Glimpse Of The Future (Old VI Thread)

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

(Old VI thread where we imagined some alternate futures for our characters. Some of them might hit pretty close to home considering things that happened to some of these characters now we're set ahead in time! Warnings for a heckton of angst and some character deaths. Mentions: Anithias Freedom, Jeb, Urel, Julia Freedom, Falun and Marianna (now Furotazzi), Jeshal the Ironclaw, Zilaco Wyndshard, Fafnir Harlgren, Xhavek Mokorai, Tanya Rainblade-Ryalor (now Keltoi), Armina Rogue (Vaelora Ryalor), Brek Larks, Vyrsa Rysk, Rijard M. Chaos, Sokea Tyttonimi, Àille Rainblade-Ryalor, Valdrisk Rainblade-Ryalor, and Caden Freemont)​

GLIMPSE OF THE FUTURE

First post Bugs 26, Yr. 1729 – though doesn’t pertain to the content of this thread

Anithias Freedom
((This thread is an old one on the Hide, and it comes around every VI generation or so. Since the current crew hasn't done this thread before, Tox and I thought it was prudent to reintroduce it. Essentially you write what you see in your characters' distant future, either all in one post or across multiple posts. If your character has multiple possible futures you can write those as well, doing alts and the whole shebang. But remember, the future is always in motion...))


Anithias' Future: Sentenced Dreams

"...say you were injured by the blatant assault from Mr Newgent?"

"Objection! Your Honour, the barrister is leading the witness!"

Judge Freedom gazed irritably down at the objecting attorney, a middle-aged weaselmaid whose ferocious face only began to give some picture of her personality. The case at paw, a custody hearing stemming from a divorce that had taken far too long to settle, had dragged on for the past three days, eating up a full thirty-two hours of the Judge's time. Twenty-three hours and forty minutes (the Judge had enough time and boredom to count them) of that time had merely been the two barristers bickering pointlessly over slips of words and what exactly "haddock" meant in the context of "a haddock-nosed tripe". They'd had to call in former Constable Urel, Ret., over that one. It had been some small pleasure to the Judge to see his old shipmate again, though he regretted it had to be in a court setting.

"Your Honour?"

It was that detestable weaselmaid again. "Overruled," the Judge said shortly. He turned his narrow gaze on the barrister representing the former Mrs Newgent. "You may continue, Mr Hercen." He allowed some amount of venom to seep into his voice. Cassius Hercen had followed magnificently in his father's pawsteps. He was a legend in the criminal court, having sent eighteen innocent beasts to prison and set an even greater number of criminals free. Swiftly he was upstaging his legendary father as the most despised barrister in Bully Harbour.

Hercen nodded smugly at the Judge, continuing the loud questioning of his client. The Judge zoned out again, expertly doodling on his notebook and gazing out the high windows toward the harbour. The Hide wasn't in port that day, but he still found himself looking to the Imperial Docks as if to spot the fine golden ship sailing past the breakwaters. She had a new captain now, somebeast whom Freedom had never heard of and was pretty sure he wouldn't like if they ever met, and a new crew, replacing the generation that had moved on. Time had changed everything about Bully Harbour, and Anithias wasn't sure he liked it.

"...Honour? Your Honour!"

"Hmm?" Freedom was jerked from his wandering.

"Your Honour, I wish to object!"

Anithias sighed, not even bothering to listen to her reason.

"Overruled."

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

Judge Freedom unlocked the back door to Freedom Manor, entering through the kitchen. The hired staff was off by now, gone home to their families in the Slups or wherever they lived. The house was still lit, as it was every hour of the night until the Judge decreed otherwise. Usually the Freedom family could be heard moving around, either in the parlor or upstairs. There was far too much empty space in the house for just the family of four – Julia and her nine siblings had been raised comfortably in one such house, Anithias and his six brothers in another. They'd converted many of the rooms into libraries for Anithias' massive collection, but even he was beginning to have trouble justifying the space.

The Judge, now free of his powder wig and black robes, walked cautiously into the parlor. It was brightly lit, as was the custom of the house, but vacant. Anithias crossed to the coffee table, where a small notepad rested. Julia's quick, elegant pawwriting dashed across the page in strokes, leaving its message.

Nithy-

Doctor Sanchez called me in for an emergency. Should be back sometime tonight. Marianna's at a friend's, no need to worry. Falun's gone somewhere, probably a need to worry there. I've given him a key to the front doors so you'll know once he's home – you still need to have that creaking fixed!

I hope the case went well! Hope Hercen didn't give you too much grief. Chef left a roast on the slow oven, it should still be good.

-Julia xoxo

Anithias smiled at the note. Julia had gotten her dream position at Pyrostoat Memorial Hospital a few years after Anithias took up his tenure as a Judge. At first she had been reluctant to leave off caring for their two kits, who were now approaching adulthood, but eventually she had given in to her dream. Marianna hadn't seemed to have suffered for it; she was now an admirable seventeen seasons old, one of the sharpest journalistic minds at her prep school, and wielded a dangerous combination of her mother's never-miss-a-detail attitude and her father's subtle cynicism. Falun, on the other paw, had become a trouble spot. He was rarely seen to come home without one (or, in one memorable case, two) vixen on his arm, much to the disapproval of his mother and the hostility of his father. It was a situation far out of control, one which the Freedom parents had no idea how to combat.

Anithias sighed, rubbing his temples as he stalked toward the wine cupboard. As for him... Anithias' life hadn't quite turned out as he'd wanted it to. After he lost the Hide, he managed to wrangle his way into a judge's seat through a combination of political influence and pleading to the ministers. His life had generally sloped from there; he'd sat and watched as his family moved on to accomplish their dreams, while he was stuck in the profession he had never intended upon for his life.

Uncorking a bottle, Anithias poured a glass as he stalked toward his armchair by the fire. Tonight would be his night to drink, drink to his memories as he stoked the funeral pyre of his dreams.



Jeshal the Ironclaw
((I have so many futures to write. Here be one of Jeshal's alternate futures, a highly ridiculous and awful one ;3))

Future 1: Dark Ambition

Excerpt from The Saturday Evening Smelt Thermidor 4, 1740. Issue 11918.


A Newe Age Of Prosperitee?
By Tingo Fringenose

Today commences a new era for our beloved Imperium as once again our immortal Emperor chooses himself a new number, and even, to our delight and surprise, a new name! By now you all will know his Grace’s latest embellishments, but for those of you who still fear to step out of doors since The Greate Vulpinsula-Tookumberry Warre, I trust you will get your slave goodbeast to fetch you this edition from your local Poste Box (may it not be stolen from your porch).

May this day be a positive monument following some of the tragic events that have plagued this past decade. We mourn the loss of the once Imperium-loyal Skeered Of Nothing, a splendid ship whose crew have deserted with her in direct defiance of the Emperor’s choice to have another well-deserved coronation. The BlackShip and Golden Hide remain with us, captained by One-Eyed Zilaco and the ruthless Fafnir Harlgren, having returned from his leave. Admiral Xhavek Mokorai commands the fleets after the unfortunate proceedings that led to Captain Freedom’s resignation and the committing of previous Admiral Ryalor to the Imperial Asylum. Some say it was little wonder, what with the brutal murders that befell her son, daughter and even goddaughter, Armina. The icing on the ruined cake was perhaps the loss of her title, Last Quartermaster, within the Black Five. What remained of the Guard was forced to disband, the Emperor sensibly realising the danger of having too many close associates. Instead, we celebrate the appointment of once crime-syndicate MAUL to be the guardians of his Grace’s security.

What name has our Grace chosen for himself? Why, none other than the glorious Jeshal, in memory of the late Ironclaw known to be within the Director’s Men, who mysteriously disappeared several months ago. We pray that he is safe, even though many deemed him an unsavoury and unpredictable character, but he is feared deceased. Even so, let us sing our praises for the great Emperor Jeshal, the First, for he wishes to make of our Imperium a clean slate for progress. May the Blessings of His Grace tumble down upon you like an iron fog...



Brek Larks
"Ready the sails Mr. Grey!" Brek called out from behind the wheel of the Unfortunate's Luck II. He had become the captain of the ship since his uncle had left to marry a certain vixen whose name Brek kept forgetting. It was fun to be captain, getting to order beasts around, calling out orders, and forcing the troublesome crew beasts into the brig.

The Luck was not a navy ship, and Brek did miss his life as a navy beast, but he always stayed loyal to the crown. Whenever another ship was in need of help against pirates of what he used to call woodlanders that sailed the seas nowadays.

The horrible smaller critters had finally stopped to try to live in the Imperium; they earned money faster while avoiding constant raiding from the navy beasts. And as they made more shiny coins they managed to build their own ships, small in size on account of the lack of bigger beasts unless a badger was aboard. The little war ships sailed at blinding speed, but when it came to arms, there ships were no match.

Brek remembered such raids; he remembered all he used to do as a boy in the harbour. The daily assignments as a crew beast, his former job as a Fogey, the day Anithias became a captain, and the horrible death of Vyrsa. Brek's mind went into a flash back as he remembered her dying in her arms:

Every detail of his surroundings became a blur as he held his oldest friend dying in her arms. He felt every breath she let past, every time her heart beat slowly letting more blood flow from her wound in her stomach. The tears from Brek's eyes dripped on the limp body.

"Vyrsa, Vyrsa!" Brek called to his fading friend. "Vyrsa, speak to me, who did this to you?"

"Brek," Vyrsa tried to speak put she was almost gone by then. "Brek, go, leave me here."

"No! I won't leave you, we’ll get you to the infirmary!"

"It’s too late, Brek... I'm already lost."

"No Vyrsa! We're going, just hold on!" Brek picked up his friend in his arms where she rested limply. He ran down the streets of Bully Harbour and burst into the nearest doctor's house. He looked at the doctor and yelled, "Don't just sit there she needs help!"

The stoat got to his feet. "Right this way," he said as he ran back a hall and led them to a room. He put his paw finger out and pointed to the bed against the far wall. Brek laid her down and the doctor started running his paws to inspect her wound. "It’s a deep cut," he said, worried, "but we might be able to save her. Wait right here. I'll be back. Do not leave her!"

The stoat left the room and Brek turned back to Vyrsa grabbing her paw between both of his and started to cry even faster. "Please hold on. Please stay with us," he begged her.

"Brek," she said softly. "Brek... I know who it was." Brek stopped and listened. "It was, was..." Her eyes closed and her head fell to the pillow.

"Vyrsa!" Brek cried.

Then her body sat back up and she nearly jumped off the bed. Brek pushed her back down slowly. "I know who it was that did this," she said as the laid back down. "It was," she paused to take one last breath. "Rijard." Then she died.

The memories became too painful to go on. The memories of Rijard’s death, and everyone else’s, Brek felt responsible for her death. The trials he faced to dodge anything that led from their deaths to him, everything was lost that night.

Brek kept his paws on the helm tightly. “Sir!” A familiar voice called out from the crow’s nest.

“Yes Knight?” Brek called back.

“We’re coming up on Bully Harbour sir!”

“Then everybeast, make ready to land!”


Jeshal the Ironclaw
Future 2: The Traitor

(Hope beasts don’t mind the autos in this, particularly as it ain’t official posting, but apologies for the hijacking of charries)

The prisoner flinched as the lamplights seared into his vision, his gaunt, half-starved frame shivered in the damp brig. His fur was sodden from enforced drenching and his body covered in ugly cuts and swellings. What had once been the reason for the fox to be called the Ironclaw was devoid of its talons, the sharp points torn from his gauntlet.

Jeshal snarled quietly as the figures filed into his cell. He shrank back as far as his manacles would allow.

“You are lucky to be alive, Jeshal. Many of us would not have begrudged leaving you in the paws of the crew and watching them tear you apart. It is no less than you deserve.” It was the firm, authoritative voice that belonged to Captain Freedom. Even the Walking Handbook had found it hard to restrain himself in light of the copper todd’s crimes. Jeshal had more than one broken rib to prove it.

“Yer on the wrong career path fer a judge, Anithias,” the Ironclaw-less sneered. “If ye weren’t so intent upon followin’ yer precious rules, yer’d fulfil yer dream o’ dancin’ on me grave already. If yer could still dance. Me condolences in tha’ respect.” He winced at the sorest of his wounds: the cleaved tail-tip courtesy of Larks; the sliced ear from Redford; the savage muzzle slash from Mokorai, and the scratch given to him by Miss Rogue’s dagger before Freedom had intervened, hobbling on his crippled footpaw, and dragged his limp carcass below.

“Oh that dream will come, Master Ironclaw. We will all come to do so in time, but it is you who will have the first dance. Publicly. When we return to Bouillabaisse, you will be jigging at the end of a rope.”

Jeshal simply stared at the captain with his chasmic gaze.

“Why did you do it, Jeshal?” Anithias said quietly. “After so many years of faithful service, following orders, earning a good wage, on track for potential rank ascension…you threw it all away.”

Jeshal shrugged, rattling his chains. “Me pers’nal needs outweighed me call o’ duty. The opportunity presented itself.”

Anithias limped closer on his irreparably damaged footpaw. “Opportunity? Is that what you call sending the crew on an intended suicide mission whilst you marooned yourself with a hostage superior? We would have all died on those rocks after you sabotaged the rudder chain. If it hadn’t been for some quick thinking on the crew’s part...” Freedom clenched his jaw at the thought. “You tried to murder us all and as for what you put Tanya through, I will leave her to speak her piece. I suppose this makes even seducing an impressionable young female like Armina seem quite petty. You did not think I knew of that, did you? You used her as a toy; a practise doll; an experiment for your foul intent with Admiral Ryalor. For that alone I would choke the life from you with my bare paws if it were not costly to my position.”

The prisoner smirked. “Did yer friend in high places, Mister Ashpaw, also ‘appen ter pass on the message that Miss Rogue enjoyed ‘erself fer the mostpart? I suppose ‘e war rather too busy runnin’ ‘is fancy brothels ter get ‘is facts anythin’ but muddled.”

“She is barely out of kithood!” Anithias barked.

“Nay, mate, but yer can keep tellin’ it ter y’self all yer like.”

Captain Freedom growled. “You regret none of it, do you?”

“Would it save me from me fate if I did?”

“No, it would not.”

“Then there be no diff’rence, says I.”

Anithias turned to the other beasts that remained in the shadows outside of the lamplight’s range. “Come, Xhavek, Tanya can take it from here.”

The monitor stepped into the illuminated patch and leered horribly at Jeshal. “Vhen you are dead I vill roazt your shrivelled heart and I vill relish devouring it. Pleazant dreamz, fox.”

Captain Freedom and first mate Mokorai abandoned the brig to the prisoner and the remaining figure that hovered beyond the edge of the light. Green eyes glittered in the darkness.

“Come ter return the favour, ‘ave yer, Adm’ral?” Jeshal hissed. The laughter he received was as whispery and fragile as a moth. It froze him to the core.

“I hate t’ disappoint yeh, Jeshal, but I don’ get me kicks th’ same way as y’ do. One thin’ I did learn from yeh, mind, is ‘ow ter savour th’ moment. I ‘ad some time t’ think while yeh had me trussed up in that liddle cove, in between th’ wakin’ hours yeh allowed me off th’ sleepin’ drug.”

Tanya crossed the edge of the light, allowing it to split her down the middle. Her expression was crazed and yet, somehow, brutally enlightened. Shallow scars flecked her muzzle as a reminder of the tortures he had inflicted only a few days prior. The Ironclaw’s typical smirk began to fade.

“I came t’ wonder,” she continued. “What could I ‘ave done ter warrant such treatment from yeh, Jesh? Smart beast like you? ‘S senseless ter think yeh pathetic vendetta agin’ th’ ship wot sank y’ ol’ pirate vessel an’ lost you yeh paw ‘s really wot this’s all been about. I mean, t’ain’t exactly cost yeh all that much. As ‘Nithias said, yeh ‘ave a decent wage now an’ a soarin’ career. But yeh never really cared f’r it, did yeh?”

Jeshal glowered at her but did not respond.

“At th’ risk o’ soundin’ conceited, ‘twas all f’r me, wasn’ it? Yeh wanted t’ get at me. Why?”

Silence.

“Yeh could’ve taken yeh revenge on that island. I was practic’lly ‘elpless. Yeh could’ve killed me several times over. Why didn’ yer?”

Jeshal snorted. “Ye’d not be so entertainin’ dead.”

Admiral Ryalor pounced forward and seized the todd’s chains. With a swift motion she wrapped the slack about Jeshal’s neck and held tight. He gasped, unable to pull back from her grinning face lest he choke.

“I got used t’ yeh lies,” she whispered dangerously. “I know why yeh’ve been after me so long. So wrapped up in yeh power play, y’ cruelty, an’ yeh obsessions ter recognise yeh own misfortune.”

The bistre eyes, normally so derisive, were welling with fear. They pleaded: No, it isn’t true!

“I don’ know when it ‘appened, Jesh,” said Tox, “but somewhere along yeh twisted path yeh fell f’r me.”

In turmoil, Jeshal bared his teeth.

Tanya laughed at him. “What did yeh expect? That y’ games’d coax me inter feelin’ some’at f’r yeh? Didjer fancy y’self an admiral’s husband, an adoptive father?” She released her grip on the chains. Jeshal was bristling, his gaze averted. Tox stepped nose to nose with him and purred softly, “Yeh don’t ‘ave ter suffer the noose, me sweet Ironclaw. I never was a stickler f’r th’ law.”

Bewildered, Jeshal locked eyes with her. “Yer’d set me free?”

“Aye,” she said soothingly. “Xhavek won’ get ‘is mitts on yer ‘eart…” The admiral leant in to whisper in his torn ear, “Because ‘s mine.”

Jeshal gasped suddenly, but it was not in the manner he would have hoped. Two square blocks thudded into his already aching torso, shattering his conscious thought. A split-second later, Tox brought her dark judge’s brushes around and slammed them point-first into his chest.

“I’ll think up a story t’ tell th’ kits about where Uncle Jesh went,” she said as he gaped, his wild, fading eyes searching hers for answers. “I’m gettin' used ter tellin’ tales t’ cover me disappointments.” Savagely, she withdrew the assassin tools and watched him drop.

“See yeh in ‘ellgates, me ol’ friend.”

The admiral vacated the brig of the Golden Hide, leaving what had once been the Ironclaw to die alone.



Jeb & Urel
Jeb and Urel's Future: Old Friends

"...but perhaps the question is not metaphorical so much as metaphysical. By which I mean to say that an answer to the question exists, but it is not definable within the laws of science. Any comments or rebuttals?"

The Professor leaned easily against the blackboard, relaxed in his tweed jacket and tie, his pawfingers expertly twirling a stick of chalk. Even at his somewhat advanced age the Professor was an impressive figure; his broad shoulders accentuated the slight forward jutting of his neck, the underside of his jaw sporting a fine white goatee. A hint of a smile remained on his face at all times, suggesting the contentedness he found in his classroom and his students.

The smile lifted slightly at the corner as a headstrong weasel on the middle-left put up his paw. "Yes Alleq?" the Professor asked, a faint note of amusement in his voice.

Alleq immediately got to his feet, the determination on his face informing the Professor his answer was already well-formed and on the tip of his tongue. "But according to the Pregostian Theory," the fiery young lad argued, "any question which cannot be defined by a universal set of laws and is not consistent with the rules of science must be purely hypothetical, meaning that all questions must either be metaphorical or physically possible."

The Professor's smile turned slightly upward as he easily meandered toward the student's desk. "Does it?" the large fox asked, his smile not challenging but inquisitive. Those who had been in the Professor's class for any length of time would recognize it as playing Devil's Advocate.

Alleq hesitated. "Well, the only pertinent questions are those with either physical impact or hypothetical meaning."

The Professor smiled slightly, picking up an apple from another student's desk. He weighed it carefully in his paw, keeping his eyes on the weasel. "Alleq, does science tell us this apple grows because of the sun?" The question was a simple one, too simple. Alleq hesitated before answering.

"Yes."

"Speaking metaphorically, would you say apples are a happy fruit?"

"Yes." This 'Yes' was a little longer in coming.

"Does the sun make apples happy so that they will grow?"

This one had the weasel stumped. He sat in his chair, his brow furrowed heavily. Patiently, the Professor started to help him out.

"It is not a scientific question, Alleq, but it does have a firm impact on the physical world. Do you think you could answer it hypothetically?"

"No sir."

The 'No sir' came very quietly, a small note of resentment hidden beneath. The Professor nodded, setting the apple back. "Science and thought games," the Professor declared quietly, "can only take us so far. The metaphysical is the bond between them; that which is true, but what we cannot factually explain."

The Professor sighed as he leaned against his desk, removing his pince-nez spectacles and rubbing them on his jacket. "That will be all for today, students." The small roomful of university students quickly slung their bags over their shoulders, making a break for the door. The Professor rubbed his temples briefly before suddenly waving his finger in the air, as if he had just remembered something. "I nearly forgot – make sure to come out for the Woodlander Rights' March in Amarone next Saturday. Wear something warm; it should be chilly."

The students didn't show any sign of paying attention, still filing out the door past a squat old wildcat. The old, bespectacled feline leaned shakily on his rustic cane, peering lively after some of the female students. For a moment he seemed as if he would hobble after them, but with a dejected sigh he turned away, instead trying to help himself into the classroom.

Professor Urel watched, a smile nearly splitting his face, as his old friend slowly shuffled into the room. "Still chasing femmes?" Urel asked, far too much appreciation in his voice for the statement to be chiding. He seemed incapable of any expression but one of fondness.

Jeb chuckled, limping his way toward his friend. "Ah'm nah s'feet as Ah used't beh," the wildcat complained. "Can' do ennehting buh wahk afteh'em naw."

Urel laughed quietly at this, the slightly formal air breaking between them. He wiped a merry tear from his eye. "It is good to see you again, Jeb," he admitted, leaning down and wrapping his old comrade in a thick bear hug. Jeb squawked once as his far larger friend nearly crushed him, struggling for a second before resigning himself to death by affection. Sensing a little too late that suffocating Jeb on their reunion might be detrimental to their relationship, Urel sheepishly set the frail old cat down. Jeb brushed himself off once, trying to flatten his much-thinning fur before looking back up at the black fox, a slight look of hurt admonishment on his nigh-flattened snout. Urel merely grinned apologetically.

"I'm sorry. It is wonderful to see you again, Jeb." The look of sincerity on Urel's face was enough to melt the hurt right off Jeb's ragged face. Whooping, Jeb managed to reach one bony paw up and bat at Urel's ear before attempting to run off, or in Jeb's case shuffle. Chuckling, Urel walked leisurely to catch up with his friend.

"So, where have you been for all these years?"

"Eh, s'a lang starry."

"I have the time to listen."

"Yeh've a caff'etehrieh?"

"Down near Sendoa Hall. Are you hungry?"

"V'rry."

"I am buying."

"Gud."


Xhavek Mokorai
The crowd roared and cheered as the combatants one by one fell to the dust until only two were left. One was a truly humongous wolf, his battle-axe blade slick with blood, his eyes filled with a near frenzy-ish glare and his great bare chest rippling with muscles. He growled low and viciously at his opponent and hefted his axe. The other seemed tiny in comparison but far more composed. This warrior was encased in spiked leather armor, except for his head, feet, and hands. Those were covered by wickedly spiked steel and not a single part of his body was bare. His gauntleted fist slowly rose up and mockingly gestured for the wolf to 'bring it on'.

With a snarling howl of fury the massive beast complied, swinging his mighty weapon in a great arc to cleave his much smaller opponent in two. To no avail for the creature nimbly dodge his blow and dashed past his larger adversary, slashing into the wolf's side and darting past before a reprisal could be given. The wolf howled in angry and whirled about intent on dealing out a quick death. He never even got fully turned around. For suddenly a clawed gauntlet sprouted from his belly and he stared at it dumbfoundedly before his throat was torn out by the other gauntlet. The armored combatant quickly withdrew his hand from the slowly dying wolf. Then Xhavek removed his steel helm and roared in triumph.

The pit of the arena was littered with the bodies of his fellow gladiators. One a Mentettan duelist, had what was left of her skull smeared across the wall, another from the far north was impaled on his own spear, all were in various mutilated states and all had fallen to Xhavek's claws. The crowd cheered their appreciation of his newest killing and began to chant his well-earned nickname.

"Slaughter! House! Slaughter! House!"

It was short for Scaled Slaughterhouse the nickname he had been given while working on the backstreets of Bully Harbour as a mercenary for the Kreehold. However the lizard soon lost interest and left. He had maintained his position on the Golden Hide but eventually like all the others was forced to retire from sailing. Bitter and depressed he lived in a drunken stupor that not even his niece nor his blood brother could bring him out of. Eventually a shadowy figure came to the lizard with an interesting offer. Xhavek could fight to his heart’s content and in return he would get his act back together. Xhavek quickly agreed but he never learned who his mysterious benefactor was. It no longer mattered to him. THIS was his new occupation, a pure and simple killer. He still hired himself out but he was a freelancer and though he was past his prime he was one of the greatest warriors in the Imperium.

He slowly made his way across the blood-soaked floor of the arena and left through the porticullis into the black gaping hole leading to the fighter's barracks. He had another fight to prepare for tomorrow and he wanted to be ready.


Sokea Tyttonimi
Sokea's Future: Slipping Past

"Allana! Where is the oatmeal jar?"

"On the third shelf up, Aunt Sokea!"

Sokea frowned, stretching to feel around the shelf. Glass clinked together as she pushed aside jars in an attempt to reach the back, pausing to run her sensitive paws along the smooth frames. None of the rounded shapes matched the one she kept in her memory. "It's not here!" she called, her voice wavering with age and the stress of attempting to maintain so loud a volume.

A pair of soft pawsteps leading from the living room to the kitchen announced the entrance of Sokea's "niece". A paw on the back briefly announced Allana's presence before an arm snaked past Sokea's and pulled a fat jar from the very back, where Sokea had been unable to reach. A thump to Sokea's rear right indicated Allana had placed the jar on the table.

"Mr. Milani ran out of tubular ones," Allana apologized abruptly. "Sorry, I forgot to tell you."

"That's alright, dear," Sokea replied soothingly, carefully stepping down from her pawstool. She shuffled the brief distance to the table, putting her small paws on the jar lid. Frail pawfingers slowly turned the lid, feebly working it free. The lid popped as it came free. Sokea placed it on the table, taking the jar in her paws and carefully pouring some of the thin grains into a bowl. "Just let me know next time," she called after Allana. Allana did not answer, her pawfalls receding into silence.

Sokea shook her head wonderingly as she poured a cup of water into the bowl. Sometimes she worried about that girl. Allana was so quiet all the time. Sokea supposed it came from living in a quiet, cluttered household with an aging caregiver, but it still disturbed the ferretess. If only her mother were around...

Sokea suddenly frowned, her wrinkled forehead folding into thought. Who was Allana's mother again? She knew it was a vixen since Allana was a fox, but everything else seemed to escape her. Sokea sighed, turning back to mashing the oatmeal. There was no helping it when her memory blanked like this. For all she knew Allana's mother could have been a lifelong friend, and Sokea still would not have remembered her.

The ferretess sighed, swirling the aqueous mixture carefully with her spoon. Not that it mattered who she was anymore. Sokea had raised Allana on her own, caring for the youngster for all of her fifteen seasons. In the eyes of the Tookumberrians, Sokea and Allana were just a curious set of codependent vulpines, Allana the quiet, responsible young vixen subtly caring for her old, blinded, scatterbrained grandmother-figure. They had become dependent on each other, and neither would part for anything in the world. A faint smile passed over Sokea's lips. They were family. That was the word.

A soft set of pawsteps rounded the corner, bringing Sokea's mind out of the clouds of thought.

"Aunt Sokea," Allana's quiet voice asked, "is it alright if I go into town?"

Sokea nodded, her wizened face still lost in wistfulness. "Of course. Don't forget your coat, Armina."

As Allana hurried out the front door, coat making a notable swish in the air, Sokea's face fell into a concentrated frown at her own words.

Armina...



Tanya Rainblade-Ryalor
Mornings in Bully Harbour were never particularly lively; anybeast who deigned to be an early riser was already up at dawn and on the docks doing their work, which was usually completed by the time golden sunlight poked from between the slate grey clouds of a Notempre sky. The rest of the inhabitants tended to either still be sleeping off their last night's binges or just stirring in their homes ready to make a mid-morning start to their respective professions.

Such a thing was happening today: sitting quietly at the kitchen table, nineteen-season-old Àille Rainblade-Ryalor pushed the remnants of that morning's breakfast around on her plate with a sleepy frown. A recently employed apprentice to the engineers in the Ministry of Innovation, the pretty young vixen was finding sleep difficult to come by even when being run ragged by the eccentric elders-their equations and fanciful ideas bounced about her skull feverishly whenever she closed her eyes, and although she was loving every moment of calculation and development, it was tiresome work as the lowest on the rung. Finally putting her fork to better use, dipping it in her drink and making patterns of ballistae on the table with the liquid, she raised her blue eyes to Caden Freemont, her foster brother after the murder of his mother, MinoWar Skeenie, left him in the care of his Godmother.

"Think she'll be back again soon?"

Caden rubbed his nose and blinked at his clean plate in thought before angling his head down a little to better regard the vixen opposite. Despite being several months younger than the Ryalor twins, the lithe albino marten was a good head and a half taller than the tallest of the fox family, Àille, and seemed to take up pretty much half the space in the small apartment kitchen. His white ears twitched as a succession of dull thumps begun a little ways off.

"Yeah, she's coming through – on her own at that. Perhaps Valdrisk drank himself to death after all."

"Oh hush," she scoffed, flicking the cordial on her fork at Caden as she rolled her eyes. "That slug of a brother does the same thing every day, and you know it: drinks himself sick, gets beat up by some pretty vixen's mate, and spends the next day sleeping before waking at four and doing it again. No matter how scary she is, like mum could wake him up."

As if on cue, a ruffled vixen in her early forties stumbled through the kitchen, hackles risen despite the matted fur which poked every whichway from around the crinkled old navy uniform that sat askew on her skinny frame underneath a ragged old grey dressing gown.

"That...boy," the elder vixen grumbled, sliding around Caden's big body to get to the pot of contraband cough-ee as she tugged at her earrings in frustration. "'Is layabout attitude's gettin' the better of me. I'm tellin' you, 's enough ter drive me back ter drink an' 'ave him kicked out on his tail t' fend fer isself."

"Oh come on, you've been saying that for ages – you know you'd never do that, you love him too much. As for the drinking..."

A suspicious pause. "Yeh?"

"You know you've been on and off of the stuff."

Tanya blew a quiet sigh through her metal fangs and busied herself with the cough-ee for a few moments, refusing to acknowledge her addiction. In the terse silence that followed, Caden took the liberty to reach across and pull Aielle's breakfast over to himself, proceeding to polish it off as his foster sister stared at the table and suddenly found some reserve, expression set as she glanced back up.

"Mum, are we ever going to see our family?"

"Family?" the little fox enquired, nose wrinkling as she turned back and took a sip of her drink, "ent we all 'ere? Well, relatively speakin' Vald's sleepin' off his 'angover, bu'-"

"-You know what I mean – you said we had grandparents on both sides of the family: yours were overseas and dad's was still on this island, right?"

"I suppose so... Cade, are we all finished? I don' think you can lick that plate much cleaner, boyo." Looking sheepish, Caden nodded and Tox accordingly began collecting everything on the table. Àille was not so easily dissuaded, a touch of desperation colouring her voice.

"But surely you can remember something about them? Anything? How can dad's family be around here and you don't even know the address?"

"Hmm? Oh, I can't remember any more, sweet'art – it's been far too long now since I visited them, and what with the knocks on the head..." she shrugged, swiping a wet rag across the cleared plates and wiping her paws clean as she turned to the albino whilst her daughter snorted. "An' as fer you, don' you have Guard duties to be at by now?"

Knowing his foster sister would later slaughter him for changing the subject, but unable to resist the surge of pride, the marten smirked "Not any more – I got a promotion last night, to Lieutenant."

"Well did yer now? 'elle, now why don' we go out an' celebrate this together fer once? I'm sure if we can wake Vald he'd be delighted ter come too, righ'?"

Defeated, the young vixen kicked her chair back upon standing and grabbed her sketching satchel from under the table. Sighing, she pulled the house keys from her pocket and made for the door.

"Just... forget about it, mum – I have work to do."

----

That evening brought with it a chill wind, bruise-purple skies and Àille returning home with clenched paws. She had spent the whole day agonizing over this, the fifth or twentieth time that she had asked her mother about her heritage, and finally it was too much to bear. If ever there was a time for getting it out of her mother, now was it, without the cover-ups or blatant glosses over. She had to know.

She slipped back inside the house with all the innate silence her mother used to possess before the batterings her body took on as a younger sailor became too much of a hassle in the job. Careful to remove her shortsword and hang it on the peg by the door lest she ever would feel inclined to batter her mother's head with the hilt tonight, Àille found her mother in the living room.

"Mum? 'm back..."

"Oh..? Oh 'Ellie, there y'are – been wonderin' when you'd show up. Vald's gone back to bed and Cade's out so 's awful lonely in here now Tobey's got 'is nest an' fledgelin's."

The older vixen seemed to have forgotten that morning's discussion altogether, and glanced up from where she was busy fiddling with a pair of pliers and some bits of jewellery she'd taken to crafting, setting it aside as she gave her daughter a small smile. The youngster took a deep, quiet breath; well, she might as well start off softly.

"What about uncle Kip? He not visited today?"

"'Is daughter Sapphire's just gotten into the Navy 'erself, so's 'es been takin' things from 'is shop to her new bunk t'day."

"Oh, right..."

And the conversation ground to a halt again, leaving both generations of foxes in a somewhat confused and more awkward than normal silence as Tanya registered that her daughter was wanting to speak, but refrained asking what the subject was, already aware. Desperate for this dithering, crucifying silence to die, Àille blurted first.

"Please tell me about them."

Getting up carefully and brushing herself clear of silver shaving, Tanya shrugged, eyes averted. "There honestly isn't much worth knowin', love. Look, 's startin' ter ge' later, an' Cade won' be back fer a few hours yet – if yeh don' mind, I'd rather go t' bed an' we can chat about this with him 'ere too?"

She made for the door past her daughter, who blocked the exit with an arm, causing her disgruntled mother to cringe back a pace, expression forcibly neutral. Àille looked pained.

"Mum, talk to me."

"There's nothin' ter talk abou'."

"I want to know where we come from. Meet my family, know about my past."

"Why in 'Gates would you want to do that?"

"Because I care about knowing where I'm from, mum. You might not wonder why you got here, but I sure as 'Gates do. What's such a problem that you can't let me meet them?"

Before Tanya had a chance to respond, the all too well-known sound of a mailed paw on the door distracted the attention of both femmes. Glancing to each other with the same concerns for Caden, they headed to the door and duly found three burly guards waiting. Tanya frowned at them quietly over the shoulder of her daughter, eyes darting over their faces as they spoke.

"Good evening miss Ryalor – we've come to collect your mother."

"Mum? But why?"

"I'm afraid we don't know past instructions to arrest her under orders. I think it is simply for some routine questions about past jobs, but we were not told overmuch."

"Oh right...Well I'm sure Caden can explain it, right mum?"

"..."

"Mum!"

"Miss? Miss?"

"Hm?"

Tanya snapped out of her daze with a blink. After pressing out a small, resigned sigh, she pasted on a little grin and nodded.

"So, all me ol' demons come back to haunt me, eh? Give me a momen' gennelbeasts..."

She was gone for a long while – so long that the guards were entertaining the notion that the little creature had slipped out of a back window and run, when she finally reappeared dressed in her old Captain of the Guard uniform, paws spread to show it off as she gave a twinkling grin, lackluster fur somewhat shiner in her enthusiasm.

"'Ow do I look?"

"Like an old bat dressed up far too young!" came a gruff voice a few rooms back. Rolling her dark ringed eyes, the vixen snorted and waved a paw behind her. "I'll give you bat, Vald, when I ge' back. Be'ave yerself." Stepping around her daughter, Tox paused long enough to stretch and give her a kiss on the forehead, winking softly, "Take care, you," before nodding to the guards and allowing herself to have her paws bound behind her back as a 'precaution'. Watching her go, Àille couldn't help but realize that Tanya hadn't bounced about with so much vigour since she used to play in the snow with them as children, and the guards surrounding her seemed to have a peculiar off-navy colour to their uniform.

---

The evening of the next day yielded no sign of the trio's mother, but Valdrisk had shambled out of bed to fit his stocky frame around the door into the kitchen and sombrely hand his sister something he'd found in Tox' room. It was a letter.

Àille, Valdrisk, Cade.

I should have explained everything to you three properly when I had the time to do so. Well, now that I have no time whatsoever, I'm standing at my desk scribbling this to you in the hopes that I can explain.

I know I haven't been a very good mother to any of you three. Perhaps if things had been different and Falun had lived and I never drunk, then I could have done a better job for you. That's just the way life goes, though, isn't it?

I'm not like your father. He was a much more patient beast than I ever could hope to be; he used to just get on with anything that came his way and if things upset him he never let it show very easily. As you know that's never been my way, but I can't change that. Do any of you remember the night when I came home from work and just cried and cried? Your grandfather (I don't think you remember him) was extremely kind about it – he played with you for a little bit, sorted out your dinner and then put you to bed; he told me these things happen and it would all be OK. I got a little too emotional: I said I couldn't take it anymore and he snapped and told me I was being stupid and should pull myself together to be strong for you... So I hit him. He died three months later because his grandson was all he lived for.

I can hear everybeast getting restless so I'll make the admissions as quick as I can. After your grandfather Alexei died, I lost all contact with Falun's relations – his grandmother died long before I met Fal, and his mother disappeared long ago. The rest of his kind are in Fyador, from whence he has become something of both outcast and national hero. I have no idea where to search, for his brother was reputedly dead.

As for myself, I have no traceable family. Parents and grandparents died in the same raiding instance when I was only a few months old, I am told, and the only siblings I had are dead. Your namesake, Valdrisk, drowned himself before you were born, and your aunt Dusk is dead to me, if she's still skulking around the city somewhere. I do not care to know if she is. Anyway, the closest I can tell you is to check up on the Seerclaw family, the beasts who provided the closest thing I had to a home when I was younger.

Cade... I never really explained the incidents surrounding your parents. Your mother was a very close personal friend of mine, but after the death of your father, which I now admit to having had to participate in watching, she became distant and unlike herself. We reconciled after she beat me almost to death, to be frank. She was murdered by then MinoWar Vladimir when there was an issue with the Emperor.

I never meant to lie to you, to any of you – I still feel that by keeping you in the dark, I wasn't feeding you an entire pack of lies, at least, and simply ignored direct questioning. Under better circumstances, I would have liked to have told you this in a less frank manner, but I feel my time's about up. Take care of your nitwit brother, 'Elle, even if you have your head halfway in a book; Vald, stop chasing those taken girls, and Cade, keep an eye on the pair of the troublemakers – I'll expect no less from a future Minister.

Now then, some old friends of mine are after a scrap. I intend to give them a run for their money, no matter how slow I may have become since I left the Navy.

Your mother
Tanya.

Staring at the note open-mouthed, it was some time before Tanya's daughter spoke, starting to quiver a little as she sat herself down.

“She knew they were fakes...”

But by then, of course, it was too late; it would take a further four days for the weighted bag containing Tanya's body to be found washed up on the shore, and a further two for the victim to be identified – oddly enough, the coroner put down the cause of death due to poisoning (beautifully ironic) as opposed to drowning, and the bag a mere method of hiding the evidence. The murderers were never found.​