Open The Docks Completed Disturbance At The Docks

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

Fishface considered himself an honest beast with his paws firmly grounded. He worked hard, which was more than could be said for a lot of his comrades in the dockworking trade, and the rat had grown fond of his unpleasant moniker. By day he helped oversee the herring hauls brought in ready for the market, by night there were other tasks to complete. It was his turn to run a stock check on a brand of building materials and it was his intention to get ahead on it, to impress the bigwigs over at the Ministry with his competence. A risky business, perhaps, to be out late in Bully Harbour, but he could take care of himself could Fishface and, besides, there were other beasts getting similar ideas. Nothing was going to get in his way.

The harrowing vulpine scream tore through the warehouses, putting his fur on end. Fishface almost dropped his lantern. There was a distant crunch of glass that suggested one of his colleagues hadn’t been so lucky. He cursed. What in ‘Gates was going on?

Fishface drew a knife and stepped out into the open, cursing under his breath. He was almost knocked off his feet as Gravel rushed past him. The other rat stumbled around, only taking long enough to acknowledge him and point back the way he had come, gibbering madly, before he was sprinting off again.

Another wailing sound ripped through the air. It didn’t sound like somebeast was being attacked or like they’d been out on the town. There was something off about it.

“Idiot,” Fishface muttered, ignoring how his knees trembled. “I ain’t scared.” He paced quietly toward the noise, toward the shadowy hulk of the Ministry of Commerce.

At the last corner of warehouses before the ministry proper, he managed not to wet himself when two other dockbeasts appeared, looking just as perturbed, swords drawn and lanterns held high.

“You seen owt, Fishface?”

“Nah. Prob’ly some fool broke their skull falling offa roof.”

“’Ere, wossat over there?”

Just beyond a pool of light from a street lantern, there was somebeast there. A silhouette in what might have been a frock coat and a cavalier hat. It stood completely still with its back to them.

“Oi! You!” Fishface called. “Wot’s the racket?”

The figure, if they were even sure someone was definitely there, didn’t move at all. They didn’t look like they were waiting for something. They might as well have been a statue. Fishface felt a shiver run down his spine.

Not wanting to be the first one of them to look a coward, he took a step closer. “Oi!”

The figure lurched around, its head lolling unnaturally, and stepped into the light. A fox white from head to toe, from hat to tail, save for bloody spatters down its face and bared chest. Its coat was ragged and old, ripped at the shoulders with buttons missing, as white as the rest of it. The creature raised its left arm, revealing a gauntlet of metal.

It pointed at Fishface and keened.

One of the dockbeasts ran for it. The remaining other rat yelped and stood close.

“Wha’d’you want?” Fishface blurted. “What are yiz?”

“Can’t ye see?” his companion whimpered. “Ol’ Minister Ironclaw! Wot got blown up all them years ago! I knew we shouldn’a used those old stones fer rennyvayshuns last week!”

The pale horror wobbled forward like a broken marionette, the other paw reaching out toward them now. A growling rasp escaped its muzzle.

“Vuuuuulpuuuuuz waaaaants yeeeee.”

Whatever Fishface believed, this was enough. The two rats turned tail, fear spreading to the remainder of the docks in the wake of another bone-chilling shriek.​

 

[Corda LaConte / Cordan LeConte]

Corda had been walking through the warehouses, trying to figure out which one was the one who had posted a "help wanted" ad in the Smelt, when the scream sounded. She froze, her hair standing on end. She'd known screams in her life; screams of fright, screams of rage, screams of pain. That was a scream of utter terror.

Down the street, she saw it - the terrified dockworkers, the apparition, everything. Her blood ran cold, her mind going back to a crystal ball in a hedgehog's cramped cart. No. She could feel the fear rising up in her, the paralysis wrapping itself around her limbs like the tendrils of some terrible beast from the deep. Her mind was racing, two sets of memories churning through it, a fox with a hole straight through his chest leaking blood taking up her vision-

Cordan awoke. Immediately he unslung the backpack Corda had taken to carrying over her shoulder and pulled his outfit from it. Blue shirt and jerkin over Corda's leather corset; yanking down the crimson skirt to reveal the dark blue pantaloons underneath; the feathered cap dusted off and placed atop his head, and blue dueling gloves pulled onto his paws. The belt with his rapier he uncinched from a strap on the backpack and closed around his waist, and the crimson skirt was shoved into the backpack, which he tossed away. All traces of femininity erased, he was ready.

"Stand, foul spirit!" he cried, racing forward toward the apparition. He stopped a few paces from it, drawing steel and dropping into a duelist's stance, rapier before him, paw raised behind. "Evil specter, the land of the living holds naught for your kind! Return to the bosom of your foul master in the beyond, lest I send you to him myself! Hah!" He made a few quick swipes with his blade in the air to punctuate his thread.

 

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

So, there were still brave beasts in the Imperium. This might turn out to be even more fun than sending them running, so long as he didn't bring the Stoatorian Guard down on him. The very much alive Jeshal the Ironclaw thanked the darkness and likely moment of adrenaline that his white powder paint job and dribbles of food colouring were not too obvious, nor yet noticed that he had put on a few pounds of muscle and a smidge of otherwise that made his old fancy coat pop a little at the seams.

He forced himself to keep to character, wobbling a few paces backward from the sword-wielding todd, deliberately dulling his own gaze, and then performed a change. As if a new spirit had possessed his essence, or that his ghost had learnt how better to mimic reality, he straightened up and fixed the grey fox with an unnerving stare.

A sick grin spread across his face as he drew his cutlass. It was a risk to assume his opponent was less skilled, but Jeshal banked on experience over the fancy moves this todd displayed. Besides, Jeshal didn't exactly fight fair. He didn't want to hurt them, only play. If things got dicey, he would hope to surrender the game graciously before he got himself stuck.

"Mayhaps ye'd like ter join me, lad?" He kept his voice as a theatrical rasp. He really should have joined the theatre back in the day. "Ye'd make a fine addition to me crew."

The Ironclaw stepped forward and swung his blade.

 

[Corda LaConte / Cordan LeConte]

Cordan, despite his bravado and copious training from out of books in his family library, had never been in a true fight for his life before. He barely blocked, moving to turn the blade away and barely dancing free. This spirit was talented, enough so to make his heart race and the beat of it pound in his ears. A solid blade like that cutlass was dangerous; the weight of it up against a rapier made parrying perilous. His only hope was to come in behind the swing and turn it away before it could connect.

"Pernicious poltergeist!" he cried aloud, finding it difficult to keep pitching his voice down in the middle of a fight, and more of Corda's higher tones coming through than he'd like. "I'll not participate in your plundering pilgrimage, pale pirate!" Alliteration wasn't exactly the height of witty dialogue, but it was easier to conjure than the lines from the old adventure novels while his mind was racing to save himself.

 

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

Jeshal's grin only grew more wicked. He pressed his opponent, toying with them, letting them turn his blade for a few more rounds as he moved forward. Their reply drew a cackle from him that slipped somewhat from his ghostly persona.

"Be ye sure? Sail with me an' ye'll be on Vulpuz's best party boat, haharr!"

He made a feint to the left then quickly changed up, rolling his wrist to attempt to bring the flat of his blade down on the back of Cordan's paw in the hope of disarming him.​

 

[Corda LaConte / Cordan LeConte]

Cordan was entirely unprepared for the slap to the back of his paw, his digits spasming reflexively and sending his blade clattering to the ground. The fox found himself at the point of a sword, sans his own, and certainly sans any hope. His eyes scanned about, looking for any conveniently placed ropes holding aloft large sacks of flour- but no, he had nothing with which to cut the rope and send himself rocketing to the rooftops, nor were there any scullery maids about whom he could pull into an impromptu dance as a distraction for his pursuer. Well, this left only the third scenario.

"I submit, foul specter," Cordan surrendered, falling to one knee. "You have bested me in combat. Before you claim my soul, I ask only that you allow me a moment to plant in the ground my blade, my hat upon it, to serve as marker of my death."

 

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

What a curiously romantic request. One Jeshal found highly suspicious, which may have been a redundant imagining. Only one brief year within the Ministry so many years ago and it had left him paranoid as anything. Being back in the Imperium had him on edge beneath the excitement of his hijinks. What if there were a trap laid underground the blade were to stab? What if this hat had a secret blade or a contraption in it? Or was it merely a ploy to take up arms again?

"So be it," he rasped, and took a step back, masking his own caution with the nod of a reverent revenant. The cutlass swung aside, readying its "attack".​

 

[Corda LaConte / Cordan LeConte]

Cordan carefully picked up the rapier and, finding a crack between the cobblestones, drove the tip into the ground, making sure it was secure. He removed his beloved hat and set it atop the hilt, sadly brushing the feather. Then he placed his paws atop his knee and closed his eyes, awaiting his end.

Corda awoke, and, seeing her circumstances, she yelped. "Spirit," she begged, tears coming to her eyes. "Please, I beg of you, take me instead. Spare my brother. He meant no offense; his only goal has ever been to be a hero, a goal he has yet to achieve. Please... I know I have no achievement or value to speak of, but I beg you to take me in his place. I will suffer whatever torment you plan for me with naught a complaint, if you would just spare him."

 

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

Jeshal blinked.

Wharrin 'Gates be this beast doing?

The feminine voice made his ears twitch. He was not unfamiliar with foxes who had more than one identity in their noggin, but he had never experienced a different gender, let alone a relative, in one place. Were they trying to fool with him right back? If they were, well, he was no bleedin' corpser! Commitment to the bit an' all that.

"Arrr," he hammed up. "Terribly noble of ye, lass. I accept!"

Jeshal affected the most sinister bow he could muster.

Then he swung out with his sword toward Corda's neck —

And stopped within a few inches.

He tilted the blade flat and tapped her on the shoulder.

"Tag," he said, in a very unghostly voice. "You're it."

The Ironclaw, idiot husband of the once Admiral of Bully Harbour, turned tail and ran cackling into the shadows.

 

[Corda LaConte / Cordan LeConte]

Corda blinked, dumbfounded. Had he just said...? She knelt there, her mind reeling as she tried to grapple with whether or not she'd actually seen anything, or if she and Cordan had both just hallucinated a ghost. The mad cackle receding into the distance did nothing to convince her of either explanation.

As Jeshal fled, he found his path blocked by the strangest beast imaginable: a massive red-furred beast, not dissimilar to some of the rackhouns that had recently been seen near Imperial waters, except entirely an orangey red with spots of white and black across her body. She was wearing a bizarre seafoam green pantsuit and carrying a copy of The Updated Beginner's (Yes, YOU!) Guide to the Imperium, Now 67% More Accurate! She was consulting it occasionally as she walked down the alley, looking up at the warehouses with wide eyes, apparently sightseeing in the ugliest quarter of Bully Harbor. At the site of Jeshal, however, all interest in the warehouses vanished, and she instead emitted a squeal of unconstrained volume and delight. "Metalu Ahmu Jesahalu!" The expression of delight on her face as she touched her paws to her fluffy cheeks and danced on her footpaws excitedly was, frankly, unlike any reaction to Jeshal's presence that he'd ever received in the Imperium. "Di lava o'f Poiso'n Tanuya! Caputanu o'f di Hi'de! Eeeeeeeeee!" There was the sound of multiple glass objects shattering in the nearest warehouse as they were subjected to frequencies incompatible with their survival.

 

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

For a fraction of a second, Jeshal thought that Vulpuz himself had risen to get him for his japes. He near tripped over himself on seeing the huge red unknown appear before him. Its markings reminded him of some of the natives of his home on Kutoroka, but he couldn't imagine this beast swinging through trees unless it wanted some quick deforestation.

After an ear-splitting shriek of its own, he realised the creature was addressing him in his own language. His ears faintly flattened either side of his hat and he swore some of his makeup fell off under the impact of her excitement.

"Uh.. aye!" he cried, raising his cutlass in agreement more than threat. "That be me, says I! I be haunting me old office until me darlin' wife be given the pardons and respect she be due!"

That wasn't why at all. He was just doing it because it amused him. If he could help out Tox with her complex political situation, all the better.​

 

[Pomodu lu Modokunomulo]

At the mention of his wife, Pomodu's eyes went wide, and she enthusiastically clapped her paws, the book flapping feebly between her fingers. "I co'me!" she enthused, dancing on her footpaws. "I see di g'rii't Metalu Ahmu reboh'n faramu di a'she to figh'tu a'gai'n!"

 

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

Finding himself bizarrely revelling in the awe of his new fan, Jeshal danced a few paces, too. He was past caring if a few other beasts working late in the MinoComm offices or closer warehouses were peering out at the bonkers spectacle.

"The Ironclaw will have his revenge! To the Admiral! To the Hide! To Zil's fluffy ol' backside!"

He spun with purpose toward the town proper.

"But first... I be thirsting for a whiskey!"

Jeshal thrust out his paws, sword and gauntlet pointing ahead, and began wobbling on his path toward the Bilge.

"OooOOOoooOOOOOOooooOOOO!"

 

[Pomodu lu Modokunomulo]

Pomodu, eager to witness exactly the sort of spectacle of which she had been advised was part and parcel of the Vulpine Imperium experience, padded along behind Jeshal, all eagerness. "You go to di Biluju to go ba'ku to lai'f?" she inquired, her tone hopeful. "Di Biluju ha'su di O'dde Ti'n'gu. Dey say o'ne du'ro'p ca'n rai'se di dea'd!" She reached into her bag and pulled out a copy of The Advanced's (Yes, YOU!) Guide to the Imperium, Now with Special Foreword Justifying Its Existence! This she flipped open and pointed at a sketch of a bottle of the notorious Odde Tinge, complete with warning labels against its consumption meticulously included on the label.

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

The Northern Warehouses were no place for velvet slippers. Especially not at night. Especially not if the slippers were attached to the paws of a red fox in a half-buttoned brocade waistcoat, limping slightly from having scuffed his toe on a broken crate three alleys back.

Ruffano Quickwhistle, gentleman of no particular fortune and even more questionable judgment, paused under the flickering light of a sconce lantern. He exhaled through his nose and gave the strap of his satchel a half-hearted tug.

He was here, ostensibly, to oversee a discreet trade—one that might charitably be called “grey market.” The contents in question? Stage-quality phosphorescent dye, banned by the Ministry of Niceties for making “nighttime opera ghosts too convincing.” He had arranged to offload several small casks to a troupe of back-alley dramatists eager to spice up their spectral effects.

But the dramatists had failed to appear.

So now, an hour past the agreed-upon time and a half-flask of strong cider past his better judgment, Ruffano paced the grimy stones near the empty warehouse. The only other movement came from the tiny lizards, those twitchy little warehouse dwellers that always looked like they knew more than they let on. One was dragging off a beetle bigger than its head with eerie determination.

He muttered something bitter under his breath and turned down a side corridor of crates...

...And nearly jumped out of his fur.

Some fifty meters off, half-shrouded in mist and lantern light, stood a scene so bizarre even he had trouble believing it: a rapier-wielding fox squaring off against what appeared to be a demon of such round, overwhelming presence she seemed to radiate cheerful chaos. She stood beaming at the chaos, corset laced tight under a wildly clashing pantsuit that made her look like a walking collage of fashion crimes, executed with joy and confidence.

“What in the hundred harbors...” Ruffano gasped, stumbling back into a stack of firewood. A top log slipped free, clattered to the ground, and bounced hard against his shin. “Vulpuz’s teeth!”

He hopped backward, ears rigid, clutching the edge of a rain barrel like a lifeline.

“DEMONS!” Ruffano croaked, stumbling backward into a stack of firewood. The top log slipped, clattered to the ground, and bounced against his shin. He squealed.

“Wh-what in th’...!?”

He gripped a nearby lamppost like it might whisk him to safety and clutched his cravat dramatically.

“Oh no. No no no. This is why I do indoor crime! Vulpuz have mercy!”

He dropped into a crouch behind a barrel, ears quivering.

“Get a hold of yourself, Ruffano,” he whispered. “They can't arrest you if they’re dead.”

 

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

Burnt whiskers, if he was going to convince this beast he could drink Odde Tinge, there was going to be some drastic sleight of paw in his near future. The last time Jeshal had used that stuff was to strip the paint off part of a repair job on the Hide. Later he would realise the book she was presenting and how it wasn’t the original hilariously inaccurate edition. He was going to enjoy holding that over Anithias if the old bastard was still kicking around.

Just as he was about to turn back around on his way toward inner Bully, he heard a clattering of wood. Still drunk on his own performance, Jeshal glared at the suspiciously quiet barrel-in-lamplight.

“WHO DARES DISTURB THE GHASTLY PROMENADE IN ITS QUEST FER GUZZLIN’ SPIRITS?”

It was a fine enough detour toward the city. He began shambling toward the sounds, this time dragging the point of his cutlass across the floor.

Skrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr​

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

There was a horrible metallic scrape, like some ancient saber being dragged across cobblestone, and a voice that rasped out like bones rattling in a goblet. Ruffano’s fur stood on end.

“N… no beast!” he cried from behind the barrel. “Be on your merry way to guzzle all the spirits you may, just leave mine unguzzled!”

He rose a little, his eyes and ears just cresting the barrel’s rim. He squinted into the mist. There they were. The ghost, unmistakable in its tattered white coat and unnatural swagger. And behind it…His eyes widened. His ears slowly folded back.

“What in the voided ledger of the condemned is that?”

It was red. It was round. It was smiling. And it was following the ghost.

“Oh come now!” he whimpered. “Surely no crime I may or may not have committed in my past warrants this sort of reaction from Vulpuz!”

He ducked slightly, keeping his paws raised in a trembling arc of submission.

“We can be reasonable about this!” he called out, voice cracking like an overused stageboard. “What can I offer in exchange? Gold? Rum? I can provide a wide variety of services! Very tasteful! Mostly legal!”

His tail fluffed like a frightened possum as he backed an inch closer to the barrel.

“Please! Anything but the smiling demon!”

 

[Pomodu lu Modokunomulo]

Pomodu's expression turned to one of confusion as a fox nearby seemed to respond in fear to the ghost's presence. Why would he be afraid of a ghost? Bully Harbor was full of ghosts, everyone said so. Maybe, she decided, what he really needed was a comforting embrace. She spread her arms out wide, smiling widely as she advanced upon him. "Hu'g!" she proclaimed, moving to embrace the cowering todd.

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

He saw her coming. The arms. The smile. The absolute unstoppable cheer lumbering toward him like a hug-powered avalanche.

“Oh scat.”

His instincts screamed: Fight! Flight!

...Unfortunately, his body chose Freeze.

He stood there, trembling, wide-eyed, and utterly doomed.

 

[Pomodu lu Modokunomulo]

Pomodu closed in on him, her paws seizing him... and promptly pulled him into the warmest, plushest hug of his life, perhaps in Vulpinsulan history. "Happy now," Pomodu chanted, squeezing Ruffano to her. "No moh sa'du."