Cricket
Fortuna Survivor
- Character Biography
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Finally. For all the realities of the slow passage of time and the lack of resources available to a kit on the streets, Cricket was not a patient youngster. In the wake of the Opera House disaster (something still sitting weightily in the back of her mind and pit of her stomach) the gecko had felt…unsettled. Unsettled on multiple accounts, few if none of which she could place claw upon. Introspection was for grown-ups, after all, and though it sickened her to think she might not have long in joining them she would cling to the obliviousness of kithood with all her might.
At the very least one thread in the strand of feelings became abundantly clear after having eavesdropped on Finnian’s training session, and that night she had pored over the latest developments in her life. Furballs, stolen rings, vulpinists…and she needed an edge. She didn’t have a crew to rely on, or Stoaties to train with. She barely trusted anybeast over eighteen.
But there had been that fox with the strange arm, Jeshal. He’d vouched for her for no personal gain of his own and not made it out like he was doing her some grand favour. He’d kept her safe all told. His arm was cool. She was no scholar or master of intelligence, but word in the streets travelled quickly and he was distinctive enough that after some digging she got her answers. Jeshal was a Captain now, apparently. She wondered if Finn knew of him.
Either way, once his identity had been re-established the youngster had spent the following weeks lingering at the dock awaiting the return of the BlackShip - because of course a ship would always be bloody at-sea the moment she needed them. Huffing and grousing on the daily, impatience had turned to forgetfulness. She’d become sidetracked with the occupation of survival; by the next time she wandered to the docks the ship had been back for the better part of a week. She could have tugged her own tail off and smacked herself about the snout.
Skittering around the busy dockside, dodging beasts with crates and stumbling over lines and nets, she could only wish that he might at least be around. Some small time later and her frantic prayers seemed answered: a flash of deep fur, a glint of metal, a nice black coat. “Hey – hey, Ironclaw!” she called out, grateful for his epithet for she had forgotten his forename in her excitement. “Ironclaw, mister – sir - Captain! I need to talk to you!”
@Jeshal the Ironclaw
At the very least one thread in the strand of feelings became abundantly clear after having eavesdropped on Finnian’s training session, and that night she had pored over the latest developments in her life. Furballs, stolen rings, vulpinists…and she needed an edge. She didn’t have a crew to rely on, or Stoaties to train with. She barely trusted anybeast over eighteen.
But there had been that fox with the strange arm, Jeshal. He’d vouched for her for no personal gain of his own and not made it out like he was doing her some grand favour. He’d kept her safe all told. His arm was cool. She was no scholar or master of intelligence, but word in the streets travelled quickly and he was distinctive enough that after some digging she got her answers. Jeshal was a Captain now, apparently. She wondered if Finn knew of him.
Either way, once his identity had been re-established the youngster had spent the following weeks lingering at the dock awaiting the return of the BlackShip - because of course a ship would always be bloody at-sea the moment she needed them. Huffing and grousing on the daily, impatience had turned to forgetfulness. She’d become sidetracked with the occupation of survival; by the next time she wandered to the docks the ship had been back for the better part of a week. She could have tugged her own tail off and smacked herself about the snout.
Skittering around the busy dockside, dodging beasts with crates and stumbling over lines and nets, she could only wish that he might at least be around. Some small time later and her frantic prayers seemed answered: a flash of deep fur, a glint of metal, a nice black coat. “Hey – hey, Ironclaw!” she called out, grateful for his epithet for she had forgotten his forename in her excitement. “Ironclaw, mister – sir - Captain! I need to talk to you!”
@Jeshal the Ironclaw
