Open Vulpinsula & Surroundings The Changes Upon Us

[Talinn Ryalor]

(This is just a fun little anecdotal thread that anyone can join, reflecting on the winter changes, if any, to their character. Foxes, for example, tend to grow longer, floofier winter coats, and more than a few mustelid species tend to turn white in the winter or become bigger themselves. How your character feels about it, and how they want to deal with it, if at all, can be posted in this thread!).

The Duke of Westisle, still recuperating from the injuries he sustained on Urk, but now able to, at least for a short period of time, stand with the assistance of his cane, found himself standing before the mirror in his large bedroom suite, pants on, but nothing else. He sighed as he stared at the beast in the reflection-older now, by far, then when he first came to the Imperium decades ago. There were old scars, and new ones, courtesy of Ulog the direwolf, whose head he had sent to the Empress as a kind of gift, but also curious anthropological study. He had lost muscle during his recuperation, and he would have looked unnaturally skinny, were it not for the fact that the...change...was now upon him. He had noticed it beginning during the return from Urk, but now, it was in full swing. He was becoming...as the younger ones put it...floofier.

A kind euphemism for looking fat, no doubt.

He sighed. He had dealt with this in previous years by going to the fur stylists quite often, to maintain his more masculine, lean look, but perhaps he would simply...embrace...the floof, if Dusk approved. Alexei had always criticized him for being vain enough to try to not simply embrace his natural coat, considering that to be a bad habit that he had picked up, given that his uncle was a proud Northern Fyadoran fox who wore their larger winter coats with pride, and then some. Dusk...he...had never exactly asked, surprisingly enough, what she preferred on him, and knew far better than to ever comment on her “chonkier” size during the winter months. He had made many mistakes in their marriage, but that was one he was always careful to avoid.

Maybe...I should send for her. Get her opinion for once. It’s the least I could do, especially when we need to be a united front when the inevitable summons to Amarone comes for that opera disaster…

Slowly, painfully, Talinn made his way to his desk, writing up the necessary invitation to invite his wife to his estate, something that irritated him, but he understood. Until she reclaimed what she considered to be...hers...fully…the separation was necessary. Quickly putting on a silk robe, tying it, and dying a little inside at his larger appearance in the mirror, he proceeded to seal it with his ducal seal, and rang a little bell. One of his assistants, a younger stoat who had already begun their own change of turning white, quickly showed up.

“Sir?”

“If you could deliver this to my wife...I….” He sighed, putting one paw on his forehead in frustration. “I...need...fashion advice…”

The young male stoat stared at him for a moment, before a glowering look from Talinn quickly shut him up and earned him a salute.

“Sir, I will get it to the Lady posthaste!”

With that, the door shut, and Talinn nervously awaited the almost-certain takedown his wife would give him.

@Silvertongue Songfox @FinnianBrightfur @Lorcan Rainclaw @Jeshal the Ironclaw @SwifttailTheFox @Darragh Harper and anyone else who wants to join!

 

[Dusk Rainblade]

Dusk had accepted the invitation more out of curiosity than eagerness. Even at the height of their martial harmony, Talinn had rarely asked her for fashion advice; he'd always been quite confident in his own choice of attire, with only small questions of accessorizing or color matching left to her shrewd eye. Of course, it could be a pretense for their reconnection, and truth be told Dusk was privately hoping as much. It had been a long, long time, and while aging had brought certain changes, she was still certain that satisfaction could be had... at least, for herself, assuming her husband's performance had not suffered.

If it had, that b^#&h would have tossed him to the curb long ago.

She pushed aside the unwelcome thought and smoothed down her coat as she approached her husband's room, navigating the mansion with far greater ease than she rightfully should have. She hated how her clothes fit at this time of year; with her fur growing thicker, she had to carefully wrangle it so as to put the excess in places that would accentuate her few remaining curves, hoping that it would make her look alluring rather than frumpy or, 'Gates forbid, dumpy. She tried to ignore the tenuous feeling of her undergarments straining to contain the extra floof, her entire outfit one snapped hook away from an explosion of fur.

"You called for me, husband dea..." Her voice trailed away as she saw her husband in all his glory. "Oh. Oh my." She couldn't quite keep a snicker at bay, and she put a paw to her snout, trying to mask the giggle that followed it. "Well, that -hrk!- that is..." She'd never seen him without the efforts of his personal stylist to trim down and condition his fur, maintaining his summer look well into the dead of winter. Granted, in the palace at Storm's Peak there was hardly much call for the fur, given the great lengths to which the staff went to keep it well-heated, but Dusk had always thought it had more to do with vanity than function. It seemed she was entirely correct. "That is certainly something," she managed to conclude her remark, the smile lingering on her face.

She should still be angry at him, hate him even, for what he'd put her through over the last decade, but it seemed his contrition had proved itself an endurance hunter, stalking her anger and pride across the years until they'd finally collapsed in the snow. Now, seeing her husband starting to go adorably round, the last vestige of her fury at him evaporated. Maybe this could be good, she reflected. After all, if that vixen sees him like this, I doubt she'll want to keep him. Trying to wrestle her expression into submission lest her subterfuge be detected, she raised her eyes to meet her husband's gaze. "Well," she allowed, "if we're going to keep this look, we'll want to change your style a little bit. Waistcoats are excellent at turning a bit of extra pudge into something endearing. Do you have any in your closet, or should I send for my tailor?"

~~~

Daniil groaned and turned his face into his pillow, blocking the late autumn sunlight from creeping through the window and into his eyes. He hated this time of year; he always felt so incredibly tired, and the frigidity of the morning air made the task of crawling out of bed and into fresh clothes a task worthy of legend. That he now had a soft, warm, cozy bed partner only added extra incentive to shirk his duties and stay under the covers. "Five more minutes," he mumbled, his words obscured by the pillow.

 

[SwifttailTheFox]

Swifttail had been brushing himself down for nearly an hour, and the floor around him looked like a snowdrift made of fox. Tufts of silvery-gray and white fur clung to everything from the brush, to his tunic, the walls, and probably the ceiling too. Every sweep brought another cloud, and every cloud made him sigh.

He wasn’t vain about it, not really. The thicker winter coat felt right; his body remembering what the seasons once demanded of it. However, the process was another matter. The static, the itch, the faint scent of singed fur any time he leaned too close to a lantern or the forge. He’d already shocked himself twice just trying to hang up his jacket.

The fur had started to win, too. His sleeves felt tighter, his belly strained at his belt, and his tail had taken on a life of its own, puffed up to twice its usual size, sweeping stray bolts and scraps off the workbench like a feathered broom. His collar fur made him feel like he was constantly wearing a scarf, and no amount of combing could convince it to lie flat.

Back home in Iskatyut, the cold would have balanced it out. There, the air bit hard enough to make the extra fluff a blessing. Here in the Vulpine Imperium, where the sea winds were gentler and the winter merely cool instead of cruel, it was uncomfortable. His instincts told him to burrow down and conserve heat, but his environment told him to start shedding immediately. It was a tug-of-war his body couldn’t quite resolve, and he was left panting through a coat meant for blizzards while some of the harbor folk still went about in their shirtsleeves.

Still, as he gathered the loose fur into a neat little pile, he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. In Iskatyut, that would’ve been unthinkable. Waste nothing. That was the rule. Shed fur made fine stuffing for boots, mittens, and, if you were feeling fancy, pillows too.

He eyed the growing mound at his paws. It wasn’t much yet, but another week or two and he’d have enough to fill a small cushion. The locals would probably find it odd... a fox keeping bags of his own fur like a molting magpie, but to him it felt comforting.

He gave the pile one last pat, brushed his paws off, and muttered to himself,
"Waste not, want not. Besides, I could use a new pillow anyway."

He cracked open the window for some air, and the cool sea breeze swept through the room. A few tufts of silver fur danced up from the pile and swirled out into the sunlight like tiny ghosts of winter past. Swifttail chuckled softly, leaning on the sill. The chill in the air felt good. It felt really good.

 

[Ruffano Quickwhistle]

There are few things more dangerous than vanity armed with desperation.

Ruffano Quickwhistle sat before his parlor mirror, wrapped in a bedsheet that had been conscripted into service as a salon cape. His once-radiant red-orange coat had grown into a riot of uneven fluff, his chest tuft blooming like a plume of smoke and his tail puffed wide enough to sweep the mantle. Normally he’d have visited a professional fur-dresser for such maintenance... normally... but hard times had left his purse as thin as his patience. Out of guilders and options, he’d turned to the only “help” available.

"Careful with the sides, Griblo! I said tapered, not harvested!"

Behind him came the dull snip of scissors that had likely once trimmed sails rather than fur.

"Oi, well, maybe if ye’d stop wrigglin’ like a kit in a washtub, I wouldn’t be shearin’ chunks off, w'ud I?"

Ruffano’s tail fluffed in alarm as another tuft drifted down. He twisted in his seat to glare at his unwilling barber. "That was my shoulder line! You’re butchering symmetry!"

"Could’ve fooled me. Looks like sim'tree died screamin’ five minutes ago."

The fox groaned, paw over his eyes. "I am cultivating refinement, Griblo... not losing a brawl to a hedge trimmer!"

The ferret snorted. "Refinement, he says. I’ve seen ship rats with better grooming."

When Ruffano finally dared look again, the mirror revealed a disaster in living color. His chest fluff listed to port, one shoulder had a patch of bare skin showing, and his tail resembled a wind tattered flag after a gale.

"…G...Griblo...What have you done to me!?" he uttered pitifully.

"It’s a-vant garde," Griblo countered.

"It's a deliberate mess," Ruffano insisted, pawing at his reflection. "A textural attack on the undeserving. Unapologetic."

"S'what ye' get fer shovin scissors in m' paw and orderin' me ta give ya a trim!" came the reply.

Ruffano ignored him, fluffing the tail until it regained some vestige of theatrical silhouette. He could still salvage this. He would salvage this. Ruffano was already practicing his lines for polite company as Griblo left him to properly redress.

"It’s a statement piece," he murmured to his reflection, head held high. "It says I’ve transcended conventional grooming."

"It says ye let me near scissors," drifted in from the hallway.

Ruffano pretended not to hear. He was far too busy trying to convince himself that this was, in fact, fashion. That he could still show himself in public and not be openly mocked more that he already was.

He buttoned his coat, adjusted the cravat, and gave himself one last, hopeful look in the mirror. The optimism lasted all of three heartbeats. With a strangled gasp, Ruffano threw both paws skyward, stumbled backward onto the carpet, and lay sprawled in defeat, tail fluffed to the size of a small nation.

"I’m hideous! A monster!" he declared to the ceiling, as though the heavens themselves might offer a refund on his poor life choices.

 

[Jeshal the Ironclaw]

Whilst ‘adorability’ hadn’t ever been a scheme of Jeshal’s, he could be counted among the foxes who most appreciated the winter change. The old burn scars from his time before Imperium life became better hidden under the fluff, fortunate indeed that they had not prevented the growth of fur atop them. He was also grateful for the extra warmth. Having left Kutoroka, this land felt especially cold these days. Being older did not help. The icy chill felt like a determined assassin.

His new frockcoat had been designed particularly to accommodate the filling out of his fur. If he said so himself, he was very proud of the bushiness of his tail today as he viewed himself in his cabin’s mirror.

Welcome back, Cap’n.​

 

[Kinza Rainclaw]

Unlike her father, Kinza was less enthused about her changes.

What didn’t help was that she had never gone through them before.

“Lor, wharrin Gates is happening?” she screeched from her tavern room next to her brother’s. “Is it the bleedin’ food we’re eatin’? Every day I’m getting frumpier’n you! Bloody towel’s makin’ it worse an’ all. I’m not going out like this! This rate I’ll be greasin’ meself down like an eel!”​

 

[FinnianBrightfur]

The cold weather during the expedition to Urk had wrecked havoc on Finn's internal biological clock. Shedding came late for him, leaving him a touch more patchy and managey looking than most other foxes. Trotting down an alley, Finn tugged at a clump of fur on his arm, and tossed it on the ground.

Was it bad form? Perhaps. But fur was everywhere, drifting down the streets in clumps, clogging drains, and making a general mess. Literal orange tumbleweeds bouncing down the street. What was a little more?

The universe seemed to object. A gust of wind blew the clump back at Finn, and it stuck on his face with static cling. The foxkit grumbled and pulled it away, but it floated right back, zipping up against his forehead, blinding him. "Rrrgh... Stupid fur!"

Rustle. RUSTLE. Crackle.

Hearing a... Suspiciously loud noise behind him, Finn turned and clawed desperately at the fur covering his eyes.

That's when he saw it.

The mother of all fur balls, bouncing down the street. Finn stared in awe of it -- it must have been at least eight... Nine feet tall, with little sparkles of static zapping out on door knobs and hinges as it bounced down the street towards him.

It looked to be fairly light though, nothing to be concerned with. Finn stepped to the side to let it pass -- but the giant fluffy katamari ball made a beeline for him. There was no where to run, no time to flee! Finn pressed up into a doorway for shelter, but the static pull sucked him right in. "Yyaaahhhh! Heeellllppp!"

 

[Tizzi Poof]

It had found the perfect place, squeezed between two chimneys and a taller back wall whose overhanging roof made quite the spacious little nesting area. Warm stones, cover from rain and gull surprises, a great view, who could ask for more?

Tizzi asked for more. And the universe answered with molting season. Weeks of work had gone into the project. It had even slithered into a few homes to gather up the fluff that piled up under beds and in corners, even the damp fluff of washrooms. It all dried out on the rooftops, packed in tight. Colors of all kinds, from whites to blacks, oranges and reds, even some yellows from the martens and longtailed weasels of the Harbor. Most of it was brown, which was not Tizzi's fault, although most things it touched became brown eventually, sometimes months after the fact, with nobeast able to figure out why.

But if you're going to touch something once, why not touch it again?

Tizzi had found something quite unusual after a particularly rough drop-off, landing on the edge of a crate. The crate had clipped its flank, and there had been an uncomfortable, painful feeling as something tore away. A bare patch in the mud daub shell that covered the creature revealed soft, white fur beneath. But what was more interesting was that piece that came loose. Attached to the brittle shingle of grime was more white fur--sandwiched between two layers of brown.

It knew, deep in its greasy little heart, that it had both colors of fur. But the white stayed on the belly, and the brown was on the flank. So why was this... both? And why was the flank spot now white? Deep mysteries of the cosmos swam coyingly out of reach in the little beast's mind.

Either way... this was going in the collection.

It scrambled back up the gutters, squeezed between tight walls, and skittered across the rooftops to the nesting spot to find... Oh, no. Chimney sweeps. And the Collection was gone.

No, not gone. It had to be somewhere. It just wasn't here. That much fluff... it had to still be...

From the rooftop, Tizzi gazed down the hill at the widening streets far below. And there it was, free at last, making haste with the wind, scattering pedestrians before it as it gathered more and more fluff all on its own. Brilliant!

Tizzi flung itself off the rooftop, bounced off a wall, rolled off the opposite wall, and landed head-first on the ground. And then it was off, skittering madly after its prize, a wild "tchk-tchk-tchk!" cackling in its throat.

It didn't quite know what to do once it caught up to the massive furball, and it knew less of what to do when it dived in only to find somebeast else had already claimed a spot inside it. As always when prompted with something unknown, Tizzi bit down on it, and in that moment, decided one thing was certain:

Finnian's tail was delicious.

 

[Silvertongue Songfox]

Swifttail had been brushing himself down for nearly an hour, and the floor around him looked like a snowdrift made of fox. Tufts of silvery-gray and white fur clung to everything from the brush, to his tunic, the walls, and probably the ceiling too. Every sweep brought another cloud, and every cloud made him sigh.

He wasn’t vain about it, not really. The thicker winter coat felt right; his body remembering what the seasons once demanded of it. However, the process was another matter. The static, the itch, the faint scent of singed fur any time he leaned too close to a lantern or the forge. He’d already shocked himself twice just trying to hang up his jacket.

The fur had started to win, too. His sleeves felt tighter, his belly strained at his belt, and his tail had taken on a life of its own, puffed up to twice its usual size, sweeping stray bolts and scraps off the workbench like a feathered broom. His collar fur made him feel like he was constantly wearing a scarf, and no amount of combing could convince it to lie flat.

Back home in Iskatyut, the cold would have balanced it out. There, the air bit hard enough to make the extra fluff a blessing. Here in the Vulpine Imperium, where the sea winds were gentler and the winter merely cool instead of cruel, it was uncomfortable. His instincts told him to burrow down and conserve heat, but his environment told him to start shedding immediately. It was a tug-of-war his body couldn’t quite resolve, and he was left panting through a coat meant for blizzards while some of the harbor folk still went about in their shirtsleeves.

Still, as he gathered the loose fur into a neat little pile, he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. In Iskatyut, that would’ve been unthinkable. Waste nothing. That was the rule. Shed fur made fine stuffing for boots, mittens, and, if you were feeling fancy, pillows too.

He eyed the growing mound at his paws. It wasn’t much yet, but another week or two and he’d have enough to fill a small cushion. The locals would probably find it odd... a fox keeping bags of his own fur like a molting magpie, but to him it felt comforting.

He gave the pile one last pat, brushed his paws off, and muttered to himself,
"Waste not, want not. Besides, I could use a new pillow anyway."

He cracked open the window for some air, and the cool sea breeze swept through the room. A few tufts of silver fur danced up from the pile and swirled out into the sunlight like tiny ghosts of winter past. Swifttail chuckled softly, leaning on the sill. The chill in the air felt good. It felt really good.

"Hell's Teeth, how can you sit here with the window open?" Silvertongue walked up behind Swifttail, teeth chattering. He wrapped his arms around his companions waist, pulling him close. "I honestly think I'd rather be down in Hellgates with Vulpuz himself than withstand another second of this cold." He buried his muzzle into Swifttail's neck.

He wasn't acclimated to the cold, even after the events of Urk. Having lived in warmth all his life, he hadn't yet gained a winter coat like Swifttail had. "I think I'm going to need a coat." He commented. "My normal outfit isn't very good at keeping in warmth. I um.. I suppose if you shed enough, I could just make one out of your fur?" He asked jokingly, wrapping his arms under Swifttail's now and placing his paws on his shoulders.

 

[SwifttailTheFox]

Swifttail chuckled, unbothered by the chill that made Silvertongue shiver against him. He tilted his head just enough to nuzzle the bard’s cheek.
"Yer too much of a good beast t’ go to Hellsgates, mate," he teased, voice warm and low. "They’d fling ye’ right back out for improvin’ the place."

He tightened his arms around Silvertongue’s middle, trying to lend him what warmth his thick coat could spare. The bard’s fur was soft beneath his paws, far too thin for the season, and Swift couldn’t help but laugh.
"If I could give ye’ half m’ fur right now, I would! Can’t believe yer that chilled if I couldn’t feel it for m’self."

His gaze drifted toward the large pile of silver fluff on the floor, still to grow larger with every brushing he would still have to do. "Though if’n yer serious ‘bout wearin’ m’ old fur, we’d only need a spinnin’ wheel! I’ve seen beasts up north make hats outta sheddin’s before. Ye’d be stylin’, eh?"

He grinned at the thought, but seeing Silvertongue still shivering, he sighed softly and loosened his hold. Swift crossed the little loft in two steps and pushed the window shut, the latch clicking gently back into place. The warmth settled again, faint and stale though it was, carrying the scents of soot, oil, and fox fur.

The loft wasn’t much, being only a narrow eight-by-four foot crawlspace perched above the workshop, with a low ceiling, a thin bedroll, a chest, and a single lantern swaying from a beam. The forge heat below kept the chill from biting, but only barely.

Swifttail returned to Silvertongue’s embrace and pressed his forehead against the other fox’s chest, breathing in that familiar scent of fragranced soap and perfume that the bard wore.
"One day, Silv..." he murmured, voice softer now. "I’ll be outta this place. Have a proper house, with a hearth o’ m’ own. Then ye’ll never be cold again... I’ll see to that."

He smiled faintly at the thought, tail wagging, stirring up more silvery strands into the cool, stagnant air.

@Silvertongue Songfox

 

[FinnianBrightfur]

As the latch clicked shut and Swift turned his back, there was a muted rustle from the street as the giant katamari ball of fur, foxkit, and one biting Tizzi rolled past.

Perhaps Swift might feel the prickle of his fur from the mass of static electricity rolling by.

Or perhaps he'd briefly catch a glimpse of one certain foxkit as he flew past the window.

"...whhoooooaauuuuuUGGGhhhheeellllll..."

 

[Aloysius 'Ishy' Kite]

Ishy’s sharkskin boots crunched on the white gravel up to the manor house. The long-tailed weasel took a left, avoiding the fancy pillars and giant oak door of the front entrance, and he skulked down the side of the house, his broad shoulders hunched. He knocked at a humble single door that led into the kitchen, itself a squat block of stone separate from the main building. The door opened, and a heavyset sable jill in blue-checkered skirts and white apron filled the doorframe, folding her beefy arms.

“Yes?”

“Sheddings, ma’am?”

Wordlessly, the sable turned and bustled off, tail fluffed thick. Ishy briefly peeked into the kitchen, but there was nothing of interest to see, just copper and iron pots, wooden tables, and a shelf lined with porcelain jars with labels too small for him to read. The oven was warm, but the embers barely glowed. Bored, the weasel retrieved his pocketwatch, and did some mental calculations. An average of one house every three minutes. It was quicker in the Trenches with terrace-houses all squashed virtually on top of each other. Walking between the bigger properties of the wealthy was slower… so fewer beasts were doing it, and the pickings were better.

The kitchen mistress returned with a sack, and shoved it into Ishy’s white-furred paws. “Don’t go back out the front, ermine, the master doesn’t like seeing your sort. There’s an open gate into the alley, further up this path.”

“I’m a long-tailed weasel.” There was no hint of offence taken in Ishy’s tone.

“So?”

“So you recognise me in the Spring. I’ll be back in Smarch for the winter sheddings. I’ll be the yellow one with the, um. Long tail.”

“I won’t care.”

“I sell things. Cheap.”

“…you stink.”

“I sell that too.”

The sable considered, scratching her neck. “I want a flowery perfume, not that musky stuff. And a necklace.”

“Gems?”

“Anything green. Goes with my eyes.” A smile. Crooked fangs, but healthy white teeth.

“…I’ll be back sooner, then.”

Ishy trudged away, sack of shed fur slung over his shoulder. The neighboring mansion also had a side-gate. The weasel was pleased. If the whole row had been built with these service gates, he could bring down his average time by a whole minute. Knock, knock. The kitchen door opened. A young tod fox gaped at him, plump, winter fur groomed and glossy, his muzzle stained with purple jam.

“I say, you’re the biggest stoat I’ve ever seen!”

“Long-tailed weasel.”

“Oh, erm, right, sorry old chap! You look a bit like an ermine though, all white like that, eh?”

“Sheddings, sir?”

“…Um. S-sorry? Didn’t quite catch that.”

“Sheddings. Your fur sheddings.”

“Oh um, I’m not one of the servants, sorry, I really don’t know where they… they keep that. Don’t they just throw our sheddings away? What are you collecting them for?”

“Stuffing and wool spinning.”

“… there’s beast’s shed fur in my quilts and pillows?!” The fox’s face knotted up.

Ishy shrugged, making a snap evaluation of the fox. “Probably not. Yours are probably made of cotton, and stuffed with goose down.”

The fox breathed out, his face returning to its rounded placidity. “Oh, thank goodness. I suppose it’s just for um, you ah… you ahem, less fortunate sort of folks, eh?”

Ishy’s attention was starting to wander. Too many questions, and no sheddings. So much for bringing down that average time. He peered past the fox, hoping to see anybeast that might be of help.

“We’re fortunate the gods gave us our winter coats. And sheddings put to good use are a reward for the virtue of industriousness, sir.” Ishy didn’t know why, but he had found peppering his speech with gestures of piety sometimes got him to the end of conversations quicker. It might work here.

The fox’s ears pinned back. “Right! Ahem. Yes well, I’ll see about that! Right away!”

“Bless you, sir.”

The fox trotted away, and soon returned with a least weasel. Ishy in the meantime was mentally tracing the next part of his route, and pondering what he would do if other shedding-beasts started muscling in on this street. He could threaten the weak ones, beat the snot out of the brave and desperate ones, but if there were any street urchins, there would be trouble. Nobeast developed a grudge like a hungry, cold kit. He had a few ship’s biscuits though - the extra-chewy recipe. That would keep them occupied long enough for him to escape.

The least weasel was chastising the fox about something to do with the jam jar. Ishy frowned, not comprehending. Of course the Young Master had to sneak into the kitchens, that was where the jam jars were kept. Why was the weasel angry? Oh good, there was the sack of sheddings. Now the fox wanted to take it from the weasel to give to him. What a strange beast.

“Right! Here you are, a sack full of… fur!”

“Thank you. I’ll be back in Spring. But I'll be yellow... mostly. Brown on my face. Still with the long tail."

Ishy turned to leave, slinging the sack over his shoulder with the other one. He had a rickety two-wheeled beast-pulled wagon parked at the end of the street that was forming a nice pile of sacks. Ishy liked the efficiency of leaving it at the head of the street - he could walk down one side then up the other, then immediately dump his cargo in the wagon and drag it off.

“Wait!”

Ishy turned, tired, blank muddy-green eyes meeting wide, nervous sky-blue ones. The fox looked like he was about to burst, and not just from the combined mass of pudge, winter fluff and stolen jam straining his waistcoat buttons. Then he let it out all at once.

“Is… is life out there… you know… out where your sort… the tough sort live… is it exciting?!”

Ishy considered for a moment. He thought of the grimy workhouses that would buy the sheddings, so widows at the spinning wheels could make cheap wool, and feed their kits on a gilder a day. He thought of the beasts that would die this winter when they didn't budget for fuel correctly, a common occurrence with such a low rate of numeracy, and how all their worldly belongings would trickle through the black market by his paws. The burglar would clear out the house while it was occupied only by ghosts, Ishy would stash the goods and inform his brokers and stall-owners, and a month later the next tenant would move into their new home, having bought all the furnishings back that had been stolen out of it in the first place.

Most of all though, Ishy thought about the thump of a harpoon plunging into the flesh of a whale.

“…Yes. It’s very exciting.”

Ishy left. He didn’t know why the fox had asked. He didn’t know he’d unintentionally ruined the young tod’s life entirely for the better, and set him on the first step of the path to a lifelong adventure far away from his privileged and pampered existence here. The long-tailed weasel’s mind dumped the encounter into its own sack of rubbish, and quickly forgot about it.

All he wanted were the fur sheddings.