Open The Bilge In The Bucket The Slups The Old Haunt

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

The old fox in the Imperial Army uniform took a good long look at what he was about to get himself into.
The Bilge looked a bit more worse for wear since the last time'd he'd seen her- one unrest after another can do that to a place, even one with enough durabilify to survive about fifty drunks wasted on Oulde Scorpion Sting, Red Stuff, Odde Tinge, Mammy's Paynt Remover, and other such poisons on any given hour.

Ye dogs, how long had it been since he'd last set foot into that scathole? He could still remember when he'd go there every night, an eager young cutthroat with a whole new world and a thousand adventures ahead of him. Oh, all the mischief he'd get up to... if there wasn't a pretty vixen, a bottle to himself and a tavern-spanning brawl it felt like a wasted evening.
Oh, all the friendships formed, the comradery among the dregs. All the mad and beautiful devils who were the very future of the Imperium... reduced to so much carrion on the streets made battlefields.

The old black, white, and red-colored fox shuddered visibly, and pulled himself from his memories. Steeling his gaze, he fixed his monocle tighter into place, straighted his dress jacket, glad he'd removed the medals that usually decorated his chest, and lit his pipe. A few puffs, and he was ready.

Passing about a dozen lowlives lying about puking and laughing outside, one of which- a stoat in a Naval uniform- saluted stupidly as he strode by while crying "Sar-sergeant sir! Hic!"; Colonel Harvon Marcellus Jere pulled the partially-broken door aside and stepped once again into the dark, dank, loud and reeking chaos.

Striding up to a counter that looked like it hadn't seen the clean side of a wet rag since Mar'kan I, the tall dogfox chose a stool and slapped five gilders down onto the wood.
"The most expensive brew you have, my good dame."
The ferret behind the counter turned from serving a string of six swearing searats and laughed upon seeing who'd come to patronize.

"Well, strike th' whites an' call me a Ryalor, if it ain't the Colonel 'isself come to drink at th' ole Bilge! Wot, Pierre Parnasse not doin' it anymore f' ye, sir?"
"More the Red Herring lacks a proper drink, you could say." The fox grinned, making his scars stand out against his splotchy fur.
"Hah! Now that's a good 'un." The ferret pulled an onion bottle out from a cobwebbed corner and uncorked it with a pop. "It'll be th' '46 Crabclaw fer ye, sir. Brewed by me pop not ten feet from where yore sittin' right afore th' ole gov' went bottoms-up."
She pulled the mug from a passed-out weasel, spit-shined it, and poured the potent brew to the top.
"An' there'll be more where that came from, sir, ye keep givin' me fivers."

The Colonel raised his mug in thanks, fought back the urge to breathe in through his nose, and with considerable effort born through sheer force of will, gulped half of it down.
Immediately, he had to fight to keep the concoction from coming right back up, with a taste like urine and rainwater mixed with whatever chemical the MinoInno the must've used in their latest attempt to clean the Drowning Fountain of the Mysterious Red Floating Algaea That Most Certainly Shouldn't Be There.

The fox coughed and cleared his throat loudly, the monocle popping out of his face and swinging by its chain. "Heugh! 'Gates!"

"Heh heh! Not able t' 'old yer licker, are ye, grandad?" Came a grating, sour-smelling voice, followed by a paw that rapped him hard upon the back. "There ye go, ol' timer. Maybe ye should leave th' drinkin' t' us, an' stick t' nibblin' spiced mangoes-"

The speaker, who turned out to be a stoat with a face well-acquainted with infuriating smugness, had the chance to say little more before the old Colonel sent a fist flying into his chin that sent him briefly airborne, a low-flying objectile that scattered a game of backgammon among several dangerous-looking sea rats and a squirrel with one eye, one paw, one leg, and no tail, who wrenched a piece of wood out of the floor and battered it across a vole's face.
The vole fell into a stoat pianist in the corner, who had just been learning Milarkus III's Concierto. Her clearly-stolen piano broken and her papers scattered, she took a dagger from her belt and decided it just wasn't worth it anymore, and went after the two ferrets critiquing her playing with hate in her heart.

The Bilge's oldest and most respected tradition, third only to drinking and screaming colorful swears such as "Ye rotten, lily-livered, paddle-tailed, frog-furred sons o' slime!" an' "How dare ye frivoulous, fat-suckin' twats suggest I don't know th' works o' Vandamme! He's been very inspiration for me music!", had begun!

One of the stoat's friends, a small rat with a very large and very rusty knife, came for Jere's side, and the fox sidestepped him and drove him headfirst into the counter.
The fox caught his mug before it tipped, his gray-tipped fur shimmering in the dim lanternlight, and managed to finish his drink before using the mug to deliver the rat another headwound, his heart filled with joy.

Gates, how long had it been since a Bilge brawl? Two decades? What a damned shame. He could truly almost say he missed it.

The Colonel dropped the rat and ducked a swing from a hedgehog's club, grinning all the while with his bushy tail wagging, and drove his knee into the fellow's gut as the hog came in closer.

Jere was just glad he still had it in him.

 

[Falun Furotazzi]

Falun's ears picked up as the delightful music of violence reached them. The golden-furred fox licked his chops and cracked his knuckles as he stood up, then promptly decked a scrawny ferret who had been making a run for the door past his table. The fox's knuckles were still split from his last fight (or, well, more like a beat-down; hadn't even been worth the two lousy gilders he'd been owed, but it was about the principle of the thing), and blood still stained the bandages over his paws, a little more seeping out as the wounds reopened. He grinned and, diving into the fray, began swinging right and left. Vito never let him engage in open brawls; the old fox had disdained random violence, preferring to use it as a tool. Well, as Falun saw it, if you didn't get your practice in, you'd be useless in a real fight where it counted, and what better practice than a battle royale of all versus all? He hadn't seen who had started the fight, but he owed them a drink for sanctifying this arena in blood and booze, assuming they were still conscious at the end of this.

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

The hedgehog collapsed from the hit to his flabby gut, and after a few kicks to his side wasn't getting up again anytime soon.
The Colonel took a hefty punch to the jaw, then, and noted with some interest as he spat some blood and dodged the next swing that it had come from another fox like himself.
He was clearly a fellow skilled brawler, this one, a golden-furred bruiser with knuckles wrapped in bloody bandages. Many stories, that one must have. Maybe they could have a drink about it later.
Jere smirked in appreciation. He had been, after all, the first to land a blow on the Colonel all evening. It seemed only reasonable he extend an alliance so they might face the rest of this rabble together.
Jere plowed deeper into the crowd, taking out a sea rat who had been going for the golden-furred fox and throwing the rodent off his feet and onto the floor stained by (perhaps centuries) of spilled blood and booze.
Stomping down on the rat, Jere then intercepted a bottle swing from a wildcat and gave her a thunderous uppercat that sent her eyes rolling back and her hat flying from her head.
Panting, the Colonel shot the younger dogfox a wink. "You and I!" he said, his own knuckles wet with blood and his teeth bared in a fearsome grin. "We will stick together!"

 

[Falun Furotazzi]

Falun grinned wildly as, after taking a blow from Falun, an older fox apparently decided he liked what he'd felt. "Suits me!" he called, shifting to stand back to back with the uniformed fox. Clearly he was a veteran with some experience behind him, and Vito had always taught Falun to be respectful of those who'd served. Hadn't stopped him from bloodying a few blokes in uniform when they figured that meant they could take his coin without paying it back, but that was just a matter of common decency.

Falun spotted a stoat coming at them with a chair and, moving quickly, flung a nearby table right into their path- and into them. As they fell, he brough his footpaw viciously down on the beast's arm, delighting in the feel of what was most likely a dislocation, if not a broken limb. "Come on, you cowards!" He roared at the room, egging on all comers as he flipped them a set of rude gestures. "Yer mothers ain' gonna recognize ya by the time we're through with ya!"

 

[Silvertongue Songfox]

There was one patron in the bar who stood out like a sore thumb. He was a young fox dressed very foolishly in purples and blues, something akin to a performer's outfit. He had seemingly been enamored by the stoat playing the piano, taking some notes in a tattered looking journal with a charcoal pencil. When the instrument was broken, he let out a sharp wail.

“No, no, no, the parlor box!” He exclaimed, despair evident in his voice. “That was a beautiful instrument, you bloodthirsty, ignorant brutes!”

He tried to console the stoat as she began her tirade of foul language. “You were playing Vandamme beautifully! Come on, surely there’s no need for us to lower ourselves to such dull-minded violence!”

Slivertongues’ plea’s fell on deaf ears as a free-for-all broke out among the patrons of the bar. He quickly found himself facing a ferret, who cracked his knuckles.

“Ye claim to be some fancy educated beast, but ye don’t even know what a damned piano is called!”

He lunged forward, swinging a fist at Silvertongue’s face.

Silvertongue took the punch right on his jaw, tumbling backwards. He grimaced, taking a handkerchief and wiping his jaw a bit before putting it back into his pocket and pulling out his lute.

The ferret smirked and laughed. “What are ye gonna do wif that-?”

“Sing you to death? Everyone keeps saying that!” Silvertongue gripped the lute by its handle and rushed forward, bashing the ferret over the head with it and kicking him aside.

A rat ran at Silvertongue with a knife, and he jumped over him, swinging the lute down between his legs and smashing the rat’s muzzle before landing and rolling forward a bit.

Soon, the sounds of twanging and wood meeting flesh were mixed into the air as Silvertongue kept whacking people with his lute, inadvertently backing up towards Falun and the Colonel.

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

Back to back with his newfound comrade, the Colonel felt decades younger even as his old body ached and his fists burned.
"That's the spirit, lad!" he laughed at the golden fox's challenge, red spittle flecking his lips as he took an otter by her naval collar and headbutted the devil senseless before throwing her backward into her oncoming comrades, who had disassembled the legs from the busted table.
"Never have there come a day Colonel Harvon Jere backs down from a fight! Onward come, you rotters!"
In the background, the stoat pianist's dagger had found both her critics before she straightened her jacket, replaced the piano keys, and sat back down to play a work by Vandamme called The Charge of the Covenant Soldiers, a blood-pounding war opera tune that lended further discordant noise and drama to the chaos.
And as the manic playing from that echoed throughout the ramshackle tavern, Colonel Jere turned to watch in mild awe for a moment as a young fox dressed not unlike a jester carved his way through the fray towards them, swinging a lute aloft and having made at least one acrobatic leap clear over a rat's head.
This brief distraction earned Jere a punch to the gut, and with a growl he caught the paw that did it in his larger, more grizzled one and broke the ferret's thumb in three places before bowling him over into a full spittoon, which spilled all over the floor and didn't actually make the stench or filth all that much worse than it already was.
"Pah! Second hit!" The old fox grumbled, and kicked the feet out from a bloodshot hare charging and screaming toward them, sending the woodlander into a domino effect that toppled eight brawlers and sent a luckless delivery stoat at the far end of the crowd careening through a window and into the street. "I am getting old!"

 

[Duchess Dusk Rainblade]

Falun huffed as he took a blow from a table leg to the forearm, barely getting his arm up in time to take the blow. The sharp sting of pain made him see red for a moment, and a second later, he was holding a rat whose face was a mess of blood, fur, and misplaced teeth. Falun dropped him, his arm still protesting. 'Gates, he'd probably broken it, or fractured something at least. Marianna would give him no end of grief if he wound up in the hospital again; the company coffers were low enough right now to have him out chasing deadbeats himself, and the doctors were starting to become suspicious of how he kept paying with bottles of liquor that somehow all 'fell off the back of a cart'.

Fortunately there was a third heading in their way, making for a trio of foxes. This one didn't look particularly impressive, but the gore accumulating on his instrument was certainly unique. Falun shifted over to make room, favoring his good arm and keeping his injured one to the back. "Nice swing," he commented to the minstrel as he inadvertently ascended the mountain of misery on which they now stood as kings. He lunged forward and clocked a wildcat who'd been coming at him with a broken bottle, then danced back into safety, hating how his arm stung with every movement. "Tell ya what," he suggested, "you deck anyone who ain't us, an' we'll do the same. Alright?"

 

[Silvertongue Songfox]

“Sounds fair to me.” Silvertongue replied, grimacing and removing his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his lute clean, the once perfectly white cloth now stained red with blood. As music began to flow through the discordant atmosphere of nauseating violence, Silvertongue paused for a moment.

“Such an exhilarating tune! I need to take notes!” He put his lute away and he pulled out the tattered old journal he had out earlier, taking his pencil and hastily starting to scribble into it, all the while dodging blows and kicking away any beast who approached him.

“Let’s see… Prestissimo? No, likely Vivace…” He wagged his pencil in the air a bit to get an idea of the tempo before he began to quickly scribble in the journal again.

 

[Constance Maribel]

Constance sat in awe, mesmerized by the tableau of mayhem.

As an eternal student, she was accustomed to cities and their watering holes, and how their atmosphere and level of inherent risk were bound to change day to day--even hour to hour. Holidays and periods of greater political volatility contributed to the likelihood of general chaos and discord, proximity to a school increased the number of foolhardy young beasts with little sense of their limits.

This was something else entirely.

As the conflict swiftly escalated from barroom brawl to unmitigated melee, the green-eyed cat rose from her stool at the end of the bar furthest from the door, scooting around to join the ferret still serving drinks to those unbothered (or insensate) patrons continuing to drink through the madness. Rolling up the heavy sleeves of her raiment, she set about tidying up abandoned drinking vessels and helping to haul the outright unconscious over the bartop; a respectable pile of limp, injured beasts was soon amassed.

"It's just good business sense," the cook, a heavyset rat of respectable seasons, remarked at one point during the process, matter-of-fact. "If we let them all get trampled to death, that's fewer gilders for us in the long run."

"Very true," Constance replied, ducking a stray plate that smashed a bottle of some incredibly astringent substance on a shelf near her head. She grimaced to feel it fleck her ears.

Half-shielded from the madness, the auspex felt her fascination--and terror--mellow out into the beginnings of recognition. The workers at this establishment, and numerous unfazed regulars, paid the violence almost no heed. This was typical of the Bilge in the Bucket, a central hub of Bouillabaisse Harbor's social experience if the Society's reports were to be believed. Was this typical, then, of Bouillabaisse Harbor? Little wonder it held a reputation for calamity.

A chipped tooth bounced off of the bar near Constance, landing near her boot. Its former owner followed soon after, hurled headfirst into its unyielding oak. Assisting the cook with extricating the unresponsive weasel, she found her attention shifting to the core of combat: a trio of foxes, each quite different from the others, unified by some understanding or agreement at which she couldn't begin to guess. An old soldier, a brawler in a once-fine suit, and... a minstrel?

She didn't hide her scrutiny, observing their every move as closely as possible through the chaos.

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

The Colonel, panting steadily, dodged a thrown bottle and caught another out of the air moments before it would've struck the young musician, who was foolishly fixated on the live music serenading the few bloody, staggering fighters left.
Taking the caught bottle, the fox shook his head, drank its awful-tasting contents down, and then dashed the grog bottle across a searat's face as the rodent swung down from the chandelier to face him, boarding axe at paw.
Upon being struck, the rat's eyes rolled back up in his head, he swayed a moment, and then he dropped with a squeak atop a felled fox.
Jere looked about. Nobeast else besides was fighting anymore. They'd "won", though whether there were ever truly any winners in a depraved and senseless tavern brawl was yet to be proven.
He blinked a moment, looking about at the aftermath of the chaos, which looked not unlike the peace fallen over a battlefield- the shattered glass, splintered wood, and discarded blades, the bodies hauled to safety, the wise who either hadn't participated or clocked out early now returned to drinking and chattering leisurely at stools, the ferret bartender wiping some blood off the counter and placing a new addition into a jar labeled "BAR TEETH."
The Colonel coughed, straightened his green military jacket (now in desperate need of a launder), and clapped the golden-furred fox on the shoulder.
Then, he placed his other paw on that of the young minstrel.
"Share a drink with an old dog?" he suggested, looking from one to the other.
He flashed them a weary and amused smile that displayed a fresh gap where Falun had knocked a tooth out.

 

[Falun Furotazzi]

Falun's chest heaved, the exertion catching up with him as the adrenaline rush faded. A scene of wanton destruction surrounded them, a glorious tableau of blood and pain. Marianna would surely wrinkle her nose and say something pithy and scathing if she could see him now, which made him even more thankful for her absence. Sometimes he needed to say 'to 'Gates with the business, to 'Gates with the plan, I just need to break something'.

As the older fox laid a paw on his shoulder, he flinched for a moment, his instinct bringing a paw back to slug his attacker- but no, it was a gesture of affection. Well, that was... different. It was rare that Vito had given such; a pat on the back from the old fox had been worth more than his weight in gold to Falun. If anything, the gesture set Falun on edge for reasons he couldn't quite parse. Still, company was better than drinking alone...

"Aye, alright," he agreed. He looked to the bar, snapping his pawfingers at a cat who had joined the bartenders behind it. "Oi, Miss," he called to her, "bring us three flagons of Odde Tinge, soon as we put one a' these tables back t'gether." There wasn't much in the way of furniture that had survived, but they might be able to cobble together a dining set from among the survivors.

 

[Silvertongue Songfox]

"Just two drinks, please!" Silvertongue called out, finishing his notes before putting his journal away. He turned and glanced apologetically at the golden-furred fox. "I-" Silvertongue could now focus on the fox standing before him, now that the fighting had stopped, and was momentarily stunned by the strikingly handsome figure before him. A blush quickly appeared on his muzzle, and he shook his head, quickly looking at the floor.

"Uh, sorry. I generally don't enjoy imbibing myself with alcoholic beverages. But- uh, please allow me to pay for the first round of drinks for you and the old man there... as my way of showing gratitude for helping me in the fight. Violence isn't my strong suit."

Silvertongue rubbed the back of his head a bit, and he excused himself, looking for some chairs that weren't completely busted.

@Colonel Harvon M. Jere @Falun Furotazzi

 

[Falun Furotazzi]

Falun laughed, a carefree, expressive sound, throwing his head back at Silvertongue's offer. "Ya don' needa do that!" he commented as Silvertongue went poking about. He picked up a chair from the floor, tested its weight, and carelessly slung it across the room when one of the legs proved wobbly. "I saw ya get a few good swings in 'ere. Yer better in a scrap 'n ya let on. 'Gates, yer still standin' now, ain' ya?" He found a chair that withstood him testing the weight of his footpaw on it, and he carried it back over to the center of the room, kicking broken furniture and equally broken beasts out of the way to make room.

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

The Colonel dragged a three-legged chair over to the room's center, where a round table had survived most of the wanton destruction. Taking a small crate and a thick old tome he'd found clasped in a robed mouse's paws, he wedged them both under his chair just enough that it worked.
The old crossfox pulled a sprawled wildcat in a naval uniform off their table, and then sat down, still smiling at the other two foxes.
It was a strange look on his weathered, scarred face, somewhat ill-fitting, and the yellow tips of his fangs poked from his black lips.
"Thank you for the offer, pup." he said of Silvertongue's offer to buy drinks. "But it would be ill-mannered of me not to pay, nor buy another round besides. I invited you. I will cover it."
Colonel Jere eyed the both of them curiously, and then a chuckle rattled from his throat and shook his broad shoulders. "Heh heh heh. Falun Furotazzi. Of course I should have recognized you. You, on the other hand, pup, I do not recognize. A sailor, perhaps? The Golden Hide, it is due for an inspection."
The todd drew a bone pipe and a pouch of tobacco from his jacket pocket, tipping his head slightly to his companions in an amiable gesture. "Do either of you smoke?"

 

[Silvertongue Songfox]

"My name is Silvertongue Songfox, sir." Silvertongue managed to find an undamaged chair and sat down at the table. “I’m not a sailor by trade, although I do have some experience on a ship. I'm planning on signing up for the Navy.” he wrinkled his nose in disgust at the sight of the pipe.

“My apologies, but I don’t smoke either. Alcohol and tobacco would ruin my throat, and in turn my voice. Which I need for singing. So I appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. To be honest, I’m only here because I was looking for my- um… friend.”

He looked around, before motioning to the piano. “I let myself get distracted by the parlor box over there. It’s a beautiful instrument, and I’ve only ever seen one once before.”

 

[Perila Z. Mogul]

The stoat pianist had since slowed to something dark, slow and more relaxed to fit the room, her interpretation of a work by Charmeur, though she had to take occasional pauses she'd fill with frustrated sighs to replace the broken keys that would fly off.

 

[Falun Furotazzi]

The golden fox raised an eyebrow as the Colonel recognized him. He'd been around plenty over the last twenty years or so, doing shakedowns and rough work for Vito during the lean times, though he didn't remember a beast like the Colonel. Then again, he'd taken enough blows to the front of the skull that he was lucky he could even see straight.

Falun chuckled at Silvie's reticence, and at his fascination with the piano. "It's a great instrument," he confirmed. "My ol' man tried to make me learn, bu' I never took to it much. I've still got one in my pad, though - if you'd ever like to come by," he invited. "Hasn't been tuned in a few years, but you seem to have a good ear."

He kicked back in his chair, pulling a cheap cigar from one of his inside pockets and held it between two fingers while he fished for a fire striker in his pockets. He swore as he found a hole instead. He glanced over to the Colonel, inquiring, "If you're gettin' a spill t' light yer pipe, you mind if I bum off ya? Seem t' 'ave lost my striker in the fight."

 

[Colonel Harvon M. Jere]

"Hm." The Colonel shrugged his broad shoulders. "No need to apologize for keeping in good shape, lad, I commend you on it."
He lit the pipe, and clasping its stem in his teeth, the old todd held the match out, a big, rough paw guarding it from the wind blowing through the new holes in the Bilge's infrastructure, for the Furotazzi's cigar.
"Having discipline is a fine and rare strength."
The cigar lit, the crossfox tossed the match on the sprawled wildcat still lying unconscious near their table.
He breathed deep, taking in as much as his old lungs could carry before releasing the smoke through his nostrils.
Jere's whole body had begun to ache terribly, searing pains lancing all throughout him now that his medicine and excitement had worn off. His face had taken on a slight pallor and the fur, and he sighed, big brush swishing across the dirty floor behind him.
"Who is this friend you search for, to have tempted a gentlefox like yourself to this... celebrated bastion of Imperial culture?"

 

[Silvertongue Songfox]

"Oh, well-" Silvertongue coughed a bit as smoke wafted into his nostrils. "U-Ummm... he is a very close friend of mine. A rat, about yay high or so." He motioned with his paw. "Kind of scrappy looking. He has an eyepatch and a hook, as well as a pegleg. He usually handles things for me when violence occurs. I guess you can say he like the brawn to my brains."

He then turned to Falun. "Mr. Furotazzi, I am deeply honored by your invitation. I can't claim to be classically trained with a parlor box, but I am certain I could probably tune it by ear, like you said. Though, I'm unsure when we will be leaving for the Navy."

 

[Falun Furotazzi]

Falun took a deep draw of his own cigar, feeling the smoke enter his lungs. It was a strange sensation, being aware of the cavities within one's own chest; he could feel the tickling on the inner walls of his organs, and as he breathed out, the relief was palpable. To be honest, the experience itself didn't really do much for him. Sure with the right blend, it was pleasurable, but he could find equal or superior pleasure in other ways. It was more the social experience that he enjoyed, sitting and smoking with a new set of allies after a thoroughly enjoyable brawl.

He pulled the cigar away, examining the younger fox. He was certainly appealing in a naive, innocent way. That hopefulness was hard to find in Bully Harbor. Of course, Falun inevitably got bored of it, which always led him to either try to corrupt his lovers so they were just as worldly and jaded as him, or else to drop them when they no longer appealed. It was the one aspect of their lives on which Marianna had nothing to say; he knew her history and understood they suffered from the same affliction. Passion, not affection, was the drug they both craved.

"I'd say you can come by anytime," Falun commented, tapping a little ash off the end of his cigar. "You get back into port, just walk by the warehouse district. Ask around for me, someone will point the way." He looked over to the older of the two foxes, examining him in turn. An old warrior for sure, one who, now that the fight was over and the adrenaline was fading, seemed to be showing both age and wear. "What's an old war dog like you doin' pickin' fights in the Bilge anyway?" he inquired. "Things are that dull in the army now? Y'know, 'Milarkus wept, for there were no more worlds left t' conquer' an' all that?"