Open The Docks Hazing Out for a Hero

[Hashwin 'Hazie' Freemont]

The day started in a pile, under a thick, shedding-stuffed duvet.

Hazie liked piles - whether it was foxes or ferrets, rats or cats. He could bear even the worst days on the frontier once horrid isolation had been banished by a comforting embrace. There were many embracing Hazie today, keeping him safe from the frigid weather. Warm. Fluffy. Heavy. A bit smothering.

…he needed to come up for air.

“…Hnrrk. Hnnk!”

He was broad-chested for a pine marten, but Hazie still had the mustelid knack for squeezing and squirming his way through through holes the world never intended mortal beasts to conquer. Yet the more he writhed, the more numerous seemed the protesting limbs clenching and grappling him.

“Erf, stoppit Hazie!”

“Mnnrrfff… too early….”

“Oi… get back… m’pillow’s escapin’…”

Like a shark’s fin breaking the water, Hazie’s snout surfaced for but a moment, heaving a ragged breath before being pulled below once more. A pine marten leg managed to kick out from the other end of the pile, but it quickly retreated from the cold air of a typical Vulpinsulan Dismembre morning.

Knock, knock. A voice, muffled, behind the cabin door.

“Amis? Nous sommes arrivés. Port de Bouillabaisse.”

A vixen’s head, scarred and rugged, poked up from the covers. “Wha’s ‘e say?”

Another head emerged. A handsome rat with a mop of curly headfur. “We’re here. Bully Harbour.”

A stoat jill in her white winter coat, and a silvermitt ferret hob popped up from opposite ends of the pile.

“Too cold.” The jill stated.

“Go away!” The hob called.

“Messieurs? Dames? Êtes-vous prêt à venir maintenant?”

“Gaawwdon Freemont…” The hob swore, flopping his head back. Then, he raised an eyebrow. “Uh, present company excluded?”

A brown-furred thumb-claw-up emerged from the covers, then sank down again.

“Hazie… go see what he wants,” the vixen moaned, rubbing her eyes.

“Mmnnghh…” came a distinctly unhappy reply.

“Come on, lazy Hazie!” The rat cajoled, pulling on a thick fluffy brown tail. “Go forth, our dauntless leader!”

“Shove off… tha’ss an order… boil yer head…”

The four other beasts exhanged looks, and wicked grins. Five minutes later, stuffed haphazardly into his uniform, both arms wrapped around his shivering chest, Hashwin Freemont, Captain of the 3rd Company, 7th Battalion of the Imperial Army, Prospective Heir to the Titles, Lands and Styles of the House of Freemont, and Hero of the Imperium was shoved firmly out of the ship’s cabin, missing one boot and swearing copiously.

“It’s freezing out here you bastards!” Hazie roared. The door slammed behind him, muffling a raucous cacophony of laughter. “Hang the lot of you! Heartless rotters!”

Stomp-padding unevenly between boot and footpaw, Hazie came out onto deck, and took his first breath of Bully Harbour air in eight years. Then he promptly rushed to the side to dry-retch. The bouquet was something between rotting fish, boiling leather, a tar pit and a bog. It took a little getting used to.

“Aurff… rancid horrid bloody sludge pit of a town! How I have missed you… that is to say. Hrrk. When’s my next holiday?” Hazie snarked to himself.

“Monsieur?”

A paw landed on Hazie’s back. Instantly, the pine marten drew himself up, puffing out his chest a little, his queasy expression slipping into an easy smile. He held out his paw for the captain of the Alkamarian trading ship La Tortue to shake. “Ah, ca-pi-taine! Well, we’re here in one piece. Any anchoring you can walk away from, eh? Top rate. Well, you have your payment, and again, I am sorry about what my troops did to your antique clock. I am certain I’ve seen the exact same one in Amarone though, and I promise once I’m home, I’ll have the necessary parts mailed to you by Misertrosse Express.”

The captain was a weasel, with brooding eyes and a salt-licked long coat that swished behind him dramatically wherever he went. He spoke no Vulpinsulan, and Hazie was only third best in the unit when it came to interpreting the captain’s terse Alkamarian. It had been hard going, but they had overcome their mutual distrust to make a deal. When the 3rd Company had missed their official transport back home from Pricklee Pointe (there had been a nasty rumour the Blackship had absconded to Magh for a holiday, but the paperwork had proved that false), Hazie had been forced to adapt and improvise to get them home. There had been a lot of gesticulating, and one or two diagrams, but finally Hazie had bought them passage to Bully Harbour aboard La Tortue, which had been stopping in at Pricklee to trade rum, candles, oil, and salt. The troops had confidently translated the ship’s name to ‘The Torture’, and after enduring a storm at sea, Hazie could hardly be bothered to find a more accurate meaning. Now, a few weeks later with the last of his spending gilders vanished, he was almost on his way to almost going home to the Freemont estate in Amarone.

The captain slowly, uncertainly shook Hazie’s paw. The ship was being towed by a few strong beasts in dinghies to pull up alongside one of the civilian piers, and as Hazie turned to gaze out at the harbourside shops and warehouses, he smiled, his face going a bit dopey and blank. In truth, he was glad nobeast knew he was coming here today. His family probably would have thrown some kind of triumph parade, and every Ministry would have been vying for his endorsement. Join the Smudgies, Hero Approved! I’m Hashwin Freemont, and the Stoatorian Guard is my favourite paramilitary faction in the Imperium! A dead bore, the lot of it. Instead, he would pay for a room at the Bilge in the Bucket - he’d heard it was the place to go for some local colour - and enjoy a quiet night among the honest working beasts of the Imperium, before he had to drag himself back to Amarone.

Hazie’s smile faded, as he scanned the docks. There was something prickling the back of his neck, a feeling he had come to trust from years spent surviving all the Mahsterious Sahthern Cahntinent had thrown at him. He felt like he was being watched - and, he was right.

Though he didn’t know it, a fox was observing him through a spyglass from the roof of a dockside warehouse. The fox noted the Alkamarian name engraved on the back of the trading ship, and the military uniform of the formidable pine marten on the deck. This information was quickly relayed by whispers and paw-signals, up the alleys of the harbour and into the pointed, black-velvet ears of senior foxes, who cared more about spinning tales of foreign invasion to bolster the support of their lackeys than actually being able to identify the profligate variety of uniforms used by the Imperium’s armed forces.

Yet more unfriendly eyes were watching La Tortue. A contingent of burly beasts armed with clubs and metal knuckles were getting into character, walking around the docks, chatting with merchants, keeping one eye out for The Signal. There were debts to be paid, ledgers to be balanced, and scores to be settled. The captain of La Tortue would not have dared show his face so boldly here… unless he had a card up his sleeve. The debt collectors were eager for him to play it - they too had caught a glimpse of Hazie, and he looked like he’d put up a good, juicy fight.

Hazie stared as the gangplank was lowered. Though his expression was gormlessly blank and his tongue blepped from his muzzle, his mind was working fast. He had spotted the armed beasts. He even had a hunch there was more he wasn’t seeing - his eyes darted from open windows to wafting clothes hung up on merchant stalls, trying to spot the glint of an arrowhead or a reflection off armour. Sharpshooters here could cause a bloodbath.

Hazie didn’t know why there was a battle brewing on the pier, but using his troops to quell it would be a nightmare to explain to HQ. Better the 3rd Company kept a low profile, marched quickly to the barracks, and let the Fogeys deal with it.

That was when the captain of La Tortue leapt up onto the gunwale of his ship and bellowed down something unrepeatable in either Alkamarian or Vulpinsulan. Hazie wasn’t sure what he was saying precisely, except there were a lot of curses, possibly references to the debt collector’s mother, and more importantly, Hazie’s name. The weasel was even gesticulating at him, and beaming with both pride, and maniacal bloodlust.

“You know, I’m starting to think I missed a rather important part of the deal we made,” Hazie said.

((OOC: This is open to all! We'll have a round of intro posts before battle commences!!))

 

[Jill (The Beast)]

The Beast was on their patrols once again. "This city never sleeps, Beast. Neither can we."

Mask, it's morning time, not night. Beast was on the roof of a fishstick stand, obscured by shadow, watching the crowd gather.

"Brigands have run of these lanes. Dispatch these thugs in brutal fashion, that all may hear of your arrival!"

Not yet, Mask. If I just hop in there alone, I'll not be helping anyone. Beast watched the situation closely, paws curled into fists. There was a lone pine marten standing at the top of the ganplank. Beast wasn't sure of who they were, or why they seemed to have gotten the ire of this crowd, but they were going to wait until an actual brawl started before throwing themself into the fray.

So, they stood in silence, body pressed flat against the cold tiles of the roof, hidden by their dark clothing as they watched, and waited. Justice would be served, if need be.

 

[Oreva]

Coffee. If you had told her that the reason a quarter of the Slups wasn't ashes was mainly due to foul, bitter little beans crushed into dirt and dumped into cold water and left to stew overnight, Oreva wouldn't have just not believed you; she would have ignored you entirely. Just like how she ignored the beasts along the street who whistled at her, or complimented her fine Whack Bat, or complained about her fine Whack Bat.

Coffee and a new woolen skirt, that would be the thing. Time to re-build her winter wardrobe after that fire...

The coffee was not for her, oh no; she'd made it quite clear to her employer that she would have none of that miserable brew. It was entirely for that half-conscious sable to enjoy, though she never seemed to enjoy anything. As if a perk of the ear or lift of the whisker would have her soul sucked out through her nostrils to be gulped down by Missertross.

And so the wildcat ambled her way to the docks, the place that would have the cheapest coffee. The gilders in her purse rattled, but she didn't hear them, and they would stay rattling after this shopping trip if she had her way. Free things were always the way to go. And if one got caught, well... it was amazing the things a little confusion, pity, and frustration could grease with the Fogeys. Besides, she wouldn't get caught. It wasn't like there would be some massive crowd gathering at the docks for some auspicious reason today.

Oreva stared as the street ended and opened up to the scene.

There was some massive crowd gathering at the docks for some auspicious reason. Damn.

Her paw clenched her Whack Bat tighter. It was still dripping with cabbage gruel, beet juice, and stuck with bits of sand. (One couldn't just ignore pop-up street Whack Ball when it was happening, one had to join in. And to join in, one had to carry their own Whack Bat around with them. As the old saying went: never speak and carry a big heck-off stick, and the world is your two mussel buffets in a bush.)

Other beasts were gathering to watch. She sidled closer to a nearby non-fish fishstick stand and, when the purveyor was looking towards the ocean, slipped herself a couple sticks, tucking them away in her gilder purse before dipping away again to nibble them later. Once free of fishstick, her fingers tapped her chin and lowered almost as if blowing a kiss; a stray thought forcing through her paws.

The crowd was looking rowdy. Oreva's ears perked, her whiskers lifting. It had been a while since she got honest to Vulpuz blood on her Whack Bat.

And in the chaos, more than coffee would be free. Maybe a whole sweater too. It was getting awful chilly in just her summer dress...

 

[Calara Driftsong]

It was a lovely day for a wander into the city. That was what Calara had thought as soon as she had appeared on deck that morning. Or more specifically, it was a lovely day for an expedition into the city for food that wasn't from the shipboard rations. It wasn't that the vittles on the BlackShip were bad-- she had actually been pleasantly surprised at how often they were well-spiced, truth be told-- but a beast could always do with a little more variation.

And non-fish fishsticks always tasted better than they should have.

She was making her way to the nearest fishstick stand when an itching on the back of her neck indicated that her hackles were all rising of their own accord. The otter paused, one big paw beginning to reach back for the haft of her javelin. She'd learned to listen to her subconscious long ago when it said mischief was afoot, as it tended to notice it well before her thinking mind did. Glancing around, it didn't take long to notice the trouble. Swirling depths, there were a lot of beasts gathering down by that Alkamarian vessel. Things looked like they were shaping up to be a proper brawl, make no mistake.

It had been far too long since she'd had a chance for a tussle like that.

 

[Wiley Briggs]

Wiley Briggs had forgotten how alive the docks could feel. The morning was sharp enough to nip the nose, but Bully Harbor breathed around him with its usual raucous vigor: gulls arguing overhead, cranes creaking, hawkers shouting half-truths about fresh catch that hadn’t been fresh since the last tide. Every smell - tar, brine, coal, old rope - carried memories tucked in its pockets.

He walked with purpose, coat pulled close against the winter bite, a bundle of Navy documents tucked tightly under his arm protectively. Today was the day. After years of enforced rest, of coughing fits, of doctors throwing every tonic and uncomfortable treatments at him, and so, so many leeches, he was finally signing off the last of his shore-leave paperwork. Soon, he would officially be seaworthy again.

Whether his physician had opinions about that was, in Wiley’s view, an unfortunate problem belonging exclusively to the physician.

Truth be told, he felt better than he had in nearly six years. Not perfect. His joints still grumbled on cold mornings after all, but healthy and alive. Alive in the way only a fox built for the sea could feel when the horizon shone like open water.

He had reached the half-way point down toward the main pier when the air suddenly changed with a sour shift, causing a prickle under his fur.

Wiley slowed. His whiskers twitched once as he took in the scene before him. An Alkamarian trader had just berthed, its hull gleaming with that unmistakable foreign lacquer. The crowd gathered thick around the gangplank was much too tight and tense. Their shoulders angled aggressively. Their paws stuffed into coats the way beasts did when they were hiding something unpleasant and metal.

And standing at the center of it all was a pine marten in Army colors, missing one boot, looking like a sacrificial offering ready for the slaughter.

Wiley’s stomach tightened at the sight of the foreign ship. His old raids flickered at the edges of his memory, causing pangs of regret slicing him deeply to the bone.

He exhaled them away in a long slow breath. Not today... Not on the day he was finally taking steps back toward the sea.

He scanned the crowd again, this time with the practiced eye of a sailor who’d walked more questionable docks than he could count. Were these beasts bounty hunters? Debt collectors? The way they hungered toward this lonesome beast wasn't just driven by malice toward them; it was driven by greed.

And the marten? Tough lad, that much was clear. But alone.
Always a bad combination.

That was when the Alkamarian captain vaulted onto the gunwale and bellowed a string of Alkamarian curses rich enough to fertilize an entire field. Hazie’s name cracked across the air like thrown glass, followed by a series of gestures that left no room for misunderstanding.

Wiley sighed with a deep exhaustion.

“So much for a peaceful mornin’…”

He slipped into the crowd with that unmistakable sailor’s roll, the one that suggested an ease born from six decades of uneven decks, accentuated by a healthy garnish of rum. The beasts nearest him stepped aside reflexively; Wiley had that look about him, a mixture of confidence, age, and the faint implication that he’d seen far worse than anything the docks could muster.

His cutlass swung at his hip, displayed with the quiet authority of Bully Harbor fashion: protection, ornament, and declaration of identity. It caught the light with each stride, a silver reminder that Wiley Briggs was not a beast easily beaten in a fight.

He reached the foot of the gangplank and tipped his muzzle up.

"Mornin’, lad. Lieutenant Commander Wiley Briggs, Imperial Navy."

He swept a measured glance over the crowd behind him. The heavies pretending to browse crates. The twitchy silhouettes in the upper windows. The ones who thought themselves hidden, but clearly lacked the proper skills to truly disappear...

Wiley knew this pattern. He could smell the storm before the first drop fell.

"Figured you might be a few breaths from needin’ a paw. Lucky for you, I’m in a generous mood."

He climbed one step, slipping effortlessly into Hazie’s orbit, close enough to be a presence, but far enough not to crowd him. It was the stance of a veteran who had watched too many young officers weather dangers alone.

"If this turns into a scrap," he muttered, voice dry as an empty rum barrel,
"do me a kindness and stay behind me. I’ve still got some bite left, and I’d hate for it to go to waste."

Wiley then squared his shoulders, letting his cutlass glint as he turned slightly toward the crowd, his tone carrying the calm certainty of a beast who’d stopped dockside brawls before they’d even started.

"Easy now, lads. Nobody needs to draw steel today."

A few of the nearest toughs paused mid-step, their paws hovering inside their coats. A dozen sets of eyes flicked between Wiley’s naval coat, his weapon, and the easy confidence in his stance. Not a threat. Not yet. But absolutely not a beast to take lightly.

"This ship’s under Imperial observation. Any trouble here becomes Navy trouble."

Then Wiley pivoted just enough to face the Alkamarian captain perched theatrically on the gunwale. His voice shifted. The burr on his tongue softened. His accent clipped into something surprisingly crisp.

"Capitaine, retenez votre langue. Vous allez mettre le feu à mes quais."
"Captain, mind your tongue. You're about to start a fire on my docks."

A few beasts blinked. One rat’s jaw went slack.

Wiley held the captain’s gaze, unruffled as a stone in the tide.

"S’il y a une dette, réglez-la avec des mots, pas des cadavres."
"If there’s a debt, settle it with words, not corpses."

An uneasy silence rippled outward, and in that space, Wiley Briggs stood steady beside the lone pine marten on the gangplank, a veteran fox with one paw resting near his cutlass.

 

[Hashwin 'Hazie' Freemont]

“Good morning, Lieutenant Commander!” Hazie answered back amiably, watching with no small amount of curiosity as a sturdily-built cross-fox mounted the gangplank. Briggs looked every inch the handsome-if-weather-beaten, cheerful tar of heroic sailor’s stories, the kind they reprinted every time the Navy was recruiting. Having been the thinly-disguised inspiration for similar Army propaganda, Hazie was not fool enough to assume Briggs was the same beast as the noble-faced sailors on the MinoWar posters plastering lamp-posts and public bulletins. His gaze lingered over Briggs, the warmth of his smile not quite reaching the searching look in his eyes. The pine marten tilted his head, taking in the fox’s dress, his words, his manner. He noted the grey-streaked muzzle, the swaying stance, the squinting eye. He catalogued the disheveled clothes, the unadorned weapons, the lordly swagger of an old paw before the mast.

“Captain Hashwin Freemont, 3rd Company, 7th Battalion, the one and only Imperial Army!” The traces of suspicion on Hazie’s face vanished, replaced with a well-practiced, easy grin. If Briggs had missed the shrewd study Hazie had made of him, then all he would see was perhaps an overly cocky young army officer, with an accent that betrayed him as nobility. “I rather like your fire, sir! Though I’m afraid it’s against standin’ orders to take cover behind other officers. Bad for morale, and all that. I’ll simply have to fight beside you, won’t do to break regulations so close to the Ministry offices, eh?”

Hazie winked, but fell silent again to listen to Briggs address the crowd. He winced almost imperceptibly as, having gained their attention, his rescuer then slipped into what sounded like pretty good Alkamarian, though he himself could not be sure if Briggs was fluent. Whatever was being said, the captain of La Tortue did not seem impressed. The weasel shrugged, and gestured broadly at the crowd.

“D'après mon expérience, c'est comme ça que ça se passe sur vos quais.”
“In my experience, that’s how it works on your docks.”

If there had been nobeast but a few disorganised thugs on the docks that day, Briggs might have dispersed the crowd. There might have been grumbling, and certainly a good deal of scheming to get payback later, but the Navy had a force of presence in Bully Harbour in a way the Army didn’t. Unfortunately, it was not to end so peaceably. The fact that there was now a Navy officer speaking Alkamarian in the presence of a mustelid wearing a suspicious uniform played right into the grotty black paws of the foxes that had come eager and armed for the red dawn they had been promised.

“Traitor!” Somebeast shouted absurdly.

“Death to the longbellies!”

“You’ll never take our homeland you stinkin’ slimy Alkies!”

“Musties go home!”

The Vulpinists were converging with all the co-ordination of a gang that had at least some ex-military personnel among their ranks. Cutlasses and daggers were unsheathed, trusty Whack-Bats tested on anybeast that caught a villainous Vulpinist's eye. Some young fool kicked over the non-fishstick fishstick stand, never mind that its proprietor was also a fox. Anybeast not with them had to be against, and wasn’t that a convenient excuse? Foxes that weren’t already a part of the movement were suspect enough, and any that so much as stood up to the bullying Vulpinists would be labeled a traitor, then labeled with a tag tied to one toe in the morgue.

The Vulpinist’s sniper decided he would get a shot off from a high vantage point. He clambered onto a nearby rooftop, unaware of the lithely-built creature in dark clothing and a foreboding mask that hid nearby. He would not be dishonored by killing an unarmed marten from a distance - the foreign invaders he’d been promised were here to take the Imperium and use cut-off fox tails as warmers around their freakishly long necks. It was Us or Them.

Another Vulpinist gawped at the sight of an otter with a javelin. Mustelids were bad enough… but woodlander mustelids?!

“Yeeearghh! It’s an otter! Kill it!”

“Charge!” Called one particular fox, bigger and meaner than the rest, dressed in a faded red coat and heavy boots, a halberd in his paws.

The debt collectors were not to be outdone. A rat the size of a wagon climbed to a vantage point atop a pile of crates on the pier. He smacked a heavy truncheon against his paw, his heavy biceps rippling, as he glared down at the halberd-wielding leader of the Vulpinist brute squad. “Stay outta this yew greasy-furred mangetailed bottom-feeders! This is a Dockworker’s Union matter. That gutless Alkie piece of crab-bait owes me money, so keep your bug-sniffing drool-flecked long snouts to yerselves before I flatten out your faces and sell yer teeth out of a cup!!”

“Creative. I’d better see to it my team doesn’t miss the Scurry,” Hazie remarked, giving away his own fondness for Whack-Bat. He turned on his bootless heel, and drew a deep breath. Whatever he might have sounded like in polite conversation, the bellow that came out him now would have made a drill sergeant straighten his back. “COMPAN-AAY! FALL IN!”

Like a well-oiled bucket of fish, the 3rd Company spilled from the hatches of La Tortue, flopping and writhing over each other in equal part eager to escape their claustrophobic confines as to meet the day’s action. To the untrained eye they appeared a motley rabble of about fifteen ragged vermin with not a single standard army weapon clutched in their paws, more a bandit raiding party than an army unit. To Hazie though, he saw their well-trained weapons discipline, the alertness in their eyes, and the unquestioning confidence in their commanding officer. Also there were eighteen of them. The untrained eye miscounted.

“We’re a little under-strength,” Hazie admitted to Briggs, smiling as one of his pile-mates - the rat with the floppy headfur - delivered him his missing boot. “But I’d take Hellgates itself with this lot, provided the Navy helped us hold it, eh? Now, some introductions are in order-…”

A crossbow bolt thudded into the deck. Their gallant Alkamarian captain took that as the signal, and bellowed his own warcry, which his crew joined with gusto. “La Tortuuuue!”

The crew of La Tortue charged down the gangplank, nearly bowling over Hazie and Briggs both. The battle was joined, the Alkamarians determined to trounce the debt-collectors and vice versa, whilst the Vulpinists began an all-out assault on both.

“… Oh dash it, hold that thought, Commander Briggs!” Hazie yelped, hopping about on one footpaw as he desperately tried to shove the other into his boot. “Soldiers! On the word, we shall advance, secure a route off the docks, and skirt as much of this hamster’s stew as possible! Not a whisker nicked off any civilians, not an innocent beast so much as lightly tickled, I say! If we get separated, regroup at the Bilge in the Bucket, and don’t you blighters clean out their fish’n’chips before I arrive!”

Fully booted, Hazie drew his khopesh- a wicked curved blade halfway between sword and sickle. He twirled it expertly in his paw, then nodded, still as affable as if he were taking an afternoon stroll with his felow officer. “Commander Briggs, I intend to make as much good of your generous mood as you’ll allow. We move at your signal - I trust your judgment of the situation. This is your home territory, after all.”

 

[Jill (The Beast)]

Beast watched with increasing worry as the crowd grew larger. This is bad, Mask. There's far too many beasts here. It'll become a free-for-all. A total bloodbath.

"All the better an opportunity to prove your worth, is it not? Look at this lot. Jills and todds; Soldiers and outlaws; Fools and corpses."

Now is not the time for your philosophies, Mask. This is serious! Beast shook their head, grimacing underneath the metal confines of their head's cage. That's when they noticed the sniper crawling up to the rooftop. The Vulpinist took out a crossbow, and aimed at the neck of the handsome looking pine marten. Beast rushed out of hiding and tackled the sniper just as he fired, causing the bolt to go low and thud into the deck.

Beast wasted no time, grabbing the sniper by his shirt and slamming their fist into his snout, before chucking him unceremoniously to the ground. Beast then leaped from the roof, black cape fluttering behind them as they dove into the fray, using the bodies of several Vulpinists to cushion their blow, sending them all sprawling. In the chaos of the melee, Beast couldn't tell friend from foe. Too many bodies, too many fists flying and swords clashing. Beast saw an ugly looking rat charging at them, and they charged in return, before leaping and placing a paw firmly on the rat's head to jump over the crowd.

Beast was now surfing over the mass of bodies, kicking at the heads of both the Vulpinist's and the debt-collectors to keep up their momentum. They made their way towards- what were their names?

"Lieutenant Commander Wiley Briggs and Captain Hashwin Freemont." Mask reminded them.

"I knew that." Beast muttered to themselves. As they reached the front of the crowd, a particularly large fox wearing a red coat was menacing the two. Beast leapt upon him, wrapping their legs around his neck and slamming him face first into the pavement, tumbling to soften their own fall before hopping back up onto their feet, only to stop right in front of Wiley and Hashwin.

Beast stopped, awkwardly staring at the two soldiers as the fox underneath them groaned in pain.

 

[Oreva]

Oreva sidled along the edges of the fray. As much as she wanted to feel the vibrations of a skull splitting, she wanted to actually feel first. And that meant having warm limbs.

As the chaos rippled, some merchants were trying to flee from it with their wares. Others were cowering. A barrel here, a crate there, abandoned by their porters mid-move. The wildcat stalked zig-zag between the crowd jostling to get in a good throw and the crowd jostling to get away, inspecting the wares that to everybeast but their owners were now just decorations for the event. It wouldn't be until the chaos rumbled over that the decorations would start to look juicy as armor and ammunition.

Pickles, from the smell of it. Rum in this cask. Textiles, textiles... oh, here was a crate of spices, peppers, onions... aha, coffee... A sack of that, tied neatly and quickly to her belt, now she could proudly commit to the more frivolous and important shopping task.

Something in the air caught her eye. A small thing, a butterfly or tiny hummingbird, perhaps, falling and fluttering... She climbed up on the crate, reached out to grab it - for luck. A little stretch, a little jump, and... got it!

It was a fox's ear.

She tucked it into her gilder purse and gazed around, still atop the spice crate, looking for a clear path to a more safe area. Things were getting a lot crazier a lot faster than expected, whatever it was...

"Oi. You!"

There, the crowd thinned some, beasts fleeing down an curving alley made of large blocks of netted cargo and empty wagons. She sailed gracefully off the crate and sauntered in that direction, head swivelling every which way - watching for danger and a good source of fabrics alike.

"Oi, cat! I saw ya nickit! Bloody yowlers, yer bad as the longbellies!"

Oreva, oblivious to this particular beast gesticulating wildly in her general direction, continued to pry up lids of single-stacked containers with the haft of her Whack Bat as she passed by them. The path ahead was fairly empty now, straight to the sea; everybeast who meant to run had ran. That meant everybeast behind her was... hm.

She turned, and just barely ducked in time. The cutlass swung at neck height barely brushed the tips of her useless ears as they folded back. A mild, high-pitched yelp of surprise chirruped from her throat: "Pih!" Her Whack Bat twirled as her turning momentum carried her through, crashing into a knee and toppling her aggressor atop her. She shoved him off, pushing her bat into his stomach as she stood upright again, stumbling back.

There were four of them, a mismatch of foxes of all sizes. Two in fine waistcoats and rakishly tilted caps, two in salt-stained dockworker's rags. All were staring at her. Their mouths snarled and spat, eyes blazed with righteous fury. Three blades and a spiked club. Behind them, Oreva realized, was the entirety of the brawl. Somehow, this alley of crates and wagons had looped around right back to it.

She flicked her mane out of her eyes, lifted her Whack Bat to her cheek, and licked it with a grin. Then she made a gesture that implied their mothers were their sisters, and another which was less implication and more directly told them which end of their bodies could be stuffed full of halibut. Despite not understanding a single thing she told them with her fingers, they looked about the same level of upset by it as she intended. They charged at her.

Oreva charged back, cackling.

 

[Calara Driftsong]

It was mayhem. Absolute, perfect mayhem. It took less than the space of two heartbeats, accelerated though they were, for Calara to loose both her javelin and her buckler, and barely longer than that to have them both readied in her paws.

“Yeeearghh! It’s an otter! Kill it!”

"Ha! Try it and find out!"

The otter bared her teeth in the manner of a feral creature. The light in her pale blue eyes was something primal, promising blood. She had encountered Vulpinists before, skulking in taverns cheaper and more seedy even than the good old Bilge. She had scrapped with woodlander-hating traditionalists in at least four narrow, dirty alleys. And those were just the fights worth mentioning.

She had walked away from every one.

Bleeding, perhaps. Requiring the services of a surgeon to stitch her back into the right shape more than once. Sore and limping and definitely wounded, but always walking.

The same couldn't be said for the ones who had started the fights.

But 'Gates, there were a lot of beasts here. And despite the air of general melee that pervaded the chaos, Calara couldn't help but feel herself dangerously outnumbered and terribly alone. She needed allies. She needed to be an ally.

The fox who had called for violence on her head specifically charged, flanked by two others, all three brandishing blades of various types. If she could get past them, she thought she could see a knot of beasts who might fit the bill-- a tall and admittedly handsome pine marten, a salty old fox... and was that another creature with a metallic mask with the same idea as her? Or perhaps that tortoiseshell wildcat? She could choose later.

She was a big otter. She was strong. As the three foxes closed in she lowered her shoulder and bulled forward with her buckler to catch the lead vulpine in the chest while her leg and then her great rudder of a tail snapped out to trip up the other two. She almost went down with them, stumbling as her momentum nearly got the better of her. But she managed to recover. And she kept going. And she grinned the whole time.

 

[Wiley Briggs]

Wiley took Hazie’s introduction in with a slow, measured look. Through the outwardly disheveled appearance, nobility sat on the pine marten like a well-tailored coat. His confident voice, that easy grin, the kind of polish Wiley had seen before on recruitment posters and battlefield eulogies alike.

Wiley dipped his chin in a brief, grim nod. This beast was competent, though possibly disillusioned, he decided. Cocky too but not foolish.

But as his attempts at negotiation degraded, and he was answered with a snarl, Wiley felt the atmosphere turn like a pressure change before a squall. The shouts, the slurs, the sudden clarity of purpose in the eyes of beasts who had come already wanting blood. This was a powder keg with a lit fuse.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

Well... That went about how these things usually went around here. Maybe he was rusty. Years ashore had a way of dulling instincts. Or perhaps this was simply Bully Harbor reminding him that good intentions had never stopped a blade yet. Either way, the moment for talking had passed.

If things weren't already bad enough, the Vulpinists then made themselves unmistakably known, decrying their hatred loud and proud. Wiley watched as the fuse expired with an explosion of battle as the crowd devolved into chaos. There would be no dispersing this crowd, now. No stern words sharp enough to cut through anger and fear dressed up as righteousness.

"You’ve stuffed yourself in it this time, Briggs."

Then Hazie’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. Wiley’s eyes flicked to the ship as the 3rd Company spilled out in disciplined chaos, a tide of marauders forming ranks where moments ago there had been one fool on the gangplank. Surely not the company of military might "Captain" Hashwin Freemont thought they were, but it was enough to possibly turn the tide in a fight.

When the masked figure dropped into place before them, Wiley’s paw found the handle to his Cutlass, his eyes taking the Beast in with a veteran’s economy. This beast was masked and dangerous, but the crossbow-beast sniper laying battered and broken on deck planks behind them, told Wiley enough for now. He glanced to Hazie and gave a single, subtle nod.

Hazie’s plan followed quickly: Find a route off the docks, avoid civilians, fight like hell, and regroup at the Bilge in the Bucket.

Wiley almost smiled.
"If'n I live through it, I’m gonna need that drink..."

His gaze searched through the chaos. An otter, tall and powerful, buckler raised, javelin flashing as she fought her way through a gang of foxes, Wiley lifted his blade just enough to signal the direction, voice pitched low and steady.

"That way. We take her with us."

Without looking back to see if the rest would follow, Wiley placed himself where the press was thickest, his cutlass working not in grand arcs but tight, efficient motions. He turned blades aside, hooked a wrist and shoved a fox sprawling into his fellows, kicked a knee out from under another without bothering to look back. He moved with practiced defense, every movement buying space while preserving life and limb of his adversaries where he could. A dagger skittered across the planks. A whack-bat glanced off his guard. Wiley absorbed the impact with a grunt and kept walking.

He shifted to keep Hazie and the advancing soldiers covered, his blade flashing just enough to dissuade pursuit from an approaching fox with deranged eyes, though his shoulder took a glancing blow from his frantic sword swings. Pain flared, sharp and hot. He breathed into it and fought onward, pushing a stoat into the harbor as his headway continued.

The otter loomed closer through the din, and Wiley angled toward her, voice carrying over the clash of steel and shouting.

"Easy, lass! Fall in with us!"

Steel rang again as he turned aside another strike, angling himself to offer some much-needed backup to the overwhelmed fighter.

Wiley planted his feet there, cutlass low and ready, holding the space he’d carved out. Only then did he spare a brief glance back over his shoulder to the soldiers pressing forward through the churn, to be sure the line was still moving. He'd made it this far. He only hoped the others had as well.

 

[Hashwin 'Hazie' Freemont]

Hazie gawked with his namesake stupefied expression, as a young, slight-built fox in a mask and flowing cape leapt from head to head over the rioting crowd, and executed a perfect landing on the leader of the Vulpinists just as he had been barking numerous foully-worded orders at his subordinates. The red-coated brute went down face-first, with a strangled “Hllkk!”, followed by an eye-watering crunch of nose cartilage, then a groan of pain. The mysterious fighter stood before Hazie and Briggs, intimidating despite their diminutive stature. Hazie’s eyes flicked between the silent stranger and Briggs, catching his fellow officer’s nod. Appearing to snap out of his daze, the marten was now the picture of gratitude.

“I say, top form!” Hazie said cheerfully. “Rather didn’t fancy scrappin’ with that blighter, m’self! You have a deft paw for pugilism, erm… lad?”

With his free left paw, Hazie drew his sword-bayonet, and offered it hilt-first to the masked beast. It was a sturdy, short, straight blade, its grip designed to easily be attached to a spear haft if needed. It would work decently otherwise as a close-quarters melee weapon.

“I might not know who you are,” Hazie explained, “but to fight alongside somebeast in a life-or-death situation requires absolute trust. You must trust me and m’colleagues to come help us. It would be terrible manners not to trust you.”

There was no time for Hazie to wonder at the masked fox’s refusal. He simply nodded, and flipped the sword-bayonet to catch it by its grip in his left paw, his khopesh in his right. “A warrior knows his strengths, of course. I ought get in some practice fighting with dual weapons, anyway!”

Hazie strode forward with purpose to watch Briggs’ back, stomping over the downed Vulpinist leader on his way. The fox gave a pained “Oof, augh!” and seemed about to get up, before the entire company of soldiers diligently marched in their captain’s pawsteps. Flattened to a crumpled mess, the formerly-fearsome fox leader gave out a squeaky whine, one paw outstretched… then he went limp.

Despite Hazie’s exhortations to show care, it was difficult to tell between instigators, and innocents caught up in the fight. Even civilians in the Imperium tended to go about their business heavily armed and ready to defend their lives with steel. Hazie’s khopesh flashed in the morning light as he deftly got past weak guards and amateur stances. Its peculiar curved shape made it especially good at disarming opponents, and the pine marten wielding it gave leave for beaten opponents to flee in a display of gallantry - which was becoming a more attractive option for those beasts realising they were in over their heads.

A few beasts - particularly foaming-muzzled foxes with some bug in their ears about Alkamarian invaders - persisted to the point of foolishness. If they lost their bat or their cutlass, many of them still had daggers. The shorter blades were not so easy to wrench from hostile paws - it was a matter of leverage. For their trouble, more than a few had their paws lopped off their limbs.

“Hah! That’s a Skimmer!” Hazie called, as a Whack-Bat whiffed past his muzzle. He blocked the next crushing overhead blow with both his weapons raised and crossed, gritting his teeth with the effort as the force of the strike transferred to his back paw. His opponent was half-a-head taller even than the pine marten, had half an ear missing, and the growling noises of apoplectic fury coming from his throat were beyond articulate words or thoughts. Hazie locked eyes with him. “Do you play Rotter for the Swanston Street Swingers? No wonder they’ve lost three seasons in a row. I’ve still got an old Swingers pawkerchief from the 1757 Grand Final, though!”

They lunged and swung at each other, bowling through another couple of melees in the process. The fox appeared to become clumsier the more Hazie goaded him, though in truth, this was merely an elaborate feint. Despite his manic behaviour, the fox still had the wily parts of his brain whirring. He was pushing Hazie into the confines of a narrow path between netted crates and cargo-laden wagons. There would be less room for the agile pine marten to manoeuvre, but more importantly, the fox was drawing Hazie away from his allies.

Neither of them noticed they were about to stumble into another brawl in the alley.