Open The Bilge In The Bucket Drinks All Around

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

Having wiped off enough of his ghost makeup not to cause more of a scene than he already would, Jeshal strode in through the door of the Bilge in the Bucket with his new companions in tow, a theatrical todd and a huge and excitable red panda.

"Feast your peepers, mateys!" he called to the patrons, most of whom probably hadn't a clue who he was after thirty-four years being supposedly dead. "Cap'n Ironclaw has returned! Drinks be on us!"

This at least turned many of the grumpy faces into less grumpy ones and a cheer erupted regardless.

Jeshal swaggered to the bar. "A pint o' yer best cider, good beast. Make that second best. If the scrumpy 'ere be like it was back in my day, I'd be wiggling around the floorboards telling ye I was Princess Worm, haharr!" He looked to @Ruffano Quickwhistle and @Pomodu lu Modokunomulo . "What'll it be?"​

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

By the time they reached the Bilge, Ruffano was drunk...not on alcohol,, but on the sheer absurd joy of riches and friendship.

The door creaked open, and in swept the fox, coat flared dramatically behind him, eyes sparkling with mischief. He took one look at the aftermath of a small scuffle, a slumped stoat snoring softly against a busted table leg and, without hesitation, liberated most of an unattended pie from the table beside the wreckage.

“Your sacrifice is noted, brave baker,” he murmured solemnly, already taking a bite.

He slid onto a stool beside Jeshal and Pomodu like he owned the place and slammed his paw on the bar.

“Pint of your finest!” he declared, bits of flaky crust at the corner of his grin. “Or your strongest rum, I’m feeling brave!”

Because if you couldn’t celebrate a near-arrest, a demonic hug, and getting paid in gold, when could you celebrate?

 

[Pomodu lu Modokunomulo]

Pomodu was in seventh heaven, delighting to be in the company of a living legend. Her wide grin caused some of those nearby to pull back in alarm; legends of a red demon who could grapple with badgers and would lift beasts off their feet with no warning had spread since her last appearance in the Bilge. To their relief, she joined the two todds at the bar, leaving them to gossip instead.

"Ain't that the Ironclaw?"

"Who?"

"Y'know, one a' the mad old ministers from Mar'kan's day, b'fore Brudenell an' the war. 'Eard 'e got that claw from a sea witch. They say he tried t' use dark magic t' barter wiv' Vulpuz fer eternal life, except 'e insulted Vulpuz an' got blown up fer it instead."

"Well, he's here, ain' he? Maybe he got that deal after all."

Pomodu missed all of these rumors, and the opportunity to right them. She was eagerly pouring through The Advanced's (Yes, You!) Guide to the Imperium, Revised Edition, pondering the drink options as described there. "I wan'tu turai de Re'du Sutafu," she declared, looking up to the bartender.

The bartender, for his part, just sighed and rolled his eyes. "Ma'am, no one serves Red Stuff anywhere. You need a special dispensation from the Ministry of Innovation to even get a thimble of it. We have red wine, though - and between you and me, you'll have a better time with the wine."

"?" Pomodu made a small sound of confusion, and the bartender sighed before reaching under the counter. "Yes, Red Stuff," he declared a bit theatrically, putting a unmarked bottle of some red wine on the bar - likely a cheap Hanshiman import. "Here you go. Don't get yourself killed. ...Bloody immigrants," the bartender muttered under his breath before turning away to fetch the drinks for the other two.

By the time he had their cider and rum poured and on the bar for them, Pomodu had taken from her pocket one of Schwitz's Genuine Military Multi-Knives* and, pulling out the corkscrew, managed to get three quarters of the cork out, and was now working with her claws to pull out the remainder. Finally getting it free, she raised her bottle in toast. "To di Metalu Ahmu Jesahalu!" she toasted. "To di Valupinusula!" Then she tipped back the bottle and started to drink.

*A tchotchke that its creator had originally marketed to the Imperial military as a set of universally useful tools contained in one handy package, and which had been used widely across all of the military for all of a week before it had been declared to be useless junk that didn't do anything it had been marketed to do in any proper fashion, instead performing a wide variety of tasks inadequately. While the military discontinued their contract with Schwitz immediately, he'd been able to market his multi-knives thereafter as "As used by the Imperial Army!", pulling in a whole new audience of rubes.

 

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

Jeshal flashed his one very expensive coin at the bartender but did not relinquish it yet, inferring he would hand it over once sufficient drinks had been imbibed by everyone present. He had made no attempt to assist in correcting Pomodu about Red Stuff, seeing that the barbeast had things under control.

"Vulpinsula!" he cried, raising his flagon and downing it eagerly.

Gates, it had been so long since he had tasted Bully cider. With a satisfied sigh he wiped his muzzle with his arm and turned in his seat towards his new companions.

"So, tell us, Quickwhistle", he said, recounting the fox's name from when the Fogeys had stopped them. "What be the state o' things in me old Bully? It be near thirty-five years since I took me leave of absence."

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano raised the glass to his muzzle and took a long sip, savoring the burn like it was applause. He gave a soft exhale, turning toward Jeshal with one brow arched and a glimmer in his eye.

“Ruffano.” He tapped his chest with the rim of the glass. “Ruffano Quickwhistle, once of the Actor’s Guild, briefly of the Ministry of Cultural Refinement, more recently...unaffiliated.”

He waved the glass in a lazy arc, as though to encompass the totality of the nation’s missteps.

“Oh where to start? The civil war? The great betrayal? That self-declared Empress on the throne and Talinn the Traitor kissing her boots? Bah! All politics.”

Another sip.

“But the theater, now there’s the true tragedy.”

He leaned in conspiratorially, rum sloshing perilously near the lip of the glass.

“The Ministry of Niceties has taken a golden stage and turned it into a paper puppet box. Censorship! Sanitization! They say the audience isn’t a sounding board for personal grievances. Can you believe it?”

He placed a paw dramatically over his heart.

“A fox pours his soul into a monologue about economic despair, fire code violations, and romantic betrayal from a lead actor who called my line delivery half-tailed, and they call it ‘disruptive.’ I got tossed out on my tail and stripped of my thespian’s license. Blacklisted for art.”

He gave a theatrical sigh, followed by another sip.

Then, with a curious glance and a casual pivot, he added:

“Speaking of the avant-garde... why were you dressed in stage paint and haunting the docks like a vengeful dramatist?”

 

[Pomodu lu Modokunomulo]

Pomodu, having obtained some stuff that was red, was eagerly chugging down the entire bottle. As soon as she was done, she set it down on the bar, then cross-referenced her copy of the Advanced's (Yes, YOU!) Guide to the Imperium. "Anada!" she declared, picking up the bottle and throwing it at the floor, where, rather than break, it simply rolled away underfoot. The bartender rolled his eyes and pulled another bottle out from beneath the bar, setting it before the red panda, and then turned away to fetch another few bottles from the back room to restock.

Pomodu's ears picked up at the question, and she turned, eager to tell the story, or so it seemed. "Di imohtu Metalu Ahmu Jesahalu loo'k foh hi'su lovah Poiso'n Fo'x Tanaya!" she exclaimed. "Dey die a'n'du reboh'n a'n'du die agai'n, ahway'su dey fin'du ea'chada. I'su beautifu'lu." She pulled out what seemed to be a diary of some sort, written in a pinyin of Vulpinsulan and what must have been her native language, though none of its characters were recognizable to anybeast else in the room. She flipped to a page showing what must surely have been a drawing by her own paw, showing a highly stylized fox couple, the male leaning over the femme, cradling her in his (partially metallic) arms as she dramatically cupped his face. It was far from quality of the commissioned art from earlier, but certainly showed enthusiasm.

"He co'me ba'ck to fin'du huh," Pomodu explained. "He fin'du huh, she co'me ba'ck too, de'n dey li've happy evah afutah." She said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

 

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

As he signalled to the barbeast to top up his flagon, Jeshal absorbed Ruffano's information with relish. Much of it was clearly the fox's own woes, but Jeshal knew never to be dismissive of anybeast's plight. Their desires could be useful and their fires not wise to be ignored. How many had fallen with a knife in their back in the Slups for failing to humour an addled creature's love affair with a teapot? What's more, some of Quickwhistle's grievances held weight.

So there really had been war. Talinn — a Ryalor no less — was dubbed traitor for presumably handing over the Imperium to the new Empress. Would Tanya be safe here, he wondered, with some of her children bearing that family name? With her once owning it? What deals had been brokered that kept everything as it was? There was so much more to learn of what he had missed, and yet he did not want to press Ruffano too much. After all, better not to show how little he knew.

Jeshal leaned in to show camaraderie with the other fox's hushed words. Before he could choose how to explain his appearance, Pomodu had it covered.

He put down his flagon and pinched the front of his muzzle to stifle a 'pffft' and cleared his throat.

"Aye, what she said. I be sure my ghostly wife will turn up soon enough and, er, corporealise. It be high time we returned to make our mark." He eyed the Imperium guide Pomodu had been studying earlier. "Perhaps I should be getting me good self one o' those. I knew the author of the last one. Funniest joke in Bully. Kept it in the captain's head awhile for the laughs."

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano tilted his head, raising an eyebrow with interest as he swirled the last of his rum.

“Another spirit? Corporealizing?” he echoed, the word rolling off his tongue like it had been plucked from a particularly avant-garde script.

He leaned in a touch, eyes gleaming.

“Is that what you did then?” he asked Jeshal, gesturing vaguely with his glass. “Flesh and fur again, all to chase your long-lost love? Saints and sand, that’s romantic! Morbid, but romantic.”

With a flourish, he set the glass down and gave a respectful nod.

“May your haunt accomplish its noble aim, good specter. And if a coup is underway... or a reordering, or some sort of fantastical spectral regime change, do keep in mind that I am, above all things, very agreeable under pressure.”

He placed a paw to his chest, voice dropping to an earnest hush.

“Truly. I side with the convenient.”

 

[Pomodu lu Modokunomulo]

Pomodu listened eagerly to the younger fox's words, not understanding half of them, but enjoying the music of them nonetheless. Still, there were two parts of the conversation that she latched onto, and eagerly put to her idol. "De Poiso'n Fo'xu Tanaya co'me he're?" she asked eagerly, her eyes wide. "I ca'n mee'tu huh?" She let out a noise that was right at the edge of the audible spectrum even for the denizens of the Imperium. She had to take a few deep breaths to calm herself down, as well as chug another bottle of 'red stuff'.

She finally asked her second question. "You knew de Un'shakaledu Anatiyasa?" she inquired, her eyes wide. "Di goh'de'n idoh who'se voi'ce duro've bea'se'tu madunessu?"

 

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

The older fox gave an amiable snort at Ruffano's openness. Helpful to know when he could or couldn't count on him and so Jeshal had already begun networking. Whether he planned on using anything remained to be seen. After grinning through Pomodu's first question, Jeshal nearly choked on his drink at the second.

"Izzat wot they be saying?" he laughed. "'Gates, I know he used to give an earful time to time. Honestly, I think I was the one what used to drive him mad. Had our fair share o' punch-ups, or nigh on, we did. As I recall, he were a decent cap'n most of the time afore I took over. Wonder how he fared during this war I heard tell of."

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano scoffed into his cup, swirling the rum before taking another sharp sip.

“Mayor Freedom?” he echoed, incredulous. “His Grace, the Emperor, you mean? That blowhard bungled his way through the Winter War! And what’s worse? He thought it’d be clever to take on House Ryalor with that egregious trial. Bah... To think that Vaelora is Armina Rogue? Now that's a laugh!”

He gave a sharp shake of his head and leaned closer, his voice dropping in mock-confidentiality.

“Can’t decide if he had a hero complex, or just a death wish. Either way, He got strung up in the Mayoral Park, fittingly enough. I keep my tail well clear of that circus. Let the warlords and reformers chew each other to pieces. I’ve got plays to write.”

 

[Pomodu lu Modokunomulo]

Pomodu's eyes widened as the question was asked, and her attempt to speak with the bottle of 'red stuff' in her mouth resulted in her coughing and sputtering as some of the wine went down the wrong pipe. When she recovered enough to speak, she hurriedly grabbed for one of her books. "I'su di Reelor Talano killu hi'm foh di dea'th o'f Reelor Valarola!" she exclaimed, hurriedly paging through the thick book and past several other illustrated pages. Finding the right one, she flipped it to show an image of two vixens mirrored across sections of day and night on the left and right of the page - clearly the same design for the vixen, but polar opposites. The vixen in the day was snow white and saintly, gathering kits unto her, while the vixen in the night was manic and murderous, a field of carnage spread out around her. "Di Reelor Valarola i'su day si'de o'f Ro'gue Arimana. Valarola i'su goo'd, Arimana i'su evi'lu."

She pointed down at the middle third of the illustration, where what seemed to be a foxlike statue of solid gold marshalled an army of citizens, gold circlets clamping their heads and linked to his wrist by golden chains - the most bizarre depiction of 'mind control' perhaps yet put to paper. "Di Un'shakaledu Anatiyasa ha'te huh, so he sen' di mo'b to killu huh." She pointed down at the bottom third, where a gray todd was cradling the slain form of the white vixen. "I'su a sutory o'f t'ragedi."

 

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

Fortune had it that Jeshal was not using his metal claw to hold his drinking vessel. It would surely have buckled. Anithias’ arrogance and stubbornness had always been his undoing so it did not surprise Jeshal that the golden fox had got into bother with another power.

Vaelora? Who by the fur was that supposed to be? Armina?

Cider trickled slowly down his gullet and for a sickening moment the Ironclaw imagined he had swallowed blood.

Strung up. Old Nithy had been hanged. For all the trouble Jeshal had had with his old captain, he had never hated him back. Better or worse, he had considered Anithias family. Had he truly fallen so far or had history swallowed up the truth? Had he been fighting in defence of the Imperium from a Ryalor takeover and the victors painted him as mad? Or had the old fool gone too far as he was always capable?

Jeshal managed to keep his expression neutral during Ruffano’s account. He was not prepared for Pomodu’s. Talinn had killed Anithias. For the death of Ryal- Vaelora Ryalor.

Vaelora was Armina. Armina was a Ryalor.

Armina was dead.



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."

"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.”

She’d kicked him where it hurt a few moments later.


More memories rushed to meet him, unbidden. A laughing young vixen, painted green, giving candied chestnuts to Tanya’s kits. Wild and confused, walking her claws up his chest to get her way. The tragic beauty, agonised by her age and her mind. Luring him to a dressing room to threaten him, kissing him, confessing her feelings. Happy and raging and tearful, free and trapped, Armina who had been so alive. Part of the crew. Part of his family. Under his care.

And then he and Tanya had faked their deaths and run, fleeing an inevitable coup.

We could have taken her with us.

Anithias had taken his temper out on her plenty of times, but to kill her? To send a mob after her? It couldn’t be. At the end of it all, hadn’t he and Julia loved her? This already questionable book had to be wrong. If he had stayed in power, maybe he would have learnt the truth. Or we’d all be dead.

There was no humour in Jeshal left at all.

“Is this the account you know, Ruffano? Freedom killed Vaelora; Talinn killed Freedom?”​

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano’s ears flicked at Jeshal’s sudden shift in demeanor. The lightness drained from his grin, and his brow dipped ever so slightly, not in full solemnity, but in recognition that the performance had shifted scenes.

“No. I’m not making it up,” He set his glass down gently and leaned a little closer. “Mayor Freedom is dead. And Vaelora too. That awful rally saw to that.”

He gave a breath and a shake of his head.

“Anti-Ryalor sorts, wound tight as violin strings, started it. Somebeast smuggled a barrel of Red Stuff under the stage, meaning to be dramatic to send a message. Only the wrong beast found it. Set off too early. Stage went up, thirty-some beasts went down. Chaos.”

He paused just long enough for the silence to settle, then went on, quieter now.

“Mayor Freedom, of course, stepped up like it was his moment. Set fire to effigies of Talinn and Vaelora right there in the smoke. Then he marched a mob down toward the embassy. But the Ministry of War stopped them. Darkon herself. Martial law. And while the crowds were held at bay, while the guards stared down the citizenry...”

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face.

“Someone got inside. Killed Vaelora. Set fire to the compound. The rest of the Ryalors in Bully Harbor were hit too. They call it ‘Noch' Ubitykh Golubey’ in Fyador. The Night of Slaughtered Doves.”

He picked up his glass again, looked sadly that it was empty, then set it back down and gave Jeshal a sideways look, just a hint of something sly.

“Still... if a ghost can pull himself up by the bootstraps and buy a round of drinks...”

He gestured broadly toward Jeshal and then to Pomodu with a grin.

“Who’s to say the rest of the Doves won’t ride again, eh? Seems the Imperium’s not so strict about stayin’ dead these days.”

 

[Pomodu lu Modokunomulo]

Pomodu was quiet for a moment as this death, more than all the others, clearly got to Jeshal. It was only in this moment that she realized he truly hadn't known - and for some reason it seemed like he was truly mourning this loss. "Reelor Valarola, di Ro'gue Arimana, she i'su a legen'du o'f di Valupin'sula," she pointed out, a small, tight anxiety in her throat distressing her tone. "She i'su di immohta'lu, li'ke you an'du di Poiso'n Fo'xu Tanaya, ye'su? So she co'me ba'ck too. Da't i'su wha't di immohta'lusu do." She didn't sound very confident in her own interpretation of the legends at this moment.