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."

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

The light from the orb trembled softly now, slow and rhythmic, like the breath of something long asleep. Thistle didn’t rush. He watched the two seated before him with that same unblinking presence he’d held since the brazier first flared.

His voice, when it came, was even and quiet. Confident. A performer who already knew how the next act would end.

“Curious,” he began, his tone light and almost amused. “Some beasts declare their nature like flags in wind… but you two? You carry it like smoke in your sleeves.”

A twitch of one paw traced the edge of the velvet-lined table, absentminded but deliberate. He shifted in his seat, slightly forward now.

“Of course, if you close every door and bolt the latch, don’t be surprised if the house stays stuffy and warm.” He offered a low chuckle, letting the firelight catch in his eyes. “Some come in here for wisdom. Others for comfort. Some just want a good story. But if all I’m givin’ you is a show, then I at least hope it’s a good one.”

He leaned back again, letting that moment settle.

Then something in his demeanor changed. Not sharply. Not suddenly. But like the shadows had shifted without moving.

His quills rose ever so slightly. His nose twitched.

“Something old wakes in your presence. It arrived before you spoke. Before the veil stirred.”

His gaze drifted, briefly, not to the orb, not to the pair, but to one of the higher shelves, where a cluster of mismatched oddities hung crammed beside a dried thistle crown and a length of weathered chain.

“Curiosities attract one another, y’know. Strange things seek strange company.”

The orb pulsed once more, slightly brighter now. He didn’t touch it. A soft clatter echoed beneath the table. The unmistakable roll of a marble inside a copper tube. It struck the end with a precise click. Somewhere behind the wall, a mechanism stirred. The cart responded.

One by one, the oil lamps dimmed themselves with a breathy flicker, as though the very air had thickened. Shadows stretched long across the rug. The warmth of the fire was still there, but now only the orb truly glowed, its swirl alive with amber and green. Light filtered through the bottle-glass windows in fractured panes, washing the chamber in uneven, shifting color.

Still, Thistle didn’t move.

He let the moment hold.

Then, softly, with eyes never leaving the pair across from him, he asked:

“Tell me, then... how familiar are you with curses?”

 

[Lord Yaro Ashpaw]

Whether Yaro believed or not, there was wisdom to be gained here. A reminder not to be too arrogant, not to dismiss anything out of paw. Not to get so caught up in chaos that he went past the event horizon. Whatever that was. What a strange thought. Had that come from in here?

The brief distraction, the unseating of his usually carefully trained thoughts, allowed Yaro to tense when the marble rolled. His own whiskers twitched as he resisted seeking a weapon.

Curses, the hedgehog brought up. Whenever an Ashpaw thought of that word, there was only one thing at the forefront of their minds.

“I am familiar with madness of the blood.”​

 

[Matisse Dubois]

Painted claws sunk into the fabric of his slacks, still-tacky paint doubtless leaving an imprint on the material as he sat increasingly stiff. He was a beast immersed in a world of blood and grit and the harsh realities of life: the more time he spent here, trying to play the game and permit this mystical veil to exist, the more uncomfortable he became. Still, he was far too stubborn to consider leaving and far too proud to indulge fear.

He eyed the hedgehog warily now, brows only raising in mild understanding: in the presence of an associate, however, he was loathe to open any window. Information was priceless in his line of work and he would not give the tom such satisfaction of knowing what questions he might hold. Still…He could perhaps visit again.

Again? Was he honestly considering any truth to-

The clatter of the marble caused his already brushy tail to puff a little more, and internally he chastised himself for such a reaction. He shifted a little in the chair to dispel some of the tension coiling in his body; the mention of curses did not help. He’d been cursed more times than he’d care to acknowledge over the years, it came with the territory, but none had been taken seriously.

Yaro gave response this time and it was difficult not to let his head snap to the feline, both fascinated and bemused. Madness of the blood? He and Yaro had worked together for some time, but sitting in the cart here and now it struck him how little digging he had truly done. For shame: again, a mistake which would need rectifying. For now he was more than happy to pass the query over.

Holding his tongue for the moment lest attention slip back towards himself, Matisse forced himself to settle back in the chair, eyeing the swirling orb so as to avoid eye contact. It must be a trick, it had to be, but the more he stared the more shapes he swore he could discern within…

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

The hedgehog’s paw shifted on the table, claws brushing the velvet as though he were weighing words in his palm. His quills lifted faintly, catching the shifting light of the orb.

“Madness of the blood, you say?” His tone was measured, almost kind. “If only it were that simple. Passing blame onto a weakened mind is often used to distract from the truth. Nay… this is a curse not of flesh nor thought, but bound in object.”

He let the words hang, gaze sliding from the wildcat to the sable.

Matisse sat stiff, tail puffed, claws dimpling the fabric of his slacks. Thistle didn’t call it out, not outright. But he smiled thinly, as if the posture itself had spoken.

“I see a beast holding tight, closing every window. Yet the draft still finds its way in.”

The orb pulsed again with a mechanical click, brighter this time, unbidden. The glow shifted across their muzzles, green and gold trembling in the smoke. Thistle’s nose twitched, his eyes narrowing.

“Strange, though…” he murmured, low, “I spoke of curses, and still the glass stirs. As though it wishes to answer for me.”

His gaze slipped from them. He looked to the shelves that ringed the chamber. He scanned over the mishmash of trinkets and relics he had gathered, stacked, and forgotten. A dried crown of thistle. A chain red with rust. Boxes stamped with seals long defunct.

“Some burdens aren’t carried in blood or bone,” he said softly. “They ride in wood, in metal… in relics passed from paw to paw, each one leaving its mark. A curse does not need a host...only a vessel.”

The orb dimmed again, slow as breath. Thistle’s paw curled back into his lap. He let the hush deepen, then leaned forward once more.

“So tell me…” His eyes sharpened. “Have either of you ever held something that felt heavier than its worth? A trinket, a tool, a token… that clung to you, even after you set it down?”

The fire cracked faintly. The orb glowed. And Thistle waited.

 

[Lord Yaro Ashpaw]

Passing blame. Yaro analysed this advice. Perhaps in his context, yes, yes the hog was right. To translate this concept to himself was surely an excuse. Yet, what did it mean for his mother? Deep-rooted hatred and entitlement was not an inheritable trait but a learned one, and yet, and yet what was the cause of this continuance in the female line? Easier to slip into such weaknesses maybe, if the deterioration was in the blood, the ideas of what to cling to malleable into each descendant.

He blinked the thoughts away. This reading was for himself and for Matisse. It made sense, though, to think on it all. Yaro might think he was detached from his mother but her legacy haunted him and he was not about to fully let go.

The wildcat mulled over Thistle's next question, letting himself be lulled into the atmosphere. Whilst he felt he knew what the hedgehog meant, at first he was not sure if he truly had got a sensation from anything. It wasn't really how he engaged with the world. Although... the feeling of his weapons, his uniform, and more importantly what he kept locked in a chest in his quarters in Misanthropy. Those things spoke to him. But they were all things that had become his.

"I believe so."

 

[Matisse Dubois]

The confined space suddenly felt uncomfortably hot; was it part of the atmospherics this hedgehog was creating or just in his mind? The stiffness of Matisse’s posture did not shift, convinced as he was that he might start feeling the need to fidget or pace if he relaxed. What had begun as a sneering jape at this trickster’s expense had swiftly devolved into something quite exposing.

How he hated that. Information was his to gather, not be given. The growing lack of control was maddening. Still, he was too proud and stubborn to admit as much, let alone in the presence of Yaro. His lip twitched as though considering a sneer when Yaro replied, but the words had taken root in his own mind.

Something that felt heavier than its worth… that clung to you, even after you set it down. His gaze on the swirling mists intensified, if only to avoid a tell-tale glance to the thick band of gold around his wrist. Would that he could put it down, though many a time he had known that gold is not steel: it could be removed for the right price at any time.

So why did he not do it? It had been over a decade by now…

The sable inhaled slowly through his nose, burning gaze locked to Thistle’s now as he sat like a coiled spring and hating how he must appear beside his feline rival. He nodded stiffly. “I know well enough, also.”

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

The orb’s light steadied, a low hum shimmering through its core as gold and green bled across Thistle’s face. The hedgehog inclined his head ever so slightly toward the two across from him.

“Good,” he murmured, tone almost approving. “So you know the weight an inanimate thing can carry. Some hold warmth… others, only the memory of what they’ve taken.”

He rose from his chair, joints crackling faintly, and turned toward the wall of shelves behind him. Glass and brass gleamed in the flickering light. Curiosities upon curiosities, gathered and forgotten, cluttered every available surface. His paw drifted along them, brushing dust, wood, metal.

Then it stopped.

A strange stillness crept into his features. His paw hovered above a dark stone tetrahedron, each of its polished sides carved in miniature reliefs portraying a different disaster. Each face was marked with a tiny inset gemstone who's color matched said disaster. Red for fire, blue for flood, green for sickness and amber for famine. For a long moment, he simply stared at it, as though seeing it for the first time.

“Ah…” The sound escaped him, small and pained. “So that’s where the thread leads.”

He took the object down as if it might burn him, the weight of it suddenly immense. Turning, he placed it carefully upon the table beside the crystal orb in the same orientation it had been facing, the side of sickness facing the table as it had the shelf. The colors of the crystal orb and artifact began to mingle. Amber and green, red and blue. Each washing the room in shifting, uneasy light.

“A curiosity I acquired many seasons ago,” he said quietly. “Four faces, four trials. Fire, flood, sickness, famine. I took it for a charm of protection.” His voice faltered for the first time, soft and rueful. “Seems I mistook the direction of its blessing.”

A metallic clink echoed faintly from beneath the brazier. Then came the hiss.

Fog began to roll across the floorboards, creeping out from under the table in thin, ghostly ribbons. Neither wildcat nor sable could see the small brass hatch open beneath the brazier, nor the porter crouched below, tending a hidden bowl of gently heated glycerin. The haze thickened. The orb pulsed brighter, each gem on the tetrahedron answering in turn.

Thistle did not move away.

“You must take it,” he said slowly, “Contain it where it may rest eternally. Move it again, and the place it leaves behind will suffer its echo. The curse follows distance, not intent.”

He looked between them, the fog curling at his ankles like grasping fingers.

“The fate of this town is already written,” he continued, voice low but certain. “The air carries the scent of sickness. That page cannot be turned.”

For a moment, the performer’s mask cracked just slightly before he straightened again, breathing slow.

“Take it and seal it. Keep it where no paw stirs the dust. Once it’s gone…” He exhaled softly. “…perhaps the air will clear.”

The orb dimmed to its steady heartbeat glow. Beneath the floorboards, the porter gave a faint chitter, like approval or relief. And Thistle, the mystic, the merchant, the fool who had unintentionally carried such curse, stood utterly still.