Vulpinsula & Surroundings Completed Dug Up Memories

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano Quickwhistle pressed his back to the soot-streaked brick of the alley and held his breath. Two fogey officers, half-awake and mumbling about breakfast, trudged down the cobbles without so much as a glance toward the shattered window just above his head. He gave them a count of twelve, ten to clear the corner and two for superstition, before he sprang up, caught the jagged sill, and hauled himself through with a rustle of coat and crinkle of paper.

The blueprints, delicate as onion skin and nearly twice as flammable, remained tucked under one arm. He hit the warped floorboards inside with a soft grunt, boots skidding across dust and debris, and froze.

Silence. Good.

He rose to a crouch. All around him, ruin.

The theatre was a skeleton of its former self. What remained of the foyer was lost behind collapsed beams and mildew-choked drapery. The grand chandelier, once the centerpiece of the house, lay in broken splinters where the ceiling had caved in. Shafts of golden morning light spilled through the holes, dust motes swirling in them like dancers called back for a final performance.

He smiled, bitter and toothy, as he stepped through the once-gilded archway into the main auditorium. The stage yawned ahead, tired and splintered, but still standing. The seats were a ruin of upended velvet and broken legs.

"Still better attendance than my last show," he muttered.

He crossed to the stage and climbed onto it with care, paws thudding dully. At center, he stopped, inhaling. There was a smell: old plaster, rot, ash, and something faintly sweet.

He sat.

For a time, Ruffano just dangled his legs off the stage, watching the ghost-audience watch him back. The morning light spilled in behind him, a cheap spotlight. He let the silence linger, as if waiting for a cue.

Then he chuckled, the sound brittle.

"You know, they told me it was a privilege to be silenced? Said I should be honored to be 'corrected,'" he said to no one, voice echoing faintly off the scorched walls. "For the good of the public, for the stability of truth, for the Empress and her glorious Ministries. And the crowd just... nodded. Laughed along."

"But they never did say what was so dangerous about a bit of satire. About asking if the Minister’s hat was on too tight, or if the opera really needed another twenty-minute aria about taxes."

"I bled for this stage. I wept on this wood. And they wiped me off it like a smudge on the Minister's mirror."

"Well...the smudge is back..."

Then, with a soft rustle, he unrolled the blueprints.

Big, complex, and riddled with scrawled notations, the sheets cascaded across the stage like a map to some long-buried kingdom. He flipped through them, frowning.

"Trapdoor, trapdoor... come on, I saw you somewhere..."

He traced lines with a clawtip. Not that page. Nor that one. There.

He paused. His eyes lit up.

"You sly bastard," he whispered. "Stage left. Ten paces."

Hopping off the stage, leaving the blueprints behind, and counted aloud with each step. Nine. Ten. He knelt.

The velvet drape at the edge of the stage had once been a rich crimson. Now, it was moth-eaten, and faded to rust. He ripped it aside with a flourish.

Behind it: a small door, half the size of a cupboard, and a crusted iron padlock barely holding on.

He rummaged in his satchel. Out came a hammer.

Whack. Miss.

Whack. The lock bounced.

Whack. A crunch. It clattered to the floor.

Ruffano froze again, ears swiveling.

Nothing. No boots. No shouts.

He exhaled through his nose and creaked the door open. The hinges screamed. He winced.

Inside, darkness. He crawled in.

It was a narrow chamber, barely four feet high, with a floor of packed dirt. Above him hung a rig for a trapdoor mechanism, rusted so thoroughly it looked fused shut. But what caught his eye were the crates.

Four of them. Small. Buried up to the halfway mark in the soil.

He crawled to the nearest and pulled a prybar from his satchel.

Crack. The lid peeled back.

He blinked. Then grinned.

"That damn searat wasn’t lyin’."

He reached in and lifted a strange device.It was a box of dulled, pitted metal. About the size of a book. A hand crank on the side. Twin spindles on top, grating like mesh on the front, and several tiny levers beside a copper plate etched with symbols he didn’t recognize. From the rear, two copper prongs jutted out, wound with a green-tarnished wire.

He cradled it like a sacred text.

"You lovely thing."

Beneath the machine, nestled in the straw, were rolls of wire. Not ordinary spools: these were thin metal tape, with strange grooves pressed into their surface.

He picked one up. Fit it onto one spindle. Slotted an empty roll onto the other.

With the delicacy of a jeweler, he threaded the wire through the internal rollers. It clicked into place.

He cranked the handle, the internals ratcheting dully, until it resisted. He stopped, then flicked a lever.

Crackle. A hiss. Then...music. Wavery. Distant. And then a voice.

"Hello and welcome, this is Rex Plushpaw, with your episode of the Vulpine Imperium Radio Show..."

Ruffano’s eyes went wide. He leaned back and laughed.

"Plushpaw, you beautiful madbeast!"

He cranked the machine once more before stopping the playback. Gently, reverently, he returned it to the crate and clawed at the dirt, freeing the box with quiet urgency.

...

At last, he clambered back through the window, box slung over one shoulder. As he was doing so, his coat caught on a nail.

He yelped as he tumbled, legs in the air, landing squarely on his back, upside-down on the filthy wall dangling from his coat. The crate flew from his grip and landed in a shrub with a whuff of leaves.

He groaned.

From across the way, a beast watched him...

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

She was a vixen in her early fifties, still beautiful and proud, a bearing about her that spoke to a life wherein nobility was more than title or blood. Her fur, both that which grew longer on her head and that across her body as well, was a stark, snowy white, with eyes of an emerald green that crinkled in the corner in amusement. She wore a Vulpinsulan style petticoat under a Fyadorian kimono of a delicate lilac embroidered with golden patterns of fern fronds. As she sat on a crate, watching the beast fumble, she smiled, not a cruel gesture, but one of sympathy. "You should be careful vith zat," she remarked, her voice colored by a northern Fyadorian accent she'd had a lifetime to master. "Such a waluable item should be safeguarded. After all, it changes ze course of history, as I'm sure you know."

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

He did his best to look dignified, which was an increasingly difficult thing to do while suspended upside-down by the tail of his coat from a rusty nail. Ruffano twisted like a fox on a spit, ears cocked askew, one paw dusting pointlessly at the hem of his waistcoat as if that might somehow undo the damage to his pride.

And then he saw her. White as moonlit snow. Dressed in layers of wealth. The fronds of gold thread shimmered against her lilac kimono like the sigh of a forest. He blinked once, then again. Surely he’d hit his head harder than expected. A vixen of refinement. Composure. Emerald eyes lined with amusement, not mockery.

“And what, pray tell, is a creature spun from opera silk and starlight doing in all this detritus?”

He gave a half-bow from his awkward position, which only twisted his coat further and made the nail groan ominously above.

“You’ll forgive the posture, my dear... Today’s wardrobe malfunctions weren’t exactly in the script.”

With exaggerated calm, he reached one paw upward, now downward, to gesture gallantly toward her.

“Ruffano Quickwhistle, at your service. Formerly of Satire Square, recently of several condemned buildings, and currently in urgent need of either a helping paw or a very creative rescue.”

He smiled, charming despite the leaves in his fur.

“Might I impose? My relationship with this nail has grown strained.”

His eyes flicked toward the crate, half-lodged in the shrub.

“And do forgive my treatment of the cargo. Trust me, I’m well aware of its value. I wouldn’t have flung myself face-first into a bramble for a common trinket, unless it’s the kind that carries the weight of voices long thought buried.”

The grin faltered, just for a second, curiosity sliding in to take its place.

“Course, I might be wrong...” He tilted his head the other way, squinting theatrically. “Could be a music box. Funny shape. Wouldn’t mean anything to most. So how is it, may I ask, that you knew exactly what it was?”

He paused.

“Unless you’ve a habit of haunting old theaters, waiting for relics to fall into your lap?”

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

The corners of the vixen's eyes split into crow's feet as they turned upward in amusement at the fox's predicament. She reached down beside her and retrieved a shortbow and quiver, both propped up against the crate. She strung an arrow in a swift motion and, aiming from her seated position, fired. It struck right at the nail, the fabric tearing and sending the todd toppling to the ground.

The vixen deposited her shortbow back by her side, watching the todd pick himself up. "I haunt a lot of places zese days," she mused, "mainly places zat hold important memories for me... such, it vould seem, as zis one. Ze history of ze Imperium changed in zat hall, you know - all owing to zat item you've stowed avay in a box." She patted a crate next to hers, the serenity of her expression a contrast to the oddity of their circumstances. "If you'd like to sit avile," she invited, "zen I can tell you ze tale of how ze radio changed the world."

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

The sound of the arrow loosing was sharp, sudden.

Thunk. Rip. Whumph.

Ruffano hit the ground with a soft oof and an avalanche of rust-speckled pride.

He lay there for a beat, staring up at the sun-spotted rafters, then rolled to his side and popped to his feet with practiced flourish—one part actor’s bow, one part survival instinct. He brushed off his coat with brisk little slaps, and straightened his vest.

“My thanks,” he said, voice smooth as velvet drapes and twice as theatrical. “A fine shot. Subtle as an opening night cannon, but effective.”

His eyes moved back to the white-furred vixen, narrowing slightly in calculated interest. She had the air of someone who didn’t bluff. And more dangerously, someone who didn’t need to.

“So,” he said, pacing lightly to where the crate had landed, giving it a gentle pat. “An old haunt, then. Memory and meaning stitched into every floorboard, I imagine. All the best ghosts wear perfume, after all.”

He glanced toward the stage entrance, as if it might echo something back.

When she gestured to the crate beside her, inviting him to sit, he hesitated. A quick tilt of the head, a weighing of things unseen. Then, with a small shrug and a crooked grin, he stepped forward and leaned casually against the wall near her seat, arms folding.

“You’ve got my attention, madam. Anyone who talks of radios like they’re relics and revolutions clearly has a story worth listening to.”

He tapped the side of the crate with two fingers, gently.

“So, do tell. I’ve a taste for forgotten truths. Especially the dangerous ones.”

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

The vixen smiled as the fox sat, shifting slightly to turn more toward him. Her gaze went to the middle distance as she entered a state of reverie. "It vas ze 17th of Zermidor, 1734," she recalled. "Zirty years ago, and a lifetime at zat. It vas a hot summer, I recall; ze air so zick and muggy, you could cut zrough ze wapor vith a knife. A miserable heat, ze kind zat riles tempers and makes beasts do foolish, wiolent zings."

She gave a small shudder, her fur rippling as it briefly raised and then settled again. "Zose vere tense days for us - ze Ryalors. After ze Vinter Var, ve vere treated vith hostility and suspicion - and, perhaps, for fair reasons. Ve had made some questionable allies and alienated a few who should have been our friends, and vere not much loved in ze Harbor. Zat's hardly changed today, of course, but now ve're just one of zose facts of life zat people vork around, like ze ministries or ze veahzer. Back zen, zough, ze most influential beast in Bully Harbor vas ze mayor, Anizzias Freedom - and he had a special hatred for me personally.

"You see," she continued, "I appeared back zen much like another beast, Armina Rogue - a wiolent and dangerous former minister, turned traitor to ze Imperium and a wicious serial killer. She'd been slain before I ewen ewer came to ze Imperium, but ze Mayor remained conwinced zat I must be her somehow. He'd had me arrested, ewen tried me in court himself, but failed to have me conwicted for her crimes. Vell, apparently, after zat failure, he decided to try another approach. And so, he published ze pamphlet."

She reached into her quiver and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper, yellowed and tattered by age. She carefully unfolded it, then passed it to Ruffano. The writing was a bit faded and illegible in parts, but even with three decades of history to render it moot, the charges laid out were explosive: accusations against House Ryalor of betraying the Imperium in the Winter War, of masterminding a deadly blast that leveled half the Harbor, of conspiring to overthrow the Emperor, of hiding and harboring a known traitor and murderer. Any one of the charges, if true, would have been worthy of a death sentence.

"Perhaps it vas just ze summer heat," she reflected, "but ze Harbor vas in a frenzy ven zis hit the streets. It looked like zere vould be a mob forming to drag us all out of our homes and murder us in the streets. I vas terrified for my kits; I vanted to hide us behind the valls of our compound, to hide zrough the storm. Instead, I received an offer zat changed my life. An offer from one Rex Plushpaw, to come speak in front of zat wery machine you carry." She nodded at the box, a reverence in the gesture. "Ze recording cylinder might ewen be in there, if you'd like to hear it."

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano didn’t interrupt.

Not with a smirk, not with a quip, not even with a twitch of his overly expressive ears. He simply listened, posture softening as the tale unwound around him like smoke from a long-doused stage torch. When she mentioned the mayor, the mob, the heat, and the kits, his ears dipped slightly. His usual glimmer dulled to something closer to reverence.

As the pamphlet passed into his paws, he took it gingerly, as if it might crumble from the weight of what it had once meant.

“You know,” he said at last, voice low, “I expected ghosts in that theater. But not yours.”

He unfolded the paper and scanned it, eyes flicking across the faded script. A corner of his mouth lifted at the sheer drama of it.

“A whole opera's worth of scandal on one little scrap of paper. No wonder the Harbor howled.”

With great care, he folded it back and rested it beside the crate. Then, slowly, as though remembering he had legs, Ruffano settled onto the ground beside her, crossing one ankle over the other.

When the Vixen gestured to the box, the thread of intrigue pulled taut again.

“You knew the beast in question?” he asked, turning to her with a note of incredulity that gave way to wonder. “Rex Plushpaw? Why, I’ve only heard tales of him! Mad tales, most of them. A voice on the wind, a myth of the microphone...”

He trailed off and turned toward the crate with renewed intent. The lid opened with a quiet creak, hinges long unused. He brushed the edge and began to sift carefully through the contents, wire spools wrapped in age and mystery. His claws hovered over one with faint, scorched markings.

He held it up between thumb and foreclaw, examining the grooves, the slight shimmer of oxidized wire.

Then, eyes still on the spool, he looked back at her.

“Shall we summon a ghost together, miss...eh?”

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

Vaelora laughed at the question, looking a bit abashed. "In truth," she admitted, "I did not know him well at all. I do not think we have even met. Yet, he extended the invitation for me to visit this theater, to sit here with the citizens of Bully Harbor, to take their questions and give answers, and have the whole thing played for the city to listen." She smiled, giving a nod to Ruffano, inclining her head toward the spool. "Go ahead," she invited. "Let us hear ze broadcast zat changed the Imperium."

As the wire was threaded through the machine and began to play, a voice from the past rang out, slightly distorted by the medium and age.

"Hello and welcome, this is Rex Plushpaw, with a very special episode of the Vulpine Imperium Radio Show." There was a sound of applause from a live studio audience in the theater, one which echoed off the walls of the theater itself, seeming to restore it to life for a moment. "Yes, thank you, thank you. Folks, you've all seen the pamphlets making their way around the Harbor. 'The Ryalor Threat'. Pretty chilling stuff. You've all read, had it read to you, or used it to wipe your tails, so I won't bother you regurgitating the contents. No, what we are here to do is to speak with someone at the center of those very accusations: the Princess Vaelora Ryalor, ambassador from Fyador and the femme accused, in said papers, of being our notorious ex-Minister of War, the serial killer Armina Rogue. Folks, go ahead and applaud, boo, whatever you're going to do, just keep the rotten tomatoes away from my microphone, will you?"

There was a mixture of cheers and boos, and one very loud splat as a younger femme's voice, still recognizable as that of the woman sitting beside Ruffano, came into focus. "Zank you, zank you," she acknowledged, "and to zose of you who booed, zank you for coming anyvay. Rex," she addressed the host, "zank you so much for hosting me here today."

"Thank you for making the trip out," Rex returned the gratitude. "Now, Miss Ryalor - can I call you Vaelora?"

"You can call me vhatever you vant," Vaelora responded, her tone light and playful, "zough if you call me 'sveetheart', I zink my fiancé vill get jealous. Zat woice, am I right folks?" There was a small round of cheers and applause from predominantly the female members of the audience as Rex chuckled.

"Vaelora, then," the host confirmed. "I suppose we should get to what everyone's here to ask, then. These rumors - the Winter War, the Raulish Flame, the rumors about you being Armina Rogue. Is there any truth to any of it at all?"

Vaelora cleared her throat loud enough for the microphone to pick it up, and when she spoke, her tone was slow and measured, clearly trying to compose her response on-air. "Vell, Rex," she remarked, "I like to separate 'truz' and 'fact'. It may not be a fact zat ze fog in Bully Harbor is golden, but it is ze truz zat, in ze air of zis place, beasts find opportunity falling down upon zem like zat fog."

"Alright then," Rex allowed, "that's very poetic. Is there any of either truth or fact to the rumors, then?"

"Is zere fact? No," Vaelora answered definitively, and at a few boos from the audience, she hurried to answer, "but, I zink zere are truzs in ze allegation zat aren't being addressed, and zose are more important. In ze Vinter Var, my family made mistakes. Instead of fighting off ze invasion, we got ze food out of ze city and to ze refugee camps. In zat way, by failing to fight viz ze ministers, ve failed to be ze allies zey needed. Perhaps ve should have fought," she acknowledged. "Maybe ve could have von, I don't know. Or, ve could have all died zat day, and zen ze refugees in ze camps vould have starved vhile ze Coalition feasted. I do not blame zose who blame us for not fighting; I zink every day about if ve should have. So, zat feeling of betrayal is true, ewen if ze fact is zat ve acted for ze Imperium in ze best vay ve could in ze moment."

The modern Vaelora reached over and clicked the pause button, adding in, "Zere vere a lot of audience interjections in ze live recording zat Rex had to edit out for time and clarity. His audience could be wery raucous. If you're going to do zis again, probably don't use one," she advised.

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano blinked as the static crackle fell into silence, and the rich timbre of Plushpaw’s voice gave way to the present once more. He looked to the vixen, then back at the box, then back again. Blinking as if to steady his thoughts.

“He had an audience?” he exclaimed with incredulous delight, “I had always pictured him squirreled away in a broom closet! Perhaps with a bit of padding, but all the same!”

He let out a soft huff of amusement, but it faded fast, his smile curling into something more bitter.

“What a thing to hear, though... all that venom, all that orchestration, delivered like an official proclamation. I thought I was the only beast cast out with such theatrical flair. The Ministry called me a menace for pointing out the absurdity of their pageantry...said I ‘eroded public trust in validated truth.’”

He spat the phrase like sour wine.

“Seems Plushpaw touched the same nerve I did. Only difference is... he had a recording device.”

His claws traced lightly over the box’s edge. He looked up again, eyes narrowing in something between awe and concern.

“And if that’s just the first reel, I tremble to think what else he caught on wire.”

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

Vaelora chuckled at the question. "He had an audience for some special broadcasts," she clarified. "Most of ze time, he recorded in secrecy. It vas rare zat he had guests on his show, especially guests of my infamy. Zis situation seemed to varrant it. I do know his broadcasts shone light on aspects of ze Wulpinsula zat many did not appreciate, and he made many enemies zat vay."

She leaned over and pressed the play button, and Rex's voice resumed its questions. "So, what other truths are there to these rumors then, Vaelora? I'm sure we're all sitting here thinking about the infamous Armina Rogue, and - you know what, I have one of the old wanted posters right here." There was a sound of papers shuffling. "There we are. For those listening at home, I'm holding up one of the thousands of wanted posters for the infamous serial killer Armina Rogue, which I'm sure you've all seen everywhere over the past year, and if you haven't, then go talk to your eye doctor today."

Vaelora reached into her quiver and pulled out another crinkled piece of paper: a worn and aged wanted poster with a depiction of a dark, frenzied young vixen up it, eyes wild and hackles raised. Even with the distortion that came from an artist's interpretation, the resemblance was more than passing. On the radio, Vaelora's voice played out mildly. "Oh dear. Vell, I hope my fur looks cleaner zan zat." There was a small titter of laughter from somewhere in the audience. She chuckled before continuing. "So, going viz ze facts for a moment - I know zat I resemble Armina Rogue. I've been told zat a hundred times, and it never gets easier. Believe me," she added, "knowing zat my fiancé vas her lover before mine leads to some wery awkvard conwersations, as I'm sure you can imagine - and as anyone who has ever had dated someone who also dated their sibling can tell you." There was a loud whoop from the audience, followed by loud chuckling, including some from Vaelora.

"But, to continue viz ze facts for a moment here, Rex," Vaelora stated, the slight sounds of her shifting in her chair captured on the microphone, "zis has already been played out in a courtroom, vhere Doctor Julia Freedom, ze godmozzer to Armina Rogue and ze ship's surgeon on ze Golden Hide zrough all ze years zat Armina Rogue served on ze Hide, examined me - wery zoroughly, I might add - and determined zat I vas not Armina Rogue. Zis is ze femme who knew Armina Rogue's body probably better zan she did; if anyone could recognize Armina Rogue, it vould be her. So, as conclusively as anyone can determine, I am not Armina Rogue."

"Okay, so those are the facts," Rex confirmed. "Now, I take it you have a contradictory truth to share with us as well?"

"You know me so vell, Rex," Vaelora laughed lightly. "I zink ze truz is zat, in Bully Harbor, ve have become a bit jaded. From vhat I know, beasts around here seem to die and come back to life at an alarming rate."

"Oh, tell me about it," Rex confirmed, clearly ramping up for a joke. "It's gotten so bad that some of the cemeteries are now charging for their graves by the hour." There was a swell of laughter from the audience, and a chuckle from Vaelora.

"Oh, I know. I mean, even my fiancé has 'died' perhaps five times since ve've been togezzer," Vaelora recalled, "and after a certain point, it becomes difficult to mourn, you know? I mean, after ze last one, I recall zinking, 'Vell, I guess zis means he'll be late for dinner'." There was a roar of laughter from the audience at that.

Vaelora continued as the laughter and scattered applause died down, "In all seriousness, I zink zat, vhen you can't even count on somezing as final as dehz to be real, it makes it impossible to believe anyzing, viz ze end result of believing everyzing. So, vhy not believe zat ze charming young foreign princess is secretly a deranged serial killer? In zis crazy vorld, it's no crazier zan anyzing else."

"A fair point, fair point," Rex allowed. "No crazier than believing that non-fish fishsticks are meant to be food and not industrial-grade paste, I suppose." There was a light chuckle from the audience at that. "If," Rex continued, his voice growing slightly louder as he leaned a little closer to the microphone for a moment, "it's a problem of cynicism, then how would you address Mayor Freedom's loud accusations against you? I mean, this is a learned man, a former captain in the navy, a former criminal court judge, a beast once rumored to be on the shortlist for Minister of War - this is a beast who you hope would know up from down and left from right. So, what does it say that he's been so adamant in leveling these charges against you, even after the trial you spoke of?"

Vaelora cleared her throat. "Vell, I am not a doctor of ze mind," she allowed. "Zat is my fiancé's occupation, and I vould not try to rob him of his business."

"Well, in Bully Harbor, I'm not sure he'll ever run out," Rex quipped.

"That's true," Vaelora acknowledged as the audience laughed. "Wery true. But, viz a beast like ze Mayor," there was the sound of her shifting in her seat again, "you have to try to understand a beast like zat. Zis is a beast who has prided himself on knowing zings. Ze Valking Lawbook, isn't zat vhat zey called him?"

"Walking Handbooke, but yes," Rex corrected.

"Right. So, zis is a beast who prides himself for his mind. He knows zings, he treasures his mastery of law and code, and as a commander, he believes he knows ze beasts under his command better zan anyone. Now, I understand zat he vas godfazzer once to Armina Rogue - as close as family to her. She served on his ship, he mentored her. After he left ze navy, I can only imagine ze pride he felt vhen she rose up ze ranks to serve as captain on ze same ship as him, and zen became Minister of Var as vell. And zen, imagine how devastated he must have been vhen she turned into zat."

The audience was dead silent. Vaelora looked down at the wanted poster with sorrow as the broadcast grew still for a moment. The voice of Vaelora from the past continued a bit mournfully. "If any of my kits grew up to be like her, I vould spend ze rest of my life asking, 'vhat did I do wrong? Vhat did I miss? Zere must have been somezing I could have done to stop zis, to save zem from zemselves'. I zink ze Mayor must lie avake viz zese questions every night. Zis is a beast who has prided himself on newer being wrong, and yet about zis one beast, he vas so terribly wrong. I can only imagine zat, if she suddenly reappeared, ewen in a new life, a new name, a new fur color, a new personality, he vould go to ze end of ze erz to fix zat wrong, vould chase it beyond all reason. I feel sorry for ze mayor, because I zink all of zis anger and wenom comes from guilt. I just vish he could find peace."

There was a long pause before Rex cleared his throat. "Well, I think with that, we're going to open up the interview to audience questions, but first, a word from tonight's sponsor: Old Bailey's Haddock-Flavored Trout Jerkey. That's right folks, the-"

Vaelora leaned over and pressed the pause button. "Ze rest vas various audience members coming up to ask questions," she reflected. "Some vere hostile, some vere a bit silly, some vere actually wery insightful. Ve don't have to listen now if you don't want. If you'd like," she added, "I could tell you how ze story ends."

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano sat still for a long breath after the recording fell quiet, claws lightly drumming once against the crate’s edge. For all his dramatics, for all his flair, he knew when to let silence hold the stage.

Then, with a soft exhale and a slow shake of the head, he finally spoke.

“Well... that was considerably more tragic than my usual bedtime read.”

He turned toward Vaelora with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Still. You have a remarkable voice under pressure. Would’ve made an excellent stage performer.”

There was a flicker of mirth, gone as quickly as it came.

He gestured gently, as though inviting the story itself to take a bow.

“I’d like to hear how it ends, if you’re still inclined to share. Seems wrong to cut the curtain before the last act.”

His gaze shifted back toward the wire spool. This time, not with awe, but with a glimmer of purpose.

“Plushpaw saw something in that moment... something worthy of preservation. Of performance.”

He rested one paw against the side of the box, as though steadying himself with the weight of it.

“Maybe this story’s not finished, Vaelora.”

He met her eyes, amber catching green.

“Maybe it’s just... changing narrators.”

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

Vaelora smiled encouragingly at his takeaway. "That vould be vonderful," she confirmed. "Zis machine is an archive of the Wulpinsulan experience. To take it up and record ze zoughts of our time is a heawy but vonderous responsibility. You certainly seem ze right beast to do so."

She settled herself back on her seat, looking over the theater contemplatively. "From ze moment zat broadcast aired, everyzing changed. Ze anger of ze population dissipated, at least for ze most part. Ze Mayor's scheme to slander us fell apart - especially after a young kit, one whose heart vas filled viz anger and wengeance, heard ze broadcast and realized zat he'd been used. He vent to ze Ministry of Var and turned himself in, confessed to being personally recruited by ze mayor to assassinate me and my kits boz. After zat, ze Mayor vas politically destroyed; he vas arrested shortly after and spent ze remainder of his life under house arrest. Zat might seem light," she allowed, "but his defense lawyer played ze broadcast at his trial to argue zat he vas not fully culpable for his actions, based on my own vords. A small price to pay, I suppose."

She grew quiet as she reflected on the events of those days. "House Ryalor negotiated a new arrangement viz ze government, and eventually, ve vere simply anozzer part of ze tapestry of Bully Harbor. I got to grow old and vatch my children grow up, see zem happy and find zeir own peace and joy. I owe my life to Rex for giwing me a woice vhen no one else vould listen. In a vorld vizout him, vizout zat machine, vould I have died zat day? Vould my kits?" She looked to Ruffano and remarked, "You hold ze power to change history. Use it visely and vell."

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano blinked slowly, a little stunned at the ending. Not tragic. Not scandalous. Not a dagger in the dark or a mob in the street.

But peace.

He let out a soft, shaky breath and chuckled.

“A happy ending. From radio.”

He looked at the box with something like reverence and horror, as if it might leap open and force him to produce miracles on command.

“I can’t think of a single one of my performances that ended so well. Closest I came was a standing ovation from a crowd that turned out to be waiting for the next act.”

He smirked, but it was thin, and it faded fast.

His eyes turned to Vaelora again, her words still ringing.

“But you’re serious, aren’t you? You really think...” he paused, paw trailing lightly across the lid of the machine, “that I’ve got the scruff to carry this forward? That I can do what he did?”

His voice dropped, not with false modesty, but with that real kind of fear. The kind only felt by beasts who care too much about something they’re not sure they deserve.

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

Vaelora gave him a small smile, and she leaned in. "Can I tell you a secret? Ve all have impostor syndrome. Ewery one of us feels unprepared for ze tasks ahead." Her accent changed: one moment it was thick northern Fyadorian, the next it was lightly accented with a vaguely continental southern Fyadorian broadness of the vowels. "What I've learned," she said quietly, "is that it doesn't matter who you were before. The person you were doesn't determine who you are, or who you will be. Rex Plushpaw wasn't that voice on the radio until one day, he was. You won't be him - you'll be someone else, but someone still worthy of the position. I am not Armina Rogue; I became Vaelora Ryalor, and the beast I am now is my truth. The beast whose voice next carries out over this radio will be yours."

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano’s eyes lingered on the vixen, his mouth slightly open, as though he were about to speak, and then promptly forgot how.

“You’re...” he started, then stopped. A blink. A twitch of his ear. A subtle recalibration of posture. “...a magnificent storyteller.”

He gave a crooked little smile, eyes glinting with mischief, or was that caution? Perhaps both.

“And I do so admire a beast who knows how to leave the audience wondering.”

A wink.

He stood with care, brushing a bit of leaf litter from his sleeve and giving the recorder crate a light pat.

“I’ll take good care of it.” he said more softly. “The stories. The machine. All of it.”

He crouched beside the pile of crates and began gathering the contents with gentle paws, no longer rushing, no longer fumbling.

Theatricality had its place, but now, for once, so did reverence.

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

Vaelora smiled, getting to her own footpaws and looking about the place in reverie one more time. "I look forvard," she said softly, her northern Fyadorian accent back in place, "to hearing your woice on ze radio. Who knows? Maybe one day, ve can sit for anozzer interwiew... Perhaps a more vide-ranging one zis time. For now, zough, I need to return home. My grandkits vill be coming ower soon." The pride in her voice at that statement, the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes as she appreciated a facet of a life she might not have gotten to experience under other circumstances, shone clearly. "Good luck, sir. May you enunciate vell."

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

Ruffano stood, brushing off his coat with a flick of his paw, then dipped into a low, theatrical bow.

“Your Grace... I am honored. Truly. Thank you for the story, the trust, and...” He smiled faintly. “For not being an actual ghost.”

He straightened slowly, his paws lingering at the lapels of his waistcoat as he took one last look at her. The light from the morning sun caught the corners of her fur, her poise etched against the backdrop of a derelict buildings.

“Safe travels, Vaelora. May your grandkits always believe your wildest stories... and may they never quite be sure which ones are true.”

Turning back to the crate, he knelt beside it, less like a scavenger now, more like a caretaker.

He’d taken the machine for a curiosity. A bit of nostalgia. A pet project to tinker with between auditions and bad wine. But now, as his paws pressed gently around the edges of the box, he felt something shift. It almost felt like a calling. Like something he was meant to carry.

And, at last, he felt ready.

Ruffano gathered the last of the spools, tucking them into his satchel with practiced care. The crate he hoisted with both arms, clutching it close.

He stepped into the alley of the ruined theater and paused. A slow breath. A long look at the clipped, grimy brickwork, the battered rafters, the dust dancing in the beams of morning light. He gave a single nod.

Then, tail swishing gently behind him, Ruffano Quickwhistle turned for the road and disappeared into the morning rays dancing across the skyline of Bully Harbor.