Open The Market The Festival of Sorrows, a Bully Harbor Holiday

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

At the arm squeeze and her emphasis on joining him as a vixen rather than as a minister, the Colonel's head swam a moment with possibilities and his mouth went a touch dry.
This charming woman may be wanting more and sooner from him than he even expected, though suggesting she'd like to borrow him from the Bella Vulpinsula was pretty telling already.
He placed his other large paw over hers as they strode through Satire Square and past the pedestal of Chester Larzenbright at its center, where a young rat and stoat were engaged in a spoken word performance, a "two-act, two-person tragidrama on the concept of grief", as the painted words on the board next to them called it.
His big multicolored brush wagging, the old soldier brought his date through a good portion of the Market and its surrounding area until they came upon a row of old, weathered walls, pockmarked with time and painted partially with a faded mural depicting a corsair ship and a bleeding heart with a cutlass through it, topped by a grinning ferret skull wearing a red beret.
"Coaliton will Pay" said the text along the cutlass blade. "We Don't Forget."
Soft, thick green vines traced all over these stone walls, and certain sections stood out just enough to serve as footholds.
Jere led her behind a tall bush that obscured much of their view of the crowd, intending to help her up if need be.
They came upon a lanky old ferret in overalls trimming the bush with a pair of rusty shears, and the mustelid's bushy brow raised at the sight of them.
The Colonel snorted and, taking Dusk's paw in his, said, "Hello, Dregnose."
"'Day, Colonel." The ferret looked to the Rainblade-Ryalor a moment, then turned back to his work again, wise enough not to stare. "Minister. Enjoying the holidee, are ye?"
"We are, Dregnose. Keep up the good work, and ensure us our privacy. I will have a bonus for your discretion next week."
"Understood, Colonel." He saluted them both without looking at them, clearly nervous as he slowly snipped a branch. "Enjoy your day."
The military fox looked to Dusk, searching her face again, before his mouth broke into a crooked grin. "Do you need a boost up, my dear? I think you will like what I have selected for us. It is a soothing place, rarely disturbed."

 

[Duchess Dusk Rainblade]

Dusk felt a thrill race through her as she walked through the squares with the Colonel, a giddy high racing through her veins. There was something transgressive about what they were doing, a thrill of the forbidden that took her back to her youth, to days when a much younger vixen would sneak out onto the beach with a bottle of wine stolen from her parents' cellar and a todd or two for company. Her heart yearned for that young soul, wild and free, so full of life that she could barely contain herself. She'd developed an appetite for living at a young age, chasing one high after another all around the world, through the beds of wealthy todds and the fortunes she stole and squandered along the way. She'd chased it for years, not realizing until she finally stopped in one place that she'd actually been running from something the whole time.

And now it had caught up to her. Age, wisdom, responsibility. It had sunk its teeth into her, ripping at her flesh, leaving lines and scars wherever it touched. It had warped her body, making it a cage for that wild spirit that had once roamed free. Now she could only reach between the bars of her prison, grabbing desperately at the freedom she'd once known. Time had made her a minister, wife, and mother; it had erected those cage walls around her, trapping her within. All she had left was to grasp at those in the cages next to her, trying to find some freedom in reaching beyond her cell, even if it was just into another beast's prison.

Dusk actually blushed like a schoolgirl at Dregnose's knowing inquiry, and his even more knowing statement of willful blindness. Part of her considered how to silence him; after all, it would be far more ruinous to her reputation than the Colonel's if the beast talked. The Imperium, for all the progess it had made, still held its femmes to a far different standard than its males. She pushed that thought away as the Colonel offered her a paw up, an offer she readily accepted. "Please," she confirmed, setting her paws on the misplaced stones. With a powerful lift from the Colonel, she was able to scramble up, pausing at the top to marvel at the hidden space she'd never noticed in the midst of the city sprawl, then quickly scrambled down the other side, waiting for the Colonel to join her and show her about this secret domain.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

The Colonel watched as the fetching vixen in the dress and veil disappeared over the side, and then crooking a footpaw into a familiar space, he heaved his own bulk up, slowly and steadily and still with some amount of grace that belied his age.
He grunted as he hauled himself up to the top, and then took a moment from his height before leaping down to his lovely and dangerous companion.
The Longpaw Cemetery hadn't seen much use since the 1720s, beginning as a private cemetery commissioned and owned by Pyrostoat Memorial Hospital where deceased patients and failed experiments were buried largely in secrecy. One such patient, Pyrus N. Longpaw, then purchased it following his dramatic escape, and kept it as a sort of private sanctuary where he could jabber at ghosts and engage in sea demon worship.
A circle of dessicated crab carapaces could be seen at the center of the old space, with old melted candles and small bones at its center.
Huge, ancient willow trees hung ancient and sprawling, pushing against the thick walls and knocking over crumbling headstones with their roots in their desperation to spread.
Columns of headstones stood in rows amongst the partially-trimmed grass, most text illegible or just barely- 'Naughton Goode', 'Devby Fire', 'Y. Lourd', and 'Will I. Survipe' among the few that still visibly bore names.
There was a bench facing the center of the cozy old graveyard, an old thing just beneath one of the tall willows.
The bench was made of stained, cold old marble with a chipped plaque that said 'Pyrostoat Memorial Hospital- In Memory of Thaston P. Hughes, who Was Mad' on its back.
Some of the paths, mostly dirt with some chunks of cracked stone still remaining, were lined with small red and white roses.
At the far back was a tall, rusted iron gate, obscured by overgrown bushes similar to what Dregnose the gardener was trimming outside, and a small gazebo with another Pyrostoat plaque with a partially-collapsed roof.
The Colonel took the dame's paw in his own and ran his fingers over hers.
With how tall and thick the old walls were, the cemetery was its own small, mostly-silent sanctuary. Little of the Festival interrupted it.
"What do you think?"