Open Duel The Trenches Fight Club

[Fanjo Mercytooth]

Here the cat began to show his skill. Fanjo’s feint failed to fully pay off, leaving space for his opponent’s strike. To the echoes of the crowd’s ‘oooooh’ he stumbled back with a grunt. On instinct, he switched to defence, trying to gauge where he thought the next blows would land. If he could buy enough time and get lucky enough to regain the advantage, he might have him. Otherwise, it had been good while it lasted. He hadn’t been fool enough to bet everything on himself.​

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

“Y-you what?” Panic suffused Berchar’s face, long whiskers twitching rapidly as he gaped at Arthur. The emotional part of him, the part longing for friendship and community and justice, squirmed gleefully at the thought of seeing Coddy pasted into the unrelenting floor of the warehouse. To his eyes the marten was big and confident: two things his bully of a flatmate couldn’t hope to be. Responsibility argued that this was unprofessional, neither the time nor place and what if Arthur was hurt as a result of his own problems? What if Coddy was so injured he’d never pay rent again? There were too many variables, too much potential for things to go horribly wrong and he’d not the backup plans to-

He blinked. Arthur was gone. With a squeak Berchar hopped after him, grabbing up rough bandages for the marten’s paws before he hastened to catch up. Despite his own misgivings he knew his friend was a stubborn sort: better to be prepared. “Arthur! You really don’t have to do this, not here – won’t it be bad for your reputation?”

Codtail lifted his nose at the call, wiry brows furrowed in bemusement as he stared at the marten for a few long seconds before Berchar popped up near him. “Eh?” He sniffed, spitting on the floor. “I ain’t boxin’ with no old timer.” Berchar opened his mouth to contest that Arthur was only ten or so years the weasel’s senior, realised it would make little difference and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What you even want a scrap for, gran’pa?”

 

[Tanya Keltoi]

The atmosphere changed significantly: ice would have formed on every surface in a six-foot radius of Tanya. She did not work to mask her feelings as she usually would, hackles risen and tail flashing as both single and half-ear stood stiff. She wanted Falun to see the response, wanted to provide him one final out. The revelation had caused momentary alarm on her features, but there was little time to grill Falun on the finer details, to ascertain what was truth and what was purely incendiary. He’d wanted to get a reaction and he’d have one.

Funny: for all she’d gathered from her husband about Falun, and from what she’d heard of Anithias’ final years, it was ironic to hear this alignment in their apparent disdain for her niece.

She cared about the younger generation with a maternal ferocity and a deep loyalty: unfortunately for the large todd that didn’t extend so far as to letting taunts lie. He was old enough to know better; she was happy to teach him. The dangerously level tone she had taken before was possessed of a sharper edge now. “Son, I’d watch that mouth of yours before somebeast closes it for you. Take poor Orion here as example.”