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."

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Barrett gripped the decking weakly, and wiped his muzzle with the back of his paw. At least with the grog out of him, the problem wouldn't get worse. But he was still out on the docks -- and by his own estimation, was a hair's breadth from being left out here for the fogeys to find. Now that'd be a conversation with Gyles, getting bailed out of prison. As if his reputation could suffer any more.

Doing what he could to swallow his pride, the pine marten nodded in agreement with the vixen. "...I'll try. D'ye think you can drop me off at a tavern? Not... not the one..." he said, struggling to remember the name of the place he'd been tossed out of. O'Malley's? The Fyadorian Fiddle? Gates. He waved his paw in a southerly direction. "Not that one. I jes' need t'get some bread'n me..."

If she said anything about him being a fall risk, he might as well have shriveled up and died. He wasn't a spring chicken anymore, and everything ached. Drawing his knees up in an undignified manner, Barrett stumbled to his feet, and limped along with Amnesty.

"Awh, gatesh... Yer a good beasht Clemency. Wh... Wh'd you do? Y' a nun or shomfin? Work at... At th' hoshpital?"

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

Amnesty snorted a laugh. She should have thought of that when choosing a name that was just a fancy word for mercy. "A nun? Hardly. And the hospital... wasn't a good match. Just a healer by training, and I've had experience with getting beasts out of danger long enough to patch them back together." A roundabout way of describing the time spent as a field medic to the crew of an upstart warlord, perhaps, but accurate enough.

"I'm afraid I don't think any halfway respectable tavern would you let you through the doors, and I'm not about to leave you at the other kind." She grimaced. Generally speaking it was less than advisable to wander off with an unfamiliar drunk. But in her professional opinion, Arthur was far more a danger to himself than anyone else. "I'd much rather get you home. Where do you live?"

 

[Arthur Barrett]

As they walked along, Barrett stumbled, and leaned heavily on the vixen. He kept one arm about her shoulder, and after a brief moment was able to stand again. "Jus'... jus' need y'for balance..." he said apologetically, avoiding her gaze. He knew it wasn't true, but... he had an awful penchant for pretty little lies.

Meanwhile, he pondered her story. He knew there were those who practiced medicine without the blessings of the powers that be -- and more often than not, most of them were akin to witchdoctors. The ones that were better, well. It was difficult for them to practice on upright citizens. (But everyone needed a doctor, even Vulpinists.) This vixen, however, had a certain confidence with her patient. Something you could only build with experience -- or being a very good liar.

"The Winter War? Wer... d'jda... whashit. Were y'a conshcript?" A surprisingly carefully crafted question, for a drunk. The answer could pin her age, too.

"Awh gatesh... ...n-no... ...I live up'n the pinesh..." he said ruefully. In a self deprecating way, he opened his arms. "Pine martensh, right?" Barrett's little cottage was quite out of the way, especially in this state. But he certainly wasn't going back to the Hide tonight. As a stand in for the Bosun, it would be very bad for morale. Plus, this was his shore leave.

"I jes' need a lil' food... perhapsh shome cough-ee... We don' gotta be in long, ah ken' fake bein' shober long enough for a cuppa cough-ee..." he attempted, hoping the vixen would relent.

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

"The Winter War? 'Gates, no. Before my time, that." Years before, if she had connected the dates correctly. "What I went through wasn't important enough to have a name. Bloody enough, though."

And the less said about it, the better. At least the marten seemed to be in a better condition than she had feared. True, he was leaning heavily on her with every step they took, but he was on his feet, and he was thinking clearly enough to have some kind of plan.

Not one that she was inclined to put much stock in, but a plan nonetheless.

The vixen cast a sidelong glance at the big marten. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot. His muzzle was still streaked with the evidence of his face-first encounter with the dock. The twin odors of alcohol and vomitus hung about them like a miasma. His fur and clothing could both do with a good washing. "I'm sorry, Arthur," she said, her voice gentle but implacable. "I doubt there's a barkeep in the city who wouldn't peg you as three sheets to the wind on sight."

But he was right: he would hardly make the pines in his condition. Half a dozen other possibilities slipped through her mind and were dismissed, one by one. The Fogeys would just toss him in a cell. The hospital was too far out of the way. She stifled a sigh. It wasn't perfect for oh, so many reasons, but the best option would seem to be taking him to her own apartment. It was close. The three flights of narrow stairs might be an issue. And she'd be hearing about it from her landlady for months if they were seen. Not to mention the fact that it was an absolute invasion of her privacy.

The sigh almost slipped out anyway.

"I have cough-ee and a loaf of yesterday's bread in my rooms in the Trenches, not far from here. Will that do?"

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Berchar had been wandering in something of a daze of his own. Being mugged in the Slups was nothing new for the unfortunate jerboa: he was nonconfrontational, diminutive, and most importantly had never taken the time to re-train himself on any forms of combat nor self-defence. Tonight had been particularly egregious in that it was the first time his assailants had seen fit to throw him into the canal for a laugh after divesting him of whatever meagre valuables remained on his person. Relieved that he had not taken his medical kit with him that evening, he had resigned to go on a squelchy hop to dry off before heading home. The last thing he needed after a trying day was further mockery from the weasel he lived with.

What had begun as a self-pitying wander had devolved, as it often did for Berchar, into a disconnected ramble. His mind elsewhere, it hadn’t even occurred to him that his paws had led him out from the Slups in unconscious desire to flee the place if only for an hour or two. It was only when the harsh call of a Missertross Gull cut into his senses that he startled with a blink.

The docks? Ugh; he would be due quite the long haul home now and back through some of the even less desirable areas of the Slups. Still, Berchar consoled himself, it was a nice enough evening and perhaps a half hour staring at the ocean would do him some good. He could fantasise about taking another ship for another fresh start elsewhere. Fat chance of that now.

Hopping down the quayside, it was second nature for the jerboa to take note of beasts on the docks. People-watching was as fascinating for the interactions as it was for the sketching opportunity: the occasional loading or unloading of a vessel, the sight of new faces or old friends meeting; arguments and quiet conversations, it all happened here. Red-brown eyes roved over the scene in search of a distraction, eager for anything which might pull him from his maudlin state of mind and still-damp clothing.

At first the sight of one beast consoling or trying to manage what was likely a drunkard was of little consequence: after the day he’d had he wasn’t feeling especially charitable for risking his wellbeing around a cantankerous beast with a belly full of ale. He’d begun to hop on when his brows lowered. The jerboa turned, frowning. The drunk one seemed familiar at this distance, and they were with a vixen, by the looks. Well…his last few escapades had ended reasonably well in the company of foxes. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt.

Making his way towards the duo, wringing his paws in anticipation of being told to mind his own business, the bespectacled beast called out on approach. “Oh – can- can I be of some assistance?”

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Barrett let out an audible "Hmm" -- she was young then. Likely Silvertongue's age? Thirty at most. "Not... not th' shivil war, then?" he asked, continuing to probe. Still, he asked the question in a friendly manner, there was nothing untoward in his mannerisms. He was warming up to her slighty, and cast a rare smile back in her direction. "Jesh g'ta wipe my faish... 'n be quiet... they'll nevah figger't out..."

His smile faltered as she invited him to her apartment. The gesture was certainly kind, but... heavens, the scandal! Barrett drunkenly following a young vixen home? He let out an uncomfortable chuckle. "Not... gon' shlip arshnic in m'h tea, are y'?" he said lightly, attempting to recover from the awkward moment with a bit of humor.

As the jerboa approached, Barrett narrowed his eyes. The beast was certainly headed towards them with intention, Barret just couldn't see well enough to make out who it was. One paw fumbled with his breast pocket, and produced his own pair of spectacles, which he peered through carefully. That timid voice was unmistakable. "Berchar, ish... ish that you?"

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

It would be so, so much simpler if she could have let herself let the marten try his luck in a tavern. And Mar'kan, it wasn't as if he didn't have good reason for caution; she'd have done the same thing in his shoes. At least it was a distraction from his line of questioning regarding where exactly she'd gotten her experience. "Of course not. Just hot cough-ee, a bit of bread, and a place to sleep this off." She paused, searching for the most tactful way to phrase her next statement. "Arthur, I'm not certain you can stand on your own two paws without somebeast holding you up. I don't think it's as simple as keeping quiet. Forgive my saying so, but right now you look like-- you are an easy mark."

Any further argument was interrupted by the approach of another beast. A mouse? A mouse unlike any other mouse she had met, either here in the Imperium or anywhere else. Amnesty was still caught halfway between crafting a polite dismissal and drafting the small creature's help in getting Arthur to safety when the marten himself made up her mind for her.

"Are you a friend of Arthur's? He's in something of a rough way; we were just finding our way off the streets."

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Oh, dear. Wary curiosity swiftly transmuted to outright surprise at the sight of the inebriated marten. “Mister Barrett?!” he squeaked, long ears perked like the masts of ships further down the quay. Though he could not claim to have known the surgeon at any great intimate level, he had taken him for a saturnine kind of beast not given to much in the way of levity. To see him at this state of intoxication was…surprising, to say the least, to Berchar. Then again perhaps it was how he coped with the pressures of his work.

“Friend might be…” generous was the word he had intended to use, but fear of potential faux pas made him hesitate. “Well, I do know him.” Smoothing down damp fur, the jerboa offered Amnesty a courtly old-fashioned bow. Well, in for a guilder and all that: the night could hardly get worse. “Berchar Fleetfoot, miss, at your service. I’d be happy to lend a paw wherever you might wish to go.” Head tilted towards Barrett, then. “How—good to see you again, Mister Barrett. Long day…?”

 

[Arthur Barrett]

It would have been quite the funny sight for his mates on the Hide to see. Arthur Barrett, the terror of the infirmary, stammering and protesting as he was lectured like a school boy. Gates, what was her name again? It was one of the virtue names... "Now... Now Chashtity..." he attempted, but was quickly cut off by the vixen. Barrett tugged at his collar anxiously -- goodness but it was hot out tonight!

While Barrett was known for his temper, he wasn't known for his temperance. Berchar would have remembered that he drank frequently -- but to this extent? Arthur looked down at the small jerboa, and puffed. "Berchar, ya bloomin'... bloke! Y'don't have t'call me Mishter!" he said with a drunken amiability. The pine marten gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder, before lurching forwards.

(Goodness, it would probably be best to get him inside.)

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

"Oh, 'gates!" Amnesty stumbled forwards with Arthur, just barely bracing well enough to keep them both from going down. The marten was getting worse. And he was such a big beast; if he took a turn for the combative, it was going to be a problem. She wouldn't put arsenic in his tea (or cough-ee), but maybe a little poppy or some valerian...

Except, his pupils. She had seen his pupils. His narrowed, almost pin-point pupils. Perhaps poppy wouldn't be the best idea. Not that he was acting all that much like a beast under the effects of an opiate. Either way, a problem to be solved once they were off the street.

"Berchar, was it? Get under his other arm. My rooms aren't far, we'll get him there and let him sleep this off." She spoke in a soft, forceful undertone, hoping it was enough to enlist the jerboa's help before he could be dissuaded by Arthur's hesitation. "Arthur, you can argue with me all you want once we're not in danger of becoming the next victims of the Slups. Until then, I beg you to trust me. Please?"

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Any nervous smile he might have shot Arthur for his chummy demeanour vanished in the instant of the marten’s unsteady footing. The vixen saved him well enough (good fortune: had they collided the diminutive jerboa may well have been flattened) and spoke with enough quiet authority that Berchar was bound to follow.

Taking her advice, the soggy beast ducked around the marten’s other side and did his best to support Arthur’s weight alongside Amnesty. He was not a particularly stubborn sort, nor one oft given to the expectations of gender stereotypes, but part of him still pushed to bear a fair share of the task: he could only wonder how long she had already been dealing with him.

“Chastity, wasn’t it?” he swore he had heard Barrett use the name in reference to the fox, “speaks good sense. Very good sense: the Slups is lively tonight. Come on, dear fellow, trust her.”

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Barrett knew the tone Amnesty used quite well... because it was the same tone he used whenever he was lecturing some washed up beast that wound up in his care. The marten's face flushed with embarrassment, and he tried his hardest to be a cooprative beast -- and not a troublesome one. Swallowing his pride, he nodded humbly. "Awh... awhrigh'... Yer' righ Bershar," he said, ears flitting low against his head.

Having resigned himself to their care, he let out a remorseful sigh. "Gatesh... 'm shorry, I din' mean t' be like dish... It wash jus' a few drinksh!" he muttered, mostly to himself. Unhappy with how much the spotlight was shining on him in such a disgraceful state, the pine marten became surprisingly docile. He hoped that by keeping his silly muzzle shut, he'd perhaps save some face.

"Oh, no... no Bershar, dish is... her name ish... Alacrity!"

 

[Amnesty Greysoul]

"Happens to the best of us, Arthur. Not my place to judge."

Hellgates knew she'd been in his shoes a time or two herself. It was more of a recent development that she'd started to deal with her feelings by shouting them to the night instead of drowning them in spirits.

"It's Amnesty, actually. A pleasure, Berchar. Glad you came along when you did."

The fox's voice came out a little strained as they stumbled along under the big marten's weight. They would be able to make it to her rooms-- most likely-- but it was going to be... an ordeal. Just one paw after the other. Don't draw attention. Ears up and eyes open for trouble.

Amnesty felt the sweat soaking into the fur on her back and under her arma even as her muscles' complaints at their current treatment grew ever louder. Just a little farther. One Street down and two more over.

Fate must have been smiling on them, because they made it. The roughwood building had never looked so welcoming. The vixen let a hiss of relief escape through her teeth. "Here... here we are."

But fate must have also been giggling with mischievous intent. Because there were still three flights of narrow, rickety stairs between them and sweet, sweet victory.

Amnesty felt more than a little guilty as she added: "My rooms are on the fourth floor."