Expedition The Urk Expedition: The Measure of The Fox

[Vihmastaja]

Reaching the top first, the weasel took the time alone to catch her breath, closing her eyes and letting the cool wind run over her bright gold-tawny fur, caressing her wavering whiskers. No matter the cold she’d felt earlier, her favorite thing about the ocean had always been the breeze. The wind running over the seas’ vast empty plains, rolling waves and blowing spray. She was much too far up to experience it all now, but she could still taste it on the wind.

She looked back when Morgan spoke, expecting her arrival, not so much her agreement. Eyes open, she couldn’t help but interpret her approval of the view in a certain way either. Blushing under her fur, the weasel laid about opposite to the ferret, offering her an embarrassed smile.

It didn’t last long, though.

“Me mum?”

Her expression grew pensive, then into something of a frown.

“Aye, I think about ‘er sometimes. Not so much as I used to. Pa, too.”

Vihma looked to the wood planks that made up the crow’s nest’s floor, feeling up one of the cracks that ran between them with an idle claw.

“Mum, I think, would’ve rather died than bite down ‘er pride ‘n take punishment like we did. ‘Specially if she didn’ ‘ave me t’worry about. Suppose that’s why she ain’t around anymore.”

After a pause, she looked back up to Morgan, still wondering whether to say what she felt, but ultimately going ahead anyway.

“Y’know, I think she knew ‘im. Minister Ryalor, I mean. Think she talked about 'im a couple o’ times, an’ being ‘e use to be MinoMis ‘n all that. Mebbe ‘e gave her that cloth o’ mine, back when it was a cloak or summat.”

There was more to that idea. Implications she wasn’t sure of – didn’t want to think about. She didn’t need more reasons to be uncomfortable with her place on the ship, now, or to distrust her commanding officer. It didn't yet show in her voice - but Vihma didn't make any effort to hide her discomfort to the ferret.

So, before Morgan could say much in response, she moved on, changing the subject and slowly smiling again, with some effort.

“Course, can’t imagine Betsy or Eirene would’ve put up with ‘is bit either. Seem pretty independent, methinks. Mayhaps a touch crazy, like you, neh? Prob'ly wouldn’t've minded bein’ stuck up ‘ere together wiv only their skivvies on, though...”

 

[Morgan Liu]

Morgan chuckled at Vihma's assessment, though she seemed a tad pensive as well. "Yeah, I was thinkin' abou' that," she admitted. "I dunno, I guess I kinda realized I don' really know 'em that well. I mean, now, Mum woul' be th' firs' t' tell me nah t' be stupid, t' apologize an' swallow m' pride, bu'... Well, I dunno. Sometimes 'ey tell stories a' th' old days, of Hanshima in particular, an' I dunno. Maybe I'm more like who she used t' be 'n she wants t' admit. As for Mother, well..." She shook her head. "I dunno. Didn' think of it 'til ya said summat just now, bu'... Well, she used t' work for a MinoMis. Dunno if'n 'e's the same one or nah, bu' how many can 'ey go through, really? Anyway, she worked fer one once, really r'spected 'im an' everything, diligent in th' job. Reckon 'at's 'ow she knew yer mum an' all. Anyway, when she an' Mum got t'gether, 'ey were doin' it be'ind 'eir bosses' backs. When 'ey got exposed, all Hellgates broke loose. Now neither of them can talk much abou' th' ol' days while sober. Guess ih' got me wonderin' if maybe our mums got burned by the same beast."

 

[Ralynn Waverunner]

Ralynn moves with purpose as she crosses the deck, gathering the clothing, still in a damp heap near where the buckets had been stacked, left behind in the ferret and weasel's hasty climb to the crow's nest. The fabric feels clammy against her paws as she carefully folds each garment, her motions methodical and precise despite the tumult of her thoughts.

The dying sunlight paints Bully Harbor in shades of amber and gold, fishing boats returning to port for the evening, their sails catching the last light like fluttering moths. The familiar sounds of naval life—orders being called, ropes being secured, the distant clang of cookpots in the galley—create a comforting rhythm that has become as essential to her as her own heartbeat.

Yet as she works, something shifts within her—a peculiar lightness, like a sail catching an unexpected breeze. Subtle as a change in the wind direction, but unmistakable. For a brief, startling moment, Ralynn imagines herself not as a bosun bound by naval regulations and commanding officers, but simply as a beast who loves the sea and sailing. The thought is fleeting and half-formed -- there and gone like a gull diving beneath waves... but it leaves an impression. The implacable structures that had seemed so necessary and right now feel, if only for a heartbeat, like chains rather than supports. What it might be like to be free of the rigid hierarchy that had seemed so vital mere hours ago?

Aye, she muses, tae sail nae for the Empress or 'er ministers, but for the simple joy o' it? With a crew she commands not because rank demands it, but because her they trust her judgment?

The thought startles her with its clarity. Och, what am Ah thinkin'? she chides herself, shaking her head as if to dislodge the idea. Such notions border on disloyalty, and if today has taught her anything, it's the vital importance of the chain of command. Did she herself not just go to great lengths to instill exactly that lesson?

Too late. The seed has been planted, nestled in fertile soil beside her unshakable love for the sea itself.

Clothing neatly bundled over her arm, Ralynn makes her way toward where she saw Morgan and Vihma heading. She hears their voices before she sees them—not angry or bitter as she might have expected, but with a tentative lightness that surprises her. They're climbing back up to the crow's nest, she realizes, this time by choice rather than compulsion.

She approaches just as Morgan begins her ascent after Vihma, watching for a moment as the ferret scrambles upward with surprising agility. Ralynn clears her throat, remaining at the base of the mast, holding the bundle of clothing.

"Crewbeasts," she calls up, her voice firm but lacking the edge it carried during the punishment. The word itself seems suddenly inadequate—these aren't mere components in the naval machine, but young beasts with dreams and fears not so different from her own. "Yer garments. They're still damp, but ye'll want them dry before we sail."

Her expression remains neutral, but there's a subtle shift in her demeanor – not quite warmth, but the absence of coldness. The set of her shoulders and the slight incline of her head convey a message without words: what's done is done, and she'll perform her duty with equal thoroughness whether that means administering punishment or supporting her crew.

"The night air grows cold," she adds, her brogue softening slightly. "Dinnae stay up there too long, aye? We've a long voyage ahead, and ye'll need yer strength."

She sets the clothes down neatly at the base of the mast, then hesitates, something more hovering on her lips. But the moment passes, and she simply offers a crisp nod before turning away, duty discharged.

As she walks back across the deck, Ralynn finds her thoughts turning to the journey ahead. The mysterious idol, the frozen island, the challenges they'll face together. Whatever discord exists now will matter little when they're battling the elements and facing unknown dangers.

She'll be there, doing her duty—not just because the Navy demands it, but because that's who she is. For now, at least. The small kernel of something else, something freer, will remain dormant but alive, waiting for its season.

 

[Duke Talinn Ryalor]

Talinn simply nodded at Silvertongue as he sat in his comfortable Captain’s chair, taking a drink of water and eating a few of the biscuits, letting himself relax as he watched the shadows from the lantern play against the walls of the room. He was tired, tired enough to fall asleep right then and there, now that nobeast was looking. Leaning back, he decided to take something of a nap, knowing Silvertongue would knock on the door when, not if, Morgan came to speak to him again, but before he did so, he took out a small pendant from around his neck. Opening it, it was a small portrait of him, Dusk, and his little kits, all smiling, a rarity in the Ryalor family. A twinge of, something, and a brief wetness appeared in his eyes, before being wiped away by a paw. The one good thing he had ever made in his life. The one thing he would burn anything down to protect. Comforted a little, he closed the pendant, placed it close to his heart, and then fell asleep.

@Morgan Liu

 

[Vihmastaja]

Vihma was quiet for a long moment, still tracing the line between two planks with her claw, as though it served some real, practical purpose to do so. Seemingly intent on the work, she focused her eyes on the stretch of wood, not looking to Morgan when she finally spoke again.

“Aye, ye may be right.”

It was a short and quiet response, betraying more with its brevity than it could ever carry by substance alone. If she meant to say more, however, Ralynn’s voice from below cut her off.

The weasel bent her head, listening carefully. She wasn’t in a hurry to go back down. Either for her clothes, or to rejoin the crew, having humiliated herself all day in front of them.

Finally she looked back to Morgan, making eye contact for a moment before resuming her inspection of the nest’s construction.

“What’d’ye think of the bosun? Ralynn? That fox’s right hand…”

Vihma sighed, laying her head on her paw, staring at nothing in particular, the crow's nest having seemingly passed muster.

“Wonder 'ow long til 'e burns her too.”

 

[Morgan Liu]

Morgan started at the bosun's call, but leaned over and waved in acknowledgement before Ralynn walked away. She turned a curious eye toward Vihma's non-response to her question and her quick segue. "I dunno," she mused. "I think she's tryin' real 'ard t' prove she can be jus' as brutal as th' vermin. I get it; she's supposed t' be handlin' discipline on the ship, an' nobeast is gonna take 'er seriously if 'ey think she's a softie. As fee the Cap'n, well..."

She sighed, looking off into the distance. The sea was beautiful - and harsh. Morgan couldn't help but think of the unknown depths beneath those calm waters. If the ship went down, would anyone remember them? Would her defiant almost-last stand even be a footnote in history? "Mum has a phrase," she stated slowly. "Best I can translate it is 'hurt beasts hurt beasts'. She mostly uses it to justify or excuse why Mother is so prickly, 'specially after they've had a fight. I always thought it meant that beasts with pain will enact that pain on others to try an' get it outta themselves, but now I'm wonderin' if I got it wrong. Maybe beasts like 'at, ones who've been burned so many times b'fore, come t' expect 'at beasts are gonna betray 'em, so 'ey do it firs'."

 

[Vihmastaja]

The weasel brushed her whiskers with her free paw, thoughtful for a moment.

"Y'mean, like stabbin' a beast in the back, before they can get the chance to do it to yeh? Pretty miserable way t'go through life..."

Vihma looked back over to Morgan. A moment passed in thought, hesitation coming and going before the tawny-furred weasel scooted herself over to the ferret, ending beside her, closely enough she could tell apart the different colored hairs in her champagne coat.

"Beasts with somethin' to prove, they're always the first t'get stabbed, y'know."

The weasel bit her lip. She thought to reach out, to more warmly echo their earlier embrace up upon the crow's nest, when they'd been freezing, soaked with cold water. Indecision warred for another brief second, and then she committed, pulling herself close against the ferret's shoulder.

"Not gonna let it 'appen t'yeh, though. Ye might've saved my life, maybe even twice over. So... anybeast tries stabbing ye, they'll 'ave t'go through me first, neh?"

 

[Morgan Liu]

Morgan raise her arm to wrap around Vihma's shoulders, letting her settle in beside her. Idly, Morgan realized that Vihma smelled nice. She wondered if there had been any shampoos in their bath water, or if there was something aromatic in the boiler system. She chuckled a bit ruefully. "Don't go throwin' yerself in front a' any blades fee me, Vim. I ain' worth it. 'Sides," she added, "I'm tougher 'n I look." She got quiet for a moment before softly saying, "I'm sorry, Vim. I really am sorry for not thinkin' b'fore, an' draggin' yeh int' that mess. Yeh should be able t' trust me t' protect you, an' I didn't."