"Slipped it to us, they did," the fox had said. "The Fogeys. Gareth has a friend on the inside. Comes in on Sundays..."
The room Kerney was being led out of smelled overwhelmingly of pipe smoke and the beast sweat; stifling and smothering like an unwashed pillow over the face, but undeniably more pleasant than the Slups' usual odour. The bawdy music and banter became muffled (not by much) as the tavernkeeper shut the door behind him, locked it, then reached under his desk to produce a roll of parchment. He handed it over to the tree squirrel who eyed it suspiciously. It looked innocent enough, bound tight by a red ribbon bearing the Imperium's emblem. Frighteningly light for the legal power it supposedly held.
"The stoat," Kerney pointed the roll at the tavernkeeper. "With that silver earring, aye? I've seen his mug. Can't hold his booze." One evening the sentry had come into the Gull's Tail already piss drunk on rum - presumably from the very shipment they had supposed to guard in transit - thinking he was Hot Shit. Always the opportunist, Kerney played dice with him and won everything the sod had on him short of his tail (which wasn't actually saying much). Too drunk, too confident -- and the dice too loaded. Part of Kerney kicked himself for taking advantage of his state, but the look on his face was worth more than any of the coin he won that night. His claw tugged at the ribbon idly as he reminisced.
Stupid idiot. "Good bloke."
The fox leaned in, along with the fetid mix of hard alcohol, tobacco, and chronic morning breath. "Listen, you're lucky me regulars can't get seen wrapped up in this. It's a stroll through the wood. Even a clown like you ken do it."
The squirrel's eyes drifted down towards the parchment as the tavernkeeper spoke, only barely paying attention, reading off the decorated letters one at a time:
With a flourish, Kerney confidently tucked the paper roll into his rope waistband, the last comment thankfully going unnoticed. "Then yah ain't got to worry your sweet li'l head. Who's the handoff, anyway?"
The fox's mouth split into a razor-wire smile. "You'll know him when you see him."
21 Bugs 1764 was by all accounts a lovely day in Bully Harbour. The sun shone down on the urban maze, no clouds to shield the beasts below. A merciful northeast wind blew the stench of the Slups into the industrial district as beasts milled about in their daily business.
Kerney stood by the river in Duskshambles, taking it all in. He was normally a night creature, so to speak; at night the Slups truly became a living animal in its own right. In the bleachy daylight it was considerably less endearing.
But today felt different to him. He reveled in the energy of the working beasts, the sound of buskers; let the fresh and briny air from the docks fill his lungs; felt the wind blow through his fur. He walked on top of the stone fence separating the street from the river and kept himself balanced with ease. He liked these parts of the Slups the most, where the breeze wasn't blocked by decrepit old slums and the heat of the city could be blown away.
"I'm a Bully Harbour's lad,
An' by my reckoning, that's not bad..."
Kerney didn't know *when* the handoff would show himself, though today he supposed he didn't mind waiting (what more was there to do?). Whistling the rest of the tune, his mind drifted to the parchment on his belt.
When one takes too much of interest in a subject, one may begin to care about the parties involved. Because of the nature of in these types of dealings, Kerney reasoned it best to know as little as possible about what is not necessary for him to do... whatever it was he would do. He was barely doing anything on this one, anyway.
But he couldn't stop thinking about that writing. A will? How did that work, anyway -- legally? Was he handing this off to the executor? Why did this trout have such a long name? Maybe just a peek wouldn't hurt. He'd tie it up nice and pretty after. His hand went to his hip...
And found empty air.
Instantly, Kerney's heart dropped into his stomach. The salty air suddenly tasted sour in his mouth. He patted around his waist frantically in a hopeless effort to find it still on his person, and when he couldn't, turned his gaze to his immediate surroundings.
In the distance, only about 15 feet away, a flash of yellow on the dirty ground. A roll of parchment carried by the wind slid and rolled between legs like a spooked insect skittering away.
"Jings, yer KIDDING!"
Kerney launched into a frantic pursuit, propelling himself off of the fence and into the crowd, uncaring about the scene he was making. He pushed and shoved, weaseling his way in between beasts who shouted expletives at him, craning his neck to maintain eyesight as the last will and testament of Whats-Her-Name rolled further and further...
The room Kerney was being led out of smelled overwhelmingly of pipe smoke and the beast sweat; stifling and smothering like an unwashed pillow over the face, but undeniably more pleasant than the Slups' usual odour. The bawdy music and banter became muffled (not by much) as the tavernkeeper shut the door behind him, locked it, then reached under his desk to produce a roll of parchment. He handed it over to the tree squirrel who eyed it suspiciously. It looked innocent enough, bound tight by a red ribbon bearing the Imperium's emblem. Frighteningly light for the legal power it supposedly held.
"The stoat," Kerney pointed the roll at the tavernkeeper. "With that silver earring, aye? I've seen his mug. Can't hold his booze." One evening the sentry had come into the Gull's Tail already piss drunk on rum - presumably from the very shipment they had supposed to guard in transit - thinking he was Hot Shit. Always the opportunist, Kerney played dice with him and won everything the sod had on him short of his tail (which wasn't actually saying much). Too drunk, too confident -- and the dice too loaded. Part of Kerney kicked himself for taking advantage of his state, but the look on his face was worth more than any of the coin he won that night. His claw tugged at the ribbon idly as he reminisced.
Stupid idiot. "Good bloke."
The fox leaned in, along with the fetid mix of hard alcohol, tobacco, and chronic morning breath. "Listen, you're lucky me regulars can't get seen wrapped up in this. It's a stroll through the wood. Even a clown like you ken do it."
The squirrel's eyes drifted down towards the parchment as the tavernkeeper spoke, only barely paying attention, reading off the decorated letters one at a time:
LAST WILL
(and)
TESTAMENT
(of)
MME MARIE-ANTOINE-ÉLISABETH de FAZILLAC
(and)
TESTAMENT
(of)
MME MARIE-ANTOINE-ÉLISABETH de FAZILLAC
With a flourish, Kerney confidently tucked the paper roll into his rope waistband, the last comment thankfully going unnoticed. "Then yah ain't got to worry your sweet li'l head. Who's the handoff, anyway?"
The fox's mouth split into a razor-wire smile. "You'll know him when you see him."
*
21 Bugs 1764 was by all accounts a lovely day in Bully Harbour. The sun shone down on the urban maze, no clouds to shield the beasts below. A merciful northeast wind blew the stench of the Slups into the industrial district as beasts milled about in their daily business.
Kerney stood by the river in Duskshambles, taking it all in. He was normally a night creature, so to speak; at night the Slups truly became a living animal in its own right. In the bleachy daylight it was considerably less endearing.
But today felt different to him. He reveled in the energy of the working beasts, the sound of buskers; let the fresh and briny air from the docks fill his lungs; felt the wind blow through his fur. He walked on top of the stone fence separating the street from the river and kept himself balanced with ease. He liked these parts of the Slups the most, where the breeze wasn't blocked by decrepit old slums and the heat of the city could be blown away.
"I'm a Bully Harbour's lad,
An' by my reckoning, that's not bad..."
Kerney didn't know *when* the handoff would show himself, though today he supposed he didn't mind waiting (what more was there to do?). Whistling the rest of the tune, his mind drifted to the parchment on his belt.
When one takes too much of interest in a subject, one may begin to care about the parties involved. Because of the nature of in these types of dealings, Kerney reasoned it best to know as little as possible about what is not necessary for him to do... whatever it was he would do. He was barely doing anything on this one, anyway.
But he couldn't stop thinking about that writing. A will? How did that work, anyway -- legally? Was he handing this off to the executor? Why did this trout have such a long name? Maybe just a peek wouldn't hurt. He'd tie it up nice and pretty after. His hand went to his hip...
And found empty air.
Instantly, Kerney's heart dropped into his stomach. The salty air suddenly tasted sour in his mouth. He patted around his waist frantically in a hopeless effort to find it still on his person, and when he couldn't, turned his gaze to his immediate surroundings.
In the distance, only about 15 feet away, a flash of yellow on the dirty ground. A roll of parchment carried by the wind slid and rolled between legs like a spooked insect skittering away.
"Jings, yer KIDDING!"
Kerney launched into a frantic pursuit, propelling himself off of the fence and into the crowd, uncaring about the scene he was making. He pushed and shoved, weaseling his way in between beasts who shouted expletives at him, craning his neck to maintain eyesight as the last will and testament of Whats-Her-Name rolled further and further...
