Catching Up 1

Angus, Stubb

Location: Eastern Shore

Angus squats by the sooty remnants of the camp fire. He prods at the pit with a branch, churning the still smoldering coals, with no particular purpose. For several hours--really, days--the lizard has remained withdrawn, broody, but this is hardly uncharacteristic of him. With an absently cocked brow, Angus jabs at the ash; a flutter of sparks whips into the air, catches the wind, and extinquishes.

Stubb wanders up and sits down on a log. His eyes play off Angus for just a moment, then fall to rest in the center of the camp. He stares.

When the weasel plops on the damp log, a dozen or so agitated beetles scuttle from beneath it. They dash for safety, soliciting shelter from the closest patch of shadow, which just so happens to be cast by Angus' haunches. He shifts awkwardly as the flustered creatures annex his foot space, losing hold of his poker stick. "Erp," he grunts, and glances between his knees. "Howdy, mates."

"Where you been slinkin off to, ma'e?" Stubb asks through a yawn that arches through his back and into the log, sending more carapaced refugees scattering for shelter. "Troyin' ta give us tha slip?" His joke is half-hearted.

"Just walkin' 'round," Angus mumbles, penning a couple of the creepy crawlers with his hands. "Like I could give ye' the slip, mate. I ain't thinkin' any of us kin boast much stealth." He singles out a particular bug; it is allowed to scurry in one direction, then blocked by a palm, in response to which it switches courses, and is promptly stopped again. Without looking up, the dragon continues, "In fact, if I didn' know better, I'd think a saboteur weres leavin' a trail o' breadcrumbs behind us, given th' influx o' armies an' orders chompin' at our tails." He flicks the traumatized beetle into the fire.

"Ay," is all that the weasel can muster. Sleep still hangs thick about him, as if two weeks worth of it has not taken. He absently pats down an uncooperative tuft of fur. "Whoi d'ya fink she did i'?" Stubb asks suddenly, in a voice that seems to crackle, as if drawn too tight over unspoken thoughts. "Sorry. Sorry," he shakes his head, blustering. "Forget i'."

Angus rises, and drags a bare foot through the sand and dirt of the bank, shooing the surviving beetles elsewhere. "Eh," he grunts, scratching the beneath his chin, as if to coax an answer from the hermitic wisdom of his beard. "They're all out fer blood an' money," the dragon eventually concludes. "S'their way." A sharp inhale; one nostril flares. "Dames, that is."

Stubb nods silently. "A course." He drags the claw of one foot through the sand, drawing a shallow canal in the sunbaked ground. "Bu'." He breathes. "If you'd a known 'er back in Halyard. Ah. Who'm oi kiddin'."

"Don' get me wrong, mate. She were stylish an' shrewd, I'll give 'er that." Angus returns to his crouch. "An', hey. She may a' sold ye' out an' tried t' reduce yer chums t' char, but I'm sure she had 'er reasons." There is a visible twitch in his left eye, but the lizard forces a cheeky smile. "Still a catch! Toads, m'wife weren't half as stunnin' and she did twice th' damage on 'er way out. Chin up, mate."

Stubb sports half a grin and half a shrug. "Ay," his large eyes look searchingly at his buddy. "She were pretty, weren' she?"

"Aye. A face that redeemed m' faith in weasels' looks; I'd started t' think they were all as ugly as yew, Stubb." Angus' grin gains a few teeth, but he swallows the mirth before adding, "Don' let 'er rent no space in yer head, mate. Jus' another broad. Plenty o' purdy pelts inna' forest. Best t' just move on, yeah?"

Stubb offers another lukewarm bob of the head, not really assenting or dissenting. "Move on... Don' really know what else ta do wif moise'f, now oi don' 'ave tha bloody devoice for her." He sniffs. "Oi'm a... a bloody fool. Goin' hivva and fivva, an for wha'? Some... some bloody contraption." He clasps his head. "Oi go' ta get out a here..."

Angus tilts his bronze head, scratching at its filmy patina of dead skin and sand. "Outta' here?" He scans their vicinity: Other campers mill about, wholly disinterested in the fireside exchange, self-absorbed, possibly intoxicated, mismatched, and hopeless. "Well. If ye' gotta' be a fool, mate, at least ye'r in good company--an' looked upon as somethin' o' a king." The lizard smiles grimly. "Can't desert yer wretched subjects now."

Stubb points to the fox. "Away from dem lo'. Remoin' me a that bloody fellow what grabbed 'Actor. An tha bloody machine fing." He watches warily. "Who knows wha' dey're afta. Me an tha rest are finkin' a slippin' away, soon as we ge' tha chance. Gonna cook em up some bad fish or somefin'... No' moi koinda plan, moind, but i' beats anyfin' oi fought of."

Angus dips pensive nod. "We'll figure somethin' out, mate." He smirks. "If we coul' just th' dogs t' go after the pufftails, our troubles'd be over."