Duel Vulpinsula & Surroundings Insanely Rich Area Forged in Fur and Flame

[Darragh Harper]

Darragh stretched, seeming to elongate himself as he reached, windmilled his arms, touched his toes, and cracked his joints with relish. He moved out into the centre of the room, and bounced a little from one footpaw to the other. His tail flicked with an impatient energy.

“So! First rule o’ fightin’,” Darragh began. Then, he hesitated. “Well... actually, the first rule o’ fightin’ is ‘Don’t Get Into Fights,’ but a jack’s gotta make do, so let’s skip that one.”

Darragh cleared his throat a little self-consciously. As much as he was Swifttail’s friend, it felt odd to be teaching a beast older than himself. “Ahem… well, seein’ as you will be in a fight…”

The stoat bit his lip, and paused again. The next advice he wanted to give was that Swifttail had to accept that he was going to get hurt. In boxing and brawling, you were bound to take hits, no matter how good you thought you were. If there was a knife or dagger involved, you would be rushed to a surgeon afterwards if you survived, no ifs or buts about it. Fighting in real life was a messy business, not the daredevil heroics of serials printed on pulp.

It wasn’t a fight-fight though, or at least not the kind Darragh was used to. It was a duel to first blood, with swords. That meant Darragh’s expertise would have to be limited to where Swift was putting his head, his body, and his footpaws. Bobbing and weaving, dodging and pivoting, perhaps even a bit of tumbling.

“Alright, I have a better way of goin' about this!” Darragh said firmly, taking up his stance. “I prefer practice to theory, and it’s better you see for yourself how this works. So… hit me. And watch what I do closely!”

The stoat raised his arms to shield his head, and shifted his weight back and forth from his right footpaw forward, to his left footpaw back. He smiled at Swifttail in what he hoped was encouragement. He was sure things would click into place in the fox’s mind once he saw the techniques demonstrated.

All Darragh needed was for Swifttail to punch him in the face!

 

[SwifttailTheFox]

Swifttail couldn’t help it... the moment Darragh stumbled over his own “first rule,” laughter bubbled out of him. The stoat’s awkward mix of seriousness and sheepish charm was disarming in the best way. It took the edge off the nerves curling in his gut.

"Aye, I’ll keep that one in mind," he managed between chuckles, tail swaying lazily behind him. "Rule one, don’t get in fights. Might be a bit late for that, though."

Swifttail watched Darragh stretch and bounce about the hall, tail flicking in time with every jittery movement. The stoat looked like a spring wound tight! The sight alone pulled a laugh from the fox’s throat and, before he knew it, he was mirroring a few of those stretches himself the best that he could muster. Awkwardly, stiff and sore, but grinning all the same.

"Ye move like ye’ve got a storm bottled up inside ye," he teased lightly, rolling his shoulders until something in his back popped. "If I can learn half o’ that, maybe I’ve a chance after all."

He tried to follow the rhythm, paws shifting, tail counterbalancing as Darragh demonstrated. It was clumsy, sure, but there was something fun in it. A flicker of that reckless, kit-like energy that begged for tumbling and play fights in the dust.

Then Darragh said it.

"Hit me."

Swift froze mid-motion, ears perked, then flattened in disbelief. "Hit ye? Ye’re serious?"

The stoat only smiled that maddening, confident smile.

Swift’s own grin faltered. His wrapped paw flexed out of habit, the ache a dull reminder of what carelessness could cost him. He didn’t want to hurt his friend. Darragh was helping him, and all of this… it was supposed to be about learning, not lashing out... But that’s what he’d have to do, wasn’t it?

The thought settled in like a cold weight. This stupid duel. The smug gleam in Greeneye’s eyes. Silvertongue caught between them like some prize to be won. The bile rose within him before he could stop it. Anger, hot and sharp, bled into his veins until it drowned out everything else.

How dare he!? How DARE he put him through such unnecessary brutishness!

His jaw clenched. His breathing quickened.

HOW DARE HE try to orchestrate his life. To force him to stoop to such a level just to set the fox that he felt sorry for free.

Suddenly the stoat wasn’t standing there anymore. Darragh’s grin and stance blurred and twisted, morphing in his rage until all he could see was Greeneye.

The bastard’s laugh rang in his ears, booming over the echo of his own pulse. His claws curled tight. His tail lashed hard.

Without thinking, Swifttail surged forward. The air seemed to thicken around him as his paw drew back, weight driving through his legs, everything his body could muster pouring into that one furious motion.

He didn’t mean to swing so hard… but when the anger finally left him, it did so through his fist. Aimed right where the clever stoat had planned it to be.

 

[Darragh Harper]

Darragh’s right footpaw never left the ground, as he pulled back his left in a quick pivot. Swifttail’s fist whiffed past the stoat’s muzzle with an inch to spare. The fox had put all his energy in that swing, and left himself open. Darragh jabbed a right paw towards Swifttail’s face…

Bap.

Darragh gently tapped his friend’s forehead. He was delighted, both at himself for a textbook dodge, and at Swifttail for actually trying to hit him. For a moment he thought he was going to have to coach Swiftie through the it’s okay to punch your friends stage of boxing. The fox had a good, burning fire in him, which set a scheme stirring in the stoat’s head:

Swifttail = NEW SPARRING PARTNER??

“Good! See how little effort it took me to move? If Greeneye’s anythin’ so aggressive as he looks, you can wear the little blighter down, if playin’ for time’s your strategy,” Darragh chattered brightly. “Let’s go again, aye? This time, keep up that speed, but not so heavy! We’ve got a long way to go…”

Swing! Duck! Jab! Weave! Feint!

The dusty old hall echoed with the thump of paws on the waxed floorboards, breaths and grunts of exertion, and Darragh’s excitable voice guiding Swifttail through the motions. The stoat lost his shirt - there was only one open window, and this was going to be hot work - yet somehow his hat stayed on his head. He kept his smile on too - he had a feeling it was annoying Swifttail, which was a good lesson in catching an opponent off-balance.

“See! As soon as your opponent gets into a comfortable rhythm, throw it off!” Darragh shouted, and almost immediately had to take his own advice and duck. “Haha! Very good! Come on now, don’t let me recover!”

Once he had demonstrated enough of the basics, Darragh decided there was no better way to help Swifttail learn and memorise than through practice. He called for a quick break, then they began anew. This time, it was Darragh throwing the punches, and Swifttail dodging. The stoat was a little monster about it too - starting with a few easy, telegraphed motions to get his student into the swing of it, before rapidly changing into rapid-fire combinations to test the fox’s reflexes and forethought.

“Keep your paws up! Up!” Darragh yelled, pulling back his fist just a whisker’s length from cracking the fox’s nose. “C’mon, don’t cross your footpaws! Don’t just watch my fists, watch all of me! Watch how I shift my weight! Whether I snarl or lick my lips or fold back my ears before I attack! Your opponent will have tells, and you need to learn ‘em fast!”

Though Darragh didn’t say anything about it, the pace and fury of his assault was mounting on Swifttail. He buzzed like a wasp around the fox, forcing them both to focus heavily on their footpaw-work. Darragh knew Swifttail was going to need to be in good condition for the rest of his week of training, not to mention the fight itself. This was an exhibition in technique, not a true match. However, he let a few less-than-gentle blows to the arms and body land, when he judged Swift needed to be pushed. He had to keep the fox’s fire burning and his blood flowing quick. So much of a fight depended on the mindset, and right now, Swifttail needed to see Darragh as his opponent, first and foremost.

"Do y’see how much can happen in three minutes? Your duel could be over in seconds if you aren’t completely focused,” Darragh said, after they’d taken another breather. “You’re getting the hang of the technique. But Greeneye won’t be yellin’ at you where to put your footpaws if you step wrong. So… let’s finish this out with you showin’ me you can win a fight. No paw-holdin’, I won’t correct your mistakes, you’ll have to live with them.”

Darragh touched his floppy faded-blue cap, grinned, and took up his stance. “You’ve got three minutes to knock me hat off. Come and get me.”

This idea had come to the poet in a moment of inspiration. Technically, Swifttail didn’t need to learn how to land a successful punch, and he was throwing himself wholeheartedly into learning the stoat’s dodging tricks. But Darragh felt it was important Swifttail learn what it felt like to win a real fight, or at least as real as Darragh would allow in training. Too much of the taste of victory could make a beast arrogant, but a beast that never tasted it had already lost in his own mind.

 

[SwifttailTheFox]

Swifttail blinked as his fist cut through empty air... Then bap! Darragh’s paw met his forehead with the gentlest of taps.

He froze, then barked out a startled laughand rubbed the spot with mock indignation. The fox’s tail wagging playfully.
"Aye, I see that… Put way too much into that one!"

He straightened as Darragh explained, nodding along, the advice sinking in deep. It echoed Kaii’s words from the night before. It wasn’t about striking hardest or fastest, but outlasting. Outthinking. Let the brute wear himself thin, then strike the opening.

When Darragh called for another round, Swift was ready. The hall echoing again with the sounds of the two sparing beasts, paws thudding against wood in rhythmic patters.

Swing. Duck. Jab. Weave.

The stoat’s energy was maddeningly contagious. That grin and boundless confidence spurred something in Swift that he hadn’t felt in far too long. Pupils dilated and attentive, he found himself laughing mid-dodge, breath coming quick but light, his muscles warming and flowing where they’d been stiff the day before. For the first time since the duel had been declared, the fear that had dogged him seemed to falter.

He missed as often as he hit. Took a few blows, gave a few back. But he was learning. Feeling the rhythm of it. Starting to understand how to call moves before they happened. His paws moved faster, his balance steadier, and that smile on the stoat’s face only urged him on.

Then came the challenge.

Darragh’s tone shifted to something a lot sharper and more daring. Three minutes. No corrections. No guidance. Time for Swifttail to prove himself and knock that hat off!

He drew a long breath, tail flicking out for balance. He widened his stance, knees bent slightly, the air electric between them. Then he moved. At first the exchanges were light and testing. Darragh darted in with quick jabs and feints, and Swift kept his paws up, learning to read the stoat’s tells. A sway here, a sidestep there. All the little victories in every narrow escape. He was panting heavily, but his grin only widened.

A minute passed. Their movements quickened and he began to strike out more frequently, foot paws scuffing lightly against the old floorboards. Swift struck high, then low, driving Darragh to shift his footing. The stoat countered with a flurry of blows that forced the fox back, but Swift recovered fast, using his tail to steady himself and dart in again.

Another feign in one direction, another rush in another. Then suddenly his paw connected. A glancing hit that brushed Darragh’s cheek and tipped the floppy blue hat askew, hanging precariously close to falling off. Swift’s eyes lit up, chest heaving, pride blooming fierce and bright.

"Ha...!" The sound left him half-formed and breathless.

That moment of triumph cost him.

The stoat moved like lightning during his brief loss of focus.

WHAM!

Stars exploded behind his right eye, pain blossoming outward from where the clean, stunning shot sent the world spinning in a flash of white. He staggered back two steps, paw flying to his face as the sound of his own pulse filled his ears. The floor wobbled beneath him for a moment before it came up to meet him as he toppled backward slowly. The ache pulsed deep and hot as he was momentarily floored into silence, sitting down on the floor with his head held downward so that the stoat could not see his face.

 

[Darragh Harper]

Darragh felt his hot-headed excitement get drenched in a bucket of icy water as his fist made a solid connection with Swifttail’s face. He hadn’t been expecting his opponent to just… stop in the midst of a bout, and he had moved to take advantage of it without a second thought. Darragh would never have thrown the fight - it would have been wrong to give the fox false expectations of what it took to win. It was quite ordinary as well for a new boxer to lose their first fight, and the stoat well-remembered getting laid flat-out on his back when he took up the sport seriously. This was supposed to be the moment Darragh proved how much progress Swift had made… not the moment for another harsh lesson. Reality, however, had not given way to the poet’s narrative expectations. Swift had been close, Darragh’s smarting cheek was proof of that. But the fight was over.

“Swift?” Darragh asked in a small voice, crouching down beside his friend. “…Swift? Let me see?”

Darragh put his little white paws on the fox’s, and leaned in to get a peek. Gates, but there was going to be trouble if he’d done some real harm. He hoped dueling wasn’t a fashion that was catching on with his friends. Silvie was going to kill him. Death by lute-bonking. The poet would have to get started on writing his own eulogy.

 

[SwifttailTheFox]

Swifttail stayed unmoving for a few moments longer. Then suddenly, he crooked his head and looked up at the stoat crouched before him. A sly, crooked grin pulling at his muzzle.

Before Darragh could respindy, Swift’s paw shot upward. "Bap!" The hat popped clean off the stoat’s head and tumbled to the floorboards. Swift fell backward with it, laughter bursting out of him in ragged, breathless fits.

He lay there for a moment, paw still clutched to his bruised eye, laughing until the sound broke into a groan. "Gates, Darr... Ye’ really clocked me good…"

His tail flicked behind him, the laughter softening into a grin that still hurt to wear. He pushed himself upright, shaking his head slowly, the ache throbbing just beneath his brow.

"Sorry fer fightin’ dirty there," he said between breaths, voice low but playful. "But an opportunity’s an opportunity, aye?"

He rubbed at his temple, the swelling just starting to bloom, but his tone carried nothing but admiration. "I suppose I lost that one, huh?"

 

[Darragh Harper]

The stoat startled in surprise, and for a moment looked perfectly ridiculous, mouth-half-open with the fur of his hatless head all mussed up. Then Darragh fell back onto his rump and started laughing. Once he’d used up the last of his breath he panted, a grin still on his face.

“Oh, stinkin’ fishsticks, Swift. Silvie’s gonna hang me by my tail when he sees that!” Darragh said as he stood, wincing a little as he caught a peek of the swelling around the fox’s eye. He stretched himself, loosening up his muscles to close the sparring session. He picked up his hat and perched it back over his left ear, then shrugged his shirt back on. “Maybe we can get somethin’ cold on it… Ooh! D’you know the Frosted Whiskers? It’s that new pub with an icehouse! They serve ice in drinks, have you ever tried ice? It’s fun to crunch on it, but sometimes it makes my head absolutely throb, y’know?”

Darragh chattered on as he slunk back out through the window, holding out his arms as if the little stoat really expected to catch the bigger fox should he tumble. “You’re not so bad as a boxer, Swift! You’ve definitely got the arm strength for it, eh? Light on your paws too. You should come spar more often! Good fun, good practice for trouble… o’course don’t forget Rule One, but sometimes there’s a fight on before y’know it. ‘S how I found the Whiskers in the first place. Too much trouble at the Bilge! Too many old soaks, not enough young dames, aye? Well… or young jacks either, but I s’pose you’re not in the market as such. Speaking of, how did you’n’Silvie get together?”

Perhaps he was being a bit nosy, but stoats are rather good at nosing their way into things. Certainly his poetic side was on the edge of the proverbial seat for details of Courtly Romance and Chivalry - the sort of thing he himself had little experience in beyond stories and daydreams. The jills that Darragh had met were typically a lot more… grounded in reality, to put it mildly. Either that, or so far out of the scruffy little jack’s reach that all he could hope to do was dream.

The Frosted Whiskers was new - no doubt constructed on cheap land following one of Bully Harbour’s frequent building fires. It was built in stone and tile, its inner furnishings done handsomely in stained wood. Most of its seating however was outside in a courtyard, which was perfect for watching passers by, and limiting the amount of property damage that could be done in a brawl. It was nowhere near as rough as the Bilge of course - the Bilge being Bully’s oldest haunt of sailors, and so Darragh had heard, even pirates.

“The Volunteer Fire Brigade’s out recruitin’ again,” Darragh gossiped to Swift, nodding his head as they passed a beast in a beaten-up set of orange-painted armour. “And the Smudgies too, I’ve heard, they’re lookin’ to poach likely lads’n’lasses wherever they can. Ooh, there’s still seats! C’mon, my treat. The Iced Juleps are really good and sweet!”

 

[SwifttailTheFox]

Swifttail rubbed at his swelling eye with a wince, the soft flesh beneath his fur already puffing tenderly. Despite the ache, a grin still split his muzzle as they stepped out into the sunlight.

"Gates, Darr… if this is how y’train yer friends, I’ll be wearin’ an eyepatch by week’s end," he said with a rasping chuckle. "Still... worth it. Been a long time since I’ve had that much fun. I’d say we oughta make this a habit, eh? Sparrin’ once a week maybe?"

He flashed a toothy grin, tail flicking behind him as he followed the stoat down the narrow lane. "Next time, though, I’ll be the one gettin’ the first hit, aye?"

When Darragh started talking about cold drinks, Swift stopped mid-step and stared at him like he’d just claimed to enjoy bathing in the harbor in winter. "Cold drinks? Beasts do that by choice?" he said, half in disbelief, half amused.

The idea of drinking something icy after years of boiling water for tea or broth was absurd. And yet… after the workout in that stuffy hall, it didn’t sound so bad. He rolled his shoulders, still sore but loose, and laughed. "Aye, after a good pummel, I’ll take a bit o’ ice. Sounds strangely refreshing."

As they walked, Darragh’s chatter rolled from one topic to another until he veered straight into the subject of jills, jacks, and love. Swift’s ears twitched, the tips burning faintly under his fur. He rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling low.

"Ah, I ain’t much for chasin’ hearts, mate," he said. "Seems they end up findin’ me first."

He hesitated, then reached up and thumbed the amulet that hung around his neck. The amulet that Silvertongue had given him. His tone softened as he went on.

"Silvie was… forward," he admitted with a faint laugh. "First kiss came outta nowhere back on Urk, then the amulet… then he confessed his love to me before the duel... He’s reckless, bright, kind… everything good in this world, even when he don’t see it himself. I just want him safe, y’know? He’s given me more than I ever thought I’d have again."

For a heartbeat, his voice nearly wavered. He hid it behind another laugh, gentle but genuine, as the pub came into view down the street.

When Darragh mentioned the Volunteer Fire Brigade and the Smudgies, Swift hummed softly, eyes following a passing beast in orange armor.

"Good, honest work, that," he murmured. "Doin’ somethin’ bigger’n yerself. Never thought I’d be much use for anythin’ like that… but maybe someday, eh?"

He gave Darragh a little nudge with his elbow, the faintest smile returning. "C’mon then, show me this Frosted Whiskers. Let’s see if they can chill a drink faster’n ye can swing a paw."

 

[Darragh Harper]

If he inferred anything from Swifttail’s reserved reaction to his inquisitiveness, or even heard the waver in his voice, Darragh did not show it. If he had been expecting a rhapsodic tale of Silvertongue’s romantic overtures (possibly literal overtures from the bard), it didn’t seem to trouble him either that Swifttail kept his privacy. Perhaps there was no grand courtly drama to embellish the tale - just kindness in kindred hearts.

Predictably, Darragh got his brain freeze.

“Ow. Oawowowwww,” Darragh groaned, his eyes shut fast, a chunk of ice dancing on his tongue. He crunched it between his teeth, grimaced and rubbed the bridge of his snout, then pulled half a dozen absurd faces, settling on a weak, pained smile. “Good… good stuff! How’s the eye lookin’?”

A few chunks of ice fished out of the pewter cup and wrapped in a handkerchief served to keep Swift’s bruise cool. Darragh fretted over it, trying to convince himself that the puffing really wasn’t all that noticeable, and it was probably going to go down quick anyway, and Swift didn’t look like he was hurting, but what if he was and just being really subtle about it?

Getting a black eye is cool, actually. Jills dig injuries that they can fawn over. Jacks what fancy other jacks probably appreciate the masculine rough-and-tumble qualities of a facial bruise too. Silvie definitely won’t be mad. He’ll think Swifttail is tough, and that he must have beaten little Darragh into mincemeat for just one black eye in return. He will smooch it better with his long fox snout and tell Swift what a hero he is. He won’t. Be. Mad.

The Iced Juleps at least were as refreshing as promised. Darragh was a bit of a crazed stoat to enjoy them, but he was in good company, as many of Bully Harbour’s finest nutcases also stopped in to enjoy their cold drinks. The poet tried to keep up his cheerful demeanour, but as the ice turned to slush, and then to the last diluted drips of his drink, it was clear that all Swifttail’s troubles were weighing on him heavily.

“He cracked his ribs y’know, in the battle on Urk. He’s a madbeast when he fights, aye, be prepared for a burst of aggression, but you might be able to wind him in a prolonged bout,” Darragh said, scowling at his cup as though he could divine Greeneye’s reflection in the metal. “I don’t mean to fret, I know I ain’t yer mum… but yer sort of, I dunno, I think of all the Foskateers as a bit o’ family, aye?”

Darragh paused to take a deep breath, made eye contact with Swift, and got out what was on his mind all at once, his accent growing thicker with his emotions. “This rat seems bent on gettin’ rid of you. I wouldn’t spend late nights noplace dark’n’quiet. If you want, y’could stay over at the Sedge’s if him or any roughs turn up at your place. I’m allowed guests t’stay within reason, and I know Azalea already loves you. Or I could write to me brother, he only lives a short way from town. I wish I could offer you the whole Harper household to keep a watch out, but the clan’s mostly back in Marquistry Cape. If he doesn’t stick to the rules o’ duelin’… well I can be right ungentlebeastly m’self sometimes, just as a statement o’ fact.”