Open The Docks Hazing Out for a Hero

[Oreva]

Oreva watched in a sort of dull fascination as the muddy kit was taken to the rooftops. She briefly thought of going after the crossbow, but the owner had run off with the ammunition for it, so she doggedly - or cattedly - followed the group further up the street, blinking away the haze of exhaustion seeping into her mind.

She let her good eye close for just a moment. Let her footpaws shuffle their way forward, trusting in the soldiers and other ragtag beasts to keep her from tipping over.

The world was pain, and a vague red-black darkness, and distant thoughts of coffee and new clothes for the cold, and a question that would haunt her sleep.

She opened her eye again just as the world briefly shook in a violent flash of light. Her teeth ached from the force of it, the vibration roiling through her bones and clamping around her head like a badger's paws had clapped her ears. A hot, damp wind struck her face, making her flinch, and the next thing she knew, she was lying on her back.

Oreva carefully pushed herself back into a sitting position, then pushed herself to stand with Whack Bat as support.

Smoke... bits of rubble rolling along the street. Bits of cloth confetti fluttering in the air. She brushed a paw against her cheek, and it was red and pink. Some kind of... worm-like thing was dangling from her arm. She knew it wasn't a worm. She had seen the fox's face in that split second, the eyes wide, the fear and anguish of betrayal and helplessness...

"Why?" she said, clearly and plainly, though at a surprisingly high pitch. It was one of the few words she knew how to say. She wasn't expecting an answer, but she felt it needed to be said, for lack of anything else appropriate to say.

Something flashed through the smoke.

Her leg ached terribly, suddenly. She glanced down to check, and saw that there was now a crossbow bolt sticking out of it. She couldn't tell the damage. Her entire front was wet with blood that was and wasn't hers. She noticed a steady trickle of it down her front, and felt at her neck. Something was... biting...

She pulled at the thing between her neck and shoulder. It was a fragment of bone.

"No. Why?"

As the others swarmed to intercept the Vulpinists emerging from the smoke, Oreva quietly loped off to the side and leaned against the wall, then slid down to a sitting position, Whack Bat in her lap. She tugged her sarong, peeling it away from her body with a sticky sensation. She tugged her belt loose, and did her best to wrap it tightly around her thigh, then pressed her soiled garment to her neck. She didn't care what was behind her back down the street anymore. The after-image of the fox's face stayed behind her eyelids.

"Why?"

Her voice grew quieter, weaker.

"Why... why..."

 

[Tizzi Poof]

The explosion was heard across the Slups. It jostled Tizzi awake with a puff of the tail and for a moment the little creature just lay there, blinking sleepily up at a masked face as it was bounced around in its makeshift hammock.

Thoughts slowly congealed through the ache in its little head.

Tizzi liked this. Liked this warmth, this closeness, it was... it was nice. When was the last time? Vague memories of a lap, crumbly biscuit, and a story with hilarious voices... No, that wasn't Tizzi's story. That was something else.

But it could be Tizzi's story, for now? Just for a little while longer?

Its eyes closed again, head swimming in a moment of nausea at the unfamiliar way of travel. Its belly hurt... too many fishsticks. No, never such a thing! But maybe... It felt like the fishsticks wanted out the way they came in. Tizzi swallowed back some air, and the feeling passed. Its head cleared, and it remembered not just the apple, but the otter's promise.

Just a moment longer... the kit begged. Tizzi spat, hissed, and began to squirm. Somehow, it punched itself in the nose with its footpaw, then tumbled out of Jill's scarf. Tizzi landed on all fours, bottlebrushed tail standing straight up, and snapped at Jill with a click of its jaws.

"Tizzi not need help! Tizzi not for cuddle, Tizzi for war! Tizzi for fight and bite and fishstick!" It stood up and scanned the rooftops. Where was fishstick otter? It whirled at Jill, dancing around the vixen's footpaws, as if trying to nip at her heels. "Where fishstick promise beast! Go back! Tizzi is for glory of winning! Tizzi is strong!"

It stopped its wardance and squared off, staring up at Jill with a firm scowl. Then the scowl faded.

"You help Tizzi... you good beast... but Tizzi is strong... We go back and fight? We help, for glory of Tizzi empire. And fishstick. Promise."

A grubby little paw made a salute, and then Tizzi leapt at Jill, climbing to her shoulder and perching with forepaws draped over Jill's front and hindpaws draped over her back.

"Okay? Mask beast fast. Tizzi tired."

 

[Jill (The Beast)]

Jill was surprised by the explosion, tumbling and nearly losing her footing. She was doubly surprised to see young Tizzi suddenly jolt awake, ripping itself out of her one good scarf and flailing to the tiled rooftop, berating her. The kit wanted to go back?! Well... Jill wanted to go back to. To help people. Besides, Tizzi is their own beast after all. If they want to throw themselves back into the fray, so be it.

"Alright, you little scamp. Let's go!" Jill nodded, and she started to run across the rooftops again, this time in the opposite direction. Reaching the docks once more, Jill flung herself from the roof with Tizzi on her shoulder, Mask glinting in the sunlight and cape fluttering dramatically!

 

[Calara Driftsong]

She couldn't remember the blast. Or, for a moment, where she was. She couldn't focus. Her head hurt. Her ribs hurt. Her back and shoulders hurt. It would be easier to say what didn't hurt, except there would have been nothing to say.

But she remembered who her allies were. The cross fox. The fancy marten and his cadre. The angry vixen and the tortoiseshell cat. The masked beast and the fishstick creature. Tizzi. The sudden welling up of nausea might have been a sign of injury or of dread, and 'Gates if she could tell which it was.

She blinked. Found herself on paws and knees, javelin still clenched in one fist, buckler not so far away. She snorted and a metallic smell filled her nose. She must have been bleeding. At least she could focus a little better now.

Calara snarled, her long otter whiskers fanning out around her blunt muzzle while her lips peeled back to expose a row of sharp teeth. Imperium beasts always forgot otters were mustelids too. Woodlanders could bite.

She saw Oreva, saw the bolt in her leg just as the cat moved away from the impending action as best she could. If the enemy broke through, she would be such an easy target. Already she saw flickering movement in the drifting smoke. A beast with white fur? Enemy until proven otherwise. Stumbling upright once again, bringing her buckler and javelin back to proper position, the otter limped towards Oreva while also, as best she could, moving up to join the straggling line of defenders. She suspected she didn't fulfill either objective very well. She suspected it was the best she could do, regardless.

 

[Wiley Briggs]

The name should have meant something the moment it was spoken.

It hadn't at first.

Wiley’s ears flicked once, his gaze still sweeping the street ahead, tracking movement, counting bodies, measuring distance without thinking. The word turned over in his mind, slow, stubborn, like a knot that refused to come loose.

Freemont.

His eyes narrowed, just a fraction.

Then it clicked.

It wasn't just a street name. Not some dockside alias. It was the identity of an entire family. A name that carried weight in the same circles that whispered Ryalor with careful tongues and lowered voices. Ministries. Command. Influence that didn’t need to shout to be heard.

Wiley’s jaw tightened.

Gates above…

And suddenly the rest of it fell into place with a sickening sort of clarity.

No Fogeys. Organized resistance. A second wave that hadn’t broken with the first.

His world split apart with a thundercrack.

The blast slammed through the street, heat and force punching the air from Wiley’s chest as the sound tore the thought clean out of his head. His ears rang, sharp and high, the world reduced to smoke and dust and the dull, heavy thud of his own pulse. Wiley staggered half a step, then caught himself, boots grinding against the cobbles as instinct took hold before thought could follow. His head snapped up, eyes cutting through the red haze as bits of fox rained down.

“Bloody hell!” Wiley barked, voice cutting through the ringing in his ears.

He shifted with the flow instead of against it, angling his body to keep both Hazie and Calara within reach of his line, blade coming up not in a wild swing, but in a controlled guard.

His gaze flicked toward where the blast had struck.

“Savages!”

Then it was back on the battle before him, the moment filed away with a dozen other things he’d learned not to linger on if he meant to keep breathing.

Wiley stepped forward into the narrowing line, positioning himself just off Hazie’s shoulder, close enough to support, far enough not to tangle. His eyes swept the street again, sharper now, no longer searching for answers, only threats.

He turned his head just enough, voice dropping, meant for one set of ears alone.

“Freemont, is it…”

It was not a question.

“Would’ve been nice t’ lead with that…”

Hazie had, in truth, done exactly that. But this wiley old cross fox was far too proud to admit he’d missed it the first time—both in the mind, and in the mess he now found himself fighting through because of it.