The following is a transcription of posts made by ten different contestants on an offsite forum. Every week they will write chapters from their own character's points of views and push the plot forward until its inevitable conclusion. One by one, they will be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "homepage" on our user page and vote and discuss.

As requested from a reader:


The Cast


Fildering Dillwithers

Category: Soldier

The short, sandy-furred young hare swished his blade, clashing it with that of his dreaded foe- steel ringing on steel, the echoes of battle filling the air. At last they came together, swords crossed, faces gritted up into eachother's. "Y're no match f'justice, y'cad. Y'll pay today f'rall th' hares you've slain. 'Tis the honorable way, the way of warriors long before me, to crush scum like you an' your bally toads, wot wot!"

"Hah!" cackled the stoat with ravenous glee; a cat, playing with prey that would inevitably become its latest meal. "Ye've got no chance against me, fool. Yaer aunly option es death!"

Their faces were close enough now that their whiskers touched. The hare saw every detail of his enemy's face, smelled his foul breath, and felt his cold hatred. It was now or never... "Eulaliaaa!"

Fildering Dillwithers sputtered and howled, awakening in the warm, inviting dining room of Lady Albren Galbraith to icy cold Mountain Ale up his nose, over his whiskers, and in his ears. "Wot th' devil! Gerroff, y'ballyflippin' brunchscoffin' maroons, I'll give y'vinegar'n'applesauce, by jingo!" His outcry was met with giggling and chortles from the culprits, Twilbee and Qwirry, two of his most trusted allies (he jestingly made a mental note to add "former" to that status in the near future). "Oh I say there, Dilly m' old Filder; dozin' at th' table again. Won't do, wot, won't do h'at bloomin' all!"

"That it, eh naow? Come taste m'ages-honored blade, bounders!" Getting a bearing on his surroundings in the dining room of Galbraith Hall, he seized a length of celery. "Blighterin' fiends an' cowardly custards, wot wot!" A becrusted custard hurtled from what seemed nowhere, catching him across the head and sending him reeling and well-lathered in hazelnut meadowcream and light flaked pastry. He whirled, wiping off the debris with one paw and waving the celery shaft with the other. "I say, who's the benighted berryswiper threw this custard, eh wot? Own up, I say!" In response, a fully-fledged turtle pie, two summer salads and the contents of a pot of woodland stew flew from all directions. "Take cover!" he roared as, selecting an especially oozy raspberry turnover, he returned fire.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"We invited you in, let you stay with us here at my home," said the badger lady gravely, with a mock severity so convincing that it had the hare culprits wincing with her every word. "But you start fights- good-natured, perhaps, but fights nonetheless. You play your youthful games. You make a mess of this old castle; my home. My Hall is no place for young hares. Fwynna, explain the plan you brought to me earlier, please."

The old harewife matron needed no second bidding. She cleared her throat. "Hrmph, yes, these poor devils've made quite a conundrum o' the old hall. Why, it hasn't seen this much action in a hundred seasons, I'd say! There's only one option."

The guilty troublemakers exchanged nervous glances as Lady Galbraith broke the silence. "Yes. There is only one option. You must leave my home. Go thither and hither and yon; wherever you please, as long as it isn't here. Roam south, where strapping young hares such as yourselves should have done long ago. The Mountain of the Fire Lizards calls you home."

Fildering cleared his throat, speaking for the others as he did. "But how will we know the way? Wot the deuce is a fire lizard an' wot've they got with a mountain? I don't chance meetin' one o' those on a dark night, an' Fates forbid a mountainful of the festerin' firebrands!"

"Tis called Salamandastron, home of the Badger Lords of ancient times and the finest military force from the rocky Northern Shores to Southsward's green lands. How to get there, you ask? That is but a simple thing. Your heart will show you the way."


Gordon Hagglethrump, a.k.a. Scully Craws

Category: Cabin Boy

A three-cornered hat with ear holes, small-sized, for a leveret. A toy lead cutlass in a cloth scabbard. A set of three hollow wooden tubes, carved to look like a telescope.

Two puppets: one, a badger dressed in magnificent armor; the other, a hare. The standard Long Patrol uniform had been stripped off the puppet, and instead, it wore a pirate's outfit, a ring through each of its long ears, and a bandana embroidered with a skull and crossbones.

More toys and scraps of worn parchment and wood - hand-scribbled maps, doodles - were tossed out of the oak trunk and onto the floor of the large bedroom. Gordon dug deeper.

A toy wooden ship flew through the air and shattered into pieces. He had no time to be careful. He was sailing in the morning.

Two brass nose-rings. A genuine leather scabbard.

An eyewitness's drawing of a village burning: rat babes screaming in terror. Notes from an interview with a survivor, a ferret, a childless mother. The enemy's brass belt-buckle found in the rubble, reading "Waverunners".

A new item, purchased from a stranger in a dark alley with his allowance: a burnt piece of a wooden sign, reading "Iron Curt". The blackened skull of a rat.

His mother never pried into his evening activities. Mrs. Hagglethrump assumed Gordon was doing homework for Brother Sage, the quiet mouse who served as his tutor. She didn't ask why Brother Sage had been exiled from Redwall abbey. She didn't ask what Brother Sage was teaching him for the hefty sum she paid: revealing the truth to him about Lord Atlas, about the money, the villages destroyed, the innocent deaths, the madness and the injustice and the reign of terror.

She didn't know that Gordon would be gone tomorrow, and that she would never see him again.

Gordon reached the bottom of the trunk. He found a small dagger. The dried blood had been scratched away to reveal, engraved, a hero's name: Blade.

His father was busy with the administrative duties of a retiring Colonel maintaining his status in Salamandastron. He was busy with Cyril, "bright and brave young chap", the mature son, the military academy son, the son who would soon marry General Sapwood's daughter. It was enough to know that little fluffy-cheeked Gordon played with dolls and read poetry. He didn't need to know any more. He didn't need to know who had been skimming through the record-books in his office. He didn't need to know the identity of the Zephyr's new Cabin Boy.

"A lonesum' orphan oi is, jus' lookin fer ways t' earn a meal wot t' fill me belly," Gordon had told the recruiter, mimicking the accent of the lower classes. The recruiter bought the act, and added his alias to the manifest: "Scully Craws, leveret, brown, C.B."

Gordon finished re-packing the trunk with the essentials: extra food, lists of names and places, and his new Waverunners uniform. He was tempted for a moment to walk through the main entrance wearing it, so that his father - still sulking from their argument at the dinner table - could see it. How astonished he'd be that his poetry-reading son had secured a position on the Badgerlord's own vessel! But Gordon knew better. This was not a game. He had a mission.

"Injustice appears as justice to its beneficiaries; justice, as injustice to those it sacrifices," Brother Sage once said, teaching them of the ancient heroes, the assassins who toppled tyrants.

Gordon picked up the badger-puppet. Calmly, he severed off its head and tossed it away. Then, he put the dagger into his cloak pocket, slicked down the fur on the top of his head with a bit of grease, and crept out of the window. As he left, he overheard his brother giving a toast.

"To Lord Atlas! May he live for ever!"


Robert Rosequill

Category: Navigator

The ship's deck was rife with shadows from the sun slipping below the horizon. Only two beasts were on board, one a gaunt hare and the other a bulky hedgehog. Each were laughing boisterously, a flask of ale between the two of them. The hare took a swig, wiped his lips with the back of his paw while passing it over to the hedgehog. The hedgehog, Robert, snatched it from him, chuckling.

"You know, Harold, we'll be settin' sail on a Friday." The hedgehog beamed as Harold guffawed, the hare almost falling over in his hysterics. Robert chuckled even more heartily. "The worst kind o' luck wouldn't you say?

"Awful news, friend, awful news," Harold crowed, throwing his head back to guzzle some more ale, then almost choking as he seemed to remember something worth saying. "Ohoho, remember Tobias?"

Robert immediately doubled over. "Heh heh heh! That poor little mouse! He jumped ship an' swam to shore when he figgered out what day it was!" Robert rolled his eyes, reaching out a paw for the flask. "Fates, a Friday. What's the fuss about Friday?"

Harold shrugged as he handed over the drink. "Storm's brew on Fridays. If you set sail, you're promised a rough sea."

Robert rolled his eyes once more, taking the flask. "Hmph. You know how many storms I've weathered?"

The hare grinned. "Too many to count but too little to brag about?"

The hedgehog fell into another fit of throaty laughter. "Heh heh heh! Righto, ol' boy, righto! And not a one of 'em to do with any day o' the week. You know the things some o' the younger breed o' these Runners say? If'n the sky's red in the mornin', no sailin', 'cause that's how accidents happen. You hear that? The sky's why accidents happen." Robert's jovial smile faltered a bit, then he took another large gulp of ale. Harold shifted uncomfortably. A silence fell as the two watched the sky darken ever more slightly by the minute.

It was Harold who finally broke the quiet. "I'm surprised, Rob."

Robert, knowing what the hare was going to say, humored him anyway. "And about what, friend?"

"That you're still out there."

Robert shrugged, a twinkle in his eye. "'Course I am. One o' us has to be."

Harold smirked in agreement. "Aye. And better you than me, I'd say. How is it, anyways? Not knowing any of these new types?"

Robert, finishing off the flask, stowed the empty container inside the folds of his clothes. "Bearable, really. I've been meetin' the new kinds of us. I've met a little you, a little me, even some o' our ol' mates've got replacements. Heh heh heh. Replacements. That's a good word for 'em, I'll say."

Harold laughed. "Yeah. Perhaps for the best. I know I can't do what I used to do. Can't barely run, much less jump. Fightin's outta the question."

Robert wagged a finger at his friend. "You see, that's why you get a softy's job like me. I just look o'er maps and the likes all day. Nary has a rope found its way into my paws these days. Too busy you see." Robert winked.

"Then why still do it? You never were one to shy from getting' dirt on your paws and sweat on your brow, why now?" Harold inquired playfully, but genuine interest on his face.

"I must admit, it ain't easy pushin' and pullin' anymore. But hey, you can't beat that sea breeze."

Harold nodded, convinced. "I hear that, friend."

With that, the last thread of sunlight sunk beneath the waves as the moonshine rushed to steal its place. Taking notice at the sudden darkness, Robert cleared his throat, grunting as he stood upright. "Welp, I'd say that's enough o' remenissin' for one night. I'd say let's get off'n this rickety ship." Robert grinned at the hare. "I ain't exactly got the permission to be throwin' parties on here you see, heh heh heh."


Crue Sarish

Category: Healer

"Attention crew!"

"Yes?"

"Crew, not Crue! Now, it has come to my attention…"

Crue Sarish bemoaned the misfortune that she was destined to work on the sea, where she would be corrected if someone was not saying her name, and chastised if someone did and she wasn't ready for it. She assumed that after five seasons of seafaring she'd be used to it, but that had yet to happen. Her bushy tail flicked once in annoyance.

Several long minutes elapsed before the Quartermaster finished his briefing regarding something about how something was to be stowed below decks. He might have mentioned the rigging as well, but Crue was far too preoccupied to pay much attention to those matters. Scheduled to leave the Sunlit the following morning, there was little more for her to do than to wonder if she'd packed all of her belongings.

"Easier said than done," she murmured, "what with that ruddy cabin boy constantly 'borrowing' my needles and thread…"

"What was that?" one of her shipmates asked.

"Oh," Crue replied quietly, her ears perking up and her mouth curving into a well-practiced smile, "nothing at all! Just thinking about the future."

"Lot to think about, what with you leaving tomorrow." The young badger turned to clap a paw on her shoulder. "But if you've the patience and the gall to put up with this lot for the last two seasons, you've nothing to fear from the future."

"Indeed," she responded nervously. Despite his well-wishes, Crue could only manage another polite nod before she fled to make sure no one had opened her chest while she had her back turned. She was long past wondering what the crew thought about her social unavailability, preferring, instead, to pursue more scholarly endeavors. The fact that she declined to share these endeavors with any of the crew who'd shown interest was irrelevant.

Within the confines of her room, she took stock of her supplies for the sixth or eighth or twelfth time, muttering in annoyance as she pulled out her herbs and wrappings and threads and books and all manner of items necessary for her profession. A carefully wrapped package of nightshade berries was set next to the lemon balm, which was currently sharing a lump on the bed with a jar of lavender. She'd have to pick up more motherwort before long; she suspected one of the hares aboard had also "borrowed" some a few week back.

"At least I have some willow bark left. Surprised Ren Spindelfur didn't make a grab for it last week." She tut tutted under her breath and had a comment to accompany just about all of her supplies. Fortunately, the crew members she spoke of were not present for her tired, and by the time she'd carefully stowed everything exactly as she liked, she was ready to leave the ship and its dirtybeasts behind. Perhaps with her contract fulfilled with the Sunlit, she could join a real ship with a real crew who went on real adventures. After two seasons of making poultices for bruises, brewing tonics for poor digestion, and sewing up cuts from careless sword practice, she was ready for battle and glory. On more than one occasion, she'd been tempted to arrange an "accident" just for something to do. After all, it wouldn't kill somebeast to give her nimble fingers a head injury to stitch.

Crue went above deck, letting her red fur soak in the afternoon sun as the sea breeze tickled the tufts of fur at the tops of her ears. She kept her mind off of her desire to grumble by daydreaming of glory, and of the respect she would finally earn after all these seasons. Tomorrow she would keep her ears to the wind and show the world that Crue Sarish was a name to be remembered. Nothing feathered nor fowl would stand in her way now.


Plink

Category: Stowaway

The market was busy today, crowded with happy goodbeasts with their fat purses, and Plink was working the busiest part. She coasted through the bustle dipping her paws into loose sacks, sampling a coin here and there, a spool of thread, a lump of cheese from somebeast's lunch. They never saw it coming, either, not while she wore this disguise. They never saw a slick little searat, just a large, homely mousewife out to buy sweets for her ickle babies. She'd even snitched a woven-grass basket and everything.

Something felt off today, though. Plink smiled her best smile and said her 'pardon me's but still she felt anxious. Someone was watching her.

She slipped out of the crowd and down an alley, scurrying to get through the narrow stretch to the cross street, but a big figure dropped from the roof and landed lithely in front of her. Plink saw the bushy tail and the winking silver badge, and immediately whirled around to bolt back toward the crowd. A towering hare already blocked her way. She skidded to a stop before him.

"Just remembered you left the kettle on, wot?" the marshal asked.

"Um, yes," Plink squeaked. "Hubby's probably wondering where I've been!"

"Right," said the squirrel behind her, and then snatched off the shawl that Plink used to conceal her small rattish ears. Startled, she dropped her basket. Coins and treasures scattered across the cobblestones.

The hare looked down his nose at her. "Now. You're too jolly grown up for this trick and you'll be lucky if we don't arrest you for posing a public menace. Come to think of it…" He narrowed his eyes and tugged at his whiskers. "I've seen you skulking about down by the docks, haven't I? Stealing fish scraps, were you?"

"Ain't stealin' if they're throwin' it out anyways," Plink mumbled.

"What's that?" The hare twisted his big ears at her, frowning harder.

Plink screwed up her mouth into a scowl. He'd heard her just fine. Big bully marshals, they didn't know who they were messing with. Plink wasn't just any gutter-licking whelp. She was the daughter of a mighty corsair, a true terror of the high seas, and one day she would be feared and renowned, too.

"I said I could've taken all their dirty fish if I'd've wanted to," she said as she drew the knife out of the pocket hidden in her mousewife skirt, "but I was fine with just the heads!"

In a sudden burst, Plink slashed at the hare's belly. He jerked back and her knife nipped into his navy coat and snagged on one of the brass buttons, but Plink didn't stay to see if she'd drawn blood. She dodged around him and tried to run but something held her back. Then, there was an enormous rip and Plink was free. She sprinted back toward the street, shouts and pursuit loud in her ears.

Plink ducked low and sped through the crowd. There were squeaks and cries, but no one grabbed her and she managed to squeeze into the narrow gap between one shop and the next. She barely fit anymore but managed to wriggle out into the empty alley beyond. With one breathless glance toward the roofline where the squirrel might appear at any second, Plink scurried down the alley toward the docks.

It was only when she was certain she wasn't being followed that Plink paused to look at her disguise. The pretty floral skirt was torn right down the back, revealing the seat of her grubby trousers and her long tail. She took the dress off carefully, and folded it like Ma had taught her after they stole it off a clothesline seasons back. And then she left it on a broken barrel in the alley.

No point saving it. Still, Plink rested a paw on the cloth a moment longer before she turned and headed for the docks.


Captain Ciera Ancora

Category: Pirate Captain

The mood in the hours following the skirmish was a sombre one. Captain Greyjaw of the Deadwake had been repelled, but at the cost of crewbeasts that The Silver Maiden could ill afford to lose. Grimly, the remaining crew set to restoring order. First, they had to take care of the bodies.

Ciera heard the muted splashes from her position in the hold. It was a grim reminder why she was about to do what she was about to do to Figgins.

Figgins had been the Deadwake's lookout. Now the young wildcat was lashed to a chair, his fur matted with tears and blood. Hellgates, he's just a child. Probably suckered in by the promise of treasure, too addlebrained to know what he was in for. Bet he never thought his first battle would end up like this.

She pitied the young fool. Not enough to change what was about to happen, though. That die had been cast long ago.

"I need to know where the Deadwake is heading," she said. Again. "I know you know something about their present course."

Figgins said nothing, just hung his head and wept.

"Figgins!" she snapped sharply.Hellgates. Greyjaw had his hooks deep into this one, and Ciera was rapidly running out of both time and patience. Time for a different tack.

"Now listen here, you little puke. I watched your lot kill ten of my crew today. Big number, ten. Very big. So I'll help you count it out on your claws, like so." She seized one of the wildcat's claws, and bent it sharply backwards at the joint. The bone snapped with an audible crack, prompting an unearthly scream of pain.

"That one's for Ledder," Ciera said, twisting sharply. "He was a good messmate. Your crew slit his throat."

She wrenched it back the other way, for emphasis. "Now," the ferret Captain whispered, staring coolly into Figgins' red-rimmed eyes, "shall I tell you about the other nine?"

Some time later, Ciera softly closed the door, and beckoned a waiting searat. "Cut him loose, get him something to eat, and bandage his paw. Once he's rested, put him to work. Nothing too strenuous, mind."

The searat nodded understandingly. Crew was crew; The Silver Maiden couldn't afford to be choosy about backgrounds, not in this day and age.

Ciera wearily made her way above decks, and had a word with the steersrat. Figgins had spilled everything he knew, which was enough for a new heading. It was a start, at least.

That done, she found a stretch of rail, and vomited over the side. Hellgates. He wasn't much older than Rin.

She slumped down, suddenly exhausted. She could still hear the anguished screams. She deserved to. There were others who'd have gladly done the torturing, which was why she hadn't let them. The burden needed to be borne by somebeast who understood that necessary evils were still evils. That was a captain's duty.

She watched the endless expanse of blue-gray ocean lap against the side of the ship. How long had it been since she'd slept last? This treasure hunt… it was doing something to her. To the crew.

Ciera had always believed that there was a special place in Hellgates for captains like Greyjaw, sacrificing their own crewbeasts, slaughtering other crews to get a slight edge in a race for a treasure that, in point of fact… might not exist. But line between her and him was blurring, rapidly.

The once-crowded seas were emptying out, slowly but surely. They said piracy was dead, and with every passing day that became slightly truer; but if anything could get the corpse to twitch, it was Blade's hoard. That treasure was more than gold, it was the future.And if Ciera Ancora had to float The Silver Maiden into that future on the blood of Figgins and a thousand like him… she'd do it.


Vasily Izhets

Category: Quartermaster

There was a ship.

Vasily Izhets didn't know much about boats, but he guessed this wasn't one of the better ones. He didn't have much of a choice, though; he and that ship had the same destination in mind.

Well, that was a lie. But only in the details, and who paid attention to those?

He cast around a bit until he found a discarded brick in the back of the alley, then spread his cloak out on the ground, placed the brick in the middle, and wrapped it into a slightly oblong bundle. Then he picked it up and stepped into the noisy street.

"Clear a path!" he shouted, dramatically clutching the bundle close to his chest. "My wife's on board that ship, and she left our kit behind!"

Slowly the mob parted and Vasily passed through, making sure to soulfully thank everyone he could. Finally, he reached the gangplank and unsteadily walked up to the deck, where his path was barred by a large ferret's spear.

"I have absolutely no idea what you're goin' on about. We've got no mother cats on this ship; I'd know, I'm the Quartermaster."

Well, on to Plan B then.

Vasily straightened up, patted down his shirt, and tossed the bundle overboard, eliciting gasps and a few cheers from the assembled crowd. Everyone loved a good show.

"Fine, that was a lie. Truth is, I'm on something of a noble quest. My sister's been captured by a rich pirate who's also after the treasure, and he plans to force her to be his bride. Please, help me."

The Quartermaster stood digesting this for a while, ignoring the increasingly loud calls of his crewmates as they made the final preparations. Finally, he gave Vasily his conclusion:

"...You're an idiot."

"You have surprisingly acute judgment, my good sir, for that was also a lie." Mostly. "But I do have one truth to tell you today."

The ferret's brow furrowed and he leaned forward. "And what'd that be?"

The cat also leaned in, keeping one paw on the Quartermaster's right shoulder and his eyes fixated on something to the right of the pirate's head.

"That would be..." said Vasily, drawing every word out over his tongue.

"What?!" growled the pirate.

"...goodbye," finished the cat, giving his companion's shoulder a hard shove to the left. At the same moment the gangplank lurched under them as the ship started its journey out of the harbor. Vasily curled his tail under the ferret's legs as he stumbled, and tipped him off into the water below. With creative curses ringing in his ears he sprinted up the plank and jumped on board just before it completely separated from the ship. He then collapsed on deck, tongue lolling out of his mouth, and watched the clouds roll by as he contemplated his lack of physical fitness.

"Hey, who the hell are you?" asked a searat, nudging him with his pirate looked around. "And where's our Quartermaster? I 'eard 'e was late gettin' on board, did he just desert us?"

"About that," replied the cat, sitting up. "Apparently he had a family emergency and had to leave. I'm his replacement."

"Family emergency? He ain't got no family."

Vasily grinned. "That's the point, actually. Apparently he made some promises to a girl, her father got involved…"

"Ah, say no more. You know anythin' about bein' a quartermaster?"

"That was my last job, actually," he said. Surprisingly, that wasn't a lie.

"Well, I suppose you'll 'ave to do then. By the power granted to me by bein' Second Mate, I 'ereby promote you to Quartermaster. Now go do yer job."

Vasily pulled himself up and meandered his way towards where he assumed the storeroom lay. Mulling over the events of the day, he concluded that he was looking forward to the conclusion of this whole mess.

Well, that was a lie.


Chak Ku'rill

Category: Slavedriver

"They be like children: Need a flogging now and then ta keep 'em in line!" A sharky grin spread across Chak Ku'rill's salty face, lifting his plaited whiskers as the impudent squirrel he just whipped staggered back to his oar. The sea otter glanced at his shipmate, a young messenger stoat, who fidgeted awkwardly. "Gave me a cocky leer, that one. Best ta nip that sort o' thing in the bud."

The stoat nodded and his lip twitched with a smirk, though his eyes darted nervously.

"Eh. Erm – will that be all, Master Ku'rill?"

"Aye. Be off with ye then," Chak scowled. He twisted his new leather whip so it creaked pleasantly in his calloused paws, then started down the walkway between benches. The beat of the drums had ceased for the moment and the oars were raised as favorable winds carried the galley through the dark, slate-colored waters. The slaves were silent aside from a few ragged coughs, eyes downcast. They knew Chak was more dangerous during the lulls. He had grown so accustomed to the rhythm that it made him restless when the drums halted. He sought to fill that void any way he could, which often meant a beating of his own. And now that the stoat was gone, so was the potential distraction of conversation.

One slave, a mouse, decided to brave a gamble, and started to thump his foot on a floorboard,

"I once had a lass in Sarcatre,
Sheeee ran away from me!
Was it mah scent or was it mah face?
Either way tis a sore disgrace!"

The slave paused as he sensed Chak's bulk looming over him, and kept his eyes glued to the floor. He braced, then cringed as he was assailed not with the stinging whip but with a bellowing roar of laughter. Only then did he dare to squint up at the slave driver.

The corsair otter stood, paws against his sides.

"A sea shanty? From a landlubber mouse?" He narrowed his eyes at the woodlander, though the smile did not leave his muzzle. "Ye've a smart set of pipes on ye, lad. Know any more lines than that?"
"Yes sir, if it please you sir."

Chak nodded, "Carry on then."

The mouse continued to sing boldly, and Chak found his mood lighten significantly as a beat returned to his ears.

Being a taskmaster was draining on one's soul, and though Chak was rather a soulless blaggard to begin with, he found he preferred to believe his wards "happily oppressed." In the broad scope of things, they had it pretty good, after all – compared to other slaves, at least. They had regular meals, a blanket each to sleep on, and Chak rarely beat anyone to the point of death. He liked to think his moderate, more frequent floggings kept them subservient, and his bonus system worked to keep them competing with each other rather than rising against him. All they had to do was follow the rules and know their place and they could have very decent (albeit monotonous) lives. Comparatively, weren't most beasts' lives monotonous anyway?

As he "encouraged" the rest to take up the mouse's chorus, Chak Ku'rill felt a warmth grow inside; a warmth that was almost affection, as a beekeeper might feel for his swarm after a particularly large yield of honey.

"Aye," Chak crooned to himself, "Ye be havin' it easy, slave scum. Takes grit n' guts an' plenny o' blood ta get where I be…" He snorted and spat on the grimy floor timbers, "An' more ta git where I'm goin'."

The last verse reverberated with poignancy in his crusty torn ears:

"I once had a heart as pure as gold,
Then it filled up with rot n' mold.
Was it bad luck or was it the fates?
Either way I'm bound for hellgates!"


Vera Silvertooth

Category: Cook

Vera Silvertooth looked up from the simmering cauldron of soup as the door to the kitchen slammed open and Fort Blackfur's commander stormed in with a half-dozen of his biggest soldiers.

"Seize her," Captain Rigal said, and two of the soldiers grabbed Vera.

The vixen inclined her head nobly towards the rat as his troops manhandled her. "My good Captain, what seems to be the problem?"

"The problem, fox, is that my ruby amulet is missing."

Raising a paw to her mouth, Vera said, "How dreadful! Who could have taken it?"

Captain Rigal stalked up to her. "I think you already know the answer to that. I've been out on patrol and Naptooth said the only beast he saw near my rooms was you."

"Oh, dear! I was merely cleaning up the remains of your dinner. You can't possibly think that I had anything too do with..."

"That's exactly what I think," he interrupted. "So, you and all of your belongings are going to be searched, top to bottom. When I find my amulet, you'll wish you'd never been born."

Vera blinked wide, innocent eyes. "Oh, Captain, I know how much that amulet means to you, but I swear that I don't have it. Search, if it will make you feel better. I just ask that your men clean up any mess they make."

Rigal jerked his head to the door. "Get to it. Leave nothing unturned."

As four of the soldiers filed out, Captain Rigal himself searched Vera.

After a fruitless search, Rigal retired to a chair and waited.

Vera, meanwhile, straightened her apron. "If you please, Captain, may I return to my preparations. Supper won't cook itself."

"You're not getting off that easy. We'll find it."

She smiled. "I'm sure you will. Excuse me. My bread is starting to burn."

Vera used the corners of her apron to pull out loaves of perfectly baked bread from the oven. She lined them up near the window to cool, then returned to stirring her soup.

Captain Rigal's men returned. "Sorry, sir. No sign of it."

Rigal exploded from the chair and grabbed Vera roughly by the scruff of her neck. "I know you stole it, Vixen! Where is my amulet?"

This time, she grabbed the heavy knife from the table where it had earlier been chopping vegetables, and pressed it against Rigal's side through a chink in his armor.

"That is quite enough, Captain! I have meekly submitted to these unreasonable searches and you have nothing to show for it! I won't stand for it any longer. Release me!"

Rigal dropped his paw and stepped back, allowing his armed soldiers to step between him and the fox. "This isn't over yet, Vera. I'll find it."

Supper time came and went and the vermin of the fort ate without abandon. As night fell, so did the eyelids of all the beasts in the fort.

All, but Vera.

Close to midnight, she sat on a nearby hill and watched the wood fort, ablaze now with fire. She pulled out a loaf of bread leftover from dinner and began ripping it into large chunks. With a claw, she dug out a glint of silver from the loaf, revealing a beautiful necklace with a large ruby hanging from the chain.

She dropped the ruby amulet in a bowl of water to soften the bread dough from it.

"I found your amulet, Captain Rigal," she said in a sing-song voice.


Tooley Bostay

Category: Prisoner

The brig was especially cold this night. The muffled rattling of rain from above told of a storm, and puddles of water had begun to form from several cracks in the overhead. The ship groaned against the push and pull of the torrid waves, swaying and bowing however nature saw fit.

In a small, rusty cell in the back of the brig, Tooley sat crouched in the corner. He drew his weather-beaten waistcoat closer to him and attempted to wriggle away from the spray of a puddle that had formed in the middle of the cell.

"Really should tell th' Cap'n 'bout this..." he mumbled to himself, frowning up at the troublesome leak.

It hadn't been his first time in the brig. Clumsy mistakes, drunken sea-songs taken too far, and one too many insults to Stitchtail's mother had all landed him here before. Especially that one time he had kitchen duty and a knife somehow wound up in First Mate Ginson's soup. They still called it "Cutthroat Stew" to this day.

But for once in his life, Tooley had no idea what he had done wrong.

The weasel reached up and slid a heavily-patched cap from over his ear. Running his fingers over the rim, he counted out six holes that had been newly gnawed into the hat. Had it really been six days? No, two of those had been when he half expected he was going to be thrown overboard, and a third was from when they forgot to give him supper last night.

The snap of a bolt loosening - and the accompanying groan of a wooden hatch - drew his attention away from the cap and to the stairway leading up to the deck. Rain poured in from the deck, and a figure ducked down onto the ladder.

It was a rat that stepped off, shaking the water off from his fur. He had a lazy eye that always seemed to be looking up, and several seasons-old gashes that cut across a crooked snout.

Tooley jumped to his feet, grinning widely. "Daggle, mate! Please tell me yer 'ere to get me outta this hole!"

Tooley looked past the rat to see two ferrets descend the ladder and step up beside Daggle, paws resting on cutlasses at their side. Tooley's smile faltered.

"Any, uh, any reason fer the convoy, mate?"

Daggle didn't respond as he fished out a set of iron keys from his coat. The cell door unlocked with a heavy clack and Daggle swung it open.

Neither spoke for a moment, with only the pattering of rain and groaning of the ship to fill the silence. Swallowing, Tooley croaked out the question that he'd been asking himself for days. "What's goin' on?"

Daggle finally looked up at him, his good eye focused firmly on him. "Ginson's dead. Got poisoned."

Tooley froze. He blinked at the rat for several moments, waiting for the tell-tale smile to spring the joke. There was nothing. His gaze trailed back to the two ferrets, whose grips tightened around their weapons. The reality of the situation suddenly hit him. He attempted to work out a response, but found his mouth dry and only managed a stuttering cough.

Daggle drew his cutlass and pointed it towards the ladder, adding in a low tone, "Yer best off not makin' things worse."

Tooley took several uneven steps forward. He wasn't sure if it was just the ship, but the world seemed to be twisting and turning as he walked. As he reached the ladder, he risked a glance back at Daggle. The rat simply gestured him onwards. Turning back around, he stuck his cap in his mouth and placed two tentative paws onto the ladder. He began working a new hole into the rim of his cap as he took the first step.

All at once, the brig seemed to be a very wonderful place.