Private The Slups Completed Never Con a Con Artist

[Dusk Rainblade]

(Technically closed to myself and Thistle, but if you have interest and any ideas in how to join, just shoot us a message :3)

"Alright Marisha, what is so important that I needed to be called back from tea with my son?"

"My apologies, Minister. If this were not escalated to me-"

"Yes yes, 'if wishes were fishes, we'd all dine free.' Please, Marisha, just get to the point."

"Very well, Minister. Occult Division believes they have located a grade 3 paranatural."

"Grade 3? What's their certainty?"

"Only 64% at the moment. They haven't confirmed any active ability that couldn't be explained naturally; the beast could simply be a very talented con artist. He and his assistant have been operating out of a fortune teller's cart, and seem to be doing some brisk business."

"And you think he could be a true fortune teller? That's grade 1 at most. If I had to cut short time with my family because someone in Occult misgraded a simple clairvoyant-"

"Apologies, Minister, I think I buried the lede. It wasn't the clairvoyance that led to the classification, but rather the circumstances surrounding the beast. We have a chain of paratemporal incidents that we can link to the subject. Did you hear about the dock collapse last week?"

"Faulty maintenance, so I heard. My husband's beasts are already rebuilding it."

"We aren't so sure. A few weeks back, there was a fire in Kenny's Bunk Pointe. Six dead on a sight-seeing yacht."

"An unfortunate accident, but not unheard of. Some fool tourist must have knocked over a lantern."

"The yacht was in dry-dock, and it was broad daylight. No candles around."

"Arson then, insurance fraud most likely. I'm failing to see the connection."

"This beast, Thistle Brambledew-"

"Brambledew? A woodlander?"

"Hedgehog. Works with a porter of indeterminate species. He was in the town just a few days before; left before the incident. Do you remember the Tully Shore Resort?"

"Of course. I have a beach house there."

"You may want to check its value then. It got hit by a Very Large Wave last month; most of the resort was washed out to sea."

"How am I only just hearing about this?"

"All of the missertross gulls were washed out to sea as well, plus most of the staff."

"Don't gulls-"

"Fly? One would think so, yet somehow they all drowned."

"And let me guess, this Brambledew was there before the incident."

"Three days prior, yes. Occult Division is still attempting to correlate his movements with various disasters, but a clear chain is emerging. Wherever he goes, death follows."

"I see. And, let me guess - he's back in Bully Harbor."

"Yes, Minister. We already sent an undercover agent in to observe and report back. When he came back to us, he was broken, useless."

"His mind was that addled?"

"No, Minister. He said he'd experienced a 'catharsis', whatever that means. He turned in his resignation this morning; he said he's going to follow his dreams of being a florist."

"Alright, that is a bit bizarre. What are Occult recommending as next steps? Are we bringing Brambledew in?"

"Well, Minister, you see... Given the potential nature and severity-"

"They want me to take a look for myself."

"In so many words, yes, Minister."

"Incredible. Thirty years later, I'm still the only one who can get things done around here."

"I can assign an agent if you'd like-"

"No no, I'll go. If this beast is paranatural, I'll figure it out. If he's just a very unlucky con artist, well, I'll suss that out as well. Where's his last whereabouts?"

"The Slups. His cart is supposed to be... Well, the report states 'You'll know it when you see it'."

"I see. Well, clear my afternoon then. Oh, and find something nice to send to Alwyn as an apology for cutting our meeting short. Not chocolates, though. He'll just turn around and give them to some vixen."

"I'll see what I can do, Minister."

"Good. Now, get me my cloak. If I'm going to do this, best to do it in style."

---

Duchess Dusk Rainblade, Minister of Misanthropy, scowled as she scoured the Slups for her quarry. She hated walking in this part of the city; everything was so drab and depressing. The filth was one thing; it wasn't ideal, but she could bear it. It was more the hopelessness in the air that rendered it so unpleasant. One would think that Talinn might have demolished this place and built something more worthwhile in its stead, she reflected. Maybe a fish cannery. It could only improve the smell of the place.

The cart had been surprisingly difficult to locate, which, given its mobility, should not have been nearly so surprising. Eventually her inquiries, and the offer of gilders for information, had led her in the right direction. It was parked in what passed for a public square in the Slups, which was really just a wider section of road than the rest. Dusk had to admit, the cart certainly had the right ambience going for it. Maybe it was the thick fog that had rolled into the Slups, an unseasonable chill accompanying it, but even looking at the cart seemed to instill a sense of the macabre. Stop worrying, Dusk chided herself as she approached. You're almost as bad as those ninnies in Occult. You survived the Night That Fell; one lone con artist is nothing. Let's get in, debunk him, and be home in time for afternoon tea.

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

The cart sat slouched against the creeping mist, its old wood weathered but vibrant with life. Its wide doors stood open to the square, revealing shelves upon shelves of glass bottles, every shape and hue imaginable, packed tightly within. Some bottles shimmered with golden light, others glowed faintly blue or green, their colors dancing across the mist like reflections off water. Hanging chains and small signs crisscrossed the shelves to hold the bottles steady during travel, though now, while at rest, they rattled gently in the damp breeze. A strong scent of herbs, oils, and something faintly metallic curled from within.

Beneath the cart, a glint of movement stirred.

The Porter unfolded himself with eerie slowness, rising from the shadows on spindly limbs. His long, needle-like fingers gripped the yoke, and his wide, gleaming eyes fixed on the approaching figure. He neither spoke nor growled, only bowed stiffly at the waist, one clawed hand extending in a slow, formal gesture toward the open cart.

From within came a heavy thump, then a muffled clatter, followed by a disgruntled sneeze and a muttered, "Confound it all, where’s that blasted lamp?"

The cart rocked slightly, glassware chiming softly with the motion.

At last, the rear curtain twitched aside. Thistle Brambledew emerged in a swirl of patchwork cloak, his stubby figure dwarfed by the glowing wonderland behind him. His back bristled with bundles of dried herbs and tiny wrapped trinkets, each bobbing slightly with his movements. His spectacles sat crooked on his nose, catching the colored light and flashing like twin stars.

He cast a sharp, fond glance at the Porter, clicking his tongue.

"Good lad. Knows a soul worth greetin', that one does."

Then, beaming at the visitor, Thistle swept into a deep, theatrical bow, one paw flourishing his worn cloak, the other pressed over his heart.

"Welcome, traveler! Step close, step bold, for a gilded coin, truths may yet slip from the mists into yer waiting paws!"

He held the curtain wider with a practiced showman's flourish, the shimmering bottles casting shifting rainbows over his prickly silhouette.

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

Dusk raised an eyebrow as she observed the strange beasts and their even stranger abode. So far she hadn't seen anything that would have sent her scrambling for a parallax net*, but still, she was proceeding with her eyes open and alert. None of the trinkets on his back were any of the known Unknown Ones**, but that didn't mean they weren't lurking. Dusk fished a coin from the purse on her belt, smiling a wry smile as she held it up. "I have come to seek many truths," she remarked, "from a beast who is said to be a purveyor of such. The first truth I would like to buy from you, stranger, is this: who am I?"

*The parallax net, a key tool in Occult Division's efforts to capture and contain the Inordinately Weird and Inexplicable, is a net woven of sturdy silk thread that, for reasons known only to senior leadership of the research team, is dyed a rich boysenberry color. The presumption among agents is that the color is somehow instrumental in containing the Weirdness, though this has never been empirically tested. Agents who have nibbled on the net reported it tastes like mushrooms and regret, and that it made them see the ghosts of fish dinners past for several hours thereafter.
**The Unknown Ones, a pantheon of dark and terrible entities of indeterminate composition and purpose, have been the subject of much research and focus by Occult Division. So far their efforts have confirmed that a) sightings of their true forms are entirely genuine visions and are not a byproduct of licking the parallax net, and b) they take a perverse delight in manifesting as misshapen sculptures, twisted pieces of wood, and particularly ambitious cake sculptures. These last forms are especially dangerous and are to be taken, whole if possible, to the Sunless Chamber, where their dark powers are conquered by cutting and dividing their effigies and consuming them in a solemn gathering of agents, usually while wearing ceremonial robes and conical party hats and chanting the Blessed Nameday hymn in reverse.

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle chuckled softly, a sound like the crackling of dry leaves, as he accepted the coin with a flourish. He did not pocket it immediately, but let it dance across his knuckles, reflecting flickers of the multicolored lights behind him.

"Ahhh, one who knows how to stir the deeper waters. Clever, clever indeed."

He tilted his head slightly, studying her through the glint of his crooked spectacles, his quills rustling faintly as he shifted.

"To ask 'Who am I?' is to pluck the harpstring of the soul, m'dear. A question that few dare utter, for fear of what music may answer."

The coin disappeared with a sleight of paw, tucked perhaps into some hidden fold of his cloak.

Thistle turned lightly, gesturing toward the interior of the cart where the bottles gleamed in the mist.

"Come, come. Step within. The mists are thin tonight, and truth stirs bold in the bottle’s heart. A name ye seek, a soul's mark upon the world... Such treasures are not for the impatient, nor the careless."

He smiled warmly, inviting yet with a glint of knowing mischief behind it.

"Tell me this, wise traveler, when you gaze into the mirror on a foggy morn, who is it that stares back at you? Answer me that, and perhaps we shall begin our bargain."

He stepped aside with a small, formal bow and held the curtain wider.

The Porter, silent and motionless near the yoke, tilted his head ever so slightly, as if listening to things beyond mortal hearing.

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

Dusk listened skeptically to the hedgehog's routine, dissecting it for any hint of true understanding or power. In truth, much of it seemed the sort of generic mysticism that easily hoodwinked the foolish and those not in the know. Vulpinsulans were so credulous, they would believe about anything said in a vaguely spooky manner. It was much of the same technique as politics: say something vague enough to be applicable to anyone, and everyone would hear what they wanted to hear.

Still, she had to investigate thoroughly to be sure. If the beast was indeed paranatural in some way, even subconsciously, it was important that she find out how. She smiled and stepped into the cart, taking a quick, surreptitious look about. Nothing that stood out, but she hadn't expected anything to be so obvious. She took a seat primly on one of the cushioned spots in the cart, paws in her lap, and considered the beast's question. Honesty was the best way to elicit honesty, so...

"I see what remains of the femme I once was," she admitted. "Beauty fading, skin sagging, the only thing left my wits, and even that, I know, will not last me forever. Nearly six decades on this world - more than my mother or brother got, and nearly all my father had. It is hard not to look at myself and wonder if that will be the last time I see my own visage in the mirror."

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle listened, not with the eager air of a salesman, but with the patient, solemn regard of a monk hearing a confession. His head tilted slightly to one side, the light from the bottles painting shifting colors over his battered cloak and the bundles tied into his quills.

He placed one paw over his heart and bowed his head slightly.

"You honor me with your truth, traveler. Few are they who speak so plainly of the river's course."

He straightened, his spectacles glinting as he peered at her, truly peered, as if seeing more than the shape of her face.

"The mirror lies, as all mirrors do. It shows only the husk, the bark, the shell. It knows not the strength within, nor the battles fought to win each gray upon the brow, each line upon the flesh."

He turned lightly, gesturing toward a nearby shelf where several slender bottles nestled, each glowing faintly with inner light.

"There are gifts, aye, to ease the journey. Tonics to lighten the weary bones, to sharpen the wit, to quiet the mind when it drifts too far toward shadows. I offer them to those who need them, for silver buys only the bottle, never the blessing."

Thistle smiled, a warm, almost grandfatherly thing, the lines of his own face deepening into familiar, well-traveled roads.

"You, m'dear, have weathered storms that would have dashed many another soul to splinters. That is a beauty deeper than flesh and fairer than morning light. The spirits murmur it, clear as bells."

He let the words settle in the air like motes of incense smoke, patient and unhurried.

"So then," he said more lightly, "shall we see what more the mists would whisper in your ear, if you dare to listen?"

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

Dusk listened to the beast's affirmations, one ear tuned to skepticism, the other to sensation. He was good, she had to admit it. Even if he was a fraud, his manner of speaking made one want to believe that it was real. His words were like honey slathered over an open wound: sweet, and surprisingly effective at stopping the bleeding.

The minister surveyed the collection of bottles, her eyes assessing the various shapes, hues, and viscosities. Most likely they were all some amalgamations of harmless plants and liquors, but she'd have to get Occult Division to test them individually to be sure. She wondered if it would raise suspicion if she bought a single bottle of each.

As she considered his words, at first she felt affronted at the implication that she'd had a difficult life. All in all, she'd come out rather well - she was a duchess now, she had a family of her own, more wealth than she knew what to do with, a position of power...

And yet here you are, sitting in a cart, talking to a charlatan about your problems.

Wasn't that, in and of itself, proof that she had issues left unresolved? She could have just taken him in, interrogated him in one of Misanthropy's cells. She'd come here instead, not just because he might be a fraud, but because he might be genuine. And, really, how long had it been since she'd had someone to talk to and confide in?

Dusk nodded her assent to his suggestion. A small, paranoid part of her stirred at the mention of the mists; she'd read enough of Occult Division's findings to know that the mist hid darker things than mere secrets, and invoking them invited those things to come forward. Still, no risk, no reward. "Please," she invited, gesturing for him to proceed.

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle's smile deepened into something gentler, almost reverent, as he reached for a battered cabinet tucked against the cart's inner wall. His paw, steady despite the slight tremor of age, slipped through a curtain of hanging charms and beads.

From within the dark recess, he drew out a small, square bottle of thick, dark glass, its mouth sealed over in wax the deep color of an old bruise. It clinked softly against its fellows as he withdrew it, the faint sound of old glass and shifting dust. The bottle was cool to the touch, its surface smudged by time and travel.

He held it lightly between two claws, presenting it with the care one might offer a sacred relic.

"A tonic, then, for the tremors in your mind. A draught to still the surface of the pond, so you may see what stirs beneath. Bitter as rainroot and dark as regret, but it'll weaken the pull between spirit space and reality... at least for a time."

He placed it gently on the small table beside her, giving a slight bow.

"The first is always free, of course," he gave a toothy grin.

As he straightened, Thistle turned to the brazier that squatted in the corner of the cart. With a flick of a worn match and a muttered blessing under his breath, he coaxed a small flame to life among the coals. The brazier hissed softly, breathing out tendrils of sharp-sweet smoke that curled along the ceiling beams.

And then, as if drawn by unseen hands, a clatter of hidden mechanisms stirred within the cart. A prism of metal and colored glass descended slowly from the ceiling, turning with languid, creaking grace. The brazier’s light struck the prism’s shifting faces, casting wavering ribbons of color across the cramped walls, sapphire, amber, verdant green, the colors bending and flowing like water in a dream. Every bottle, every bundle in the cart caught the shifting hues and glowed like stars trapped under glass.

Thistle stepped back, allowing the magic of the moment to speak louder than words. His posture was respectful, almost solemn, as if honoring a guest on the threshold of a sacred journey.

"When you are ready," he murmured, voice soft as smoke, "we shall listen together."

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

Dusk would readily admit it: the showmanship was impressive. This beast certainly knew what he was doing when it came to controlling the ambience. More and more she was certain that there was no true paranatural ability in his craft, which, oddly, was comforting. Dusk knew how to deal with beasts; they were predictable, at least within certain variances, and con artists most of all. She could understand what there was to gain, what there was to lose, and deal with him accordingly. And if, in the midst of it all, she got to unburden herself a bit? Well, that was icing on the cake.

As she admired the light show, Dusk uncapped and carefully sniffed the vial. She didn't detect any of the common poisons beneath the bitter notes of... was that juniper? It was certainly derived from a tree product of some sort, alcoholic or no, with some other extract layered over it. He'd be a fool to kill you in such a place, she reflected, especially when he must know the attention drawn to him. If you die, he'll never leave the city alive. She braced herself and knocked back the concoction, her face screwing up at the taste. Even with her newly acquired alcoholism, that was still a kick in the teeth. She set the bottle back down, running her tongue over her teeth to attempt to clean the taste away. "What are we listening for?" she inquired.

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle gave no immediate answer.
He simply watched her, his old eyes half-lidded in the shifting colored light, as though weighing the question itself upon unseen scales.

At last, he spoke, his voice low and measured, more felt than heard.

"We listen for what is hidden beneath the clamor of the waking world."

He moved slowly around the brazier, the smoke curling about his cloak and quills like lazy spirits.

"The heart speaks first, in sighs and sorrows. Then come the echoes of old roads, steps taken and steps forsaken. Sometimes, if the mists are kind, we catch a whisper of what yet lies ahead."

He paused beside her, one paw resting lightly atop a battered tome on a shelf, as though steadying himself against the weight of unseen things.

"Not all who listen will hear the same. Some find comfort. Some, warning. And some,"
He smiled slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "some find the questions they were too afraid to ask."

He inclined his head in a small, formal nod, inviting her into the mystery without binding her to a single answer.

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

Oh, he was good. His answer was expansive enough to invite the listener to fill in the blanks for themselves, letting the subconscious mind do his work for him. A proper cold read would be hard under these circumstances; by inviting the listener to concoct their own questions, it was much easier to extrapolate from what they said. Dusk let her mind wander, trying to find a question esoteric enough to be a true test, but not to difficult as to be impossible. Ask about Khan? No, that was too cliché, and besides, nearly everyone in the Imperium seemed to have daddy issues. Ask about Talinn? No, that was dangerous territory. What about...

The words escaped Dusk's lips in a whine and a snarl. "My sister." She breathed heavy for a moment, a sudden wellspring of rage uncapped from depths she didn't even know resided in her. "My bratty, alcoholic mess of a sister. Why does everyone prefer her? I'm prettier, I'm older, I'm smarter - do you know I speak four languages? I mean, not well, but enough to get by abroad. That little brat barely speaks Vulpinsulan, and it's her native tongue! Todds go crazy over me anywhere I go, I've had at least a few dozen husbands and lovers, but the moment that she walks into the room, it's like I don't exist! Our own father didn't even notice my existence when I was right there next to him, he was too focused on Tox and on Valdrisk's unstable little brat..." She trailed off as she realized just how much she'd let out. "...That," she admitted, "might have been a bit uncalled for. Can I pay you to forget all that?"

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

A rasping laugh escaped Thistle, dry and rough as sand scraping over stone. It carried no mockery, only a kind of weary amusement, as though the sound had been scraped from the walls of a thousand old ruins.

He bowed slightly, the prisms' colored lights glinting off the bottles around them.

"Ahh, but no secrets are kept under the shroud, traveler. Not by beast, nor spirit. What is spoken here fades into mist, lost to mortal memory once it leaves the tongue."

He tapped a claw lightly against the wax-sealed bottle she had returned, a gesture small but resonant.

"Still... a beast so wise and generous with her coin may leave an offering to the spirits, if she wishes. A token to turn their eyes elsewhere, to let the shadows pass unnoticed through the mists."

He settled onto a low stool across from her, the brazier smoke wreathing him in faint halos.

"As for the matter you have stirred from the depths," he said, voice quieter now, "know this: the pursuit of wisdom, of excellence, is a lonely path. The lesser-minded fear the heights they dare not climb. They huddle together, seeking comfort in sameness, while those who reach higher find themselves alone on the crag."

He laced his paws loosely before him, gaze steady but without pity.

"To shine too brightly, to stand too tall, is to invite envy and resentment. It is easier for the world to embrace the familiar, the flawed, the comfortable. Leadership, power, wisdom... these are burdens borne by those willing to endure the loneliness of the peak."

A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth, half solemn, half sad.

"You must ask yourself, traveler...How much of yourself would you trade, just to be seen as less?"

The light shifted across the cart once more, the colors deepening, the smoke thickening slightly, as if the spirits themselves stirred restlessly in the wake of her confession.

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

Aha, there was his first misstep. Dusk didn't consider herself to be an ambitious person... Well, actually... On reflection, ambitious might be the best word for her. She'd fleeced dozens of men of their fortunes over the years, then, in the Imperium, she'd swiftly risen to the rank of Dark Star, the chief of intelligence to the Minister of Misanthropy himself. She'd used that position to politically defenestrate one boss and, in the case of the Verfolger leader Dragomorius, had literally stabbed him in the back to assume control of the Imperial cell of the cult. For a brief moment, she'd been on top of the world, until she'd lost it all.

But excellence? That word, to Dusk, seemed to imply a paragonesque virtue, the chasing of skill for its own sake. Dusk knew herself well enough to understand that she always had some ulterior motive for everything she did. Pursuing lofty ideals was Talinn's obsession, not hers; sometimes Dusk would swear he loved that sword of his more than he loved her.

She blinked, realizing that tears were starting to run down her cheeks. She daubed at her fur in surprise, trying to sort through the tangled knot of emotion she'd just picked at. Where had that come from? She carefully reapproached that thought, attacking it from another angle. Talinn doesn't love me as much as...

Oh.

She realized she was starting to properly cry now, and she hated herself for it. Crying made her eyes puffy and her cheeks damp, and ruined her good looks. Now that the scab had been pulled off and was starting to bleed, though, she realized the nature of the wound. "I'm sorry," she apologized, then wondered why she cared enough for this beast's opinion to do so. "I just..."

She hesitated, considering the perils ahead. This was dangerous territory, growing close to truths that no one outside of the family should know. Still, she needed to get this out of her chest before it would explode and kill her. "I will hold you to strict secrecy on this," she warned. "If this leaks, I will hold you personally responsible." She took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to arrange the story in her mind. "Several years ago, my husband came to me and... and he asked me for permission to take a mistress," she stated. It was as explosive a truth as any, but not uncommon among the insanely rich of Billy Harbor. Most everyone in the wealthy had all sorts of trysts going on behind the veil of respectability. Goodness knew how inbred the elite truly were, with all the bloodlines convoluted by the offspring of secret affairs. "I wanted to tell him no," she admitted, "that he was my husband, that I wasn't going to share him with some hussy, and yet... I didn't. I suppose I didn't think I had much of a choice in the matter. I mean, if he wanted to do it, he could just go ahead and do it anyway behind my back. If I was going to be betrayed, I would rather see it happening than be blindsided by it. So, he took her - a younger vixen, of course - and I pretended not to notice or care. Of course," she confessed, "I hated him for it. I hated him for putting me in a position where I would be the villain if I had said no. I moved out of his dwelling into my own after that, and we haven't shared a bed in all these years. Most beasts don't even know we're married, that's how long it's been."

It felt incredible to get that story out of her, to finally tell someone. Even her own kits didn't know what had happened; they just thought that their parents were separated. Of course, if that version of the story leaked, she would need to have the hedgehog killed. Betrayals of her trust were not something she took lightly, after all.

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle sat in the stillness that followed her words. The smoke curled between them like the breath of a sleeping spirit, the shifting lights dimming slightly as if the cart itself knew to listen.

When he spoke, it was quiet. Steady.

"I am no priest, nor lawkeeper. I take no oaths save one: that what is shared in the mists stays in the mists. The spirits may remember, aye, but the world does not."

His tone held no theatrics now, only a kind of quiet gravity that suited the dim, amber glow around them.

"You were cornered. Trapped between the sting of knowing and the deeper wound of being made a fool. That is not weakness. That is strength, of a bitter kind. And cruelty it was, that you were made to bear the mask of consent so another might call himself honest."

He folded his paws in his lap, gaze soft but unwavering.

"I have heard tales like this, from vixens and wives and husbands too. Beasts bound in name but not in heart. The world calls them arrangements. I call them graves with curtains drawn."

A flicker of color passed through the prism, casting a ripple of pale green light over her chair. Thistle watched it, then continued.

"He asked not for your permission, but your silence. He wanted to be seen as noble for asking, while knowing you had no answer that would not paint you in shadow. That is not love. That is cowardice."

There was no anger in his voice. Just tiredness. A long, familiar ache, as though this injustice was a weathered thing he had seen in too many seasons.

"You have done what many cannot. You stayed whole. You moved the fire to your own hearth, and you kept breathing."

He glanced toward one of the bottles, its label faded with age.

"There is no shame in surviving. There is shame only in those who would make survival necessary."

The lights shifted again, casting long shadows. Thistle’s gaze returned to her, calm and quiet.

"But you did not come here to speak solely of him, did you?"
"So I ask, traveler... what is it you truly seek?"

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

Dusk felt a bit of a fool for confessing something that explosive. If word of it got out... But then, in a way, she also felt lighter. She hadn't realized what carrying that burden had been doing to her. His words of affirmation, this time, while also a bit trite, were better received and appreciated. In retrospect, what was asked of her was unconscionable. She knew that she and Talinn hadn't exactly been the perfect couple, and she understood his reasoning, but...

She blinked at the hedgehog refocusing the conversation. She opened her mouth and spoke before she thought about it. "I want... I want to make things right. Things haven't been right in so long. My husband barely talks to me, my kits hardly know me, my family is all estranged... I'm staring down the end of my life, and I'm worried that, in the end, no one will even come to find my body to give me a burial. How do I fix that? Is there some magic potion to fix everything about myself? Can the spirits tell me what I need to say and do to reconcile with those I've lost?"

And, of course, there was the matter of Mina Rose. That was a whole other problem she didn't like to think about. The question was partly meant as a test, but she was also curious to see what his advice would be. Even if he wasn't paranatural in any way, he was still quite talented at reading beasts. That could be a very useful skill.

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the curling smoke. The weight of her question pressed into the air like a second gravity. When he opened them again, the light had shifted. Not just from the brazier, but from something deeper in the cart.

A faint click sounded overhead, subtle but deliberate. Somewhere above, a gear turned. A series of quiet ratchets followed, and the light from the prism dulled. In its place, the soft glow of amber glass lanterns lit from the cart’s corners. The air felt heavier now, quieter. Every bottle, every charm, every dangling sigil seemed to lean inward, as if listening.

"That," Thistle said at last, "is the question nearly every beast truly comes here to ask. Not the lovers, nor the lost coins, nor the dreams they don't understand. No. It is that one. How do I make it right before I go?"

He did not smile. This time, there was no mirth to offer.

"There is no tonic that can mend a soul, m'dear. No draught can undo what time and silence have unraveled. If there were, I would have taken it myself, long ago."

His gaze was steady, lit by soft gold and shifting green.

"But magic, aye, magic does not always come in thunderclaps and swirling light. Sometimes, it is quieter than breath. A word spoken to a kit who no longer expects one. A letter written with no expectation of reply. A pause in the middle of a quarrel. These are the spells that change lives. Slow, painful, and real."

He turned slightly, brushing his paw against a heavy linen cloth draped over a small orb in the center of the table. The shape beneath it was unmistakable now. A crystal ball, veiled but waiting.

"There are spirits who listen to questions like yours. Not to answer them directly, no, but to reveal what you already know and have hidden from yourself. I do not offer prophecy, only perspective."

He looked toward her, softer now.

"But before we ask them, I must ask you this: what is it you hope they’ll say? What is it you most wish to be remembered for, when the mists claim your name and all your titles are dust?"

The light in the cart flickered as if reacting to the words themselves.

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

Dusk had to admit, she was impressed by the presentation offered by this woodlander. There were obviously mechanisms in the cart that were operating the lights, which was quite a clever design actually. Even if there was nothing paranatural about it, Dusk decided, it was still well worth the gilders for entertainment value.

As for the beast and his questions... It might not be real magic, but there was definitely an effect that was at work. Dusk hadn't talked this openly with anyone in years. She was surprised by how nice it was.

She took a deep breath, weighing the question. Her mind went to Talinn, to her kits, to Tox and her family. Did any of them really even know her? Would any of them miss her? What would they say of her - and what did she want them to say? "I would want them to say that they'll miss me," she confessed. "That they love me, and they'll tell their own kits about their grandmother one day. I... I don't want to be forgotten."

She blinked as she admitted, "My father was a complicated beast. He didn't make himself easy to love by any stretch of the imagination. He isolated himself from two sets of children, abandoning them to go off and fight for the Imperium instead. It was only late in life that he tried to make things right, but by then it was too late. My brother Valdrisk was already dead, and he was too cowardly to tell my sister before she was gone, or my niece before she lost her mind. In the end, he only had me, and..." She blinked back tears. "And I didn't tell him either. I let him die without ever letting him know he still had one daughter who loved him. Now I'm so scared of going down that same path."

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle moved slowly, reverently, as though afraid to startle the air itself. With a careful paw, he drew back the red linen cover resting atop the center of the low table. Beneath it sat the crystal ball, not gleaming and clear, but softly clouded, as though it held a storm waiting to break.

With a quiet click beneath the table, a concealed prism mechanism stirred to life. Light from the brazier caught its turning faces, sending thin threads of color spinning upward into the heart of the orb. Inside, the swirling patterns moved slowly at first, then with greater confidence. Purples, greens, and deep blues coiling like smoke behind glass.

Thistle did not touch it. He simply rested his paw on the table beside it, acknowledging its presence.

"You are not your father," he said, voice low and measured. "You have not made his choices. You have not passed beyond the chance to speak what he left unsaid."

The ball swirled slowly, the colors within reflecting across the wooden walls, painting the silence with movement.

"To be remembered, not for what you did or what you ruled, but for who you were... that is not vanity. That is something deeply *thamonious."

He studied her in the shifting light, not prying, not pushing.

"It will not be easy. Reinvention never is. Those you love may be distant, or bitter, or grown too far to reach with a single outstretched paw. But even a tree struck by frost may still bloom again if the roots remain."

The swirling light danced across his face.

"You must speak. Not just apologies, but truths. You must say what you feel, not just what is expected. And you must listen, even when the answers wound you. Pain unspoken does not fade. It festers, like a rotting branch left to hang above a rooftop. Leave it, and it will fall. Name it, and it may yet be cut away."

He gestured slightly toward the crystal ball, its depths still swirling gently.

"This, when the time is right, may help you see what you already carry within. Not prophecy. Not fate. But the shape of the road, hidden beneath the undergrowth of grief and silence."

He folded his paws once more, letting the quiet return.

"That time grows near, but you must call for it first."

*Thamonious (adj) — describing an action or person who acts in deep accordance with soul and empathy. Derived from Thamany (from Greek “thymos” = spirit/soul + harmony) – used like: “There's a deep thamany in how they cared for strangers.”

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

Like a young kit with a persistent cough, Dusk found herself resenting the bitter medicine that the hedgehog poured for her, even as she recognized that swallowing it was the best thing she could do. She could only imagine all that her family had to say to her. Alwyn and Ameliya must hate her for disappearing so often through their youth, her middle two children had barely known her growing up, and Mina Rose didn't even know she existed. As for Talinn... For all she hated him for what he'd done, the decade of petty punishment she'd inflicted hadn't brought him crawling back to her begging for forgiveness. Instead, it had only driven the wedge between them further in. Her isolation, undertaken ostensibly to protect her family, had really been just driving them away.

She took a deep breath and focused her gaze on the crystal ball. It was a very clever effect, she had to admit; she puzzled over it, wondering if there were imperfections in the glass that caused the light to look like smoke, or if it were done in some other way. She was sure that Talinn would love to have his beasts tear apart this cart and discern all its secrets. If anything, that just made Dusk feel oddly protective of the hedgehog. Whatever his clever little tricks, he deserved to keep them. She considered the road in front of her, the rocky path up a mountain of apologies yet to be uttered. She could reach out to Talinn at any time, the same with Alwynn; both were in the Harbor and easily accessible. Her younger children would be far more difficult. They were back in Westisle at the moment, and she couldn't trust that if they got a letter from her, they would actually read it, so great was the resentment there. Arranging a visit to see them, or for them to visit the Harbor, might have to be the solution - even though her stomach knotted in anxiety at the thought of her youngest, so ambitious and clever, venturing onto the Vulpinsula, where it would be even harder to keep track of her movements. As for Mina Rose...

"There is one member of my family," she stated quietly, "who I may have wronged more than anyone else - but I don't think she even knows it. She doesn't even know I exist. I don't know what she's like, if she enjoys her life, if she's happy or if she hates it... I don't know if she's anything like me, or nothing like me at all. I don't know how I go about righting the wrong I did to her. Will it destroy her if I reveal that every truth she's ever known has been a lie? Will she hate me for putting her through that? Would it be better to just leave her in blissful ignorance?"

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle waved a paw slowly above the surface of the crystal ball. The swirling light within turned inward, curling tighter like smoke caught in a jar. He watched it for a moment, silent.

Then he looked up, locking eyes with her.

"Is she poor?"

@Duchess Dusk Rainblade