- Character Biography
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Alwyn was nervously tapping his right footpaw on the dock and right handpaw on the wooden railing as struggled to not completely lose his composure. All the training from his kithood, all the additional training in Amarone, all the (limited) guidance his parents and granduncle had ever given him meant nothing before this challenge, and there was no one else he could trust to tell the truth to, at least, not yet. He was not going to let his mother or his father taken Finny away from him, or ruin his life like they had his for their own power games, he was not. He had to be careful. But that meant he was alone with this.
As my instructor said, sometimes you’re just up a creek without a paddle...or in this case, a sewer.
He did refrain from saying anything though, trying to let his son express himself, and to work through it. He had never gotten that chance in his kithood, not really, unless it was related to training. Kits under Dusk and Talinn, at least after the civil wars began, were largely meant to be seen and not heard. That was not what he wanted for his son. He did not know how to be a father, but he would learn to be a good one.
He simply nodded at the first question, shook his head at the second, nodded once again at the third, and pursed his lips at the third, wondering if he should break his silence. When Finnian balled up his fists and anger flashed upon his face, Alwyn began to speak, to move towards him as if to comfort him.
“Finn, I know it’s a lot-"
And then there it was-the locket-the last thing he had of Annabelle, the last any of them had together as a family, flying suddenly past his face-instinctively, he tried to grab it, to prevent it from going into the deep, dark depths, and managed to touch it for a moment-but only to slightly alter its trajectory. It sailed towards the sea, glittering in the twilight for a moment, before it fell into darkness. Alwyn’s entire body froze up, and he glanced back towards Finnian was, but was already running down the pier into the night-he could not catch him. And then out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the faintest glint of gold in the water.
In moments, without even taking off any of his clothing or his sword, he leapt over the railing and hit the dark, cold waters below. As he hit the waves he felt like his breath was driven out of him, but he could care less about himself. The locket! The locket! It was the last bit that he, Annabelle, and Finnian shared! He could not lose it! He would not lose it! Without thinking, he continued to dive deep into the murky depths, looking for any hint, any trace of gold as the light faded the deeper he got. He could hear his heartbeart pounding, and, after a little while, his vision began to narrow, darkness creeping in from the edges, but he saw it! He saw it! Just a little bit below him! All he had to do was keep at it.
I...will...not….lose you...not….again….
Yet, the closer he got to the falling locket, the more darkness crept in and the more his vision began to blur and to narrow. He fought, he struggled against his own body, desperately trying to force it to comply even as the salt burned his throat and his eyes. He coughed-but there was no air to cough, just water that rushed in, making him choke. And his vision was so narrow now, he could barely see it, but his paw was almost there, right at the very edge of the chain.
And then darkness came for him.
-----------Some time later-------
Two small creatures meandered across the beaches of Bully Harbor, clothed in simple, if warm garb. They were much smaller than the most of the residents, and newer-moles, recently arrived from the Mahsterious Sathern Continent. They talked quietly among each other, holding lanterns, as they surveyed the beach in the early evening.
“’Tis a roight shame we comed ’ere wi’ zo little munny, they zed ’twere the Land o’ Hoppurtunity, an’ oi du b’lieve the Empress be ’avin’ gurt good ’tentions, but ’tis still ’ard, ee knaws, fer a woodlander t’get werk.” The younger one, with more brown and less grey on his fur, bemoaned.
“Oi, but bain’t that the way o’ things fer newbecomers in any land, zurr? ’Sides, we du do aright scrammagin’ ’long the shorebeaches, oi reckon.” replied his companion, older and with more grey fur.
“Oi s’pose zo, ’t could be a gurt deal wurser. Things down on the Cont’nent be in a roight ole mess, wi’ pirates, slavers, an’ wurser’n that, an’ leastways the Imperium do keep us zafe an’ sound. ’Tis a roight shame wot ’appened t’—”
“Ssshhh… zurr, look ’ere…” the older one said, pointing to something peculiar-a large shape lying halfway in, halfway out of the waves.
As the two approached, the younger one opened his mouth in horror, and his father shook his head sadly.
“Da, wot du we do, zurr? This bain’t lookin’ none too good…”
“Pull ’im out o’ the waves, son, zurr!”
Putting down their lanterns to give them some illumination, the two moles slowly, and arduously, pulled the large, waterlogged fox out of the waves and firmly onto the beach. The younger one shook his head as the older one reached down and first tried to look for a pulse, put his ear on his chest, and then began to do chest compressions.
“Da, wot be ye doin’, zurr? That fox be surely gone, an’ if the Fogeys come while we be ’ere, we’ll be in a roight big pickle. Let’s grab wot we can off ’im an’—”
A loud -SLAP- reverberated across the beach for a moment as the old mole took a brief moment away from his chest compressions to discipline his son, before continuing.
“Listen, zurr, oi doan’ want t’hear none o’ that talk, ee hear? Yer mother an’ oi didna raise ye that way. We look t’help all beasts what need help, even ye verhmin. Did ye not learn naught from them mice at that place, zurr?”
The younger mole looked silent and suitably chastised.
“Oi be sorry, Dad, zurr, oi s’pose ye be roight. An’ these verhmin took us in when no one else would, zurr. Least we can do be give the fellow a proper sendoff, oi reckon.”
Suddenly, there was a loud cough from the fox, startling both the father and the son, as foam and seawater spit out of his mouth and he began to cough and gasp for air. He was shaking violently, his voice sputtering, and what he did say made little sense.
“Son, grab the blankets, zurr, we need t’warm up this fox or he’s a goner, oi reckon!”
Hurriedly, the son immediately opened his pack, and then his fathers, and began to wrap it around the shivering, barely coherent big fox, while the old mole softly spoke to the drenched fox, who looked wild-eyed, confused, and afraid. His calm, stern voice, seemed to help though, and after a little while, he took out a bit of the freshwater he carried around with him in his flagon.
“Here, zurr, take a lil’ sip o’ this, but mind ye—don’t gulp too fast, oi reckon. First, we warm ye up proper, nice an’ snug in the blankets, an’ then we’ll see ye right, zurr.”
The fox could only manage a slight, dazed nod, very clearly out of it as he alternated between spitting out the bad, salty water, and slowly drinking what he could of the fresh, clean water.
-------To be continued-----
@FinnianBrightfur
As my instructor said, sometimes you’re just up a creek without a paddle...or in this case, a sewer.
He did refrain from saying anything though, trying to let his son express himself, and to work through it. He had never gotten that chance in his kithood, not really, unless it was related to training. Kits under Dusk and Talinn, at least after the civil wars began, were largely meant to be seen and not heard. That was not what he wanted for his son. He did not know how to be a father, but he would learn to be a good one.
He simply nodded at the first question, shook his head at the second, nodded once again at the third, and pursed his lips at the third, wondering if he should break his silence. When Finnian balled up his fists and anger flashed upon his face, Alwyn began to speak, to move towards him as if to comfort him.
“Finn, I know it’s a lot-"
And then there it was-the locket-the last thing he had of Annabelle, the last any of them had together as a family, flying suddenly past his face-instinctively, he tried to grab it, to prevent it from going into the deep, dark depths, and managed to touch it for a moment-but only to slightly alter its trajectory. It sailed towards the sea, glittering in the twilight for a moment, before it fell into darkness. Alwyn’s entire body froze up, and he glanced back towards Finnian was, but was already running down the pier into the night-he could not catch him. And then out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the faintest glint of gold in the water.
In moments, without even taking off any of his clothing or his sword, he leapt over the railing and hit the dark, cold waters below. As he hit the waves he felt like his breath was driven out of him, but he could care less about himself. The locket! The locket! It was the last bit that he, Annabelle, and Finnian shared! He could not lose it! He would not lose it! Without thinking, he continued to dive deep into the murky depths, looking for any hint, any trace of gold as the light faded the deeper he got. He could hear his heartbeart pounding, and, after a little while, his vision began to narrow, darkness creeping in from the edges, but he saw it! He saw it! Just a little bit below him! All he had to do was keep at it.
I...will...not….lose you...not….again….
Yet, the closer he got to the falling locket, the more darkness crept in and the more his vision began to blur and to narrow. He fought, he struggled against his own body, desperately trying to force it to comply even as the salt burned his throat and his eyes. He coughed-but there was no air to cough, just water that rushed in, making him choke. And his vision was so narrow now, he could barely see it, but his paw was almost there, right at the very edge of the chain.
And then darkness came for him.
-----------Some time later-------
Two small creatures meandered across the beaches of Bully Harbor, clothed in simple, if warm garb. They were much smaller than the most of the residents, and newer-moles, recently arrived from the Mahsterious Sathern Continent. They talked quietly among each other, holding lanterns, as they surveyed the beach in the early evening.
“’Tis a roight shame we comed ’ere wi’ zo little munny, they zed ’twere the Land o’ Hoppurtunity, an’ oi du b’lieve the Empress be ’avin’ gurt good ’tentions, but ’tis still ’ard, ee knaws, fer a woodlander t’get werk.” The younger one, with more brown and less grey on his fur, bemoaned.
“Oi, but bain’t that the way o’ things fer newbecomers in any land, zurr? ’Sides, we du do aright scrammagin’ ’long the shorebeaches, oi reckon.” replied his companion, older and with more grey fur.
“Oi s’pose zo, ’t could be a gurt deal wurser. Things down on the Cont’nent be in a roight ole mess, wi’ pirates, slavers, an’ wurser’n that, an’ leastways the Imperium do keep us zafe an’ sound. ’Tis a roight shame wot ’appened t’—”
“Ssshhh… zurr, look ’ere…” the older one said, pointing to something peculiar-a large shape lying halfway in, halfway out of the waves.
As the two approached, the younger one opened his mouth in horror, and his father shook his head sadly.
“Da, wot du we do, zurr? This bain’t lookin’ none too good…”
“Pull ’im out o’ the waves, son, zurr!”
Putting down their lanterns to give them some illumination, the two moles slowly, and arduously, pulled the large, waterlogged fox out of the waves and firmly onto the beach. The younger one shook his head as the older one reached down and first tried to look for a pulse, put his ear on his chest, and then began to do chest compressions.
“Da, wot be ye doin’, zurr? That fox be surely gone, an’ if the Fogeys come while we be ’ere, we’ll be in a roight big pickle. Let’s grab wot we can off ’im an’—”
A loud -SLAP- reverberated across the beach for a moment as the old mole took a brief moment away from his chest compressions to discipline his son, before continuing.
“Listen, zurr, oi doan’ want t’hear none o’ that talk, ee hear? Yer mother an’ oi didna raise ye that way. We look t’help all beasts what need help, even ye verhmin. Did ye not learn naught from them mice at that place, zurr?”
The younger mole looked silent and suitably chastised.
“Oi be sorry, Dad, zurr, oi s’pose ye be roight. An’ these verhmin took us in when no one else would, zurr. Least we can do be give the fellow a proper sendoff, oi reckon.”
Suddenly, there was a loud cough from the fox, startling both the father and the son, as foam and seawater spit out of his mouth and he began to cough and gasp for air. He was shaking violently, his voice sputtering, and what he did say made little sense.
“Son, grab the blankets, zurr, we need t’warm up this fox or he’s a goner, oi reckon!”
Hurriedly, the son immediately opened his pack, and then his fathers, and began to wrap it around the shivering, barely coherent big fox, while the old mole softly spoke to the drenched fox, who looked wild-eyed, confused, and afraid. His calm, stern voice, seemed to help though, and after a little while, he took out a bit of the freshwater he carried around with him in his flagon.
“Here, zurr, take a lil’ sip o’ this, but mind ye—don’t gulp too fast, oi reckon. First, we warm ye up proper, nice an’ snug in the blankets, an’ then we’ll see ye right, zurr.”
The fox could only manage a slight, dazed nod, very clearly out of it as he alternated between spitting out the bad, salty water, and slowly drinking what he could of the fresh, clean water.
-------To be continued-----
@FinnianBrightfur
