A Mustelid Maiden

Amos, Trace, Scaith, Dangeon, Stubb, Angus, Delilah (Stubb spoof), dead-looking cat (Hactor spoof), Hactor

Location: The Thorn and Shadow (Collinsel)

(Sometimes Club)

The place is a bit lively this afternoon, dancers on the stage and various beasts playing some sort of card game. Music playing in the background, and the bar semi-full with an asortment of beasts vermin and woodlanders alike. The journey back to the Inn was slow going, and the group taking turns carrying the unconcious weasel. At the moment both Trace and Dangeon are carrying him through the doors, with Amos leading the group. Stares turning, and Amos pulling two unoccoupied tables together, "Over here, lay him over here."

The noise of the tavern is almost a bit /too/ lively for Trace's tastes, as they stumble through the doors with Stubb in tow. The weasel is draped rather uncerimoniously over both Trace's and Dangeon's shoulders, as they heft him through the doors and into the bustling room. "Too many beasts watching us, Amos," is all Trace says as she moves to help lift him up onto the table. She's been quiet most of the way back, barely saying anything, which is most unlike the rat. And even now, as they drop Stubb off, her eyes are darting with a chill look to them. Beware, any onlookers who might get a bit too close to the weasel.

Among the game-playing vermin sits the ever-evasive Scaith, who appears rumpled and disordered amidst the bustle of other beasts; but with a drink in one hand and dice in the other, she is well-suited for the scalawags who surround her. The quintet who enter are familiar faces, but her main focus is on the bet at hand. "Two tanners and a tosheroon," she mumbles to those at the table before shaking the cubes in her hands. Whatever they land as, it seems good for Scaith; a beast across from her looks on with irritation at the marten.

Dangeon nods her agreement. "Far too many. 'S not another room we could take 'm too?" The hare has also been rather quiet until now except to mumble irritable things at random as she helped to carry Stubb. "We'll end up bally robbed down here."

"Lets take a moment to catch our breath at least, " Amos turns to the others in the room, "Ain't nothing to see here folks, just do what'cha were doing, " He turns back to Dangeon and Trace, "Maybe get him in the cellar than, Dang ya get some water and drink as you see fit. Me and Trace will carry him into the cellar."

"Somewhere out of sight of everyone, at least," Trace remarks with a breath as she shrugs her shoulders out and enjoys at least a couple minutes of not carrying deadweight-Stubb. Obviously, they can't just leave him here. And she'd rather not have to explain everything to every random beast staring at them. After a few more seconds of rolling out her shoulders, she turns to Amos again. "Come on. The sooner the better." Again, quick words, that steely-eyed stare. She's in no mood for any of this crap. And with that, Trace reaches out to move the weasel once more.

"Aye, just figured ya two could use a rest but you're right, " Amos reaches out and grabs the other half of the weasel, the both of them soon headed towards the cellar.

Stubb's body, limp and fragile, has been utterly compliant during the short journey from the dirty room in the temple to the tavern. Now, though, at Trace and Amos' contact, he shivers. His eyelids flicker open to reveal eyes dark with a latticework of red capillaries. The weasel's slender lips, dry, part, then close, and he falls still once again.

Trace lets out a screech as the weasel moves and she nearly drops him. Nearly.

"Better get somethin' strong..." Dangeon agrees, wandering toward the bar once Ajax takes her place in weasel carrying. She's at the bar barely any time before there's a screech... and she's back with sword drawn. "What happened?"

Ducking out from her recreational corner, Scaith pockets a decent amount of coin; several of her cronies groan, and the one who lost the most growls as he thumps his fist upon the table. "It comes 'round an' goes 'round, ol' chum. You'll catch y'r luck when 've run out o' mine," states the marten quite sagely. She nods politely and offers a mock bow, and proceeds to slink over to Stubb's current entourage, drink still in hand. "Need any 'elp there?" she chirps out of nowhere.

There are a few chuckles at the hare, though some eye the hare uneasily with the weapon drawn, "Don't'cha mind, we got him.. ya just get the booze and the likes and put that weapon away before ya get us kicked out, " Amos has kept his hold on the weasel, grunts but steadies himself and turns to face the marten, "We've got him, but ya could see about somewhere to lay him out once down in the cellar." He turns towards Trace, "Ready?"

Trace is on her last nerve and continues carrying Stubb as they head down to the cellar. "Yes, let's.." But if the weasel moves again, Trace has no control over what her reaction might be. She shifts position to back up toward the cellar as they maneuver with Stubb.

"Aye, aye," the marten chirrs, casually sipping her drink and avoiding asking the most obvious question. She wanders down to the cellar before the rest to finagle whatever is needed.

They descend to the cellar, carrying Stubb.

Upon entering, Scaith is seen shoving two storage crates toward each other, as well as a single barrel to be wedged inbetween. "For 'is back, so 'e won't get so stiff," she mumbles about her peculiarly thought-out set up. She finishes it by unclasping her cloak and laying it across the tops. "Don't want 'im gettin' any splinters."

Amos has no trouble carrying the dead-weight that is Stubb down into the cellar, doubting himself on his judgement for a moment as he looks around their new surroundings but it seems out of the way at least. Quietish. The chattering and such of the full inn above can still be heard, but its mostly muted. The wildcat helps to lay him evenly onto the cloak and crates.

Dangeon follows along moments later with a clay jug of water and a couple of drinking mugs. There is certainly not water in the mugs- the extra attention given to avoid a spill is somewhat obvious, but after many seasons of multiple drinks in various containers, the hare's balance actually seems pretty good. She barely loses a drop of her armful of liquid. "Someone take the big jug, 's awkward t'e carry wi' the rest..."

Trace backs down into the cellar, peeking around at the setup and then finally just moving to help set Stubb down. It'll have to work. It's much more quiet and hidden down here, and they can set up a watch and.. well, whatever else they might have to do. From what the rat had told them, it's not as if they'll be /looking/ for Stubb anytime soon. Trace smoothes out a section of the cloak, almost out of nervous habit more than anything else, before dropping to the ground to sit beside the edge of the crates. "Bloody-... Oh, sorry about that, Dangeon." The ratmaid pushes herself back up again, reaching to pull the big jug and set it down near the crates. Her other paw grabs for one of the drinking mugs, almost in an unconscious movement.

Without wasteful ceremony, creaking steps signal the descent of the dragon, as large feet cautiously negotiate the the narrow flight. Angus arrives at the cellar, mien solemn, as if it were the venue for a wake--albeit that of a distant relation. He removes his jacket immediately, strangely poised in the face of this furtive council, and gathers it into a neat heap, promptly discarded atop a barrel. There is no swift hello, no excuse for his abrupt desertion of the rescue, no deluge of emotion upon the sight of Stubb. The lizard simply stands, half-stooped for the low ceiling, at the mouth of the stairs.

Dangeon actually lets Trace take one of the drinking mugs. Apparently, yes, it was for sharing. She's now even offering the other one out to Amos. Either she's shaken up or ill... Or she has flask stowed away already. It's the latter.

Amos stands around, looking down at their stricken comrad, "Well I suppose ain't nothing but to wait now, " He looks to Scaith and Trace, turns to see the hare and smiles as the rat maid helps her, "I can use one of those, " He steps forward, relieving her of the offered mug. Stepping past her and towards the noise of the steps before looking pleases as the lizard joins them. He doesn't seem to mind any reasoning for his absence, just happy to see him, "Angus ol' pal, glad you're alright."

Trace drops back down to sit on the ground, her back resting on the crates. She tips her head back to down a good portion of the ale in a few quick gulps, before curling her paws around the mug and holding it tightly as she tucks her tail around her legs. A half-nod is given to Angus, before Trace just goes back to work at finishing off the contents of the mug in silence. They got Stubb, yes. But she's still going to kill Hactor for making them wait that long.

Once the weasel is situated, the marten casts a stare at the cat who places him. "'ll make sure y'r not t'be disturbed," she mutters with a droll smile, narrow eyes glistering in the faint lighting. She slips toward the stairs, but her route is undeniably blocked by a hulking, but distinct, figure. "... my dear," Scaith greets coyly, and she lifts a hand to brush the lizard's arm. "'ll be back soon, if not jus' t'see tha' fetching face o' yours." And then she squeezes up the steps to take care of some sort of business.

A flinch of his top lip is all Angus can muster in answer to Amos' salute, a dud smile. Inky eyes brush the vigil, sobriety weakened by the approach of the marten, whose touch he meets with a lifted hand. No further contact is made, however, as the marten bounds up the steps. He tilts his head, gaze sliding from Scaith's vanished tail to the supine form of the weasel. "So ye' got 'im?" he finally croaks, words soft and somewhat broken.

"Aye we've got him, they did quiet the number on him though, " Amos says bitterly, grumbling, "If I ever get my paws on that rat am gonna... well, ain't no offense meant Trace but that feller deserves what they took out of Stubb and then some, " He says darkly, turning to look at Stubb a moment before sipping at his drink.

Dangeon steps back to sit on another barrel, slightly shadowed. Her ears remain partially raised, a sign, at least, that she's paying attention. There's a very slight dip of a nod at Amos' words.

"The rat should have never been allowed to get away," finally breaks Trace's voice, her cold stare lifting beneath a fringe of hair that had fallen loose from her generally tidy coiffure. And then just as quickly, her gaze shifts back down to the mug, as she finishes off the rest of the ale and then takes to just settling her arms about her knees. To ponder, perhaps. There's a certainly obvious level of guilt gnawing at her. And knowing Trace, it'll lead to going /back/ to the temple to deliver some well-deserved beatings.

Another tremble runs through the prostrate weasel's emaciated body, powerful enough to unsettle the crates. They rattle on the floor. "D--" His voice is percussive, but the sound could be mistaken for a thump from the room above if it didn't come twice again: "D--! D--!" Those eyes tremble again.

Angus swallows rigidly, after which his mutinous tongue springs forth and laps at the musty air. The monitor takes a prudent step toward Stubb, hypnotized by his friend's plight. Talk of rats and pledged retaliation does not seem to stir the dragon, but he wrinkles his nose as the weasel quakes in delirium. Turning to glance at the others, the dragon retches, astonished, "What'd they do to 'im?"

Amos thinks back to the rats words, they should of never have given him the freedom to slip away. He's silent for a moment, seeming deep in thought before taking another sip from his mug, "They took all they needed from the weasel, What they left is not your friend, that's what the feller said, " He rages, hissing, "Bloody rat, if I ever get my paws on him.."

It's a spell before Scaith reappears, far less jingle in her walk, but her paws now hail two small cask whose wallowing liquids burble and lap as she descends. One is set at the root of the stairs, and the other remains with the marten, uncapped so that she may drink as she pleases. "N'one will be botherin' ye here," she guarantees without flinch. "'oo took what, now?"

Twice now. Really? Trace is just starting to calm her nerves and her cold anger, when the weasel suddenly begins quaking to the effect of rocking the crates beneath him. The same crates, unfortunately, that Trace is leaning up against. Again. Really? A sort of shrill sound escapes Trace, as she stumbles to her feet and away from the weasel in a sudden measure of panic. She doesn't do well with.. sick... people. Or hurt. Or whatever is bloody wrong with him. "Flip it all," she curses under her breath, pausing only briefly, before chucking the empty mug across the room. "FLIP all of this. I'm going to find that rat. And I'm going to tear him apart piece by piece until he tells me what they did to him and how to fix it." And she's storming toward the stairs, as if she plans on doing that right at this very moment. Or maybe she's just going for more alcohol.

Whether too flustered to stand or fed up with slouching beneath the cellar ceiling, the dragon drops to his knees. He palms his thighs, kneading nervously at his trousers, completely aghast at the condition of the weasel. It is harshly evident that Stubb's was no run of the mill thrashing--or even torture. "Rat?" The monitor eventually broaches the topic of this mysterious rodent, all though retaliation seems like a given by now. "Where was he?" A shoulder arches, as if Angus wanted to face Scaith, but he does not follow through; nor does he budge at Trace's outburst. The monitor just raises a clammy hand, reaching to brush the weasel's shoulder.

"We went where Hactor told us to, to the temple and made our way deeper inside when we came across a rat feller, " Amos grumbles, hisses, "Said we wouldn't find him, Trace was all about to kill him and gave him a thrashing and as we followed him to find Stubb he slipped away and then we found him naked and bare... covered him up and brought him back here."

"Must have had a blinkin' passage way off of that bally entry..." Grumbles the shadowy doe. Dangeon watches Trace and half gets up. She pauses though, as if unsure of what to do.

The ratmaid whirls around. "Hactor!!" Another one Trace plans to beat the living daylights out of when she finds him again. "Bloody making us wait all this bloody time. Does he realize that if we had left /sooner/, things might not have been so bad!?" Trace pauses at the top of the stairs, her voice perhaps a bit louder due to a hint of tipsiness. She always sips her brandy. She never gulps her whiskey. Except for today, of course. And she's obviously not leaving QUITE yet. Not while she's on her soapbox. "When I find that fox, I'll take his /other/ arm!"

"Ye' just waltzed in an' plucked 'im up?" The monitor's lip curls as his eyes lid, breath heavy through his teeth. "Where was th'--ye' .." This is not computing. After a period of frustrated exhalation, Angus collects himself. "Trace, love," he calls to the fuming dame, "Don't. Each'll get his in turn, aye?" He leaves it at that, and pushes his snout close to Stubb's cheek. "Stubb, mate?" The hand curls, almost angrily, around the weasel's arm; Stubb is not copping out on their pact this easily. "Stubb!"

A flurry of pawsteps drum hurriedly down the wooden staircase from above, bearing the stiff-backed form of an unfamiliar young weasel into the midst of the crowded cellar. Poking from beneath her cowl, dark, curling shoots of auburn hair hang over her smooth forehead, and her eyes, curiously calm, flit from beast to beast. She stops when she sees Stubb, and her paw flies to her breast. She flies to him with a gasp. "Oh!" she cries, running her hands along his face and chest. "Oh, Stubby!"

Amos watches the rat maid rage, grunting, "Aye, too easy at that I know... ain't much of a victory, but at least he's safe now and we're together, " He grumbles, "That should be worth something, " He goes back to sipping, until the newcomer arrives, "Now, anyone bloody well know who the heck she is?" He eyes the marten, she did say the'd be uninterrupted.

And then, like a dark cloud there enters an almost dead looking cat. The creature weazes from it's hooded cloak, like some grim angel of death. And indeed, his next hoarse statement may solitify such a thought. "Are you the companions of the dying fox?"

Angus wobbles as the foreign form wedges herself between him and Stubb. His jaw nearly hits the floor, and the monitor is, once more, completely unable to articulate a coherent response to the event. He sputters, heart pounding at his sternum, and crawls away from this torrential display of affection. "Hello," the dragon vacantly caws, still unable to close his mouth properly. Eyes fall away from the scene; the dragon is uncomfortable with his close proximity to such an exchange. He gradually scoots to the wall. "Not sure if he kin hear ye', love."

The newcomer sweeps back her hood, releasing a cascade of delicate hair that bunches behind her head. She directs a glare at Amos, then cranes her head to share it with the rest of the assembled nincompoops. "Have none of you done a /thing/ to help him?" Her paw continues its soothing exploration of Stubb's battered face even as she speaks. "Oh, Stubby. My Stubby." Turning back, her brows knit with concern. "Oh, he can hear me."

Why is no one else upset about this!? Trace would continue on her tirade if not for two very important things. The first is that there's now some newcomer wooing over Stubb and glaring at them. The second is that someone else is in the doorway talking about a dying fox or something or other. None of this seems to make any sense, and Trace stomps a booted foot against the floor. So many targets. So ... few... knives. The ratmaid honestly looks as if she's about ready to strangle someone, and with a paw pointing toward the fawning newcomer, she states in a low growl, "Who's the skirt? Someone please tell me she's a threat so I can-.." She then whips around, pointing a finger in the face of the disgusting, wheezing cat. "Would you /please/ wait until I'm done speaking!? Amos! Have you got any knives!? I need a knife!"

"I'd say getting him out o' the bally temple was pretty much helpin'..." Dangeon pipes up from her dimly lit 'seat' as she eyes the weasel warily. "Didn' see y' in there, miss... Y' his... uh, kin?" Her ears turn to Trace and the cat then. "You can borrow my sword?"

Angus knots his brow, irritating budding. "They jus' found 'im, love," the dragon tells her. "An' good on yew iffn' ye' kin get more than an unhinged peep outta' 'im." Bringing feet beneath him, the monitor hefts himself upward, spine against the wall, into a half-stand. He sort of looms over the female weasel and Stubb, as he ogles her overzealous fondling. "An' need I ask who you are?" he scoffs, attempting to insert a hand between them--to get her attention, if nothing else. The dragon effectively ignores anything else that presently transpires in the congested cellar.

Amos' question going unanswered and another unwelcome visitor, "Not like we know what's wrong with him, what we suppose to do for him?" He answers defensively, looking away from the weasel to blink and hiss at the other feline, "The blazes, now who is this feller... " He grumbles, answering Trace, "Just calm down ratty, ain't nobody stabbing anyone. Lets here what the feller has to say."

To the dragon, the young lady says with curt distaste: "A friend. A healer." She looks down. "Water. He needs water." The weasel maid's paws brush against her patient's parched lips. "Has he not eaten? Has he had nothing to drink? Oh, I knew they would do this to him." She turns once again on the crowd, not noticing the new face amongst the strangers. "Get away! All of you!" she snaps. "If you can't lend a paw, leave."

The cat didn't even flench at all the yelling, as he waited patiently like a strange spider that waits on it's web. Once thing calme down he reaches a withered and bandaged hand into the folds of his robes and pulled out a yellow parchement. Ignoring everything ellse, and really not concerned if anyone is even listening he reads, "Your fox was found, outside of the steps of our monastary, with a knife in his back and a not in his paw. We mended the wound the best we could, but he may die soon from blodd loss." There was a way the corpse-like feline sayes this that borders on a sick chuckle.

"Not good enough, love." Angus attempts to peel the lady from Stubb. "As far as we kin know, ye' could be with th' baddies. If ye'r so chummy with our Stubb, why ain't we seen ye' before?" He leans in, one eye squinted, and flits his tongue at her face. "T'answer yer poignant inquiry: no, I doubt he's eaten. 'Coz he's bloody *unconscious*." Overall, the dragon maintains his cool, but a hint of tantrum broils in his gut. "We kin choke 'im, if ye'd like." The hand falls to Stubb's neck, applying light pressure. "Drown 'im, too. Why th' hell not? He's half-done fer all ready."

"S'pose I meant no'un from /here/ would be botherin' ye," Scaith notes partially to Amos in low mutter, eyes glancing side-long from the hooded critter who stands ominously above, and the so-called healer at Stubb's side. Her voice takes leave; the marten is out of this loop, but remains curious nonetheless. Pulling from her cask, she surveys the situation with mild involvement.

"If you must know, I am Delilah. Stubb and I knew each other from Halyard. My..." she pauses, then half-looks over her shoulder at the giant. "My father is the one responsible for his mistreatment. In... In a way."

Trace has had enough. And she pauses only briefly, turning to head back down the stairs to take Dangeon's sword. And with that in paw, she heads back up and then rather abruptly sends a booted foot out to try to kick the cat in the gut. This is followed up with a sharp grab of his robes, as she moves to shove him hard against the doorframe with one paw, and to put the point of the sword at his throat with the other. It.. gives her enough distance from the grossness of this.. corpse.. thing. But it still gets the point across. And what a way to get rid of some anger! "I. Have little to no patience at the moment. I failed in killing the last beast who thought he might be clever with the life of one of our companions." The sword pushes a little closer as she growls, "And I don't quite feel like treading down that road again so quickly. Where is the fox? Tell me. I insist."

Amos already looks defeated and the news doesn't quiet help things as you'd expect. The evil rat's face and words flash through his mind as he continues to sip at his drink, "We're his mates missy, ya the one who should step away from him if ya don't know that, " He snarls at the weasel maid, the turning to glare at the other feline, "As for you...." He stops, sighing and moving to lean against the wall and sitting. He grumbles and continues his drink.

"Don't lose that; 'aven't had it long..." Dangeon says as Trace takes the offered sword. But her eyes are watching the scene of weasels, lizards and the like. The cat does get a couple of glances, especially as Trace goes to threaten him. "And bally clean 't if y' skewer anybeast!" She then sits back down. It's time to get very drunk for a while until she can do stuff without remembering it.

The cat chuckles and replies cryptically, "How can you kill something that's allready dead?" But he then continues, "Why he's right outside." The feline then turns his head to the door and sayes harshly in a harsher tounge, "Zhack drid lal!" Then two other hooded beasts eneter, carrying a very sick and banadaged looking Hactor is a strecher. "Your lucky," begins the cat to Trace, "That we have decided /not/ to charge you for our...services."

Having predicted as much, given the relevance of the tale Angus and Hactor heard in Ruingate to current events, the dragon simply snorts in Delilah's face. "Angus." The latter half of her revelation does intrigue him, though, and Angus eases out of the damsel's bubble. "Yer father?" he asks, sharply exhaling through promptly locked teeth. "Love, ye' gotta' tell us what in bleedin' seasons is goin' on. What'd they *do* to 'im, 'coz we sure as hell ain't been able to figure it out."

Delilah has had enough. Standing up to her full height, her paw loses contact with Stubb's body for the first time since she swept to his side. "Enough of this! I could not give a tinker's damn about your problems, any of you!" She sighs. "Well, I can't say it for certain. But I've had my suspicions that he..." Her eyes meet Angus'. "You care for Stubb too, don't you?"

The cat and his cronies move the unconcious fox upstairs.

Angus flits a dumbfounded stare to the fracas, as it retreats to the tavern above, but he then returns to Delilah. He is clearly empathetic to her irritation at the chaos. "Shove off, y'dolts," he lamely grunts, all though they have all, more or less, migrated upstairs. With a reserved sigh, the monitor falls back against the wall, idling scratching at it with his claws. "Aye," he tells the weasel dame, eyes rolling sadly to Stubb. "An' I ain't th' only one among us, I kin promise ye'. We just ain't know exactly what he's caught up in."

"Nor do I." Delilah sighs. "Not exactly. All I can say is that... there was a very powerful order after him. But..." she caresses the fur on Stubb's brow, "I think he's safe now. If we can get him healthy again."

Angus flexes his claws into the wall. Bits of mortar crumple at the attack, plunking to the floor. He scuffs his heel at the debris, mashing it into the earth, and plants a lost stare on Delilah. "With a bit a' luck an' time, he may pull it off," he offers; compulsory optimism exacts the faintest of smiles. "They only jus' recovered 'im." He gently nudges the slumbering weasel with a foot. "An' where exactly have yew been all this time, Miss Delilah?"

The weasel dame sits on the floor at the base of the crates, demurely crossing her legs. "Traveling," she says, staring forward. "When Stubb went off, I hadn't imagined it would be so long before he returned. It was only when I overhead my father speaking to members of the Order that..." She swallows. "That my concerns grew into outright fear." Delilah's eyes are red when she looks up. "My father is... very powerful. Not a king, exactly, but..." She shrugs. "I overheard them discussing a certain object that Stubb had left to find. The Domitor, they called it, and it is said to have dreadful powers."

When the mustelid maiden sits, so does the dragon. Falling to his haunches, Angus studies the nymph for several long minutes, not speaking, as he searches her fair features for any hint of insincerity. "He'd spoken of a ship," the monitor finally pipes. "An', aye, an object." His hands vaguely pantomime the thing, which he had only caught in brief glimpses. "But, I'll admit, love, I always thought he was half outta' his gourd." A glance floats from Stubb to Delilah. "'Spose I shoulda' .. well, heh. Ain't worth dwellin' on now." He rubs at his nose, sniffling at the dust in the air. "He helped me. An' I made 'im a promise, though. An' I intend t'keep it."

Trace shoves open the cellar door, not quite going down the stairs, but opening it enough to offer a quick shout of, "It's Hactor this time. Goodness, is this entire group falling apart!?" She looks.. haggard, at this point. "One of you, please? I can't move him by my bloody self."

Trace goes upstairs after the cat.

The 'nymph' chuckles with fond recollection. "Oh, I don't think he knew of its... powers. Neither did I." She reaches an arm back to pat Stubb's paw. "It was just a--" Trace interrupts her, and she inclines her dolorous, but delicate features to look silently up at the ratmaid.

Scaith snaps from her prolonged interval of rumination, cask half-empty from absent swigs; she turns to stare at Trace for too awkward a moment before hefting her mass to the stairs. "O' course," she simply states, drink set aside before she skips up the steps two at a time.

Scaith follows Trace upstairs.

Angus does not look keen to budge from his spot. Pleading eyes seek the wildcat, who has fallen oddly silent for the time. "Amy? Oi! Snap outta' it, mate. Go get th' damn dog." He gathers a fistful of dirt from the floor and flings it at Amos. "Toadteeth, y'lout. Y'gonnal let th' ladies do all th' dirty work?"

The wildcat can be forgiven for being unnoticed or even forgotten for all the noise and such that he's made. He's mainly taken a bit of a break, defeated and exhausted he slumped against the wall and sat there. Sipping at his drink as he listened. Not even Trace's re-arrival stirs him, it takes dirt being thrown in his face and his drink what's left of it, "Of course not, " He pulls himself out of his rut, gets to his footpaws and grunts, "Hactor?" He blinks, "Right, go get Hactor."

Amos goes upstairs.

"Let's get going, then," Trace mutters aloud, heading back up the stairs and out to the main area. She probably shouldn't have left him alone this long to begin with.

Amos snaps out of it, following after the rat but stopping at the top of the stairs as he looks to Angus, "Take care of him Angus, we'll be back, " He turns back towards the door and follows after Trace, moving to catch up.

Angus buries his eyes in a palm. "S'turnin' into a regular infirmary down here, ain't it?" he grunts. The monitor is barely concerned for any rough fate met by the fox. Dismemberment has yet to slow Hactor's stride, and, in light of that, the lizard finds it difficult to imagine what could. He tips his head as the others bound off. ".. eh. They're really quite endearin', once ye' git t'know him," he says to Delilah, all though it is likely more for his sake than hers.

Her train of thought derailed, Delilah gets back to the task of caring for her companion. She nods vaguely at Angus' remarks. "Yes. I suppose that must be so, if you all care for Stubby." She brushes his hair again with a paw. "We really must get him something to eat or drink. If we can just sit him up and... Perhaps a sponge..."

"Sponge?" Angus scrutinizes the room, though the probe is somewhat futile. The dragon does hop to his feet, though, and rummages among crates and casks, until he finds a wad of cloth that had once protected a particularly precious jug of wine. He trots, still careful of the low beams overhead, to offer it to Delilah. "Dunno' where ye'r gonna' find a sponge 'round here," he mumbles, thrusting the relatively clean rag at her. "This'll work, though, aye?"

Delilah smiles. "Yes, that will do. Soak it in a bit of wine. If we're going to lubricate him with rag juice, it might as well have some kick to it." Sliding an arm under the supine weasel's back, she eases him upright. "There. Goodness, he's so light."

A timid chuckle erupts, but the lizard swallows it, and pads to one of the casks. He slips the rag over a shoulder, so, with hands freed, his is better able to pry off the lid. After some amount of heaving, it gives, and Angus throws it to one side. He dunks the rag, returning to Delilah and Stubb once his is confident in its thorough saturation.

Stubb's lady friend props him upright. He stirs slightly, with head lolling to the side, but is otherwise putty in her paws. "Let's try a little at first."

Angus watches the lady friend's ministrations, head tilted thoughtfully.

Delilah looks at him. "Well?"

Angus snaps out of an apparent trance. "Sorry," he hastily mutters, lifting the rag to Stubb's mouth. The dragon hooks a thumb in the comatose weasel's jaw, pulling it open a notch, while squeezing the winecloth a bit.

Delilah strokes Stubb's throat, and he swallows, weakly, after a spell. "There," she says. She gives the end of the rag another squeeze, expelling a few more crimson droplets. They splash across the weasel's arid lips, then slip stealthily into the crevasse. "It's a start, at least."

Angus smiles weakly, lowering the cloth. He drapes the rag over the rim of the barrel, and moves to fetch his coat. Returning, the lizard balls the thing up, propping it beneath Stubb's head. "Maybe we should get 'im some a' those leaves he likes so much."

Delilah grimaces. "Oh, those. I was always trying to get him to stop. Nasty habit. He picked it up... somewhere on his travels, I suppose. I guess life at sea isn't exciting enough or something." Her disgust melts into affection. "But I suppose we all have our vices."

"True enough, love," the lizard replies, smile broadening. He drops his rump on a crate, and scratches at the underside of his chin. "He talked 'bout yew a lot, ye' know." All right, 'a lot' is probably an overstatement, but Angus has drummed up an ounce of pity for Delilah. "Said ye' were really somethin'." He pauses. "Wish we were able t'meet on a brighter day."

The weasel looks down at her paws, now crossed at her midriff, nods into her chest. "Well, I'm sure I don't have to sing his praises." She starts for the steps. "He'll pull through. We can check on him every hour." She looks at the sleeping Stubb. "He'll pull through."

Angus grimaces, wary to leave the invalid weasel alone. "I kin stay with 'im," he suggests. "Wouldn't want 'im t'wake up without a familiar mug nearby. Not after all this." The lizard glances at Stubb, and also nods. "An', aye, he's bound t'wake up." He forces another smile. "Ornery lil' thing that he is."

Delilah smiles back at Angus. "Come fetch me if he wakes. If you or your friends need rooms, I will be glad to pay." She mounts the stairs. "I'll be back soon." And one last thing before she disappears from view: "Would you like me to bring you down a pillow? Might be best if someone sleeps nearby tonight."

Angus wags a dismissive hand at the offer. "Thank ye', love. But I'll be all right. Ain't had a pillow in months, why should I go an' spoil m'self now?" He slips from the aloft crate, instead, propping himself against it. "Doubt I'll be dozin' much, anyhow." His grim smile is again lit for Delilah. "I'll send fer ye' the minute he stirs."