Expedition Introduction Open Mettle: A Very Sandy Giftsgiving

[Willow "Longshanks"]

With the weight of the marteness off of his neck and back, he relaxed into the sand with a gentle sigh, clutching at his arm for a bit of relief. Indeed, as he massaged the joint and released another little pop—and a bit of mind-numbing, molar-grinding pain—he felt right as rain again. In that moment it felt as though he could fall through the sand and be swallowed up by its sun-bearing warmth...

But the next, his attention was trained back to her; eager to see the thoughts and reactions as they played out on her face. These were crucial moments, after all.

Shifting on his handpaws, digging into the depths of the sand to finding some semblance of strength and balance still left within him, he pushed and rose up to his knees. For several seconds the world swam in his eyes—even when he snapped them shut and tried to think of anything but the swirling, whirling vista. Then, mimicking her (albeit more like a staggering drunk), he flopped over onto his hindquarters and sat, sprawling his long, gangly legs out before him.

"I needed to be sure," she said slowly, "pirates did not send you to kill me. Make sure you vere still loyal. Giles alvays said you vere his best, you guarded him vell, and served vell."

"Giles..." He repeated dully, the name drawing no sense of familiarity from his tongue or mind. But he did not alert her to the unsettling feeling that made its way into his gut, at hearing of his loyalty and service to a man he could not remember—and surely he would remember someone so important in his life, right...? And he guarded him well? Perhaps that was why he had gone for his hip, only to find no weapon.

His weapon... he would need to remember to ask if she had found one...

Regardless, his brows were furrowed in confusion and distress, large ears focused forward to catch every word she spoke.

"I vill explain..." She leaned back, gesturing at the crates. "Veeks ago, our ship vos attacked by pirates. Who vos not killed, vos taken. You vere taken. Our cargo vos taken. Somehow... I vish you could remember... You must have rescued some cargo. Perhaps you fought pirates? Took your chance durink storm last night? You have a bad vound on your head. I fixed it for you."

He brought the sensitive pads of his paws up to trace out the hand-sewn wound on stretching onto his forehead, following the line back through his mane as though the very action would help transport him back along with it—see events which remained as a dull grey cloud in his mind. But any insight was instead overtaken by pain, the tender edges stinging under even the most stringent of touch. A battle? Or a bump...?

With a wince, he said a quiet, reverent: "...Thank you."

"I am Apricity Prim. I am... vos... Giles' vife."

"...Lady Prim; Apricity..." He echoed her name to himself, to help concrete it in his mind—already proven so fickle.

"He vos killed... or taken... If you are here, and not him, I must assume he is dead now. Von cannot blame you... Somehow, you came back to find me, and brink a ship after you for rescue? Vell done..."

But he didn't feel like he'd done a good job, hearing her descriptions and feeling as he did now. One ear twitched backwards, an obvious display of his hesitation.

She gave a heaving sigh, rubbing her face with her paws, claws grooming her fur. "If Giles is dead, you are no lonker his. His name for you is no lonker yours. You can choose a name for yourself now. Or, you can svear yourself to me, and I vill see you taken care of. Once servant of House Prim, once again? Maybe Knight, butler - ah, vot is vord for it... Anyvay. Choice is for you."
She stood and turned away to watch the progress of the smaller boat towards the island, tail swaying pensively, yet eagerly.

For a few long seconds, he stared at her back as the mechanisms of his mind ground off the rust and began to flow again. Something still felt wrong, felt... off, but words came to his tongue before he had a chance to think deeper.

"...I am sorry, Lady Prim." He said with all the sympathy befitting a recent widow, eyes softening where he regarded her profile. "I wish I could tell you the fate of your husband—you deserve to know, to be at peace—but, alas, it is as the rest of my memory..."

He didn't bother to finish what they had both already knew well enough. They were both too exhausted for that, he thought. Indeed, it still felt like he could drift back into whatever state she might have found him in, the great weariness and ache of his bones and body making it easy to consider.

Instead, he turned to introspection. Who was he?

A Knight? A Servant? He couldn't quite place it, but neither felt right in his heart. Then again, what beast doesn't dream of grandeur?

But... did it really matter? Whomever he was before, he was given a gift now. To become someone entirely new, detached from what he had been before the sea swept away his memory in that storm. An entirely new beast.

For some reason, the thought made him smile, the tip of his tail begin to wag in a way that mirrored the excitement present in Apricity's. Perhaps the question was not who he was... but who would he become, untethered from the past?

First, he would need to choose a name. Reaching into the emptiness of his mind, he dipped his metophorical paws into the great grey stormcloud of lost memory, searching for... something, anything.

---

Laughter. Bright, vibrant, and cheerful, as only a child's can be.
Paw pads on grass and wind against fur in the joy of a wild run.
The heat of the summer sun and the droning buzz of a chorus of insects.
A sharp splash of cool water against footpaws, mud between claws, and tall stalks of rice tickling around the waists.
The tingle of exhertion warm in the chest.

Then... a great tree, tendril branches like fingertips reaching down to brush the water and below. Feeling its bark beneath paws, climbing its branches.
A great, old, and beautiful symbol.

---​

He felt the moisture at his eyes before he really had time to process it, bringing up a claw to brush it away with a gentle sigh. Perhaps... there was hope that he would remember something, given time.

"Lady Prim...?" He called out softly at first, but then his voice was steady and true. "You may call me Willow."

With his name out of the way, now his mind was moving. There were things to do, people to meet, and a whole new life to live.

Wanting to show some form of strength, if he could find it within himself to do so, he braced his paws against the ground and grunted as he started up to his feet. Again, his vision swam... but this time he swallowed back his nausea and vertigo, clenching his fists and squeezing closed his eyes. It was a good thing her back was turned, because there was no doubt he was shaking.

"Now... I must ask, because I would be remiss to see you come to harm: you're sure that these beasts are here to save us...?" He pried open an eye to squint towards the distant Warship, just able to make out its distinctive black hull, if not the flag flown. The far-closer longboat had quite a few beasts on it as well, his eye drawn to the large red hat on one of them. "...Not more pirates here to finish the job? Because we are armed with naught but our teeth and claws..."

 

[Freya McFjorl]

For a moment, all that graced the space between Cryle and Freya was a tiny cube of ginger and spray of the sea...

...But the moment passed like all the rest, as the remainder of the outward bound beasts trickled their way onto the longboat. First came Temerity, bouncing her way along the longboat like she was part spring, enthusiasm abound for the voyage.

“I think your paws fit an oar better than mine, Freya! I bags the tiller!”

That earned a nod as she made her way to the stern—as she was certainly no beast to tell the Master-at-Arms what to do—and she carefully began to pull her oars into position as Kiptooth settled his way down in front of her. Haft of the oar in paw, she glanced down at the bag set between his footpaws for just a moment, to bask in its lifesaving simplicity, before Calara nimbly joined him and tucked between her own his downfall—her javelin the mark of a fighter. Thus the duality of their purpose here, set so plainly before their eyes. Her daggers felt suddenly ten times heavier on her hip... hopefully it would be as Calara said: a simple rescue of the beasts rather than a fight.

As Kiptooth's nose twitched in inquiry, his head swiveling to take in the gesture she'd handed to Cryle, she quickly averted her gaze aft. There was tension there as well, however, as Temerity looked between the Griblo, Herman, and Brasseye to cast her decision.

“Only room for one bean-counter, gentlejacks! ‘Erman may come, but strictly no arithmeticking until I give the word! Just because we can only see two beasts, that does not mean we ‘ave the full story. Many a stowaway thinks of stuffing ‘imself in a crate of potatoes with a waterskin, a dagger, and an empty rum bottle!”

“Gentlebeasts, take 'er down nice and steady! Lower away!”

As she contemplated the mechanics and curiosities of just what a beast could do within such a crate with a waterskin, dagger, and rum bottle, Herman hopped his way down just as the boat began to roll and shift in its lowering. When he took up the space beside a distant Cryle, Freya regarded the bag he set between his footpaws—a messenger bag of mathematical complexity—against the one between the ratmaid's, no doubt filled with her own dizzying array of tools. And here she had only brought her hip pouch and a few bladed weapons. Simple things for a simple beast, it seemed.

Certainly a strange little crew of beasts, but there they were; ready to go. Just like that, her scowl didn't seem so deeply set, nearly wavering into outward appreciation.

But the moment passed like all the rest.

Knowing she couldn't be the only beast to propel the boat, her attention shifted next to the remainder of the oars where they were tucked into the divot at the bottom of the hull... and she momentarily considered the beast-power of their primarily weasel crew. Herself and Calara accounted for plenty of strength, but Herman and Cryle... Kiptooth shouldn't even be rowing, really, as an elder...

So focused on the task at hand was she that she barely caught Herman's correction.

"Arithmeticking isn't a word, you're probably looking for calculation, the activity of performing mathematical operations with numbers."

She blanched internally more than externally, hairs prickling up as the Assistant Quartermaster dared to correct the Master-At-Arms—but, surpassing all of her expectations, Cryle was there and ready to react as the boat settled into the water with a quiet ~thup~ and began to bob idly in the calm water of the sea.

"Strictly speaking, Arithmeticking is indeed a word, in the sense that it is comprised of sounds and can likely be spelled by letters, and carries a meaning which was understood. It was the wrong word, but it is a word. Nevertheless, we cannot be stopped, and our calculations will proceed as yarghibblohnoooooo!"

"Gotcha!"

As Korya popped out of the water and splashed her friend, sending her tumbling back into Herman, Freya stared for a solid moment before letting out a booming laugh.

"Ha, Korya! You're a better swimmer than one or two otters I've known!"

The remainder of her laugh wove its way into her words as a light and playful tone. "Da, little koshka iz meant for the zea! Speaking of vich..."

Now that they were 'firmly' settled on the waters surface, she started to pull out the oars from the center of the longboat, handing them over to each and every beast. First Calara, who recieved her own pair despite Kiptooth's placement, then one a-piece to Herman and Cryle. Then a quiet call came down from above, distracting her from Kiptooth for a moment.

"Next time I will go. Good luck, my friends!" She waved down at those in the boat.

She gave the friendly (and so lovely) Wildcat Vilde a wave, beaming up at her.

But finally she returned to Kiptooth, her little scowl transforming into... almost a pout. Her mind was filled with thoughts of her mothers, both surviving and departed, at least a dozen years his elder. There could be no doubt: white whiskers and grey fur were her weakness.

Protectively holding her oars, tips dipped into the water and ready to propel them forward, she blinked slowly at him.

"Mmm, mean no offense, Doktor, but... perhaps no rowing?" She cast her glance back to Temerity, hoping for the Master-At-Arm's backup in this regard. "Save strength for the shore instead, da?"

Then, avoiding eye contact, she started to row. A first grunt was followed by humming, giving them the tune by which to set their pace towards the shore. She could practically hear Calara's singing from the night before, echoing in her black-tipped ears.

What do we do with a drunken seabeast~?

 

[Temerity Boudreaux]

Temerity’s tail thrashed in exasperation. Cryle was soaked, and making a miserable, noisy scene. The ratmaid had virtually jumped into Herman’s lap and made him soggy too. The two inkscribblers had anything on their minds but the mission. Temerity tutted at them, looking over Cryle to make sure she really wasn’t hurt. Sob like a kit, and Temerity became the fussy weaselmum.

“No more crying, Cryle, you will dry off before you know it,” Temerity chided, not unkindly. Her face become more stern as she turned her attention to Herman. “’Erman, where is your snout? Buried in a book, not ‘ere sniffing the danger in the air!”

Temerity wagged her claw at the other weasel, as though she quite would have liked to tap it against Herman’s noggin. He seemed to be the very embodiment of all Temerity suspected about scholarly beasts - a book had to tell him everything, even what words she could or could not use! But words were thoughts, and thoughts, as everybeast knew, came from the heart. Writing was merely a servant of thought, not the master.

“Now think, ‘Erman, ‘ow do words get into books?” Temerity asked rhetorically, in the tone of a patient, if slightly exasperated parent. “A beast ‘as to go out into the world and find ‘em, don’t they? They ‘ave to talk to real beasts, and listen to what they say. That’s ‘ow anything you’ve ever read in a book got there. Somebeast ‘ad to experience it first.”

Herman was spared further lecturing, as Freya brought to her attention the matter of rowing. Whilst Freya and Calara were hearty rowers, Kiptooth was as old as the sea to a weasel who had barely encountered anybeast over the age of 50 in her life. With herself at the tiller, there were really only two other candidates to share the load…

“Cryle! ‘Erman! Blackshippers ‘aul together as one!” Temerity called, firm and perhaps a little cheeky, but without any true malice. “Grab an oar you two, Freya and Calara are not working up a sweat to save the shine on your claws! ‘Eave! ‘O! ‘Eave! ‘O!”

As the longboat haphazardly bobbed in closer to the shore, Temerity’s usual chatter and energy seemed to narrow its focus. Her eyes now rarely seemed to leave the sight of the two figures on the beach. Her tail wiggled. It took her both paws to manage the heavy tiller, but even so, sometimes her sword-paw would leave its place, and caress the pommel of her dirk.

In truth, a frontal beach assault was not Temerity’s style. She felt uneasy on land, and it was really only the island’s smallness that was helping her past that. It could not be helped though - this was an important mission, and Temerity needed to prove she could strike with overpowering force and demolish any challenge Captain Jeshal set for her. When she felt the boat graze the sandbank, the waves sloshing and rocking them playfully, she knew it was her time.

“Eyes open, ears perked,” Temerity gave one last warning. “Until we are sure, none of us are safe now. Watch each other, and nobeast leave my sight. Keep close, and follow me!

The least weasel jumped from the boat and splashed down into the shallows. She began to wade, then scuttle up the beach, her flexible back hunched over as though expecting a volley of arrows to mark her arrival.

 

[Apricity Prim]

"Villow," said Apricity, softly. "A good name. Is... stronk?" Was it? It sounded lanky and stringy. It was fitting, surely, but strong? Well, he'd survived whatever it was that brought him here. Maybe he was strong. Like her family. Strength wasn't bulk, it was endurance and willpower. Willow of the Will to Live. Sure. Strong.

"I am sure," she said, both to herself, and to answer his question.

The bleary-eyed wolf, gritty sand in his face and salted as a kipper, probably had poorer eyesight than her - even if she had only the one working eye. She didn't need to see the whole flag to know it was an Imperial vessel; she'd dreamed of such things as a kit, the Imperium's iconography burned into her mind during lessons.

Plus, pirates would have sent more boats, surely. There were, what... six beasts on that longboat? Hard to see around the big wildcat-looking one... There were more crates than beasts, pirates would have come to loot and plunder the island's fruits swiftly. At least, that's how she'd have done it, if she were a pirate captain.

"And if I am wronk... run to trees. Look for orange ribbon, footpaw level, follow to be safe. Do not stray." She gave him a worrying grin. "I am - ve are not defenseless."

Her tail gave another short, quick flurry of sadistic wriggles.

She stood up, and helped the newly-named Willow to stand as well, then thought better of it and pushed him back into a sitting position when he began to wobble and also tower over her in a way that made her breath hitch a little and her stomach tense in what she couldn't quite decide was either a definite pang of romantic jealousy or sudden terror. She made sure his "Pervert" headband was still nicely on display and pressing just tight enough to his stitched wound, then brushed sand from her clothes and turned to face the sea while seated legs-crossed on the edge of her travel trunk.

Two weasels, a rat, a wildcat with a stubby tail, a pine marten, and...

"Vot in Hellgates...?"

An otter?

And they were all very well armed, weren't they...

She very surreptitiously leaned over and unlatched the trunk. Her other paw rested on the hilt of the blade strapped to her thigh.

But she didn't stand up. Let them show the first sign of true aggression. This was her island. She was prepared. A hunter finds themselves in unknown territory; a trapper always knows theirs. And this island was her trap.

 

[Herman Lasichin]

Herman pulled his notebook closer to his face as the drenched rat navigator nearly got into his lap. He nudged her back a little with his knee, or at least little in his estimation, to make sure his notes and calculations didn't suffer the same damp fate as her notebook.

"Eh, sorry about your notes, but if ya ruin mine I'll make you rewrite all that's in there.", he lightly whispered, trying to sound as playful as he could which was hard when he realized how unprepared he felt for this expedition.

Her face become more stern as she turned her attention to Herman. “’Erman, where is your snout? Buried in a book, not ‘ere sniffing the danger in the air!”

And unprepared he was. His eyes blinked quickly as if he was a kit caught daydreaming in class. He tried to put the notebook under his arm, then decided to place it under the seat, but when he felt how wet the longboat's floor was, he put it right next to him, hoping that the waves had mercy on beginning seabeasts. Once his fumble with the notebook was over, he brought his head up and sniffed the air, but he could only smell the sea, the island up ahead, and all the beasts around him. He didn't know if he was meant to scense anything else, and he was too embarrassed to ask.

Temerity wagged her claw at the other weasel, as though she quite would have liked to tap it against Herman’s noggin. He seemed to be the very embodiment of all Temerity suspected about scholarly beasts - a book had to tell him everything, even what words she could or could not use! But words were thoughts, and thoughts, as everybeast knew, came from the heart. Writing was merely a servant of thought, not the master.

“Now think, ‘Erman, ‘ow do words get into books?” Temerity asked rhetorically, in the tone of a patient, if slightly exasperated parent. “A beast ‘as to go out into the world and find ‘em, don’t they? They ‘ave to talk to real beasts, and listen to what they say. That’s ‘ow anything you’ve ever read in a book got there. Somebeast ‘ad to experience it first.”

Herman felt like he shrank 2 or three claws just from Temerity's words. His eyes bowed, and the rest of his head would have followed if he didn't remember her command to keep his snout up sniffing the air. Temerity had a good and convincing argument, the last thing Herman was expecting. Learning that he was far from the brightest beast on this ship hurt the twice university graduate, but it seem to only last a second. Now, it was great that he wasn't the brightest beast on the ship, since he didn't know how to do a thing. And while Temerity could certainly improve in her pronounciation, she knew how to lead an expedition far better than he did. So, as long as he did as he was told, it was going to be alright, probably.

"Yes, ma'am."

He thought he needed to acknowledge her words more, or not say anything and let his actions speak for himself. But he didn't think about it as much as he usually would have.

“Cryle! ‘Erman! Blackshippers ‘aul together as one!” Temerity called, firm and perhaps a little cheeky, but without any true malice. “Grab an oar you two, Freya and Calara are not working up a sweat to save the shine on your claws! ‘Eave! ‘O! ‘Eave! ‘O!”

Herman took an Oar, held it first like an oversized table spoon, then tried to wield it like a racket, before he saw how Freya held and used it and tried his best to follow her example. The longboat was gliding straight onward at a very good speed, so at least they were doing something right. But this wasn't going to be an easy trip by any means. The boat was cramped, it felt much more unstable than any other ship he was ever on. Up close the island didn't look that inviting at all, and neither did the two beasts stranded there. His imagination would have usually recalled the fun stories of adventure he read before, but now there wasn't much left to the imagination. They were who knew where, going to meet who knew whom, going to find who knows what in those crates and who knows what could happen. The two stranded beasts left a very bad impression on the mustelid full of prejudices already, especially the one whose species he couldn't remember the name of. He looked like somebody tortured a fox by pulling his limbs as far as they would go, and instead of breaking or snapping back into place they adapted to their new length body proportions be damned. He could see there was something written on his forehead, a terrible sign already, and when he got close enough to read "pervert" he just nodded to himself. Yeah, they are saving this one, and were hopefully dropping him off at the closest sanitarium. He knew students at his university who would end up looking exactly like this the morning after a very rough fiesta, but at least they would wake up in the same city and not on an island in the middle of nowhere. The pine marten looked more representable, but that contrast only made Herman dislike her more. One's a wreck on the outside, the other must be a wreck on the inside. And while he would never choose either, he would be happier stuck with the former. For the first time in his young life, herman Lasichin was glad to be armed, to be surrounded by other beasts, and to mostly let someone else do the thinking for him. More than two swords' lengths away from his usual self, but this wasn't his usual kind of situation. And that's what he wanted, and one thing that didn't change about Herman was the will to see it through, no matter what it might be.

 

[Tanya Keltoi]

With a final wave to the departing party of misfits, Tanya at last tore her calculating gaze from the island and filled her lungs with a slow, deep inhale. They were a rough and ready lot but the best crews often were: she only hoped they would lean into working as a team. In the meantime she decided to satisfy herself with preparing for receiving these strangers – or rather making sense of their stories.

“Checkin’ charts – call if you need,” she murmured to her husband by way of explanation as she passed, patting his arm. It was a short trot to his cabin. There, armed with the ship’s log, navigational tools, charts of local waters (and, secretly, a pair of spectacles to help make sense of the finer scribblings), she made her assessment. If the beasts had been on the island less than a month and offered no identification as to the ship which had left them – or they had left – it would be a matter of deduction to work out where they might be bound based on reasonable speeds, ports of call and recent weather. The information may well prove unnecessary or useless, but at the very least it would keep her occupied for a short span.

 

[Kiptooth Rowanheart]

Dysfunctional chatter swirled about the old marten perched on the bench during their journey towards shore. He seemed for the most part utterly unphased – if anything silently pleased – with every squabble and shriek reaching his ears. Familiarity had struck Kiptooth like a warmed blanket on a cold winters’ morn or a song from his childhood. This was what that delightful period of his life had truly been about: the banter between beasts, the excitement of new adventures, the little thrills in the otherwise slow pace of life at sea. Instantly he was transported to younger days and warmer climes, wading waist-deep through water on raiding and exploratory parties, heart hammering in his chest with the thrill of it all.

The illusion was shattered with a single suggestion. Kiptooth twisted, blinked Freya into focus, and pursed his lips for a moment. The jack had once prized his strength, as so many surgeons do when the occupation tasks them with amputations and similar feats of exertion. It still bruised his ego to relinquish this to the younger generation, but he was not an insensible sort and the offer was a kind one intended with respect. The mustelid nodded, a faint smile hovering on his muzzle. “Very considerate of you. I shan’t complain – I leave it to you youthful lot.” Paws folded and ears flicking against errant droplets of sea water, the surgeon relaxed as best he could in the rocking craft. Now and again his thick tail would twitch and thump against the boards beneath his paws in time with the infectious hum of the burly wildcat.

It was…not exactly the smoothest transition to land he’d been part of, but that could be excused considering several of the party being new to life at sea. He held his tongue from making comment, making mental note instead to recommend to the Captain that more training be added to the duties as the weeks progressed.

Age had not improved Kiptooth’s eyesight. The silvery marten squinted through thick crystal lenses at the strangers whilst the craft came to a halt, assessing their movement and balance at once. He could make out little in regards to the writing, though something appeared scrawled on the gangly-looking fellow. Both were up and about, at least, but he would need to get much closer to make any formal assessment as to their wellbeing – physical or mental. Honestly if the pair were cracked from their tenure on such a small island he couldn’t see them going amiss amongst the BlackShip’s crew.

Temerity was well-equipped for the adventure, and the surgeon followed her lead without complaint. Bag back in his grasp and a grunt in his chest, he eased himself into the shallows and waded after the weasel with his gaze, when not on avoiding obstacles underpaw, lingering upon the strangers. His ears remained trained particularly upon Cryle and Herman, keen to keep track of the two on their first mission ashore.