Open The Bilge In The Bucket First Day

[Perila Z. Mogul]

"Greatsword, huh?" muttered the shopkeep, looking the blade over. "Hm." he said, noticing a particular emblem. The rat hesitated, and peered up through his spectacles at the girl before him.
The stoat couldn't've been older than 16, wearing a raggy old shirt and breeches, a worn Naval jacket, and sea boots to match, all barely fitting on her. She was also scruffy and covered in dried muck, which contrasted oddly with the white, intact smile she beamed at him.
"Where'd you get this?"
"Donation." she chuckled, trying on a wicked smile, and ran a thumb across her throat.
"Well..." said the rat, looking down over the prize laid out before him again. He scratched his chin with a chewed claw. "Alright... so long as th' blaggard's dead, I s'pose there ain't no harm. I'll give ye thirty gilders fer it."
He was expecting a scoff and a counteroffer but the youth made an excited noise and thrust out a paw instead. "Sean Waters!" she exclaimed. "Ye've got a deal, sir!"
"Alright," the shopkeep said, ignoring the paw to mark something down with a quill. "An' what's yore name? We keep a good record here in Cuttsworth an' Bludgeon."
"Bluddfang." she said, and flashed another roguish smile as she retracted her paw. "Bluddfang W. Bluddpaw. That's wid two 'd's. An' a 'u.'"
"O-kay..." the rat said, spelling it with two 'o's and one 'd', thank you.
He pulled out a small coffer, and counted out thirty gilders for her. "There you are, thirty gilders. Don't spend it all in one place, an' please consider us again fer all yore pawnshop needs."
"You got it!" Bluddfang said, snatching the gilders eagerly up, stuffing them down her shirt, and racing outside.
"Huh." said the rat, sitting back down and returning to the tranquility of his shop. Several clocks clicked quietly, and he shook his head and pulled out a book. "Our kits get dumber by th' season." he said, and turned the page.

Bluddfang made her way down the twisty street, chuckling to herself and flipping a coin. The Trenches were just like she'd expected, winding streets, cluttered shops, laborers and businessbeasts scurrying busily about.
She wanted a dagger, and she slipped into an Acme Blades store next, where a vixen eagerly sold her an ugly cutter with a razor's edge and a handle like a kitchen knife, along with a stiff leather sheath.
She slid her belt through the hoop, and the weight of the knife against her sent a thrill through her heart as the stoat continued on her way.
The Bilge next, yes, that's where she'd go. All the best and worst times to be had in Bully started with the Bilge, so it only made sense that that's where she'd find some adventure.
She bought some non-fish fishsticks along the way, and they were as non-fishy and greasy as she imagined as she gobbled them down eagerly. They tasted like oversalted rubber, but she ate every last one like a starved escaped convict, which... she supposed she was, in a way.
She wondered idly about her brother, wondered if she'd even recognize him or him her, if they'd even find each other in this big, bustling city... or if they'd just walk right past and never even know.
Bluddfang imagined he was doing something boring, like desk work. He always was somewhat the type... give him the adventure of a lifetime and he'd find some way to make it boring and play it safe.
The stoat eventually walked long enough to find herself before the weathered doors of the Bilge in the Bucket, the walls covered in stains, scars and vomit, the stench and noises inside almost overwhelming.
With a racing heart, Bluddfang W. Bluddpaw stepped on in, shoved through the thick crowd of sailors and toughs all drinking and smoking, jabbering and guffawing, shoving and spitting, and found her way to the bar.
A weasel with bulging biceps and a fixed scowl looked the young one over.
"What'll it be, sugar?" she said, after a while.
"Give me your cheapest, strongest grog," Bluddfang said, eyes wide, shaking with excitement, as she laid a coin on the counter.
The barmaid swept the coin up and slammed a tankard down. "Enjoy." she said, and turned to the next customer.
The small stoat, grinning like a madbeast, hopped onto an overturned stool in a corner and took a sip.
Okay, she thought. That was terrible, but let's try a little more.
Bluddfang stuck her snout into the froth and took a big gulp, and immediately puked onto the nearest beast's boots.
"Aw, fiddlesticks!" she said, flushing immediately and stumbling over her words. Puke dripped from her whiskers. "I- I mean Hellgates! My bad, mate!"

 

[Aiken Brudenell]

The fair, genteel stoat looked around suspiciously, seeming much like an honest soul stuck beside the infernal legions of the Gates below.

“You know I hate this place.”

“Hah,” his companion laughed, a bitter, mirthless sound such as Aiken would have expected from beyond the veil of the mortal world.

The second beast, another stoat, about the same height and age, threw her head back to finish her drink, a shot of the stuff they called Kinnon’s Shadow, a dark and dirty rum that no doubt drew much of its color and flavor from whatever tea or pond scum it was they watered it down with behind the counter. It was supposed to be tea. She swallowed with something of a shudder, audibly exhaling to clear the burn before speaking to him again.

“Spoken like a beast who could afford so much better.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I had the story, Adelyn. The Cinder Building fire. That was my job.”

The slender young stoat pointed to himself, as though some direction was needed.

“My work! My leads! Not my fault I didn’t get the commission. Not my fault it wasn't published. How was I supposed to know Crooked Coffers was a major donor for the Smelt? I thought Niceties ran the paper.”

He finally took a sip from his own drink, a simple ale probably brewed from whatever bushels and leaves the brewer had found out on break. It was malty and bitter in all the wrong ways. Aiken made a face and then drank more of it before continuing.

“Already can’t afford this. Rent’s gone up on account of the Ministry finally shutting down the counterfeit art gallery next door. Probably shouldn’t have written about that one either.”

Adelyn laughed, though there was more life in it this time.

“Maybe you’re in the wrong profession, huh?”

She smiled at him, trying to cushion the blow, even as the proud freelance reporter frowned back at her.

“At least it’s honest. Don’t have to turn away every time a Fogey walks by.”

“No,” she breathed back, pushing her empty mug back towards him. “But they’re hardly the worst enemies to make.”

Aiken looked down to her empty drink, perplexed for a moment.

“You don’t think I can afford another round, do you?”

“Ugh.”

The stoatess got up from the table, fishing some coins from her pocket to cover the cost of her beverage.

“How about we try again when you can, Aiken. If my father knew you were half as broke as you are…”

She shook her head with a sigh, and was off and out towards the door before Aiken could protest.

The male stoat swore, almost as well as a Bully Harbor native might have. Some things he had learned faster than others. The rest of his ale went fast. Too fast, for too little impact. He swore again.

Without thinking, he went back to the bar, trying to get the bartender’s attention. He needed another drink – something to push the worries from his head, at least for a while. To take the cold, trepidatious feeling from his paws and replace it with a warm, friendly feeling in his stomach.

He heard the puking before it happened. Before he could smell it, before it was all over his boots.

Aiken looked down at them, swore again. He was getting very good at it. His blood roused, he turned to shout at the beast next to him, to finally let the world know he was done taking its misfortune. What he saw made him soften, such that he actually felt somewhat guilty.

She was just a kit, it looked like. Vomit-covered whiskers aside, still rather out of place for the Bilge – albeit mostly because kits didn’t often favor the taste of the booze nor have the gilders to pay for it. Her obvious hand-me-down clothes hung off in her in all the dumbest ways. Oddly enough, her teeth were white and clean – and she wasn’t missing any, like the typical Bilge-goer often did.

“Aren’t you a little young to be puking all over other beast’s boots?”

He looked at her so quizzically, he might have given himself away as a journalist even without his penchant for questioning.

Come to think of it, she looked a little familiar, under all the grime.