When Foxes Fly
- Jaksor, Vannon, Bafaloukos
- Ferravale: Abandoned Warehouse
Oh Ferravale, thou art a fruit ripe for the picking. So it seems to Jaksor as the polecat stalks the streets in the persistent light of the summer eve, shadows just beginning to lengthen as different and sundry beasties make their way through town. He blends in, for the most part, with the passersby, mostly vermin like himself and weapons not uncommon among them. The group has split up to make better time, as the town covers a surprisingly large swathe of land, leaving him to his own fiendish devices. The abandoned warehouse on this stretch of pathway catches his eye; not as a target, but as potential hidey-hole if things go south, and so his feet take him closer, brown eyes bright with intended mischief peering through partially-boarded windows.
Vannon was not having what one would call, a good day. It was only not a completely terrible day only because he was still alive to experience it, which is his book was a victory, if a small one. He was still sore, his belly was thin and hungry, and at the moment the only worldly possesion he had left to his name was a long flowing leather loin cloth, and now that was torn at the bottom as well.
The fox whimpers, why does the universe hate him so?
And then there was THE JOB. Vannon was still unsure about that, whether or not it was a blessing or curse. Either this...polecat was in desperate need of members to be scraping the bottom of the barral for a scrawny grey fox like vannon, or he planned to use him once and then kill him afterwards. The fox may not know which the polecat planned to do, but for the moment Vannon was breathing, and had the possibility of finally turning his missfortune around.
For him, that was enough to count this day as...normal.
The fox leans against the wall of the tavern, not so far away. With no pockets for his non existant money to be kept in the fox resigns himself to taking in the fresh small of cooking food from the building behind him. Occasionally he holds out his paws for a handout, eyes wide and large in a way only canines can do. When nothing comes he scowls and shakes his head.
It is then that Vannon catches sight of his new employer in the crowd. He lifts himself up on the toes of his feet to peer over the mass of beasts in the market place, "Finally! It's about time you cruddy polecat." He says to himself before he takes off like a bullet, darting through the crowd, inching his way closer to Jaksor and weaving his way between beasts to do so.
The thing about big towns is that no place is ever truly forgotten. Though spurned by its original holders, Ferravale's central storehouse is far from unused. Local derelicts are known to mill about it in the night, and vagrants often make camp among its mountains of dusty crates. Apparitions remain of their nefarious activities: ash from old fires, discarded clothing, strange old stains that speak of lost fights and squalor and busted enterprise. Among all this, Bafaloukos perches, still as as a statue, with his golden eyes fixed on the light that filters through a broken chunk of door. He is waiting for something.
"Guess a little more time without th' /mangy fox/ was too much t' hope for," the cruddy polecat replies, bad-temperedly thumping his hook against the dryrotted wall of the warehouse. Jaksor's paw rubs at his forehead, eyes squinting shut to block out the agony of looking at Vannon. "Y'see any glarin' weaknesses we could exploit, any treasure troves like as not filled with booty?" Everyone loves booty. "Or 'ave y' jus' been wastin' time lookin' for food?"
The fox skids to a halt when he reaches Jacksor. "Little of collum A. Little of collum B." He says off handedly. Paws on his hips Vannon tilts his head to the side, ' I could always get rich turning your miserable hide in for a bounty somewhere.' thinks the fox. Though most places where he could do that would probibly have a bounty for himself as well.
So instead he replies with a bright smile, "Riches are all in the eye of the beholder. Some beasts treasure family, others treasure hard work. At the moment a good hot bath and good food would be invaluable for me, ya know? But if your a 'gold is my one and only treasure' type beast, then, well, tough luck. There are a few shops in the market place but...it's hard not to draw too much attention to myself while looking, well, looking like this." The fox streatches out his arms. He then chuckes, tapping his chin with his paw, "You know, this reminds me of the time when..." and begins to ramble off ot himself.
Noise alights from the evening crowd as it strolls through the square, pretending not to notice the old warehouse. After all, honest beasts just ended work for the day. Who wants to acknowledge blight on his way to the pub? The warbling is nothing new to Bafalokos; he has been here before. Plaster and wood distorts the voices in such a way that even common tongues devolve into those of the birds. That is until a very inorganic thumping interrupts his poise. Bafaloukos' ears swivel to the sound of Jaksor's hook, just as the polecat and Vannon eclipse the beam of light that previously held the him so transfixed.
Jaksor gives the fox a look with eyes so dead they smell of the tomb. "Can th' chatter," the polecat retorts after letting the fox go for a few beats, his lip curled and his arm gesturing freely with his hook. He lowers his voice from the initial outburst. "Y' c'n talk till y're blue in th' face once we've got somethin' t' show for our troubles, an' not before. We /need/ t' stay on task here unless y'd rather rot in th' bottom of whatever prison they run in this excuse for a town."
The fox nods in understanding. He runs his paws across his muzzle like a zipper and gives the polecat a thumbs up sign to ackowlage that he will be quiet.
For about...3 seconds.
Paws folded behind his back the fox inspects the warehouse behind Jaksor, peering up and down the window before turning to Jaksor with a broad smile. "Well congrats sir. We stole our selves a warehouse. Now all we need to do is figure out a way to get it back to camp." He snaps his claws, "I grab the back half, you grab the front. We can carry it out to the river and float it back to camp!"
His role as stoney sentinel is over, Bafaloukos realizes. The creatures who so rudely blotted the light and bonked on the planks have parked themselves outside. Their intonation suggests a quarrel, and this incites the fox's fingers to tighten around the grip of the sword laid in his lap. It's not a terribly menacing thing, but a lousy sword is better than no sword in a situation like this.
A slow spark of fury burns in Jaksor's eyes, his teeth gritted as he contains his temper. Until he decides not to. They're next to the door, and the polecat gives it a sudden, powerful kick, sending it slamming inward with dull, wrenching squelch as the lock tears through the spongy rot of the doorframe. His bronze hook digs roughly into the fox's shoulder, a jerk tossing the thin-skinned todd inside. "Y' wanna get smart with me, huh, Vannon? Great an' powerful, an' witty besides." A snarl rips unbidden from his lips as he firmly plants a foot atop Vannon's ribcage. "Y'll make a witty /gravy/ if you put th' rest of us at risk with y'r jokes. We'll go back t' plan A, an' leave y'r corpse as a distraction f'r them as give chase."
Vannon watches the hook sink into his shoulder. His eyes widen, his face scrunches up like he has eaten something terribly sour. He then lets out a loud yipe of pain and he is tossed in side like a skinny bag of potatoes. Clutching his shoulder he tries to get back to his feet but the boot presses him down. He looks up at the polecat with tears in his eyes. A mixture of anger, fear, but mostly pain. "I'll murder YOU into gravy you cruddy polecat!" He tries to stand up but with the foot on his chest he is well and truelly pinned, "Fffffine! Just...just get off of me!" His usual wit is put on the back burner as survival kicks in again.
As the door disintegrates into rusted nails and splinters and grime from the road, Bafaloukos is on his feet. He hops from his perch to another crate just below, the impact of which covers him in a mantle of sinking dust. Heavily nicked sword outstretched, the fox barks at the intruders: "All right, ye' louts. If ye' keep up wi' that we'll 'ave the whole city guard upon us." His golden eyes dart from Jaksor to Vannon. "I ain't goin' to the clink jus' 'cuz y'all got inna' drunken tiff an' chose t' smash up th' town."
But we /like/ smashing up towns. Jaksor was about to growl something further at Vannon about keeping a serious attitude 'on the mission,' but he is rudely interrupted by the descent of yet another fox. He straightens up, drawing his own weapon, a nasty-looking scimitar, and staring the fox down. His boot remains atop Vannon's spindly chest. "This ain't y'r business, fox," comes his gravelly reply, hook and blade gleaming dully in the light from the sundered doorway. "Whether y've got th' same brush-tail planted on y'r hind-quarters 'r not. Jus' a discussion 'tween friends."
"This is NOT how friends discuss things." Vannon yelps from where he lays, "You know a simple drink at the tavern would have been enough, or 'hey Vannon, your voice sounds like a dieing muskrat', but noooOOooOoOooOOOo...you had to go and get all stabby with your stupid hook. Well, fine, now let me up before I 'discuss' how I don't like getting hurt by BITING YOUR LEG OFF!" The fox yells and rants even after the other fox shows himself. He leans his head back and peers at him upside down, "Oh, howdy! I don't suppose you would have any bandages on you? I ...heh...heh..." he gulps, cringing as his free paw clutches at the bleeding wound on his shoulder, "I appear to be leaking all over the place..."
At this point, his operation is foiled: the rendezvous spot has been breached by boneheads. Not even Bafaloukos' collaborators would deign waltz into a room with signs of a recent hostile maneuver. "Bleedin' idiots," he says through clenched teeth, snout yielding to wrinkles of rage. "You'll be more worried 'bout missin' parts than bleedin' bits iffin' ye' don't getcher' tails outta' 'ere." The fox uses his sword to gesture them to whence they came. "Git!" He then jumps to the floor, just a few paces from the pair.
"What, I'm s'posed t' be scared a' some mangy brush-tail jus' 'cause he's got a sword?" Jaksor moves his boot to give Vannon a light kick towards the rump region. Get up! He also gets a glance that says 'shut up.' "'m guessin' as y' don't own this place, neither, fox, although wouldn' surprise me much if whatever hole y' crawled from is jus' as dirty." He's not pointing his sword anywhere; it just hangs casually from the curl of his fingertips.
With another yelp Vannon scrambles to his feet. He gives both Jaksor and his fellow grey vulpine a sour look before he moves a few steps away from the beasts. Clutching at his shoulder he lifts up his paw to reveal that he is still bleeding, "Awe man, I hope this doesn't stain..." Eyes still ocked on the quarralling beasts the fox finds himself a nice sturdy crate. He hops up and sits crosslegged, "Don't mind me, just looking for something to bandage this up a bit..." And hopefully make himself less of a target for potential stabbing.
"The holes I habit are none o' your concern, stretchrat," Bafaloukos snarls. The fox acts as proud and defiant as any mortgage-strangled homeowner might if his property had been violated. "Who's t' say I'm th' only one 'ere, mate?" That golden gaze weighs Jaksor, then the other fox, before it rolls to the rafters and then among the crates. If the fox is shaken at all by the blood or the threats, he hides it well. "And, anyhow... I was 'ere first. An' I'm a better sword than both of ye' combined. So get out before ye' get skinned!"
The real question here is why it would be worth staying, of course. There doesn't appear to be anything of value in the place, and the smell is downright offensive. Jaksor's interest, however, is piqued by the fox's adamant demands for their departure. "...why're you in such a hurry t' be rid of us, then?" he ponders aloud. "Somethin' y're tryin' t' hide, I wonder? Or someone y're hidin' /from./" Those are two good options. Hardly the only ones, but. "Which is it?" He skips right over countering 'stretchrat,' although that's a new one, even for him.
The second fox, the scrawny Kydo Vannon, rolls his eyes, "As much as I would love to watch you two beasties duke it out and potentially injure each other, if you strange fox kill the pole cat, you'd be killin my bread and butter for the week. And if my boss there kills you off, well, then I'm alone in baring the brunk of his horrible mood swings. Can't say this is a real win win for me."
The fox smiles and tilts his head to the side, "So how about we try option three, not killing each other. If you really are trying to keep yourself out of trouble, as Jaksor said, we can help protect ya...for a price." Through out this Vannon remains rooted to his crate, happy that the fight is taking place over there...away from him. The grey fox can only take so much more damage at this point before he falls appart!
Best to pick his words wisely, Bafaloukos decides. Too few nuggets of information, and the intruders stay curious; they might even continue this foolish probe. Too much, and he risks his job. "Got business," he confides lamely, lowering his sword just a notch as something about flies and their preference for honey over vinegar comes to mind. The sooner he gets these two to buzz off, the better his chance of salvaging a botched deal. He waits for the other fox to finish. "Protection?" His question is punctuated by a laugh. Then he returns his attention to Jaksor. "Seein' how ye' two likely just spoiled my wages for th' moon, sounds like you owe *me* something."
To be continued.
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