of gold, courtesy of the claw-painting kiosk he had been standing at whilst he watched with silent curiosity this hedgehog work his magic.

Well, magic of a sort. Whether he believed the beast hardly mattered when his sales patter was respectable enough. He’d read one or two reports on beasts matching the description of Brambledew and the Porter from within the MinoMis: this was too good a chance to pass up to get to see up close what was going on. Of course he would have to contend with Yaro’s presence, but as much as he enjoyed needling the bizarre wildcat he couldn’t say he was averse to his company.

Dressed in light and airy clothing of dark green and black, the sable presented today the air of a monied, verging on foppish, individual out to enjoy the sunny weather. “I couldn’t help but overhear much curiosity, gentlebeasts; I wonder if you’d mind satisfying mine?” He nodded up to the awning. “It’s been many a season since I’ve seen something like this on the front, simply splendid, is it not?” He grinned at Yaro.
 
His gaze lingered on the wildcat for a moment longer, quiet and unreadable. Then, at the scrape of a nearby chair leg, he shifted. With a slow, deliberate motion, he tilted his tinted glasses down his snout and peered over the rims at the sable, newly arrived.

“Threads of wisdom and observation. Those are worth the time.”

His tone was directed toward the wildcat. Gentle, but cool as tidewater.

“But I don’t barter with beasts who haven’t been chosen to speak with the veil.”

The glasses slid back up with the soft push of one claw tip. His body then turned toward the sable now, legs crossed, posture relaxed, but no less present.

“So then.” A creak from the cart behind him. “What’ll it be this fine day? Do you come seekin’ balm… or are you the type who wants to take the long road past the veil?”
 
What other thread Yaro might have allowed to be tugged was not to be discovered as his irksome colleague arrived on the scene. Matisse. Though Yaro seldom found emotion much of a companion, it liked to surface on occasion around the sable. Perhaps it was because he simply wasn't allowed to harm the beast. Much, anyway. Still, the wildcat supposed Matisse wasn't terrible for conversation when Yaro could be bothered with it. Right now, Yaro was a little put out that he wasn't being witnessed in his usual attire. Embarrassment was a strong word for him, but half-dressed with rolled-up trousers was a look he could do without Matisse remarking on.

Yaro was certain the hedgehog knew of what he spoke, even if he turned out not to be directly responsible. Perhaps the creature knew which way the winds blew and when ill things were going to occur, just to make his business seem even more legitimate. It only seemed more suspicious with an offer retracted. The veil? Oh, it would be interesting if Matisse bought into this, real or otherwise. What might the sable choose?

"Yes, Dubois, what is it you seek?"
 
An impertinent smirk flashed across the sable’s muzzle, aimed at Yaro for a moment before the hedgehog spoke once again. The wildcat’s attire had not escaped his notice, though for the moment his curiosity was hooked enough by Thistle that he was stalled from making comment.

Pouting as though in thought, Matisse drummed painted claws against his belt buckle for a moment, bushy tail twitching. “Oh, decisions decisions,” he crooned, grey eyes turning on the unusual creature. “If I did happen to wish to travel beyond this veil, of sorts, what assurances have you that you are a guide I can trust?” He smirked at Yaro. “I’ve heard many a tale of beasts offering the gullible a tour through the city only to try and mug those who follow. Such terrible brutes. Now, I do not wish to sound untrusting, merely…cautious. I am certain ‘tis no stroll along the seafront, after all.”
 
Thistle watched the exchange with growing interest, one brow arching slowly behind the frame of his tinted glasses. The way they held each other’s eyes… the way one didn’t seem the least bit surprised by the other’s sudden presence…

A soft breath left his snout. “So the threads are tangled already.”

He gestured lightly with one paw, a smooth arc that indicated the space before him. There would be room enough for two, if they didn’t mind sitting close. “I do offer two-for-one readings, should you wish to share a little fate today. Joint inquiries often unearth surprising truths.”

Then he turned his head just slightly toward the sable, as if catching the flicker of distrust before it could fully settle.

“Only a moon ago, I read for the Minister of Misanthropy herself. In that very cart.” He nodded at the odd and extravagant cart parked behind him. “Must I divine the Empress herself before I’m trusted by common beasts?”

He gave a soft shrug, already reclining again. No true offense taken. Not outwardly, at least.

“No pressure, of course.” He tipped his glasses down just enough to peer over them again. “The veil has time.”
 
In this moment, Yaro felt a kinship again with Matisse, his own thoughts running along similar routes. Normally, he would not indulge in encounters of this nature. But he was somewhat investigating, was he not? Perhaps there would be something entertaining and he was not about to let Matisse experience something without him.

A few of Yaro's whiskers twitched at being called a 'common beast'. Had his mother got her way, her very foolish and unlikely way, he might very well be the prince of this place. How fortunate for everyone that he had helped to stop her from attempting to become the Queen of Amarone. The sad truth was that here he truly was a common beast, his heritage meaningless in this land far from the Ashpaw colonies. A far better life here, though.

Slowly, he took a seat.

"I will accept a reading."
 
Where initially scorn or even disgust might have settled on his features at the thought of sharing anything with Yaro, the further mention of the Minister herself captured his attention. So she was not only already well aware of this hedgehog, but had presumably made use of his services? Whether the vixen believed in it or used it simply as entertaining distraction he could not deduce. Still, if she had partaken he supposed it could not hurt to be informed.

Besides, he was hardly going to let the cat have all the fun. Anything he could do to intrude.

"Mmmh, very well," the sable agreed, perching on a seat of his own. His whiskers twitched in amusement. "I'm curious to see what tapestry you see out of these threads."
 
Thistle was still reclined in his chair, one leg draped over the other, tinted lenses catching a glint of bright sunlight. He'd said nothing through the last exchange. He just listened, head tilted ever so slightly, like a weather vane testing which way the tension blew.

Then, with a single fluid motion, he swung his legs down, set his calloused paws square on the stone, and stood.

The sunglasses came off and were folded and stowed safely within his quills.

“Ah. Not strangers after all. Good.” He gave a faint smile. “Two threads, one tangle. Makes for a better resolution.”

He gestured behind him, toward the cart with a flick of his paw, a motion both casual and precise.

“If you're both ready, we’ll step through proper. The veil’s easier to part with fewer gawkers about.”

He took a step, then paused mid-stride, holding up a paw as though recalling some minor bureaucratic detail.

“Ah. And one small matter. Six gilders up front.”

His tone remained smooth and pleasant, even friendly, but the line was drawn.

“New policy, I’m afraid. Ever since a few... spiritually dishonest souls tried to skip out on payment.”
A brief pause. Then a low, sardonic lilt: “Thankfully, the Porter made quick work of their paws.”

On cue, the Porter emerged with a scuttle and a click, as if summoned by the very mention of owed coin. He held out one greasy, unnatural curled paw, hungry for payment. His blank black eyes blinked once, and a faint, expectant chchkt echoed from somewhere inside his frame.
 
The wildcat made a brief suspicious squint at the cart, disliking the idea of being in a confined space with Matisse and a stranger. More of a question of wisdom than anything to fear. Well, if they were going in, he was going to try and get in before his fellow agent.

Payment was little of a bother to him. His expenditure was mainly kept to the tools of his trade and said trade paid well enough. He retrieved the requested amount of gilders and dropped them into the Porter's paw, his intense stare taking in the creature with morbid fascination. Then, Yaro made his way inside the cart to find a new seat.
 
Matisse allowed a further smirk to cross his muzzle as the peculiar hedgehog made his request. He could at least respect the shrewd decision to take payment upfront: whatever the mystic was peddling he had clearly been doing it for some time.

Content to see where the encounter would lead (content, also, to let Yaro be the first inside), he paused only a moment to regard the Porter before payment. He looked, to the sable’s eyes, as something diseased. With care not to let them clatter to the floor nor look churlish, he dropped the coins into the Porter’s paw with as little contact as was possible and ducked inside the cart.

At once his eyes roved about the interior, taking in as much as he could in the gloom whilst sidestepping to linger on the left-paw side of the space. By nature he was a curious beast: keen though he was to see this performance unfold, even a glimpse inside this space felt worth the coin.
 
The Porter’s paw extended a few beats longer than politeness required. The instant the gilders dropped into his grasp, first from the wildcat, then the sable, he let out a single sharp chchkt and retreated with startling speed, his long, bony limbs folding and vanishing beneath the cart in a clatter of motion. The hem of his cloak fluttered briefly, and for the briefest moment, a pale rat’s tail flashed from beneath the layers.

Thistle, still outside, watched the pair’s backs with a muted glint of amusement. He’d meant six gilders. That was the offer. A test. If either had hesitated, he might have considered one beast paying for the other enough. But no...both had offered without flinch. Sable and wildcat, each eager to pay. The price was, indeed, now 12 Gilders.

He gave his sandals a lazy tap, then followed, unhurried, up the cart’s step.
“Go on in. Make yerselves at 'ome.”

The rear of the cart opened into a narrow, low hallway, barely two meters deep, but every inch of it packed with goods. Shelves of tinctures and vials lined both sides, each crate stamped with symbols and foreign script. The scent of dried herbs intensified here, mingling with the fainter perfume of wax and oil.

The hallway emptied into a square, candle-lit chamber. Though barely three meters square, the space unfurled with rich, embracing weight. Floor, ceiling, walls, and shelving were all carved mahogany, scratched in places from use, stained in others, burnished in deep oils and age. A deep red rug, patterned in curling shapes of burgundy and rust, took up most of the floor.

Every inch of wall was cluttered with trinkets. Bits of glass, pressed flowers in resin, teeth in jars, brittle scrolls, bundles of herbs, brass compasses, bird bones, bags of unidentifiable coins, some gleaming, some deeply corroded. A cabinet of curiosities where the cabinet was the room itself.

At the center stood a round table, draped in a velvet cloth the color of blood. Atop it rested a small crystal orb, its surface gently veiled in creamy white linen. The side walls of the space were windowed in hundreds of vials - green, blue, ochre, and gold - each catching the flicker of sunlight from outside in a mosaic of moving color. At the table’s far side, nestled between a smaller table with a veiled deck of cards and a small tea set, and a elaborate potbelly brazier, was a fifth chair. This one was higher backed, older, and worn in a way the others were not.

Overhead, a small chandelier cast flickering light through coils of rising incense: frankincense, sandalwood, and rose. The warmth was immediate. The world outside already felt unreal.

Thistle entered last, shutting a velvet curtain over the entry without flourish.

He took his seat at the head of the table, one paw resting lightly on the crystal’s draped surface. He allowed the others a moment to settle before closing his eyes and lifting his snout slightly.

His voice came slow and measured, words of practiced rhythm: “Spirits of fox and flame... Great Kitsune who walks the branches, dark paths of the Dark Forest, Vulpus of vision, Musteros of memory, and Felis of Fleetness... grant us brief welcome. Allow us a veil drawn wide.”

The brazier to his left gave a quiet pulse of heat. The crystal ball, still covered, mirrored the pulse with a faint glow from beneath its linen shroud.
 
Oblivious to the test considering Brambledew had not specified 'each' as much as assuming it was how the hedgehod made his living, Yaro was already taking in the curiosities of the cart. He felt the quiet urge to collect things, something to idle the time between jobs. What things that should be, he had not settled upon. This place simply kindled the desire. Amongst others.

Deliberately avoiding looking at Matisse to keep up politeness, he listened to Thistle's words. He retained decorum despite his disdain for the idea of a spiritual kitsune, or indeed any spirit waiting in the after. If he believed in anything beyond, it was certainly not that a fox ruled it. Perhaps he would believe if Felis themselves dropped in and told him.

Yaro gave a small smile at the show of light, resisting the urge to look beneath the table. He wanted to know how it worked, but he knew how to respect showmanship, real or not. Now he flicked a glance to the Dark Star, silently garnering his reaction. Matisse was the more talkative of the two, after all.​
 
Though the low lighting did few favours for his eyesight, Matisse took in all that he could of the bizarre curiosities lining the walls; the decks of cards and vials; the warmth which felt, to the sable, oppressive in the heat of an already bright day. He wondered if it was all part of creating a sense of unease.

He took a seat of his own, forcing attention back upon the hedgehog and the crystal ball. Though any parallels to Yaro would have been met with distaste, he too held such spirits in low regard. Youth had beaten such beliefs in a higher power out of him many seasons past. Still, information was information: were this a scam it would be enlightening to know what Thistle could read of him. Better knowledge, then, with which to further protect himself.

Grey eyes remained fixed not on the crystal ball but on the beast invoking its useage. Maintaining his polite smile, Matisse settled back more comfortably and, when he spoke, did so quietly. "You'll forgive me for not knowing how this works. Is there anything we should be doing?"
 
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