Expedition Private Completed Voyage to Croper's Cove Prelude: Scratch-Scratch-Scratch

[Gyles Stowett]

The truth was, most sailors never made it past the Bilge, and the few slovenly sons of the sea that made it as far ashore as the Arrow were quickly forced to beat a haphazard retreat from that fine doorstep back to the Bilge with a boot in the tail for the trouble.
Unnatural, it was, a fish that far out of water. Here Gyles was all the same, tacking straight uphill dead into a devilsome bitter wind, tramping on sealegs that had to be sure or stumble on the slick cobblestones of the steep Bully Harbour street incline leading to the Ministry of War and the office of Zshama Cossatra, Navy admiral. He quickened his pace as he drew near the looming War Office building, until at last he stood in the roke and wet before a small door, remarkably stout for its size, with the spartan shelter of a short stone slab arch providing little protection from the spindrift borne high up and inland off the harbor. He took hold of the weathered ring knocker in the door's center and swung it once. Thup.

He studied the door for a response. Sturdy thing. Weathered oak from a Navy ship's hull bound latticewise with broad iron strips like barrel hoops unwound and flattened out, and where they crossed one another, square iron rivets with pyramid points. Only Army ornamentation could look so functionally grim - not meant to invite, was it?

From within came a metallic tumble of deadbolts and the door creaked heavily on ungreased hinges. From the space peered a thin, short little rat in Army uniform, so small he marveled at just exactly how she had just opened the weighty barrier that still separated them but for the narrow crack. Her spectacles gleamed when she adjusted them at him.

"Hm...name'n'bizness?" She ran it all together, like one especially comfortable word she was particularly used to saying.

"Captain Stowett, for Admiral Cossatra." He doffed his tricorne, a pleasantry the gatekeeper ignored.

"Cap'n, izzit." She scratched her ear. Evidently she had all day, and so did he if he meant to enter. "Ship?"

"That'd be the Golden Hide, marm."

The eyes narrowed behind the wire frames. "Minister Ryalor's actin' Golden 'Ide cap'n o' the moment."

In answer, he produced the missive that had made the trip with him in the warm safety of his inner coat pocket that made the roughly four hundred souls aboard the Golden Hide at present, and the burdens they bore, his burden to bear. The ratess scanned the document warily, down to Duke Ryalor's sweeping signature, onced the stoat sailor over, and nodded bureaucratic acceptance. Another squeak, only to open a crack more, barely enough. No sooner had he stepped inside than she shut the door with a perfunctory glance at the street outside and bolted it.

These were dangerous times, he granted that: the attempt on Talinn's life in the streets of Bouillabaisse Harbour; the explosion at the Opera House; the statement those attacks made about the intended future of the Rainblade-Ryalors was still a boil freshly lanced on the public skin. The Imperium's savviest and strangest might even venture the recent expedition to Urk was as much a means of gaining the terrible idol as it was temporarily removing a target from the reach of their enemies until some semblance of order could once again be established at home.

"Foller me, Cap'n Stowett."

Gyles mentally retraced the path: directly down the hall, four doors, up the lefthand polished stone stairway, second door on the right of the top. Still, an escort was customary in here, and it made a body feel like an important guest moreover, for what that might be worth (not much). As the rat ambled along ahead of him with a sort of plodding chelonian urgency, he found himself studying the columns supporting the vaulted ceiling, more of the same utilitarian work that characterized the whole damned place. He found himself thinking when war came - why did he not think on if, but when? Was the state of things really so grave? - for those on land, this might be one of the few places of refuge safe from sabotage.

Yes, he decided as they ascended the much-too-cramped spiraling stone stairwell, this place would be most defensible, even by a creature so small as his bristly little guide.

"Offis to yer right, seckon' door." He could've completed her sentence for her. Instead he offered a brief bow of his head and a "thank you" to a back that was already turned and making its way back to the stairs.

Though the door was already ajar, he waited slightly out of view, so as not to disturb the beast inside just yet. The weasel he recognized well enough, as much by her appearance as by her present doings, situated behind a desk performing the onerous pen-pusher duties that had driven him to a lifelong career at sea: papers, inkblots, feathers, dust, the quill's scratch-scratch-scratch that only ceased briefly in order to dip again in its inkwell before resuming a war on the fresh parchment of the world it was fated never to win.

Vile business, ain't it.

He looked at the timepiece tick-tick-ticking away on the wall, the only other sound in the room besides the scratch-scratch-scratching of the quill pen. Mr. Songfox would be here any moment as arranged. The poor devil had no idea what he was about to be thrust into.

OOC: Merry Friday, Golden Hide crew! This be the sometime-awaited prelude to our side of the upcoming Red Fleet Arc thread, setting up elements of the adventure to come. It's just Silvie, Zshama, and me for now, though open to anybeast meandering through the Ministry of War for good (or no-good) reasons...

 

[Silvertongue Songfox]

And that moment came sooner, rather than later. A tapping of steps, and a timid voice. "Mr. Stowett- I mean, Captain Stowett, Sir." Silvertongue said in a voice barely above a murmur. "Can you remind me what this is all about again?"

He was nervous, to be frank. This whole place reeked of, well... authority. Not that it was such a bad thing. Silvertongue just couldn't shake the feeling of uneasiness.

"Am I in any sort of trouble, Sir? The lady at the door almost didn't let me in...."

 

[Gyles Stowett]

"Ah! Dear lad." Gyles smiled mysteriously. "Trouble? Depends on what you make of what 'appens next, I s'pose! Come now, we'll speak with the Admiral directly, won't we." The stoat turned and stood fully in the doorway, allowing Silvertongue a spot at his side.

"Admiral Cossatra. Captain Gyles Stowett of the Golden Hide and Mr. Silvertongue Songfox, Aide-de-Camp, your humble servants. Here on account of certain articles of commission. Duke Talinn Ryalor's word was you were the beast, don't you know."

 

[Silvertongue Songfox]

Admiral? Articles of Commission? Silvertongue swallowed nervously. What on earth was he getting pulled into? He quickly grabbed his hat and held it to his chest as he looked at the admiral with some hesitation.

"Ah- um, an honor to meet you ma'am." Silvertongue bowed his head to her.

 

[Zshama Cossatra]

The day had drawn on long enough already, even outside the standard of those spent in the somber MinoWar office, away from the salt and the sea and the tumbling of the ocean. She longed to be back in that other office, her quarters on the aft of the Invocation, overseeing more material tasks.

Zshama Cossatra wasn’t a beast who let that sort of thing get to her, however. After so many such long days, her left paw worked pen and paper nearly as well has right paw once had, before it’d been lost in a forgotten battle half the world away.

A cup of coughee sat at her desk, nearer to the stack of papers than her flexing claws. It’d long lost most of its warmth, but she made to sip from it as she became aware of the beasts at her doorway.

There was always somebeast who needed something around here. Signatures, papers – sometimes a ministry beast wanting reports for the Minister, or for Amarone. It’d become routine long ago.

The coughee tasted more bitter for its tepid temperature.

As the door drew open, the beasts there introduced themselves quickly enough, and she blinked, straightening in her chair to inspect her guests more closely.

“Ah, Captain Stowett. Mr. Songfox.”

Her voice was tired, but firm. Not enthusiastic, but determined. She nodded acknowledgment to the younger fox aide-de-camp, but returned her gaze to Stowett before beckoning to her desk.

“At ease, gentlebeasts. Please - take a seat. Duke Ryalor spoke for me, eh?”

She seemed to mull the words over in her head, the wiry pseudo-claws of her prosthetic hand stroking against her chin in thought, a skeletal, rigid approximation of a mangled paw, still shaped for holding down the forms she'd been reading and signing. It fit the rest of her appearance, fur faded and already greying at the muzzle, her blue coat the only thing looking fresh and pristine about her.

“Well, what’ll it be, captain? I seem to remember the last ship sent around those waters came back in fresh need for a new lieutenant, among other beasts. Not reports I easily forget these days.”

 

[Gyles Stowett]

"Tch. That's just the thing. Well," said Gyles, turning to Silvertongue and feeling a wry smile forming about his muzzle, "why don't you tell the good Admiral, eh? We're here for your official commission as Lieutenant of the Golden Hide, after all. First Officer."

He turned back to Zshama. "At Duke Ryalor's and my own recommendation. If that ain't enough corrupt company to sink any young officer's career, then stripe me, I don't know fairly what is!"

 

[Silvertongue Songfox]

Silvertongue stood in shocked silence as Gyles dropped this bombshell on him. An Officer? He sunk into the chair in front of him, running a paw through his fur. "Officer? Sir, I'm-" He shook his head. "I don't know what to say!"

He looked between Gyles and Zshama with a surprised, almost dumbfounded look on his face. To think that just a year ago he'd been on the run, barely living, and now this!

 

[Zshama Cossatra]

The weasel's expression perked slightly in subdued surprise with the unfolding revelation. When the weight of the matter sent Silvertongue to his seat, she couldn't help but smile back at him.

"A new lieutenant... at least the circumstances are better this time around."

Zshama leaned to the side of her own chair, working the drawers of her desk with her good paw. It did not take much rummaging to procure the paper she desired, the weasel laying it out across her desk, pushing the older papers neatly aside with her prosthetic forearm.

Her pen was already wet in its inkwell, but she held off for a moment longer, trying to see for herself the image of the officer she was about to make.

"You've some talented beasts speaking for you -" she nodded to Gyles, looking his way as she continued.

"Not too overwhelmed by that, are you Mr. Songfox? The position of first officer comes with certain somber responsibilities, as I'm sure Captain Stowett can attest to."

 

[Silvertongue Songfox]

Silvertongue felt himself shrinking into the chair. She was certainly an intimidating beast, her stare alone enough to make him sweat. He suddenly felt very foolish, dressed in such a colorful outfit and foppish name. He felt even his name seemed silly. Songfox. Couldnt his ancestors have come up with something better? He cleared his throat, and he spoke up. "No, of course not. I feel I am prepared for the position. The Duke had me doing the work of two beasts at once for nearly a month, so I feel I can handle what else may be thrown my way, ma'am."

 

[Zshama Cossatra]

The weasel looked at the would-be lieutenant for a long moment, her thoughts and feelings imperceptible under the mask of her own scrutiny.

Finally she seemed to relent, straightening the form in front of her with the wiry strips of metal that passed for her right paw. Her left reached for the pen, letting it drip excess back in the well as she looked first to Gyles and then at the articles before her.

"That's good... confidence is good."

She scribbled harshly across the pre-prepared parchment - filling in the date, the name of the newly minted lieutenant, and then near the bottom, after a moment more's hesitation, her signature, written neatly as her left paw could manage.

"On behalf the Minister of War, and on behalf of the Empress, may her blessings tumble upon you - etcetera -" the weasel admiral seemed to flick her eyes in a knowing glance to Gyles - "by my command, I now pronounce you a lieutenant... in her majesty's Imperial Navy."

Zshama pushed the paper across the desk back towards the young fox officer, not seeing him for the dandy clothes he wore, but the new duties he'd taken on.

 

[Gyles Stowett]

Gyles nodded approvingly and patted the fox on the shoulder as he let him do the necessaries. His other paw - mind of its own, that thing - withdrew the flask waiting in his inner breast pocket. "Momentous, eh, Mr. Songfox? Lieutenant of Her Imperial Majesty's Navy, la!" He took a pull and wiped his lips. "Blinded by the glorious fog of all the paperwork you're about to be blessed with yet? Hem- I know, stumblin' under the weight of five hundred souls you're responsible for now, eh!" Lieutenant's commissions were rarely exciting affairs. This was about as good as it got.

All in all better than a ship's deck in the driving rain, still spattered with who-knows-whose blood and spittle, a commission hastily spoken and oaths accepted faster than he'd known what the devil was coming out of his mouth. Could've been written on a napkin for all they cared.

Ah. Those were the days. Before whatever these days were. Whatever they were, these days weren't those days, that much was certain.

Another pull.

He rubbed his collar absentmindedly where a bit of goodness stained it. Though he waited for Silvertongue's reply, he'd already fixed the Admiral with one of those "you-know-what-I'm-here-for-really" looks.

 

[Silvertongue Songfox]

Silvertongue had been smiling briefly, though it was quickly ripped from his face as Gyles casually dropped that bombshell on him. "Five hundred-?" He started, eyes widening and jaw slacking. "F- Five- Five- Five HUNDRED?" He couldn't even comprehend a group of beasts that large. "I thought I was just going to serve on the Hide, sir!" Silvertongue turned to face Gyles, and that's when he saw the look. The "We-need-to-talk" sort of look. He glanced back and forth between the two of them, and he sighed.

"This is about the pirates, isn't it?" Silvertongue asked with a sigh, sitting down. "I'm sorry. I never should have come here. I lead them straight to your home, and now everyone is in danger because of me..."

 

[Zshama Cossatra]

The weasel put her pen away while the other beasts made their reactions, her eyes silently tracking Gyles' drink before he put it away. Celebratory? Or was it compulsive? Well, every beast coped with their burdens differently, she supposed. Stowett hadn't slipped up yet, not in her eyes. But the drink was something to make note of.

Her own thoughts went to her paw - the one that wasn't attached to her still. A cold, fuzzy feeling that didn't go away when she gripped her prosthetic, rubbing the spindly fake claws on its end as if to put warmth back into them.

"I'd not be surprised if that's the crew complement your captain wishes for the Hide. The book strength, however close it be to the truth of her disposition."

Her eyes were back on Songfox by now. Lieutenant Songfox. She watched him closely, taking in the deep-set despair that had replaced his shock and surprise. He looked soft. Confident, maybe, but soft enough that she wondered if the service might just chew him up and spit him right back out.

"No apologies, lieutenant. If there's fault to be shared, you make it right. Nothing more, nothing less."

Zshama got up from her seat, walking over to a map of the Imperium on the wall of her office. It was better than the one back on the Invocation, more up-to-date, fresh from the Military Information shops deeper in the building. A few markers were pinned in various places, number and letter combinations pertaining to extant naval postings and threat perceptions, all tied to the reports she received, filed away in her desk. The paper tides brought in new threats all the time.

"We're no stranger to pirates here, Mr. Songfox, not nearly. And by and far we're nothing strange to them - they keep their distance, raiding the islands and inlets our ships can't always cover."

She traced the map with her good paw, from the shores of the MSC to stop at the Peace Islands.

"When I was but a lieutenant like yourself, about your age, sailing east under Commodore Wavell, we had the kharries to contend with, always hoping to slip troops in around Valles Mensa. Real foes, with real ships, the sort to go up against our own. Not the sort of cowards that prey on our weakest."

The slur for Alkamarians rolled off her tongue with little malice, eyes lost in thought as they drew somewhere further north. A beat of silence, and she looked back to her guests with the same flat expression and firm, tired voice she'd greeted them with before.

"If there's a pirate force out there with the guts to strike Vulpinsula herself - let alone all for one beast - I'll believe it when they're staring down my guns."

With that, she did look back to Stowett, the slightest dip of her muzzle prying for him to air what had really brought him to her office.

 

[Gyles Stowett]

No strangers to pirates. Indeed not. Some might say we've all a bit of the pirate in our blood. Somewhere deep, instinctual.

"Aye, five hundred. That's the Hide when she's running a full complement, likes o' which ain't been seen since the old wars. We're runnin' specially low on good paws after that whole Urk thing, you know. We'll need an order, signed and stamped, to raise the force. Funds apportioned."

He tightened his neckerchief. "So, now we're all here. There's the matter of my father." He swallowed.

"Duke Ryalor's word was you were the beast in charge of makin' some sense of recordkeepin' after the Winter War. 'Twas his suggestion the Navy Invalids Hospital might've kept better logs during your tenure, back when my sire was interned there. A raving madbeast, in so many words, tossed in a cell in some dark corner. To talk his heart out to shadows and old mates and enemies long dead. Always was a talkative sort," and he smiled at that, ever so faintly, to himself. "There was a pattern to it, though, wasn't there, the talkin'. Croper's Cove. A treasure worth a voyage halfway across the World. And every word of it scritch-scratched down in so much ink on so much paper by doctors a sight more keen on good recordkeeping with yourself in the wheelhouse."

 

[Zshama Cossatra]

Zshama closed her eyes. She had a thought that this conversation might come up someday. It wasn't that she knew all her captains, nor even all of the more interesting ones. Legacies demanded more mindfulness - though this was usually more for their connections than anything else. The Stowett case was more of an institutional embarrassment. Made Captain of a ship that no longer sailed, no longer really existed, the elder Stowett had gone a touch mad, they said, and was tidied away by a Navy that stopped caring for its own when they stopped being useful.

She sighed. The weasel could relate to the indignity of such a thing, having suffered something like the same fate.

"That was a matter of my responsibility for a time, yes. From '44 to '48, all I saw was the paper sea."

Zshama walked back over to her desk, leaning against it as she glanced between her two guests, eyes settling on Gyles as she chose her words more carefully than she was used to doing.

"Your father was in the custody of the Navy for some of that time, aye. I received records of his... treatment, his ravings. This is all true."

She looked at him sympathetically, an unusual look on her.

"Gyles... There's nothing there worth pursuing. Whatever you remember of your father, the stress and the drinking... it did him in. He wasn't the same beast that he was. It's a sad thing to see, but it happens. All the ramblings he made, all the nonsense that poor beast spoke of - giving credence to it won't do dignity to anybeast."

Finally, the weasel took her seat, leaning back and stroking her prosthetic again, as though to rub warmth back into the appendage that had once been in its place.

"Seabeasts have been spinning tales of treasure around those parts for as long as the cove has had its name. They're just that... tales. The sort that get beasts all riled up, but not much more."

 

[Gyles Stowett]

Silence. Thinking. His mind was circling, circling, circling. Something was at the bottom of the whirlpool, but he couldn't place a claw on it. Never could. Somebeast. A memory. What?

Then a subdued sound, his own voice, quieter. "Was it written down, what he said?"

He slowly met her look. There it was. Sympathy. He felt it like poison in his bones. A drippy, painful sort of thing, wasn't it, sympathy? Meant well, but well, it was a familiar feeling. They all looked at the Captain that way, didn't they? Every beast all so sympathetic, so very sorry. Even gave a sorry glance his way, too, now and then. "Sorry 'bout yer pa." His sire, the wonderful Captain with all his adventures and treasures. Whatever did they all have to be so sorry about? Realization had been slow coming. He never listened closely, not really, never paid them any mind until it turned too flagrant to ignore, when all euphemism was exchanged for the overt, the ugly, the bare.

Old devil's cracked. 'Tis a sad affair, ain't it, proud sailor gone like that, but that's how it goes, that's how it goes. Die a swift death on deck or die a slow one at the bottom of a bottle, they say. That's what they say.

I still believe, Cossatra, he thought to say. It's believe or everything up til now didn't matter, demmit. Alton Bay didn't matter, Urk didn't matter, Hrushka didn't matter, the whole bloody eastern campaign didn't matter. Sarabande didn't matter. Got to do what we've got to do. Nothing for it, is there? If you could help us in any way...

He didn't. He gritted his teeth. Out came mechanistic formality. "The former veteran, nicknamed "the Captain". Any written documentation of his words during your tenure, marm? Minister Ryalor and indeed the Empress have a high interest in securing the wealth of Croper's Cove. The matter of sailing is closed. Anything to put us in the right direction once we make land there would be of utmost value to the success of the mission." It felt like a legal sort of treachery, invoking the name of a Minister to get what he wanted, something gotten away with on technicality rather than socially safe.

Old devil's cracked. 'Tis a sad affair, ain't it...

He needed to know.

 

[Zshama Cossatra]

Gyles's subtle invocation of ministerial authority didn't go unnoticed, the weasel's eyes widening for a moment, her expression hardening. Hell, it wasn't even their ministry. The eggheads at Innovation had already seen to waste the Navy's resources as if they owned them, and now seemed to be growing accustomed to the practice.

All the same, if the madness had Amarone's favor - and she had every reason to expect it would, given the Ryalor involvement - she knew Grosvenor would acquiesce, like he always did. There wasn't any point in fighting this battle, risking all she'd clawed her way up to receive.

"Very well."

Zshama left her seat again, walking the other way now to a set of wooden file cabinets, by the wall opposite to her map.

"Everything was recorded, of course. His ramblings... If not the first time, or the thirtieth time, certainly at some point in between those."

The cloth folder she withdrew looked worse for the years, the paper inside strongly yellowed. Preservation hadn't done much for them, or else they hadn't always enjoyed the space in her cabinet. She was still looking through it when she returned to the desk, flipping through loose pages.

Finally one caught her eye, good paw halting as her eyes scanned the paper. A moment later, and her eyes returned to Gyles, though she flashed the newly minted Lieutenant Songfox a quick glance as well when she spoke.

"A word of caution, Captain Stowett. Careers aren't often built or broken by achievement - by what you find or what you do out there. They're built by the perception of those actions, by how some beast who's not ever seen what you've seen or held sail to the wind thinks it all went down."

Letting the folder lie flat on the desk, she withdrew her page and the next two beneath it with her good paw, sliding them over the desk to Gyles.

"From all I'd ever heard, your- the Captain - was a promising beast once. Well-liked, at least. Aye, even when he was rambling on about trees and rocks at the hospital. So, follow in his footsteps, by all means. I mean that kindly, Captain. But don't let the beasts ashore see what it does to you. Don't martyr yourself trying to redeem him."