- Influence
- 40,055.00
Dusk Rainblade opened her eyes and immediately shut them again, regretting the unconscious decision. A thin beam of light was poking through a crack in the heavy purple curtains, driving like a lance straight into her irises. She turned over and, for good measure, pulled one downy pillow over her head, letting it and the rich cotton sheets cover her from head to toe. She'd have to go into the office at some point, she knew; since she'd taken over, she'd consolidated far too much of MAUL's operations in her own paws to let it run itself. Still, she could afford herself a little bit of time to doze in private misery.
Judging by the subjective experience of time, Dusk must have laid there for hours, but when she poked her head out, that pesky sunbeam had barely budged. She sighed irritably and swung her legs out of bed. Her back twinged as she did, making her wince. She'd need to see a doctor about removing some of the scar tissue, at least once she found a doctor she could trust. She'd been searching for a potential candidate for the Blighted for a while, and aside from one potentially interesting ferret who had suddenly vanished off the face of the earth before she could make contact, she'd yet to have any luck.
She forced herself to her footpaws and retrieved her lace-embroidered chiffon robe from a peg on the wall, pulling it on over her silk nightgown. She caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length dressing mirror in the corner and stopped to critically examine herself. Once the robe would have looked exotic, shrouding the slender nightgown beneath in a veil of mystery. Now, though, both were fraying at the edges, stretched to the point of formlessness. Perhaps that was a mercy in its own way; her body, once a beauty that had inspired painters and poets, and had parted untold numbers of todds from their wits and fortunes, now was beginning to settle into a shape she didn't recognize, like full, billowing sails suddenly gone slack in the doldrums. It too was frayed in places she didn't like to think of, stretch marks and varicose veins hidden just beneath her fur, markers of experience and age.
She grumbled as she made her way down the hall of her manor, passing rooms she'd filled with sheet-covered clutter. Most of it was trophies of her various escapades: fine furniture, art, instruments, and historical artifacts, all plundered from the coffers of various late or former husbands and lovers. Most of her pilfered wealth had been sold off to fund her future endeavors, but some items she'd kept, moving them quietly to be stored in an unassuming warehouse in Alton Bay (with the rate of arson in Bully Harbor, she wasn't going to take chances in storing it there). When she'd finally returned to the Imperium and unpacked, she'd been dismayed to find her collection had grown to exceed the capacity of any of the dwellings she owned under her various aliases.
And so, the manor. It had gone for a song; no one had wanted to live in the cursed Freedom Manor, where the Malignant Mayor had destroyed his marriage, had his kits kitnapped out from under his staff's nose, and ultimately his entire fortune sacked and pillaged by an angry mob while his body still swung from a tree in the Mayoral Park. It had needed some refurbishing, as well as a few additions, namely a panic room and reinforced iron bars on the windows, but eventually Dusk had been able to sleep soundly at night in the luxury of her private fortress. Of course, she hadn't gotten any staff; none would want to work in the place, even if she had trusted any enough to hire them. She'd had too many close calls over the years with infiltrators and turncoats, and in the end had simply opted to do for herself.
The kitchen was barren, the cooking utensils all spotless and unused. She never cooked for herself; she always waited to eat until she got to the Misanthropy Building, where she'd randomly select one of three meals purchased by three separate aides, each of whom would visit a restaurant chosen at random to procure a takeout meal. After a taste test by Dusk's personal tester, she'd finally get to have her meal, by which point she was usually a little crotchety from hunger. Then she could finally get down to the business of protecting an empire.
Dusk sighed irritably as she opened her liquor cabinet and found that the decanter full of her favorite red was nearly empty. Well, that would explain the headache. The family penchant for drink, one that had plagued her father, both her siblings, and her niece to boot, had finally caught up with her and cornered her in her isolation. Absent any schemes or threats to ward it away, it had pounced and sunk its claws into her. She told herself that it was under control; she didn't fall into any stupors, she always got herself to her bed each night, and she never indulged in public where she might be exposed to a threat. She was always sober the next morning and while at work. In a way, she was the most responsible person in her family - or at least, so she assured herself when five glasses deep.
Dusk uncapped the decanter and poured straight from it into her mouth, the rich notes of the liquid contrasting with the mustiness of last night's drink on her tongue. She swished it around before swallowing, taking the stale taste with it. It was fine, she assured herself; any light intoxication would be gone long before she arrived at the office. She left it on the counter, instead returning upstairs to choose and don her clothes. She chose a richly embroidered emerald silk padded jacket, a corset run with metal strips to help turn a fatal stab or arrow wound into a merely painful one, and, in a moment of defiant pique, a tailored set of charcoal gray femme's slacks. If the Empress can wear trousers on the battlefield, I can wear them to the office, she thought stubbornly. She donned a rich caramel double-breasted coat over the ensemble, then departed out her back garden door.
She walked along the back garden path, curving up around to the north, before cutting between two manors onto the main street. Her eyes scanned the houses obsessively, taking note of gardeners at work, rifling through her mental directory of her neighbors' usual caretakers and looking for any discrepancies. A sniper hidden among the gardeners would make for the perfect assassin. All through her route to the Misanthropy Building she had to be checking for assassins everywhere, in every face, every beast at work or on their own weary trudge to make a day's wage.
It was exhausting.
Her mind flashed back to brief, happy times, when she had let herself be deluded into thinking that high castle walls and locked gates could keep her and what she cared about most both safe and secure. She'd learned, far too many times really, that it wasn't the case. Threats found their way in: guards grew complacent, keys were misplaced, doors were left unlocked. Only her own vigilance could be relied upon - and, as of late, her isolation. They can't take what matters most to me if it's not around me to begin with.
There was a commotion as suddenly, from out of the sky, something collided with the cobblestone in front of Dusk. She froze, her paw going to the pocket in which one of the Dark Judge Brushes was tucked, but she relaxed and moved instead to place her paw on her hip. It was just a Missertross Gull - and an old one at that, if the condition of its feathers were any indication. She knew that Missertross Gulls could grow old, but this one had to be ancient, probably around twenty years or so...
Dusk's heart leapt into her throat. A small golden canister, a familiar one, was clamped to the gull's wing. Kneeling down, Dusk hurriedly popped the clasp on the cap and removed the message from inside. She hurried away as onlookers began to approach the dead gull, moving swiftly to find a private alley where she could read the message.
It was only four letters long. Dusk's heart sank as she read it. She'd given the senders a code book to use when communicating with her, both short codes for urgent messages, and more advanced ciphers for long-form messages. This used neither. Instead, crawled in hasty, almost panicked capital letters was one word:
M I N A
Dusk felt her world begin to crumble around her, the panic setting in. No. Somehow they'd managed to find the one secret held most close to her heart. She crumpled the message in her paw, fear and preemptive grief giving way to a hardened resolve. She was not going to lose this time; she would not stand by and bury another beast so precious to her. She straightened her spine, ignoring the pain from her scars, and set her jaw before marching resolutely from the alley. She would find a way to resolve this; she had to.
And they'll regret the day they came for my daughter.
Judging by the subjective experience of time, Dusk must have laid there for hours, but when she poked her head out, that pesky sunbeam had barely budged. She sighed irritably and swung her legs out of bed. Her back twinged as she did, making her wince. She'd need to see a doctor about removing some of the scar tissue, at least once she found a doctor she could trust. She'd been searching for a potential candidate for the Blighted for a while, and aside from one potentially interesting ferret who had suddenly vanished off the face of the earth before she could make contact, she'd yet to have any luck.
She forced herself to her footpaws and retrieved her lace-embroidered chiffon robe from a peg on the wall, pulling it on over her silk nightgown. She caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length dressing mirror in the corner and stopped to critically examine herself. Once the robe would have looked exotic, shrouding the slender nightgown beneath in a veil of mystery. Now, though, both were fraying at the edges, stretched to the point of formlessness. Perhaps that was a mercy in its own way; her body, once a beauty that had inspired painters and poets, and had parted untold numbers of todds from their wits and fortunes, now was beginning to settle into a shape she didn't recognize, like full, billowing sails suddenly gone slack in the doldrums. It too was frayed in places she didn't like to think of, stretch marks and varicose veins hidden just beneath her fur, markers of experience and age.
She grumbled as she made her way down the hall of her manor, passing rooms she'd filled with sheet-covered clutter. Most of it was trophies of her various escapades: fine furniture, art, instruments, and historical artifacts, all plundered from the coffers of various late or former husbands and lovers. Most of her pilfered wealth had been sold off to fund her future endeavors, but some items she'd kept, moving them quietly to be stored in an unassuming warehouse in Alton Bay (with the rate of arson in Bully Harbor, she wasn't going to take chances in storing it there). When she'd finally returned to the Imperium and unpacked, she'd been dismayed to find her collection had grown to exceed the capacity of any of the dwellings she owned under her various aliases.
And so, the manor. It had gone for a song; no one had wanted to live in the cursed Freedom Manor, where the Malignant Mayor had destroyed his marriage, had his kits kitnapped out from under his staff's nose, and ultimately his entire fortune sacked and pillaged by an angry mob while his body still swung from a tree in the Mayoral Park. It had needed some refurbishing, as well as a few additions, namely a panic room and reinforced iron bars on the windows, but eventually Dusk had been able to sleep soundly at night in the luxury of her private fortress. Of course, she hadn't gotten any staff; none would want to work in the place, even if she had trusted any enough to hire them. She'd had too many close calls over the years with infiltrators and turncoats, and in the end had simply opted to do for herself.
The kitchen was barren, the cooking utensils all spotless and unused. She never cooked for herself; she always waited to eat until she got to the Misanthropy Building, where she'd randomly select one of three meals purchased by three separate aides, each of whom would visit a restaurant chosen at random to procure a takeout meal. After a taste test by Dusk's personal tester, she'd finally get to have her meal, by which point she was usually a little crotchety from hunger. Then she could finally get down to the business of protecting an empire.
Dusk sighed irritably as she opened her liquor cabinet and found that the decanter full of her favorite red was nearly empty. Well, that would explain the headache. The family penchant for drink, one that had plagued her father, both her siblings, and her niece to boot, had finally caught up with her and cornered her in her isolation. Absent any schemes or threats to ward it away, it had pounced and sunk its claws into her. She told herself that it was under control; she didn't fall into any stupors, she always got herself to her bed each night, and she never indulged in public where she might be exposed to a threat. She was always sober the next morning and while at work. In a way, she was the most responsible person in her family - or at least, so she assured herself when five glasses deep.
Dusk uncapped the decanter and poured straight from it into her mouth, the rich notes of the liquid contrasting with the mustiness of last night's drink on her tongue. She swished it around before swallowing, taking the stale taste with it. It was fine, she assured herself; any light intoxication would be gone long before she arrived at the office. She left it on the counter, instead returning upstairs to choose and don her clothes. She chose a richly embroidered emerald silk padded jacket, a corset run with metal strips to help turn a fatal stab or arrow wound into a merely painful one, and, in a moment of defiant pique, a tailored set of charcoal gray femme's slacks. If the Empress can wear trousers on the battlefield, I can wear them to the office, she thought stubbornly. She donned a rich caramel double-breasted coat over the ensemble, then departed out her back garden door.
She walked along the back garden path, curving up around to the north, before cutting between two manors onto the main street. Her eyes scanned the houses obsessively, taking note of gardeners at work, rifling through her mental directory of her neighbors' usual caretakers and looking for any discrepancies. A sniper hidden among the gardeners would make for the perfect assassin. All through her route to the Misanthropy Building she had to be checking for assassins everywhere, in every face, every beast at work or on their own weary trudge to make a day's wage.
It was exhausting.
Her mind flashed back to brief, happy times, when she had let herself be deluded into thinking that high castle walls and locked gates could keep her and what she cared about most both safe and secure. She'd learned, far too many times really, that it wasn't the case. Threats found their way in: guards grew complacent, keys were misplaced, doors were left unlocked. Only her own vigilance could be relied upon - and, as of late, her isolation. They can't take what matters most to me if it's not around me to begin with.
There was a commotion as suddenly, from out of the sky, something collided with the cobblestone in front of Dusk. She froze, her paw going to the pocket in which one of the Dark Judge Brushes was tucked, but she relaxed and moved instead to place her paw on her hip. It was just a Missertross Gull - and an old one at that, if the condition of its feathers were any indication. She knew that Missertross Gulls could grow old, but this one had to be ancient, probably around twenty years or so...
Dusk's heart leapt into her throat. A small golden canister, a familiar one, was clamped to the gull's wing. Kneeling down, Dusk hurriedly popped the clasp on the cap and removed the message from inside. She hurried away as onlookers began to approach the dead gull, moving swiftly to find a private alley where she could read the message.
It was only four letters long. Dusk's heart sank as she read it. She'd given the senders a code book to use when communicating with her, both short codes for urgent messages, and more advanced ciphers for long-form messages. This used neither. Instead, crawled in hasty, almost panicked capital letters was one word:
M I N A
Dusk felt her world begin to crumble around her, the panic setting in. No. Somehow they'd managed to find the one secret held most close to her heart. She crumpled the message in her paw, fear and preemptive grief giving way to a hardened resolve. She was not going to lose this time; she would not stand by and bury another beast so precious to her. She straightened her spine, ignoring the pain from her scars, and set her jaw before marching resolutely from the alley. She would find a way to resolve this; she had to.
And they'll regret the day they came for my daughter.
