Open The Slups Storm Clouds and Crossbow Bolts

[Aiken Brudenell]

It’d been months, now. Months since he’d left his home, sailed out for the place of his birth, the great city of Bouillabaisse. It hadn’t gone well.

The stoat couldn’t forget he’d already killed a beast – slain him in broad daylight, out in the street with the edge of his favorite saber. It troubled him, though he knew it shouldn’t have. The dead ferret had lived a life of menace, at least the part he’d seen. Threatening innocent beasts with torture and death.

But it was exactly how he’d feared the city to be. Dirty. Violent. He’d managed to duck the difficult questions in the police interview that followed, but it cost him the chance to make contacts of the acquaintances he’d met. He’d been left exactly where he started.

And Aiken hadn’t had much better luck since. Time crept by, depriving him of his savings. Many of the old SDS safehouses he’d read about before leaving had long since been occupied by gangs or destroyed over time. And try as he had, landing a job worthy of his talents had been harder than he’d expected.

In a pinch for gilders, he’d become a reporter for the Saturday Evening Smelt. Originally, he’d thought it something to keep him alive until he could get a position within the Ministry of Justice – the closest thing to a plan he still had for rising to the top in the city. Now, he found it was a job that spoke to him.

Sure, the pay was bad. He’d been mugged twice, having to often leave his saber behind to avoid attracting attention. He’d been rained on, snowed on, spat on and even pushed into the sewers once, ruining much of the clothes he’d brought with him. But even after all that, he couldn’t help but go back out, following his instinct to find the stories the city didn’t often heard shared, investigating leads the fogeys didn't bother with.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised. His mother had written for the Smelt, after all. Maybe there was something in the blood.

He doubted, however, that his mother would be thrilled with his latest plans.

…

The stoat knew little of the small stretch of Slups that made up Annacker Alley. The name was a mystery by itself. Nobeast he’d talked to seemed to know who Annacker was or how or when the name had come about. Some said it’d been around since the Winter War, some sort of Imperial holdout during the Coalition occupation. It wasn’t terribly important information. Not compared to the lead he’d been tracing.

Somebeast in the army had been shifting supplies onto the black market. Spears, swords, crossbows. Even armor supposedly found its way into the hands of hardened criminals here, all stamped with the skull and bones of the Imperium’s noble seal. Maybe that wasn’t a surprise for beasts who’d lived in the city their whole lives. For Aiken, it was a travesty, a stain on the good name of the Ministry of War, that never would have been tolerated under his father’s watch. And he was going to get to the bottom of it.

“You said you saw them sold here? The weapons?”

Even dressed dimly and practically for his foray, the stoat looked out of place. His fur was too clean, his whiskers too straight. His scarless body remained elegant under his still mostly stainless clothes. He hadn’t brought his saber – keeping only a knife on his belt – but it too looked just a little more polished and reliable than the typical Slups cutlery went. His source, a sickly, wheezing weasel, looked much more belonging, dressed in the typically soot-and-mud stained clothes of a professional beggar.

“Aye,” the weasel mused, gesturing vaguely – and quite drunkenly, now – out at the alley ahead of them before taking another swig of his wine. Aiken had been kind enough to provide it for his services. Alcohol went a long way to opening his sources up.

The stoat looked around. The space was strangely empty. No weapons, no crates. All the shops and shacks to the sides of the alleyway seemed to be shuttered and lifeless. Not much of an arms bazaar. Unusually silent for any part of the Slups, especially later into the afternoon as it was.

“Are you sure this was the place?”

The stoat kept looking for a moment, turning around only after the silence became awkward. His source was gone.

Aiken’s fur immediately went on edge. He might have been raised in safety and wealth, but he wasn’t totally without instinct. Dashing back the way he’d came, the stoat looked just in time to the see the ambushers waiting to cut him off or cut him down, hearing much swearing as he turned tail to run back into the alley. Then, the clunking hiss of an army crossbow – the bolt barely missing him, cutting a fresh hole in his shirt and nicking flesh on his side.

He knew he had to escape, and fast. Finding the most rickety looking of the shacks that made up the alley’s walls, the stoat tried to smash through the door, to no avail. Either the buildings were sturdier than they looked, or their doors had been well reinforced with nails or barricading on the other side.

“Gates!”

He swore loudly, panic setting in. The next bolt buried itself in the wall next to him with a loud thunk. Running again, he tried the next shack, throwing his whole weight into its ramshackle door. This time he could feel it budge.

The stoat kept slamming into it, hearing paws racing towards him from behind. Finally, with one final burst, he smashed through, sending splinters flying as the door finally gave way. Stumbling, Aiken kept running until the sounds of falling paws and ragged curses faded behind him, his heart racing and his lungs aching with exertion.

Able to run no more, the stoat stumbled out into another street of the mazelike Slups, chest heaving as he leaned up against a wall, trying desperately to catch his breath. Small splinters stuck out of his otherwise well-groomed fur, fragments of the escape he'd just barely made. And he had no telling if his unknown assailants would be back, or if they were following him still.

Maybe this hadn’t been the smartest idea after all.

 

[Daniil Ryalor]

The gray-furred fox was nearly bowled over by the fleeing stoat, barely managing to get out of the way. He started, about to say something indignant about the near collision, then noticed the group of beasts bursting from a shopfront, crossbows in arms. Immediately Daniil's mind flashed back to his training in Fyador. "When you have a sword and your enemy has a crossbow, find cover, draw a shot, then wait for them to fire before charging. When you are up against multiple beasts with crossbows, however, you have only one course: retreat expeditiously.

Daniil swore in Fyadorian and turned, fleeing after the stoat. "Run serpentine!" he called after the beast, hollering to be heard as he pushed himself to catch up, weaving as he did so. A crossbow bolt went flying past his shoulder as he did, passing through the spot where his head was a moment before.

 

[Aiken Brudenell]

It turned out he didn't have the time to rest. He looked to the fox that shouted after him - a beast he'd nearly pushed over in his mad dash - and caught the glimmer of the leveled crossbow behind them, just in time to see it let loose it's projectile.

Aiken didn't linger to watch where it went. Forcing himself back into a run, the stoat tried to weave as the fox had told him to, but found himself flagging before long. He wasn't going to get away like this.

As soon as the street rounded again, the stoat sprang for the edge, knocking over a well-organized stand of various junk fished out of the harbor in his urgency to get out of his pursuers' line of sight - and fire. Ignoring the cursing complaints of the poor, middle-aged ratess whose shop he'd overturned in his efforts, the stoat stumbled on another few meters until he found another alleyway to try to hide in. Beckoning breathlessly to the fox behind him with one paw, the other on his knife, he dove to hide behind a foul-smelling barrel full of some sort of fish, waiting for the sound of running paws on rubble to fade elsewhere, hoping they'd not find him here, or that the rat wouldn't give away where he'd gone.

 

[Daniil Ryalor]

Daniil had to leap to clear the small avalanche of junk that cascaded into his path in the wake of the stoat's flight. He stumbled as he landed, arms flailing, barely managing to steady himself just before the alley. He caught sight of the stoat's beckoning motion just from the entrance of the alley, and, hoping against hope that he'd picked the right side in the conflict, he flung himself in after the stoat. He ducked down behind a crate, trying to minimize himself, but the barrier wasn't large enough for him to hide behind. Swearing quietly, he put his paw on his katana, drawing the blade in an awkward motion while kneeling. If the beasts looked down this alley, he'd have less than a second to charge them before they could aim. He could feel the sweat on his paws, his mind flashing back to a dozen close calls, even a few failures. He'd sworn to protect his cousins, had put his body between them and the threats against them, and so many times, it hadn't been enough. He tightened his grip, heart pounding in his chest. He couldn't fail. Not again.

 

[Aiken Brudenell]

There were two of them, or at least only two that had followed. Tough, well-built beasts, they followed not far behind Aiken and Daniil. One of them, a ferret, had his crossbow still loaded, ready to fire. The other, a fox, had hers slung over her shoulder, empty after almost hitting Daniil before - paw and a half sword at the ready instead. Together they paused at the corner of the street, looking for traces of the stoat and his possible ally. Beside them, a rat tried collecting scattered nets and bottles back into their respective boxes, muttering curses under her breath.

They didn't have to ask her what had happened. Exchanging glances, the two beasts advanced down the path their prey had gone, looking aside into each upcoming alley and dilapidated doorway for glimpses of them. Beasts around them largely gave way, some mumbling frustration at their presence, but not involving themselves in what was no doubt the private affair of one of the Slups' many gangs.

Aiken peaked out from behind his barrel. He could see Daniil's cover - if it could be called that. The fox had his blade almost drawn - one of the strange, curved swords that seemed all the rage with Fyadorans - but without concealment it seemed unlikely to him that the beast would be able to take a bowbeast down from the street before they could fire.

The stoat felt a twang of pity. He'd not thought highly of Fyadoran foxes, given their meddling in his country's affairs - given what Talinn had done. But this beast was prepared to lay down his life for him - or at least willing to risk it with him, rather than try to flee on his own, or use him as a shield. Perhaps that was a low bar to be impressed with a beast. Aiken hoped it was, but felt the pity anyhow.

Seeing the beasts that were after him finally skulk into view - armed and ready, seemingly aware of his hiding in the alley - and knowing in an instant that the Fyadoran fox was his one chance for survival, Aiken shot up and ran noisily from behind his barrel before either of the ambushers could lay sight on Daniil, as though spooked by seeing them.

He'd hoped to be able to dive for another bit of cover, or avoid any shots sent his way by moving, but the ferret had a quick eye and good reflexes, sending his bolt flying down the short alley, slicing past the running stoat's right leg, enough to send him tumbling down with a cry of pain. Teeth gnashed together, Aiken turned over on his back, ignoring the bleeding wound for a moment to ready his knife as the beasts came to finish him off.

It was up to the stranger, now, whether he lived or died.

 

[Daniil Ryalor]

For a moment, Daniil froze as the stoat bolted, the sound drawing their pursuers' attention to the alley and a crossbow bolt shot as well. Time seemed to freeze as the ferret raised his bow-

It's a ploy. Daniil realized it only when the bolt went sailing down the alley. The stoat had drawn their attention and their fire, giving Daniil a chance to get up close. From the sound of pain that echoed down the alley, it had been at his own expense too. Daniil surged to his footpaws, sword leaving his sheath as he charged forward. The ferret, realizing the threat, tried to drop his crossbow and reach for his sword, but it was too late. Daniil swung into his chest, blade slashing across it and sending the beast to his knees, clutching at the gash. The vixen had time to draw on him instead, her sturdy Vulpinsulan-made blade enough to be a threat to him. Even Auldurnian steel, its composite layers adding to its durability, would only stand so well against a thicker Imperial blade. Don't block, the voice of his uncle in his ear reminded him. Katanas are thinner, made for speed. Imperial swords are big, brutish things, made to cleave through armor, flesh, and bone. Block even with an Auldurnian steel katana, and you'll have a shattered blade and a sword in your gut.

Daniil stabbed at her, aiming for her chest, hoping that he could get her before she could get him. His blade cut through her armor, red blossoming around the wound as it pierced her ribcage -

He saw his mother's face, Vaelora, gasping in pain as a blade pierced her chest, then the life leaving her eyes. Daniil choked at the imagined scene, pain settling in his gut. Then the vision was gone, but the pain remained. Daniil glanced down to see that the vixen's sword had struck his side, cutting through layers of cloth, padding, fur, and skin to leave a vicious gash. Daniil put a paw to his side and it came away bloody.

Oh.

Daniil had been on the receiving and delivering side of enough wounds to know that wasn't good. If treated properly at a hospital, he'd survive, recover after a time as well, with nothing worse than a scar to show for it. Left untreated...

The ferret was struggling to free his own blade, raising it to try to strike at Daniil from behind. Daniil turned, his sword moving in a clumsy arc, battering away the sword and sending it clattering. He raised his blade and brought it down on the beast's shoulder, aiming for his neck. Swinging with his off paw, he missed, biting into his clavicle instead. The beast cried out, and Daniil wrenched his blade free, trying again. It took three swings before the beast stopped crying out, blood pooling on the ground. There was no honor in it, none of the grace that Talinn expected out of House Ryalor. Only the mess of beasts killing each other.

Daniil clumsily wiped the blade on the back of the ferret's cloak, trying to wipe it clean of the blood it had spilled. His mother had kept her blade immaculate, as Talinn had taught Daniil to do after her. It shamed him that there was still crimson on the edge when he sheathed it. Then, he turned and staggered down the alley, after the beast whose pursuit had started this whole matter. "Can you stand?" he called to the beast, a groan of pain escaping him as his wound protested the use of its affected muscles.