Open The Docks Hazing Out for a Hero

[Tizzi Poof]

It was a glorious day for Tizzi Poof and the seagulls of Bully Harbour. In the wreckage of the Non-Fish Fishstick stand, they basked and squabbled and stuffed themselves. Where once they had been natural enemies, the guttersnipe and the gull, they were allied in their task of cleaning house.

Briefly. So very, very briefly.

It was Tizzi who started it. The feral little scavenger had begun hissing and spitting, war-dancing and challenging the seagulls who were idly pecking. Despite a full belly and a full mouth, and arms full of fishsticks greedily clutched to its chest, Tizzi could not bear the thought of sharing this bounty. It ran back and forth, charging at groups of gulls, scattering them. The gulls, nonplussed, only took off for a moment before settling back down to peck.

Then the Big Gull appeared, and regarded Tizzi, it's fur covered in grease, crumbs from the batter sticking all over it, as a miracle of nature. A walking, talking Non-Fish Fishstick!

And this was how Tizzi found itself flying high above the harbour, its tail caught firmly in the beak of Big Gull. Its armload of fishsticks rained down on the riot below. It took some concentrating, but eventually Tizzi managed to chew up the fishsticks in its mouth and twisted around to bite the neck of its captor. Weasel and Gull spun in the air, both refusing to let go of the other. Feathers disengaged from Big Gull like an explosion of eiderdown.

Big Gull gave up first, but Tizzi didn't. Focusing on flying despite the needle-teeth burrowing into its neck, Big Gull flew higher and higher, until finally -

"Tchk! Tizzi never share! Tizzi is - "

Tizzi is no longer gripping onto Big Gull, Tizzi realized. The weight of the little beast's own hubris brought it tumbling back down to earth, plowing through the cloud of drifting feathers, which stuck to its greasy, matted fur where the fishstick batter hadn't already. Tizzi rolled over, limbs spread wide, catching the wind against its belly and paws, and the feathers did what feathers had evolved to do.

"Tizzi is not falling with style! Tizzi is flying!"

The air filled with excited zheeping as Tizzi performed a loop-de-loop, and promptly crashed into the back of the skull of whoever needed reinforcements the most. This development quite infuriated Tizzi, and the beast's eyes and ears took the brunt of the feral guttersnipe-gull's claws and teeth.

 

[Calara Driftsong]

It was when the next strike grazed Wiley and another left a new gash along Calara's own rudder that she faced awareness of their own mortality with violent certainty. This wasn't a scuffle in the Bilge or a mess hall argument gone overly enthusiastic. The Vulpinists wanted blood and would take it by any means necessary. The debt-collectors may have been less blindly murderous but were no less viciously inclined. The big otter felt a twinge of shame; she should have recognized the full danger sooner. It was one thing for death to be a possibility. It was another thing entirely when it was your opponent's explicit intention.

Calara redirected another questing blade with her buckler and slammed the haft of her javelin against the knee of a Vulpinist who got too close. At least the debt-collectors weren't so focused on anybeast but the Alkamarians. Small blessings.

"Aye, good to move. Best we do it quick-like, I think."

She grinned again, a show of sharp, white teeth with less feral mirth in it now than there had been a minute before. So far she had done what she could to avoid applying lethal force of her own. That wouldn't last. The price they would have to pay to see another day, then.

"Shame we don't have another beast or two at our backs."

Clang. Thock.

One step forward. Then another. Sideways. Backwards.

The fox was clearly an old paw at watching a companion's back, and Calara had done enough of the same that she was more of a boon than a liability to her ally. Yet the odds were terrible and it was only a matter of time before the dice came up adder eyes. They weren't moving fast enough. And it seemed a few of the Vulpinists had marked them as easier targets, isolated as they were from friendlier bodies. Any number of angry foxes were converging on their position and forward progress gave way to desperate defense.

Then, a strange and eerie sound coming from above. Above? Calara had the presence of mind not to spare it a glance. Presence of mind or focused panic, perhaps. The opponent standing in front of her wielded a long saber with a skill and precision that spoke to actual training and he had already carved a half dozen new cuts into Calara's hide.

It did nothing to help him when zheeping chaos struck him from the sky and wreaked bloody mayhem on his eyes and ears.

Calara shouted out a string of curses that could have only been learned over decades on the sea, and the otter felt the tiniest wash of pity for her fallen attacker. The wave of gratitude (and fear) that followed lasted somewhat longer. The creature's timing was impeccable. Now they just had to make sure to keep the critter on their side. Or at least to stay out of its way.

As if sent down from heaven, a fishstick tumbled through the air in a parabola providential enough some beasts might, with straight face, claim a miracle. The bit of mysterious, breaded protein(?) lodged itself just near the pawhold of Calara's buckler, and the otter knew what to do.

"Aye, beastie, fishstick?"

It may or may not have been the sort of thing to bite the paw that fed it, but it was worth a try. It looked very much like the sort of creature to rip reality itself apart in the name of a little bit of food, and so Calara threw the fishstick into the throng of beasts standing most obviously between them and the way away from the docks.

 

[Wiley Briggs]

The docks had passed the point where momentum favored anyone still standing.

What had begun as a furious surge of bodies and blows had thinned into knots of violence that refused to break, each step forward answered by two more beasts surging in from the sides. Wiley felt it in the drag of his boots against the planks, in the way Calara’s movements had shortened and sharpened, less about clearing space now and more about simply keeping it. They were fighting well. Too well, perhaps. Fighting well, but not fast enough.

A blade rang off Calara’s buckler, close enough that the vibration sang up Wiley’s arm as he shifted to cover her flank, shoulder dipping as he checked a fox hard enough to send him stumbling back into another. No time for flourish. No room for pride. Just pressure, measured and relentless.

They were moving too slowly.

The thought came unbidden, unwelcome, and impossible to ignore.

Something shrieked overhead.

Wiley spared it half a glance at most, just long enough to register feathers, flailing limbs, and the unmistakable sound of chaos deciding to take a personal interest.

"Aye," he muttered under his breath as something small, greasy, and furious slammed into a Vulpinist’s face a few paces away, claws and teeth doing what blades could not. "That tracks."

No time to watch it work. No sense pretending it would last.

A fox lunged in too close, eyes wild, swinging without thought. Wiley stepped inside the blow on instinct, shoulder driving up, forearm snapping out in a tight, brutal motion that dropped the beast like a sack of wet sailcloth. The fox hit the boards hard and didn’t get back up.

The flagon bounced once beside him, miraculously intact.

Wiley blinked at it.

The press surged again. Calara shifted. Still no opening.

With a huff of breath that might’ve been a laugh in another life, Wiley scooped up the flagon, tipped it back, and downed the contents in one unceremonious pull. The liquor burned sharp and fast, more defiance than comfort, and he wiped his muzzle with the back of his paw as he tossed the empty aside.

"Right," he said, voice steadied rather than lifted. "Back to it."

He was already moving as he spoke, boots scraping, shoulder settling back into place beside Calara’s, eyes scanning for the next threat. The chaos from above bought them seconds. Maybe half a minute if they were lucky.

Not enough, but it was something.

And for now, something would have to do.