The Semi-Triumphant Return of John Wesley Weasel

The Semi-Triumphant Return of John Wesley Weasel

Players

- Ferilla

- John_Wesley

- Jaksor

Guosim Camp: Mid Camp

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The heart of the camp is relatively undeveloped, spared from shrew sprawl, and

it affords a broad panorama of the colony. Except for the intermittent stone or

patch of brave turf, the dirt is packed smooth by foot traffic. To the immediate

north is a dubiously lop-sided hovel, warped with age, function indeterminate.

The balmy glower of a communal fire pit sears the eastern vista, and the

nebulous olive edge of the forest looms to the west and south. Elevated on a

mound of well-packed earth, the only structure of nearby note is a tent. Its

thick posts indicate permanency, and the brilliant pigments that festoon its

exterior imply authority, perhaps sovereignty, if such exists in a bohemian

collective. While most of their ilk has been cleared, a clump of trees crowds

over the edifice, providing asylum from the broiling rays of summer sun.

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It's hot. Again. The Guosim camp by the stream, with its minimal tree cover, feels the full force of a Mossflower summer, the packed dirt hard and dry, any slight breeze stirring up hints of dust that goes spinning away as the wind dies. Ferilla, partially to cleanse herself after her encounter with another mangy fox and a snake and partially to cool off, has taken a bath, her fur and hair still slightly damp now, though she's redressed minus her jacket, which lies off to one side with her bags of spoils from the raid, along with a bent silver candlestick. Presently, she's seated under her little lean to, which has been expanded to accomodate her seated figure instead of just a little burrow to sleep in. A hollowed out gourd half-full of water sits by her knee.

Word is slowly spreading throughout Mossflower of the heist in Ferravale. A theft of such audacity and large proportion hasn't been pulled off in these parts for quite some time, and it's drawn the attention of both sides of the law. Search parties have been sent out to locate the vermin crew, and a few hopeful admirers have been making curious forays into the area. John Wesley Weasel is just one such hopeful, but he is significantly more lucky than most. The little weasel watches Ferilla from the cover of the treeline, waiting and wandering how best to make his debut appearance.

The ermine leans back, her head resting against the smooth wood of the trashed hut's wall, her violet eyes studying the canvas overhead for a moment, then shutting gently. Her sword rests across her thighs, but otherwise, she doesn't seem too terribly alert, although the occasional flick of an ear might lend the impression that she's not completely given over to sleep. After all, as incompetent as they are, Bindi and Vannon should find any intruders before they disturb her, and they're sure to make a loud enough din to wake her, even if she does submit to an afternoon nap.

The rascally duo of Bindi and Vannon are about as effective at keeping watch as your average garden gnome, however; John Wesley remains unimpeded, mostly by sheer dumb luck. He's squatted in the middle of a bush, like some sort of cartoon character's hunting blind, and therefore invisible as long as he doesn't move. However, he does move, and rather noisily, breaking branches and getting tangled as he tries to move stealthily into the camp. What this all looks like /from/ the camp is a bunch of waving shrubbery and a significant amount of rustling noises.

The cracking of twigs and the rustle of shrubbery makes an eye crack open, violet iris revealed slowly, glancing about. "Stupid rat.." she mutters under her breath, shutting her eyes for a second and then opening them for good, sitting up. From where she sits, she sees the unnatural movement of the nearby bushes, rolling her eyes a little. The thought of an intruder isn't out of her mind, but she still thinks it's probably Bindi wandering about. She casts a glance across the rest of the clearing, just in case it's merely a distraction, and, seeing nothing, gets to her feet, crawling out from under her little awning.

John_Wesley looks up from where his foot is tangle in the underbrush to see Ferilla stand, and after a brief moment of poor decision-making, draws the rusted cleaver at his side and gives the offending flora a good whack. With a crow of victory, he emerges into the open, cleaver brandished high. "Wahaha! I's founda you!" His voice is a high-pitched, squeaky shrill, reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard, that even his mother must have found annoying.

The jill doesn't even flinch when he emerges, studying the weasel's ratty visage carefully. "So you have." she says, advancing towards him several paces with her paw on her sword hilt. "Now, I think you might want ta forget you ever saw anything an' leave." she suggests cooly.

"Ohhhh no," John Wesley replies, shaking his head defiantly from side to side, waving his cleaver dramatically for emphasis. "I's norra goin' anywheres. Me found-a you, an' now you's gonna give-a me all yer valoobols." He seems to have a cursory grasp on the finer mechanisms of grammar at best. "Now givem up! You bring-a th' val-bols t' John Wesley Weasel!"

Ferilla can't help but snicker, holding up her paws. "Oh, well when ya put it that way, take anythin' you want, jus' don't hurt me." she tells him, voice dripping with mockery she doubts the lout with detect. Just come a little bit closer now...

John_Wesley laughs, jabbing his cleaver in Ferilla's general direction with a level of ineptness that is threatening in its own right. "Thaaaaa's right, snow-rat she-face," he gloats, stepping closer to poke more pointedly at her. "Now hurrah up an' go get dem val-bols f' John Wesley." He says his own name with a surprisingly educated cadence completely unlike the rest of his speech.

Snow-rat she-face. "That's a new one." she mutters, taking a step inwards, drawing her sword out of her sheath in a reverse grip with her left paw, leaving her right free to swing a haymaker at the weasel's jaw. The sword is more to knock away his cleaver than to injure him, but depending on how he reacts and exactly how inept he is... well, it is a razor sharp sword.

Treachery! She never meant to bring him the loot after all. John Wesley gives a startled, betrayed snarl, stumbling back to dodge the swing but still taking a clip to the chin, which sends him tumbling back onto his rump. The cleaver swings wildly, more free-fall than feint, hitting possibly anything, possibly nothing. It's hard to tell.

Ferilla takes a blow from the cleaver on the guard of her sword, thrusting her paw forwards to knock the weasel's cumbersome blade aside. She covers the distance between them quickly, planting her foot on the weasel's chest. With a quick display of dexterity, she spins the sword around so that the blade is oriented upward, like it would normally be held. Then the tip drops to John Wesley's throat. "This is th' part where you beg." she tells him.

The cleaver's tip is thrust aside, but somehow John Wesley hangs onto it. He lets out a loud 'oof' as her foot shoves his back against the ground and pushes the air out of his chest. And then there's a swordpoint pressed against his throat. Hm. The weasel is still, his ribs pressing up against Ferilla's chest by his shallow breathing, as he thinks this one over.

"That could've gone better, hm?" she says, keeping the point as his throat. "Now, if ye'd drop that cleaver, we kin talk." at least, as much as he seems capable of. It occurs to her that this little weasel might be a great minion. And by minion, she means cannon fodder.

"I norra talk wid snow-rat she-faces," John Wesley objects obstinately, squirming under the ermine's foot and unsuccessfully attempting to maneuver his cleaver into some sort of striking pose. The sword must follow the violent shifts of his head as he puts all of his might into freeing himself of the foot. He's surprisingly strong for as small and stupid as he is. "You norra kill John Wesley!"

That term again. It's just got so much unneeded excess. Doesn't ermine suffice, or jill? Or some expletive? She shrugs, "Fine," she says, lifting her sword and placing the tip against the shoulder of the weasel's sword, er... cleaver arm, pressing against the tendons located there. "If you won't talk wit' me, i'll just pin ya to the ground here in the sun until someone ya will talk to shows up." she threatens.

John_Wesley freezes as the blade begins to press into his shoulder, a slight trickle of blood oozing up to tint his tunic a new and different shade. Panic finally lights in the weasel's eyes as he squeals. "Nnnnahahaaaaa... no! No no, John Wesley talk. John Wesley talkabout alla things wid she-face." He pauses slightly, and then before she can speak again, bursts back into speech. "Talkabout da sky-place an' da rainfall. She-face wanna talk we talk." The hapless bandit nods nervously. Why, of course she just wants to talk about the weather! She wants small talk, that must be it. Females will look anywhere to find an ear to chatter in.

"Oh good, I was hoping you-" she sighs as he starts to ramble. Oh dear. "No. Stop." she insists, digging the blade in a little. She glances about, still seeing nobody around. "I jus' wanna know why you're here, an' if you really thought ya could take us down."

John_Wesley stops talking when Ferilla pushes her sword in, a bit more red wicking up into his tunic, making a nice, round-ish stain to offset all the others. "Watch-you want, snow-rat, talk or norra talk?" John Wesley's voice is getting frustrated, and his face screws up as he stares down the ermine clearly in control here.

"I just wanna know why you're here, an' if you really thought you could take us down." She repeats her question, trying to speak as clearly as possible, enunciating. "Answer me that, an' we kin go from there, and maybe I won't have to hurt you any more."

Defiance seems to come in waves for John Wesley, and he's riding the swell of another. "She-face cannorra 'urt John Wesley! I norra tell you no-fing." Until a little extra push of the sword in his shoulder reminds him about the stakes here. "...John Wesley be 'lone," he admits, voice dropping.

She withdraws the sword, resting the flat of the blade on her shoulder casually, still keeping a little weight on the weasel's chest. She's basically decided that her questions aren't going to be answered. "Get lost, then, we don't need more trash." In her mind, John Wesley means merely another inept mouth to feed, and an inconvenience that makes her cut of the loot diminish even further.

Jaksor takes this opportunity to emerge from the entry path, shirtless and dripping wet. The polecat is hauling a large fish by the lip, his hook rammed through in a surprisingly apt application of his late-life deformity. He stops short at the sight of the ermine atop the weasel. This place just never ceases to amaze. "....So wha's all this then, eh?"

"John Wesley Weasel!" comes the cry from beneath Ferilla's foot. "You get dis snow-rat offa me!" The sword gone, he begins violently squirming again, slipping out from her grasp and scooting a few feet away, cleaver held out in front of him.

The jill steps back, wiping the little bit of blood from the tip of her blade with her palm, staining her white fur. "Little weasel sneaking aroun' the bushes. Not dangerous, really, jus' snoopin'." she offers, her blade held loosely, tip pointed downwards. "What do you wanna do with him?"

Jaksor keeps his voice low, eyes flicking from the weasel to Ferilla. "What's he want then?"

John_Wesley continues to menace the pair with his cleaver, not particularly concerned with the contents of their conversation.

The ermine shrugs. "Won't tell me. Loot, it seems." she offers simply.

"Fair enough." Jaksor looks around the ermine to John Wesley. "'ey there, y'like loot, eh?"

John_Wesley nods, eying the polecat suspiciously.

"Food too?" Jaksor holds the fish up, letting it spin slowly, glistening with the river.

John_Wesley nods again, eyes drawn to the fish like a magnet to metal.

Ferilla steps back, sheathing her sword slowly, standing beside Jaskor. "You're not really gonna recruit him, are ya?" she asks, increduluously. "He wanted ta attack us." she points out.

"Alrigh' then, you join us, do wha' I say, do wha' she says, you c'n stay." The polecat nods at Ferilla during his speech. Bindi and Vannon are not mentioned. "I'll let y' 'ave a bit of th' food an' loot too. But." He nods towards Ferilla again. "Misbehave an' I let 'er skin ya."

All this is followed by a look at Ferilla that says, 'are you kidding me?'

John_Wesley nods, lowering the cleaver. It seems these are agreeable terms. "I norra like dat one," he replies, pointing at the ermine with his cleaver.

She spreads her paws out in a gesture that combines with the look she gives him to say 'Are /you/ kidding /me/?' She likes that Jaksor's essentially verbally confirming her second in commandship, and likes that she'll be given authority over John Wesley's fate, but again, this means splitting the loot and the food. She turns back to face the weasel as her indicates her with the cleaver. "Yeah, well the feelin's mutual."

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Groups:

• Reavers