Digging For Skeletons (Old VI Thread)

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

(Hoping to find things to hurt Admiral Ryalor - now Tanya Keltoi - Jeshal seeks out information about her late husband. Starring Jeshal the Ironclaw; Fireeyes Z. Icegrip, and The Beast In The Iron Mask. Warning for violence.)


DIGGING FOR SKELETONS

First post Merry 13, Yr. 1729



NPCs and ???
The rainfall had long since doused the torches outside the Dusty Cupboard, a lesser-known inn on the edges of the Slups. The stench of wet fur and spilled ale saturated the air within. Few decent vermin ventured through the doors, even fewer were those with a sense of taste or self-respect. A table of searats dominated the overall hubbub with a bragging contest, punctuating their actions with loud guffaws and clumsy clips around the ears.

"So I sez to ‘im, righ’, I gots the better secret. Not only does I know who cut the hole in the back o’ the chief’s trousers, but I wor there when the ol’ fool stepped out on deck in the mid o’ night an’ saw ‘em fall down to ‘is ankles! An’, an’, hawhaw, this grea’ big bird swooped outta the sky an’ pinched ‘em!"

"Ah shurrup Globsnout," said a scrawny, vicious-looking rat. "Yer made that up. I’s got a bigger secret than the lot o’ yer but I’s not goin’ to tell coz elseways I’s be in lots o’ trouble."

Globsnout snorted. "So yer say every time we drinks, but yer know wot? I don’ believe yer. How’s we s’posed to fink you know a bigger secret ‘less you tell us wot it is?"

The weedy rat hiccupped and slurped at his drink. "That’s how comes yer know I’s got a biggun."

There came a few moments of silence. He continued to slurp his ale, his fellow drinkers growing more restless by the second.

"Enough," said Globsnout eventually, thumping his paw on the table. "I won’ drink wiv nobeast wot won’ share ‘is foughts. How’s can yer trust ‘em?" He got up to leave.

"Aw, wait Globby," grumbled the weed. "Siddown, righ’? If you’s all swears not to tell anybeast. ‘S of no value anyway, the beast’s dead. But if it got out to those wot knew ‘im, I’d prob’ly lose me job. So you’s all swear!"

"We swear, don’ we?" There was mutual nodding and muttering of "Swears."

The skinny rat lowered his voice as best he could under the influence. "Well, you’s lot remember ol’ Captain Ryalor, o’ the Guard? Not ‘is widow. Falun? Well ‘e wasn’ nearly so clean cut as many beasts said, not that ‘e was ever. I’s were there, righ’? I’s were nobeast to ‘im but a load of us knew wot ‘e was up to."

"Tell us, Beany, stop drawin’ it out!"

“’E woz a …wozzit? A bezzler? Umbezzler? Bez…wotever the word is, ‘e shifted gilders about an’ around. ‘E pocketed money, righ’? A lot of it.”

“’E woz Cap’n o’ the Guard. I’n’ that the Emperor’s money?” another rat whispered in alarm.

Beany nodded and waved his paw to keep their voices more hushed. “Yep. That’s prob’ly wot killed ‘im is my reck’nin’. Serves ‘im right, eh? No beast gets one over on ol’ Markan.”

Another murmur of mutual agreement. A few mumbled words of “grace” and “golden fog”. The group took on a sudden sense of discomfort. They became thoroughly interested in their beverages and the grains of the tabletop. It was concluded that Beany’s secret was so far the biggest that they had to offer and after one more round of drinks they all set off for their beds. Except a podgy fellow who had opted for the upturned-barstool pillow that night.

Beany traipsed off alone through the dark streets, his footpaws sloshing in the vast puddles. The heavy rain had drenched him within an instant but he kept a grin upon his face. He had consumed enough alcohol to avoid the weather’s chill, and combined with the pride he felt for winning the contest, he was a very warm rat indeed. He turned into an alley and bumped into a figure coming the other way.

“Oi, watch where yore go- urk!” Beany began, cut short by the paw that shot out and latched about his throat. His wild eyes took in the silhouette of a cloaked beast, a fox by the shape of it. A vulpine muzzle poked out from under the hood. It displayed a terrible sneer. There was nothing distinguishing about the arm that extended to hold him. The beast was not particularly strong, but even a milkmaid could have taken on scraggly Beany. Had he been able to think straight, he might have wondered why the fox kept his other paw hidden under the cloak.

The cloaked beast kept hold of Beany’s throat and shoved him against the nearest wall. “Ye were speakin’ o’ Falun Ryalor, were ye not?” The dark, spine-tingling voice that would have made any passing female swoon whispered from the hood.

“Y-yer, mister, lemmego!”

“Tha’ wouldn’ be a relation o’ Admiral Ryalor, would it now?”

Beany scrabbled helplessly, his paws trying to free sufficient space at his neck to breathe. “She’s ‘is w-widow. Oh, please don’ kill me, it warn’t my fault, honest! I’s didn’ do it!”

The fox slammed the rat again into the wall to silence him. “Ye were tellin’ yore mates in there that ye saw it all. I knows ye work sometimes aboard the Hide. ‘Tis no doubt Ms Ryalor recognised yer name somewhere down the line an’ took pity on ye when ye came scroungin’ fer work, aye? Were she ter find ye knew something… unsavoury to ‘er ears, she may not wish ter keep ye alive, let alone aboard ‘er ship.”

Beany began to sob. “Oh please, sir, don’ tell ‘er about the ol’ Cap’n!”

“And whyever not?” The beast feigned a gasp. “Ye don’t say she didn’ know what ‘er dear departed ‘usband were up to?”

The stringy little rat sniffed. “I’s not sure. Don’ fink so. He were good to ‘er. Wouldn’ ‘ave wanted ‘er to get into trouble. ‘E never did. ‘E were kind like that. ‘E were a goodbeast for what ‘s worf. ‘Cept for a bit o’ violence an’…an’ the fraud. ‘E paid ‘is price. ‘Tweren’t anybeast’s fault but ‘is. I’s not goin’ to blacken the name of the Adm’ral.”

The fox exhaled in a manner of amusement. “What beast would?”

“What d’yer want?” Beany whimpered. “Why don’ yer leave me alone?”

“But o’ course. How inconsiderate I be. Don’t you be rootin’ around, or Ryalor will be askin’ fer roast rat to be served in the galley sooner than ye expect.”

Beany saw nothing more that night. Tomorrow he would probably stagger home with a sore skull, forever wondering in silence about the insidious monster that had stolen his secret. The limp rat slumped to the ground as the cloaked fox hurried on his way through the streets.



The Iron Mask
The shadows were alive tonight. And they were strangling Globsnout.

Globby wheezed as a cloaked figure pressed him against the alley wall outside the Dusty Cupboard. The figure's gloved palm was pressing against the front of his neck, preventing him from breathing. He could only manage faint wheezing gasps. "Please," Globby begged, "I din'... do noth... in', s' let... me go!"

The figure didn't respond. His head, draped in an unnecessarily large hood, tilted slightly, as if to say I'm waiting. "Hon'st!" Globby protested. "I din' do... noth in'!" Two stray strands of electricity met in Globby's brain, forming a thought. The rat's face lit up as he realized what might have happened. "This isn'... 'bout wot Bean... ny sed... izzit? I... swears, I'd never... tell a soul I... would!"

The figure didn't respond. Globby squirmed, growing more desperate. He was losing air. "Wot d'... yer... want... fr'm... me?"

The figure paused, loosening his grip infinitesimally. For a moment Globby hoped that the figure would let him go. But it was not to be. The figure reached up his other paw, grabbing his hood by the back. Globby felt a dread spread through his veins like the plague as the figure pulled the hood back, gathering the infinite volume of black fabric in his paw. For what seemed to Globby like a terrible forever the material continued to rise, an impossible amount of hood being pulled back. Globby began to hope that the hood would never come off, so he would never have to see what was under there. Of course, it was at that moment that the hood moved from the infinite to the finite. Globby felt raw terror seize him as he looked into its face.

A creature of horror stared back at him, its dark eyes boring a hole through Globby. Its metal face was rough and unfinished, as if a metallurgist had decided to create life but had forgotten four-fifths of the way into his project what a vulpine looked like. Globby couldn't tell if it was fox or ferret, marten or monitor- he was too scared to even comprehend looking for such distinctions. Hot breath flew from the metal grill on the beast's snout, drowning Globby in hot air that seemed to singe his fur. It was a living, breathing nightmare, and it had come to torture Globby.

The last space left in Globby's throat sealed itself off, and Globby began to suffocate in earnest. Just before the point of extinction the beast let go, allowing Globby to drop to the earthen street. Globby watched foggily as the beast turned, its cloak swirling in the breeze, before disappearing once more into the night.

Globby would survive the night, long enough to madly fling himself upon a passing Fogey, gibbering about metal beasts coming to get him. The authorities would commit Globby to the Bully Harbour Lunatic Asylum, to be kept safely in a mattress-lined room. For all his life the doctors would remark on how he seemed their sanest patient, and had the best chances of recovery. There was always one thing that kept him in, though: no matter what they gave him to work with, be it painting, gardening, knitting, or dot tests, he always came back to one image- the terrible, misshapen form of an Iron Mask.



Fireeyes Z. Icegrip
She was back.

Different, older, wiser...crueller... But Back, prowling the streets she loved to terrorise once more as the dark shadow reclaimed old territory petty thieves had come to steal. They scattered like ashes at the limp-wristed wave of her mailed paw, the glowing eyes daring any of the cowardly bullies to challenge her as she revisited old haunts and dispatched those who opposed her.

Physically, she had changed, both for the better and the worse. Her face was crisscrossed with thin scars all over-those that followed the contours of her face across the muzzle, cheeks and brow tended to be fairly well-healed, light silver-red lines; those that went against the flow of the face were more prominent-the ruffled fur revealed deep bruise-purple indentations. Admittedly, her beauty had been diminished, but was by no means entirely ruined. Her right ear was cut almost clean in two, a deep 'v' notch sliced into the soft rounded aud, and though she would never admit to it, she had lost a lot of sight in her left eye, her peripheral vision all but gone due to the heavy scarring sustained. The whites of that eye were stained a pinkish red, the lid still slightly bruised. She still walked with a slight limp, but it was liveable.

However, months on crutches had strengthened her arms and paws above what power she initially possessed, and although not overtly muscular, the lithe polecat was stronger than ever with a blade, and whilst her old acrobatics would take some re-learning, she was swiftly regaining the skill. Her new katana, a longer, lighter, sharper instrument she had commissioned in her recovery period, was of a design that maximised on her newfound upper body strength and weakened flexibility greatly.

She was a survivor. She was MAUL's finest. She was alive.

She had killed a Captain of the Guard – faced him in true combat after the underpawed attack failed, and survived. Of course the killing blow had been a strike from behind, but she had proven herself more than a match for that corrupt, dead wretch.

Tonight had gone well – she had staked her claim of her districts quickly and quietly, until a swift trip in a tavern brought her attention to a beast mentioning Falun. Intrigued and disturbed, the polecat had stalked him outside only to find some cloaked fox, by the looks of things, to be dealing with him already. Without thinking, she took to the rooftops to survey Jeshal's work. After no more than a few moments of watching him work, another beast nearby moved and attracted her attention. Her eyes swivelled to take in the form of another beast, its species clouded by the hood and the hint of a... Mask?

Frowning, she flicked her eyes between the two creatures, practically a corner apart as they worked on interrogating and frightening their newfound victims. A small smile lit up her scarred face as they both terrified the blabbermouths. There was potential here. MAUL could always use a new recruit or two, and when they were helping keep her plans of keeping Falun's assassination secret running, there was even more incentive for her to be piqued by them.

But then, just as suddenly as the two appeared, they disappeared, leaving the beasts behind shaken, but alive. This little part of the brain that dictated when enough was enough, that rationalised when a beast would cause no more damage - mercy - was a long gone, foreign concept to the polecat. Beany knew too much, and no matter how much terror could be instilled into his little thundering heart, no force on earth could really prevent him from blurting again, with the exception of death.

It came in the form of a swift test of her new katana. A flash like liquid silver flowed through the claustrophobic dark of the alleyway, and Beany's head tumbled neatly to the ground. Sheathing the katana after kissing the bloodied blade, Fireeyes grinned at Beany's decapitated body, licked her lips, staining her fangs a light crimson, before turning off and pursuing Jeshal.

That metal beast and Globby would be too far by now, so she would have to wait to contact that mysterious beast. For now, her sights were set on the copper-toned todd that had rounded the corner. Without bothering to deal with keeping herself to the shadows, the lithe beast stepped directly out behind Jeshal and purred after him.

"Much as I appreciate you warning beasts of that menace the Admiral, may I enquire as to why?"


Jeshal the Ironclaw
The cloaked fox had been making a circumnavigatory path back towards the docks after his encounter with the ill-fated Beany. As the ceaseless rain soaked through his attire, clinking off his iron paw replacement, Jeshal had shivered. Barely ten minutes upon his travels came the intoxicating sensation of unease and the faint smell of fresh blood. The hammering droplets masked the sounds of the beast tracking him. So it was that when the polecat spoke at his back that a chill danced the length of the todd's spine.

"Much as I appreciate you warning beasts of that menace the Admiral, may I enquire as to why?"

The bosun of the Hide turned slowly, keeping his moves anything other than sudden. He forced his posture into a casual one, but underneath the cloak he was tense as taut cord. Just across from him stood a beast that could most likely slit his throat before he could hope to draw his own weapon. One sandalled, drenched, footpaw remained facing down the alley, poised to make a futile attempt for escape. It was not so much that the Ironclaw doubted his abilities. His desire for survival outweighed a great many. But his unusual secret? Jeshal had never killed a beast in person. Not one. Ranged fire from ships could hardly count. He had not even slain so much as a woodlander despite the many raids in which he had participated. The blood of innocents was free from this cruel fox's paws. If he could help it he would keep them clean, only to be sullied by one intended creature...

How deep a trench had he stepped in by stirring Falun's ashes?

Jeshal smiled, the rain dripping from his sneering muzzle. "Be it not wise ter familiarise oneself with the weaknesses of yer allies? It be one way ter gain a better understanding if not a better... standing. Ye'd be surprised what can be found out by elevatin' a beast's aura o' fear amongst the gen'ral rabble. Be Ryalor of importance ter ye?"


The Iron Mask
The Iron Mask walked slowly in the rain, laden down by its heavy armour. Its thick black cloak, saturated from the rain water, clung to its iron frame, weighing it down further. Small currents of water ran down the seams and ridges of its mask, unable to get through to its fur- if it had any. Its eyes, heavy, dark, and unreadable, swept the darkness, mechanically taking in everything. A flash of lightning lit up the sky, and instinctively he stumbled back against a building. One of the disadvantages of its outfit was it transformed the wearer into a lightning rod.

The Iron Mask waited, its heart pounding mechanically against its metallic chest. It suddenly seemed cautious, no longer the powerful, immortal demon of the night. Carefully it crept along the alley, hugging the wall tightly. Another flash of lightning lit up the sky, causing The Mask to nearly jump in... was it fear?

The Mask slowly felt its way along the alley, its left foot cautiously feeling the way. Suddenly it hit upon something slightly rounded, causing the object to roll away in the darkness. The Iron Mask froze, its eyes combing the ground. It saw nothing. Then the lightning lit up the sky, and the gruesome shape appeared: the head of a rat, its eyes half-closed and its mouth drooping open, as if it had only had half a chance to react to its decapitation. Slowly The Iron Mask bent, its chain mail and plates clinking beneath its heavy robe. Carefully it grabbed the severed head by the back of the skull, holding it in a way reminiscent of a famous scene from Stoatspeare. Rising, The Mask scanned the alley before him. The dark, irregular shape of a body lay slumped against the wall just a few feet away. Observing the scene carefully, the Mask continued on its way.

But something was blocking his way. Or more specifically, somebeast. Two somebeasts. The Mask could hear the soft growls of conversation over the pounding of the rain. They could not be more than a few feet ahead. The Mask could faintly see two beasts, one long and thin and the other short and lean, silhouetted against the faded light of the street. The short one seemed to be cautious, almost afraid of the tall one. The tall one reeked of power and confidence, completely sure of her situation.

The Iron Mask observed the interchange for a few moments before suddenly moving out of the shadows. His heavy footfalls echoed over the rain, each one like a small clap of thunder. Stopping a few feet from the group, the Iron Mask tossed the object in his hand onto the ground between them – the severed head of Beany.


Jeshal the Ironclaw
Before the enigmatic polecat had a chance to respond to his question, Jeshal could not help but flinch at the sudden onset of heavy, ominous steps behind him. He turned, his total dread disguised with an expression of bother, and saw the horrifying figure – the Ironclaw met the Iron Mask.

There was a sickening squelch and the bloody head landed equidistantly between his feet and those of the polecat. Jeshal swept his gaze slowly to take in the features of the dead rat, the one that he had roughed up not even half an hour ago.

Interesting. Scraping after one tidbit of information had rooted up a surprising amount of trouble. He began to sense the crawling concept that were he to even consider running, he would be dead within an instant. To attempt to fight, even more foolish. The Ironclaw pushed the revulsion and the fear to the back of his mind and focused solely on survival. He would try to impress them. Here went nothing...

Keeping up the cold facade, ignoring the urge to draw his sword, Jeshal dipped down and grasped Beany's displaced head by its top-fur. He lifted the awful, dripping trophy and smirked. His glittering eyes stared through the rain at the monstrous Mask.

"Thankin' yer, mate. Me nameday so soon?"


The Iron Mask
The Iron Mask's heavy black eyes watched inexpressively as Jeshal leaned down to grab the gruesome trophy, extending a paw. The lightning flashed overhead as he reached for it, and the Mask saw the great secret behind this strange being – an iron claw, its misshapen form more reminiscent of the charred, mangled skeletons found on the battlefield than the flesh and blood common to all beasts. If the Mask was appalled at this abomination he did not show it; all feeling was lost behind those emotionless eyes and the dark facade of an iron mask.

The Mask did not answer Jeshal's sneered inquiry, instead focusing its dark, never-contracting eyes on Beany's head. The cloak swished back, and a long arm emerged from within, pointing a gloved pawfinger at the disembodied cranium. The paw moved to point at Icegrip, its speed never varying, before moving at that same constant speed back to Jeshal. He stared at Jeshal stonily, as if waiting for an answer.


Jeshal the Ironclaw
Still utterly unnerved by the mute monster, Jeshal found that he could almost forget that he was holding a bloody piece of flesh in his one 'good' paw. The fearsome brute began a soundless inquiry. Once the Ironclaw had determined what he thought the Mask was asking, he realised with both relief and confusion that the great beast had not been the one to remove Beany's head at all.

Slowly Jeshal narrowed his eyes in thought, then raised the severed head alongside his own fixed one and gave ex-Beany an ironic smirk. He grinned and glanced first to Fireeyes and then to the Mask.

"Yer'll forgive me if I told yer that decapitation's a little lackin' in subtlety fer me own tastes. I ain't the one ter thank, or blame, if ye be lookin' fer the artist."

His shrewd eyes slid to rest their sights upon the polecat.

"Would yer deign ter take the credit, marm?"


Fireeyes Z. Icegrip
As her slow, calculating stare tracked the progress of Beany's head from steel-faced phantom to iron-pawed spy, Fireeyes didn't let her expression betray any significant emotion for some time, until it appeared as if the conversation was hers again. Deciding it wisest to keep the less dangerous-looking copper fox on her blind side, the polecat subtly re-angled her face and blinked slowly before a coy smile flitted across her features.

"Well if this ain’t the meetin' fer metal-clad beasties tonight – what a rare occurrence to meet fellow spirits."

Another paw rose to reveal itself as a gauntlet, although less fluidly than Jeshal's – the entire thing was dead from the elbow down and weighed with steel, after all, and fixed in some iron half-wave. Whiskers twitching slightly, she let her arm drop and regarded the severed head with borderline interest.

"Much as I would so dislike to give the impression of a braggart, that is indeed my kill."

Her orange-hazel eyes flickered slightly with irritation as she turned her gaze upon the tourmaline-black holes of the Mask. For once, the empty stare was met unflinchingly – well, challengingly, at least; Fireeyes hated competition for being the most feared, and his appearance did little to unnerve the reckless assassin. The Mask was a metal monster, but above that, he was a mortal metal monster – the mere fact that he chose to encase his skull with steel attested to the likelihood of serious injury. He no doubt had some fleshy part of the body into which could be driven a katana if he dared decide to communicate dissatisfaction.

"Is that an issue?"

Leaving the potential threat on the air, the polecat realized that she still hadn't expressed her true intentions for following Jeshal in the dead of night, nor why she had chosen to dispatch of the harmless Beany in such an unpleasant manner.

"As to your first question" she finally spoke, scarred face twisting into a thin-lipped smile that revealed the tips of her stained fangs, "I should say I do – I killed her husband."


The Iron Mask
The Mask's iron facade did not waver as the polecat revealed the dark oddity they all held in common: their bodies had all in some way been supplemented with metal. The revelation was apparent even to the Mask; their meeting was beyond coincidence or even planning. Something had pulled these three monsters together, calling them without their knowledge or understanding. No, not a calling. A drawing. The three uniques, the only three of their kind in the Imperium – perhaps the world! – meeting in a dark alley. Even the word destiny was insufficient to describe it.

But there was one more thing they held in common.

In the darkness of the rain, a gloved paw slipped beneath the heavy cloak of the Mask, pulling from within a small, darkened leather bag. Tipping the bag, the Mask poured a small pawful of the dull silvery powder into its gloved palm, sheltering the material with its paw. Carefully extending the limb, it slowly allowed some of the material to slip through the bottom, falling to the wet street. The moment the powder hit the watery surface the metallic powder ignited, fizzing brightly in the darkness. Slowly the Mask navigated its paw, carefully timing the clenching of its glove around the powder to temporarily stop the flow. Burning words wrote themselves in the mud, flaring in the darkness. The last of the alkali metal fell from the Mask's paw even as the last line in the silent message was completed:

RYALOR

As if this alone could not express its message, the Mask reached its paw back into its cloak before drawing out a small, pointed object: a three-point dagger, an assassin's weapon built for leaving a unique mark on its victims. In one fluid motion the Mask knelt, driving the blade directly in the middle of the burning letters. When it removed its paw, the triangular guard shone its points directly at the three occupants of the alley.

The message was clear – the three metal assassins had one more thing in common.

Ryalor.


Jeshal the Ironclaw
Jeshal noted the irony of their trio of metal embellishments: the two arms and the face. The paw holding Beany's severed head lowered as he listened to Fireeyes' claim to the rat's murder.

"Is that an issue?" she had said.

The Ironclaw shrugged though it was hardly visible through the rain and the guise of his cloak. The polecat at last gave her answer as to whether Admiral Tanya Ryalor was of significance to her.

"...I killed her husband."

Jeshal's fur prickled. What a find little Beany turned out to be. So what was this creature's business? Did she think he had been trying to sniff out Falun's killer after all this time? How disappointing it would be if he were found dead in this alley, having not even become close enough to Widow Ryalor as to make her suffer over his loss. His gaze was drawn to the Mask, however, as the menacing beast dipped its paw into its cloak and proceeded to cast something onto the street.

Fizz! went the something and the word blazed at their feet. Their connection. The Ironclaw wasn't fond of being toyed with. He preferred to keep that luxury to himself. He responded to the Mask in the only way he could think of that would combat his fear: insolence.

"Dramatic," Jeshal sneered. "Per'aps overly so, 'owever I must compliment yer style. Flashy, succinct and a tad creepy ter boot. I would love ter meet yer supplier." His attention swept to the polecat. "As fer you, lass, I will relinquish the prize yer left be'ind." He tossed Beany's head at her footpaws and grinned.

Free-pawed enough to seize his cutlass from its sheath, he looked to the other beasts, vaguely snickering in the back of his mind that were he to survive this, he was most likely going to suffer a bad cold over the next few days from the thorough soaking.

"Since yer relieved her of what she held most dear," he continued to Fireeyes, "would I be right in thinkin' that ye have little concern fer what might befall the quaint little Admiral? Ye managed ter track me pokin' me nose in 'er affairs, an' yours, so, thinks I, if ye wanted ter protect Ryalor, I'd not be alive ter be talkin' ter ye. Cuttin' ter the chase, cupcake, what is it that yer want o' me?"


Fireeyes Z. Icegrip
The head of Beany hardly went registered by the lithe polecat as it hit the cobblestones before her with a damp thud. Choosing to pay far more focus upon what the iron-faced monster had written upon the ground with his metals, she simply kicked it out of the way to take a step closer, the pinkish white of her left eye glowing a jaundice-yellow as the sparks caught her eyes.

Ryalor. Ugh, must that vixen be the centre of everything? Glaring flatly back at the inexpressive beast whom had stuck the pronged weapon into the ground, she nodded in agreement with Jeshal's commentary on it and with a contemptive swipe of a foot, the polecat kicked mud over the burning word, watching how it faded and eventually disappeared with sputtering little starts and a damp fizzle. Her ears twitched at the calling 'cupcake', but other than that she gave no indication to have heard it.

"If that understuffed squirrel is the secondary link between us all, I would assume that indeed, the three of us hold her in some sort of contempt. As for what I want with you, your silence would not go unappreciated. You see, there is a certain... Ambiguity about the work Mister Ryalor was up to during the months leading to his death. I would like to remove these rumours. For what purpose and ends I am not at liberty to explain, but besmirching the dead Captain's name is not something I wish to do. The rat you were talking to knew of it, and so I removed the threat that he could tell others. I could do similar to you, but I see... Potential. You have a brain, unlike many, and I don't dislike that. You could be a useful ally, provided you know what information to forget."

Her flame-licked eyes darted between Jeshal to the Beast again, just to confirm that he hadn't deigned to make any advance, and her good paw lightly touched the hilt of her katana.

"In short, I care nothing for the crazy Ryalor or her brats – I'm simply working to keep certain information out of the public eye. You are prying into business that should not be being recovered, understood?"


Jeshal the Ironclaw
His company distracted by the fading 'Ryalor', Jeshal took a moment to shake off some of the water that had collected behind his ears and inside his fallen hood. Now that the polecat was talking to him at length he felt more at ease, his life temporarily not quite in the balance. The Ironclaw grinned at her description of Tanya as an 'understuffed squirrel' yet, whilst feeling amused, attained the peculiar feeling that he wanted to scratch Icegrip's eyes out. She continued with her 'recruitment speech'.

Potential. Now there was a word and a half. It was unnervingly like one was being used just having to hear it. His brain was his and his alone and he did not much care for the notion of somebeast else poking around inside it. But, signing up with a group of beasts that had been so secretive in their pursuit, who seemed like knowledgable conversationalists when they took the time... it made him feel privileged. The resources they most likely had at their disposal were too valuable to ignore. An opportunity to work his own ends by working someone else's? It was what he did best. It was what he had always done.

Jeshal trod slowly through the battering rain, moving to stand only a couple of feet away from the polecat. In answer to her threatening question, he grinned brightly, forcing his sarcasm heavily so as not to be mistaken in his meaning.

"Who be Falun Ryalor, says I?"​