Private The Slups Physician, Heal Thyself

[Arthur Barrett]

[ Set approximately one fortnight after the Golden Hide returned from Urk, and a few days after "Blood on Her Paws". ]

Bitter, miserable cur.

After his particularly embarrassing debacle with Amnesty, Arthur had made profuse apologies. He swore up and down that he wouldn't let this happen again. The behavior was unbecoming of his profession, and undercut his reputation -- not to mention, the trouble he'd inflicted on innocent beasts. And for a few days, Arthur made good on his promise.

But come the weekend, Barrett was thirsty again. The freedom he had made him restless, and bad decisions were easier to make than good ones. Barrett found himself stumbling out of taverns again, and again, and again. The only change he'd actually made was to be more careful hiding his behaviors. Slightly more tattered clothes, and a change of location to the Slups should be more than enough to keep him from running into familiar faces.

It was now a Wednesday evening. The sun was still up, and Barrett had already been turned out of the tavern. Never a reputable establishment -- it was always seedy enough that he didn't expect to run into any of his shipmates, or anyone from Pyrostoat. He was starting to get a reputation, though. It was hard to blend in when you were a hulking pine marten.

Bitter, miserable cur.

Arthur was a natural hermit. He lived on his own, and didn't mind it terribly. But of late, the pine marten couldn't bear to be alone with his own thoughts. That phrase kept coming back. Thankfully, the voice was neither Silvie's, nor the Wolf's. Merely his own thoughts -- and Arthur could control those. Or so, he thought. Try as he might, the pine marten couldn't drive the phrase away. At this rate, he wouldn't even be able to function when the Hide embarked on her next voyage. Something had to be done.

In his earlier years, he had friends he could call on. Share a meal with. The camaraderie was always a comfort, and things had a way of sorting themselves out -- but Arthur had burned every bridge. He'd even been planning to invite the foxes over to crash with him, and celebrate their return to Bully -- but... then things had quickly turned south. He'd beaten Kaii and Darragh in the hold. He still couldn't look Silv in the eyes -- and Swift was... well. Entangled. Finn was off with Alwyn, not that he'd confide in a kit. But he certainly couldn't talk openly with Gyles. Even Berchar! Gates, he'd made a complete fool of himself. And all his professional contacts wanted nothing to do with him.

That's when he saw the cart.

Miss Chloe had made waves some twenty years ago. "Oh now, chile! Don'chu lie to Miss Cleo! You been huht befoh!" A complete fraud and charlatan, who parted many fools from their money. And yet, Barrett could see the reasoning. Someone to confide with under the guise of anonymity. A disposable relationship for hire.

Arthur's fur began to bristle as he approached the cart. Something about the lighting coming from inside was queer, and unsettling. Gates, the idol had messed with his mind enough, perhaps this was a bad idea. But Arthur steeled his mind. That episode in the hull wasn't real -- he was suffering from exhaustion. This... fortune teller was just a charlatan. It was a mutually exploitative relationship. If things went south, he'd leave.

...what were a few gilders?

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

The streets of the Slups were still bright with the last rays of day. Sunset spilled its copper light across the rooftops, setting the broken glass in the gutters aglow. Even here, in Bully’s worst quarter, the air was clearer than usual, carrying the brine of the harbor and the faint tang of spilled ale. The taverns had spat their drunks into the alleys, and the clamor was dying down into mutters and snores.

But one shadow did not belong.

The cart hunched at the end of the lane, as though it had rolled in from some darker season. Its frame sagged with the weight of bottles that gleamed green and gold in the failing light, each filled with potions and tonic too bright to be honest. Twine-tied charms swayed against its boards, knocking together like eerie wind chimes. Painted letters peeled from its flanks - Cures. Charms. Fate Divined. - their faded script bending with every shift of the wheels. And yet, no beast pushed nor pulled.

From beneath came a rasping chchkt, dry as an old hinge. The Porter unfolded from shadow, its shrouded shape dragging cloth and rope across the cobbles. It lingered just long enough to turn its head toward Arthur, large dark eyes blinking wetly and loosing another insectile trill, before sinking back beneath the cart.

The glow inside thrummed, bottles clinking softly as a beast stirred within. A curtain at the rear of the cart billowed outwardly, and out stepped Thistle Brambledew with a sweep of his tattered cloak. His quills rattled with their tied feathers and beads, and his knobbly wooden staff tapped the ground.

"Ahhh… a visitor? Or just a wayward beast with a curious gaze?"

For a moment he studied the pine marten with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and sympathy.

"No beast finds my cart by chance," he said, voice rolling like old parchment. "Threads have a way of tugging us where we’re most in need... whether we know it or not."

The lantern-light inside the cart warmed, glimmering across the colored bottles as though to agree with him. It made the whole contraption seem less like a trap and more like a hearth lit just for the weary.

"So then," Thistle continued, spreading his paw in a small flourish, "shall we see what comfort or counsel the fates have set in your path today?"