Expedition [Urk Climax #1]: The Long Watch

The shrew shaman allowed himself a desperate giggle as he chanced to look behind him and watch the weasel fall, soon to be finished off by a barrage of cudgels and spears from the high warriors. They were sorely mistaken if they thought a sacred mystic bound and blessed to the gods would stay and make battle with the petty sticks and blades of lower creatures, he mused, still glancing over his shoulder as he ran straight into the bloodstained sword of Gyles Stowett, First Lieutenant.

The blue-painted shrew died smiling!

Gyles withdrew the rapier with a flourish and leveled the blade with the guards with a casual glance at the beast he had killed. "La! Demmed if it ain't a new one on me," he called to Tultow. "Foebeast what stabs itself!"

As soon as the honor guard saw the shaman slain, they let out a loud feral whoop as one and charged his apparent killer, obviously unaware that the death had been, by all appearances, textbook suicide. They would need some instruction.

"Mistress Yosha! The head, if you please, madame." He shook his head apologetically for the burden she had thus borne. "Bloody business."

He raised the crimson sack in one paw with his blade still extended at arm's length toward them in a challenge, then unveiled its vile contents to a shriek of horror.
 
The reaction from the shrews rippled out across the battlefield, a wailing wave coursing from the epicenter like a pond disturbed by a falling pebble. Whether it was for the monstrous wolf, their chieftain, or both, none could say; what mattered was the effect, which led to a stumbling, chaotic retreat by the army. Whatever will they had to punish the intruders was broken by the quite literal decapitation of the head of their culture.

Tultow could feel his strength flagging - but they weren't safe yet. Not while Shorris lay on the ground, unconscious or perhaps dead. Prisoner she might have been, undeserving perhaps of mercy, but she'd still fought like a true Vulpinsulan in their darkest moment. Tultow would not let that be dishonored. He reached down and scooped her up, ignoring the pain that lanced through his chest. "Come, Gyles!" he urged. "Good beasts laid their lives down to save yours; don't let it be in vain! That goes for you too, lass!" he directed to Vihma. Then, with the last of his flagging strength, he pushed himself toward the longboats, carrying Shorris in his arms, whether to safety or a burial with honors, he did not know.
 
Gyles was at Tultow's side in an instant, rapier as quickly sheathed. "Let me."
The rakish mask fell as he supported his friend, his oldest of friends who yet drew breath on this battered world, toward the boats. He attended a paw to the limp weasel - whatever she was, she was in this with them now. He glanced back at Talinn's body over Brull's brawny shoulder. The Minister had sworn an oath on her account.

He would do his best to be sure that word had not been spoken in vain.

"Ahoy the camp! Officers and crew, don't stand a minute longer! No tellin' what that mad pack will do next. Best we not be here to find out! Leave the useless odds and ends - there's plenty of plunder to buy more when we make Old Bully!"

He scanned the ragged survivors, the wounded and still whole. Few had died, but many were hurt. He noted Ralynn Waverunner, the bold young rabbit bosun, among the still absent. And Honeytail, the marine and Tultow's beau. Where was he? He pushed the thoughts from his mind as his eyes found the doctor, Arthur Barrett, and there beside him the bold young midshipper, Silvertongue, looking the picture of brave perseverance and a sight more world-weary than before. He allowed a moment of silence, moved by the young lad's words, what with the particular severity of condition in which two of their number now found themselves. He nodded at the pair.

"Well spoken, Mr. Songfox. Let nobeast say you lack for the sage sensibility most oft found in your elder peers, sirrah." A rush of relief passed through him that not only was the irrepressible fox still able, but he had evidently been seasoned for the bitter task ahead that must now fall upon him. "Now, I must rely on you. As the Captain pro Tempore finds 'imself out of commission, per Naval articles I stand as acting Captain. And you, sir- well, deuce of a thing -you must stand as First Officer and execute a strategic embarkation from this cursed shore."

He turned to the imposing pine marten without skipping a beat. No time to spare.

"Mr. Barrett, as standing warrant, you're promoted to acting Boatswain of the Golden Hide, honors and et cetera. Get these hides and tails moving!"
He turned his head toward Tultow, indicating the urgency that was plain to see in the marine lieutenant's hobbled gait. "And your assistant - wherever he's got to - get some beasts together and take this prisoner off our paws." He helped Tultow forward, the waiting boat a mere few yards yet. His heart dropped as he saw the ashen face of his comrade. Tultow was fading fast, struck more deeply than he'd realized.

"There, old boy. Just a few more steps. Just like Kamkeray all over again, ain't it? 'Ceptin' a lot less mud..."
 
Last edited:
Tultow could feel the strength leaving him. Each step was more arduous than the last, Shorris's weight a pound heavier each second. By the time he reached the camp, he was dragging his footpaws more than stepping with them, his lungs cramped and on fire as his ribs collapsed around them. It was only Gyles' encouragement that willed him past the pain and the misery, through those ten awful, limping, ragged-breath steps to the longboat. He didn't set Shorris down; he dropped her into the boat, then toppled in himself. The pain was awful, something was sticking into his shattered ribs, and as he breathed, he found himself coughing up blood. It tasted like iron and hollow glory. His eye slanted to Gyles, and his voice was raspy as he spoke. "Piper," he choked out. "Honeytail. Don't leave them."
 
Silvertongue’s paws wrapped around the canteen, and Swifttail watched as the bard drank deep. He gasped his thanks, voice hoarse but stronger, then rose to his feet with that same, albeit tired theatrical flourish Swifttail had feared might have be lost.

Swifttail didn’t move as the fox spoke to the crew. His words lit something inside the young engineer that had nearly been lost. He sat back slightly, massaging his aching paw, heart thudding behind his ribs. That’s when the shout came from up the beach.

Swifttail turned so fast his joints complained, eyes catching the familiar figure. He was battered and in a grim state, but carried an energy of hope on his breath. His voice rang out over the surf like the return of order itself.

Actual orders. Direction. They were going home!

Swifttail let out a breath that turned into a quiet, shaking laugh. His shoulders finally slumped, no longer locked in a panic-lean toward the unknown. They’d done it. They’d held the boats. Their fight and devotion to protecting the camp hadn’t been in vain.

And now... they were going home.

He rose again on stiff legs and limped toward Gyles without a word, slipping in beside him to help shoulder the weight of the fading officer. The very same officer he had written off as "already dead" earlier. A deep sorrow gripped the young todd, and he felt tears welling up again.

"I...I'm so sorry..." He whispered, voice trembling. "Y...you saved us all."
 
The Duke and temporary Captain of the Hide, or, increasingly likely as the minutes went on, the beast who once held those title's broken body soon followed after Tultow, although he was in even worse shape than the Lieutenant, as Brull and the medic carefully laid him down as best as he could in the ship after taking him off the stretcher, next to a newer member of the crew, a marble fox who usually worked in the engine room whose name they thought was Kay? Kee? Kaii?. It was clear that he was nearing death's door, if not already crossing over the threshold at that very moment. To start, bits of wooden shrapnel and strange bone as strong as steel were embedded in Talinn’s right arm from his maneuver with the cane, blood seeping around their edges, but none of the pieces had been removed for fear of causing even more blood loss. This was followed by conspicuously huge slashes across his brigandine armor, the tough leather and steel looking like it had been cut through like butter, the dressing applied to him there already soaked crimson. His legs were splayed in an unnatural arrangement, with bits of bone showing through the fur in multiple locations. He looked pale, almost like a corpse, and, indeed, without prompt medical attention, would very well likely be one. His breathing was low, shallow, and halting, with one breath perhaps every six seconds. Whatever the shore party had faced, it had taken down one of the Imperium’s finest and most experienced swordsbeasts, and made him look like a broken toy to boot. Notable, too, was the complete absence of most of the marine squad he had taken with him, although perhaps only Tultow or the more perceptive beasts on the Hide would pick up on this fact in the chaos.
 
Last edited:
Gyles clasped Tultow's paw as their eyes locked. "Never."

The stoat raised his voice again, clear and crisp, calmly authoritative. "Nobeast gets left behind. The sick, the wounded, Hellgates, even what dead we can take from this demmed place." A cannibal's belly was no place for the Imperium's mighty slain. They had been of her best, young and old, who now lay still and silent upon the beach, or in the sawbones' bloody trenches. He swallowed hard.

The boats bobbed in the rolling surf, inviting them to the pastel horizon that lay beyond, broken only by the masts of the vessel that would be their deliverance home.

Perhaps by divine intervention, Talinn had made it to the shore's freedom alive but barely thus. Gyles leaned in to Barrett. "Your medical fancy will prove indispensable yet. Minister Ryalor will be taken with Tultow. If 's in your power to let 'em see another sunrise," he said with a grim eye toward the gravely wounded pair, "do it."
 
Kaii was still awake, now seeing as the other beasts were put into the boat with him. Seeing how wounded they were, the logic his brain followed told him this was unit reserved for the dying. His hearing was failing at this point as his body was now truly giving up into the sweet abyss he craved, even if his mind fought aggressively against it.

Then the Duke's body came...

Kaii observed it with a dead stare, he was aware of duke's fighting skills, as would any noble be. And yet his body was shattered. His fur and skin, in places they weren't broken, serving as mere containers for probably shattered organs and bones on the inside. Kaii didn't feel anything looking at it. There wasn't anything he could do for his benefactor, besides maybe thinking of how to replace his shattered bones with steel.

To his slight surprise, he could notice how this, what most would call a corpse, was still breathing. In a way, he found himself in this mangled form. The minister was not giving up no matter what, his sense of duty, honour, spirit or just... something within him holding him up. Kaii focus and thinking intensified to process this beast again. So much so he was getting deeper and deeper into the oblivion again. "Interesting... Drive. Truly. Is. One. Thing... Beyond... Logic..." He gave his final words before for the final time dropping unconscious from the blood loss, even as his inner wounds already started clotting.
 
Last edited:
When the shrew chieftain fell, and Urk's combined armies scattered after the reveal of some bloodied beast's massive head, Vihma was already sporting a few new cuts - near-misses from spears thrown and stabbed her way as she'd fought to flank the chieftain with Tultow and the other weasel. The battle had come to an end - faster than she'd have expected it to. She was still very much alive, minor wounds stinging under her fur. Her cutlass streaked red with blood, more of it splattered across her face and uniform. It wasn't hers - at least most of it wasn't.

Sheathing her cutlass, she was nevertheless the last of her group to fall back to the boats, unslinging Piper's crossbow from her back and fishing a bolt from her pockets to take one last parting shot into the backs of the retreating foe. The bolt flew out and connected with one of the fleeing warriors. The beast fell - Vihma watched him or her go down from her scope, unable to make out many features from such a distance. She held that view for a moment, just breathing...

Satisfied, after a time, that the shrew would never get back up, Vihma let the heavy crossbow sink from her shoulders, turning to run back after the officers and marines.

The weasel cast her tired eyes around as she re-entered the camp. One of the boats had left already. The others were still there, waiting. She hoped Silvertongue's beasts had finished getting the wounded on board them, that beasts like Piper were safe and accounted for. She felt exhausted already, without needing to help move stretchers around before the shrews returned once more.

Vihma clambered onto a longboat after Tultow, breathlessly acknowledging the other beasts around him - First Mate Stowett, who had turned the tide of the battle, and one of the fox engineers from the boiler room. Not willing to cut in to their conversations, she merely sat herself down opposite to them in the boat, by one of the great oars she hoped they'd soon use to leave this hellish island.
 
Silvertongue stood silently, horrified, his eyes fixated on Talinn's mutilated body. He only knew of one creature powerful enough to cause damage like this. Somehow, there was a badger here. He didn't even register the words that Gyles had said, something about being an officer.
"Sir!" He crouched down, paws reaching out to take Talinn in his arms before he stopped himself. "Sir..." He looked up at Gyles.

- execute a strategic embarkation from this cursed shore."

Silvertongue stood up. He looked up at the crew. "You'll have to forgive my foul language, but we're getting the absolute hell out of here." He said firmly. "The wounded should be evacuated first. Save for myself. Some beast needs to give orders after all." He turned to Gyles once more. "Is there anyone left out there, that hasn't gotten to the boats yet? When the last one comes, I won't hesitate to leave them. We've already suffered here long enough."

It was a hard pill to swallow, perhaps a bit cruel for such a soul like Silvertongue. It hurt his heart to say it, but it was the truth. Right now, he only cared about his friends safety. He had no loyalty to any one else.
 
Last edited:
In camp, there was a hearty cheer from the shore party waiting at the boats. Barrett was satisfied with their response -- even a little proud of the small speech he'd given. Only moments later, there was a distant cheer from the marines at the ramparts. It seemed the tides of the battle were turning, which was a welcome relief.

Only a few moments later, Gyles appeared in the distance, bringing along with him Tultow, the Minister, and the severed head of some beast. Significantly, the marine party was absent -- and the minister was unconscious. "Oh hells teeth..." he gasped silently. While Barrett cared for the crew of the Hide -- the Minister was in a different class of beast. If he died on his watch, there'd be hell to pay.

"Darragh, get the boat ready, we're leaving for the Hide right now," he called out to the stoat. Rushing over to his chest of surgical tools, he popped the lid open to do a quick inventory of the various serums he'd been given by the minister. Two gold vials remained, amongst a host of blue ones. Latching the lid, he set the crate down in the boat next to Finn. "Kit, guard this crate with your life!" he said, before assisting the returning party with loading the wounded into the boat.

The pine marten gave a sharp nod to the recently promoted first mate -- he wasn't sure how useful he'd be as the bosun, but now wasn't the time to argue with the promotion. "Captain, sir -- will you be coming with us?" he asked, lingering for a split second at the hull of the boat.
 
With the earliest boats, Vilde had had hers hauled up to become temporarily part of the Golden Hide's collection. Once she had explained herself to anybeast who had taken time to be concerned with a stranger being aboard, and as urgently as possible, she had been assured that none of the boats had been damaged so there was no need for her to use it as an extra hauler for the wounded. Best to get it loaded early so that she wasn't in the way for the full retreat. This done, she waited to assist the crew in getting the boats onto the ship, making herself useful where she was wanted.​
 
"Captain, sir -- will you be coming with us?"

Gyles didn't answer. For a moment that time stopped for the storm-eyed stoat, he stared at the island, the last few survivors running past his field of vision to the safety of the boats. In mere minutes, the great evacuation of Urk was at an end, and now here he stood, held prisoner by the mysterious island. So much remained unknown, hidden in the fog that now had begun to roll in off the frigid sea.
As soon as they had come with wardrums and bloodthirsty cries, the shrew horde had disappeared, back into the hidden places of Urk, back to secluded villages like the one he had reduced to scorched kindling, and in the ashes of which his booted footpaws still found purchase.

Yes, "captain", Barrett had called him. Captain? A hollow victory. An empty cheer. They had lost lives. He had lost lives. Images of Macallish and the other marines flashed in his mind, brutally torn apart alive before his eyes by Hell embodied. The haunted faces of the shore party who still drew breath. The many, too many dead they had taken to the boats - his chest tightened as he cut the memory short - for what?
The idol's allure, its promise of power deviously whispered, something that thus far had only brought harm to anybeast who took hold of it. Something that couldn't be trusted not to kill them all in time... Believing its power could be used for good, for something other than mayhem was the only thing that made any of this blasted business worth it. Did he believe that?

Here's hopin' you were right, Talinn Ryalor. Here's bloody hopin' you were right.

"Aye. Let's be off. Mr. Barrett, Mr. Songfox, we will assemble on the quarterdeck of the Golden Hide at noon."
 
The last of the crew had boarded. Swifttail barely remembered the final rush. Just the sound of boots on sand, splashes at the gunwales, the low creak of hulls pressing back against the tide.

Now they were drifting. The jollyboat rocked gently beneath him, salt spray misting his fur. He sat in silence, hunched forward slightly, watching as the scorched, blood-soaked shoreline of Urk began to fall away behind them.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. No words could quite hold the shape of what they’d just lived through. The battle. The savagery of the shrews. The way the savages had mercilessly shredded their Minister, and had slain or maimed so many more of his crew.

Swifttail gripped the edge of the boat, claws flexing against the wood. It was all so much more than he had imagined when he signed on. He wanted a step toward proving himself, not a full on swan dive into hellgates themselves.

Today, Urk had taught him a hard lesson. He was going to have to toughen up. If he stayed on this path. If he kept sailing under the Imperium’s flag, he’d need to find someone to teach him to fight. Teach him the ways of battle.

His eyes stayed on the shrinking coast, the dark treeline receding like a bad memory.

"Gates," he muttered to himself, "What mess have I gotten myself into?"
 
Tultow was quiet as the boats departed the island, mostly focused on breathing. That was enough of a task right now; he could feel his heartbeat in every cracked rib, and with the jagged edges poking at his muscles, he dared only take shallow breaths, those that he could steal from where he slumped in the hull of the longboat. In the distance, the brief wails of the shrewbabe had died away as somebeast finally put it into Piper's arms. The gentleness of her lullaby, the same one she'd sung in the tent, eventually calmed the orphaned infant, and, between the slosh of the oars in the water and the gentle lap of waves against the hull, Tultow picked up on the words.

The stoat's ears prickled as the lyrics departed from those he was used to. His mother had always stopped at four verses; he'd heard somewhere that there were more, but he'd never heard them sung before. As he listened, the grim tightness in his chest told him why.

Nevermind the trumpet's sound,
Nevermind the cries around,
Nevermind those never found,
Sun will come again.


The Hide crew up on deck stood ready with rope ladders, long boards on winches, and rope nets to haul up the injured and the dead. There were, sadly, far more of the latter than the former. Both were handled with care; there was a grim recognition that, at least today, the only thing that separated the living from the dead was mere chance.

Nevermind the hoary frost,
Nevermind the vict'ry's cost,
Nevermind the ones we lost,
Sun will come again.


The box containing the idol was carefully hauled aboard. No beast wanted to touch it; somehow, its reputation as cursed had spread, and with so many lost to bolster that myth, no beast wanted to trifle with it. It sat on deck, set as far from the wounded as possible, two beasts set to guard it - though they watched the idol with far more wariness than they did the crew.

Nevermind the mourner's wail,
Nevermind survivors' tale.


Bodies wrapped in canvas sheets, blankets, whatever could be found for them all lay in a line down the center of the deck. When space ran out, a second line began at their feet. Each would need to be checked against the crew list, their identities confirmed, and their deaths recorded. Valuables would, for those well-liked among the crew with next of kin in the Harbor, pass into the paws of those they trusted in life, to be delivered to parents, spouses, kits who had expected a beloved family member to come home instead. For those little loved or with no next of kin, those possessions would likely stay with the crew instead. Already many of the compliment who had stayed on the Hide, cursed to listen, blind, to the sounds of battle, were gathered on the deck, looking anxiously at each beast brought back aboard. Some were embraced, tears of relief shed; for others, those dead brought aboard with face uncovered, there were gasps or cries of anguish, or blank, numb stares of shock.

Never wonder if we failed
To bring the sun again.
 
Silvertongue stood beside the crew. as he heard Piper's mourful lullaby, he spotted his lute sitting in the rowboat. Picking it up, he silently plucked at it's strings, sweet music accompanying the sorrowful song that was heard all across the ship.
 
Finn needed to be in several places at once, but unfortunately (for him, and fortunately for the others), he could only manage to be in one place at a time. Wrapping Kaii in a blanket, he laid the fox down gently against the hull of the boat, and shifted over to greet Tultow. The poor beast was in a wretched shape... but Finn tried not to think about it. They're still breathing... that's always a good thing... ...and Morgan lived through stuff this bad! We've got another one of Kaii's things on board, too... he reasoned to himself hopefully. Meanwhile, Barrett had covered Talinn with a blanket and was rending aide... ...which mercifully kept Finn from seeing the captain's state.

The little foxkit gently eased himself behind the lieutenant, and lifted his head gingerly into his lap to keep it from banging against things. "I got a shrew, Mr. Tultow!" he said cheerfully, tail thumping against the hull. "Didja see me?"
 
Arthur hated this lullaby. The first verses were beautiful, linking together the predictability of nature to an optimistic hope for tomorrow. Granted, some would argue that the next morning is not promised -- as many of those wrapped up in their hammocks testified to. But what was the alternative? Despair? Beasts needed hope.

How cruel, that the first verses would offer the beasts that hope, and then yank it out from under their feet with the later verses. Gates, it's like they want to sew doubt... he grunted to himself. What are these beasts going to do in the dark nights when they can't sleep? What hope for them, then? And yet -- the crew needed to mourn. Barrett would keep these thoughts to himself.

Arthur had covered the captain with a blanket quickly to keep him warm. For the most part, he kept the minister obscured from view with his body. The only thing that gave away the urgency of the situation was the intense quietness with which he worked. Peeling back Talinn's lip, he let out a gasp at the pale color of his gums. The fox had lost a tremendous amount of blood. Arthur swallowed nervously, and looked over to Gyles. "We need to get the minister to the infirmary right away..." he said in low tones. "Post a guard at the door. Officers and my aides only."

"Mr. Stowett..."
he said hesitantly, words catching in his throat. Barrett prided himself on being able to say things bluntly and without mincing his words, but even this was difficult for him. "...I might be able to revive him for a short while... but you very well may be talking to an already dead beast. If... ...if there's anything you need to speak with the minister about... Mr. Ryalor may wish to send a letter to..." The pine marten was uncharacteristically overwhelmed with emotion, and took a second to compose himself privately. "Sir, just be ready to make the most of the time."

Straightening his aching back, he turned to look for Darragh. "Mr. Harper!" he called out bouyantly. "You've proved yourself useful to me. Once we're back on the Hide, follow me to the infirmary with Mr. Brightfur. I have great need of you."
 
Tultow saw young Mr. Brightfur only as an orange blur in his peripheral vision, at least until Finn lifted his head enough for him to see clearly. The fox's voice, the cheerful optimism in it, was to his ears like honey poured on the lieutenant's lips. He chuckled, fighting through the pain that the sound placed on his chest. "Aye lad," he croaked out. "Y' did good. Made us all right proud. Ye'll be a captain and a hero a' legend one day, mark my words." It was the most painful thing he'd ever done, but he raised one paw and rested it on the youth's forearm. "Y' saved the crew, lad. You gave me a las' chance t' be a soldier. Don' forget that."
 
Rowing kept Darragh warm, as the boat bobbed away from the shore. The poet had imagined this moment to himself already. He had envisioned a dawn departure, with the sky turning pink, then blossoming into burning daybreak to light up the Hide’s sails as she farewelled the frozen little island. He could see nothing so grand now they were actually departing, though. It was a starless night, the fog was rolling across the sea and shore in thick banks, and the sputtering fires of burning tents and supplies they’d denied the enemy were already lost to view. Darragh couldn’t even convince his imagination to paint a few silhouettes of shrews in the enveloping mist as the enemy reclaimed their shore. There was simply nothing left to see.

A shake on his shoulder from a crewbeast let Darragh know the rowing was over. He climbed the ladder and quickly set about hauling up nets of corpses. The poet’s mind wandered, the hard physical work all done by muscle memory. Perhaps he had rowed to the wrong ship. Perhaps the Ferry of the Dead had been anchored off Urk as well, just to make the job easier. In the flickering lantern light, Darragh recognised nobeast, and amongst gruff orders and weeping, he heard a funereal lullaby. Darragh laid another corpse on the deck.

Terik! Terik, mate!” Somebeast grabbed Darragh’s shoulder and pulled him around. He couldn’t see who it was in the dark, with the lanterns casting all into silhouettes. “Oh… where’s Terik? Didja see? Did anybeast…

The searching figure was gone before Darragh could unstick his jaw. He picked up the next canvas-wrapped corpse by the legs, somebeast else at the other end. Darragh huffed misting breaths as he worked. No matter how light somebeast was on their footpaws in life, death brought them a certain uncooperative heaviness. Nobeast was graceful in death, the poet mused.

Doctor Barrett’s voice called his name, snapping Darragh out of his illusory underworld sojourn. The stoat’s obedient pattering pawsteps stumbled to a halt as he approached the pine marten, only to catch sight of a worn old fox, wrapped in a blanket, unmoving.

Captain Ryalor is dead.

Darragh’s paws began to tremble, his eyes growing wide and moist.

No, no, no. You oughtn’t be upset. Many beasts have died today. We all have our time, stop crying you silly kit, you barely knew him, the Hide has had many captains before, and he served honourably, no, stop crying, STOP IT-

The stoat’s narrow chest started to heave, he scrunched his snout and balled his fists, and squinched his eyes as shut as they would go, willing the tears and the snot and the wail in his throat to just stop, because he was a Navy jack and had to be tough in the face of death and battle.

Do you know what happens to beloved dead captains? They pickle them. It’s to preserve the body for the full military funeral with honours and gun salutes back home. That’s what Barrett’s ‘great need’ is. He’s picked you because he doesn’t want little Finny to see this part. You’re going to pickle Captain Ryalor in a barrel.

Darragh slunk forward, head low, taking off his hat for a moment of silence. He had heard beasts looked peaceful in death. The Captain did not look peaceful, he thought. He still looked as troubled and burdened as he had in life. The poet wondered if the poor old fox would carry his worries into the afterlife. Maybe they had a desk for him there, to write memos and official letters to the spirits of ministers past.

Replacing his cap, Darragh nodded at Barrett, a look of firm resolution in his eyes, even as his lower lip wibbled out of his control.

I-I’m ready, sir. S’pose we better do it quickly…” Darragh glanced down at the Captain once more, muttering quieter under his breath. “…preserve him while we can, for his last voyage…

Darragh clung onto whatever resolve he had left in him. Captain Ryalor was a minister, a warrior, a hero. As the ship’s poet, it was Darragh’s job to turn the visceral task of pickling the noble and much-loved fox’s body into a moment of dignity, respect, and farewell. He was going to have to think up some Words to say, when the moment came. That was the hard part. Bursting into tears afterwards would be all too easy.
 
Back
Top