Open The Docks Blood On Her Paws

[Amnesty Greysoul]

It was just before sundown when the fox with the dull, white fur made her way onto one of the smaller docks of Bully Harbor. The evening was beautiful. Warm, with just enough breeze to keep the air fresh and smelling more of salt and adventure than rotten fish. A golden hour reminiscent of the Emperor's own fog.

On any other night, she would have enjoyed it. On any other night, she wouldn't have thought her paws were still covered in blood.

It was maudlin, she knew. A luxury, a way for her to pretend she wouldn't do the same exact thing if the circumstances brought her to it. A way for her to pretend she was a better beast than she actually was. Or maybe it was just how she had to mourn the beast she wished she could be.

The scoff burst from her throat, sharp and dry and bitter before she could stop it, and the words that followed were rough and low. "You made your choices. Best learn to live with them."

A moment passed. The waves lapped steadily at the pilings of the dock. A distant squawk suggested that someone attempted to cheat a Missertross Gull of its rightful fee. Another fresh breath of wind tugged across the fur on her cheeks and arms, and she blew out an irritated sigh.

Five years, and here she was, all torn up inside. The snarl and the barking shout that followed rushed up from the depths of her soul.

"A pox on your memory, you worthless waste of fur. I hope the 'Gates chewed you up and spit you back out."

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Somewhere, a pine marten had already been turned out of a pub before the sun had even set.

Barrett wasn't a terribly social beast, and had only grown more reclusive with his old age. He had his vices, to be sure... But public drunkenness was quite out of character. At least he'd ditched his navy uniform for civilian clothes!

The massive pine marten stumbled along the docks listlessly, looking quite the picture of a drunken sailor. His fur was disheveled and unkempt, grog had spilled down his shirt, and he grasped a half empty flagon in one paw.

"Ish dishgrasheful!" he slurred, bracing himself against a pile. The world was spinning, and his legs threatened to give out from under him... But embracing the pile so allowed him to take another swig. "Whash... whassha ushe?" he grumped, flinging the bottle off the pier and into the water. The motion threw him off balance, and he fell onto a heap on the docks.

"Mah faish... ...ooowww..."

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

For the barest of instants, Amnesty was terrified by the thought that the Dark Forest had taken her request quite literally. Her paw jerked towards the knife on her belt. Her tail, traitor that it was, bushed out in a most embarrassing way. And then reason took over once again: this was no revenant back from the dead, only a beast half-drowned in his own grog.

Who was in danger of choking to death on his own sick if things continued as they were. Thrice-cursed seabeasts. They never learned.

The pale vixen crossed the short stretch of dock that lay between her and the drunken creature. The least she could do was roll him onto his side. She paused. Probably. The marten was massive, an impressive specimen of his kind. Or he would be, were he not like... this.

"That would be the dock hitting your muzzle," she said, already working to reposition the beast. "Generally speaking, I'd recommend against it. What's your name, friend?"

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Arthur's form tensed for a moment as he tried to will himself to stand, but his strength was gone. Sapped by the grog in his system. He went limp on the docks, and wearily watched the last sun rays disappear beneath the horizon. With a gentle cough -- or a sneeze really -- he let out a pitiful moan. Everything hurt.

But then he felt paws grab him. Drunk as he was, certain parts of his mind still functioned marginally. This wasn't some thief stealing from his pockets -- no, he was being rolled on his side. Professionally. Most beasts would have just twisted his neck, but... Whoever it was used his belt and shirt as a handle. Gates, they aren't teaching the fogeys how to log roll, are they?

The pine marten's nose and lip streamed blood as he rolled over. There was a small patch of red staining the dock where his face met the planks, and another sneeze scattered the mess even further.

"Aww gatesh... 'm fine!" he protested -- though it wasn't clear if he was protesting against the interloper, or reality itself. His unfocused eyes looked up into the darkening sky -- before peering over at the white fox? "...Schwifttail?" he asked with some surprise, frowning with effort to try and force his eyes to focus. Dark as it was, his pupils refused to dialate, and he could only make out the coarse shape of the beast. No, this was someone else. Feminine.

The world reeled, and Arthur squinted his eyes shut in shame. The last thing he wanted to do was admit who he was to some stranger. (Especially in this sorry state!) But if anything irked him, it was pitiful drunks who were too morose to answer simple questions, and shunned help to their own detriment. He was in a bad way, but not that bad.

"Arthur..." he answered resignedly.

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

That, at least, was a good sign. And something she could work with.

"Pleasure to meet you, Arthur. I'm Amnesty."

She had seen worse. Much worse. Of course, she'd also seen better. The marten was still bleeding from his nose, and if he had broken it in his fall, he was going to be in a whole world of pain. For now, though, he was breathing and thinking clearly enough to answer questions. And he wasn't swinging his fists. Sometimes, it was the little things.

"Arthur, do you know where you are?"

 

[Arthur Barrett]

The pine marten's mind gripped the name "Amnesty" and held onto it for dear life. From experience, he knew that he struggled to keep conversational threads for very long while drunk... and very likely he'd need to lean on this poor vixen to get him somewhere safe. "Don' hol' m'alcohol like I ushed to..." he slurred as he tried to push himself into a seated position.

Barrett looked wounded as she began to ask the traditional series of assessment questions. It was a sign that he was making bad decisions, and answering them was tacit acknowledgement of guilt. Prideful beast that he was, he chose to answer the question on his own terms. "As far's 'm consherned, I'm shtill shtuck on the froshen wasteland of H'urk!"

For those who knew their geography (and perhaps, recent Vulpinsulan history), they would know the small island of Urk north of Vulpinsula, and the recent expedition that returned from there only a few weeks ago. Rumors abounded that the expedition was disastrous from beginning to end, though some said it had brought back a mysterious artifact of great value. But for those who didn't know -- (or for those new to the area), Barrett would have sounded like... ...well. Like a babbling drunk.

In any case, Barrett had pronounced the name of the island particularly violently. Perhaps it would come out more clearly a second time? "...the froshen... ...wasteland... H'URRKK!!"

And with that, Barrett lunged over the edge of the pier, and loosed copious amounts of grog into the harbor.

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

Amnesty did three things all at once. First, she swore, a hissed, profane expression of sudden surprise. Second, she half-dodged, half-scrambled a few inches to the side in a successful bid to avoid getting knocked to the dock. And third, her paw shot out to take a firm grip on Arthur's belt, because there was no way in this world or the next she was going to find herself jumping into the harbor after a large, intoxicated mustelid if she could help it.

"Oy, better out than in, I think?"

The vixen glanced back down the docks and was relieved to find that she didn't immediately see any of Bully Harbor's more opportunist citizens lurking nearby. All the same...

"Alright, my friend. Think you can stand if I give you a paw? Probably best if we get you behind doors until the drink wears off. No need to be an easy target tonight."