The Marksman

[Airan]

Name: Flauros
Species: Shrew
Gender: Male
Age: 40s

An apprehensive silence saturated through the square as the beseeching prisoner was bound to the wooden stake.

"Late last night, young Cordy willfully abandoned his post and deserted his townsfolk in a time of need."

Flauros drank deep from his tankard, attentive as the village elder fell into a coughing fit before sharply holding out a paw, keeping the aides at bay.

The prisoner's imploring lapsed into pleading as the ordained executioner strode onto the elevated platform. "Not true! I didn't desert my post, I swear!"

"Observing tradition in our community, the deserter will meet his sentence through the use of a bow and arrow."

Resolute, the executioner notched an arrow. Cordy's pleading descended into sobbing as the bow was levelled toward him.

The bowstring twanged; the arrow hurtled toward its target.

SHOONK. Seconds passed, and the prisoner's blanching face unraveled. It was buried deep in the wooden stake above, fishtailing violently.

"Pathetic," rumbled Flauros under his breath. Nearby villagers shot annoyed glances his way.

Once more taking aim, the executioner pulled back on the string and let loose.

Tearing past the designated target, it clanged against the side of a nearby town shop- an herbalist's apothecary.

Flauros's sneer vanished. He barked over the discontented murmurs, "That's it, no more of this! Don't kill him!"

The chief elder stirred, inclining forward in his rocker. "Who said that?"

Pursuing his predetermined path, Flauros surged through the crowd and crossed onto the elevated platform. "Did any of you stop to think that perhaps he was destined to stay alive?"

"The shrew's right!" bellowed the prisoner hoarsely. A spearbutt connected with his side, winding him.

"When have you seen your executioner miss a target, let alone two?" Flauros gesticulated to the prisoner, "It's Fate telling us that Curley is not supposed to die."

"Cordy was caught red-pawed fleeing into the woods. He abandoned his responsibilities, and must pay the price." The elder shook his head, "Are you suggesting we disregard countless seasons of honoring tradition?"

"I was framed!" blurted out the prisoner. The spearbutt winded him a second time, and the guards gagged him.

"Fate doesn't care about trivial things like responsibility or price. Everything happens for a reason, and there is a reason that Cuffey is meant to stay alive." The shrew's smile returned. "The less we fight against our Fate, the better off we'll be."

The chief elder clasped his claws together. "What is the reason?"

Flauros rolled his shoulders. "How should I bloody know that? I'm just some lowly ruffian who knows his place. Always have been, always will be."

As Fate would have it, the executioner recognized him. "I've heard tales about you. Flauros, the expert marksbeast- you could hit the wing of a butterfly in the midst of a storm! Show us that talent of yours, sir!"

"Weren't you listening? I told you already, ol' what's-his-name is not supposed to die today. It's not his time!"

"Five coins say you can't hit 'im."

The shrew's eyes came alight. "Five, you say?" He chucked the tankard over his shoulder, wiping his paws together. "Tell your talkin' coins to make it six, and it's a deal!"

Flauros scoffed, waving away the proffered weapon. "I don' use bows anymore."

He whipped out a sleek knife from his waistband, facing the accused.

"This is not how we do things here!" roared the elder. "This is heresy!"

Ignoring the clamoring protests, the shrew pitched a trifle of practice swings. The muffled deserter protested the sentencing, jerking and pulling against his bonds.

Guided by the divine will of Fate, the dagger found its target.

[Airan]

Name: Siler
Species: Wood Mouse
Gender: Male
Age: 29
Content Warning.

He worked best in the darkness. He watched in the lurking depths, learning odd quirks and habits, memorizing familiar travel routes and watering holes. Sometimes his clients would ask for details, and he took notes. He hated scribbling in the dark, but for coin, Siler would do almost anything.

He wouldn't need notes tonight; Falfred was a familiar trove.

The stoat Falfred stumbled from the crimson-colored door and slid across the slick cobblestones, righting himself with a stout hiccough that twirled him about-face. He waved to the sultry shadow hanging from the sliver of light in the doorway and turned again, tumbling snout-first into a puddle.

Siler moved out from the bricked alley and raised his crossbow. He waited while the stoat floundered in the shallow puddle, grabbing for his scrap of a hat while raising his dreadful voice in an off-tune limerick. Falfred stuck the waterlogged cap on his head, and Siler removed it with a quiet bolt from his bow. Falfred turned at the sound of the bolt striking the wall of the adjacent building and felt around the top of his head for his hat.

"Falfred Peabody, you're in contempt of the law," Siler called, folding the edges of the bow back against its slender body. He slid the weapon into a fold within his cape and walked up to the dripping stoat. "And by decree, I reclaim you for justice."

Falfred grinned from ear to ear. "Siler, my ol'...mess...mate...*hic*!"

Siler kicked Falfred at his throat. "I'm glad I found you; now I can get out of this 'gates-damned rain."

Falfred fell back into the puddle, gasping for air. Siler bent down and struck the stoat square on his snout before tugging him into a sitting position. "Get up!" he barked.

"Wh—why?" Falfred asked, his drunken revelry sobering into fear.

"Funny question, that," Siler said, hoisting the stoat to his unsteady footpaws. "I could list you a dozen reasons: public drunkenness, traveling past curfew, disorderly conduct, job abandonment, refusal to pay taxes, refusal to pay rent, refusal to pay your loan..." A flash lit across Siler's eyes, and he twisted Falfred's ears back against his head. "Oh, this is from Zonder, by the way," Siler continued, ignoring Falfred's cries. "Gave me a moderate sum to remind you what happens when you take, and don't give back!"

"Whaowaowowww!" Falfred cringed, holding on to Siler's gloved paws. "I'll pay it back, honest!"

"I'm not your bookie," Siler spat, releasing the stoat's ears. "Your wife sent me."

Falfred grew ashen. "...Eunice?"

Siler's cold blue eyes bore into Falfred's. "It seems she was worried about you...you hadn't come home in a few nights. Jakes came by the shack with your last pay—told her you walked off the forge. She gave me all she had—and a little more." Siler winked as Falfred wilted. "Told me to do what was necessary."

"It was just a lapse," Falfred begged, paws scrambling over Siler's slick cape. "I needed some time, some fresh air—"

"Well, breathe easy in Hellgates, then," Siler mocked. He fired in a quick pull, and Falfred died. Siler holstered his weapon and dragged Falfred's body to the crimson door he had recently exited. Two knocks brought an answer, and Siler dumped the body into the room before the greeter could protest.

"My friend's not well," Siler said, kicking Falfred's legs away from the door's path. "I'll leave him for morning." He looked up at the trembling, scantily-clad creature shying from the doorway. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked, closing the door and following. "I'm not tired."

[Airan]

Name: Unga Underbite
Species: Shrew
Gender: Female
Age: 29

"Ya cut me, Snagwort Slickpaw. Right down to the quick."

"Shaddap! Or I'll cut yeh fer real!" The stoat flashed his knife inches before Unga's snout. With his other paw, he fumbled in the dark to snatch her coin purse – her share of the bounty they had just collected. "Yew always talk too much, Unga. Mebbe if yew didn' talk so much, things like this wouldn' happen to yeh."

"Well, now, that's a real unkind thing to say but it ain't neither here nor there, is it? You're doin' this 'cause you want paid double for catchin' that rat – who ya never woulda caught without me knockin' him tail over teakettle to start with. If anything, it's me oughta be robbin' you – bein' as I did all the work."

Snagwort pricked her nose with the tip of the knife. Unga yelped. The smell of blood swallowed up the foul alley air.

"I tole yeh, Unga. I'll cut yeh. Don' make me cut yeh."

Unga stared up at her now-former partner. Just a few hours ago, they had been laughing over pints, regaling the other regulars with the tale of their latest apprehendee while they waited to meet the client. Now that she thought about it, though, it had been mostly her doing the laughing and regaling while Snagwort clicked his claws against his tankard and stared at his own ugly mug in the mirror over the bar. Maybe, if she'd been more attentive to the state of her stoat, she could have prevented this, kept him on the – well, not the straight and narrow, but the slightly less crooked and malevolent.

He was young, after all. Young beasts needed guidance.

"Ya don't wanna cut me, Snaggy. We're pals, you an' me. Ya don't really wanna rob me, neither, if ya think about it. What're you even gonna do with all that money?"

"I- well... I hadn' really thought much 'bout that yet."

"You should consider investin'. Could build yourself a nice little nest egg-"

"Aw, not this again! I'm robbin' yeh – yew ain't s'posed to gimme advice!"

"Force o' habit, Snaggy. Go on with your robbery, then."

"Git on yer knees! An' gimme yer rocks, too. Yew ain't gonna ding me when I walk away."

"No," Unga sighed, loosening the knot securing her rock pouch to her belt. "I guess I ain't."

Snagwort snatched the pouch and, without another word, skulked off toward the main street.

Unga just sat back on her heels and scratched at her bloody snout with her jutting lower teeth. Her paw slipped around the atlatl still strung at her hip. Across her chest, the bandolier loaded with darts felt heavy, tight.

Partners a full season, and he went and did a fool thing like this. The idjit didn't even think to take her real weapons – the weapons she only ever used for killing. This close, she could put a dart through his ticker and pierce his ears before he fell. She could tack him to the far wall like a hide stretched out for tanning.

But she didn't. She let him go. Maybe later, when she'd had another ale or two in the roaring loneliness of the tavern, she'd find it in her to get mad about this betrayal. Couple hours, couple days – maybe she'd hunt down Ole Snaggy and teach him the consequences of doing a fair beast dirty.

For now, though, she stood up and brushed herself off. She grumbled, cleared her tight throat.

"Nothin' like this'd ever happen in the tribe. City beasts got no kinda manners."