For a split moment, much like the same way Victin and Tarquin had run into each other previously, both stoat and hare stared at was apparently in their way— a regular, homely-looking hare, and a just as awkward-looking regular vermin traveler. For another half of a second, they both felt complete relief. There was no angry Juska baring its giant curved fangs and tattooed body and no medal-covered Long Patrol general wielding a rapier. It was just another companion, they both thought, beginning to relax.

Then they remembered what they were disguised like in the other half of the second. All relaxation fled out of the clearing as swiftly as the two beasts had ran screaming from each other a few hours earlier.

The whistle died on Tarquin's lips as his eyes went as wide as teacup saucers, and Victin already felt a whole slew of curses on absolutely everything building in his mouth as he considered turning right around and making a break for it, the stoat's arm still frozen where it was reaching up help him duck under a branch.

I blinkin' HATE irony sometimes, Tarquin thought.

Victin and Tarquin both immediately tried to backpedal in their spots, the two beasts stepping backwards without bothering to turn around. If they'd have retreated into the forest the same way they came, they would've actually been successful. It was unfortunate for them that Victin forgot about the branch he ducked under when entering the clearing and Tarquin didn't notice the vine strung low over the ground behind him.

The stoat stepped backward and slammed his skull against the back of the limb with a dull thud that he felt throughout his entire head. The fake ears on his hat quivered, and Victin had to resist swearing to keep from flashing his fangs to the beast across from him, the stoat's arms windmilling once like a drunken beast balancing on a limb before he managed to stand up with his paw clutching at his aching skull. He ended up biting his lip to keep from getting out more than the start of a curse, stars swimming in front of his eyes as a pitiful whimper crawled out from between his teeth.

Pride? What's 'pride'? Victin thought, his eyes burning with the tears of pain as the branch sent him skittering back into the clearing like a shamed stage-manager who'd gotten an earful from Oscela, slinking from her caravan with tail tucked between his legs (and Victin's would have been as well if it wasn't tied around his waist.)

Tarquin responded to his eloquent whimper and crash into a low branch by tripping backwards over a vine and falling with just as much elegance.

One moment, the hare was backing up to avoid a confused confrontation with a fellow woodland traveler— hoping he wasn't going to end up getting a thrashing straight from Saber and Bloodwrath after all— and the next, his foot and false tail were catching on a vine and the sky looked quite pleasant when one stared straight up.

Well, it would've, if Tarquin hadn't slammed his head and body in general into the ground and was too busy seeing stars to marvel at the sky.

A garbled mutter burst out of his mouth that Tarquin was half-sure of being 'Blinking curse you, Keelstrip.' The hare was so used to the otter laying him out over the stage in one way or another that any fall, blow, or concussion that dizzied his head had Tarquin automatically cursing Keelstrip in semi-consciousness. With the fake tail stuffed under him like a caterpillar, ears straining against their binding, and limbs thrown out to the side like he was going to make a snow angel— in the middle of summer— Tarquin Fleetpaw felt the last bit of dignity die inside him with a final squeak.

Stripping naked and quoting Woe Upon My Hedgehog to those angry robins back in the earlier part of the forest would've been more dignified, Tarquin thought, his face burning as he clumsily righted himself and stumbled back into the clearing. The last stars were fading from his vision when he realized that he and the other hare opposite from him were staring at each other.

At least he's not a threat, Victin and Tarquin thought, trying to eye each other with the least amount of awkwardness possible. Victin put on an air of being composed and casually disdainful.

I don't think he saw that, the stoat thought, having seen Tarquin bowl over backwards through his watering eyes. Thank Hellgates for small mercies.

"Who're ya?" Tarquin growled, protectively clutching the neck of his sack and laying on the accent thick. He spoke more aggressively than he intended to, but the hare felt like he needed it. There was no doubt that the beast across from him had witnessed his oh-so-graceful floundering. He didn't want to make himself look like an easier target than before.

Victin shifted his weight and tapped his fingers over his hip as if he had a weapon, scrutinizing the vermin across him. He did it with less malice than he needed to for the role— he wanted to be a little intimidating, not start a fight. "You first, you blinkin' vermin, wot wot."

The stoat's voice seesawed over the accent more than it should have, giving him the air of being a beast that'd had just a little to drink or a whap in the skull with a small frying pan. Victin had never played a speaking hare before or met one first-paw; he'd been a background character as one once. How do their bloody accents work? Victin thought, trying to keep his pseudo-belly underneath the large coat from wobbling like a dancing stomach tumor.

A small sliver of fear pricked his heart as he and the vermin began to edge around the clearing slightly, both still cautious. What if the vermin picked up on his jilted accent? Hellgates, this situation would be hard to explain, and he wasn't stripping down out of his disguise in case the hare general came around.

Victin dismissed some of his fears when he saw the traveler across from him further. He was a generic and ugly vermin, enough so that he had no definable species other than 'maybe a crackpot mustelid' or 'mother had a really active social life.' The mix-and-match clothes practically screamed of a deep forest resident. (As Ripfang had put it once, 'Bein' ugly is a gift, and the giver is very generous.') Those vermin were the kind that paid in bent-up coins and stray turnips to watch plays when the troupe came around, or if they were generous, a meal. But does he have the accent? Victin thought. The stoat tried to keep his fake ears from tilting over again.

"I don't owe anythin' ta a blinkin' hare; I don't haveta tell ya if I dun't want ta," Tarquin said, giving a little scowl and adopting the sullen attitude many vermin seemed to possess. When he saw the hare shifting, he quickly changed his tone. Keeping in character wasn't worth getting in a fight. "But my name is—"

Dark Forest Gates, what do I say? Tarquin thought, fear pounding in him as his tongue abruptly went mute. 'Tarquin Fleetpaw' was as subtle a hare name as getting nailed in the face with a brick. He could hardly introduce himself that way— but what was a regular vermin name? The flowery menace and exaggerated names in any of the dramatic plays wouldn't work. Tarquin had never met a vermin other than the corsair ferret he'd run through with a sword, and that exchange could be boiled down to 'OH BLINKIN' BLOOMERS HE'S IN MY FACE WHERE DO I STAB' on Tarquin's part, and 'DAMNIT! There's a har— URGHasgurgle…' on the ferret's. It wasn't really a tea-and-crumpet meeting.

Vermin name themselves after body parts and gore, right? Tarquin thought, racking his brain to reassure himself. The silence had stretched on for a few moments, and under the watching eyes of the other hare, Tarquin cleared his throat and thought quickly.

"Bloodclaw McFangface," Tarquin said.

He IS one of that lot, Victin thought. No wonder he looked that way; there was definitely alcohol involved before and after when his mother popped him out (and perhaps during.) It explained his name.

Seeing the expectant look on the other vermin's face, Victin kept in character and ran his fingers along the rim of his hat's beak. He could feel the scarf crumpled against his belly whenever he moved. Victin hoped that Fate would stop poking at him like a cub with a stick or whenever Ripfang tried to wake Marvelo without falling victim to his reflexes; it'd be just his luck for the scarf to start poking out like a bunch of cloth entrails.

"Fair enough, vermin," Victin said, trying not to let his body curve in a manner that'd give away his long torso and waist. The other vermin would probably think he was possessed if a hare started bending like a water reed. "Since you've bally introduced yourself, wot, I guess it's my turn, wot wot. I am known as—"

The most bloody unlucky stoat actor this side of Mossflower, Victin thought. He could remember the name of one hare from the comedy satire Salamandastron Is In The Goddamn Ocean, but it'd been ages since he'd met another troupe who'd put it on, and he didn't think 'Captain Fannigan Wotwont' would be a suitable name to keep the bit of respect for himself he had left. Add in the fact that if the Long Patrol general caught the other vermin somehow and interrogated him, he might just go looking for the supposed Captain. The stoat was already struggling to remember the correct accent; he didn't need more trouble on his plate.

Hares love drawn out titles and fancy names; just think of another way to say 'fast' as pompous as you can, Victin thought, keeping his hat brim turned down and other paw holding his satchel still. He gave a dramatic flourish with his paw worthy of a sassy Oscela and thought swiftly.

"—Basil P. Fastfoot IX, wot wot." Victin said. That sounded like a suitable hare name.

The vermin across from him looked over him a little longer before edging closer to the clearing's side again, something both of them had been doing for the past several minutes. It was a demented circle of slow movements as they both tried to get closer to the sound of the running water through the trees while staying as far away from each other as possible. The other vermin dipped his head.

Poor fellow, Tarquin thought as he repressed a wince, still trying to look surly, he's one of those chaps who got number-named. It was more common in hares than most other species— particularly within large Salamandastron families— for a poor beast to get saddled with their mother's, father's or grandparent's name for the umpteenth time out of some obligation to pay tribute or to constantly remind the name-bearing hare that there was someone heroic or memorable back in their family line. That or the family just got tired of thinking up names for their large amount of cubs and Vivian H. Fopshind XIII was born out-of-luck.

"Fair enough, hare," Tarquin said. He gave a small snort afterwards, but was unable to keep his eyes from nervously going over the other hare and how the pair of them seemed to be gravitating towards one point of the clearing. The sound of running water was loud and clear through the thinning trees and a downward slope. Tarquin hadn't known he was so close to his goal. "Now that that's outta the way, I'll just be goin' on."

"Bally well enough, vermin, wot wot," Victin said, mockingly echoing Tarquin's earlier words. He pulled his satchel up higher. Hares and all their 'wots'… how do they speak with so many of them? "I'll be heading on the road, wot wot."

Tarquin wondered if he had a speech impediment. No one he knew spoke with that many 'wots.' Neither do they have oddly lumpy and off-center bellies, he thought, keeping himself from staring as he turned and began to march towards the sound of the stream. Tarquin didn't think of himself as being judgmental, but Basil P. Fastfoot was easily one of the most… handsome-ly impaired hares he'd ever seen. Maybe it was a medical condition.

The disguised Tarquin was still walking towards the slope at the edge of the clearing when he heard footsteps mimicking his and spotted two ears (one lopsided) at the corners of his vision. Tarquin blinked and stopped dead at the exact same time Victin did. Both of them stared at each other from their parallel positions in the clearing, bags slung over their shoulders. It took a moment for the situation to click.

"What're you doin', vermin?" Victin said sharply. There was more fear driving his voice to be forceful instead of anger. Having to stay disguised and unhurried in front of another traveler would slow his progress, and whether or not the hare general wasn't going to touch him, he didn't want to run into him again. Ever.

"What're ya doin'?" Tarquin shot back, a similar internal crisis going through him. Martin help him, it didn't matter that he was dressed up as a vermin; the Juska warrior from earlier would probably skin him alive out of some demented pleasure just for the sake of it— and it wouldn't help that he was traveling next to a hare.

"I'm goin' down to the stream to take care of my own jolly business, wot wot," Victin said, giving the other vermin a dirty look as took a step forward. The light in the clearing was much brighter than any place he'd trodden today; spaced apart trees and gaps in the spreading green bunches of leaves above let illumination come down to create a sharp silhouette behind the stoat of a pudgy-bellied hare. Victin felt a little apologetic for harassing a fellow vermin traveler, but he decided he'd also feel pretty damn apologetic about getting a Long Patrol rapier through his stomach. "Don't you have some place to go, Bloodtooth, wot wot?"

"It's BloodCLAW," Tarquin said, puffing his chest out and swelling in false irritation. He felt like a miniature Yosef was trying to dance a jig in his belly and throw juggling balls against his innards. Every moment spent waiting was a moment where the Juska could be getting closer, and if Tarquin got the hare across from killed because that monster found them— but he himself spared because of his disguise— the young actor didn't think he'd ever forgive himself. If he had to act pushy and defensive to get the other beast to leave him alone and managed to put up a façade of being actually intimidating, he'd do it. "I'm a stinkin' set 'o teeth in the jaws of a gale; I kin go wherever I want ta."

Tarquin punctuated his words with a slight pushing forward of his chest like a smug pigeon. He was proud through his anxiety; that line had been all his own and he thought he'd nailed a vermin attitude perfectly. The other hare gave him an odd look before snorting and continuing to walk towards the stream. Tarquin, trying to keep in character, slumped and pulled the sack further up his back as he went on.

The two beasts quickly realized that the downward slope turned into a full-fledged hill as they approached the clearing's borders, seeing all the leaves and ground being sucked down into a slippery, treacherous-to-navigate, steep hillside. At the very bottom of the long hill— as a greenish shifting ribbon barely visible between the trees— was the stream. Both Victin and Tarquin inwardly cringed about having to descend down the slope in costume. One slip and they'd be rolling more swiftly than an obese shrew punted down a mountainside.

It was Tarquin whom finally made the first move, balancing on foot and tentatively placing his other on the beginning of the steep hill. Victin stepped behind him out of pure habit and waited to see the results. The two travelers had unconsciously been getting closer to each other as they walked towards the hill (both of them intuitively wanted to get close to a fellow vermin or hare traveler though they were in costume). But neither of them was quite paying attention to such things.

Tarquin placed his weight on a wobbling leg as he straightened himself up, standing on the slick and leaf-covered ground. He was wary and scared for a moment, feeling the slipperiness of the forest floor underneath him, but the hare finished standing up with a pleased smile when he didn't go tumbling down. Tarquin poked another foot forward with confidence.

"Well, this ain't so bad," he said, a childish kind of relief and smugness on his face as he spoke. He wasn't sure if it was towards himself or the other hare traveler behind him. "Just gotta move slOOOW!"

With a surprised shriek, Tarquin's foot slid out from under him, throwing leaves into the air like demented confetti as the disguised hare's arms flew up behind him. Victin startled at his yelp but didn't move, the stoat's feet still firmly on strong ground, and there was a ripping noise right before Tarquin desperately lunged at Victin to grab something to hold on to— which happened to be the stoat's stuffed coat. Victin gave something between a curse and a yelp and jerked back, dragging Tarquin up to the hilltop clearing again. Popped buttons scattered over the ground in all directions.

Victin staggered up, feeling the weight of Tarquin pulling him down as he tried to get his bearings. There was something fuzzy underneath his foot and a tugging sensation around his waist, and the vermin across from him was shaking his head dizzily before he looked at Victin with actual focus. There was a brief pause. Tarquin's eyes grew wide with as he looked at Victin, a squeak escaping his mouth. Victin stared in discomfort at his expressions as he felt the fluffy thing under his foot squash further.

"Oh, Martin," Tarquin squeaked, his face paling. He looked ready to throw up. "I didn't— didn't mean to—"

Following the line of his eyes, Victin looked down. Tarquin hadn't just grabbed his coat and popped a few buttons off. He'd unintentionally grabbed the coil of red scarf underneath. The vermin across from him was staring in terror at the loop of red material hanging between his paws, the length of which ran back through one of the gaps between buttons like a coil. In all retrospect to Tarquin's panicked eyes, it looked like he had gutted his traveling partner.

Victin half-wanted to laugh at the look on the other vermin's face if he hadn't been filled with the sinking feeling of his disguise being torn apart. The poor ugly beast—

Victin's thoughts stopped dead when he suddenly glimpsed something on the ground. The stoat stared at the long loop of fur that curved over the leaves and passed underneath his foot, pinned there. Victin mutely bent down and picked it up while Tarquin was still holding the scarf in his paw with abject terror. Victin stared at it longer when he'd stood up.

His tail. He was holding the other vermin's torn-off tail.

When Tarquin registered what Victin had in his paws, all the hare's fading gibberish came to a complete stop. His paw automatically went back to grasp at where at his tail had been attached before. He found only a belt and a torn base of material and fluff. Victin didn't miss his action.

The two beasts stared mutely at each other for a few more long seconds as the realizations in their heads clicked.

"I'm sorry, I'm so blinkin' sorry," Tarquin burst out, lunging backward and trying to rip his false tail out of Victin's paws. His apologizing was filled with more hysteria about what he slowly realized was happening rather than sorrow as he tried to get away.

"This is a bloody misunderstandin'—" Victin said, trying to jerk back and get his stuffing scarf out of Tarquin's paws, the stoat backpedaling like only an expert could. It hadn't occurred to the hysterical Tarquin to let go of the scarf yet, and another foot of the red material pulled out of the coat like a sausage link being dragged out. Victin hadn't let go of the tail, either, despite the fact that Tarquin was now clutching the other end and desperately tugging on it.

Both beasts yanked back to flee at the same time the scarf and tail reached their limits for being stretched. It was unfortunate that Victin had forgotten he'd tied the first loop of the scarf around his waist instead of just stuffing it in the coat.

The scarf was like elastic, giving Tarquin and Victin one step each before the stretched cloth and oddly durable false tail (Kenna was a good seamstress) jerked them back together with all the force of a slingshot. The stoat and hare slammed together and cracked heads, brought on by their own momentum, and both travelers yelped and screeched as they saw stars.

Dizzily pulling back from each other, they tried to escape once more, only to be unable to pull away. A large crude button on Tarquin's vest had snagged between two of the buttons on Victin's coat, knotting them together more thoroughly than a rope. Victin and Tarquin were yanked together to crack heads again, yelping and swearing as they stumbled over the clearing edge like a decapitated bird, and both beasts went over the edge and down the hill with a scream of a surprise.

A blurry, knotted ball of hare and stoat rolled down the hill, being thrown up into the air at every random bounce off an obstructing tree trunk or bump, and both travelers involved became nothing but a blur of wayward limbs, screaming, swearing, and yelping as they tumbled down the hill— sounds that were only muted when the entangled ball crashed into the stream. Water sprayed everywhere in a splash of waterweed, costume pieces, and fur.

A shocking wet cold enveloped Tarquin for a moment, and then he burst out of the water with a stream of bubbles escaping from his mouth before he sat up. Hacking, coughing, and gasping, Tarquin blindly paddled the water before he realized it wasn't deeper than his chest— while he was sitting down.

The clear water stream water was filled with floating clothes and stage props, the material prevented from floating downstream by getting stuck on some nearby rocks and jagged snags. A scarf stuck around a branch rippled like a wave of color in the water. Two ears (Tarquin did a double-take when he saw them) hooked onto a hat shivered in the water like weeds in the current. A thin stream of dye melting from something tainted the waves with a string of color.

Tarquin then realized he was sitting on that something the dye was coming off of. Actually, he was sitting in that something's lap. The hare gawked at the face merely inches away from his that was getting its bearings, a hat no longer covering its round ears and long face. Judging by the freed way his own long ears were pinning back in shock, Tarquin could guess he'd lost his own hood and ear wrappings. Everything was now out in the open.

The hare would've gotten more time to appreciate the awkwardness of straddling a stoat lap's— and Victin would've gotten the time to appreciate feeling wholly conscious again— if Tarquin's immediate reflex to having a foe so close hadn't been to uppercut Victin in the face.

The stoat was conscious for a moment after he burst out of the water, dizzy and coughing at the sudden coldness and the aching in his head. Victin only had enough time to see the dye from his tattoos coming off and making lazy ribbons in the water with lots of other stage props and clothes floating in it, and then he got a brief glimpse of a hare's wide eyed face before there was a blur of movement and a sudden snap of pain in his skull.

Victin saw the world and the shocked hare's face go to a blurry black, light fading out before he dropped backwards and felt the cool water envelop him again.