Open The Docks Elara Mosswhisker's Introduction, Lost!

Elara Mosswhisker stepped off the gangplank onto the stone of Fishminister’s Dock just after sunrise. The air was damp, carrying the smells of salt, fish offal, and coal smoke. Her boots clicked against the wet cobbles as she adjusted the strap of her leather satchel, its weight familiar but no longer reassuring. She paused for a moment, surveying the dock. Dockhands in heavy canvas coats were unloading crates, while gulls circled overhead, calling to one another. A nearby signpost read "Fishminister’s Dock – Zone 4," but offered no further guidance.

Turning slowly, she took in her surroundings: the rows of warehouses behind her, the open market to the east, and a narrow road leading inland, flanked by lampposts still lit in the morning haze. Without a clear destination and minimal instructions, she began walking, opting for the inland road by default. The buildings grew taller as she moved away from the water, and the streets became narrower. Signs were sparse, some written in a script she didn’t recognize.

She passed a clock tower with no hands and a bulletin board cluttered with stamped proclamations, most sealed with the insignia of the Ministry of Niceties. She paused to scan the notices. One mentioned a public reading of *The Saturday Evening Smelt* at 10:00 in the Trenches, while another listed penalties for distributing unlicensed information. She did not linger.

The slope of the street changed, descending slightly. The buildings here were older, their stonework stained and weathered. The air felt heavier. Elara realized she was entering a lower district—likely the Slups, based on the maps she had studied. Retracing her steps, she returned to the last intersection, taking a different fork this time, one that rose slightly and led toward a cluster of administrative-looking structures in the distance. The road was better lit, and the cobbles were cleaner.

As she continued forward, a pair of figures in charcoal coats passed her—Unsmudgables, she assumed, based on their insignia. They did not acknowledge her. Remaining alert and observant, one paw resting on the strap of her satchel, she continued on her way. She did not speak. She did not ask for help. Not yet. She'd walk around a bit before her stubborn pride would allow her to ask for directions, but it would be sorely welcomed if anyone happened to walk up.
 
When a memo had crossed Aramaeus Lemon's desk, one indicating that the Ministry of Justice was seeking a volunteer for a short-term special project that would require initiative, deep understanding of the law, and a spirit of public service, the golden fox had volunteered immediately. Now two hours into that service, he regretted it immensely. It wasn't just the costume; truth be told, by virtue of his fur color, he was probably the best beast for the job. It was more the voice that the expected him to do that irritated him than anything else.

"Ahoy there, citizen!" he called to an approaching hedgehog, attempting to pitch his voice up and broaden his vowels into a clownish performance more appropriate to a children's stage than a public-facing ministry position. He raised his arm to wave to the hedgehog as much as he could manage through the armhole in the costume. The entire assembly, viewed from the back, was a patchwork of cheap wood hammered together with three circles carved out, two for his arms and one for his head, and leather straps running over his shoulders to hold the costume to his body. From the front, it simply looked cheesy: a poorly assembled approximation of a Ministry of Justice agent's badge, the words 'Ministry of Justice' painted in large letters curving along the top and bottom of the badgre, and Aramaeus's face poking out of the badge just where the Imperial Skull would normally be, his golden fur a shade lighter than the cheap paint slathered across the wooden costume.

Hating himself for his own initiative, Aramaeus tried to muster a smile and bear through the awful heat of the day bearing down upon him, making the heaviness of the costume even worse. "I'm Badgey the Badge of Justice!" he greeted the civilian, a little of his exhaustion creeping into his voice. "I'm here to help anyone who needs it. If you have any questions about the city, the Imperium, or its laws or ministries, don't hesitate to ask!"

I'm never volunteering for anything ever again.
 
Elara Mosswhisker approached the figure on the street with cautious curiosity. The costume was unmistakably absurd—a crude wooden cutout resembling a badge, with a fox’s face protruding from the center. She slowed her pace, assessing the situation. She did not smile. She did not respond immediately. Instead, she stopped at a polite distance, her posture neutral, her expression attentive. Her eyes briefly scanned the structure of the costume—the armholes, the straps, the painted lettering—before returning to the fox’s face. There was something incongruous about the effort: the quality of the fur, the fatigue in the eyes, the contrast between the cheap prop and the beast wearing it. After a brief pause, she took one small step forward. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm, level, and devoid of mockery.

“Badgey the Badge of Justice,” she said, testing the name. “You’re affiliated with the Ministry of Justice?”

She kept her paws at her sides, one still resting near the clasp of her satchel. She did not produce any documents, nor did she offer her name. Her gaze remained steady, waiting for information, not offering any in return.
 
Aramaeus couldn't quite keep the fatigue from straining his voice as he replied, half-heartedly jumping from footpaw to footpaw in an attempt to match the foolery he'd been instructed to provide. "Aye, I'm the Badge of the Ministry of Justice! Just remember anytime you see me, we're here to help! Is there any way we can help you today? Any questions you have about the law, I'll be happy to shine a light on!" His character voice had nearly slipped away by the end of his spiel, exhaustion taking its place.
 
Elara Mosswhisker observed the fox in the badge costume with careful attention. The costume was undignified—The fox, dressed in a stiff and poorly ventilated outfit clearly meant for public display, exhibited signs of both physical and mental strain. Despite this, he provided an official presence in a city where such figures were otherwise absent from the streets. The woman stepped forward only when a break in foot traffic allowed for an unobstructed approach. Maintaining a neutral posture and deliberate movements, she let her worn but well-maintained satchel rest at her side.

“I’m looking for the main offices of the Ministry of Niceties,” she said. “I need to speak with someone in charge of apprenticeships or field training.” She paused briefly to ensure her words were clear. “I’m an apprentice nurse. I came to Bully Harbour to find a mentor. If the Ministry oversees education and welfare, they should be able to direct me to a placement.”

Her tone was respectful yet direct. She did not elaborate on her background unless specifically asked, providing only the necessary details. After speaking, she stood quietly, waiting for a response, with her hands at her sides and her eyes focused on the fox’s face. The heat of the day was beginning to settle in, and the weight of her satchel made her shoulders tense, but she remained still, refusing to fidget or appear uncertain.
 
Aramaeus winced as the femme asked him a question he could certainly answer, though the way he'd been told to answer such questions filled him with anticipatory dread. "Well, you can certainly head there-" he did a spin on one footpaw, staggering a bit as he pointed in the vague direction of the Niceties Complex, "to speak with the Ministry directly, or you can head down there-" he turned and pointed south in the direction of Pyrostoat Memorial Hospital, "to apply for placement directly at the hospital. Of course, there's always..." He did a grand spin, bracing himself to point toward the Ministry of War - and then felt the dizziness overtake him as he fell to the cobblestones, only just managing to catch himself as he fell, though the badge costume made it nearly impossible to lift himself back up again. "...'Gates below," he groaned, his character voice entirely abandoned, "I need a break. The Ministry of War is somewhere south, they always need medics. That help?"
 
Elara Mosswhisker watched as the fox stumbled, his attempt at a spin undone by the weight and awkwardness of the costume. He caught himself on the cobblestones, but struggled to rise, the wooden frame pinning his arms at an unnatural angle. His voice, when he spoke again, was strained and stripped of its forced cheer—just a tired beast beneath a ridiculous shell. She didn’t hesitate long, but she didn’t rush either. With quiet care, she stepped forward and knelt beside him, keeping her movements calm and predictable.

“Here,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Let me help you get upright.”

She didn’t touch him without reason. Instead, she braced one hand against the back of the wooden badge to stabilize it, then used her other to gently guide his shoulder, giving him leverage to push himself up without overbalancing again. Her paws were steady, her posture balanced—trained in how to assist without causing harm. Once he was on his feet, she didn’t pull away immediately. She gave him a moment, watching his breathing, the set of his ears, the way he held himself. Fatigue, heat, embarrassment—she recognized the signs.

“Are you all right?” she asked. Not perfunctorily. She meant it.
 
Aramaeus breathed heavily, swaying a bit even with the hedgehog's support. He was practically panting, the oppressive heat of the day seeming to double the weight on his shoulders. "Not sure," he admitted, his eyes having trouble focusing. Since his head injury a few weeks prior, he'd found himself with more frequent headaches and more difficulty reading. He was dreading the idea of going to one of those newfangled 'optometrists'; he was suspicious of the idea that glass panes on wire frames could actually improve vision, given that windows didn't seem to make far things appear nearer. It all seemed like a racket to him.

"I hate to ask," Aramaeus requested, "but could you please help get this thing off of me? The straps are buckled in back."
 
Elara didn’t hesitate. “Hold still,” she said, her voice calm and firm, the way she’d used with patients who were anxious or disoriented. “I’ll loosen the straps.” She moved behind him, her paws going first to the leather shoulder straps crossing over his back. She worked quickly but carefully, her fingers finding the small brass buckles beneath the padding. Her training told her not to rush—especially with someone showing signs of heat exhaustion and possible post-injury sensitivity—but also not to linger. Every second in that costume was another second of strain. The first strap released with a soft click. The second followed after a brief tug. She eased the wooden frame forward just enough to clear his shoulders, supporting its weight as she guided it down and away. It was clumsier than it looked—unbalanced, heavy for its size. Once it was free, she set it upright against a nearby lamppost, out of the way but visible, in case someone came looking.

Then she turned back to him.

“Sit,” she said gently. “Just for a minute. Let the air reach your skin.” She didn’t wait for permission. With a light but firm hand on his elbow, she guided him to a low stone bench nearby—part of a merchant’s storefront, unoccupied for the moment. She stayed crouched beside him, watching. “Head injury recently?” She asked. Not accusing. Not prying. Just gathering information.
 
Aramaeus felt himself swaying as the weight came away, and he less sat than collapsed onto the bench. He blinked in surprise at the hedgehog's question, looking up at her in befuddlement. "Yes," he admitted. "A few weeks back. Fell through the roof of a barge. Had an aphasia for a bit. At least, I think that's what the doctor called it. I was kinda having trouble understanding what he said at the time." He put a paw to his head, feeling the spot where several stitches had been put in. "I've been having headaches since then, and a bit of trouble seeing sometimes. The world swims a bit if I look at anything for too long." He grimaced at the spot of pain at his touch.
 
When he confirmed it, she nodded. “That can make heat worse. Similarly, bright light, loud sounds, and stress can also be detrimental. This costume,” she glanced at it—“is basically a trap for all of it.” She reached into her satchel and pulled out her small flask. Not the rum—she kept that sealed. This was a kelp-soaked water flask, infused with a touch of sea mint, something she’d learned from her grandmother for rehydration. “Here,” she said, offering it. “Sip slowly. Not too much at once.” She didn’t tell him to drink it. She waited. Elara listened without interrupting, her expression steady, her posture relaxed but attentive. She didn’t flinch at the mention of aphasia, nor did she treat the injury as anything less than serious just because he was now on his feet. She’d seen this before—beasts dismissed their own symptoms because they could walk, could speak, could work. But the mind didn’t heal like a broken paw. “A fall like that can shake more than just your skull,” she said, voice low and even. “It can disrupt how your body manages balance, light, sound—even how it reads words." She paused. “You’re aware of it now. That’s good. A lot of beasts don’t realize something’s wrong until they collapse.”

When he touched the painful spot, she noted the grimace, the slight tremor in his paw. “No pressing,” she said gently, lifting her own paw in a soft stop gesture. “Touching it can make the nerves flare. Let it be.” She watched his eyes—how they tracked, how they blinked, whether they struggled to hold focus on her face. “You said the world swims,” She observed. “Is it worse when you move? Or when you read fine print?”
 
Aramaeus pulled his paw away from the wound, grimacing at her question. "On a daily basis, if I try reading fine print for too long, then the world swims when I get up," he explained. "I'll get headaches just from reading too long as well. Not exactly ideal in my line of work. The longer I try to focus on the words, the harder it gets to see them clearly, and the worse the headache gets. Moving about isn't too bad on a daily basis, but if it gets hot, I get dizzy far quicker than I used to, and my balance certainly isn't as good anymore." He looked over the hedgehog, inquiring, "Are you really a doctor? I didn't know there were woodlander doctors yet. At least, not in the Imperium. Woodlanders have only had equal rights for, what, ten years? Probably a few years' gap in the admissions process as well, as the old institutional biases are shaken loose."
 
Elara didn’t react with defensiveness or surprise at first. She simply nodded, as if his symptoms were pieces fitting into a pattern she had seen before. “Light sensitivity, visual fatigue, headaches worsened by concentration and heat,” she said in a calm, clinical voice. “And dizziness when standing. It sounds to me like you need to let your body heal.”

When he asked if she was a doctor, she met his gaze steadily. “No,” she replied. “I’m not a doctor. I’m an apprentice nurse. I trained at the University of Length Hospital and graduated six weeks ago. If you can’t avoid the sun,” she advised, “at least find some shade. Rest between interactions, and if reading is part of your work, ask for larger print. There’s no shame in adapting.”
 
Aramaeus nodded, hating how the world swam slightly as he did so. "Asking for bigger print might be a problem," he noted. "The Ministry uses standard typeface for all its reports, and many of our agents have atrocious penmanship." He sighed, looking weary. "Plus," he continued, "the Ministry has very stringent physical requirements for field agents. If I come forward with this injury, I'll never get promoted. I'll be stuck in a back office forever." By his tone, it was clear he considered this a fate worse than death.
 
Elara listened without looking away. She had heard that tone before—not in the wards, but in the hallways of the University of Length, where older students whispered about their futures: If they see the limp, they won’t assign me to field rotations. If they know I fainted once, they’ll bench me forever. It wasn’t just about duty. It was about identity. And when your role is tied to your sense of self, admitting weakness feels like surrender. “You’re already in a back office,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “You’re wearing a costume and pointing tourists toward ministries. That’s not field work. That’s performance.” She didn’t say it to shame him. She said it so he couldn’t pretend. “If you keep pushing through like this,” she continued, “you won’t just stall out on promotion. You’ll make it harder for your brain to heal. And eventually, the symptoms will get worse. Not because you’re weak—but because healing isn’t something you bargain with. It’s something you allow.”

She paused, then added, “Hiding an injury doesn’t protect your career. It risks your health. And if you collapse during a real emergency—on a real assignment—then you won’t just lose a promotion. You might lose someone who’s counting on you.” She didn’t tell him what to do. She wouldn’t. But she wouldn’t let him believe he was fine. “The Ministry sets standards,” she said. “But you have to set your own line. When the cost of pretending becomes higher than the cost of speaking up—that’s when the real service begins. Not before.”
 
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