Expedition Post Urk Expedition: The Bard and The Poet.

[Silvertongue Songfox]

Date: Merry 26, 1765

Dear Sir and/or Madam,

On behalf of the Royal Navy of the Vupline Imperium, I extend my deepest sympathy to you and to each member of your family on the recent loss of your son, Crewbeast Solomon Cunningham. Solomon contributed significantly toward the unified mission of Her Majesty's Royal Navy. Solomon was a fine crewbeast who will be sincerely missed by his shipmates and those with whom he came in contact.

Your son died the evening of Merry 25, as a result of Her Majesty's Ship the Golden Hide, engaging in combat with hostile natives of Urk.

I am very proud to tell you that, although I didn’t personally know Solomon, he was a well-liked and dedicated Crewbeast who honored his country and the Naval service by the work he did on the Golden Hide and throughout his naval career. His distinct personality and expertise made an immediate impact on those around him. He quickly gained the friendship of peers and superiors alike. This is an important and positive certainty that we all can appreciate as we wrestle with the mysteries of life.

Again, I extend to you my personal sympathy and understanding in your great loss.

Sincerely,

T. Ryalor
Captain of the Golden Hide, Minister of Innovation of the Vulpine Imperium.

Silvertongue sighed, and he sat the letter aside to dry. He had already written at least a dozen of them. On a separate piece of paper, he marked Solomon's name off the list. How many more of these were there to go? Too many to count. Each stroke of the quill caused his heart to ache. So many beasts had lost a son. A brother, a nephew, an uncle, a... a father.

He shot up from the chair, setting the quill down and rubbing at his eyes as tears had already started to spill forth from them. He needed to step away from all this misery. Seeing as how the Captain was asleep, he didn't bother to excuse himself and instead just quickly vacating from the quarters. He strolled across the deck, stopping at the bow and staring out into the sea, taking deep shuddering breaths.

He knew what he wanted, no. Needed to do. In order to do so, however, he would need to locate Darragh.

 

[Darragh Harper]

Darragh had found himself the unwilling custodian of a marine’s jacket.

It was all because he had fallen out of the boat, when they’d landed on Urk. He’d been wet and shivering, stripped to his skivvies and fur, turning blue at the nose and pawpads. There had been a marine about his age, a brown-furred rat with a friendly face, big for his species as Darragh was small for his. Private Terik had let Darragh borrow his red jacket, since the marines were busy working up a sweat setting up camp anyway. Everything had moved so fast, Darragh hadn’t even gotten the young jack’s name. He was going to meet back up with the rat that night, so the marine would have his uniform ready in case of a morning inspection.

Then the battle had put a stop to that, and put a stop to Terik, too.

Darragh wasn’t sure if Terik was a first or last name. The five letters were sewn haphazardly into the collar of the rat’s jacket, T ER I K. Given the oddity of the sewing, Darragh wondered if the rat had truly been literate, or if he had only recalled the shape of the symbols that made his name. Most of the marines had fallen to defend their comrades, and the very few left living and willing to talk to Darragh (he had received a blow to the head from one distraught marine already) could not remember the rat being called anything other than Private Terik. It wasn’t unheard of to only go by the one name, but it made Darragh suspect Terik had been an orphan. Hardly unusual in the Imperium, either.

Darragh knew there would be families and friends waiting at the dock when the Golden Hide returned. They wouldn’t even receive Terik’s remains, as he had been buried at sea. His weapons had been abandoned on Urk, along with his mess kit. If he had letters, or memorabilia, nobeast could find them. It was possible Terik had already been robbed, if a covetous crewbeast had known of anything valuable in the rat’s possession. Darragh simply did not know. All he had, all that seemed to remain of Terik outside of a name on a register, was the jacket.

It hadn’t fit him very well. Darragh’s body was long and lanky, and Terik had had broader shoulders. The stoat didn’t want to wear it again, anyway. Darragh sighed as he patted his paw through the inner lining once more, as he sat cross-legged in the middle of his gently swinging hammock. He had been hoping that there would be a secret pocket somewhere in the jacket, containing a letter, or a journal entry, or just a scrap of paper, even if it was just a receipt. Anything that could be a clue about Terik’s life. Anything that would make Terik more than just a name and a momentary act of kindness.

Life wasn’t always a mystery for the solving, though. The jacket remained as firmly absent of clues as it had when Darragh had checked the first three times. He had even spent time just staring at it, willing that… that vision thing to happen. The odd quirk only Darragh seemed to have, when he could be awake and dreaming at the same time, when objects whispered their secrets to him. Darragh wasn’t sure if that was just the overactive imagination his mother had always tutted about, or if it was magic, or if he was just unwilling to admit he was crazy. Whatever the case, the poet had seen and heard nothing from the stubbornly silent jacket.

Darragh brushed the rat’s inexpert needlework with the pad of his thumb, and thought. Terik…

Cleric. Spheric. Hysteric, numeric, esoteric. Come on, Poet, are you kidding yourself? Do you think Terik would have wanted to be remembered by a poem that somehow managed to rhyme his name in a way that made sense? The marines are not exactly a well-known pipeline to the Unsmudgeables. There’s few artists or aesthetes that wear the red jacket. Terik probably didn’t like poetry but… who wouldn’t like to be remembered in a good song?

At that thought, the poet’s mind inevitably turned to the ship’s very own bard. Darragh himself liked to sing, of course, but there was more to the art than carrying a tune. As much as Darragh enjoyed rhyming, it was Silvertongue Songfox that could turn mere lyrics into the lyrical, and silent scribbled words into soaring, heart-swelling sound. The young stoat grabbed his hat from the hammock and perched it over one ear. He quietly slipped from the hammock and found some spare paper in his sea-chest. Patting his pocket for his trusty charcoal pencil, Darragh began to pad his way aft, towards the officers’ cabins. He wasn’t sure what he would say to Silvertongue exactly, but for now, he trusted his feelings. This was important.

 

[Silvertongue Songfox]

The two beasts, drawn together by fate, or destiny? Were they puppets, pulled along on strings by the gods above, or were they beasts of their own volition, kindred in both mind and spirit? Regardless, the two of them ended up running into each other at the halfway point.

"Ah, Mr. Harper. If you aren't too busy, I'd like a moment of your time." Silvertongue spoke clearly and professionally, trying to lean more into his 'officer' status. "Please follow me to my quarters."

He turned about on his heel, and he walked back towards the Officer's cabins. Once the two of them arrived, Silvertongue closed the door behind him. He placed his ear against it, as if listening for eavesdroppers. Once he was alone, he turned to Darragh. Tears were already streaming down his face.

"Oh gods, Darr- am I the only one here wracked by the weight of my sins? I can feel my guilt- as if it wants to crawl underneath my skin!" He took his hat off and ran his paw over his head. The reality was, he had barely been keeping his composure. "There is no possible reward- nothing that can compensate for what we did. For the lives we lost. No amount of power- no amount of gold- I haven't gotten a single good nights sleep since that battle!" He collapsed onto the bed, sobbing into his paws. "We've become monsters!"

 

[Darragh Harper]

Darragh tipped his cap politely, and pattered after the fox’s longer strides as Silvertongue led him to his office. The officer's firm tone led the poet to guess that his literacy was to be put to use for the ship’s ever-escalating bureaucratic burdens. Darragh rubbed his writing-paw, anticipating the soreness to come. Paperwork with Silvertongue was hardly the most onerous chore on the ship, the bard himself being pleasantly accommodating to the young stoat. He wished he could have gotten a word in though, before duty called them once more.

…then the smoothly sailing ship of Darragh’s thought processes foundered and sank on a reef of utter perplexion and alarm. The young stoat stood in Silvertongue’s cramped cabin, jaw slack, eyes wide, feeling as though he had entered another one of his ill-timed daydreams. Silvertongue, the debonair dancer that could face hostile crowds of cannibal shrews and unappreciative tone-deaf audiences alike with nothing but a lute and a true fox’s rakish grin, was sobbing on the bed like a heartbroken lover.

What the… what did he say? Please read back the witness’ testimony, in full! Wracked by the weight of my sins… mhmm. Mhmm! I see, yes, we’ve become monsters, end of transcript. That’s what I thought he said. You know… I’m beginning to suspect Silvertongue doesn’t need help with his paperwork at the moment, after all.

What was Darragh to do? He had narrowed the focus of his own grief to one beast, Private Terik, whom he had spoken to only for a few moments, yet still felt guilty for not knowing or caring enough about. He felt the regret of the lost opportunity, and frustration that death was so unfairly impenetrable a barrier now between them. Yet Darragh had escaped mostly unscathed from the worst of the losses the crew had experienced. The beasts he liked, the beasts he counted as friends, had lived. Darragh had received his share of nightmares about losing dear little Finny, or Kaii, or even ornery old Doctor Barrett of all beasts he cared about, but he had been responsible for no deaths, save possibly those of the enemy. Silvertongue, on the other paw…

It had all rested on Silvertongue’s shoulders. Even for that brief moment of command, everything had been Aide-de-Camp Silvertongue’s Fault. Darragh’s whiskers drooped. He perched himself on the edge of the bed, anxious to comfort the fox. There were certain rules about touching officers and all the rest of it, but Darragh was sure that comforting friends trumped such formalities.

Ah yes, here it is, Imperial Navy Article of War 22 Dash B: Every Seabeast of the Fleet has a duty to render Assistance and warm Embraces to his Friends in cases of Discomfort, Distress and Emotional Turmoil; the rendering of which shall supersede prior considerations of Rank.

Darragh put a paw on Silvertongue’s shoulder, and gave what he hoped was a gentle, sympathetic squeeze between beasts that had shared a nightmarish experience together. He was quiet for a few moments, but when his friend’s snuffling breaths became too much, and he felt the sting of tears around his own eyes, Darragh spoke. “Uhm… sometimes, when… y’know, when my feelin’s… when it feels like I’m too full o’ hurt and pain and… and…”

He paused for a moment as his voice wavered in pitch. He took another shaky breath, and forged on. “W-when I just can’t bear it, and it feels like I’ll either have to punch a wall or scream… when it’s like that, I have to do somethin’. Like I’ll go to a dance hall where they’re playin’ a fast jig and just… jump and stamp the floor like a madbeast. Or I’ll find somewhere nice’n’loud, and just sing at the top o’ my lungs. Bad singing, dirty songs, just as long as it lets the feelin’ out. Sometimes I put those feelin’s into my poems. I dunno if I could publish poems like ‘em though, they aren’t pretty. But it’s better than screamin’, for sure.”

Darragh thought of the poems he wouldn’t publish. The ones that were nothing but outrage, or terror, or misery. The poem he’d written the first time he’d felt homesick and cried in his hammock all through the night. He knew true Art was meant to bare the raw, heaving Soul of the tortured Artist to the world but… torture hurt. He cleared his throat.

“What… uhm, what I suppose I’m trying to say is,” the stoat said in a hoarse tone, his shoulders sagging. What was he trying to say? Would this be of any comfort to Silvertongue at all? He bowed his head, unable to think of any magic words that might bring the fox relief from his gloom. “I uhm… I wish this ship had a dancing hall, is all.”

 

[Silvertongue Songfox]

"A-A dancing hall." Silvertongue sniffled. "Y-yea, I'm sure if we threw all the tables in the mess hall overboard, it could be turned into one. We'd just have to be content with eating on the floor." He laughed a bit. He turned to Darragh, giving him a pained smile.

"I'm sorry, Darragh. That was entirely unprofessional of me to do. I just- I needed to get this off my chest, but I shouldn't have passed this burden onto you."

Silvertongue wiped his eyes. "I really did need your help with something, Darr. You see, we're going to be holding a service for all the fallen crewbeasts. A-and I think we ought to come up with some eulogy for them. The thing is... I didn't know many of the marines- I don't think I knew any of them before Urk. I don't know what to say."

 

[Darragh Harper]

"’S alright, we can share a burden or two,” replied Darragh with a smile. Silvertongue looked as though he was feeling better already! His mother had once told him a burden shared was a burden lightened, but Darragh felt that was easy for her to say, being the chief distributor of burdens, chores, tasks and occasional hit jobs to her many sons and daughters. He had never found out if Silvertongue had much family, but out at sea, a collection of oddball foxes and bleeding-heart artist stoats would do just as well. “Don’t you worry about professional with your mate Darragh. We look out for each other, aye?”

The poet’s expression grew more sober as Silvertongue explained his problem. Darragh had been to a couple of funerals before - inevitable with the sheer number of Harpers, Harper in-laws, and family friends. Some eulogies he’d heard were more like biographies of the deceased - and dull ones at that. Others felt more like the speaker had to make a joke or two, as befitted a beast who had been jovial in life. Other eulogies still were gasped through tears and sleepless nights cleaning away belongings and sorting paperwork. Whatever their style, they were always personal. It seemed strange to imagine Silvertongue making some kind of speech about how great and well-liked the fallen were, if he had never known them.

Darragh supposed that those listening might not know if Silvertongue had been chummy with the marines or not. The mourners could project their own meaning onto a generic eulogy, as long as the words did not directly contradict the character of the marine they missed. Yet this solution rankled the poet’s artistic senses. Darragh valued authenticity in performance. The memorial service would be an important ritual of farewell, symbolically freeing their souls from the shackles of grief. It seemed cold and disrespectful to send them off with no real care in the words spoken in their memory.

“I didn’t know ‘em either,” Darragh admitted. “I was a bit afraid of ‘em really, stompin’ about with their crossbows and all. I only really met the one - Private Terik, who let me borrow his jacket on Urk, after I fell in the water. He seemed a decent rat.”

The poet paused. “I was thinkin’ to m’self earlier. It seems to me the crew and remainin’ marines prob’ly wouldn’t appreciate a poem as a farewell - they would see that as me bein’ self-indulgent, I reckon. And beggin' your pardon, Silvie, but I don’t think the prettiest eulogy written has a lick o’ meanin’ without a sincere heart behind it, one that knew them that’s passed personally. But everybeast loves a good song to remind 'em of fond memories. Somethin’ everybeast can join in on the chorus, and sing loud ‘n’ long when they’re drunk and melancholy, and wanna eulogise their mates the best way a sailor knows how. Do… d’you think that’s a good idea?”

 

[Silvertongue Songfox]

Silvertongue nodded. "Yea, yea. A song." He sat up from the bed, going over to his desk and pulling out a paper and charcoal pencil. Turning to Darragh, he motioned for the stoat to come over to the table. "Come on, Darr. Let's put our heads together on this."

Being one of the few beasts on board capable of reading and writing, Silvertongue and Darragh often helped each other with paperwork, and it seemed that today would be no different.

"I'm sure with the two of us together, we can create the perfect song for the marines to remember their comrades with." Silvertongue smiled at Darr.

 

[Darragh Harper]

The lyrics began to form into something both bitter and sweet. They had a note of hopefulness, but also the much-needed hint of somber reflection. It was a song for those that had passed, but also to remind those living the importance of appreciating the moments they spent together. It was true that not all of the Hide’s crew were bosom friends. Yet everybeast had their own group of friends they cared for. More than that, everybeast aboard the Hide was joined by the bond of being part of the same crew. They would carry that each the rest of their lives, no matter where their paths took them.

Darragh found he enjoyed working with Silvie. The fox had an easy charm to him that made him a natural bard, and his kind nature made it easy to put forward ideas for the lyrics. The two of them seemed to be on the same page about the feelings that the song needed to convey. He couldn’t wait to hear it put to music. Already he had a feeling that Silvie had some ideas for the kind of rhythm and cadence that would fit their rhyme scheme and syllable count.

Kind friends and companions, come join me in rhyme,
Come lift up your voices, in chorus with mine…

The poet wasn’t sure how long they had worked when he put down his pencil, and leaned back in the chair. He proofread the verses and chorus one more time, then smiled at Silvie. “My heart already feels a little lighter, havin’ got that on the page. I think it’ll be easy for listeners to join in on the chorus. What do y’think? Are we ready to put it to a tune?”

 

[Silvertongue Songfox]

Silvertongue nodded, taking his lute and carefully plucking the strings. Searching for the perfect tune. He shook his head, seemingly unsatisfied the first few times. When he finally did find the tune he liked, he took his charcoal pencil and started jotting down the notes, while motioning with his free paw for Darr to continue the song.

 

[Darragh Harper]

Darragh spoke the lyrics as though reciting a poem. He didn’t want to inject any melody into his own voice, and risk influencing Silvie’s creative process. A fellow artist needed space to work. Yet there was a natural rhythm to the words, where stresses and pauses seemed obvious. Darragh found himself almost getting lost in the moment, thinking of the impact each stanza would have on the different beasts he envisioned singing it.

“If ever I should meet you, by land or by sea,
I will always remember your kindness to me…”

The stoat’s breath hitched, and his eyes stung a little. It was such a sad thought. He had not been part of the Hide’s crew for very long, certainly not the years before the mast that some of their senior seabeasts and officers had. Yet if he should survive all this, then he really would take the crew with him wherever he went, for the rest of his days. The wiser older mentors, the faithful friends, even the colourful messmates with their wild antics but golden hearts. Darragh had heard somewhere that the blood of sailors grew salty. He wondered if it was the same salt for all of them, mixing in their veins, and making them a family together.

““Let us drink and be merry, all grief to refrain,
For we may or might never, all meet here again.”

The poet smiled as he finished the last refrain. The room almost seemed brighter with the sound of their song reverberating in it. Darragh felt proud, not for selfish reasons, but to be part of something that would be so meaningful to others. He stayed quiet for a moment, letting Silvie concentrate on creating the melody to carry the words into the very souls of the Hide’s crew.