The simple dirt path through the woods seemed a lot less open and friendly when he was doing a military march down it, Tarquin thought. He cleared his throat and pushed his monocle further up his face, flicking a finger against the false gold chain. The hare didn't miss a beat of his marching. No character breaking was allowed— especially not with something right around the blinking corner, Tarquin thought, wanting to drop the hare general's stern face and go back to normal walking. His footpaws moved up and down in the monotonous Long Patrol stomp he'd had drilled into his brain all cubhood.
Left! Left, right, left. Left! Left, right, left…
Tarquin snuck a glance from the corners of his eyes as he began to approach the curve in the path where all the unnerving shaking and cracking noises had been coming from. A thick clump of bushes hugged both of the path's sides, everything underneath the broad, overarching branches of leafy oak trees. The whole thing was like a natural shady stage and curtain, Tarquin thought. From the way the bushes looked, they probably grew into a briar patch up ahead and swallowed the rest of the path up. There'd be no clear ground for a long time even if the path still existed. The hare resisted the urge to put his paw over his heart and start quoting off the most dramatic plays he could think of that involved characters being devoured or meeting their unwilling ends in the woods.
Oh, that's bally perfect, he thought. Tarquin unslung his bag from his shoulders while he was still marching. He pulled free a false wooden rapier that was tangled amongst the other costumes. Bartholo would've normally had a fit about him beating things besides fellow actors with stage props— though the squirrel seemed to have no objection whenever Keelstrip began to bounce Tarquin around like the world's largest hare dust rag; how did he always end up in a role that inevitably fought or got killed by the otter anyway?— but this false rapier had enough metal coating chipped off it to where it didn't matter any longer. Looking at the crack down the middle, Tarquin was pretty sure it was the one their juggling vole Yosef had accidentally nailed Keelstrip between the eyes with. That otter had a skull like a stinking rock.
Bartholo could get angry, but he wasn't going to be coming back to the camp with some extra thorns in his stubby tail all for the sake of protecting a broken stage rapier, Tarquin thought with a burst of defiance. He had enough of landing rear-first in briar patches after a drunken hedgehog had tossed him into one right off the stage one performance night. That had bloody hurt.
The hare jerked his sack shut and threw it over his shoulder before giving a slightly harder flourish with the rapier blade than he needed to. He was discovering he hadn't quite gotten over his animosity towards briars as a prick of joy filled his chest at the thought of beating them down. Blinking rear-sticking weeds! The previous noises in the forest were forgotten as Tarquin advanced menacingly on the plants blocking his way, tilting the weapon in his paw like it actually had a blade instead of a blunted edge a shrewwife couldn't cut cheese with.
"Come on at me, you floppish and flounderin' excuse for a salad," Tarquin growled, still not entirely breaking character. To the Dark Forest with it; he'd already decided to declare war on a bunch of prickly bushes, why not throw some dramatic monolog on top? "I'll be eatin' your yellow-bellied leafy cubs for lunch, wot!"
Tarquin sidestepped in an effort to be fancy, imagination egging him on to ham it up further. His foot accidentally slipped right into a deep little pothole in the road, causing the hare to spin around towards the rest of the forest to avoid to twisting his ankle. His cracked wooden rapier was still raised and more hare curses on his tongue as he spun around, and that was exactly when he came face-to-face with Victin Stubfang coming out of the bushes.
Breaking character in the middle of a performance wasn't good. Breaking your nose was even worse.
"I. GODDAMN. HATE. THIS. KILT," Victin ground out, words an angry hiss under his breath. One of his paws was now clutching to his throbbing nose, which had slammed straight into a protruding tree root on the ground after Victin had finished tripping over the first one and getting his legs tangled in briars (courtesy of the kilt).
He was lucky that Oscela's fang extensions hadn't bitten a hole through his lip in the process, Victin thought, still clutching his nose and shoving away the clingy and draping vines with a viciousness that could've almost passed for a Juska. The bone bracelets he wore jerked and bounced as the weeds tried to insistently pull them off his wrists like the obnoxious weasel brat who'd gotten backstage before Marvelo had tossed him back to his parents. Victin was half thinking the blasted trees were going to reach down and start plucking at his earrings.
It was no bloody wonder nobeast ever saw the Juska fighting in close forest quarters, Victin thought, fuming as he kept heading in his chosen direction. They'd lose their reputation as tough warriors if they were too busy trying to keep their pants up or jewelry on in the middle of a brawl. He made a mental note to punch Ripfang in the face when he got back to make himself feel better. The fox was the one who'd let him stay out in that tavern and delivered the message to the rest of the troupe that he would be just fine getting back later; this trudging over brush piles and wading through thorns was indirectly his scumsucking fault.
The stoat gingerly peeled his fingers from his nose when he didn't feel any more major throbs of pain. He sniffed, staring down his muzzle at it. On the pain levels which went from 'Ach, thorn in my foot' to 'HELP ME THERE'S A GODDAMN RAT EATING MY LEGS' Victin decided it was on par with getting hit in the face with a decently-aimed wooden tankard. It hurt, but it definitely wasn't broken, the stoat thought. The caution for his surroundings emerged again when he saw a glow of light between the trees nearby, eating up a portion of the permanent dusk Mossflower held in some parts of its woods and bringing in day. The path and whatever had been rustling loudly earlier had to be close.
All of his concerns vanished when Victin's foot went thudding right into a rock hidden by a patch of thorns. A strangled yelp and curse burst from his mouth as he lifted his hurt foot and tried to grab his aching toes, keeping up an awkward jump and dance as he also tried to desperately keep his kilt down and more sensitive spots hidden from the briars. It was pure luck that he went stumbling out of the briar patch, spitting low curses on everything and everyone he could think of, Oscela included. He'd show that smirking ferretmaid how in character he was when he got back to the troupe—
Right around when he thought he was free of the briars and felt actual less stagnant air and sun striping the ground nearby, Victin saw a blur of motion in the road and heard some growled words. He stopped short just as he almost broke free of the forest, and the startled, battered, and angry stoat stomped right down on the largest (and final) tendril of briars that had sneakily grown out to the path's flanking bushes. Fur standing on end, fingers and claws contracting with surprised pain, and bone jewelry shaking, Victin gave an unholy shriek and snarl of pain just as he met Tarquin Fleetpaw.
For around two seconds, both beasts stared at each other, registering what was apparently peeking out of the bushes and greeting them on the path: a fully armed, bone-bejeweled and tattoo-decorated Juska warrior with bared fangs, and a uniform-wearing and medal-covered Long Patrol general with a rapier out and waiting.
Victin and Tarquin inwardly screamed.
Outwardly, Victin did the first thing he could think of when confronted with a Long Patrol general while he had a briar vine stuck up his foot and now wrapped around his ankle— he tried to cut off what was pinning him to escape. The stoat's paw flew down to his sword hilt, the fear and inward scream pounding through his chest making him forget that a play prop wouldn't slice through a twig. He yanked the sword out and swung in it an arc, ready to cut off anything to get away from what was in front of him, only for momentum and his slipping claws to send the sword hurling right towards Tarquin's face instead. His accidental aim was beautiful.
Tarquin, most of whose head was clouded by pure terror and mental screaming at the beast in front of him while he apologized to his mother for choosing this lifestyle, did what came naturally— he bolted. Or tried to. The instant he took off, his foot still caught in the tight pothole whipped him around like loaded sling with a burst of pain and sent him bending over like a grass blade in a storm. Victin's thrown blade missed him by a tuft of fur and grazed over the tip of his nose. Tarquin's eyes bugged as he choked back a scream at the blade spinning past his face. His trapped ankle jerked him back up into the exact same standing position he'd started from right after the sword passed and flew into the opposite bushes.
Thoroughly terrified, the hare then realized he was holding his broken false rapier at the same time a panicking Victin did.
Normally, a real rapier was wielded with elegant and sweeping grace, flashing through the air and cutting thin crescents and jabs of red into the opponent with a silver sweep of metal. The horrified Tarquin used his fake one like a bat and brought it down on Victin with all the finesse of a crow beating an overripe fruit.
Victin, who'd just gotten his foot off the briar line with his fur still on end, gave a strangled growl of pain the same time Tarquin grunted. To each other, it sounded like an angry and raw animalistic growl and the beginning of a battle cry. To themselves, they sounded like their voices had gotten higher by several wavering pitches.
Fear-laced adrenaline running through him, Victin reacted reflexively and backhanded the blade away— which Tarquin had swung with the flat instead of the edge pointed at him— the same time he accidentally fell forward. Tarquin's strength infused blow, which would have normally been enough to knock somebeast out, was deflected with a seeming effortlessness thanks to both Victin's strength and unintentionally thrown-in weight. The rapier went spinning up as the stoat caught his balance by pure luck much the same way Tarquin had stood back upright earlier. He also accidentally caught Tarquin's blade.
For a frozen second, they stared at each other.
He's toying with me and he's going to kill me with his bare paws, Victin thought, looking at the valiantly posed and unarmed Tarquin who had his arms uncaringly down by his sides.
He's strong enough to block me like nothing and he's going to beat me to death, Tarquin thought, looking at the way Victin stood posed with his wooden rapier nonchalantly held in both his paws like a stick.
Both beasts stood unmoving for another second before they both screamed and took off in the opposite directions.