Fogeys Open The Market The Golden Voyage

[Perila Z. Mogul]

The lanterns are lit, and the pearl-pink curtains, still rather tattered and bloodstained since the Civil Wars and the cuts to the theater budget, pull back to reveal a fox in an old Naval officer's uniform and a blue bicorne hat, standing gallantly with one leg perched upon a barrel of grog as he gazes out toward the crowd.
Behind him stand four sailors, and behind them lies a painted background depicting a beach with palm trees and an Imperial frigate beneath a soaring sky, resting upon a deep-blue sea.
In the pit, the soaring, heart-swelling sound of flutes, violins, a cello, a piano, and military drums begins, as the fox smiles boldly at the audience.
The Golden Voyage of Admiral Eldon has begun!
The fox sings:
"Oh, ahoy, boys, oh ahoy, 'hoy, 'hoy,
What wondrous shores are these!
Off that ship and onto the sand,
And we shalt gaze 'pon this brilliant new land!
Oh, come far have we,
From Vulpinsulan shores,
To this land our kits will know.
Now, gather, boys, gather my boys,
And unload our tuck and swords.
Discovery, our Imperial quest,
And discover we shall,
What good this new world shall bring!"
The sailors hastily move about gathering crates and barrels from backstage and piling them upfront.
One of them, a weasel with a bandana about his neck, climbs to the top of the crates and makes a show of peering one direction to the next.
Peering again to the left, he gasps, and scurries back down (the actor nearly tripping and falling offstage as he does, for the fox actor to rescue him by seizing his collar), to tug on the fox's sleeve whilst crying:
"Oh, Admiral, sir, Admiral Eldon, sir,
I, Officer J. R. Ketch, will speak.
With eyes like hawk, I perch and watch,
And will tell what mine eyes hath seen!
Not a far stonesthrow's march from us, good sir,
March a wicked crew, all grim with glinting blades!
Now it be my 'pinion that we enter this fray,
Aye, that we meet afore they've the upper paw!"
The fox, Admiral Eldon, takes the pipe from his mouth to scoff and pat Ketch on the shoulder.
"Ah, fear ye not, J. R. Ketch, my lad,
A friendly meeting, surely, will come,
For who would not wish to meet the Emperor's brave,
On this bright and golden day?"
An arrow with a harmless tip zips out from a hidden corner and strikes the Admiral on his arm before falling to the floor.
Dramatically, the fox gasps and slaps a paw to his arm.
"Oh Hellfire, Hellfire!
Good gracious, have I misjudged this lot,
For I see, Ketch, that I've been shot!
Now loose, boys, loose those bows,
And rain Imperial hell upon their heads,
Those blackguards will know their just reward be death!"
The weasel playing Ketch shakes his head and says:
"Oh, I fear, sir, I do fear, good sir,
The bows be aboard the frigate!
Now might I suggest our next wise course,
Be we retreat and return amidship-"
Another fake arrow strikes the weasel, who topples dramatically over with an "-ugh!"
In horror, as three mice, a squirrel, and a hare begin combat with the remaining sailors, Admiral Eldon slumps to his knees and cradles the fallen Ketch.
"Oh, J. R. Ketch, good J. R. Ketch,
Dare not ye leave me now!
Not whilst these villains from the woodlands,
Dare assault us wrongly with stones and bows!"
As the music swells, the fox stands and draws his cutlass, and faces the hare, who is swinging a wooden sword while howling and frothing savagely.
The Admiral sings:
"Bah, curse you lot,
And the fools with brains that rot,
Claiming this land was laden with peace and gold!
For all I see here are madbeasts that leer,
And aye-" he turns briefly to the audience and squints. "What looks to be wheat and something called corn!"
Turning back to face the hare, they have a fast and wild duel before the dashing and gallant Admiral Eldon slays the hare, who, upon falling to the floor, goes "Urgh!" and sticks out her tongue.

The audience breaks out into applause as the fox and his sailors begin bravely fending off the rest of the woodlanders.
In the center audience, a weasel in a worn midnight-blue dress and a necklace of little ivory moons smiles and leans in to the rat next to her, who is dressed in a red and green dinner jacket and a matching tricorne.
"Fear the Eyes of Smarch." she whispers, and slips something to him.
The rat, a wiry, weary-looking fellow, possessing somewhat the air of a tired and handsome older artist, opens the packet to sniff the something. He nods.
"Very good." He whispers, slipping the packet into an inner pocket. "This will do nicely, comrade. We are watching most pleasedly."
There is a hubbub in the far back, at the entrance, as the ferret in the ticket booth shakes her head.
"No," she says. "'I don't give a wet fish turd if you are or aren't Fogeys, I'm not t' let anybeast in that doesn't pay fer a ticket. Don't like it, talk t' Mr. Haddock!"
The stoat Fogey named Sergeant Petri Intermittent Gorris is very swiftly losing patience as he glares balefully through the ticket booth at the ferret. Behind him, six other Fogeys of varying species stand and lounge about, twirling their clubs and looking uncomfortable. This was meant to be a raid, darn her eyes!
A dangerous gang of cravat thieves, cruelly depriving upperclass citizenry of their neck warmth, were reported to have last been sighted in the Bouillabaisse Opera House, eying its audience members eagerly.
They had to be stopped!
"And where is this Mr. Haddock?" Gorris growled.
"He's off duty." The ticket seller stuck out her tongue. "Terribly sorry. Guess ye'll just hafta pay."
"Curmudgeon!" Gorris snapped, slapping the booth. "Fine! Fine! How much?"
"Twelve bits."
"For all of us? Outrageous!"
The ferret grinned. "No, no. This isn't some street play in the Square, Mr. Fogey. Twelve bits each."
The stoat Fogey sergeant's cursing could be heard even briefly above the live music playing from the pit.
The rat and weasel in the audience eyed eachother curiously.
Finally, a fox heaved an irritable sigh, and against his wife's wishes, stood and began making his way toward the ticket booth, clicking his tongue.
The Fogeys all saluted when they saw him.
"Chief Inspector Wolford!"
"What in the name of Sean are you pack of idiots crying about?"
"Well, ye see, sir," said Sergeant Gorris. "There is a report that the notorious cravat thiev-"
"Cravat thieves?" The older fox said, suddenly nervous and touching his throat.
"Sweet Empress! My primrose and pearl cravat my in-laws bought me, it's gone! Whisky, I'll pay for the tickets, just let those buffoons in here. It's about time they were good for something. Now, Sergeant-" he waggled a finger in the stoat's face. "No upsetting the Insanely Rich or disturbing the play, my wife and I came here with the intention of enjoying a splendid evening.
But any suspicious activity or suspicious characters, you will interrogate! I want that filthy pack of cravat-thieving street-scrapers found!"
Gorris grinned wickedly, swinging his club by its rope. "Aye, sir!"
The seven Fogeys slipped inside, and the rat in the tricorne hat and the weasel in the midnight-blue dress fell silent, working hard to ignore the Fogeys, who had begun stalking the ranks of audience members with cruel glee shining in their eyes.
For the Imperium, the two conspirators thought, their fists clenching as they watched Admiral Eldon and his aides strut about on stage, singing about how miserable the Sahthern Cahntinent was, and how glorious the Imperium was.

 

[Marianna Furotazzi]

The woodlander actors were quite a curiosity, Marianna Furotazzi mused as she watched from her seat in the back row, a small pair of opera glasses raised to her eyes. Falun was asleep in the chair next to her, his golden-furred head lolled over the back of the chair, blissfully snoring away. So long as she treated his snores as a non-diegetic percussion in the score, she could ignore it well enough, letting her focus on the production. And what a production it was, worthy of the old days of Bully Harbor! The Bouillabaisse Opera House had rather fallen over the past decades, though truth be told, it had been beleaguered and besieged since long before Marianna had been born. How little is left of what our fathers built, she mused privately, and how much it now falls to us to rebuild.

The night's performance seemed oddly fitting for the current Imperial moment - anachronistic, a product of a bygone regime, and oddly contradictory in its enactment. In the olden days, the woodlander parts would have been played by vermin wearing prostheses, but, unless her eyes were deceiving her, these were actual woodlander actors on stage, playing the adversarial roles assigned to them with just as much zeal as the foxes and mustelids did theirs. It didn't seem to matter that the roles were non-speaking, one-dimensional, and villainized to the point of caricature; they had their assignments, and they performed them with zeal. If Marianna were in their shoes, she'd have demanded serious rewrites to the script - or simply refused the part altogether. Then again, perhaps the only way for woodlanders to break into such a hallowed cultural institution was to accept even parts that actively denigrated themselves to the audience. Is this how you saw yourself, Vito? she wondered privately. Forced into playing the villain because the only other option was to be struck from the play entirely?

Her attention was captured by an unexpected development - the arrival of the Fogey Police, filing into the theatre quietly, malice in the gleam of their eyes, truncheons close to paw. Marianna tensed, but they went by without even affording her or Falun a glance. She tried not to find affront in that; after all, Vito had worked hard to keep them both out of the public eye. Still, she couldn't help but find it a reflection of their diminished status. At his lowest, the Fogeys would have made a show of searching him, even though there was nothing to link him directly to any criminal act; at his highest, they wouldn't have dared to make eye contact with him. Now, she and her brother weren't even worth noticing.

Ignoring the play, which had grown rather tiresome in its nationalistic self-congratulation, Marianna focused her opera glasses instead on the Fogeys as they moved about. If they weren't here for her, then they must be here for some criminal act in progress. With as desperate as the Furotazzis were to rebuild, if there were legitimate criminals about, she would much prefer to know. Mergers and acquisitions had been part of her specialty for the Obsidian Corporation, after all, and acquiring new talent could be just the stimulus needed for their flagging organization.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

As the Fogeys went further down one way, a young rat in the striped attire, leather-brimmed cap and attached snack box of a concessions seller went down the other way.
He ignored all pleas for fishsticks and peanuts as he went, tail twitching and eyes darting nervously.
So fixated on watching the Fogeys on the hunt, the rat slipped on a puddle of Daffy Danyul's Creamed Ice (Smog Flavor) and landed with an explosion of overpriced snackfoods not far from Marianna.
"Oh, corks!" The rat gasped, as the shine of metal, too, glinted among the scattered goods.
Hastily, the rodent begun gathering watches, necklaces, pawrings, tailrings and earrings and stuffing them into his jacket, sweat beading his forehead.
Among the nearest audience, a few eyes had begun to take notice of the rat's affair, and a few manicured eyebrows creased.
A few paws, too, had begun to feel for their valuables.
On the other side of the row seating the Furotazzis, the Fogeys had begun demanding to inspect a doddering old ratwife's pawbag, currently clueless to the situation unfolding.

 

[Marianna Furotazzi]

Marianna's eyes caught the gleam of jewelry amidst the fishsticks and popcorn, and her eyes widened. She knew she need not fear for herself; she only had one object of any value on her, and that was largely sentimental, being the tarnished gold ring on her pawfinger. That much wealth, however, apparently retrieved quite cleanly up until the unfortunate spill... This was a beast of some talent, and probably not working alone. A crowd of this size would demand about five for a sizable haul and a quick getaway. Two pickpockets to work crowd, to bagbeasts to hold the loot and keep it away from the Fogeys or any suspicious ushers, and a lookout, usually the mastermind, to control the flow of the job and pull the crew out if it got too hot. Marianna had no talent for thieving herself, but the organizational part of crime fascinated her. Had Adriel not left the Tazzis at such an inopportune time, Marianna would have been delighted to learn from her.

Marianna glanced over, noticing the attention that was being drawn to the rat's plight, and the evidence of his crime. The vixen made her decision. Ignoring the filthiness of the aisle carpet, she moved quickly to kneel by him, shielding the evidence from view as she quickly helped to gather them, stuffing them into the sleeves of the rat's jacket. "You poor thing," she soothed, trying by her demeanor to give him some cover. "Honestly, these floors are a hazard, so much loose junk left lying about! Here, let me get that for you."

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

The rat gawked in surprise for a moment, but recovered quickly.
"Thank you, ma'am, I appreciate your help!" he said loudly, his demeanor shifted slightly to appear more relaxed (and less guilty) as he and his new accomplice quickly finished hiding away the rest of his loot.
He leaned in suddenly, whispering into the vixen's ear. "After the second act, a violinist in the pit will leave. Follow her."
The concession seller then quickly departed, heading out of the auditorium.
A uniformed mole shuffled over with a loudly-squeaking cleaning cart that earned almost as much ire as the Fogeys.
"'Scuze, marm." He droned. "'M goin' to clean de carpet."
On stage, Admiral Eldon had just encountered one of the mole janitor's supposed ancestors, a mine-digging degenerate with a shovel using the sort of accent that would make any respectable anthropologist blush, punctuated continuously with irritating slurping noises as he consumed false worms made of gelatin.
The mole actor spoke as if every word burned his mouth terribly, and like it was more of a pain getting them out than just keeping them in and letting them do their damage.
His singing was like hearing a frog scream while being thrown into a bubbling cauldron.
His performance was almost impressive.
Admiral Eldon, meanwhile, spent much of the scene putting a paw to his ear and saying "WHAT?" and "SPEAK MORE CLEARLY, O KING OF WORMS."
The fox actor did so so often he might've genuinely not been understanding the lines.
The dramatic musical accompaniment continued eagerly, making every word sound just a little bit like it could've been world-changing if only the scriptwriter was half as devoted to the plot as the composer was.

 

[Marianna Furotazzi]

As Marianna watched the mole janitor clean the aisle carpet while another seemingly repaid the torturous nature of his lines with an equally torturous performance, Marianna idly wondered if she'd inadvertently bought a ticket for some bizarre performance art where the show was not on the stage, but in the audience. It was hard not to see a parallel between the janitor's work and the humiliation in the performance, with an equally humiliating lack of insight from the good Admiral. Marianna's paw itched to reach for a stick of charcoal and her notebook. She could almost see the outline of the literary critique forming: The Golden Voyage may be the most thought-provoking opera of our time, not for the baseness of its story nor the dreadfulness of its performance, but for how both reflect the cultural malaise and unconvincing pantomime of racial progressivism in the modern Imperium.

No, she decided. No, that was too much. It was one thing to criticize the ancien régime; that was actually quite in vogue at the moment. To criticize the new guard, however, was not so much crossing the line as striding up and kicking sand across it. Besides, if this was, in fact, a highly subversive critique of the Imperium's implicit racial hierarchy, the best thing that Marianna could do was to not draw attention to it.

Satisfied with her interpretation, Marianna spent the rest of the act observing the audience and the drama playing out there between the Fogeys and their quarry. She kept one eye trained on the orchestra pit, looking for a femme violinist to leave. She was intrigued by this crew, her mind alight with possibilities for a partnership. The Furotazzi family were getting back on their feet, and there was room for mutual benefit. She just hoped they would hear her out.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

One of the Fogeys, a Sirloin W. Flask, possessed a nose like a limp carrot, but with it came an exceptional sense of smell.
The ferret followed it all the way to an Imperial Trash Receptacle, which he investigated thoroughly, throwing banana peels, wrappers, wastepaper, and snack containers about much to the nearby janitor's weary submission.
Eventually, the bag was empty. He threw that after the rest of the rubbish.
Finally, Flask checked the basket itself, and procured a sealed envelope. It had been attached with wax to the inside of the container.
Sergeant Gorris was grilling a kit in the backrow on his whereabouts some twenty minutes ago, his estimation of when the robbery of Chief Inspector Wolford's cravat took place.
He was right here with me, you idiot." his mother snarled, quite uncooperatively.
"Pardon, sir." came the stoat's subordinate. "I've summat."
"Hm?" The stoat snatched the envelope and opened it. He proceeded post-haste to get a good, deep whiff of its contents, and then began to cough, slightly at first, but worsening quickly, until his whole body was shaking with every cough and gag.
Officer Robble N. Slimp, who had spent much of the investigation in the restroom, laughed nervously. "My word, old boy, are you quite alright?"
Sergeant Gorris shoved past him, hacking and choking, gurgling and wheezing, his face going scarlet, his eyes bulging and bloodshot.
"What the devil is the matter with him?" The mother cried accusingly, drawing her kit close.
The stoat stumbled down the aisle and fell, knocking over the janitor's mop bucket as he did. The mole sighed and went to fetch a new one, leaving the stoat to crawl weakly across the carpet.
Just near the front row, Sergeant Gorris gave one last horrible cough that left a gobbet of blood on the carpet. The stoat wheezed, shuddered, and went limp, his paw outstretched toward Chief Inspector Wolford, who was just as oblivious and disinterested as everybeast else.
The whole audience paid little heed to the Fogey officer's spectacle, transfixed as they were by what was on stage, the climax to the Second Act.
The rousing music from the pit was mysterious and magical as Admiral Eldon and his aides caught sight of a lone keep in the woodlands, shrouded in mist. It stood at the center of a sea of bones, broken armor, rusted weaponry, tattered flags.
They had come to Bloodstone Chapel, the House of Death, and many oo's and awe's erupted from the crowd.
Officer Junius T. Whiffle knelt by the stoat sergeant's body and touched his neck. The rat whistled. "'E's dead as Sean Waters, 'e is!"
"Good golly!" said Officer Flask.
"Shut up!" someone snapped.

As the Second Act drew to a close, the violin section sounded just a little weaker as a young ferret dressed in a handsome blue dress and a fetching rose and lavender polkadot cravat climbed out of the pit and followed the shape of the stage to the far back, disappearing through a backdoor.
In the main aisle, the mole janitor had begun the Herculean effort of sweeping the sergeant's body into a massive dustpan.

 

[Marianna Furotazzi]

The entire audience watched the finale save for two foxes in the back row, one of whom was still snoring, and one of whom was watching the death of Sergeant Gorris from the corner of her eye. Her mother had been a doctor; she'd recalled hearing stories from her mother, told at her daughter's urging, about rushing to save the lives of total strangers, even at great personal risk. Her mother had believed that every life had value, and that it was all precious.

Then Marianna and her brother had been kitnapped by Vito Furotazzi, who had taught her another lesson: every life had value, and there were exact formulas to appraise them by. Sergeant Garris's would hardly be worth enough to buy a decent dinner at the Red Herring.

Marianna got to her footpaws, moving quickly behind the back row, her eyes peeled for movement in the orchestra pit. She caught the sight of a violinist slipping away, and she picked up the pace, hurrying to keep about thirty feet behind. She slipped through the back door at a delay, eyes peeled to locate the fleeing violinist in the dark.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

The vixen entered a hallway dimly-lit by lanterns. Paintings of various plays and concerts, musicians, actors and composers, lined the walls, the most prominent being that of celebrated composer Q. Amadeus Beetleborb, and least prominent that of playwright Gideon C. Blayre, whose posthumously-released edgy musical The Killotine received critical acclaim as "The funnest thing since the total degredation and decline of our civilization as a whole. Truly, these are the worst of days. 4 out of 5 crabs."
The violinist swept down one hall, then turned and went down another, smiling and greeting passing actors dressed in various getups as she did, including a runty weasel in splotchy camouflage bodypaint and a mouse garbed in a gaudy suit of plate, seated smoking a cigarette.
The mouse shot Marianna a strange look as she passed.
The violinist slipped into a dark, empty changing room, and then whipped around with a swish of her dress and a big smile as the lights flicked on.
Twelve beasts were crowded around inside the room, including the rat concession seller, seated upon makeup booth stools and flanked by mirrors. Another door led into a restroom. All of them were wearing fanciful and very expensive cravats.
"Well, well," said the young ferret musician, baring her sharp white teeth. "Aren't ye a fair sight, miss." She straightened her cravat gaily, and leaned against the arm of a large, muscular vixen who watched Marianna intently, dressed in a red valet uniform and leather-brimmed cap.
"Close that door behind ye," the ferret instructed Marianna, "won't ye, luv?"

 

[Drummond "Crayfish" Grogg]

Drumman Crayfish Grogg was exactly the sort of lout the Bouillabaisse Opera House wished would never darken its doors, and yet, here he was. Wedged into one of the cheap seats, his bulk overflowing like an over-risen muffin in a tin, he sloshed a cheap tankard of spiced rum in one paw and clapped the other against his knee. His raucous laughter boomed over the orchestra pit every time a woodlander stumbled across the stage, their roles crafted with all the subtlety of a bludgeon to the skull.

This performance, for all its garishness, was oddly appropriate for the times. Once, it would have been the domain of vermin actors in prosthetic masks, sneering and snarling their way through crude depictions of woodlanders. Now, though, the woodlanders themselves were the ones playing their own farcical parts. The irony was lost on most of the audience, but not on Grogg. He relished every moment. There! A mole was made to pantomime the act of eating wriggling worms between his blunt teeth, exaggerated for comedic effect. Grogg roared, slamming his fist against the armrest. "Oh, that’s rich! Bet ‘e’s actually enjoyin’ it, eh?" He slapped the back of the ferret in the next seat over, who did his best to ignore the reeking, drunken stoat beside him.

Grogg had been a captain once—a fine one, by his own account. He had a grand ship, a loyal crew, and riches to plunder. But through no fault of his own (of course), he had lost them all. His ship had been lost, his crew scattered, his fortunes dashed. Somehow, through a combination of luck and bureaucratic oversight, he still received a pension from the Vulpine Imperium, a meager allowance that was just enough to keep his belly full of grog and his days filled with complaints.

He was mid-guffaw when he noticed the Fogey presence. A cluster of them lurked near the entrance, their silhouettes framed against the dim theater lights. That alone would have been enough to grab his attention, but what really caught his eye was the sergeant—a mustelid of some sort, though it was hard to tell in the gloom—stumbling down the aisle toward the stage. His movements were jerky, unsteady.

The crowd barely noticed; all eyes were on the performance. Grogg, however, leaned forward, intrigued. The sergeant knocked against a janitor’s mop bucket, sending a slosh of dirty water onto the floor. The mole janitor grumbled but stepped aside as the Fogey staggered onward. Something was wrong. The mustelid’s breath came in harsh gasps. His paws clawed at his own throat.

Then, with a final lurch, he collapsed at the foot of the stage, the last of his breath rattling from his lungs.

For a brief moment, silence blanketed the theater. Then, Grogg let out a hoot. "Well, well! The show’s gone an’ spilled into the audience!" He elbowed his reluctant seatmate again, his eyes twinkling with delight. "What a performance, eh? Realism like this don’t come cheap!"

But as the murmurs of confusion swelled around him and the Fogeys rushed forward, the laughter of the drunken stoat slowly faded. Perhaps, just perhaps, the night was about to take a turn more interesting than even he had anticipated.

 

[Marianna Furotazzi]

As soon as Marianna entered the room, she realized it was a trap. She was thoroughly outnumbered, with no notion of the nearest exit, nor anywhere near the Fogeys, had she been inclined to go to them for help at any juncture. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart, and raised her chin. Vito had taught her a secret to such scenarios: when you found yourself surrounded, the best thing you could do was make your captors believe that was exactly where you wanted to be.

"Impressive," she remarked, closing the door behind her. "Aside from a few missteps, some of them literal, that operation went quite smoothly. You certainly made things more difficult for yourselves by poisoning that Fogey, however. They'll hunt for you ten times as hard now. You'd have been better off cutting one of them in. Sergeants can be expensive, but even a well-placed patrol officer on the take can save a lot of hassle." She clasped her clutch in front of her, not concerned that they might take it. Most of the gilders within were fake anyway.

"What percent are you expecting on turnaround?" she inquired. "What you've taken isn't cheap. You'll need a solid fence in order to make a profit."

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

@Drummond "Crayfish" Grogg

Once the curtains closed for intermission and beasts in the audience actually started bothering to notice the felled sergeant, their murmurs mainly concerned how inconvenient it was to walk around the corpse and the makeshift border of janitorial buckets the remaining Fogeys had constructed on their way to the restrooms. Chief Inspector Wolford and his wife, for their part, beat a hasty retreat to the private dining hall to preserve their evening.
One particularly ambitious wildcat Fogey named Link L. Shunkirst took command of the squad in the tradition of removing Gorris' badge and pinning it upon her chest. "Roite, nobeast cross th' buckets. This 'ere is a croime scene. You, sir, yes, you-"
The mole janitor blinked owlishly up at her. There was a hint of barely-subdued rage in his big, weary eyes. He'd just moved in his janitorial cart, further blocking the main aisle much to audience confusion and chagrin. "Oi'm 'ere fer de buckets."
"Oho, gonner give us an 'ard toime, are you?" The newly sergeant-ed Sergeant Shunkirst lit a cheap cigar and tossed the match on the carpet. The ever-present puddle of creamed ice, the stuff of the mole's nightmares, briefly caught fire before fizzing out as a stoat kit threw a cup of Kitt's Extry Watery Crabapple Grog on the ground.
The wildcat looked down the aisle to the cheaper rows, where the corpulent and very hammered stoat taking up one of the seats had only just fallen into silence after making a racket that could've easily rivaled the Fogeys in terms of intrusiveness and irritation.
Sergeant Shunkirst shoved past the mole and hooked a clawed finger at Grogg. "Oi, you, giggle-guts," she barked through the white cigar smoke. "c'mere! Yore wanted fer questionin' in th' murder o' Fogey Sergeant Pasty Inter... er... th' murder o' a Fogey!"

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

@Marianna Furotazzi
The thieves looked at another, some successfully maintaining poker faces, others clearly confused.
The big vixen made no attempt of hiding the look of confusion that creased her muzzle.
"Poisoned a Fogey? 'O sez we poisoned anybeast? Satie?"
She looked to the violinist, who seemed to piece some things together and then released an airy little laugh, shrugging her narrow shoulders. Her dress swished as she moved, and shimmered daintily in the lantern light.
"Goodness, is that what happened in the aisle?" she grinned. "Which one was it, Peltast or Gorris? Heh."
The ferret shook her head, going in a slow circle around Marianna. She seemed incapable of standing still for too long. "Please, we're the notorious Satire Square Cravat Thieves, bane of pockets, purses and neckties the Harbor over. We're not killers. We sure don't pay off Fogeys either, though."
She stopped next to a grizzled wildcat in waiter's attire who smelled strongly of fine food and cheap tobacco, and seemed to consider Marianna's finance questions, putting a finger to her chin.
"Well," she said. "We have ties among quite a few pawnshops and street hawkers. We usually get thirty percent from each of those sales. Then there's the rich chumps themselves that beasts like I, the pretty Opera House musician, spend time with, schmoozin' 'n' boozin' 'til their wallets are empty. Jewelry does good bein' worn or gifted in those circumstances. Then there's what we sell to be melted down... mm. Forty-two percent from that. And of course, heh, there's the outrage on the pompous faces of those we take from and the pathetic sycophants hired to protect them. That, that's priceless."
The wildcat nodded his head once. "It's a livin'. An' th' fetchin' cravats, heh, that's just a plus." He showed off his with a prod of his chewed thumb. It was striped primrose and pearl white, with a silver pendant of the three crossed batons of the Fogeys adorning its center. "Even if we can't wear most of 'em openly, heh heh."

 

[Drummond "Crayfish" Grogg]

Grogg howled in rage as he stood up, taking one of the arm rests with him as it clattered to the sticky ground as he turned to address the belligerent Fogey Queen interrupting what had become quite an enjoyable performance up until this point. To become part of the performance himself-and as the villain!? The disrespect!

"YAAARRRGGGH! How dare ye' address a refined and gennle creature such as meself in such manner!"

Groggs instinctively reached for his belt, where his saber had rested for decades, now pawned away for gilder's lost in an unlucky tavern card game. Instead of it's handle, his paw instead came to rest on a mostly eaten salted fish carcass, which he brought up to his drooling maw and crunched into before continuing as he messily chewed and spoke.

"Here I be, minding me own business and watchin' 'igh culture on me own 'onest coin, and here you be 'cusing me of 'igh crimes and the like. T'is a dark day in 'ell if I 'ave to entertain the delusions of a queen on 'er Fogey pow'rtrip!"

Grogg stood there, imagining his gallant braided mane flowing elegantly in the heavens light as he addressed the Fogey Wildcat Sargeant. In reality, he was a dirty, sad sight indeed. A variety of colorful stains covered the remains of a tattered and poorly patched red tunic, stretching pitifully over his unwashed barrel of a belly.

"What yer 'cusing me of is murder. A feller can 'ang fer a lesser crime. Ye best be careful o makin' such claims of innocent beasts."

@Perila Z. Mogul

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

The wildcat had begun menacingly twirling her baton, but upon getting a better look at the filthy stoat as he approached, she actually burst out laughing. "Waaahahaha! 'Ow th' devil did a beast like ye get in a place loike this, tubguts? Clam 'n' chowder, Oi've seen privy seats they'd be more loikely t' let in. Did yore stinch jest knock out th' ticket booth on yore way in? Hahahaha!"
Catching onto the joke, the rest of her posse gradually joined in, giggling and cackling uproariously and slapping their thighs.
"Good heavens, old chap!" said the thin rat Officer Slimp, peering through his monocle. "What a hideous fish you have in your claws. Did you fetch it from a receptacle on the way in? Ohohoho!"
"Alright, alright, seriously," Sergeant Shunkirst said, wiping a tear from her eye. "Do you know anythin' about the murder? If you know who do it, you gotta tell us, bub. It's the law."
"'Speshilly if it's you!" Added the ferret Officer Flask helpfully.

 

[Marianna Furotazzi]

Marianna nodded, her mind turning over the information. It seemed quite plausible that they were being truthful; after all, a poisoning was far too public a spectacle with far too much risk to coincide with such a meticulously executed operation.

"Thirty to forty-two percent is good," she confirmed, "but that's an awful lot of product to move. Given the amount of time you spend running it, during which time you're ducking Fogey patrols, risking someone recognizing a piece and reporting it, especially given Fogey detectives will be checking the shops themselves, that eats into your cut. After all, time is money, and the less free time you have to spend your money, the worse off you are."

She took a deep breath, knowing this would be the more difficult sell. "I can get you fifty percent return," she stated, "and, more than that, I can pass the income through a legitimate holding company. If the Fogeys or MinoComm look into your finances, they'll find you squeaky clean. You also won't be running items all over the city anymore - unless, of course, you enjoy that part of the job in particular." She tapped her pawfingers thoughtfully on her clutch as she stated, "You're losing money with every middleman involved. Brokers and hawkers take their share, leaving you with less, and for each new contact, the more risk that you run into an undercover Fogey or a confidential informant. I centralize my processes in-house, reducing overhead and improving operational security."

It was a hell of a pitch, and one she was a little nervous making. She still remembered Vito's old contacts in the diamond smuggling business; Alkamarian diamonds were a lucrative industry, though they were technically an illegal import. They also were lower quality, which made them difficult to pawn or sell. For that reason, you needed a jeweler who could not only cut them to match and swap them out with an existing piece, but then also verify them as authentic. It was a scheme she'd been cooking up for a few years, and had been hoping to implement before Vito's death: steal unique and valuable pieces, swap out their diamonds for lesser imports, and then, most daringly, return them to their owners. She was of two minds with this; part of her considered opening her own 'detective agency' to handle finding lost pieces for a fee, but it was probably safer simply to smuggle them back into their owners' residences and let them think they'd simply been misplaced. As for lower quality pieces, those she could handle through conventional means - export what would sell overseas, melt the rest and sell to jewelers in the area. She'd probably take a loss on those, but if the deal could get this crew to bring her some truly high-valued pieces, she'd still come out on top. All she needed was to somehow rebuild a vast criminal network single-pawed.

She put out her paw to the ferret. "Marianna Furotazzi," she introduced herself. "Successor to Vito Furotazzi."

 

[Drummond "Crayfish" Grogg]

Grogg brandished his hideous fishy meal as if still holding his saber, but his expression took on a hurt expression. His spotlight performance had taken a turn - from him being a villainous murderer, headed to the gallows by the Fogey playing judge, jury and executioner - to being the foolish jester, mocked for their garb and disposition

"Ye can nae judge a creature fer takin in the fine culture once in a blue moon!"

Remembering that he still had his drink, he guzzled the remaining rum, arching himself back in a drunkenly manner as most of it dribbled down his beard.

As he straightened up once again, he continued. "The way I sees it 'appen... I'm 'ere watchin' e most finest pertrayal of th' good'n times when a weasel Fogey come stumblin' and chokin' in."

Lurching out of the seat row toward the pack of officers, carved wooden shoes clunking gracelessly against the seat footing, he continued

"E stumbles down t'ward the stage then dropped deader than Freedom under Talinn de Traitor! If'n the concessions are te blame, ye best be expectin' the rest to begin droppin' like flies"

As he said this, he gestured around the emptying theater, causing the salted fish carcass to snap off in his paw and go flinging towards one of the Fogey officers.

@Perila Z. Mogul

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

@Marianna Furotazzi
There was a resounding chorus of gasps at the name-drop. Many of them were only kits during the days most of Bully Harbor's underbelly spoke in awed and hushed whispers of Vito Furotazzi; among their ilk, he stood out as the rare master at the craft, and was respected for his power and ambitions just as much as he was feared for his violence... but even the youngest among them still knew the name Furotazzi.
The nimble-fingered and well-dressed criminal cadre shared more meaningful glances, rubbing their chins, stretching limbs sore from their legal jobs as much as from their true passion, and sharing words in muted tones.
The ferret studied the vixen, letting Marianna's paw float there outstretched toward her for a few moments that must have felt like eternity for the Furotazzi.
Finally, the young sable ferret took the extended paw and shook it. "Satira Ironica Pratt." she said, her warm blue eyes gleaming with interest and curiosity, searching for something that could betray Marianna's inner thoughts. "Fifty-one." she said, and her toothy smile returned with a cheeky quality. "To really show how much you want us."

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

@Drummond "Crayfish" Grogg

The fish slapped unpleasantly across the rat officer's face, producing a distraught wail and sending his monocle flying from his face. "Euugh, my word!"
"'Ey," said a weasel named Officer Bevy Y. Saltlick, rubbing her nose. "Ye can't call a Minister a traitor, dat's besmurfin'! Dat's a crime!"
"Well, t' be fair t' th' sentient grog-barrel wid trees fer feet, 'traitor' ain't wrong," drawled the sergeant, spinning her club again. She looked over the drunk pirate thoughtfully.
"So, bub, ye wanner make a couple gilders' worth o' 'Cooperative Citizen' credits? Get a frree drink t'night?"
For civilian helpers, Fogey squads sometimes possessed a few paper tickets with "I helpt Fogey Tooday: Wun Grog" or similar sentences scrawled across them. Occasionally, an official Fogey seal was stamped on them, but only when the credits weren't created on the spot.
The idea was that if a bartender at the Bilge was drunk or apathetic enough, one could technically use a ticket for a free drink. Whether this was true has thus far never been verified; either because the ticket user got too sloshed to offer feedback or got stabbed for helping Fogeys.

 

[Marianna Furotazzi]

Marianna smiled as the paw was accepted. Inwardly she panicked; she didn't know that she actually could deliver on fifty percent, much less higher. She'd have to find a smuggler with a lot of low-quality gems she could buy in bulk, for which she'd have to take out a bank loan under false premises, and find an unscrupulous jeweler to make the swap. And to think how much I scold Falun for being reckless. "Delighted to make your acquaintance," she confirmed. "Make it worth my while, and I'll make sure you get fifty-five." She desperately needed them to pass along their high-value items, the ones where she could make the most profit in swapping out the gems, otherwise she'd be bankrupting herself with every purchase. More and more she considered the wisdom of her detective idea.

"If I may?" she offered. "If you're skilled enough to lift jewelry, then I believe you're skilled enough to plant a card on their person in the process. Frankly, the low-value items are going to make the lowest return for both of us, whether smelted or sold. However," she noted, "they're also the ones most likely to have sentimental value. After all, an honest laborer saves how many months for a single wedding band? How much does he panic if he's lost it? Rather than smelt it for a miniscule share of profit, one hardly worth your time, I say we could get more by ransoming it back to him. I can print up simple cards: 'We have your precious bauble. Come to the docks at midnight, no police, bring coin.' I have associates who are skilled in this sort of exchange and can get a much better return on it. And, in case they decide to pursue other avenues of recovery... well, I have a few thoughts there as well." She smiled, her eyes gleaming, as she inquired, "Has anyone in your crew ever fancied being a detective?"