Open Imperial Army The Slups Hostile Reception

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

(Thread synopsis: the army has been sent into the Slups for a show of force, and the situation threatens to get volatile. Feel free to jump in to help - or to make it worse :3)

Aran Mateu caught a tomato on his shield and briefly wondered where the beast throwing it had found it, how they'd afforded it, and why they'd let it go to rot enough for it to make such a splatter. A bit of the juice splattered across the bow of his helm, while the body of the fruit slid down his shield and fell to the street. "Gerr'outta our city!" the fox who'd thrown the fruit from a third-story window in a rickety Slups tenement hollered down at the young soldier.

Aran Mateu danced out of the way as a splatter of feces and urine hit the street, tossed from a window on the opposite side of the street. He wasn't sure if it had been intended for him or not; there was no shout this time, and in the Slups, where proper drainage didn't exist, such was the common method of cleaning a chamberpot. He wrinkled his nose as the scents of rotten tomato and the nearby spill mingled in his nostril, and he had to turn away, gagging and covering his mouth until his stomach stopped heaving. He'd never in a hundred years have expected he'd come back to Bully Harbor and find himself missing the Mahsterious Sahthern Cahntinent, but here he was.

The destruction of the Bully Harbor Opera House by vulpine supremacists had been an act of defiance the Empress could not let stand, and, in a show of force, Aran Mateu's regiment, recently returned from putting down the woodlander uprisings in the distant territories, had been sent to Bully Harbor. Ostensibly they were to restore order in the city and act as support for the Ministries in rooting out the vulpinists from their dens in the Slups. In practice, that meant patrolling the impoverished district and suffering the abuse of its citizens. They'd been given orders not to retaliate so long as what was thrown at them remained less-than-solid, a category that seemed to include a startling array of unpleasant projectiles now coating Aran Mateu's shield. The worst part was that he'd have to clean it off once he returned to the barracks.

Aran Mateu looked about, trying to see where Rhana had gotten to. They'd stopped outside a row of non-fish fishstick stands on one of the busier streets to get a lunch they could eat on patrol, and Aran Mateu had volunteered to stand guard while she shopped for them. He hadn't expected to find himself as fond of the troublemaking stoat as he'd become; during boot camp he'd assumed that she was violent for the sake of violence, much like many of the new recruits. Conversation on the trip back from the MSC had revealed a surprising amount of commonality in their worldview, at least as concerned military leadership and the attendant national myths. Granted, she could be a bit of a loose cannon at times, but he'd come to appreciate that quality in her.

"'Ey, Kharrie!"

Aran Mateu flinched at the slur. He wasn't Alkamarian, but to most Vulpinsulans the distinction between Alkamar and Miklar, its captive western region, was nonexistent. He resisted the urge to turn and glare at the speaker, knowing that his dark eyes, black pupil and iris on black schlera, would only be seen as confirmation. "'Ey," the speaker barked again, something in his vocal qualities indicating fox to the pine marten's ears. "I'm talkin' t' ya! You deaf, ya stupid 'tid?"

That made Aran Mateu glare at the offender. He'd gotten used to hearing slurs aimed at his nationality, but the specist slur was still fresh enough to rankle. Even most foxes wouldn't have dared use the word until recently, at least, not in public. Apparently the vulpinists had emboldened some of the populace. The fox in question was heavy set, drooping eyelids and bloody eyes, plus the stench of cheap ale on his breath, indicating a long night spent drinking, the effects of which he still seemed to be under. The fox's beady eyes fixed on Aran Mateu's, and the expression on his face turned malignant. "Though' so." The fox spat on the filthy street between himself and the soldier, hatred and contempt in his voice. "Wha', th' Bitch Queen don' gotta 'nuff soldiers t' step on our necks, so she brings in Kharrie t' do ih'? Her an' tha' traitor Ryalor sellin' us ou'?"

Aran Mateu shuffled a footpaw back, falling into one of the defensive stances her been taught. His paw tightened on the wooden shaft of his spear, but he didn't lower it yet. Never point your spear at anything you aren't prepared to kill, the instructions from his training coming back to him. "Şir," he addressed the fox, trying to keep his voice calm and authoritative, "please ştep back. I don't want to engage in any altercachions with you." His accent, while far less thick than his parents' due to only a few years spent in Miklar, still asserted itself, the shift in the s and sh sounds forming the characteristic lisp that Vulpinsulans so often attributed to Alkamarians, not realizing it was a Miklarian trait.

The fox laughed cruelly, stepping a little closer, not noticing when he stepped atop his own spit. "Ya orderin' me abou', Kharrie? My pa fough' in th' Winter War, killed four Kharries 'imself. Reckon I got some catchin' up t' do."

Aran Mateu shifted his spear, raising it free of the ground, trying to calculate the distance between himself and the fox he'd need to keep in order to remain effective. He shuffled a step back, nausea as he felt his footpaw step in the discarded contents of the chamberpot mixing with the nerves from the confrontation. He could see others around watching the pair. The foxes were stopping, watching with predatory interest, while the non-vulpines mostly hurried past. "Please," Aran Mateu requested, his tone bordering on begging, "I don't want to fight you. I'm not your enemy, şir."

"Shir, shir, shir," the fox mocked, stepping a little closer. As a few of his fellows began to follow his lead, Aran Mateu felt like the walls of the buildings around them were curving in toward him. "Wonder if a Kharrie wiv'out 'is teeth still lisps like 'at."

The fox was getting too close, or maybe it just felt like the beast was closing in on him. Either way, Aran Mateu acted on impulse and lowered the spear, shaking it threateningly. "Ştep back!" he ordered, this time his voice wavering as the fear crept into it. Something collided with his helm - a rock, perhaps, or maybe a stale roll, something hard enough that it rocked his head back and made his vision briefly flash red with pain. His training taking over, Aran jabbed blindly with his spear, encountering nothing but air. A chorus of cruel laughter rose up around him, and through his swimming vision, he could see foxes, some of them doubled or tripled by the haze in his eyes, closing in around him.

So this is how I die, he thought in dismay. Not fighting to liberate my home, but killed by the country that took me in.

 

[Rhana Redd]

Rhana hadn't meant to leave for long. Wonder to tell, some of the vendors around here had gotten picky with who they sold to today, and wearing the green hadn't won her many good graces this time. In the end, she'd settled for buying from an old, nearly-blind rat who seemed to think they were there to put Mar'kan back on the throne.

"Right on, guv."

It'd been her turn not to be picky. Gilders traded hands, and the fishsticks - the right smell for the real thing, even if she'd been told with no small pride they contained not a shred of fish within them - hot and ready in her paw, she folded them into what had once been the front page of the latest Smelt run, stuffing the whole lot into her ruffled uniform's pockets.

Now she only had to find Aran again.

What a mess. The battalion was spread far and wide across the Slups' sorry streets, danger intermingling with them. Some of the way, things were calm. Some group of armed beasts or another tended to occupy these streets in the best of times - it was only novel that it was the army today.

No luck in the draw for Aran Mateu.

She saw the impact as it happened, breaking into a run the last stretch of the way to the marten's position. He was an odd one, with an odd accent to boot. But he'd stuck his neck out for her on her first day at basic and been reliable ever since. That bought a lot of loyalty in her eyes. Enough to fight for?

The stoat was already there, her own shield raised. She'd ditched her spear for a hefty club, the likes of which Fogeys used to carry, and was quick to wave it about, pushing the foxes back for a moment as Aran stumbled.

"Back off! Back away, ya stupid git!"

She stared down the first of the bunch in particular, her eyes intense, muscles primed as she hefted the club behind her, ready to swing out and smash some skulls.

"Ya alrigh' Aran? Still one piece?"

Rhana didn't look back at him to make sure, her whole body ready for the possible fight in front of her.

 

[Minerva]

(OOC: Adding on to the thread synopsis, there are few army patrols around the Slups. If you have an Army character at any non-officer position, you can choose to follow Minerva's squad or other officer Player Character.)

The last few days were a lot for Minerva.

The whole 'battle' at the Opera resulted in a lot of sudden changes in her life, adding to the ones that have already happened recently. Getting into a relationship was definitely much more scary for her than the wound she had suffered. In fact, with her newfound mate's help, the healing went smoothly and without much complications. She was still sore, but against the pain and the doctor's, she returned to the duty as soon as possible.

Only to learn that for protecting those apparently very important beasts at the Opera, she was given a 'promotion'. It didn't really strike her as deserved. After all, she was earlier repeatedly told that officers of any sort were beasts that were veterans, valuable soldiers and ones that did something exceptional. Minerva couldn't understand really why her actions were in any way impressive enough to deserve this.

It was the next day she realised that it was indeed a punishment. A whole squad. Hers to lead and manage. She was anything but prepared for this responsibility.

Just looking over them at the morning report, Minerva felt the dread of what was to come. She had no skill in giving orders, commanding others or even actual social skills. She could manage herself, bark a command or two to someone fighting along them... but whole squad was way too much for her.

Before she could even consider who to go to with this issue, she was already given her first order. Leading this troop into The Slups. Apparently her patrolling and general actions in the city didn't went unnoticed and somebeast thought she would be perfect for partaking in a greater plan of cleansing the enemy who attacked in the Opera.

Reading the information as fast as her poor reading skill allowed her to, it was already a headache. She was given one day to start, during which she very much avoided any communication with her troop aside from barking out orders and information coldly and very curtly. Once she had gathered them all, she simply told them to follow.

Minerva have been to Slups before a lot. That was area that needed more armed and capable guards after all. That is why she could make many patrol routes and follow one of them. She did just have to constantly remind herself that she had to occasionally gesture or bark our an order or two to the rest of her squad.

Walking the streets wasn't too hard at least. Army presence in mass definitely made a lot of beasts compliant. The ones that were trying to cause trouble were just ignored as long as they were non-hostile. Otherwise they were treated as an enemy and captured. Minerva order was to after all find and deal with those 'Supremacists'. While she didn't know where to start exactly with that problem, she was not going to fail it. Reliable could be her second name after all.

Stepping into one of the larger streets, Minerva saw a scene of some vulpines beating up a beast with a spear. Her trained eye of a huntress did spot quickly that the harmed beast had army Insignia. She barked out "Weapons ready." To prepare her troop as she herself let out an arrow within a second, shooting the attacker into his leg.

From a distance she spoke with pure, cold indifference, yet loudly enough to be heard. "Cease. Army is here." Considering it to be enough of a warning, she just started at the vulpines around; some terrified, some angry at her act. She didn't care. To her should they choose to live or die mattered little. She was going to follow the orders to the dot. More importantly, she was not going to let them beat any beast that is within the army. As an officer, she assumed she was responsible. Even if she hated it.

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

“What in the world...Coddy?!" Stumbling from his bedroom-come-closet into the ramshackle living quarters of their shared apartment, Berchar stared first with confusion, then mounting dread, at the back of the weasel who was half-leaning out of the window with a leer of delight at the unfolding situation below.

Living with Codtail (or Coddy as everybeast with a sense of smell preferred) was rarely easy and more so for a diminutive woodlander frequently threatened with the possibility of cannibalism. The worst part for Berchar was that he never really could be certain if it was all intimidatory bluff. The scraggly weasel was a beast given both to fits of temper and strange behaviour depending on what he had imbibed or ingested the hour before: only last week he had disassembled half of Berchar’s bed to construct a barricade within his own room under the belief that MAUL agents were going to break down the door any second. A majority of said timber was now piled up beneath the windowsill and the jerboa had a nagging feeling he knew just what for.

Hopping to the sill Berchar peeped over the edge and caught his breath. News of the Supremacist attack had of course reached Berchar’s ears and he had offered some basic said the next morning, but he had been far too preoccupied to realise there was to be army presence in the Slups today.

“W-what are they arguing about?”
“How should I know?” the weasel grunted as he set the chamberpot back down before leaning out once more. “What’s it even matter? Entertainment’s what it is, an’ if I get a chance t’throw somethin’ ‘course I’m about ter.”
“But why even thr---” Realisation dawned. “No, Coddy no, you didn’t.” His face burned with shame.
“Hah! Well why not? It’s funny!”
“Funny?! There’s about to be a riot!”
“Aah shaddup, scrag-ears, you’re ruinin’ my fun.”

The weasel waved a dismissive paw in the face of his unhappy flatmate. Without warning the jerboa siezed it. “Wha’?”
“We have to get back!” He pulled sharply, causing the lean ragged weasel to stumble. “Board the windows now and sit tight, we can’t get ourselves involved!”
“Oh, button it, y’ coward! I’m havin’ a laugh here!”
Berchar was not to be so easily dissuaded. He had been an army medic only briefly, seen battlefields a pawful of times, but the tension outside was setting his fur on end and every fibre of his being was screaming to hide. The Slups was always a kettle about to overboil: he was terrified of what the soliders’ presence could do. He pulled again: this time Coddy was pulled flat onto his tail with a bump.

Coddy had never much liked Berchar with a spine, in any sense of the word. “Right, y’ snivellin’ little sod.” Snarling, the scruffy weasel rolled onto his knees and tackled the smaller creature. A brief scuffle was all it took to get a firm grip on the jerboa’s scruff and the base of his tail. Frogmarching the protesting, flailing creature back to the window he gave a snaggle-toothed grin.

“’Ere, y’ stupid ‘tid, wadn’t it?” he bellowed to the beast below, proud of himself for remembering. “’Ave some more rubbish!”

With no accounting for skill nor ceremony, Coddy flung a screeching Berchar out onto the heads of the soldiers below.

 

[Aran Mateu Jan Vidal]

Aran Mateu's vision swam as he struggled to recover from the object that had collided with his head. He heard Rhana nearby, saw her in fuzzy triplicate as his vision danced, but he was having trouble narrowing down which was her. 'Gates, the world was drifting around him, gravity all akimbo.

There was a cry of pain from one of the foxes, and then a voice with a northern accent calling out a warning. Aran tried to connect the voice with the name of the fearsome, recently-appointed officer, but he was having trouble recalling at the moment. Did it begin with an N? Nimuë? No, that's not it. The angry sounds of the crowd around him drew his attention, jeers and shouts and taunts all cascading. Someone managed to get a chant going, a bit rough and hardly musical, but the point was hard to miss:

"Foreigners, go away!"

Aran Mateu staggered closer to the reinforcements, clutching his head and trying to right his perception of the world. The crowd was on the edge of a riot, and the officer, whatever her name was, seemed to be giving them the excuse for violence that they craved. From above, loose objects were lobbed as freely as the vile taunts and slurs thrown their way - and, just as Aran Mateu recovered enough to have some sense of his surroundings, one of those thrown objects, a small mouse-like beast, landed right atop him. The collision was enough to bowl Aran Mateu over, landing him on his back and stunned. 'Gates if this turned sour he was going to be trampled.