Open Vulpinsula & Surroundings A Little Hex by the Sea

[Thistle Brambledew]

The room held its breath. The warmth of the brazier simmered up through the center of the table, adding to the oppressive nature of the room, warping its light across the red cloth.

Thistle didn’t speak for a long moment. He watched the pair seated across from him, one paw resting gently over the veiled crystal, though he made no move to reveal it. His eyes slid between them.

“Some see gods in the fog, tugging at the chains of fate. Others see only unpredictable chaos in nature...” He paused briefly with a whistling sigh, “Regardless of which they see, it is important to take the time to look inward in self-reflection”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t gesture. But as he spoke, something behind the brazier clicked softly, barely audible within the claustrophobic confines of the cart. A hidden hinge somewhere gave way. From an unseen chute, a small dusting of powder drifted onto the low-burning coals, sending a ripple of green and blue flame up through the room. The light caught in the stained vials along the walls, sending trembling shades across the rug, the ceiling, the furs of those seated.

Thistle did not acknowledge the shift.He simply spoke again.

“Beasts rarely walk into the same reading by accident. The thread between you is no tangle. It’s a tether.”

He leaned forward slightly now, resting both paws against the edge of the table.

“You’ve paid your toll. Reach in and ask what brings you to the precipice you find yerselves. Why seek the divine when both Sable and Feline exude such strong energy of doubt?”

At that, the ancient Hedgehog stood expectant and still, waiting for is quarry to respond.

 

[Lord Yaro Ashpaw]

The cat's gaze flowed over the reflections of flame, impressed and soothed, though his eyes did not widen whether by practice or neurosis. To look inward. Something Yaro did so often and yet so little perhaps in the right ways. He focused on his work, on what brought him pleasure, on problems he could solve. Consideration for anything else seemed a waste of time. It occurred to him that he felt the urge to leave, his fur prickling at the idea of uncovering more to himself in front of a stranger and a... whatever he considered Matisse.

This discomfort was precisely why Yaro stayed. He would not be bested by it.

"I am here out of curiosity," he relented, "and to learn what I can about you, your trade, and if necessary myself. I would be foolish to dismiss possibilities of the unknown merely because I doubt."​

 

[Matisse Dubois]

It was certainly a display of showmanship, if nothing else. Reminded of a whole other lifetime where entertainment had been paramount, Matisse could at the very least respect the craft and - regardless of whether it fit his aesthetic taste - the ethereal, unnerving kind of beauty being drawn around them in faceted hues of all shades. His nose twitched at the concept of any tether to Yaro, though he left any response unspoken for the time being.

Looking inward, for his part, was not an area Matisse indulged in. He was not of a mind to examine what had come before nor to reflect on the litany of misdeeds across his lifetime: his focus was ever external, in the future and the present. He was, however, by profession one well used to throwing together narratives. If this hedgehog touched too close to home, began to make him uncomfortable in examining the inner self, he reasoned, he could simply lie. It bolstered his confidence enough to remain engaged in the process.

"Mmh, I remain out of curiosity," Matisse replied. "You mentioned inviting only those chosen to speak with the veil; of destiny and threads, so whether or not we seek, it would be a foregone conclusion to find ourselves drawn to this divine, yes?" He sat forward a little, clearly intrigued. "What is it about us that makes us ones chosen, and what is it that we should we be looking for? If we are so doubtful, we may need more of a guide."

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle let the weight of their words settle. He didn’t rush to respond. Instead, he leaned ever so slightly back in his chair, one paw still resting against the veiled orb.

The brazier crackled softly.

“A foregone conclusion, you said.” His eyes lifted, hooded and thoughtful. “Perhaps. But I don’t cast lots for strangers, no. If you’re here, it’s because the thread found you.”

He turned his gaze slightly, pausing on each of them in turn.

“Not because of your doubt. Nor in spite of it. No. Something indeed drew you here.”

The brazier hissed low and steady, the green and blue smoke curling upward in soft tendrils.

He shifted his gaze to the wildcat.

“Curiosity is no sin, Wildcat. It’s what makes the veil part.”
“But if you come to study the ritual, and not take part...” He gave a faint smile, humorless but not unkind. “Beware. The spirits do not care to be observed like curios in a drawer.”

With that, he turned back to the center of the table. His paw moved in a fluid motion, and with a small, practiced tug, he peeled back the linen cloth covering the orb.

The crystal within was round and clear, polished like still water under moonlight. But caught in its center was a swirl of cloudy white—a storm sealed inside glass. Beneath the orb, a brass fixture anchored it to the table. Hidden within the table’s structure, the mechanism stirred. Small prisms clicked gently into place, a warm oil lamp flickering behind tinted glass.

Color bloomed. Bands of violet and amber laced upward through the orb’s heart, turning slowly like a tide inside the glass, before shifting to blue and green with a barely audible click. Thistle said nothing. The light did the work.

He let the stillness return, then spoke again, quieter and more reverent.

“One of you holds a mirror. The other, a knife. Both cut, if turned inward.”

He folded his paws and let the silence arrive, patient and steady, as if daring the veil itself to blink first.

“I sense a malice in this room. A burning desire to provoke chaos. Neither of you brought it here, but your presence has awoken it from its slumber”

He looked at them.

“Something... moved, just now. Not in the flame. Not in the glass. In the pattern.”

He let the words hang, a breath caught before a storm.

“What is it you’ve stirred, walking in together like this? There’s a resonance about you. Like two voices humming the same wrong note.”

Thistle didn’t accuse.

But something behind his eyes had drawn taut, like a snare just shy of springing.

“I don’t ask what you are.” His tone leveled out again, smoother. “But what you’ve brought.”

And with that, he went still once more, watching for the tremor in their threads.

 

[Lord Yaro Ashpaw]

All the while Thistle spoke, Yaro stared, forcing a professional focus that ran contrary to romantic notions of violence. He listened to the hedgehog’s warning and eyed the revealed sphere, the fur on the back of his neck shivering again. Was it the supernatural or merely in his mind? Perhaps somewhere in between.

He allowed a small smile concerning a chaotic entity, claws drumming idly on folded arms. Are you so sure it isn’t us? Or just Matisse. Yes. I can keep myself under more control.

“Sharp as your spines. I have been known to bring disharmony and I do not seek to be in tune with the choir.”​

 

[Matisse Dubois]

For a brief while Matisse allowed the words to skate over his consciousness in preference for the visuals. Most of the time he did not allow himself such indulgence: his work required a fastidious level of focus on every word spoken, gesture made, paw movement. This beast, he suspected, would be examining things in a way so different and yet so similar to his own. He wondered if that was what caught the eye of the Minister herself.

In the meantime, however, he tried to allow himself to focus less on the words and more on what he could see. Discarding cynicism was not easy for the sable and he had to fight the part of himself determined to call this entire thing a sham. He had little time for the concept of spirits or divine: they had never come to his aid on those years of calling for them. If they existed he would resent the life they had put him through.

Still, there was no point partaking if he would not offer something to work with. Matisse inhaled slowly through his nose, eyes turning towards the ceiling as he followed the shifting facets of light. Alright, regardless of how, that was impressive. A similar prickle ran through the mustelid.

Despite himself Matisse snorted in amusement at Yaro's comment, as though what he had disclosed was an understatement. "For my part," he added, "I bring what it necessary. Harmony or disharmony. I play in tune when it suits. Perhaps, here and now, if you are asking for a true nature...that is not the case."