Fetters Fall (Old VI Thread)

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

(The crew of The Golden Hide are attacked by a slaver ship. Admiral Tanya Ryalor and Captain Anithias Freedom are captured. Starring: Filor Wylly and Hydrick Manser (the two main villains); Tanya Rainblade-Ryalor; Lindsay Valroux; Crowe Sifal; Brek Larks; Rijard M. Chaos; Tomias Redford; Anithias Freedom; Armina Rogue; Julia Freedom (with little Falun and Marianna); Micheal; Jeshal the Ironclaw; and Xhavek Mokorai)



FETTERS FALL

First post Macabre 6, Yr. 1729

Filor Wylly/Hydrick Manser
Filor Wylly surveyed the rolling deck of the frigate La Clodite, paws brushing back his brown woolen coat at the hips. His beaming gaze swept across the muscular crewbeasts lumbering about on their duties before he turned to watch the wispy clouds drift across a saucer-blue sky. Sol's brilliant rays descended on the blue-green ocean, twinkling in brief spurts from the crests of waves. Wylly breathed deeply of the salty sea air, his barrel chest inflating to rival his impressive gut. Yes, this was paradise.

"The gods are smilin' on us, Hydrick," Wylly called across the deck, his scruffy stoat chin still turned up to the sun. Warmth trickled along his flabby scruff-covered cheeks and down his stubby neck.

Hydrick Manser did not smile. This was not any reflection on Wylly's cheer – Manser rarely smiled, instead keeping his face locked in a sulking glare. Even his smile was merely a lessening of the severe lines about his snout. "The gods help those what help themselves," the weasel said shortly, his nasal drawl piercing the air like a sailor's whistle. He clawed irritably at a greasy knot in his unkempt fur. His entire frame was nothing but grease and bones – he rarely ate at meals, though he would occasionally humour himself by snapping the leftover bones with his teeth.

Wylly chuckled boomingly, returning his gaze from the heavens to his first officer. "Aye," he agreed. "In tha' case, I do think I'll help meself."

"Aye, to a pitcher o' cook's grog by the looks o' ye!" jibed Manser, contorting his snout into a rare impersonation of a grin.

Both beasts laughed at this, Wylly's roar carrying across the waves with Manser's sharp nasal draws punctuating it. There was a truth to Manser's words: every beast in the crew had a tendency to take a swig or two from the grog barrel during their duty, three or four swigs in Wylly's case. This had left the captain with a very fine pot-belly, one which only accentuated the stockiness of his frame. The crew often joked that the captain was taller on his back than he was on his paws, a jest even Wylly found amusing after his fifth swig of grog.

The two officers' laughter faded into uneasy silence as a faint tremor echoed through the boards, running up the fur on their paws and into their legs. Taut ropes in the rigging hummed ominously, ghostly winds tugging at the sails. Wylly shivered despite the warmth of the day, a small pit of dread building in his chest. From beneath his feet rose a low moan, a deep male voice crying out in despair. A high female voice joined it, then the shrill shriek of a kit. Voice after voice joined the call, every tongue and range of voice rising in a piercing, consuming shriek of the condemned. The sails snapped viciously, fighting to break free of the rigging with unnatural strength. The rigging was now a deafening hum, the entire ship vibrating with its keening. Hellgates itself could not have made any more awful sound than that cry of the dead.

"SHADD'UP!"

Wylly glared at a lounging guard. Swiftly the massive monitor nodded, seizing a stockwhip from a rack on the deck before descending into a hull. For a few moments the only sound was the unnatural keening of the ship. The noise suddenly wavered, its pitch breaking, before fading away into a few disjointed calls. Silence descended on the ship, a tense, fearful silence. Time itself froze in paralysing anticipation, awaiting the dreaded moment that would shatter the silence.

A sharp crack echoed from within the bowels of the ship, provoking a single arching cry of misery and torment. The whip cracked again, and again. Howls continued to rise up, one after another, as the leather cord found its mark. All count was lost in the punishment, fading to nothing only when its harsh sting was greeted by silence. Once more a miserable, oppressive silence fell on the lower decks, crushing the souls beneath it.

The lizard emerged from belowdeck, holding the whip in his claws. Carefully he dunked the whip in a water barrel by the stairs. Scarlet bloomed from the leather cord, filling the clear water with the tint of red. "Losssst two more, Cap'n," the lizard reported as Wylly and Manser approached, his tongue flitting over his lips.

A dark scowl crossed Manser's face. "Tha' puts us b'low quota," he muttered to Wylly, keeping his snout turned away from the lizard. "At this rate we'll be lucky t' make port b'fore they all die off."

A brooding look overtook Wylly's features. "The comp'ny'll dock our pay if we don' bring in our quota on time," he noted. "We'll jist have t' stop off quick an' hope we can get back-"

"CAP'N!"

Wylly squinted up at the crow's nest, where the lookout' thin arm pointed out into the distance. Wylly followed it to rest on a tiny yellow smudge on the horizon. Pulling a spyglass from his coat, Filor squinted into the lens. A galleon came into focus through the extending cylinder, its hull coated in a golden resin which gave the illusion of a yellowish colour. Golden letters shimmered on its bow, too bright to read through the distance. Atop its masts flew a flag every merchant knew by sight – the skull and bones on a maroon standard.

"Well, well," Wylly mused, tracking the ship with the extending eye. "The Vulpine Imperium. They're a ways from home."

A snarl contorted Manser's face. "Bloody Imperium," he spat, his eyes burning with spite. "Ever since they cut back on the trade they've been stickin' their noses in where they don' belong."

"Aye, tha' they have," Wylly agreed. His eye remained locked on the distant vessel, an unreadable expression on his snout. When he spoke, the gears of thought could almost be heard turning in his head. "Y'know, Hydrick, the storms 'bout these parts are 'specially vicious this time o' year."

Manser glanced at his captain in uncertainty. "Tha' they are, Cap'n," he affirmed carefully, watching his commander with caution.

"Big storms," Wylly repeated, still watching the galleon through his spyglass. "Coul' easily blow a nice ship like tha' t' the bottom o' the ocean."

Now Manser seemed to catch on. "Oh, aye, Cap'n," he agreed, a more gleeful note of conspiracy entering his voice. "Wouldn' leave no survivors, I suppose."

"No, it wouldn', Hydrick," Wylly agreed slowly. "Jist a lot o' missin' able-bodied crewbeasts, gone off t' 'Gates knows where."

"Aye, Cap'n." Manser was almost salivating with glee at the thought of it.

"Ready the crew, Hydrick," Wylly requested, lowering the spyglass. His beady eyes gazed out over the ocean at his approaching prize. "Bring a couple o' grapplin' hooks wit' ye. We're goin' shark huntin' t'nigh'."

---------------------------------------------

The galleon was only about two hundred metres away now, and Filor had learned something new about his target: it was christened The Golden Hide.

The Hide was swiftly approaching La Clodite, undoubtedly having spotted her long before the frigate's meager excuse for a lookout had seen the galleon. Wylly could now pick out individual crewbeasts going about their duties through the lens of his spyglass.

Manser approached Wylly from behind, his pointed snout tilted toward the stoat. "Crew's ready, Cap'n," he advised. "I've gottem ready t' go at a moment's notice."

"Good," Wylly replied. "Keep'em abou' their duties fer now. Wouldn' wan' t' raise suspicions, now would we?"

"Aye, Cap'n," Manser nodded, slinking off to organize the rough crew of La Clodite.

Wylly watched the Hide draw closer, now only a hundred metres off to starboard. Echoes of schemes and plans ran behind his beetle-black eyes. The Hide would have no idea what hit it. By the end of the day Filor's quota would be filled.

The Hide was now a mere forty yards away, well within hailing distance. It was time.

"Ahoy there!" Wylly called, his booming bass rumbling through the air. "Be it possible to negotiate wit' the good sovereign's repr'sentatives fer some supplies? Only our water an' grub appears a mite low," he added, motioning toward the empty barrel the lizard guard was rolling along the deck. Wylly had been careful to dump the bloody water over the side well before approaching the Hide, along with two other little presents. The sharks would be eating very well tonight.

I hope the cap'n is a well-rounded sort o' jack, Filor mused. I coul' use a new coat.


Tanya Rainblade-Ryalor/Lindsay Valroux
Well, it was a nice ship.

A very nice ship. One could say pretty even, if a little spooky. It had a rustic charm about it with all that rough-hewn wood and faded paintwork, if ever a sea-based craft could be considered rural. Tanya's keen emerald eyes had been appraising the La Clodite ever since the lookout had spotted the approaching ship, and now it was close up, the scrawny, scruffy fox was fascinated, eyes darting over the vessel as if she might paint an image of it. Pulling herself back up to standing from where she'd been fixing a rudderchain, the young admiral made a point of casually brushing off mixed metal shavings from her clothing as she approached, her ragged ears flicking flush with her skull at the booming voice. 'Gates, it didn't need to be so loud!

As she crossed over to better size up this newcomer, Tanya glanced hither and yon for Anithias. Not a trace to be seen; it looked like she'd be making the initial greeting today, but it wasn't exactly something she disliked-playing mediator had always been one of the perks to captaincy for her. Leaping up onto the railings without a second’s hesitation for balance as the studs in her boots bit into the painted wood, the tiny, ornately dressed vixen barked up to the stout captain with as authoritative voice as she could muster.

"'Lo there Cap'n. I be Tanya Ryalor, Adm'ral for the Imperial Navy; any an' all transactions can be made through me.."

A bony, ash-furred paw tugged the vixen's tailbrush. A child's whisper. "Tanya..."

"...until this ship's captain returns on deck. If ye wish to negotiate a trade, ye're welcome to..."

The paw went for the knot of the kerchief about her neck and missed, digging a claw into her shoulder blades irritatingly. "M...M'ss Tanya..."

"..Shout yeh terms down until the Cap'n sees fit to discuss in more detail."

A finger from the paw prodded with a butterfly's softness, and immediately Tanya knew. A beat. Tanya raised a leopard-spotted paw to signal a moment's pause, then whirled around on the spot, miraculously keeping her balance, to stare at the lanky, gaunt ferret whose massive, pity-inducing eyes gazed up at her with the look of a kicked puppy. She hadn't even heard Lin approach, as ever, and that one fact spooked her more than usual.

"Fer goodness sakes, Lin, I'm busy. Wot?!"

The nervous, naive ferret chewed a claw, eyes riveted to the deck again as he shifted from footpaw to footpaw. He frowned in confusion.

"He said they didn't have any water. If they're thirsty, shouldn't we not make them pay...?-"

"Because you don' let every tail an' whisker aboard right away. 'S called caution. I s'pose yeh girlfrien' ain't taught yeh that yet, hm?"

He glanced up. "My wh...-"

"Matter o' fact, why don' you jes' go find 'er b'fore she trips down some stairs an' leave this t' me.... better yet, seek out the Cap'n and tell him there's some important business for him to attend."

Lin positively danced inside his skin on the spot, truly confused now. "But if he's thirsty..."

"G'wan, get!"

A gloved fist was raised to emphasise this, and with a cringe, Lin was skittering off across the deck to look for Anithias. Without the time or care to feel sorry for taking advantage of the abused ferret's fears, she wheeled back around and flourished a deep bow.

"The Imperium is more than happy to discuss trade terms, sirrah. Might I get some names first, however?"


Filor Wylly/Hydrick Manser
As a ragged-ear vixen answered the stoat's call, Wylly could not help but run his eyes over her frame like a meat connoisseur appraising a particularly odd leg of mouse. Excellent bone structure, that was certain, but the muscle was a bit sparse for heavy physical labour. Not what Wylly would call physically attractive, either. Probably would wind up working the cotton fields or caring for some rich plantation owner's brats. Domestic service, yes, that was the way to go with this one.

As for the little skinny one who insisted on interrupting her, he looked as if he might faint at the very thought of lifting something. Fur and bones he was, if there was any muscle on him Wylly couldn't see it. Domestic service for him too, put him shining his master's boots every morning and evening, with plenty of sharp kicks in between. Yessir, make the little runt cower a bit.

Wylly was very lucky the admiral was turned away; otherwise she might have spotted the look of malicious satisfaction which crept across Filor's snout.

The slave trader's face returned to neutral as the gaunt vixen addressed him once more. "The Imperium is more than happy to discuss trade terms, sirrah. Might I get some names first, however?"

"Aye, o' course," Filor agreed, his hearty boom taking the gleeful note of a merchant at trade. "Cap'n Filor Wylly o' the merchant vessel La Clodite, at yer service ma'am," he punctuated with a bow and a sweep of his felt broad-rimmed hat. With some difficulty he straightened, returning the cap to its perch before motioning for Manser to join him. The ferret sourly detached himself his leaning spot against the mizzenmast, trudging to join his superior. "Here be me admirable first officer, Hydrick Manser," Wylly introduced, jollily clapping his paw around Manser's shoulder. Manser's expression was akin to biting into a sour prune. "Don' let him fool ye, he's a softie at heart," Wylly advised the admiral, shaking his officer playfully.

Had the admiral not been looking on, Manser might have bitten Filor there and then. As it was, his expression degraded to something akin to a funeral-goer with a nasty case of pawrot.

Deciding that the miserable weasel had endured enough cheer for the day, Wylly dropped his paw and allowed Hydrick to slouch away. "We be needin' supplies t' get us safely t' our destination," he proclaimed, smiling genially. "We be willin' t' trade ye in gold fer the full value o' yer supplies, if'n ye be willin'."



Tanya Rainblade-Ryalor
Holed and tattered ears swivelled continuously to the sounds on the higher deck as she listened to the stoat captain from her precarious position, taking the opportunity to inspect the imposing ship from close quarters, and more importantly evaluate the mustelid who ran it. Oh, she didn't overly enjoy the effusive welcome he'd given, nor care much for a seabeast of rank possessing quite as much girth (a sign of laziness in her eyes), but he was genial enough, and indeed she could hardly feel suspicious of a polite greeting, could she? Hydrick's expression when he slouched over and was introduced – eerily mirroring something she swore she'd spotted on Jeshal once or twice – drew a thin-lipped smile from the ornate fox and she dipped her head accordingly to acknowledge the second in command. Her thick tailbrush swished just once as she shifted on the railings and began to wonder where on earth Anithias could be. Perhaps little Lin had decided to go get himself some sweets along the way.

"I'll be leaving that to the captain, but I should see no problem if you have gold enough to trade – we're always welcome to assist where we can, Cap'n!"

In a desperate attempt to fill in the time, the vixen conjured up an expression of awe to mask the calculation as her dark gaze flitted over the craft and angled her head, "Very impressive ship you have there..." she commented distractedly, her gaze magnetically drawn time and again to the ominous looking old oar-ports carved above the waterline, devoid at the moment of a beast sitting in the benches; the skinny vixen's fur unconsciously prickled as the thought of slavery crept into the back of her skull. Burying mistrust for the moment, her tone didn't alter a flicker as she glanced back up, though her speech pattern became subtly more pronounced.

"Might be so bold as to ask yeh 'zactly what your cargo 'appens to be, 'owever?"


Crowe Sifal
Below all of the placid discussion between higher ranks, below the woodwork and faded paint, in the disgusting conditions of the slave lodgings in the Hull, the stunned silence was beginning to crack as wounds were licked and whispered conversations held. After the downright terrifying outburst of wailing from his peers had left his ears ringing, the young, foreign stoat Crowe Sifal had decided never again would he encourage yelling of any kind around his person. Allowing an ill squirrel kit – a child of one of the dead cads who'd been hollering he assumed – to use him as a pillow out of a sense of kinlike duty amongst these slaves, the emaciated stoat rolled his stiff shoulders tiredly and whined to himself, unable to ever imagine having been too badly treated in his life, nor how a beast could inflict this on another. His only comfort was that, as the protagonist, it was his duty to survive: something, an inspirational companion or godsend object, would be arriving any time now, if he could only be patient.

Fortunately he'd managed to keep his head low from the moment that blasted monitor stepped in; ever since him and his rich transport vessel had been ransacked three weeks prior on a voyage to the Imperium from the hotlands of his birth, he'd learned the art of evasion and how to make oneself unobtrusive to an antagonist, luckily managing to get away with only a few cuts to the ears and a lash on the back this time. Again he tried to get comfortable despite the lines of scars running all across his slender back, and the little squirrel whimpered accordingly in his fevered sleep. This was no way to live and for 'Gates sake he was bored of it. How that Luke fellow he’d read of had managed it, he'd never know.

So, eventually the sweat-matted fur and stink of gore in the dirty water became too much for the upperclass vermin. Flicking a blood-crusted ear tiredly, Crowe sniffed loudly and pushed himself forward a little from where he was chained, a pout pulling down the soft corners of his round face as another took the squirrel off of him, already fearing for their safety around the mouthy mustelid.

"I say, this is most completely unfair! I mean, first of all you remove my silks, swords and circlet, but to replace them with these is unacceptable! Much less, I'm filthy as a vagabond, terribly cold, miserably hungry, sore from all this exertion, and my wrists are chafing! Please do not make me start up a rebellion, good sir, because the slave master always ends up rent to shreds!"

The smug outrage was downright palpable as Crowe waited for the click of the keys in his manacles; matter of fact, his wrists were already unconsciously extended to the slaver as he waited patiently for the apology to come fourth.


Brek Larks/Rijard M. Chaos
Bosun on deck! a comical voice in the back of Brek’s head said as he ascended to the stairs from below. News of another ship non-Imperium was using the same waters they were. Brek’s suspicion arose and since he was now bosun he deemed it worthy of his time to check it out.

Most beasts could tell that Brek had changed, his face was serious and what he liked to call “professional”. Also, he changed his clothes from his dirty shirt and brown pants to a clean white shirt with a navy-blue vest over it and black trousers. Over those he wore a brand new black trench coat, and atop his head went a black tricorne hat with white trimming. When they were in port after he became bosun he had taken many trips to the market and tailor shops.

Once Brek stood and the deck his eyes widened and nearly jumped back. The ship was just a few ways off from the Hide! Yet distance was a mere detail, the ship was, frankly, hideous. And not just the ship but some of the crew also shared these details. For one, standing on the deck was a stoat, maybe the captain, who had a stomach that looked like the creature had swallowed a globe. Brek thought he had never seen an uglier stoat before, but of course there was Hinkly.

Bosun Brek* Larks scanned the ship and its crew. A nasty bunch indeed, they all looked like they belonged in prison. Their glares gave a “mind yer own buisn’ss” look and when it was shown, it meant they had something to hide. Brek didn’t want to take chances; he turned to Rijard who had been regrettably assigned head ballista beast. “Chaos, prepare those ballistae and have them ready to fire one command. If this gets nasty we’ll show up.”

The marten looked up from what his was doing (which was carving his name into his rum canteen) with confusion in his eyes. “Mind yer own busin’ss Brek, me ballista are just-” the marten stopped in his words as he noticed the fox’s new clothes, then he remembered Brek’s latest promotion. “Er, I mean yessir bosun beasty!” the stoat said as he clumsily got up to find his gunner crew.

Rijard had accidently left his canteen as he ran off, as well as the knife he was carving with. The brown fox walked over to pick up the knife before a beast could step on it, but while he bent over to reach for it he glanced at the canteen and read it: C o S A h. Brek mumbled to himself as he placed the knife on a barrel, there were many things that Rijard was, pyromaniac, a drunk, insane, but most of all, he was stupid. Brek was glad he was a gunner; he was just hoping he’d get his tail stuck in the launch line.

The fox noticed Admiral Ryalor standing on the side of the deck closer to the rival ship. Brek marched over to her and let out a cough to first let the admiral know of his presence. “Admiral, do you mind filling me in on what’s happening. Just so I’m not hopelessly lost.”

*has a nice ring to it.



Tomias Redford
Tomias was busy doing some work. No, I'm not kidding, he actually was doing work for once. He was in the hold doing an inventory. Ever since his recent promotion he actually had proper work to do if he wanted to keep his new job... and larger pay. So today he was doing inventory as it was one of the easy non-work jobs he had to do. He hummed a tune to himself whilst he worked.

Once he completed his inventory he headed back upstairs, pencil behind right ear, and clipboard under right arm. He looked at the goings on with the strange ship, and he paused for a moment. Finally deciding not to involve himself just yet, he went below decks and put the papers in the desk he recently had installed into his room. He then proceeded to head back up onto deck and watch the proceedings, ready to step forward if he was needed...


Filor Wylly/Anithias Freedom/Armina Rogue
(Auto on Toxy approved.)

Wylly restrained himself from smirking as the admiral awkwardly awaited the arrival of her underling. Where was that captain? It was unlike a naval officer to remain absent for any stretch of time. Usually they were prowling about, sticking their snout in where it didn't belong. Mebbe he's in the loo, Wylly thought with a faint shrug.

The stoat was pulled from his thoughts by an abrupt question from the admiral. Caught unawares, Wylly very nearly opened his mouth to tell the truth when he caught himself. Faking a cough, Wylly put on his most apologetically uncomfortable voice.

"I'm afraid that be a bit embarrassing, Ma'rm. Y'see, we be carrying a live cargo aboard our vessel, bound fer the rock o' Teriban. Prisoners o' a most criminal sort, if'n ye get my drift," he stressed. "Na' our regular fare, I assure ye, bu' the Alkamarian government be mos' insistent in its demands."

Filor eyed two young todds who had showed up, one of whom was muttering something to the admiral and another of which was hanging about very suspiciously. What was it with this ship and foxes? Filor wondered. It almost seemed as if the Imperium ran along some policy of vulpine supremacy. The Vulpine Imperium, Filor suddenly realized. Empire of the Foxes. "Supremacist quaffers," Filor muttered viciously under his breath. As an avid mustelidarian Wylly opposed supremacy and racism on principle. After all, what self-respecting stoat could stand by and watch the suffering of his fellow beast?

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The massive monitor guard stalked the slim aisle of La Clodite's hold, his slanted eyes flickering back and forth between the rows of frightened mustelids. His slim tongue flicked out of his mouth occasionally, tasting the fear in the air. Yes, fear; and blood. A carnal longing rose in his chest, a driving thirst to rip into the masses before him, to taste their bloodied flesh between his teeth...

The monitor stopped, hissing as he shook his head furiously. Around him the slaves drew back in fright. No, he could not indulge. Their screams would surely be heard by those pestilent furries up top. The monitor wished he could just go back up and get out of this tempting stench, but Wylly had been very specific that he watch over these squealing furries and keep them silent. So far that was working, but the lizard wasn't sure how much longer he could withstand the impulse.

Suddenly one of the furries piped up in his annoying reedy voice, demanding that the monitor release him from his chains. The furries around him seemed to compact, drawing away from the instigator into whatever space was conveniently available. For reasons unknown the monitor found himself listening with increasing incredulity to the diminutive stoat's rant, which rose from complaint to demand and culminated with an absurd, almost nonsensical threat against the monitor.

For a moment a hush descended in the hold, the slaves hardly daring to draw their rattling breaths as they watched the two main players, the monitor and the madstoat, paused on center stage. The stoat continued to look up with the expectancy of a kit waiting for his pocket money. Unspoken questions hung in the air: would the monitor acquiest to Sifal's demands? Will our hero face bitter punishment at the hands of his cruel captor?

Thankfully there was no need to wait for the next episode, as quite abruptly the monitor burst into a spontaneous gale of laughter. If you have ever heard a monitor laugh you will know it is an especially unpleasant sound, full of hisses and throat clicks, and if you have never chanced to hear it you are that much better off for it. Throat clicking with raspy hisses of merriment, the monitor swung his massive claw and caught Sifal with a backclaw blow to the cheek. The young stoat was very fortunate indeed that the force of the blow did not snap his neck.

Grabbing Sifal by the front of the soiled rags the slavers had given him in exchange for his silks and suits, the monitor drew the stoat close to his leering face. "You vvveeeeeeell shut app," the monitor breathed, his rancid carnivore breath washing over the wayward hero's face, "or I vvveeeeeeell eeatt yoou myselvvvf." He punctuated this with a long breath of four air over the stoat's face, his jaws open to reveal the horrifying details of the monitor's mouth. Had Crowe so desired, he probably could have counted the bits of raw meat stuck between the monitor's teeth.

Shoving the unfortunate stoat back into the pile of assorted goodbeasts and vermin, the monitor once again began stalking the aisle, his leering grin causing the slaves to pull back in fright. A set of cat o' nine tails thumped menacingly against his upper leg, sending a clear message: the next beast to talk would be taught a lesson marked in blood.

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Anithias was not having a good day. First the kits had kept him and Julia up all night with their endless whining. Then he'd started on his paperwork only to discover Falun had splattered all the ink across the course charts Anithias had meticulously kept throughout their present voyage. After mopping that up and casting the ruined map into the galley stove, Anithias had decided that he might as well get some breakfast. That would turn out to be the second most miserable thing to happen that day.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Anithias snapped, methodically wiping at his front with a sopping dishcloth. "Tanya can manage for a while without me. 'Gates knows how long she's been doing this kind of thing. Much longer than I have, that's for certain."

Armina hurried out of the galley, bringing yet another dripping dishcloth with her. "Here," she said frantically, dabbing at the front of Anithias' jacket with the new soap mixture.

Anithias' eyes burned with rage as he looked at her. "This had best come out within the next three minutes," he threatened angrily. "If you've ruined my jacket—"

"It's not ruined!" Armina shot back desperately, as much trying to convince herself as her former guardian. "It's just a little oatmeal. Surely it can't be that hard to get out."

"I've not seen the stain budge an inch," Anithias retorted sharply. "What were you doing cooking in the first place? Where's Sorrona?"

"It's Sorrona's day off," Armina explained desperately. Her paw kneaded the fabric furiously as she scraped at it with the cloth. "Marta's down with a stomach flu, so there was no one left to cook the oatmeal, and I just thought—"

"Thought you'd spill it across my front, yes. I'm coming, I'm coming!" Anithias snapped again, sending Lin scurrying in fright. He had been flitting around the scene like a butterfly for the past three minutes. Apparently Tox had frightened him something awful, for he refused to leave without the captain at his side.

Tugging the front of his coat from Armina's paws, he critically examined the stain. At last he sighed in furious resignation. "It will have to do," he allowed grudgingly. A frosty eye turned upon the grey vixen before him. "If this fails to disappear with a thorough washing I will deduct the cost of replacement from your pay. Consider yourself warned." Armina gave him a scowl that might have curled the fur on his neck. Taking Lin's paw, Anithias allowed the terrified youngster to tug him up along the companionway and onto the deck.

Anithias was right; Tox had indeed handled the situation to the best of her ability. It seemed Anithias had just interrupted a lull in the negotiations. Immediately Anithias picked out the merchant captain, a stout tub of a stoat with scruffy beardfur and an exceptional amount of flab hanging about him. Anithias knew this sort, the captains who let the crew run themselves and took one too many swigs from the grog barrel at meal times. A contemptable breed of officer with little work ethic and all the pride of an admiral, their only virtue being the cunning and fortune to gain a commission with a merchant line. Anithias knew this well; the above description matched 97% of his male relatives.

Anithias crossed to the rail, nodding briefly to Tanya and Brek. His gaze tightened on the stoat waiting across the gap between the two stoats. "Good day to you, sir," Anithias called, keeping his tone crisp and professional. "I am Captain Freedom of His Majesty's Vessel The Golden Hide. How might we be of assistance?"

The stoat beamed, his face lighting up with kitlike delight. "Good day, Cap'n Freedom o' the Hide, an' may the gods beam down upon ye!" He made a sweeping bow with his felt-brimmed cap, the dog-earred thing flopping about loosely. Straightening and returning the cap to its perch, the stoat announced, "I am Cap'n Filor Wylly o' the merchant vessel La Clodite, at yer humble service."

"Yes, I can trace the very humility of your person," Anithias responded dryly. "I believe I heard you were having supply problems. We would be more than willing to share our food and water with you, but I'm afraid we would need appropriate compensation. Also," Anithias eyed the craft's rustic exterior, "I would like a detail of your cargo."

"Ah." Again, the stoat seemed rather flustered. "Yes, well, as I were jist tellin' yer admiral, that be a bit o' an embarrassment ter us. La Clodite be a prison ship o' the highest caliber, transportin' scum an' villains o' the cruelest nature t' their punishment grounds in foreign lands. 'Tis on this account that our food and grub be so depleted b'fore its time, ye see."

"Mmm." Again Anithias' eyes swept the sealed hull, the heavily-rigged sails, the single access port in the deck. Somehow it all spoke of a prison to him. "That I would like to see for myself," Anithias said sternly. "If you don't mind, I would rather like to inspect your prison facilities before arranging a deal. I trust this would not be too much a hinderance?"

"No, na' at all," the stoat said cheerily. Anithias examined his face critically. The answer had been just a little too quick. But the stoat was already motioning his crew forward with ropes and a long walking board, and within moments ropes were tossed to waiting crewbeasts on the Hide. Expertly the ships were bound together, a path created between them by a plank bridge. Carefully both crews stabilized it before stepping back, opening the path for the captain.

Anithias motioned Tox aside as he approached the foot of the bridge. "Keep your eyes open," he murmured, his lips barely moving. "Just in case." Tox nodded briefly, her eyes glinting with the dangerous light which marked her identity as the Captain of the Guard. Then together they walked across the bridge and onto the deck of La Clodite.

Wylly was waiting for them as they stepped forward, a sour-looking weasel at his side. "Cap'n Freedom," Wylly greeted somberly. His voice was suddenly solemn as a funeral-goer. "I'm afraid you've made a mistake, sir," Filor informed him. His eyes flickered to a point above and behind Anithias' head. "Now."

Before Anithias could react his paws were suddenly wrenched behind his back, caught in massive scaly claws. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tox struggling furiously, attempting to twist and bite her assailant. An enormous green claw clamped over her snout, forcing her neck to face forward. After a few attempted jerks she yielded, fire still burning in her eyes. On the Hide weapons glinted as the crew of the Hide sprung to readiness, bows and swords raised. Anithias and Tox found themselves rotated to face their own ship, serving both as shields and visible hostages. In Anithias' ear, Wylly's calm, deliberate voice muttered instructions.

"Tell yer crew t' stand down," the slaver captain instructed steadily. Anithias could barely make out his scraggly face in the corner of his eye.

"Traitor," Anithias spat venomously. A claw tightened around his neck.

Wylly did not seem fazed. "Tell yer crew t' stand down, or I'll kill first ye, then them," he instructed deliberately.

Anithias' Adam's apple bobbed in his throat before calling quaveringly, "Crew, stand down!" Across on the ship several of the crew hesitated, their weapons hanging in the balance. "I said stand down!" Anithias shouted, his fear and rage coming out in his voice. "That's an order!" With that many of the crew reluctantly lowered their swords and bows. Slavers of every size and race poured across the void, spreading out along the deck and collecting weapons from their counterparts. Those who tried to fight found themselves wrestled into submission by a combination of brute strength and overwhelming numbers. Soon there was no resistance left on the Hide.

Anithias felt himself wrenched to face Wylly and his weasel companion. The stoat was chuckling with quiet satisfaction. "Now, Cap'n Freedom, ye and yer admiral are our guests," Wylly informed him delightedly. He glanced up at the two goons holding them hostage. "Take these two an' chain 'em up in my cabin," he instructed. "They're our little insurance policy 'ere." With fire still burning in their eyes, Anithias and Tox found themselves muscled across the deck and down a hatch into the officers' section.

Wylly allowed himself a satisfied chuckle before turning to examine his prize. Yes, she was a fine ship. Might even be worth keeping. A new coat of paint, a few alterations, and she would be unrecognizable. The trick was getting her to port. Even at minimal crew they'd need at least a score of beasts to man her, and Wylly didn't have the beastpower to maintain discipline and crew the captured vessel. He frowned for a moment before lighting upon an idea.

Crossing the bridge to the Hide, Wylly examined the captured beasts roughly assembled before him. A surly lot they were, that was certain. Glaring at him and their captors with looks that might have curdled milk. Well, they'd be broken soon enough.

"Crew," Filor hollered, addressing his own beasts patrolling the perimeter of the little mob, "we've a new plan. We're goin' t' sail the Hide straight t' port an' take it fer our own. An' we're goin' t' crew it," he grinned her, "ou' o' His Majesty's own fine workers. Select sommo' the mos' able-bodied crewbeasts an' 'ave 'em man the vessel under yer supervision. The res'-" He pointed a pawthumb over his shoulder. "Throw'em in the hold," he snarled roughly. "Naw get t' it!"


Tomias Redford/Micheal
Tomias watched wide eyed as the seemingly harmless merchant vessel suddenly became a piratical slave ship. He wanted to rush out into the open to aid Tanya, and Anithias, but he knew that act would be fruitless. He knew that his priority was to protect Armina, and he would do anything to keep her from harm. So, before the slavers could find his little hiding spot he grabbed a rope and grappling hook, and he then proceeded to abseil down the side of the ship into his open cabin window below. The last he knew was that Armina was in the galley, probably failing to cook breakfast. So, moving swiftly and silently he headed in that direction...

***

Micheal was in his element today, down in the hold of the slaver vessel making sure that none of the slaves so much as spoke out of turn, lest they feel his whip. However as an officer of the vessel he was required to be topside when they intercepted the Imperial Ship, The Golden Hide. He grumbled to himself as he tossed the whip to his replacement and walked up the stairs onto the deck. He surveyed the ship as his captain began negotiations with what he assumed was the admiral. However, it wasn't these beasts that caught his eye, it was another vulpine that seemed unwilling to step out towards the slaver vessel. A vulpine whom he knew very well. A vulpine who was in fact, his brother...

***

Tomias gave up on his stealth act once he got far enough away from the deck, none of the slavers had gotten this far yet. He passed a few terrified crewbeasts in the corridor as he ran towards the galley. 'Please let her be there', he thought to himself as he reached the door of the galley and pushed open the door.

"'Mina, you here?"

***

Micheal smirked to himself as he saw how easily they gained control of the Golden Hide. "Pride of the Imperial navy indeed," he chuckled to himself as he walked over to the beast who was in charge in sorting out the now captured crew of the Golden Hide and tapped him none too gently on the shoulder. The ferret turned around with a scowl and was about to object until he seen who it was, he gave a quick salute.

"W...What is it yeh need sir?"

Micheal smiled, he loved being the Second Mate. Of course perhaps if he eliminated that weasel First Mate, he could get that position.

"If you find a beast on this ship called Tomias Redford, he looks like me, except shorter, and white paw on the right not the left," he paused, trying to think up some kind of torture he could inflict on his brother, "if you find him, and you will... have him brought to my cabin, I have a little... surprise in store for my dear brother."


Tanya Rainblade-Ryalor
"Traitor. Coward. What in 'Gates are you doing being so terrified? Letting them win? Not bargaining? Some brave captain you are.

Well, she would have said words to that effect at the todd, what with all the surprise and indignant anger bubbling up inside from his order, had the immense claws around her snout not muzzled her from making a further mess of things. Through with the fruitless activity of trying to squirm free, Tox could only proffer all and sundry a hateful, disgusted glare as she was forced to watch, struggling for breath through her pinched nose, as The Hide – her flagship – was boarded by the filthy slavers and raided like a kitchen cupboard. How could she let this happen? Was she some kind of stupid to have simply followed the golden todd captain aboard and leave the crew? For a few moments she was beyond elated that Kip had decided to take his once-in-a-blue-moon break with the twins this voyage, but the comfort was swiftly whipped away along with any other ponderings as she and Anithias were bundled belowdecks.

Almost immediately as the earlier mention of chains seeped into her addled mind, she sprang back to life with a kind of terrified desperation. Eugh, she'd beyond hated it when she was seven and sure as 'Gates little was going to make it feel much better this time around. Another bout of squirming, more furious than before, enabled the admiral to loose just one arm, and accordingly she did the only thing that sprang to mind as they were moved to the cabin; she braced her footpaws in the first doorjamb that passed by and used her free paw to latch claws into the woodwork. The monitor was forced by this to release her muzzle in order to move her through without snapping her spine, and there was only the briefest of pauses in which Tox checked all her teeth were still in place before the yowling began.

"Come on!" she squeaked as the hulking slaver growled in frustration and efficiently swept the vixen's legs from under her, pulling her upwards and carrying the lightweight creature over his shoulder instead (well, the best as he could do with her constantly moving and clawing at his thick hide). All sense of embarrassment forgone for survival, Tanya didn't pause for breath once.

"Don't yer got some terms 'a parley? We kin arrange somefin, surely? Take our leave an' give yeh whatever yeh need! There's no need ter take the crew! Oi! Oi, well tha's jes rude! 'Gates, jes' listen ter me! We're... we're on yeh side, righ'? Against woodlan'ers? Why don' we – oof!"

It had fallen on deaf ears, Tanya finally realised after hitting the floor. Not having possessed any interest in negotiation, the obedient crewbeast dropped the little fox in place and swiftly manacled her paws. That done, he dragged her back up as if she weighed nothing, plonked her into a chair and attached a running chain from wrists to a small iron ring set in the decking. Immediately as she was released, the pleading turned off, substituted for bared fangs and offensive paw gestures given to broad, turned backs. "Fine, sod yeh. The lot of yeh. 'Opes I gets to snap your necks slowly an' watch yeh twitchin'."

Rubbing at her aching muzzle as the door slammed shut and both superiors were left alone, the vixen slumped further down in her seat like a petulant teenager waiting for the headmaster and pouted. Her manacle-scarred wrists already felt sore, and she hadn't bothered pulling at them yet. Dark green eyes slid sideways to Anithias, wondering if he was feeling as stupid as she for the foolish mistake. When she spoke again, her tone alteration was immediate, suddenly much more soft and contemplative.

"I'm surprised I didn' see that. Nobeast tha' fat an' with such a scruffy crew kin be on 'ficial business. Tha' an' I can' b'lieve we didn' look be'ind." A mirthless chuckle. Her paws twisted awkwardly. "Looks like we got a fun time ahead, eh Nith? Anyfin in that 'andbook of yours we kin use?"



Crowe Sifal
That...That had really, terribly hurt. But of course, he knew pain was inevitable; perhaps he was even expected to suffer some great mutilation of a kind on this journey (which would accordingly leave him a terrible social outcast to all but one dazzlingly beautiful femme who would educate her entire village, maybe even a city – yes, he liked city – the importance of not prejudging others and earn him a famous spot in history) but he was supposed to have the hero's stare, that terrifying glare that promised doom and ensured not even slavers messed with him when he was serious. For some reason he just hadn't perfected it yet.

The force of the blow had stunned Sifal into a temporary display of terror as his head snapped back, shoulders and back aching with the conflicting forces as the blow forced him to stagger backwards and he was simultaneously dragged forwards to the face of the immense slaver. He just about stopped breathing at the blast of warm, rancid air that threatened to make his sensitive nose bleed, wide eyes fixed upon the rows of yellowed fangs that snapped so close to his face as the slave-master whose laugh had confounded him so reiterated his lesson.

Shoved roughly back into the crowd, Crowe didn't dare argue this time and decided that maybe discretion was the better part of valour and he needed to wait a little longer. Sitting down in a small patch of damp decking that enabled others to avoid him, the shellshocked stoat blinked thrice, rubbing his face and immediately emitting a yelp. Notice to self, dear Sifal – never touch wounds. He coughed a little then, felt something unusual, sharp, in his mouth. Coughed again, panicked, scared to swallow. He tasted blood and that was what finally made the once proud youngster open his jaws and do something so disgusting he'd never believe it was himself: he spat into his own paw. There, between the blood and spit that now coated his pads, were several of his brilliant, pearly teeth.

"...I say...."

The banging of the heavy doors made the filthy stoat's head snap up. There in the doorway were new arrivals: lean, fit, bold looking-just who he needed to join him in his quest! Brightening immediately at the notion of getting this lot to raise up against the slavers just like that mouse Luke had managed, Crowe wiped his mouth quickly, then dropped the teeth and swiped his paws on the filthy rags fastidiously, hardly able to contain his excitement to greet the first beast who would sit next to him-after all, he had the room, nobeast else wanted anything to do with him any longer.


Brek Larks/Rijard M. Chaos
Once the crew was aroused by the slaver's actions Brek’s axe was one of the first to be raised. He glanced across the crew to where Rijard stood to make sure he was ready. Yet he was typically oblivious to the situation, it seemed he was searching for something as he crawled through the bodies of the crew.

Brek stalked over to the marten and tossed the canteen he'd picked up earlier into Rijard's chest. He was about to inform him to have the ballista ready, but the order to stand down had been given.

Regrettably he tossed his weapon to the ground, and as the slaver crew marched savagely towards them a tall and intimidating wildcat with a crossbow in his paws walked to where Rijard and Brek stood. "Drop yer we'pans yew rat."

Rijard looked at him confused and stared at him. "Oh! Ye mean thes' ol' thin's," he said as he removed his cutlass and dropped it to the floor with a clang!

The wildcat rolled his eyes and pointed his crossbow at Rijard. "Yew, marten, what's yer posist'on?"

"Oh meh? I'd be teh head gunneh beasty."

"Unimportant, this one to the hold," the cat said to slaver standing behind him.

Rijard tossed his paws up in defense before the slavers could touch him. "I don' thin' I'm un-am-port-ant! I mean, wha' if a muntiny er som' o'er on yer vessel. Lots o' criminals can do a thin' lik' tha'."

The wildcat dropped his aim and regarded the marten's words. "Belay me last order, this one stays." Then he aimed at Brek. "Position?"

Brek's back stiffened as the crossbows bolt was line perpendicular to his throat. "Um, bosun."

The cat scanned Brek momentarily "You lie, too young to be bosun. You'll do for sails."

"Sorry, but I won't be doin' anything while you scum filled rodents are on this ship."

"Be carefu', I could make that com' true," The cat growled as his pawfinger reached for the trigger. "Take this fox t' the hold."

"Again sorry, I prefer to be thrown overboard," Brek turned and pushed through the bodies of slavers and navy beasts alike. Then as he reached the edge of the deck he stood atop the railings balancing himself on the ratlines. Twelve beasts with nasty weapons moved for Brek, giving a few of their captors a chance for excape. "Villainous scoundrels and traitors alike, I wish ye all a handsome voyage!"

With that said Brek turned and jumped into the green-blue water of the ocean. Underwater he removed his jacket and let his tricorne float to the top so he would move more freely. He swam moving parallel to the ship and away from where he had landed in the water.


Jeshal the Ironclaw
As like to the Hide’s captain, the first mate had not had an easy time crawling out of bed that morning, which all but foreshadowed the complications the day was to bring. Jeshal was hardly ever to be seen abed after dawn but the events of this last month were marking a change in him. The copper todd had reached twenty-five seasons this Macabre and the concept of growing old was suddenly weighing heavily. His ambitions needed to pick up the pace before he would be satisfied. He wanted to better himself, to push himself to new limits, and the anxiety had kept him awake for days. The Ironclaw was desperate for progression. Nights brought him feverish drifts of consciousness, laughing under his breath at lucid figments of his imagination. He dreamt that the ship was under his own command and the crew at his mercy, especially Ryalor, grovelling at his feet. The Hide’s ballistae were numerous, their missiles set ablaze and fired upon the other ships of the Imperium – his orders. He was unstoppable in his thoughts, possessing all manner of powers. A wave of his paw and beasts were hurled overboard as though a gust of wind had seized them.

The notions haunted him when the ship had last made berth. Grinning like a fool, Jeshal had stumbled to the taverns and less reputable areas of Bully and he had got absolutely plastered. It was a wonder he had not been mugged or worse. His persistent laughter had perhaps scared off some of the more nervous thieves. Drunken and stupid, he had unflatteringly slumped in an alleyway where a group of females, partly kind-hearted and partly seeking gilders, aided him to a place of rest. One had been a vixen. She had offered to let him stay in her home, having taken quite the fancy at his naval uniform. Poor beast.

It had all been a haze of liquor and the lack of sleep. She had left him to doze but sat watching him until the twilight hours. Intrigued by his frightening metal claw and driven wild by the notion of his moneys, the poverty-stricken vixen had approached him and carefully began to paw about his clothes for a purse. Lightning quick, he had started and snatched her by the throat. Jeshal stared groggily at the unfocused creature standing over him.

“Tanya?”
“Please, sir…let me…go…”
“Why would ye be rootin’ through me effects, Adm’ral? Be yer own not sufficient?”
“Who is Tan-?”

She broke off in fear as the delusional todd stroked the white of her chest-fur with his normal paw.

“Ssshh,” he had slurred, and that had been the last she heard, besides his laughter. What happened between them was reserved only for the imaginations of the reader and the discovery of the Fogeys when she would be found. It was disturbing that the vixen had died with a smile upon her face. Jeshal had clambered out of her window and staggered to his home in Zann’s Backyard. He trashed a few of his rooms and spent several days repairing his furniture.


When at last he returned to the Hide it was just before it was due to set sail again. He had spoken little and shut himself away with his paperwork, but he could hardly get any of it completed. The ink scrawls jumbled together and danced before his tired eyes, repeating words that were not there. Tanya…Tanya… He was haunted by her still, and added to that was the mystery flashes of what he had done to the vixen in Bouillabaisse. What was worse was that it made him smile.

Perhaps to say he had not had an easy time getting out of bed was inaccurate, for in fact, getting out of bed was made terribly simple by falling clean onto the floor. Jeshal scrabbled to his feet and became aware of two things: a pounding headache, and a commotion out in the passage.

If that Ashpaw be playin’ tricks again, I’ll truss ‘im from the rigging…

The Ironclaw threw on his old navy-blue frockcoat, donned his hat and drew his cutlass. He listened for pawsteps and then opened the door wide. He tripped up the first beast that ran past. Almost at once he was set upon by two seasoned vermin, a ferret and a weasel. Jeshal snarled and ducked the swipes of their weapons. He parried and weaved, elbowing one into a wall. What he did not block with his sword he clashed with his metal paw, using his speed against them. The first was felled with a smack to the side of the head, the other was tripped and turned to find Jeshal’s cutlass point at their throat. The ferret sneered up at him. A dagger blade pressed against Jeshal’s jugular.

“Well ain’t you entertainin’, Mr Fox? Wossay you dropsy that liddle stick o’ yores?”

The Ironclaw narrowed his eyes and, making his movements slow, sheathed his cutlass instead.

“That’ll do me for nows. Turny abouts then, let’s ‘ave a lookee at you. Don’t be shy.”

Jeshal turned, observing that the dagger traced about to remain at his neck. He came face to face with a large, ugly rat. One of the beast’s eyes was clouded over, his ears were ragged and his snout was deformed.

“Ain’t I a pretty face, yore thinkin’? Name’s Halfnose, but you’ll be callin’ me an’ my mateys ‘master’, right? Yore a scraggy thing, ain’t you? Need feedin’ up, so you do, an’ hoho! What be those me peepers see? Sandals? Lookit here Quashtail, this beastie’s flouncin’ about the hofficer quarters in sandals!”

The Ironclaw stared fiercely at Halfnose. “There be rumours once yer be gettin' y’self a rank that yer paws get all crusted in barnacles. They say it be makin’ all the cap’ns ‘n’ suchlike walk as ‘ave a pole under their tails. This way I be seein’ if it be true. Let me know if I grow any so I can be ‘avin’ ye lick ‘em off.”

Halfnose blinked at Jeshal, and then snorted a laugh. “Yer an odd one, Foxy. Ye gave me mateys a sound beatin’ that ye did.” The rat squinted at the weasel on the corridor boards. “Think ye did ol’ Blotchy in, in fact. Always thought ‘e wos too slow. Woss yer name then, fox? Metalmitt?”

Jeshal rolled his eyes. “Ironclaw. First mate.”

“Any relation to ol’ Ironpaw?”

The copper todd shook his head and then smiled. “Takin’ over the ship, be ye?”

Halfnose chuckled. “Takin’ over you, me dear beast.”

Jeshal grinned. “Should knock some toughness into the crew, aye?”

The rat tilted his head curiously. “Ain’t you goin’ to struggle? Or holler fer help or owt?”

“And stop the best thin’ that be ‘appenin’ ter me all week? Perish the thought, matey, oh, me abject apologies, master.”

Halfnose exchanged a glance with Quashtail before he shook his head incredulously. “We’ve got a nutty one ‘ere. May’aps we’ll show ‘im to Cap’n Wylly. He’ll let us know if ‘e be too volatile to be o’ value. Leave the manacles, Quashy, they won’t fit round that monster-paw ‘e ‘as.”

The slaver rat beckoned to Jeshal and marched him onward to seek out the captain of the La Clodite.



Armina Rogue/Anithias Freedom/Filor Wylly/Julia Freedom/Hydrick Manser
(Lore note: Marianna was born while the Freedoms were on their fortnight-long vacation, she has been safely tucked away in the Freedoms' cabin for these past three months. Some minor autoing of Tomias)


Armina resisted the impulse to sneeze. It was very not easy; it was very dusty up here on the shelf above the galley door. 'Gates knows why somebeast had even installed the thing; it served no purpose, at least none that Armina could see. Then again, perhaps it was constructed as a convenient place for somebeast to hide and whack whoever came through the door with a iron poker. In that case Armina owed the carpenter a major gratitude.

Armina tightened her grip on the blackened fire poker beside her as the galley door creaked open below her. She could not see who had entered over the ledge, but then again she didn't really need to. The ruckus from the deck had told her everything she'd needed to know. Armina was halfway through the motion of swinging the poker over her side when the intruder spoke.

"'Mina, you here?"

NIIIIIIEEEEEE CRUH-CRUNCH!

With a sickening twist of metal the straining left support of the shelf gave way, sending Armina toppling to the ground in a shower of dust and splinters. The back of her head hit the ground with a thud that nearly jarred her loose of her senses. As it was, she could feel a painful throbbing from the point of collision. Not to mention a horrible ringing in her left ear from the poker's landing, clattering about on an axis not a few inches from her head. Splotches of red swam in her vision, obscuring her view of a quite anxious Tomias.

"Inna minute," she mumbled. "Mah 'ead 'urts."

If Tomias said anything in response it was lost on her, as her ears seemed to have stopped working. For what felt like forever but was indeed a mere fifteen seconds she lay on the floor, watching the splotches in her vision sort themselves out as her brain slowly asserted that it was indeed not permanently damaged, but could certainly do with a few less falls from high places. At long last the splotches swam away out of the corner of her eye, allowing her to see a quite frantic toddfriend kneeling over her.

Armina sat up, shaking her head slowly. Her hearing was still obscured by an annoying ringing. Batting her ear, the vixen winced as her bruised skull throbbed in protest. No cheese on the hearing, either. That seemed to be taking its time coming back.

Ignoring the movement of Tomias' lips, which were undoubtedly inquiring after her health, Armina asked in loud tones, "What's going on? What's all the commotion topside?" She glanced up at the ceiling, vainly hoping that the sight might provoke the return of her absent second sense.

Nope. No luck.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Anithias felt wretched as he was chained up beside Tox, his wrists manacled behind him. He barely even struggled against his captors, so absorbed in his misery was he. In his mind he berated himself for surrendering so easily to Captain Wylly, may he rot in the sea for tricking him so.

You could have fought! You could have held out!

It would have been no use. They would have killed Tox and I easily.

The crew still would have had the chance to fight them off!

They would have been slaughtered. There was no way we could have fought off a crew this vicious.

Still, it would have been better to die than to live the rest of our lives as slaves!

I gave us a chance. The crew might yet still find a way to free us all.

Fat chance of that, isn't there?

Anithias sighed in response to Tox's desperate question. "Nothing that they would adhere to," the golden captain responded miserably. "This lot are not even from the Imperium. They are bound by no rules but their own, and 'Gates knows what those may be." He paused a moment before confessing, "I'm so sorry, Tanya. I failed both you and the crew, and there is no excuse for that. If we get out of this mess I should be stripped of my commission for my failures."

He hung his head low, wallowing in his self-absorption and misery.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Wylly strode along the deck of the Hide, beaming at everything that fell within his gaze. The takeover of the ship was proceeding quite nicely. Despite a few minor incidents (why in 'Gates had that todd chosen to leap over the side anyway? Surely drowning couldn't be better than the life Wylly offered him) the roundup was proceeding quite smoothly. Wylly had personally separated a gigantic fox from an odorous wildcat, sending the former to work the rigging while the second he sent to the hold. Here a trouble spot had sprung up; the fox and cat had both gone into a kind of rage, desperately flailing at their attackers in an attempt to be reunited. It had taken two lizard guards to subdue the large fox and drag him away from the companion. The cat was easily dragged off to the hold by a dwarf ferret with a muscle deficiency. Wylly made a note not to sell the smelly feline for physical labour.

Filor's ears perked up as a commotion sounded from near the plank bridge. It seemed an argument had arisen between Mr. Manser and a red vixen, the latter of which had two small kits with her. A small golden one scampered bravely around his mother's skirts, peeking out at the strange beasts crawling over his ship, while a red newborn remained nestled protectively in her mother's arms. Manser's shouts carried over the distance, easily allowing Wylly to follow the conversation.

"Na', ye cahn' stay in yer bloddy cabin! Ye'll go t' the 'old, along wit' yer bloddy kin!"

The vixen's voice was not anywhere close to the strong tones of the admiral; indeed, they were rather frantic and pleading, the voice of a mother seeking the betterment of her offspring. "Please, the hold is no place for a young kit! I don't think she would survive down there!" As if on cue the kit shifted slightly in her mother's arms, seeming to wake up. For a moment she peered wide-eyed at world around her before beginning to mewl softly, her tiny cries intensifying toward fox-like yelps with every passing second.

Manser's ears pressed back flat against his skull as the kit continued to cry. "Well tha's na' my problem, issit?" he retorted irritably. The kit's crying escalated at the sound of his rough voice. "An' will yew shut tha' bloddy thing oop?" he snapped, his temper spiking visibly.

The vixen shifted the kit protectively in her arms. "She's upset," she explained defensively. "You're being too loud."

"Oh, I'm bein' tew loud, am I?" he sneered, his pointed snout drawing near to the awoken kit. "Well, 'ows abou' THIS!" he shouted in the kit's ears. The child erupted into absolute wails. "Is THIS tew loud fer ye, yew little brat?" His scrunched face could only have contributed to the kit's fright.

"Stop it!" the vixen shouted, turning and pulling her kit well away from the torturous weasel. "You'll frighten her to death!"

"Na'," Manser retorted, his drawl taking on a menacing tone. Wylly could almost see the officer's temper reaching the point of sadism. "T'is will." Abruptly the mustelid dashed about the vixen, roughly tearing the kit from her arms. The vixen howled in fury and desperation, lunging after the kitnapper, but Manser was already at the rails. The tiny red kit squealed in fright as she dangled out over the sea, her footpaws waving vainly in the air.

For some reason, perhaps by the instinctual knowledge that grabbing for her daughter would cause Manser to drop the kit into the rolling waves, the vixen fell to the deck at Manser's footpaws. "Please," she pleaded, her voice hoarse with desperation, "please, don't drop her! I'll do anything, just don't drop her!" A trail of tears ran from the corners of her eyes down her auburn fur.

Manser sneered down at her before looking back at the kit. Pulling the kit back to the rail, the weasel began to tilt the kit about as if she were a doll, miming her walking along the rail. "Ten liddle foxy kits, standin' in a line," he sang, his nasal voice horribly off-key. "One toddled 'ome an' then there wos nine..." Abruptly Manser pushed the kit from the rail. The mother shrieked, lunging for her child. Her outstretched arms flailed over the rail, but the kit was nowhere to be seen. A choked sob escaped her lips as she hung there, utterly broken, until a kit's cry from behind her caused her to whirl. Manser chuckled, bouncing a shrieking Marianna in his arms. Screaming in rage, Julia lunged for her kit before doubling over at a vicious kick to the midsection. Manser roughly kicked her across the jaw, sending her to the deck, before pacing back over to the rail, resuming his dreadful song.

"Nine liddle foxy kits, swingin' on a gate," he held Marianna by her tiny paws, suspending her over the sea. The kit shrieked in pain and fright. On the deck, a broken Julia alternately sobbed and screamed with all the rage of a mother whose kits were in danger. Manser slowly swung the kit by her paws, a strange tone entering his voice as he spoke. Wylly felt a danger signal enter his brain. This time would be it, he was certain. The song was much slower and fatal now, with a deliberateness to every word. "One tumbled off the rail," Manser continued, his voice growing soft and slow. His pawfingers tightened over the kit's paws. Julia howled, clawing at the weasel's legs. Manser just shook his leg free, entering the dreadful, final stanza of the verse. "An' then..." he chanted, "there... wos..."

"Manser!"

Wylly was very lucky indeed that Manser did not drop the kit. As it was, he fumbled to get a hold of her and bring her back over the rail. Wylly glared at him viciously from across the ship. "Put the kit down," he commanded, a note of reprimand in his voice that could not be argued with. Manser glared at the captain sullenly before roughly tossing the kit to its mother. Julia caught the small bundle gratefully, hugging her daughter to her chest tightly as if she would never let her go. The vixen's chin tucked over the kit's head, nestling the kit against her neck. Crossing the deck, Wylly squatted as best he could beside the traumatized mother. "Ye'd best get t' the hold," he suggested softly. "Ye'll be safe there." Nodding and blinking back a river of tears, Julia rose, hurrying away from the horrible weasel and his captain as fast as she could. The golden kit, who had hung back in fright during the entire episode, gave Manser a vicious kick in the ankle as he trotted past. "You big meanie!" he stormed before trotting after his mother.

Chuckling and rubbing his ankle where the kit had landed his ineffectual blow, Manser waved after the little todd. "Liddle tyke," he commented with as much affection as the sadist could manage. His chuckling ceased as he saw the stern look on Wylly's face. Instantly his merriment turned to sulking. "Wha'?" he asked sullenly, his arms crossed before his lank frame.

Wylly opened his mouth to tell the weasel exactly what he thought of his antics, but he never got the chance. At that moment Halfnose hailed him from across the deck, motioning him toward where he and Quashtail were marshaling along a strange copper fox. Shooting Manser a glare which clearly spoke of threat, Filor trotted in the direction of his favorite collector.

From twelve paces away Filor could tell there was something different about this one. For starters, in place of his left paw he had some gruesome arrangement of metal rods and joints. But the most defining aspect was the very air surrounding him. There was an air, a scent that surrounded beasts of a rogue type, one only detectable to others of their kind. This one had an air of sea air and full sails and the iron taste of spilt blood, all lived with no regrets. Wylly knew him immediately. This one was a pirate, a cruel individual who relished the sufferings of others. He was born, bred, and would die a heartless curr, just as every beast on La Clodite would.

Immediately Filor knew that he had to have this one for his crew.

The captain beamed in congratulations at his two slavers before fixing a scrutinizing glare on the captured rogue. "Well well, what'rve we got 'ere?" he mused. "Pirate, meybe? Corsair? Privateer? Or jist gen'ral no-good scum?" He chuckled loudly at his own joke, still observing the fox from the corner of his eye. "Yer got a name, stranger?" Wylly asked, patting his jacket over. With a flourish he drew an ebony pipe from a shapeless pocket, pounding in a mushy weed before lighting it from a match. Puffing on it from its amber stem, Wylly allowed the smoke to wash over both the prospective recruit and his captors as he awaited an answer.


Tomias Redford
Tomias very nearly got hit by Armina, and the small closet she was hiding in. He managed to leap out of the way in time to avoid injury. He then noticed that Armina seemed to have hit her head pretty hard. He was about to kneel down beside her and go into doctor mode however she proceeded to stand up and bat her ear. If she hadn't just hurt herself, he would have chuckled at the cuteness of the action.

"Are you okay?" he asked, however it soon became apparent that she couldn't hear him.

She then proceeded to shout at him, a definite sign of deafness.

"What's going on? What's all the commotion topside?"

He started to explain, but soon realised that the best option was to write down what he was saying, if she couldn't hear him. He quickly grabbed a piece of paper and a bit of charcoal and wrote down what he was trying to say.

"The ship has been taken over by slavers, they are taking everybody... Tanya and Anithias are already captured, I came down here to defend you, and to help somehow..."

He showed her the paper, long enough for her to read it, then he flipped it over and wrote on the other side.

"Also your deafness was definitely caused by the injury you sustained to your head. Don't worry it is only temporary, you won't be deaf forever."

He then showed her that side of the paper, and awaited her response...


Jeshal the Ironclaw
Inwardly, Jeshal laughed as the rat named Halfnose and Quashtail began spluttering under the onslaught of Wylly's pipesmoke. The copper todd had learned to hold his breath during such a trick. Perhaps the excitement of his capture had caused his restrainers to slip up. His eyes, however, could not help but sting.

The Ironclaw studied the sight of the beast responsible for capturing the Hide, a verging on portly stoat with a beard-like scrag to his chin. Another few hearty banquets and he would probably manage to fit his paw clean about Jeshal's neck.

"Well well, what'rve we got 'ere? Pirate, meybe? Corsair? Privateer? Or jist gen'ral no-good scum? Yer got a name, stranger?"

Jeshal allowed his typical terrible smile to display. "That I have been pirate afore, matey." He chose to push his luck and did not call the beast 'sir'. "Ye have a sound grasp o' character, that ye do. 'Ad me some fine times but ain't so profitable in these Imperium waters. Me name's Ironclaw, if it so please ye." He flexed the metal of his left paw, startling Quashtail. "Don't leave much ter the imagination I be admittin'." He grinned and fell quiet again, matching Wylly's stare.


Armina Rogue/Filor Wylly
Armina frowned as Tomias' lips moved but no sound reached her ears save for a persistent ringing. She must have hit her head harder than she thought. As a matter of fact, there was a very distinct pain in her head like a bad ear infection. Armina made a note to check in with Kiptooth once all this hubbub was over.

Tomias seemed to realise she was unable to hear him, grabbing a piece of paper and hurriedly scribbling an explanation across the page. "The ship has been taken over by slavers, they are taking everybody... Tanya and Anithias are already captured, I came down here to defend you, and to help somehow..." He briefly flipped the page before continuing, "Also your deafness was definitely caused by the injury you sustained to your head. Don't worry it is only temporary, you won't be deaf forever."

The temporarily-deaf vixen nodded, regretting the action when the inner ear pain flared up in protest. "Alright," she said loudly, still unable to hear anything other than vibrations running up her jaw from her own mouth. Even that was sufficient to make her left ear burn with pain.

"So what are we going to do?" Armina asked, turning away from Tomias to check her ear. There was a strange sticky feeling in her ear canal, as if something was running along it. Carefully Armina dabbed a pawfinger inside her large foxy ear, withdrawing it quickly when it violently protested. Well, it hurt, which was a good sign. At least Armina thought so. Wasn't that what the doctors always said? Armina went to wipe off her pawfinger on her other palm when she froze, staring aghast at her paw.

Her pawfinger was covered in the sticky, unmistakable red sap of blood.

Trying to ignore the pit of dread growing in her abdomen, Armina hastily wiped the blood onto her palm and turned back to Tomias. She suddenly felt somewhat dizzy, as if she was leaning all directions in a circular motion. Fighting the urge to sit down, Armina leaned against the wall, awaiting Tomias' answer.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Wylly continued to puff merrily on his pipe as the Ironclaw explained his origins. His beady eyes carefully traced the fox's movements as he spoke, examining his motions for any hidden gleanings of knowledge. He showed no reaction to the fox's response, instead continuing to carefully scrutinize the captive. For a few moments after the Ironclaw finished his introduction Wylly remained standing, black eyes glinting under the felt-rimmed cap. Then, removing his pipe, he blew out the last of the smoke from his mouth.

"Filor Wylly," the stoat introduced himself, his drawl elongating the ee sound at the end of his name. "Cap'n o' the slavin' vessel La Clodite, ol' wreck tha' she is." He motioned with his pipe tip over his shoulder. La Clodite was indeed a beaten old ship; aged, thick hulled, with only a few resolute patches of paint remaining along its side. A cabin and quarterdeck were awkwardly tacked onto the stern, the Milarkian style clashing horribly with the rustic vessel. It was indeed pretty in its simple, weathered charm, but any eye would have agreed there was no fitter vessel to rest at the bottom of the ocean.

Filor ambled slowly to a set of crates near the mast, sighing as he lowered himself onto one. "Sit," he motioned with his pipe to a crate across from him. His tiny black eyes watched the Ironclaw carefully from his perch. He took a long draw from his pipe before removing it, allowing the smoke to seem from between his teeth. "So," Wylly began, his drawl contorting the syllable into sooah, "wha're a pirate laike yerself doin' 'mongst these lauwbeasts 'ere? I mean," he clarified, raising an eyebrow, "scum don' usually reform theirselves fer petty matters. Wha's yer purpose 'ere, Ironclaw?" He watched the Ironclaw carefully, watching for any signs of deception.


Brek Larks
"I'll tell you what we're going to do," Brek said as he emerged from a dark corner of the galley. His clothes were dripping with every step as he walked up to Tomias and Armina.

"For one we aren't going to sit here until they come to chop our rear ends off. What we need is a plan, and fortunately I have one. First,” Brek lifted his paws to help explain his plan in detail, "we need to overwhelm the slavers in number and force. If we can free the crew then we have a chance but to win this I think we need more hands. And if what I've heard of their cargo La Clodite has plenty of beasts over there, we just need to get in and help 'em escape.

"Tomias, you will tie a line to an arrow and shoot it at the Clodite's hull and you and Armina will climb over to the ship. Below deck shouldn't be too guarded, I figure just slaves and other cargo. But we need you to keep the slaves quiet while you free the captain and admiral. I'll stay aboard, raid the armory, and hide in the brig." Brek produced his set of bosun keys. "I overheard them say that anybeast who they don't choose to sail the Hide will be sent there. I'll free the crew and equip them as well as I can. Wait for my signal and then we strike. Got that?" Brek took two swift glances at both of the foxes.


Armina Rogue
Armina didn't even hear Brek approach. Then again this was no surprise; she couldn't hear anything at the moment. It was only Tomias turning to face Brek that alerted her to his presence. Armina started, relaxing only when she realized who it was. He looked wet, as if he'd been swimming. Armina could only guess he'd taken a dip in the water to escape his captors.

Before Armina could make a guess as to how he'd made it back aboard Brek's lips started moving. Armina strained for all of two seconds to lip read before subsiding into staring skeptically at Brek, arms crossed and heel tapping impatiently. The rate of heel-tapping seemed to be increasing as time went on, Armina's raised eyebrow clearly asking the question How much longer is he going to keep talking?

At last Brek's lips ceased to move, shutting themselves in a firm line. Armina gave Brek a few seconds, as if to test whether or not he would keep going, before slowly and pointedly crossing to the table. With overemphasized movements she carefully picked up the charcoal stick and scribbled a message across the pad. Holding the stick in her palm, Armina held the paper in front of her like a convict in a Fogey lineup, allowing Brek to read the message:

WRITE IT

Armina ripped off the page, moving to hand Brek the notepad before pausing, nibbling thoughtfully on the end of the charcoal stick. Hiding the page from Brek's view, she slowly drew a second message across the paper before handing it Brek. If the words weren't enough to convey Armina's mood, the sarcastic manner with which she handed him the charcoal stick might have clued him in:

I'LL GET MORE PAPER.


Brek Larks
WRITE IT

Brek read the piece of paper Armina handed to him. He was unsure why he would need to rewrite the entire plan for her, was she worried she would forget? Or had something happened that she no longer had the sense of hearing?

Either way he did as he was told. He doodled a description of both ships and two foxes climbing a line between them. Then an arrow from the line to a place where two other foxes were stuck inside the ship opposite to the Hide.

At the bottom he wrote: Tie a line to an arrow, climb to the other ship, free the captain and admiral, free the slaves and convince them to overpower the slavers. Wait for my signal and attack. I'll be aboard the Hide so I can free the crew. He tried to make it as quick and understandable as he could.

Brek handed it to her and waited for a response.


Armina Rogue
(Please note that all opinions expressed in this post are those of Armina, who is in a very snarky mood at the moment and thus is liable to have some less-than-friendly thoughts.)

Armina felt rather stupid as she stared down at Brek's crude depiction of their battle plan. It just felt so demeaning to have a concept explained through a fifteen-season-old's cave drawing, as if she weren't even smart enough to understand words. The todd's short explanation was some small consolation; apparently she wasn't so thick that she couldn't read altogether.

As for the plan, Armina was rather skeptical. Tying a rope to an arrow was all good in fiction, but in practice it wasn't as easy as it sounded. There were a million things that could go wrong. The rope could snap. The arrow could break (which essentially had the same consequence as the rope snapping). They could fall into the water (the consequence for the aforementioned two). They could be spotted and captured. The odds were so heavily against them that it made the plan seem insane.

Just insane enough to work.

Grabbing the charcoal stick, Armina flipped the page and hurriedly scribbled a message. When she held it up, there was no mistaking the annoying smirk on her face as one of satisfaction:

WELL WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST SAY SO?


Brek Larks
WELL WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST SAY SO?

Clearly she understood, but Brek grabbed the tablet and charcoal stick and quickly wrote: I DID, REMEMBER? Instead of giving the tablet to her to read he threw it on the counter and picked up an empty potato sack and started filling it with anything that could be used as weapons. Mostly knives but he also threw in a frying pan as well as a few pieces of stale or hard food to throw at the slavers. Anything that could be used as a weapon. Then he headed out and signalled them to move out in the door. Then he made his way to the brig.

Luckily no beast had been sent to the brig yet. He entered one of the cells and removed a loose floorboard. He stashed the sack inside the whole and then left for the armory. Brek's legs moved as fast as he could, he would have to be fast if he was to make it back before the crew was sent down to the brig.


Jeshal the Ironclaw
Jeshal grinned as Filor admitted so candidly the state of his ship. This was the sort of conversation that was his element. Two distrustful rogues engaging in light, yet informative, banter, faking pleasantries, wondering what they might take from the other without the necessity to harm them just yet. He obliged in taking a seat opposite the La Clodite's captain, flourishing the tails of his frockcoat over the crate as he did. He took in the scent of the pipesmoke. He mostly disliked the concept of breathing in sullied air but occasionally there was a pleasant musk to some of the herbs. Evidently Wylly had a smattering of taste.

"So, wha're a pirate laike yerself doin' 'mongst these lauwbeasts 'ere? I mean, scum don' usually reform theirselves fer petty matters. Wha's yer purpose 'ere, Ironclaw?"

Jeshal's tail twitched momentarily at the label of 'scum'. There were many despicable words he accepted but this one delved into the realms of ugly implication. 'Scum' gave off the suggestion that such a beast lacked elegance and wit, that they were weak and easily slimed beneath a heavy boot. The Ironclaw retained his sharp-toothed grin and allowed the insult to slide.

"Who be sayin' that anybeast be reformed, matey? The opportunity were too temptin' ter pass up, says I. They pays me well, feeds me up; there be dark circles a beast can slip into ter do an say what 'e be wantin' if'n 'e knows the tricks. Oh aye there be less o' yer freedom, which were what it were all about in yesteryear, but I have me reasons ter let their yoke cage me..."

Jeshal tilted his head and flexed his claw absently.

"Unless, o' course, there be somethin' else on offer. Somethin' that would bring me what I be covetin'. Were somethin' more like the old days brought up within some partic'lar negotiation, says I, I might be considerin' a master more befittin' than the frilly canopy that 'as become the Imperium."



Lindsay Valroux
Something within the confines of the armoury stirred. Only quietly though; like the tiny claws of a scurrying mouse within a pantry, the sounds flitted here and there, easily mistaken for echoes of outside sounds, particularly given the circumstances. Bare footpaws trod over deckboards silently, claws barely tapping against the wood as a shadow, black against black, drifted through.

Lin couldn't remember getting in here. There had been something to do with the other ship, and he'd run to get Anithias. Apparently he'd done something bad again because the golden todd had snapped initially and sent him cowering, but eventually the captain relented and allowed himself to be pulled back on deck, from whence he took over his duties as Tanya instructed. After that, there was a blur of movement as a swarm of loud, angry looking creatures barrelled across and begun rounding up the crew, many of whom visibly resisted as they were pulled across to the other ship by the strangers.

One had hit him. Backpawed him painfully across the face and caught their dewclaws on his hollow cheek, leaving a deep scratch. That was what had sent him rocketing belowdecks without another sound. That was always where he was supposed to go when he was hit: find the dark, shut the door and stay there.

He didn't dislike the dark for that, though. In here at least the world wasn't so large, wasn't so frightening. His heart rate slowed dramatically the more he lingered and soon the emaciated ferret shifted amongst the racks of blades and bludgeons, spears and bows, running his paws over them as if greeting old friends. He didn't mind this one bit, actually, after his last few months. He was safe here, in the dark, because even if he couldn't see, at least it was predictable in here. There were always four walls, a floor and a roof. He knew what those were, they didn't throw him off balance or make his brain ache trying to comprehend. It was simple, it was what he knew, and it didn't hurt.

Time passed unrealistically for Lindsay down here; he couldn't recall if minutes or hours slipped by in the inky comfort, though the noise above was certainly lessened and his large ears twitched to register it. Maybe it was nighttime and everybeast was asleep, or maybe they had all just, like him, calmed down. That would be a nice thought: maybe they were all feeling this same serenity. He'd like to share it with them, it was good. Spiderlike fingers curled around the hilt of a sword, feeling the object unwieldy and foreign in his grip. Wrong. He released it, suspicious, and took a pace backwards. What if they were all hurt?

The door opened then, and suddenly the calm blanket dark had thrown on him was stifling, choking, smothering. Panic. The dark was being disrupted, and similarly so was the flighty mustelid, who cringed away from the door and as far back against a stack of spears as he could. He reached up to grasp his ears and found his chained wrist wouldn't permit it until he curled further into himself, tail tucked between his legs miserably. Flashes of figures – big, brawny figures – flared behind his eyes at the golden sliver of grimy lamplight which sliced through his perfect silence, and called to mind the nights which had muted him so. He could swear that the shadow casting itself on the ground was his father's.

Half-crouched amidst the weaponry, fur on end, fear and confusion impounded itself into one single, childish plea.

"Sokea...?"



Tanya Rainblade-Ryalor
As Anithias bemoaned his idiocy and sunk further into the pit of despair and self-doubt he was creating since the betrayal, Tanya stared at him with unblinking blankness; neither anger nor sympathy reflected in her stare as she watched the captain quietly, tail flicking every few moments as she pondered exactly how to react, usually being the one in Anithias' position herself. This turning of the tables made her distinctly uneasy, and after a little blankness, it began to show.

In the end she decided to ignore it: sympathising would only encourage him further, and encouragement would only force a later repeat. She shifted her manacles once more in the quiet, repressed a raising of the hackles and shrugged her narrow shoulders.

"We migh' as well make th' most of it, then. Per'aps convince 'em of our worth enough ter keep th' crew from too much 'arm right away. Maybe encourage them of a ransom, get 'em to keep us around long enough to figger some'at up. We're bound ter be faster talkers'n this lot, I'm sure it can' be so difficult, long as we we don' end up hangin' from the yardarm before then..."

The pout which had been forming as she pondered over their fates dissolved slowly in the encroaching silence afterwards, to be replaced by a perfectly mischievous grin which split her thin muzzle with a glitter of metal teeth.

"Now I don' know about you, bu' I'm a mite bored waitin' for ol' Cap'n Wobblebum to turn up. These manacles ain’t my idea o' fun neither. I fink I'll jes' call 'im in..."

She puffed herself up and gave her head a curious tilt backwards, then without further hesitation, drew in a swift breath and uncharacteristically released a piercing, terrified scream.



Xhavek Mokorai
Now as everybeast on the Hide knew it was probably one of the stupidest ideas to ever come into a beast's head to make their Second Mate mad. While the crew liked him for his willingness to give out praise and be free with the drink, they respected him for his stern taskmastery. They feared him though, for his temper, which when aroused often caused severe pain upon whomever was in his path. Unfortunately for the slavers, they didn't know that.

"GRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAWR!!!"

Accompanying the rage filled bellow was a flying slaver, a smarmy-looking ferret with a freshly received gaptooth grin, who slammed into two of his cohorts sending all three crashing onto the floor. Soon after another slaver went hurtling through the door of the infirmary. Xhavek was obviously in a VERY bad mood.

The infirmary was a total wreck with the cots strewn about and medical supplies dotting the wreckage. Hiding behind a cluster of the overturned debris was Glimmer huddling and crying softly while her 'Unka Wispy' crouched with her keeping a watchful eye on the foebeasts in the room and standing guard over the young newtess. Not that she really needed it. As for her dear 'Unka Xhavvy' he was in a right fury and he was pacing back and forth in front of the others hiding place.

"Come on you pathetic wretchez, who elze vantz to try to get at MY family?" The short lizard hissed ferally his claws slick with blood. The remaining slavers exchanged looks. They easily outnumbered the reptile 3-to-1 however none of them seemed to want to meet the same fate as their comrades, and so the stale mate continued with Xhavek hissing and threating and the slavers wary and waiting.

The wait didn't last long. As two more slavers came into the room the others charged. Xhavek roared and leapt upon the nearest one's chest, seizing a hold of the rat's shoulders and using the momentum from his jump Xhavek flipped over the rat without releasing his hold causing the foebeast to arc over the monitor's head. Then all at once the rat was soaring through the air to crash into the wall. However the other two charging slavers came in from the sides and both slasehd at him with their scimitars one high, one low. Luckily Xhavek saw this coming and hit the deck and as the blades harmlessly sailed over him he kicked out, clipping the one who struck low in the shin and toppling him to the floor.

"UNKA XHAVVY!!!"

Xhavek planted his other footclaw in the other slaver's gut and followed up with a vicious uppercut and in the same motion whirled. What he saw stopped him cold. Glimmer and Wisp stood erect with blades at their throats and the slavers holding them grinned evilly at Xhavek. One of them spoke his tone mocking, "Well ain't this a pretty turn-about?"


Filor Wylly/Hydrick Manser
Wylly's eyes narrowed at the Ironclaw's seemingly open answer. At face value the fox's explanation seemed innocent enough, but beneath the surface lurked a strange ambiguity. Though scum he might not have considered himself, Jeshal was just as bound to the sea and its freedoms as Wylly or any of his vermin. To suddenly leave that, to indenture himself to the Imperium was a complete change of character. No self-respecting pirate would go straight; villainy was their life's blood. There had to be some ulterior motive, some quest the Ironclaw refused to divulge to him...

Wylly's thought pattern was interrupted by a high scream from his own cabin. Whirling, his expression of shock changed to a scowl as he realized what was happening. A growl rose in his throat as he sat back down, still glaring over his shoulder. "Blasted vixen screamin' fer attention," he explained gruffly to the Ironclaw. "Shou' give 'er a few whips fer tha'- Manser, no!"

Wylly had spotted a slim white blur crossing the bridge between the two ships. As the captain pushed himself to his footpaws the weasel burst through the cabin door, a snarl smeared across his maw. "Wha're ye doin'?!" he spat, his mouth foaming with rage. His eyes rolled in his skull as he seized the admiral by her throat, lifting her in her manacles. "Yer s'pposed t' stay 'ere an' shaddup, ye bleedin' she-fox!" he snarled, shaking her about by the throat. "Ye shou' stay 'ere an' shu' yer bleedin' trap b'fore I shu' it fer ye!" His paws were closing with dangerous tightness around Tanya's throat, threatening to seal off her windpipe.

A beefy pair of paws closed over Manser's wrists, tugging them away from the vixen's neck. The weasel twisted and struggled in Wylly's grasp, nipping madly at his captain's arms. It was only when Manser sunk his teeth into Wylly's paw that the stoat yelped, letting go as he pressed the wound into his coat. He stared at his first officer, taken aback. He had originally thought the weasel simply had no control over his temper. Now Wylly was beginning to realize the truth: Manser was insane.

The weasel barely paused in lunging for Tox's neck again, viciously attempting to throttle the fleet officer over the shouted threats of her underling. "Guards!" Wylly hollered, wrapping his paw in his cloak to stem the bleeding. The ship shook as two lizard guards thundered into the cabin, their thin tongues tasting the air for the scent of blood. Wylly motioned at Manser with his good paw. "Grab 'im," he ordered, his brown coat turning a dirty maroon as the blood soaked through. "Throw 'im in the brig an' lock 'im up. No food 'r water fer a week." The guards nodded, pouncing on the maniac mustelid with an intensity they usually reserved for belligerent slaves. Within a few seconds the hissing, spitting weasel was clasped around his paws and neck, the massive claws almost elongating his spine as they suspended him below his skull.

Wylly watched in a sour mood as the weasel was pulled from the cabin, still jerking in an attempt to reach his captors, before following them out. He paused at the door, turning to look back at the two commanding officers. There was none of the warmth or jollity he had exhibited earlier; even his cockiness was gone, replaced by a steely glare. "You ever do tha' again," he growled quietly, "an' I'll drag 'im back up 'ere. An' this time I won' restrain 'im." The door slammed shut behind him.

Holding his paw carefully in his makeshift bandage, Wylly paused for a deep breath of sea air before returning to the Hide. The Ironclaw was still waiting with his captors, watching the captain's approach with that unreadable glint in his eye. This time Wylly made no attempt at banter; his mood had been exhausted at this point. He stopped short of the prosthetic-equipped fox, glaring at him evenly. "I'll give ye one chance, Ironclaw," he growled evenly. "Ye can tell me yer real reason fer comin' 'ere, or ye can join me mate down in the brig. An' mind ye, 'e's in none too fine a mood righ' now."



Jeshal the Ironclaw
Had Wylly not been so distracted himself he would have seen Jeshal visibly flinch at the shrill scream that exploded from the other ship. That voice, that hellishly whispery voice the admiral only used when she was on the verge of breaking point, the scream was just an amplification. It almost turned his tail in a knot. He was able to wipe the look of excruciation from his face just as Filor took his leave to investigate.

He waited and listened, trying to pick out what was going on amongst the commotion. It was not long before a maddened weasel was dragged out and Wylly followed close behind. His mood had greatly soured, the Ironclaw noticed, as he marched back to the Hide, clutching a wounded paw.

"I'll give ye one chance, Ironclaw. Ye can tell me yer real reason fer comin' 'ere, or ye can join me mate down in the brig. An' mind ye, 'e's in none too fine a mood righ' now."

Knowing that to do so would spell captivity, Jeshal showed no sign of being intimidated. He raised his chin to better look the captain of the slaver ship in the eyes and responded, "Ye 'ave yerself a mite o' insubordination there, so ye do, an' that be not a pretty way ter be conducive fer the runnin' of a ship. Plenty opportunity fer a beast o' brains to be takin' positions. Like one o' these fine beasts for example..." He smirked, indicating the oblivious guards. "But that be by the by. Ye want to know why I be here?"

The Ironclaw swept his gaze about the deck to be sure only Wylly was within earshot.

"It be all for them. I be wantin' ter get at Freedom and Ryalor. Whether it be by turnin' all their friends an' colleagues against 'em, risin' in the ranks through good service jus' ter get close enough fer nobeast ter stand in me way, or some other means that won't get the Emperor an' 'is laws huntin' me down, that be me modus operandi. Kill them if ye want, but I've spent me time diggin' around ter find the beasts what would pay the highest amounts fer delivery o' them alive. Especially Ryalor."

It was all mostly truth. Except he didn't give a fig for Freedom, and nothing in this life would cause him to sell Tanya to anybeast but himself. If he could worm his way into Wylly's trust, he could be anything. He could be a hero or a villain. He could be both. He could be neither. If he double-crossed Filor and saved the crew, the favour would take him closer. On the other paw he could betray the crew, persuade Wylly to give him Ryalor and flee the claw of the Imperium, but it was far riskier.

No, unless any other beast's plans got there first, Jeshal was going to play the goodbeast. He planned to save them all. Just not yet. And if this won the admiral's heart, then the pain he could bring would be all the sweeter.​