Born Monsters (Old VI Thread)

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

(A dark thread concerning one of the Golden Hide's woodlander raids. Warnings for violence. Starring Jeshal the Ironclaw, Brek Larks, Anithias Freedom, Armina Rogue, Tomias Redford, Tanya Rainblade-Ryalor (now Keltoi), and Xhavek Mokorai)

BORN MONSTERS

First post Bugs 9, Yr. 1729

Jeshal the Ironclaw
For what counted, she was his first. The surprise in the mousemaid’s eyes had dulled upon the moment of death. Jeshal stood upon the pebbled beach, no more than a mile from the moored Hide, with a corpse in a bloodied smock in his arms. She had been barely above sixteen seasons. Screams riddled the air from the village over the low hills, results of the gleeful pillaging by his fellow vermin.

The Ironclaw gazed down at his victim, at first feeling the grip of grief in his throat. It faded soon enough, leaving in its wake the soft caress of power. To realise how dangerous you were and how fragile everyone else could be if you just knew the tricks. To some extent he now understood the mentality of the vile Gravedigger, but to Jeshal it was not the final death that was art. It was the dance that led up to it. An unspectacular death was a disappointment; unsatisfying; hollow. The mousemaid’s last minutes were not epic, but he did not feel he had wasted them. The first time was never the magic you read about.

He had laid her parents out cold whilst he rifled through their cottage for valuables. She had rushed in, shrieking, brandishing a rake. The Ironclaw had smiled that same smile and met garden implement with cutlass.

“Get out of here, you thieving monster!” She swiped at him, the rake’s claws just missing his face. “I should kill you for so much as looking at my family!”

He parried the next attack and chuckled. “Ain’t that a bit of a passionate statement fer the likes of a goodbeast?”

She stepped back, wild-eyed, and sought a weakness. “You know nothing of passion.”

“Yer thinkin’ o’ compassion, thinks I. That I’ll agree ter lack, but passion I ‘appen ter ‘ave a soft spot fer. Passion fer life. Passion fer food. Passion fer the hunt. Passion fer beauty…”

“Passion for the kill?” she snarled.

Jeshal snickered. “Now there me indulgences have not crossed.”

The mousemaid drew in a sharp breath, her eyes darting as though trying to come to terms with a decision. She caught sight of her father, stirring, groaning. Then she bared her teeth. “They never will!” She leapt forward, bringing the rake down. Jeshal side-stepped and whirled around behind her, bringing his sword to rest at her throat.

“When yer quite finished, little whiskers, how about ye get back to yer vegetable patch. All I be wantin’ are a few vittles fer me crew, an’ maybe one or two shiny things, then you an’ yours can get back ter whatever it is ye do when we ain’t around.”

A sob escaped her. “How can we live a normal existence while we live in fear of beasts like you taking everything we’ve worked so hard for?”

The copper fox shrugged. “Yer should try livin’ in the Imperium.”

The mousemaid cried in fury and jammed her elbows into the Ironclaw’s ribs. Winded, he staggered back. She spun and caught him with the pole of the rake, knocking the cutlass from his paw. Lost in her rage, she rained blows upon him with the tool’s blunt end, pressing him to his knees and then to the ground. She hit him over and over until the rake snapped. Sniffing back tears, she glared at the fox that feebly crawled to his feet. Jeshal sneered at her with contempt, wincing at his bruises.

“Leave,” she said, trembling. She pointed to the door.

The Ironclaw tipped his hat mockingly and trudged for the exit. A few pawsteps from the doorway, he smirked and said, “Sleep light, little whiskers. Yer ‘ouse and everything in it what ain’t nailed down will bid ye farewell.”

With an exasperated roar, she ran for him, the shattered remnants of the rake held aloft. He waited until the last possible moment before turning around. There was a chance he meant to grab her and hold her still. There was a chance he intended to curl his metal fist and club her unconscious like her mother and father. Jeshal whirled and thrust his gauntlet forward against her charge. The metal claws sliced cleanly into her heart and stuck there, freezing them in a gruesome lock.

She didn’t even cry.

“There will be justice for this!”

The old mouse’s voice snapped Jeshal out of the memory. He looked up to see them. The mouse and his wife, lashed to stakes in the rising tide. He could hardly remember doing it. It seemed the thing to do at the time. Leaving a beast behind to carry out a vendetta was not in his best interest. He of all beasts knew that.

“You took the light from our lives!”

The compliments just got better and better. He looked again to the face of the dead mousemaid, limp and hopeless. Yes, he did take the light. He took it and swallowed it, like a tiny firefly. He wondered if he’d let the dance go on longer, would the light have burned brighter, and been even more satiating? Jeshal smiled eerily from his first kill to the suffering mice.

“Vermin!” they bewailed. “How do you stomach yourselves? Barbarians! You think you can get away with anything in the name of your blasted Emperor! You’re nothing but filthy, cruel, heartless pirates!”

The Ironclaw simply stared.

“Would yer expect anything less?”



Brek Larks
The todd let out a cough as he ran past burning huts into the vegetable fields. Brek hated raids, he hated killing, but somehow he managed to make do. Whenever he felt the need to be a dangerous rebel, he pictured Rijard's face as an evil mask on each of them. Then he wasn't as disturbed by the cold murders he made.

In the fields there were mice still running to the aid of their fellow villagers. They grabbed what they could: shovels, rakes, tiny spades improvised as daggers, anything remotely lethal. Each of the tiny creatures yelled as they ran past Brek into the battle.

Brek pulled his axe from the strap on his belt from his shoulder. He put out a hand and shouted at the angry mice, "Stop! By command of the Emperor I command you to stop!"

About five mice slowed to a stop about five yards away, even for how short Brek was to them he was a giant. An old mouse stood before the others and shouted at Brek, "Blast your emperor! And blast you! These are our lands, and we will not let some fox oaf take it from us!"

"Silence!" Brek barked. The old mouse almost fell back as he quivered in true fear. Brek was already mentally putting Rijard's face on each of them. "If you know what is good for you, you will each put down your weapons and gather some vegetables. Then give them to me and they will now belong to the crew of the Golden Hide."

"By what right?" Spoke another mouse, "Because you are bigger than us? Because you have an axe and I a rake?" He lifted his tool to notify.

"Precisely, now if you don't stand down I am compelled to take action. I will say it one more time, put down your weapons!"

"No!" the mouse shouted. "This land is ours, and if you do not leave now we are compelled to take action! This is our home, how would you like it if we took it from you?"

"I wouldn't have to bother since you wouldn't," Brek said smugly.

"Then we will take your life!" The mouse and his followers began to attack. Brek lifted his axe and brought one down on the old mouse immediately. The fragile beast fell to the dirty ground with blood dripping from his shoulder as life escaped his old eyes. Another mouse tried jumping on him with a spade ready to stab. Brek balled his free paw in a fist and swung into the mouse in mid-air. The mouse fell injured but not dead. Then he was left with three mice, he grabbed one's rake and threw it away then did the same with the other two's shovels.

The three mice jumped on him and started punching the fox. His axe fell out of his hands as he went to the ground. They continued to throw punches as he curled up under them. He waited until he felt that burst of adrenaline and broke free from his mousy prison. He grabbed one and threw him into a burning hut. The last two mice knew they would lose if they stayed, so they ran into the burning huts to hide.

Brek then started back to the ship past the huts empty handed and exhuasted. As he came close to the shore he saw a fellow crewbeast, Jeshal the Ironclaw. "So Jeshal? You finally decided to join us for one?"


Anithias Freedom/Armina Rogue
It wasn't that they were the enemy. In Anithias' book there was no 'enemy' that could be defined by species, borders, or appearance. Nor was it that they needed the supplies. In all honesty, they could do without. And it certainly wasn't that he liked to kill; he didn't enjoy slaughtering innocents at all.

It was simply that those were his orders. And as he saw it, orders were unassailable.

Not that Anithias had to like them. "I'm sorry," he told the group of woodlanders assembled before him, "but I'm afraid we have to raid your village. Those are our orders from the Emperor himself, and to disobey them would mean court-martial."

The leading mouse, an aging fellow who looked as if his entire military experience had been defending his farm, seemed less than satisfied with this answer. "Pah!" he spat. "Do you think we care about your rotting emperor? For fifty years you vermin have been coming and stealing away everything we work for!" He gesticulated with his paw at the burning thatch houses. "How would you like to look your children in the eye and tell them there's no food because the vermin came and took it?"

This comparison struck a disturbing chord within Anithias. To him, having no way to feed Falun was unimaginable. Slowly a welling of sadness and hopelessness crept over him, his empathy torturing him with guilt. He was ruining these beasts' lives! How could he stand here and do nothing?

But then duty forced its way in, reminding Anithias that this was not his choice to make. "I'm sorry," he apologized with slightly more compassion, "but I'm afraid we simply can't leave this place empty-pawed!"

"Well, you'll get out," the elderly rodent threatened, brandishing his pitchfork shakily, "or you'll leave here without your paws!"

"I don't think so," Anithias said smoothly, drawing his own cutlass. Enmity flashed briefly in the light before impaling itself in the old mouse's chest. He barely had time to draw a shuttering breath before the Keeper of the Gates escorted him to the other side. Anithias tugged the blade from his chest, allowing the mouse's exclaiming family to lower him gently to the ground. Tears shimmered in their eyes as they looked down at their fallen patriarch, sobs breaking out from a female who looked like his granddaughter.

Anithias shuffled uncomfortably. He didn't like having killed one of them, but there was no choice. If they didn't return with suitable gains for the Imperium Anithias could lose his captaincy. Considering they had no first officer to replace him, the most likely outcome would be a promotion from one of the other ships, a thought he couldn't stand.

Feeling as if he was intruding on something deeply private, Anithias circled the small group and entered the house. Immediately he was disappointed; it appeared that the numerous family was hard-up already. The only vittles in the house were a few meager loaves of bread and some assorted vegetables. As for valuables, there were none, save a few trinkets in a jewelry box that Anithias didn't have the heart to take.

Turning to leave, Anithias saw one of the older females standing in the doorway, trembling with rage. "Leave," she ordered, her slight frame shuddering with anger. Anithias quietly approached the door, brushing past her as he left. Quietly he muttered two heartfelt words:

"I'm sorry."

With that he set out not at a brisk stride, but one that certainly wanted to put distance between himself and the grieving family. Something was terribly wrong. He felt guilt, guilt over taking the woodlander's life and causing such grief to his family. He was a vermin, moreover a sea captain, and was supposed to be immune to this kind of self-torment. Anithias hurried back onto the Hide, sitting down on the quarterdeck stairs to get his head straight.

----------------------------------------------

Armina watched the grieving family from a distance, her bow notched and by her side. Her eyes seemed distant, as if lost in some other world. If anybeast could intrude into her mind (indeed a very dark and dangerous place to go, haunted with personal ghosts and the potent form of Narima), they could hear the exchange between Armina, Narima, and herself.

Look at them. They're so-

Pathetic? A snort. You'd never catch me making a spectacle of myself like that.

Because you have no heart.

Of course not. I just borrow yours. Along with the rest of your body.

That's not what I meant.

I know what you meant, and I disagree. I have a great big heart, and I share it with as many todds as possible.

I don't think that's the heart you're thinking of.

Har har.

From the bushes Armina observed the deceased mouse's granddaughter weeping brokenly at the loss of her dear grandfather. Poor thing, Armina thought sympathetically. Perhaps-

If you're thinking about killing them, then I say go ahead and get it done with. This hiding in bushes is doing little for my complexion.

Would you shut up? This is serious.

They're grieving. If you kill them, they won't be grieving. End of story.

It's not that simple. You know the rules.

Who cares whether they're going to live in abject misery for the rest of their lives? I'm not a seer. I can't tell what will happen to them.

Which is why I need to seriously think this through.

Narima remained quiet while Armina observed them for several minutes. When she could stand the silence no longer, she demanded, Well?

Armina shook her head. Silently she aimed her gaze at the group, knowing that Narima would see what she saw. The parents and uncles and aunts were beginning to comfort the younger femme, still shaken and grieving themselves but gradually learning to cope with it. This, above anything else, told her that they would be alright.

Narima could only stand hopeful thoughts for a small amount of time, wiggling around uncomfortably as if she were allergic. Alright, we've saved the woodland creatures, she said in annoyance. Now can we please go?

Armina nodded, rising. Relaxing her bow, she returned the arrow to her quiver and set off for other parts of the village, hoping that there might be some good she could do in this terrible display of greed and violence. Spotting Jeshal, she made a line for him, hoping (or hoping not might be a better term) that in the wake of the Ironclaw, there might be somebeast she might help to escort from their misery to a better land.



Tomias Redford
Tomias didn't know why he had tagged along for this raid, probably because he needed to actually get involved in something classed as 'work', due to the fact that he had been dodging work for the past few weeks. But enough digression, he was now stuck in a battle that he didn't want to participate in. He loved woodlanders, and he felt terrible even being involved in a raid against them. So he was currently hiding out of sight, under a wheelbarrow. He peeked out from underneath, and what he saw, horrified him. His fellow crewbeasts, his friends were nothing but cold-hearted murderers.

He couldn't take it any longer, and he did realise that this could have adverse effects on him after this was all over, but he had made his choice. Tomias bolted out from under the wheelbarrow and whipped out one of his swords, and blocked a blow one of his fellow crew was aiming at a young squirrel. "Get out of here," he grunted at the squirrel, who didn't need second bidding, and was already running. Tomias sheathed his blade and grabbed the crewbeast by the collar. "Leave 'em alone," he growled before letting the crewbeast go and running off.

Tomias was still running, and currently not looking where he was going, he was too busy glancing around at what was going on around him. Even if he tried, he couldn't stop this madness. It was due to the fact he wasn't looking where he was going when he ran straight into Armina, who from the general direction and velocity she was running at, was running towards Jeshal.

"Gates...I'm sorry Armina," he said worriedly, "I'm just so...annoyed at what they are doing here, I wasn't paying attention to where I was going." He gestured to his fellow crew when he said 'they'.


Jeshal the Ironclaw
At Brek's hails, the newest murderer turned, his dark blue frockcoat swishing above his sandal-strapped ankles. Jeshal's expression had taken on a cold vacancy. The dead mousemaid still clutched in his arms, his bloodied claws drummed slowly at her waist.

"So Jeshal? You finally decided to join us for one?"

"So it would seem, Master Larks," the Ironclaw said softly, yet loud enough to be heard over the distant sounds of looting. "How fares the plunder? Got yerself a pretty few shinies ter return with?"


Brek Larks
"So it would seem, Master Larks," Jeshal said in a soft voice. "How fares the plunder? Got yerself a pretty few shinies ter return with?"

The todd's face turned sad at the mention of his failed plundering, "Nay, I have failed in that part. But I intend to raid a few houses more perhaps after the fires go down." His voice trembled with rage and sadness. He was sad because of the killing of the poor farm beasts. It must have been true what everyone said in Bully Harbour, that those who belonged to the Hide were the craziest. It seemed none of his fellow crewbeasts enjoyed the murderous rage they brought to the woodlanders.

He saw how Anithias hesitated and apologized to every beast whose home he had or was about to plunder. And Tomias who apparently was hiding under a wheelbarrow until rage drew him out, but not to attack the woodlanders but to protect them. Brek wished he had the guts to do what Tomias did, his self-control and even the courage to defend and attack a fellow crewbeast. For all the reasons he was sad one was above the rest, the faces of both the dead and living today haunted his mind.

The innocent as they headed to the 'Gates wore a face he would never forget, and it always seemed that after they were killed the Rijard mask dissolved. And the mourners of each fallen one, the children who had become orphaned by the crew, or worse the children who died by the crew. He wished it were like what would happen back home. If you took something from someone you would give it back and apologize was what he was taught by his parents long ago. But if you take a life, there was no giving it back. For death's reign is more powerful than the raging sea during a storm.

Brek's head shook in disbelief at the cold murderer he had become. He had a part-time job as a Fogey that he had to protect others from murderers and to lock the dangerous beasts up. "I'll see ye back on the Hide, Jeshal, I'll be right back. And please, don't follow me. Secret mission given to me by Anithias," he lied. "I can't tell you any more for I have already spoken too much." The todd sprinted away into the small village the poor beasts called home.

As Brek ran into the raid he didn't know why he was going to do what he was about to do. But he was going to do it with the admiration of Tomias' courage and the fact from this point on during this raid he was not a crewbeast of the Golden Hide but a Fogey who was sworn to protect the innocent.

His first encounter was a group of woodlanders stuck inside a burning hut. The beams had fallen down and trapped the family. Brek called from the outside, "Stand back! I'm going to cut the beams and try to get you out!"

From the inside he heard a female's voice tremble. "Please hurry! My son is injured and we can't get out!"

"I will try to get you out as fast as possible, stay calm and stand back from this side of the hut!" Brek stepped into position to swing his axe. As the blade hit the targeted beam he heard screams inside and embers flew up and burned Brek's whiskers and fur, but he kept hacking at the beam. Each time he broke a little more he used the edge between the blade and handle as a hook to try and jerk the log loose. He had cut a little more past the middle of the log and yanked it with all his might. The beam was pulled out and a loud Snap! was heard as the log rolled out still burning and a pile of straw from the walls and roof poured to where the log once was.

He pushed the burning rubble out of his way and saw a family of fieldmice that looked shocked at their rescuer, except one boy mouse who was unconscious in his father's arms. "Come on, get out of there!" he shouted, still pushing rubble away with his axe. Two females came out first, possibly the mother and daughter, then the father crawled to the hole with his son in his arms. "Give me your son," Brek said so the father could get through. He passed the sleeping boy to him who was no more over his kit years. Brek placed the mouse by his older sister's feet where she knelt to take care of him.

Then Brek stuck his paw out and the father mouse grabbed it with both hands. Brek put his other paw around and started to pull the mouse out. He was almost out when another pile of rubble fell and buried his body. The mouse girl screamed "Papa!" as her mother started to cry. Brek tried to pull him out from the rubble but he was too far under. He began digging with his claws and ordered the wife to do the same. As they dug the mouse out Brek pulled him once more and the mouse was almost flung out. But as Brek checked the body he knew it was too late.

He turned to the wife. "I'm sorry, take your son and hide away from my crew. Perhaps some forest nearby with a stream. Wait until sunrise tomorrow and don't return till then." Still weeping, the two female mice nodded and both grabbed the boy and started running away from the other crewbeasts who were still plundering. As soon as they were out of sight he dived into the flames that surrounded the hut. Inside he was hoping to find something to bring back to the Hide. He found a burnt chest that had holes big enough to see shining coins inside. Brek grabbed the chest and ran out coughing and stumbled to the ship. His mind fogged with the smoke in his lungs making it hard to breathe. He got past the burning huts and onto the beach still coughing.

Then he fell only a few feet from the Hide. His eyes closed as he felt the paws of his fellow crewbeasts lift him up and carried him to the ship.


Armina Rogue/Anithias Freedom
(Autos made, can edit if requested)

Armina was surprised when out of nowhere Tomias ran into her, toppling them both to the ground. Instantly he began apologizing, his attention apparently elsewhere. "Gates...I'm sorry Armina," he said, his voice filled with trouble and worry. "I'm just so...annoyed at what they are doing here, I wasn't paying attention to where I was going." He made a gesture at the roving, pillaging crew.

Armina hadn't listened. She flushed as she realized he was lying directly on her, their snouts barely a few inches apart. Instantly she reacted defensively, remembering the last time they had shared so close a proximity. The fear and shame associated with that experience were still too strong for her, the emotions overriding her perception of the moment. She buckled under Tomias, panicking. "Get off!" she shouted, attempting to scurry her way out from under the male form. As soon as she could wiggle free she wildly scurried back, using her footpaws to put as much distance between her and the todd. It was only her own panting breath that alerted her to her increased heart rate, heightened from her state of agitation. Taking several slow, deep breaths, Armina felt the panic slowly subside.

"Sorry," she apologized, still shivering uncontrollably. "I reacted... badly, for a second," she explained lamely. Badly was perhaps the understatement of the century; for a moment she'd had the panicked delusion of Narima once more taking control, forcing her to use Tomias against her will. It had been enough to send the traumatized vixen into a state of anxiety. Seeking to repair some of the hurt she could see on Tomias' face, she slowly crept forward on her paws and knees, cupping her paw around Tomias' cheek. "I'm sorry," she said softly, her eyes gazing into Tomias' green-rimed lakes of darkness. Gently she closed the distance, giving him one soft, meaningful kiss, before returning to look at him. Love shone faintly in her gaze, apparent to all observing, yet restrained, as if Armina was afraid to unleash the floodgates of trust and sharing again.

The moment was interrupted by the coughing and hacking of Brek as he lugged a large chest past them, heading for the beach and the Hide. Armina would have been able to force herself to ignore him, restraining her impulses to make sure the ill-winded young fox was alright, had he not collapsed on the beach. Instantly her concern overrode her obligation to maintain this awkward moment with Tomias. Straightening out of her crouch, Armina started for Brek, her speed picking up in time to her anxiety. "Brek?" she called, a frantic note in her voice. When he didn't respond Armina set out at full speed, her footpaws drawing grooves in the sand as she slid to a kneeling stop. Inexpertly Armina felt around his neck, trying to find a pulse. Worry overtook her as she failed, mainly because in her own haste she'd completely missed his carotid artery.

Armina didn't notice Anithias' approach until he knelt opposite her, his eyes sharply running over the lad. "Let's get him on ship," he ordered, moving to grab Brek under the arms.

Armina shuffled to the young fox's feet, grabbing him under the knees. On Anithias' order they carried the lad, who was surprisingly light, up to the Hide. Laying him on deck, Anithias put the back of his paw to Brek's forehead. Anithias felt the temperature for a moment before pulling his paw away. "He has some mild burns, first or second degree," he diagnosed. "Possibly inhaled too many fumes as well. He'll be alright."

Nodding, Armina stood. She suddenly felt self-conscious in her former godfather's presence, remembering the many arguments and the near court-martial that had made any contact with the new captain uncomfortable. Leaving Anithias to tend to Brek, Armina returned to Tomias. "He'll be alright," she reported to him, directing the statement to Jeshal as well. "Just a little worn out, that's all."

Then she noticed the mousemaid impaled on Jeshal's claws. A look of horror fell on Armina's face as she realized the gruesome manner in which the young life had died, her light snuffed out in an instant. Behind her, tied to a post in the ocean, her two parents wept openly, raining curses on the demon who had stolen their daughter from them. The look of anguish on their faces was enough that Armina could decide instantly. Before anybeast could stop her she readied her bow, sending an arrow zipping into the old mouse's chest. His head fell forward even as his wife was similarly extinguished.

Lowering her bow, Armina gazed at Jeshal with anger steaming from her skin in almost visible waves. "Don't you ever," she threatened, her voice wavering as she came close to tears, "ever come near me again." Small wavering rivers gathered on the rim of her eyelid, threatening to spill over the dam with just the slightest provocation.


Brek Larks
Where was Brek? He didn't know. He was standing, but not on ground but above endless void of darkness. All around him was a dark black smoke but no flames and there were no sounds but the one of sweet but haunting Silence. He felt warm, burned, and he smelled burnt fur, yet he looked at himself and he and his clothes were perfectly intact. Then how could he hurt so badly yet seem like he was all right?

He tried to think of where he was. He remembered the Hide, Anithias as captain, the crew that he had made friends with some, but he couldn't find himself or what had come to bring him to this land.

Brek glanced around; the darkness was like a fog where he couldn't see anything before him, hiding any exit. He reached out with a footpaw, he could move. Another paw was reached out and landed on ground. Brek kept moving, hoping to find an escape. Paw by paw he kept crawling through the fog.

Then fire burst inside him, his lungs started to burn with horrible pain. Brek grimaced but kept walking, every step made him burn more. The fog started to clear, but to only show something worse. A burning monster started to approach, its form started as a blob but then divided itself into many fiery beasts of all kinds. They were as far as twenty yards, but the fire inside kept burning hotter. They circled around and prepared for attack, Brek's paw reached his belt for his axe, finding nothing.

He was defenceless, so he waited for it to be over. The shining beasts growled and changed colors as the flames shot around their bodies. They didn't stand like the imperial beasts but on all four paws.

Brek's eyes met one beast; a fox only bigger, maybe a wolf. Somehow he knew this was the leader, because none of the other beasts did anything without him. They stared at each other, then the wolf started barking and was followed by growls and barks from the other beasts. The lead-wolf started running to Brek. The rest of the fire beasts started their run for him as well. Brek closed his eyes to escape the sight of his death, he first felt the burning inside his body then flaming claws rip through his left shoulder. More and more beasts piled on top of him, ripping their claws at the unfortunate todd.

The real body of the lad sat up in lightning speed on the deck of the Hide. He gasped realizing the nightmare was over, but he was waking up to a new one. Over the side railing he saw a village burning and small woodlanders running from the murderous crew beasts. And Jeshal had in his arms a dead mouse girl and beside him were two old mice tied down by stakes to the ground.

Then he felt dizzy and fell back down on his back. Beside him was the captain. Was Brek that important that the captain would take care of an injured crewbeast? He could imagine Julia might do so but he never thought Anithias as somebeast that would do that especially with all his duties. Brek closed his eyes and groaned. "Water, I need water," he mumbled. "It burns, it all burns. Make it stop! It burns like the 'Gates!" He was too tired to notice he slipped in his proper language and in front of the captain! He had never said a curse like that before, but hearing it almost every day of his life almost made him think it as a normal saying like "Good Day."

"Water," He groaned once more then fell asleep again.


Tomias Redford
Tomias stared wide eyed in horror at how Armina, the vixen he loved, killed two elderly mice, so quick, and so easily.

"What the heck did you do that for?" he said to her, trying to restrain the real anger he was feeling. "You could have just, untied them, instead of killing them."

He sighed, and rubbed his head, before getting up.

"It's okay, I forgive you... just... try not to do it again," he said in a quieter tone to her.

He walked over to the bodies of the two elderly mice. After he cut the rope that still tied them to the stake in the sea, he carried them to shore, where he knelt beside them and, using two fingers, he closed their eyes.

"I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry..." he muttered to them.

He got back up and walked over to his captain, Anithias.

"Excuse me, sir...but how the heck can you allow such pointless killing, all these lives, and families being snuffed out, and for what... the Emperor gets a few more pennies in his pocket, or a few more toys to play with..." He glared at Anithias. "It sickens me, that the first resort for increasing the Emperor’s treasury, is by killing and stealing from innocent beasts. We have no right... you have no right."


Jeshal the Ironclaw
Jeshal had not expected Armina to be so sentimental, but even less had he anticipated that she would so cruelly slay beasts whose suffering could be eased without being sent to the Forest. There was something delicious about how it felt to make her so furious and grief-stricken. To push a beast far enough that they would become flat-line callous. He bathed in the hateful glare that she shot him.

"Don't you ever, ever come near me again."

Not intending to mock her, the Ironclaw allowed his typical sneer to fade from his muzzle. It still remained in his dark eyes, however, and he stared at the vixen as deeply as possible.

The copper fox watched with a hidden amusement as Redford announced his displeasure. Forgiveness, heroism, ardent honour...where would it end? Perhaps Jeshal was truly doomed to walk a path of villainy, if this was to be the future of his fellow crew.

No sooner had Tomias turned his attention away from Armina and begun addressing the captain, Jeshal chose so soon to violate the young vixen's demand. With a subtle slide of the footpaws through the pebbles of the beach, like some nauseatingly fragile dance, the Ironclaw drew close enough to Armina for the scent of the mousemaid's blood to overwhelm her senses and then whispered:

"Would that I could, pickwick, if it would ease yer sufferin'." The cruel smile had not taken a long absence. "Alas we be sailin' the same waters. By an' by yer'll 'ave ter get used ter me. May'aps ye may even come ter like me, despite me flaws. In the meanwhile, I'd take care o' yer feisty warrior pup."

That said, he slinked off into the shallows and trod onwards until he stood waist-deep in the ocean. With an eerily grateful expression of cherished memory, he laid the mousemaid into the waters and watched her drift across the waves.


Armina Rogue
Tomias seemed horrified as Armina slew the two elderly mice. "What the heck did you do that for?" he asked, horror and anger in his voice. "You could have just, untied them, instead of killing them." Armina stared at him, hurt and confused. Didn't he know? Didn't he understand?

Tomias sighed, getting up from the ground. His tone was more subdued, but still carried the hurt and anger he felt. "It's okay, I forgive you... just... try not to do it again." Armina merely continued to stare at him, hurt in her eyes. She'd thought he understood. She was sure he knew who she was, what she believed in. Armina couldn't decide what hurt more, his ignorance or the pain in his eyes that she had unwittingly caused.

Armina couldn't bear to follow after him as he went to the two mice. Instead she stood there, lingering in her hurt. How could he judge her? How could he deem her a murderer, think that she would kill for no reason? He knew her better than that, didn't he? But even as she thought it, she knew she was wrong. She and Tomias had only known each other a short time, and that time had been marred by Narima's presence. She had never gotten a chance to tell him – to even tell anybeast – about her beliefs regarding the taking of life. What disturbed her more than anything was that she knew, deep within her heart, that even if she told Tomias he wouldn't understand. He would never be able to understand.

Her reflection was cut short when Jeshal deliberately disobeyed her, crossing into what Armina defined as her 'personal zone'. Armina only noticed him when the corpse of the mousemaid moved into view, breaking her reverie. Armina looked up to see Jeshal's cruel smile* hovering before her. Instinctively she reeled back, supposedly from the smell. In truth, it was from the sudden shock of finding so loathsome (and admittedly terrifying) a personality so close to her.

The Ironclaw leaned in closer than Armina preferred, the cruel smile on his face. "Would that I could, pickwick, if it would ease yer sufferin'. Alas we be sailin' the same waters. By an' by yer'll 'ave ter get used ter me. May'aps ye may even come ter like me, despite me flaws. In the meanwhile, I'd take care o' yer feisty warrior pup."

Even as he walked away, something snapped in Armina. It was the condescending tone, as if talking to somebeast mentally ill. Armina knew that many beasts didn't like her for various reasons, and had reconciled herself to the fact. But to be treated like a lunatic, to be judged as insane simply because of her personal values, riled Armina past what she could tolerate.

"Crazy!?!" Armina screamed, whirling to face Jeshal's distant form. She was vaguely aware the outburst would seem completely random to Jeshal, though she did not feel in the mood to clarify herself. "Is that what you think I am?? Some kind of idiot!?!" She started after Jeshal, her long, wild motions accentuating her unrestrained anger. Spray flew around her trouser legs as she sloshed through the surf, the breaking water hampering her movement.

Armina grabbed Jeshal's shoulder as he released the mousemaid into the sea, using him as leverage to pull herself around to his front. She blocked his view as best he could, her determined, anger-fueled face all he could see. For a moment she tried to think of words to continue to rain upon him, but the hate clouding her mind could only allow the strongest impulses through. One impulse dominated her mind. Armina gazed into Jeshal's eyes before bringing her knee up between his legs. She angrily stalked away, not bothering to watch his reaction.


*'Looked up' might be the wrong word, as Armina was rather close to his height. However, the experience was still akin to finding Sylar two inches from one's face. Thus, her reaction was understandable.


Tanya Rainblade-Ryalor
Mercy.

That word never particularly struck Tanya as an important one in her lexicon of woodlander communication. As long as she could remember living, the only ones that popped up were 'threat', 'do-gooder' and 'biased' in relation to how they should be perceived, and 'unpleasantly' as to how they should be dealt with. It would probably explain the mechanical methods of dispatch she had so impassively (though creatively) enacted upon the masses; a swordstroke here took off a child's head quite efficiently; an arrow to the back of a leg took down a running target who could be thusly carved in two on passing by; a dagger in the ribs of an elder sent the little ones into screaming fits. Her entire naval career of raids had followed the same method: run in, disappear outdoors, appear inside a hut and kill anybeast inside as interestingly as possible, then steal any goods left, and repeat until the body count reaches maximum. The only difference came when there were badgers involved – if that was the case, it was always safer to let somebeast... else, be the hero.

Seeing as this pattern had been repeated fortnightly since she was fifteen, it had pretty much stuck.

The admiral stood in the middle of the chaos as it kicked off around her with a vague little smile on her narrow face. The yells of pain and confusion filled her tattered ears like so many wonderful ringing bells, and she turned a slow, tight circle to take in a nice panoramic view of this madness. Something had caught alight, she noticed with mild interest, the blaze giving her emerald eyes the unhinged sparkle no other light source could...

And then beasts began to materialise from their homes to fight, so she melted into the eerie darkness cast by the flames and was gone. The next time she was seen, it was appearing inside a blockaded little hut, within which crouched a small family unit, the youngsters poorly hidden beneath a table that was guarded by the larger of the species: parents defending their young from the inevitable. Tox grinned.

She never once paused to think what it would be like from their perspective – vermin try to kill each other enough without the added confusion of pretending to be a squirrel. She didn't even have the old false tailbrush any more, either.

"Hello," the diminutive vixen chirped brightly to the youngest hedgehog as she pulled a knife from her belt and stepped closer, "My name's Tanya. What's yours?"

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Wandering back through the burning village, cutlass shoved back through her saturated belt, Tanya tilted her head sideways and regarded a middle-aged ferret who had stopped in mid-throttle of a particularly bothersome mouse to stare at her. She was an odd blackish-purple red from nose to tail-tip, the blood and other associated inner parts of a beast sticking her fur into harsh little spikes, and her fangs, also, gleamed the tell-tale crimson. She had certainly been enjoying her work, if nobeast else had. Somehow, upon looking at her, it didn't tend to look all that... unfitting.

Why was everybeast screaming? The Imperial beasts were whom she meant, of course – if woodlanders were screaming, that was a veritable bonus – but so many were calling out ridiculous claims like 'don't worry' or 'sorry' or 'I'll get you out!'. What a waste of all that work; why go to the trouble of raiding the bloody place if their hearts weren't even in it? Worst of all, they were trying to save those whose family they slaughtered. Sometimes this crew had her stumped, they really did.

She reached the beach without a problem, and arrived just in time to see a familiar copper fox receive a particularly gender-oriented attack from her niece.

"Nice one, Armina!" she called out encouragingly as she sloshed through the water towards them, leaving a distinctly gore-tinged wake as she splashed over, all casual crazy smiles and waves, not for one moment thinking that her appearance could be deemed 'hellish', "bu' I wouldn' 'ave been that 'ard – 'Gates knows Jeshal might've planned ter be a father someday!"


Jeshal the Ironclaw
Lost in his disturbingly tranquil thoughts, Jeshal hardly realised Armina had begun shouting at him until she had stormed past the tideline and snatched hold of him. Her livid face filled his vision and for a few moments she seemed at a loss. The painful silence was beautiful to the Ironclaw, her fury and grief – intoxicating. He stared back into the young vixen's eyes with the sort of look that read I'm going to eat you...slowly..., and then –

The grin broke. Jeshal's legs buckled beneath him in response to the assault upon his nether regions. His ears drooped, a small whine escaped his lips and he slumped face-first into the pebble-bedded shallows.

The Ironclaw, a cluster of reddened water about him, was still floundering unflatteringly on his front when the demonic image of the admiral swaggered onto the scene. At first he froze, mortification getting the upper paw, but slowly he began to haul his dripping form up to his feet. As if to regain some semblance of composure, his metal claw scooped up a selection of pebbles as he rose. He subsequently began to toy with them, partly to look menacing, but largely to take his mind off the shooting pains that were threatening to topple him once more.


Armina Rogue
Armina left Jeshal lying in the surf, stalking back toward the shore. Anger swirled about her mind, not focusing itself in any specific direction but instead encompassing the entirety of Armina's world, painting every thought with the brush of hatred. Why couldn't they let her be? She never hurt them, yet they all wanted to change her, make her more like them. Anithias did it, Jeshal did it, even Tomias wanted to reform her into his perfect femme, to force her to fit the mold he had subconsciously cast for his unknown life partner. Every beast she knew wanted something from her, and she was sick of it.

Armina was briefly jerked out of her rebellious session by her aunt's encouraging call. The teen vixen's eyes narrowed as she examined her hero – bloody, coated in gore, the very picture of insanity. That was it, wasn't it? What Tox wanted. She wanted Armina to be like her. Instantly something clicked in Armina, recalling snippets of conversations they had held together – Tox encouraging Armina to join the Guard, defending Armina's mercenary actions before Anithias, stating that she saw potential in the youngster. While before these held positive connotations for the femme, suddenly they took on a dark tone in Armina's mind. It was that simple, wasn't it? Tox wanted Armina to be like her – an assassin for the state. Bloody, ruthless, unquestioning, but above all else justified in her slaughters. Willing to put the mission before all else.

The problem was that Armina couldn't just set aside her morals. For her, the strict set of codes regarding the taking of life and the afterlife was more important than her own life. The punishment for violating these rules was harsh, and one with which Armina was well familiarized: eternity spent in the Ten Courts of Asmodeus, the brimstone underworld in which the great snake held domain. Though Armina would never admit fear of anything, this divine punishment held more terror for her than anything of the earth. It was this fear and this fear alone which kept Armina bound to the silly cult she had joined years ago on the streets of Fyador, the cult to which she had continued allegiance for so many years even after it had dissolved away, continuing to uphold her oath out of a little femme's fear of death and of things that went bump in the night.

Armina's eyes welled slightly with tears of frustration as she looked at Tox. She was so confused now, confused about what she should believe and who she should be. Somewhere inside of her Armina knew that her oaths were unfounded, that they were merely a fool's comfort in a harsh life, but she didn't want to let go of them, like a passenger on a sinking ship who clung to the deck for fear of sharks. Eventually the water would overtake her, washing away the last of her anchor, and she would have no defense. But for now, it seemed easier for her to cling to her false hopes than to venture into the unknown.

Armina sighed as she passed Tox, slumping into a sand bank. She lay on her back, looking up into the sky. The sun had not shown itself today, hiding behind thick banks of clouds, further darkened by the pillar of smoke rising from the burning village. Armina continued to stare heavenward even as she spoke, a distant note in her voice. "I'm sick of this, Tox," she told her aunt, not looking at her. "I'm tired of fighting and raiding and death and not knowing who I am. I just... I can't take it anymore." It was perhaps the most heartfelt confession she'd ever had, yet it was so simplistic. Something in her had been worn out by this life, this hard life of the sea. Already she was beginning to yearn, yearning to get away, to find a life that she knew didn't exist.


Tanya Rainblade-Ryalor
It had always been a useful trait of Tanya's: to be able to set aside the relationships, previous experience with, gender, age and physical state of the victim when it came to the job. She was a beast with the fortunate ability to completely shut down her emotions in the heat of the moment, and bury her conscience alive – it was always what had gotten her the job, what had allowed her to live the lifestyle she preferred, and most importantly what had kept her alive those tough years before Naval rank was able to somewhat protect her.

Of course, that was also the determining factor which had her ejected from the moralistic Unsmudgeables, but one faction’s loss had, ultimately, been another's gain. It had also allowed her to watch and monitor the assassination of her best friend's husband. That didn't carry quite so much of a gain...

Unbeknownst to Tox, however, her ability to discard morals and perform said tasks (or better said, the lack of an ability to empathise) came at a price: the abandoning of her conscience tended to leave it feeling rather bruised. It would return several days later, in the form of a violent hallucination, and gnaw upon her mind until she was left crouched in the corner of her bunk, doglike, vomiting nonsense words and clawing herself to pieces. Again, this wasn't something she tended to bear in mind – in fact, it never once crossed that peculiar place inside her skull, probably for fear of being run over on the frantic dual-carriageway of her thoughts.

Her niece's sour response was something that she hadn't anticipated, and for a moment it served to shut the fire-furred vixen up. She stood in the surf, crazy little smile fixed to her face as she performed a full-body turn to track Armina's movements to the sand bank. When the grey vixen threw herself down and stared at the clouded void above, no move was made to approach, although her brows lowered slightly in confusion. Eventually the diminutive vixen sensed that Armina might want conversation as opposed to space and began trudging over.

She took a while to sit down in the now red sand, allowing to the fact that beneath the blood she had sustained a few nasty claw gouges in her sides. "Old before me time" she chuckled to herself as she eased her slight frame down and settled beside one of her few living relations (that she would talk to, anyways). Her tattered ears swivelled to catch the simple, honest words and they were digested for a few moments, the sea breeze hardly ruffling the demonically spiked fur as unnaturally sharp green eyes cut into the horizon. She thought.

"You get used to it.” She shrugged, pausing to pick a piece of gore from her eyelid and flick it into the reddened waves. "Once you lose yer faith, nex' goes yeh belief in good, and then yeh identity – it don't matter what you do or don't like, or whether you ever really knew who yeh were, because once tha's gone, 's as easy as 'one-two-three, bring yeh blade down; four-five-six, sever a head; eight-nine-ten, fill in a report an' call it legal.'..."

She stopped herself there, sensing the hint of bitterness in her own voice, and the expression on her face melted into nothingness for a flicker of an instant. Her tailbrush flicked.

"Wait a momen'... per'aps you don' 'ave ter..." For once, the vixen actually seemed somewhat excited, the crimson smile taking on a more childish one of hope as her voice picked up speed. "Armina, you got what we in the profession call a 'chance': yeh still young, not as corrupted as some, the niece o' the admiral an' formerly adopted daughter o' the captain – you can get out of it wi' the money an' means... I mean.... if yer wanted to, 'a course... I wouldn' want yer makin' the same mistakes as me if you got the chance to escape now – 'Gates knows I would’ve if I could'a..."

And there it was: the admission that, despite everything in the rebellious teen's reasoning that the vixen before her was trying to drag her into a similar line of work, it was one of the very last things that the scruffy, bloody vixen wanted. She had–

No, no more memories. Things had gotten too personal for Tanya's liking too quickly. Shifting uncomfortably, the gore-coated fox made a small attempt to inject some humour into an otherwise miserable situation.

"Hmm... I don' fink I wos cut out fer admiral meself... Wot d'yer fink me real callin wos, 'Mina? Pers'nlly, I fink I'da made a grea' flower arranger..."


Xhavek Mokorai
As a raider Xhavek was exemplary. His entire native culture was based around the struggle. Whether it was a fight with the elements or another living thing, Dragonflame monitor lizard life was about meeting a challenge and grinding said obstruction into the dirt. At least proverbially, you couldn't actually grind the sea into the dust even if you wanted to. On top of this warrior upbringing Xhavek had a rare ability, (or disability if one wanted to look at it that way). He lacked fear. Completely and totally he had absolutely no vestige of terror in his body. Not even a hint of cowardice. That emotion had literally been burned out of his system leaving a nearly perfect killing machine. Nearly being the operative word.

For though he had no fear for himself, his odd sense of honor dictated that a killing that was not profitable was not a proper death at all. At the same time he needed to kill. Or at the very least he needed to fight. For only two things in the world kept his boundless inner rage at bay, and one of them was battle. As bizarre as it may seem by letting his anger dictate his actions for at least a little while helped him to keep control better. It was similar to the way pressure built up in a boiler. If one allowed the pressure to build up too high it would explode but if one relieved the pressure a little bit at a time the boiler was manageable and therefore useful. (Granted Xhavek had no idea what a boiler even was. In fact at this time nobeast had a clue what pressure build-up was let alone the use of steam power. Even so all would have agreed that it was an apt comparison.)

And on this raid Xhavek was letting off a very large amount of steam out. So large that he was in a right raging frenzy and had he a clue how he looked he would have blanched. After all, all that blood was quite difficult to get out of those hard to reach places in one's mouth.

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Eventually the various creatures of the village either were fled or dead and Xhavek returned to his normal, goofy, grinning self. It was in this state of mind that he began to tromp away from his place among the bodies of various beasts whose state and exact method of deceasing was varied but routinely vicious. A shattered chest here, a torn off leg here, and in one particular nasty instance entire bodies literally ripped to pieces. Actually it rather reminded a beast of shredded fish mush. Speaking of which Xhavek was certain he had a snack waiting for him back on the Hide. Though how exactly he could think of food when he was covered in more gore than a slaughterhouse floor was beyond the rational mind.

As he marched his way back to the ship he came upon Tox and Armina just in time to hear his deadly and equally filth covered admiral say something quite interesting.

Hmm... I don' fink I wos cut out fer admiral meself... Wot d'yer fink me real callin wos, 'Mina? Pers'nlly, I fink I'da made a grea' flower arranger..."

Unable to resist Xhavek piped in placing his blood covered claws upon their shoulders companionably. "I think you vould have made a better zeamztrezz. Your creative mind vould have been put to better uze zat vay. Az for me I think I vould have made an exzellent voodcutter. Vhat about you Armina? Vhat job do you think you should have had? Or at leazt vould prefer to have?"


Armina Rogue/Anithias Freedom
Armina did not glance at her aunt as she sat beside her on the sandy bank, her care in choosing her seating arrangement betraying the wounds she had amassed in the raid. Normally Armina would be worried about these injuries, but not today; if Tox saw no need to fret, Armina would not either.

The grey vixen's snout wrinkled slightly as her aunt and guardian offered a somewhat cynical view of the assassin's life, comparing it to a dance or a checklist. A small, cynical voice in Armina couldn't help but add to her aunt's rant, 'eleven-twelve-thirteen, sell off your soul'. Tox seemed to realize that this was perhaps not the most helpful thing to say, her expression fading away quickly.

Armina listened with slight interest as her aunt began to reassure the young femme that she could get out if she wanted to. As she listened, slowly Armina's hope began to build, not reaching any great amount but still creating a presence. Tox had a point. There was a way out, if she wanted to take it. She was young, she had connections, and even had a position in the Fogeys – if she wanted to, she could make a life for herself. The problem was, Armina didn't know how. Her entire life had been built around being a scumbag, from her youth in the orphanage to her spell in the former Furotazzi family. Though she didn't like what she did and had jumped at the first opportunity to get out, she didn't know anything else. Crime and cruelty had been her life, and she'd never gotten a chance to learn anything different. But something deep within Armina longed for that unknown life, that shining door leading to the mysterious land of opportunity.

"Hmm... I don' fink I wos cut out fer admiral meself... Wot d'yer fink me real callin wos, 'Mina? Pers'nlly, I fink I'da made a grea' flower arranger..."

Armina was about to assure Tox that she had been a magnificent captain when Xhavek sauntered up, joking that Tox should have been a seamstress. Armina wrinkled her snout. Tanya as a seamstress? The idea had some merit, but was still alien enough that the vixen had trouble grasping it. She was far too used to the crazy, world-wise Tox she'd always known to imagine anything different. Xhavek's self-suggestion of a woodcutter was actually surprisingly accurate – he was rough and tumble enough to be a lumberjack. Armina could barely resist the urge to laugh at the mental image of Xhavek toting an axe deep in the woods, preparing to fell a mighty oak tree. As it was, she couldn't help a slight smile from coming to her face.

The smile faded as Xhavek directed the question toward her. All her life Armina had never contemplated what career she wished to pursue. During her early years, the ones in which kits often made their outrageous claims as to their futures ("I'm going to be the Emperor!"), Armina had set only one goal for herself – to somehow get away, far away from the orphanage in which she was raised. When she finally accomplished that mission she made no other plans except to find her parents, for like all orphans she had been convinced her parents must still be alive, and must be willing to reunite with their kin. Over time that dream had been slowly washed away by the cynicism of the street life and the independence of a rogue, leaving Armina with no glorious plan except to live through the day, a goal that had never changed.

But perhaps...

Armina hesitated, almost scared to speak. It was a silly, half-hearted dream, one which she had never before given any thought. She was well aware there was no hope for it; she had passed by any opportunities long ago. Still, something in it appealed to Armina, like the memory of the last dream before waking...

"I'd..." She hesitated again. She was aware how pathetic it seemed, yet she felt to tell Xhavek and Tanya that she had no dreams would not have helped the situation. "I might've liked being a school teacher," she confessed. She shrugged slightly, as if to shake off the immaturity of the idea. "Maybe if I'd stayed in the orphanage and gotten me some smarts, I could'a done it. Bu'tis too late now."

She shrugged again, not mentioning her own illusions concerning education. In Fyador, in the male-run education system, teaching positions for females had been virtually non-existent. The only opportunities were at finishing schools, where femmes could be taught the essential life skills of needlework, manners, and household management. The very idea of these frivolous pursuits repulsed Armina, but her dream was in a different direction – to learn the true subjects, the ones only males had been taught, and to pass them along to new generations. In her mind she could see a fantasied image of herself at the front of a classroom, pretty in white shirt and long grey skirt, passing out textbooks to adoring students.

Armina sighed again, her mind trapped in the elusive, tantalizing future she knew she could never have.

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Anithias watched with concern as Brek tossed and turned, his dreams troubled by demons only he could see. The boy was sweating profusely, either from the heat radiating from the burning village or from his own tormented visions. Anithias wished he had a cool rag to put on the lad's forehead, to help cool him somewhat. This was Julia's field, not his, but Julia was not available. Anithias had insisted she wait with Kip in the infirmary, presumably to be ready in case of medical emergency, but in actuality holding a darker purpose – to keep her from seeing what her husband did at work. Julia was a sensitive beast, and would not understand the duty Anithias held to gain valuables for the Emperor at any cost. The captain did not want his wife, of all beasts, to think less of him for the life he led.

Suddenly Brek bolted upright, his eyes staring blankly ahead. His chest heaved rapidly, as if he had been running a marathon. Anithias put a paw on his shoulder, gently reassuring him of his safety while trying to bring him back down to the deck. Brek didn't seem aware of Anithias' existence, only responding to the captain's gentle pushing when a dizziness spell hit him, forcing him back to a lying down position. Anithias watched with worry in his eyes as he moaned, complaining about a burning sensation in his body. Anithias didn't raise an eyebrow at the youngster's language – goodness knows, he'd used saltier tongues before – but instead worried about his physical health. Brek didn't have any critical burns, none that would cause the burning sensation he described, but it was possible that inhaling all the smoke had hurt his lungs. Anithias from his own experience that inhaling smoke could set the lungs 'burning', in a manner of speaking. The only thing for it was to get lots of air into the system to flush it back out, and to make the beast comfortable in the meantime.

"Water."

Anithias looked down sharply at the mumbled request. He was about to run to the water barrel to get the desired liquid when Tomias stalked up the ship. Instantly Anithias recognized the body language of a beast near mutinous behavior. He'd expected such a reaction from the sentimental lad, but hadn't expected it to come at such a bad time.

"Excuse me, sir... but how the heck can you allow such pointless killing, all these lives, and families being snuffed out, and for what... the Emperor gets a few more pennies in his pocket, or a few more toys to play with... It sickens me that the first resort for increasing the emperor's treasury is by killing and stealing from innocent beasts. We have no right...you have no right."

Anithias straightened at the words, resisting his impulse to stamp out the seditious rant. As it was, he could only just control his tone. "Mr. Redford, I am prepared to grant you exemption from the raids on the basis of personal conviction. However, I am not prepared to tolerate disrespect from the members of my crew. I have a duty to the Emperor, as do you, and I am not willing to surrender my captaincy based on the protests of a single member of the crew.

"Now," he suggested sternly, "I would be grateful if you retrieved some water for Mr. Larks here." He nodded toward the water barrel, next to which rested a tin pitcher waiting for service.


Brek Larks
The fire was softer now, but somewhere inside a war still was being fought in the lad. The burnings were still there, but it didn't feel just physically, but somewhere in his mind he felt the blazing fire burn his mind apart. Perhaps the mind-war was similar to that of Armina's, or perhaps something else – maybe worse.

Could it have been a recent decision that he had made? If so that would mean his old self would be fighting something new like Armina. Was it choosing to save those mice? Was this war really the sensation Brek got to do... Good? Something inside him trying to tell him he could do good for others, while his old self tried to destroy it? As he thought he saw more and more a possibility of creating his own Narima. And fear of having that constant battle inside made Brek try to stop thinking to do good.

And as he stopped thinking that way, the fire burst. Fingers of flames came and wrapped around the fox, Brek could feel the heat once more. As the heat grew the mental figure of Brek died, letting out a cry of despair and failure. And the fire grew, but now it didn't hurt Brek, rather it fuelled him, and a new Brek was created in his vision, and this Brek was covered in flames like the first beasts. The rage burst through him, almost making him mad. But then the fox thought, it was the part of Armina that was the problem, the bad side, Narima. And while Brek thought he was dodging creating a soul like that, he found he was becoming that same soul.

The mind-Brek returned, jumping through the dark ground and beside the now covered-in-fire Brek. The duplicates stared at each other, one with a fiery passion to destroy the other, and one whose only goal was to save the owner of this mind from a horrible future. The good Brek carried something in both paw, a weapon, a sword. The sword glowed blue and wherever the fire-Brek's flames burned they suddenly evaporated when the water-Brek swung his sword at them.

The two fought in his mind, and Brek soon found that the more he wanted to stop from becoming a horrible soul, the good Brek would be winning. But something whispered in Brek's ear, doubt. And the doubt caused Brek to think he couldn't remain as a good beast. Brek fought out the thought and returned fighting his inner demon.

The combat continued as the two figures tried to destroy the other. Every time the evil Brek threw flames, the anger returned. But the good Brek fought back and slowly peace returned. And finally, the water Brek took his sword, he ran in the deep flames of his enemy, he took his sword and aimed for the fiery demon, and the sword ran right through the dark spirit.

Fire was drenched as rain poured in the dream, the evil one evaporated and the flames died to. But a low chuckle sounded in his mind, and it was followed by a whisper. "I will return."

Outside, Brek stayed still. He was too exhausted to wake up, and his lungs still hurt. But he stopped tumbling in his sleep.
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