A weasel, an otter, and a fox walk into a militia camp...part 1

A weasel, an otter, and a fox walk into a militia camp...can Rorgan and Fargo fool the militia into giving them the location of Derrin? Or are they in over their heads...

Continuation of 'One Fine Morning'

As the day rolls on it does little to sooth Fargo's mind. The obese grey furred and black tailed weasel nervously bites at his claws as the party walks along the frozen creek bed. Around them the trees have lost all their leaves and their roots are covered in snow giving the forrest an errie ominous feeling. "Why would Dylan do this to me? Sales at the shop aren't THAT low. I mean I've always been a good worker, never complained..." Fargo whines softly to himself.

Toran sighs. This weasel was most certainly getting on his nerves. So far, the otter on the other side of Fargo was his only comfort as the two of them had yet to speak since they had departed from the meeting. He very much hoped that the weasel would suffer at the camp before the mission was over.

The weasel is certainly going to play the part of a terrified captive well. "...I havn't stolen anything from him, have I? I mean I sell everything that he sends me and I give him his cut...maybe he just doesn't like weasels..." Not too far ahead, just beyond the tree line off to the side of the frozen creek there is a small encampment. A trio of tents has been set up along the creek, one for beasts to sleep, another to eat at, and a third for operations. There is a small camp fire in the center of the camp and the laughter of beasts can be heard from around it. While there is no formal guard toward it would not be surprising to learn that somewhere in these trees are wood land look outs.

Toran and Rorgan look at each other and nod. The fox breaks off from the other two, fading off into the trees and soon being lost to view as he buckles on a pure white cloak to cover the armor he wore. Meanwhile, the otter grips Fargo's arm. "Right, time t' head in," He says with a slight sigh.

Fargo swollows. His knees are wobbly at best with nervousness. He looks at the beasts in the camp as they draw closer. Mostly otters actually, about four of them can be seen from here with a few squirrels in the mix. Those not on guard duty or pulling water from a hole in the frozen stream are busy keeping themselves warm near the fire. The sound of claws in the large evergreen tree next to the camp can be heard. What kind of species they belong too is unknown so far.

As the otter walks closer, he growls and pulls on Fargo roughly, doing his best to act the part of a captor. His eyes flick around, already looking for traces of Derrin even though the two haven't quite made it into the camp yet, though in the back of his mind he fervently hopes that the disguise works.

Fargo gasps as he is pulled along. "Watch it man, not so hard." he whispers to Rorgan. Along the river the four militia otters are laughing at some joke they pulled on another militia member. All four turn their heads towards the new comer as he approaches. They appear curious but thankfully not hostile...yet. They are each armed with spears and clubs. A small brown furred otter points and laughs at the weasel, "Hey look at this? He caught a big un! Did you have to use a harpoon to drag him in?" The taller otter behind him rolls his eyes and smacks him upside the head, "Mind your manors." The dark brown otter says to Rorgan, "Something we can help you with friend?"

The otter laughs along with the small brown furred otter, though his expression grows serious when the taller otter speaks. "I've caught this here weasel who I've heard knows the location of the bandit leader Dylan," He says, shoving said weasel ahead of him roughly.

Fargo stumbles forward. Falling on his face. He quickly rights himself and begins crawling away on his back from the otters. "Oh light don't hurt me! I'll tell you anything you want to know just don't hurt me!" The otter in charge, or at least appears to be in charge, it's hard to tell since they are all wearing brown or yellow tunics with no visible medals or badges to identify their rank. "Dylan? Wow. Are you sure? Bring him up to the command tent." The otter gestures with his spear towards the smaller of the three tents. Between them and the tent is the camp fire where a couple of mice and squirrels are gathered around. They watch the proceedings with a measure of curiosity as well.

Rorgan leans down, using his considerable strength to get the weasel back up. "Right, up on yer feet vermin," He says, groaning under the equally considerable weight of Fargo. "Maybe some help?" He asks, the weasel only partly off the ground.

The lead otter rolls his eyes. He gestures for his mates to help their 'comrade' out. Between three otters the weasel is finely set back up to his feet. They begin pushing Fargo along towards the command tent. Under his grey fur Fargo is pale.

Rorgan draws one of his daggers, pressing the point against the weasel's back for good measure. "Cummon, move faster you lug."

Fargo gasps as the knife is pressed against his back. Dylan sure knows how to pick them. Briefly the weasel wonders if Rorgan would kill him just to keep his cover as they all enter the command tent. A small structure made from brown cloth. A large table is set up in the center of the tent and is cluttered with various scrolls, maps, and letters. A young but pot bellied squirrel looks up at them from the desk. His chestnut brown fur is covered by a green tunic and dark brown trousers. Carlos raises an eyebrow as the weasel is shoved into the tent. "We really need to work on your ability to follow instructions private. I ordered coffee and walnuts, not a weasel for breakfast."

The black furred otter pokes his head out from behind the weasel. "Well actually, this is a weasel I found that knows the wherabouts of the bandit leader Dylan."

The plump squirrel leans back in his chair and rolls his eyes with a smile. Fargo does not find the smiling squirrel to be comforting, "Another one? Tell me, did he tell you this as he was pleading with his life? Cause the last vermin that was brought in here told me he knew the location of the lost city of Gold. The one before that told of some ruins infested by lizard monsters." Carlos laughs, "I could write a book really on all the things vermin tell me to save their own skin."

To be continued! Sorry for the abrupt ending like that. Players involved had to head out early so we will finish this scene up later on. We will finish it soon enough though in part 2