The hare snorted derisively, her eyes sliding to beadily examine the young vixen who was presently bidding a tearful goodbye to a family of mice. "I reck'n th' only sword 'e e'er taugh' 'at girl t' 'andle was th' kind 'at leads young lads int' fights, nah get 'em outta it. She's soft; yer 'Arbor'll chew 'er righ' up an' spit 'er back ou'."
The hare's eyes slid back to meet Tanya's, examining her contemplatively. "I 'member 'er birth mother 'idin' up a' th' inn. Quiet, pre'y thin', bu' cautious, like she were guardin' a wound inner 'eart. Dunno wha' 'appened t' 'er 'at she'd ra'er leave 'er squallin' newborn in another's arms 'an take 'er back, bu' I know th' looks a' summon 'ose afraid. Y' bes' take real good care a' 'at girl, 'specially if she is blood t' you, cuz she won' make ih' otherwise."
The hare sighed, setting aside the shucked sugarcane and gesturing for Tanya to follow. "One a' 'em pirates blew 'is paw mos'ly off when one a' 'em sticks wen' wrong," she explained. "One a' us 'oo fancies 'imself a tinker took ih', was tryin' t' figgur ih' ou'."
She stopped in front of a hut and knocked on the door. A moment later, a sea otter, large spectacles magnifying his eyes above truly impressive whiskers, opened the door. "Mrs. Barrowroot," he exclaimed in surprise, then looked in some alarm to the vixen accompanying. "Oh my. Are you from the navy? Are you here about the attack?" His accent was crisp and clear, likely from Alton Bay or one of the southern colonies.
"She's 'ere fer th' boomy stick," Mrs. Barrowroot explained, gesturing to Tanya.
"I see. Well, do come in."
The hut wasn't large, and it felt even smaller when filled with small piles of scrap and junk on top of every surface, the bed included. A half dozen little projects appeared to be in the works, including an attempt at what appeared to be transforming a tree trunk into a cannon. The singed and splintered end of it spoke to a lack of success. On a desk, the disassembled fragments of some sort of firearm, many of the pieces bent, split, or shattered, held place of pride.
"From what I can see, the beast ineptly packed the chamber with blast powder," he clarified. "I think they may be using the wrong mixture for it; they might be packing it with cannon powder, which doesn't properly scale for a weapon of this size. There's also this." He picked up one piece, turning it so that the light through the window reflected on an etching. There was a small bit of script: RUAM.
Le Royaume-Uni d'Alkamar et Miklar.
"It certainly makes sense that these pirates would need to get these weapons from somewhere," the otter speculated. "They certainly didn't build it themselves; the work is too professional. Whether it was bought or stolen, though, is of course impossible to say. I don't know if they were using cannon powder out of convenience or ignorance, but either way, the poor mixture likely contributed to the poor performance."