- Character Biography
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As the night of the Frost Fair grew late, it snowed all the harder. Consistent snowfall through the colder months was a perfect excuse for Darragh to avoid a fur trimming - he hated those, and the stoat needed every bit of his white winter coat to conserve heat.
The Minister of Innovation himself had been pawing out magic hot waterskins, and Darragh had received one gratefully. Tucking the waterskin under his shirt had worked for maybe fifteen minutes of going around looking like a pregnant jill (complete with how wild his long headfur was growing)… until the buttons had finally given up on their frayed threads, and burst off. Seeing an ermine jill with an unusually raspy voice have some steaming, fizzing lump burst out of her belly, straight out of a pulp-horror story, had caused at least one passer-by to faint from shock.
Walking around with his shirt hanging open and the waterskin losing its heat, Darragh eventually decided the evening would be well-rounded off with a traditional Frost Fair treat - drinking the last of his pocket of gilders away before he went home to his rented attic above Selwyn Sedgewick’s Stationarie Shoppe. Pub crawl!
The pub crawl turned into more of a Pub Odyssey, as Darragh got lost trying to find his way home. He hadn't grown up in Bully Harbour, so he lacked the native drunk's instinct for finding his way back to his bed, and navigating by pub was a sure way for him to become both disoriented, and thoroughly sloshed. It was only when Big Val struck midnight that Darragh realised he’d been stumbling and swaying the wrong way entirely.
“Dahh… ‘nuvver bloo’y ‘our o’ snowslogg’n’ back, sodd’n’ stree’ si’s don’ tailsniff’n’ tell ye sca’…” Darragh burbled, his accent, usually a playful lilt, growing nearly half as thick and ornery as his mother’s. “If’n ‘at’s th’bi’ corkin’ grea’ ticker, migh’ as we’ pay m’res-pecks whi’e ‘m‘ere…”
The ruins of the opera house had been cordoned off, but it was hardly a priority for anybeast to guard a giant pile of ashes. In the light of the whale-oil streetlamps, it was a hulking black silhouette of filthy snow-mush and cinders. Darragh had been expecting it to be still warm, in some poetic way. As though that night of horrors still lingered in heat, the way it smoldered in the memories of those that had been there.
It was dead cold. Darragh sifted through a few blackened bits before he found a suitable piece of charcoal. He wrapped it in a rag with his other charcoal writing-bits - it was always good to have a spare. Maybe there was something poetic in that?
“Mm… burrn arrt dowwn… make arrt from assshes… fff…” Darragh over-articulated, flailing his paws in a theatric gesture. No, now was not the time for coherent poetry. He paused for a moment in respect of the dead innocents whose were probably still buried in the wreckage, before also making a rude gesture intended at the remains of the dead murderers and arsonists that had been caught in their own trap. "Ne'er 'gain, y'Gates-boun' vill'ns..."
Needing a place to relieve himself, Darragh stumbled away from the cordoned off area, and wandered up to a convenient wall across the road. Unfortunately for the young stoat, the wall he found was attached to a castle… fortress… government office called the Ministry of War, which happened to be slightly better-guarded than the ruins.
“Oi! Stop right there, miscreant!”
“Ahem! Cease your perpetration of public indecency, young scofflaw!”
Darragh made a rude gesture, not even bothering to turn around. “Lemme finish y’zhipperfriskin’ ol’ sacks o’ squ’irlsca’, who as’d ye?”
There was a pause. Then, everybeast spoke at once.
“…Wot?”
“…Come again?”
“…Wha’?”
Darragh heard a snarl.
“Wotcher say you ‘orrible little snotball?! Are you cheekin’ an h’officer h’of the law?!”
Darragh turned his head, grinning like he’d been made emperor. There were a couple of blurry Fogeys, one a short fat fox, the other a tall thin rat, and both looked rather cross. The alcohol running through his veins told him not to worry about it. He was fast as a shooting star and invisible as the wind.
“…aye. Oh, c’n y’still see me? ‘Ang on, camoo-flaawwj ain’t workin’ righ’.”
“How much have you had to drink tonight, sir?”” Asked Constable Shorty O’Lard.
“No’nuff t’mprove y’looks, y’filthy ould scuzzbaw,” Darragh replied, shrugging off his shirt.
Shorty frowned. “Sergeant… I've failed to comprehend the suspect's regional dialect. What should I do?”
Sergeant Stringbean gripped his truncheon. “Stop taking your demmed clothes h’off, you wretched little pervert!”
“Ah, yes, sir, if you would please remain attired, it’s quite frigid tonight…”
Darragh twirled, in nothing but his cap over one ear. “See! Y’can’ see me! Can’ ge’ mad! M’nvisible! Snoweas’l!”
“I’m afraid our investigative senses cannot be so easily deceived, young fellow-…”
“H’of course we can bloody see h’entirely too much of you!”
“Naw, naw, stan’ ba’ a’ bi’, see, on th’road wi’ all’issnow, whi’e-on-whi’e, aye?” Darragh explained, wobbling away from the wall, and positioning himself between the Fogeys and the rough direction he thought would get him back home.
“…I suppose you could blend in a little with the surroundings sir, except you keep swaying.”
“Stuff’n’nonsense! That’s it, you’re h’under arre- OI!”
Darragh was already sprinting. Stringbean was off like a cannon shot after him, while O’Lard cunningly assigned himself the less strenuous duty of picking up Darragh’s discarded belongings. Securing evidence was a very important duty for a Fogey.
@Talinn Ryalor @Samuel Grimes @Aramaeus Lemon @Cricket @Eskila @Silvertongue Songfox @Callix Noxi @SwifttailTheFox @FinnianBrightfur @Kaii Nashirou
(Tagging everybody I think might have been interested in a dramatic arrest and some courtroom drama!)
The Minister of Innovation himself had been pawing out magic hot waterskins, and Darragh had received one gratefully. Tucking the waterskin under his shirt had worked for maybe fifteen minutes of going around looking like a pregnant jill (complete with how wild his long headfur was growing)… until the buttons had finally given up on their frayed threads, and burst off. Seeing an ermine jill with an unusually raspy voice have some steaming, fizzing lump burst out of her belly, straight out of a pulp-horror story, had caused at least one passer-by to faint from shock.
Walking around with his shirt hanging open and the waterskin losing its heat, Darragh eventually decided the evening would be well-rounded off with a traditional Frost Fair treat - drinking the last of his pocket of gilders away before he went home to his rented attic above Selwyn Sedgewick’s Stationarie Shoppe. Pub crawl!
The pub crawl turned into more of a Pub Odyssey, as Darragh got lost trying to find his way home. He hadn't grown up in Bully Harbour, so he lacked the native drunk's instinct for finding his way back to his bed, and navigating by pub was a sure way for him to become both disoriented, and thoroughly sloshed. It was only when Big Val struck midnight that Darragh realised he’d been stumbling and swaying the wrong way entirely.
“Dahh… ‘nuvver bloo’y ‘our o’ snowslogg’n’ back, sodd’n’ stree’ si’s don’ tailsniff’n’ tell ye sca’…” Darragh burbled, his accent, usually a playful lilt, growing nearly half as thick and ornery as his mother’s. “If’n ‘at’s th’bi’ corkin’ grea’ ticker, migh’ as we’ pay m’res-pecks whi’e ‘m‘ere…”
The ruins of the opera house had been cordoned off, but it was hardly a priority for anybeast to guard a giant pile of ashes. In the light of the whale-oil streetlamps, it was a hulking black silhouette of filthy snow-mush and cinders. Darragh had been expecting it to be still warm, in some poetic way. As though that night of horrors still lingered in heat, the way it smoldered in the memories of those that had been there.
It was dead cold. Darragh sifted through a few blackened bits before he found a suitable piece of charcoal. He wrapped it in a rag with his other charcoal writing-bits - it was always good to have a spare. Maybe there was something poetic in that?
“Mm… burrn arrt dowwn… make arrt from assshes… fff…” Darragh over-articulated, flailing his paws in a theatric gesture. No, now was not the time for coherent poetry. He paused for a moment in respect of the dead innocents whose were probably still buried in the wreckage, before also making a rude gesture intended at the remains of the dead murderers and arsonists that had been caught in their own trap. "Ne'er 'gain, y'Gates-boun' vill'ns..."
Needing a place to relieve himself, Darragh stumbled away from the cordoned off area, and wandered up to a convenient wall across the road. Unfortunately for the young stoat, the wall he found was attached to a castle… fortress… government office called the Ministry of War, which happened to be slightly better-guarded than the ruins.
“Oi! Stop right there, miscreant!”
“Ahem! Cease your perpetration of public indecency, young scofflaw!”
Darragh made a rude gesture, not even bothering to turn around. “Lemme finish y’zhipperfriskin’ ol’ sacks o’ squ’irlsca’, who as’d ye?”
There was a pause. Then, everybeast spoke at once.
“…Wot?”
“…Come again?”
“…Wha’?”
Darragh heard a snarl.
“Wotcher say you ‘orrible little snotball?! Are you cheekin’ an h’officer h’of the law?!”
Darragh turned his head, grinning like he’d been made emperor. There were a couple of blurry Fogeys, one a short fat fox, the other a tall thin rat, and both looked rather cross. The alcohol running through his veins told him not to worry about it. He was fast as a shooting star and invisible as the wind.
“…aye. Oh, c’n y’still see me? ‘Ang on, camoo-flaawwj ain’t workin’ righ’.”
“How much have you had to drink tonight, sir?”” Asked Constable Shorty O’Lard.
“No’nuff t’mprove y’looks, y’filthy ould scuzzbaw,” Darragh replied, shrugging off his shirt.
Shorty frowned. “Sergeant… I've failed to comprehend the suspect's regional dialect. What should I do?”
Sergeant Stringbean gripped his truncheon. “Stop taking your demmed clothes h’off, you wretched little pervert!”
“Ah, yes, sir, if you would please remain attired, it’s quite frigid tonight…”
Darragh twirled, in nothing but his cap over one ear. “See! Y’can’ see me! Can’ ge’ mad! M’nvisible! Snoweas’l!”
“I’m afraid our investigative senses cannot be so easily deceived, young fellow-…”
“H’of course we can bloody see h’entirely too much of you!”
“Naw, naw, stan’ ba’ a’ bi’, see, on th’road wi’ all’issnow, whi’e-on-whi’e, aye?” Darragh explained, wobbling away from the wall, and positioning himself between the Fogeys and the rough direction he thought would get him back home.
“…I suppose you could blend in a little with the surroundings sir, except you keep swaying.”
“Stuff’n’nonsense! That’s it, you’re h’under arre- OI!”
Darragh was already sprinting. Stringbean was off like a cannon shot after him, while O’Lard cunningly assigned himself the less strenuous duty of picking up Darragh’s discarded belongings. Securing evidence was a very important duty for a Fogey.
@Talinn Ryalor @Samuel Grimes @Aramaeus Lemon @Cricket @Eskila @Silvertongue Songfox @Callix Noxi @SwifttailTheFox @FinnianBrightfur @Kaii Nashirou
(Tagging everybody I think might have been interested in a dramatic arrest and some courtroom drama!)
