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Had Arthur meant any dry humour in his comment it was lost on Berchar, who shot the marten an anxious glare. Watching cat and fox brawl had set his own teeth on edge, fuzzy tailtip puffed with worry as he considered his friend enduring such torment merely for his sake. He knew Coddy to be a bully and no renowned scrapper himself, only big enough to overpower the jerboa and intimidate him, but even so he had youth on his side. As much as he wanted to trust that Arthur was no fool it was difficult not to shake concerns after having seen his injuries of late.
Furthermore, what was this even going to mean for his future? He nibbled on a claw, already mentally rehearsing excuses he would have to give his friend if he darted home now to begin gathering his belongings. Coddy, were he to be beaten, would be certain to be in a foul mood for the next week. What an absolute mess tonight would be.
Berchar had no time to voice his concerns: the match was over and the preparations ran away before him without the opportunity to interject. Crowded between baying onlookers, still jostling and bantering over their wins and losses from the previous betting session, the jerboa watched on with bated breath.
Codtail for his part made a great show of playing up to the crowd in the hopes that he could curry favour with their support to bolster his own nerves. The oldster seemed uncertain of what he should be doing and the weasel had at least witnessed plenty of matches in these places to follow expectations: he waved to the baying assembly with bared fangs, bouncing nimbly on his paws as though well-versed in the art of combat. It was all for show. “This is yer own fault, oldster!” he taunted. Then, presuming Arthur’s inexperience, decided to offer no space for thought and launched himself at the marten before any formal start could be called, sailing in with a jab for his jaw.
Furthermore, what was this even going to mean for his future? He nibbled on a claw, already mentally rehearsing excuses he would have to give his friend if he darted home now to begin gathering his belongings. Coddy, were he to be beaten, would be certain to be in a foul mood for the next week. What an absolute mess tonight would be.
Berchar had no time to voice his concerns: the match was over and the preparations ran away before him without the opportunity to interject. Crowded between baying onlookers, still jostling and bantering over their wins and losses from the previous betting session, the jerboa watched on with bated breath.
Codtail for his part made a great show of playing up to the crowd in the hopes that he could curry favour with their support to bolster his own nerves. The oldster seemed uncertain of what he should be doing and the weasel had at least witnessed plenty of matches in these places to follow expectations: he waved to the baying assembly with bared fangs, bouncing nimbly on his paws as though well-versed in the art of combat. It was all for show. “This is yer own fault, oldster!” he taunted. Then, presuming Arthur’s inexperience, decided to offer no space for thought and launched himself at the marten before any formal start could be called, sailing in with a jab for his jaw.
