Cinder
It had not been a good day. It had not been a good night.
Now, things were rapidly reaching the point where it looked like it would not be a good anything for a very, very long time.
Gritting her teeth as the otter beside her began to panic, Cinder glanced over at the rabbit in silent cue. With the practiced ease of people who have had to do something unpleasant quite often, they grabbed hold of the otter and began steadily moving to the other side, ignoring his protests. The weasel's grip remained firm – even when a flailing claw hooked painfully into her ear. It was a mere tick-mark on a steadily growing list of minor injuries, including welts across her face from an unfortunate encounter with some cat-o'-nine-tails they'd skirted earlier.
The swamp bottom was hardly even, and the rabbit and otter were lucky enough to be treading on the slightly shallower portion where vegetation had taken dogged root. On the other paw, the footing on Cinder's side was a morass of sticky mud. In addition, part of it suddenly fell away from under her – forcing her to swim, churning marsh mud and foul water in her wake. Not the easiest of things to do when only one paw is free and the other is trying to restrain an almost-grown otter.
Naturally, she felt incredibly relieved when it was finally over.
With the otter calmed, Cinder lay quietly, snatching the opportunity for a little rest. It couldn't last, of course, and with a grunt of both irritation and regret, she gingerly sat up. The weasel glanced over to the other slaves. The rabbit – Phoebe, Cinder reminded herself, they'd somehow found time for an exchange of names when they'd first met – was clearly alright, already looking over her drenched skirts with distaste and wringing the water from the mud-stained fabric irritably.
Her eyes slid over to the otter – Sycamore, a more socially adept part of her mind supplied. At the moment, he was reduced to little more than a trembling kit, and she remembered how badly water frightened him. Not the most helpful trait in this environment, and not something you'd typically find in an otter. She'd never bothered to ask the cause of his apparently irrational phobia. Mentally stomping down her exasperation, Cinder reached over to awkwardly pat him on the back. Off to the side, she heard Phoebe harrumph and turn away. Well, let the rabbit snub them – it wasn't like she could move away.
"We're goin' t'be alright." Cinder wasn't sure that Sycamore heard her, but she said it aloud anyway. For Phoebe's peace of mind, not to mention her own. Attempt at morale boosting done, the weasel scooted back to her original position, wincing as her numerous aches began to throb. Oh, glory. Flinching, she lay back and allowed her eyes to slide shut, ignoring the fact that it was daytime – there were worse times to fall asleep.
"So how do we get these chains off?"
Cinder jerked in surprise, chains clinking as sat up to blink at Sycamore. She'd expected Phoebe to be the first among them to speak - the rabbit was scowling at the otter, plucking at the band around her ankle irritably.
"Really, you say that like it's the simplest thing in the world – let's see, now how would we go about doing that?" Phoebe asked Sycamore, sarcasm dripping from her voice as she pretended to think. The rabbit mock-snapped her fingers, as if an idea had just occurred to her. "Oh, I know - why don't we smash them apart with rocks?"
"That could work." The question was rhetoric, and mocking at that, but Cinder found herself seriously considering it. Free of the chains – and all it would take was a really good hit with a really hard rock. Maybe many really good hits, and maybe many really hard rocks, but in the end the loss of the heavy iron weights would be worth it. Or at least, the prospect of finally being able to enjoy some privacy.
"You're crazy," Phoebe sniffed with her usual pomp, recovering from her incredulous stare. "There aren't any rocks around here, mush-for-brains, and these chains aren't going to break just because someone decided to try smacking them a few times." The rabbit lifted her chain and shook it at Cinder for emphasis. The clinking did sound awfully solid.
Sycamore was examining the metal links bound to his foot. "They've gotten rusty," he offered hesitantly. "We've been wading through… the swamp, for a while." The otter's fur bristled slightly at the memory. Phoebe ignored him completely.
"Even supposing we could get started, what then? I'm not quite built for hard labor, if you hadn't noticed."
Cinder had. "Y'kin stay on watch?" The weasel said it doubtfully, clearly harboring little confidence in the rabbit's observation skills. "Keep an eye out fer things we don't want t'meet, like. And rocks…" Memory flashed, and she scrambled to the water again, actually wading into it as the other two yelped in alarm – Sycamore even tried to tug her back, but she impatiently batted his grip away. Her other paw, groping along the mud at the water's edge, found what she had in mind, and she tossed onto the bank triumphantly. For once, her thoughts had proved correct – after all, the swamp hadn't always been a swamp…
The waterworn river stone bounced once then skidded along the ground, coming to a rest at Sycamore's feet, actually cleaner than when it had been fished out.
In a rare moment of accord, Phoebe and Sycamore exchanged skeptical glances and simultaneously turned back to the clearly-mad weasel in front of them. Cinder was grinning widely, canting her head engagingly in a rare show of enthusiasm.
"Let's git started – I want t'get out o'these chains soon, donchew?"