Weasely Business

Fargo dreams. He dreams about the good old days. Back when he was still living in Ferrevale. Life was simple then. He slept, he ate, he did all sorts of odd but pleasant jobs around the village. And he certainly never had to follow some crazy old weasel about the forest.

The younger beast grumbles as Hershel prods him with the but of the spear. "Come on lazy bones. Rise and shine." Like Fargo Hershel was a weasel, but with gold and brown fur instead of grey. He is also dressed somewhat better with a white tunic under his green vest. Fargo, the scraggly beast that he let's his stomach hang out under a blue vest and black tunic. "Hmmm, we are going to have to work on that. Feeding you too well it seems. Come on Fargo, up and atom." This time around the old weasel prods with the sharp end of his spear.

Fargo's eyes widen. His scream can be heard across all mossflower as he leaps into the air clutching his rump. "By all that is holy are you INSANE!?" The weasel shrieks.

"Possibly. Also, it's time to start your training."

"Training? Training for what?" The weasel stomps about the clearing where the two weasels are camped. "You crazy old fool! I told you that I ain't gonna help you on your quest!"

"Ah, you're silly when you are angry, you know that. Here, take the short sword today." The weasel tosses a short sword towards the weasels chest, "THen follow me...we are heading to road today..."

Roan stumbles through the reeds of the secluded area. "Woah," the otter says, his tiny ears rotating as he finds himself suddenly in the presence of other beasts. He had been lost, trying to find the damn village that dafty old vole had given him directions to. Bad directions. "Um, hullo," Roan says, staring at the others, his paw slipping to the hilt of his dagger. "Friend 'r foes, mateys?"

Both weasel pause in walking to swivel their heads around, staring down the appearance of this unexpected otter. In retrospect its not too surprising, they are near camp willow after all. "Well hello there! Despite our appearances we are friendly. Mostly." The old weasel replies. His left paw has been replaced with a wooden foot it seems.

Hershel rubs at his chin, glancing over the otter then his fellow weasel, "Actually, this might work out good. Fargo. Catch the otter."

"W-what?" Fargo gasps, "I'm not going to just randomly attack some random beast for you old rug!"

"I didn't say attack, I said catch. You have to disarm him. And take him alive." Then the weasel says to the otter, "Oh, you can fight how ever you want though."

"You're mad...you really are mad..."

"Listen young /pup/ I need help to fight my own enemies and you're all I got to help me. And unfortunately I can only teach you how to best a crippled old /rug/ as you call it. Tell you what though. You manage to beat him and I'll promise to leave you alone. You can hope skip and what ever else you want to do away from me. Sound fair?"

The younger weasel pauses to consider this..."Honestly?" Fargo looks over the otter, drawing his short sword. "I'm going to hold you to that Hershel..."

Roan relaxes a little, shoulders slumping and his paw coming off his dagger. He runs a paw through his blonde, spiky headfur. "Oh, good. Y'see, this ol' vole gave me some shoddy directions t' a place called Camp--wait, what?!" Roan backpedals a step, looking between the two as if it's a joke. His sparkling, blue green eyes fall to the short sword. "Oh, for th' sake o'Mother River..." His paw whips to his dagger. "C'mon, lads. I was jus' passin' through..." He backs up some more, looking for a chance to dash. The tangle of reeds behind him is sure to trip him up more than help.

Fargo pauses to tap the flat of his blade against his paw. "I am terribly sorry about this, but I've had a rather rotten week and I have a lot of stress to work out. I hope you understand." With that the weasel steps forward, swinging around in a powerful motion with both paws. Short swords may not be this beasts preferred method of fighting.

"Remember fargo! Alive! And in no more than two pieces!" The old weasel shouts.

"Two pieces?" Roan roars. "That is one bloody piece too many, mates!" The otter lunges away, not hesitating to duck, roll, and scramble. He pops back up, flattening his dagger to try and deflect another blow. "What if I jus' give up an' let you catch me? That would count, right? Then I could just go..."

"Yes! That would count!" Fargo swings his blade high then brings it down in a slow, powerful swing.

"Oh sure...supplies are getting low. Just what we would need, a nice plump otter to fill our stew pot again. Also, keep a look out for when Fargo swings his blade to the right. He always leaves his stomach exposed. Maybe a little knifing there will force him to learn to keep his guard up..."

"Will you choose a side already?" The weasel growls, "Do you honestly see what I have to put up with here?"

Roan eyes the older weasel, trying to decide if he's being serious. "I am /not/ guttin' this kid," Roan grunts and "Who eats otter, honestly?" He's a little distracted now and a little too slow. The blade clips his forearm along it's side. The otter yelps and nearly drops his blade. Blood starts to mat into his fur. "That's gonna scar, you ruddy ol' catsnake!" His paw curls around the holt of his dagger and he turns it to the side, blade angled away as he slams a punch towards that described exposed weasel tummy.

The weasel's eye bulge as the hilt sinks into his softer flesh, just below the rib cage. It hits him with enough force to cause him to stumble backward, clutching his wound and coughing violently. "Hershel...I hate...you...so much right now."

"I don't see why Fargo. I'm just teachin ya how to survive a basic battle. I mean even as a bandit I would have thought you learned more than /this/. Did you ever even manage to rob /ONE/ person?"

The grey weasel snaps out a high pitched yell, "SHUT UP!" Angrily he tosses his blade away and lunges at the otter with his claws extended.

Roan slumps backwards, panting and sheathing his dagger back into his belt. "Sorry," he pants, staring at the coughing weasel. He's busy looking at his nicked arm. "Jeeze, buddy. You two sure know th' meaning of 'friendly', huh?" That's when he looks up to Fargo lunging towards him. "Really??" Roan is caught off guard and pinned. "Gettoff! Y'caught me, good! Now lemme on my way, y'crazy weasels!"

The old weasel face paws. "Oh boy...I really do got my work cut out for me...Alright, let him up Fargo, I think this battle is practically over."

"Yes! And so are we you crazy old goat! See! I caught him! Done! I'm done with you, I'm done with mossflower I'm DONE!" Picking himself up the weasel flails his arms about. He angrily storms off towards the woods, "I'm done. Nice to meet yah, until I got to know ya." The weasel begins to stomp out towards the woods.

Shaking his head Hershel sighs, "Well that went better than expected." He offers the but of his spear to the otter, "Here, sit up. I'll take a look at that arm. I would hate to send you one your way infected." Crazy might be the operative term here...

Roan sits up the moment Fargo is off of him, eyes wide and blinking. He's a little stunned and doesn't think of running, even if he really should. The otter just watches the younger weasel storm off. "What... just happened." Roan may be a little stunned. Those vacantly shocked eyes turn to Hershel. "It's fine, he insists, tucking the arm into his torso. "Really, jus' a scratch. Sorry I punched yer friend. But, y'know." He motions to the arm with his other.

"Arm first. Story later." The old weasel grunts with effort as he uses the spear as leverage to sit down. When he does his entire left leg stretches out to one side. "They say that get's easier with time, I've had that stump of a leg for seasons. I don't think it's gotten easier yet. Now, yer arm. I would actually feel bad about it getting infected and then swelling up to the size of a melon. And if you think you enjoyed a scrape like that, woo hoo. Just think how this would feel." He knocks once on his wooden leg.

Roan hesitates. This /was/ the weasel that had just gotten somebeast to attack him. But, he was still alive and not tied up. "Al'right," Roan finally submits, holding out his arm. He glances to the leg as the other mentions it. "Hah," he laughs, not being unable to help a smile up at Hershel. "I'm sure there is a better story how y'lost it than a simple scratch. I bet it was a wicked ol' king o' Rats or something, huh?"

The weasel chuckles as he takes the arm gently in his paws after setting the spear off to the side. He pulls out a rag first then begins to wipe off the blood of the wound, "Something like that. The good news is that Fargo didn't cut you that deep. It's barely a flesh wound. The bad knows is that most likely you won't have a kick but scar to show off to the ladies."

The Weasel finishes wiping off the arm and replies, "As for the leg the thing that took it off is the reason I'm out here. A beast named Ageless has made this area its hunting ground. I tried to warn Camp Willow down the road but they won't believe me. I recruited...well, Kidnapped Fargo to help me slay the beast after he tried to rob me, but as you can see he is hardly in league to combat a fluffy new born kitten let alone a Whiptail."

Speaking of the weasel, Fargo continues to storm off into the woods, alone and unarmed save for his temper. The grey furred beast turns and shouts through the trees, "And another thing! You're breath smells and your cooking is too salty! Go find someone who can tolerate you for more than five minutes to slay your stupid viper! I quit! You hear me Hershel! I quit!"

"I figured it would be cruel to leave Fargo to his fate..." The weasel growls at the disembodied weasel's voice, "Although I am considering putting him out of my misery..."

Roan bends his neck, trying to get a peek at the wound. Ah, not too bad. "S'quite a story," the otter whistles, screwing his nose up as the wound stings a little from the wiping. Dirt seems to be in it, so it's a good thing the weasel is helping. He listens, planting his other palm on the ground and bracing himself a little. "Wait... This Ageless. He's a /snake/?" There is a shudder that runs from nose to tailtip in the otter. "Well, there is somethin' that sure would like t'eat otter." Roan tries a laugh, but it falls dead on his lips. "Aye, I don't think that lil' squirt o' yers," his eyes flick over to the receding sounds of Fargo-stomping, "would be much help wit' a bloomin' snake." The otter jerks slightly, stilling himself quickly to allow work on his arm to continue. "Oh! Camp Willow. Do you live there?"

Another smile is offered as the old weasel cleans out the wound, "Ah, no. Us verminly vermin are not welcome in the camp." The smile widens, "Can't imagine why. We are so friendly." He gives a soft sigh as he listens to Fargo rant further, "And yer right. I don't think Fargo is going to be much help really. I thought giving him something constructive would be, I dun know, good for him. If I just turn him loose he is more than likely to get someone hurt. He really /IS/ a bandit." The weasel finishes with his work, "I suppose I'll just have to kill him after dinner. No beast deserves to die on an empty stomach."

As the weasel speaks Fargo continues to yell at him from across the bushes, little does he know that his fate is in question. "And another, another thing. Money! Did you ever think to use money to try and /hire/ beasts? Like NORMAL people? I mean it is the SANE Thing to YIPE!" The weasel's rant is cut short, replaced by a frantic, "Hershel! Hershel! You gotta come see this!"

Roan's face falls a little, but the otter, not able to think of a way to handle that situation, just brushes it off as a joke. Yes, of course. A joke. "Well, sounds like he's ready t'leave Mossflower anyways. No love lost between yeh," he chats and tries not to think of the weasel getting his throat slashed. "No vermin law, huh? Weird. Seems pretty outdated." He doesn't sound entirely convinced, however. At least not in Fargo's case. His head jerks up as the poor-fated weasel sends up a shout. "Huh..." Roan gulps. "Don't suppose he ended up findin' yer buddy Ageless?"

"Let's...hope not. He's about as useless now as he was when he was fatter." The weasel grunts with effort as he picks himself up using hte spear as support. "We better see what he is up too. I'll make you a bandage when we get back..."

Fargo himself is having quite possibly the second to worst day in his life. First he got jabbed in the but by a spear, beat up by an otter. And now...this.

The weasel nearly stumbled over the bodies when he found them. They were tossed about in the grass like discarded rag dolls. Rats. Two of them to be precise. Or at least Fargo guessed they were rats. There wasn't much left to identify them what with the way they have been crushed. Their broken, mangled bodies are twisted almost 360 degrees, broken by some great force and left here for the flies to consume.

The younger weasel paces back and forth on the grass of the clearing he is in, biting at his claws. It's bad enough to find mangled bodies like this, its worse to see the grass parted to both sides like something thick and heavy was dragged through it...in a zig zag pattern...

Roan just isn't prepared for something like this. He had followed the weasel, dagger back out, with a growing regret of following the voices he had heard earlier. All he needed were directions! Curse that vole. Cure /him/. His mind is caught up in these thought as he bumps into the back of Hershel and wheels around him with an apology. "Oh, gods," Roan moans suddenly, eyes widening. He turns, plugging his nose from the smell already coming up from them, and promptly vomits right into a bush. "Urrghhh," he groans, rising up and looking still sick. "Why didn't it /eat/ them like a normal friggin' snake?"

The older weasel only stares. His friendly demeanor. "This is...wrong."

"Yeah, you can say that. What kind of beast just breaks someone like, like that." Fargo holds his arm over his snout, turning away from the scene of the murder.

"That's what I mean. This was ageless...but, he always eats his victims." Hersel scratches at his head, "If you were to die Fargo, how would you like to go?"

"Huh?" The younger weasel spins, "What kind of questions is that?"

"Nothing, not important. Just curious. Roan," Hershel turns to the otter and points with the spear, "Camp Willow is half a day's walk in that direction. Thank you for helping us but there really is no reason for you to stay here and...see this. If you really do want to help out you can tell them that you were ambushed by a gang of ruthless weasels. If nothing else THAT should get them to step up the guard a bit..."

Roan doesn't need to be told twice. The otter, his webbed paw still clamped firmly on his nose, nods and tries his best not to look queasy. "'Rrigh'," he mumbles in a muffled, nose-pinched voice. "Goo' lug, mades." There is a pause, a look to Fargo with something like deep pity, and then Roan is off in the pointed direction without another word. He hustles away from the gruesome scene without a second glance.

The weasel offers a friendly wave before turning back to the bodies. He sighs deeply, watching Fargo try keep his stomach down. He supposes that he should just get it over quickly. A quick jab to the stomach to make sure he get's the job done right...

"Wish you didn't turn him away, could have used him to track the snake."

Hershel raises an eyebrow in response. He doesn't reply letting the beast continue. Fargo looks off to one side and shrugs, "Yeah, I know what I said. I just...don't have anywhere else to go."

Hershel nods. "Why don't you take the lead then. I'll get supper ready. You like hot root soup, right?"

Fargo gives his fellow weasel a shocked expression, "Really? You are letting me...go after the snake...by myself? And yeah, I guess I like it."

"I would only slow you down on this leg." Hershel begins to trot away, back to camp. Maybe the weasel could prove useful in some other area besides fighting. If not well, at least Fargo will have his last meal, thinks Hershel...