Overture, Raise the Lights...

[Eliza Lacrimosa]

Inhale. Beat. Exhale. Beat. Repeat, ad infinitum.

Such was the basic metronome of life, the rhythmic foundation on which all other activities were given form. Eliza isolated the process, forcing herself to crystallize the motions in her consciousness. Breathe in, breathe out. No thoughts, no feelings. Just one paw in front of the other.

Eliza longed to go home, back to her comfortable world of dark wood paneling and lacy curtains. Once she arrived, the pine marten would sweep through the halls and rush straight up to her bedroom. She would lock the door, drop the key, and throw herself into the depths of her bedsheets. Then, secure and in private, she would cry until the pillows floated away.   

Three days, she had to spend in this horrid stinking cesspit of a town.  And that was an estimate, not a guarantee. Ships came and went at intervals far too erratic to predict with any accuracy, the fellow at the harbor had explained.

Leaving her physician?s care was proving slightly more problematic than she?d bargained for. No doubt Doctor Spectacles and his aides would already be out scouring the town for her. The fat slob?s nap could only last so long, and the absence of a wealthy patient was sure to cause quite a stir.

Eliza couldn?t pretend to care. She would find somewhere to stay. If they wanted her back in that starchy bed, they would have to tie her to it. She had taken her fill of forced bed rest and idle chatter, thank you.

The aides had seemed to take a rather perverse joy in recounting the damage. The facial scars were permanent, they?d smiled, and she had definitely lost a lot of her right ear. She should count herself fortunate, though. Scores of Lehman?s guests had died in the collapse, but Eliza had somehow lived long enough for them to pull her out of the rubble.

She was lucky to be alive, they had told her.

Eliza disagreed. This new existence was not life. It was a slow drowning - death by degrees. Every glance in the mirror, every wide eye turned to her hideousness, every male?s rejection would chip away another infinitesimal piece of her soul, until finally there would be nothing left to take.

Eliza Lacrimosa, the socialite, heiress and dancer, had ceased to be; only the inconveniently breathing body of a pine marten kept Dark Forest from knowing it.

Idle meanderings took her to what passed as the town?s main avenue of business. Eliza paused awhile, taking in the scene. Street merchants hollered lustily about their wares, while gossiping homebodies daintily passed them by. A group of young ones frolicked in the autumn sunshine, waving sticks about and shrieking joyfully. The ordinariness of what she saw repelled her. These pathetic bumpkins went about their daily lives with an almost spiteful serenity, as if studiously contrasting this hideous wraith in their midst.   

Her life, everything she knew and cherished, had been dragged into a whirlwind of uncertainty. Eliza could recall only one time when she had felt so utterly helpless, with everything spinning away. This time, there was nothing to cling to. 

When the sea raiders came, that was when everything changed. Father hustled her and Mother into a safe spot back in the caves. Eliza buried her face into Mother?s skirts, trying to shut out the echoing screams.

She drank in the earthy smell of those skirts, still caked with dirt from the fields. They were rough, scratchy things, stitched together from bits of old sacking. Mother?s paws had been more suited to work with heavy farming implements than fiddly little things like needles, and the stitching always came out uneven. But in that moment, they were everything beautiful and safe in the world.

The fighting seemed to go on for ever and ever, and the screams grew louder and louder, and all that Eliza could do was force herself to breathe.

Breathe in, breathe out, and never cry. Because if you cried, the sea raiders would hear you, and they would find you and kill you, and you and Mother would be dead and it would be all your fault for being so cowardly...

She felt now as she had then, lost in the dark of that cave. Only, this time there were no skirts to cling to, no maternal presence to blot out the fears and whisper that everything would be fine in the end. There was no Father, coming to gather her up in his strong arms and tell her that there was nothing to be afraid of any more.

A hanging sign caught the pine marten?s eye. Most of the paint had flaked away from the wood, but the faded image of an alcoholic beverage was still visible. No, she thought, there are no skirts here. But there is wine.

Yes. She would consume a small amount of wine, which would provide some much-needed clarity of thought.

Eliza straightened her dress with a twinge of melancholy futility. The falling glass and stone had wreaked absolute havoc on the garment, reducing it to mere thread in spots. Lifting it from the physician?s back cupboard hardly seemed worth the trouble, in retrospect.

As the marteness pushed open the tavern door, the dying strains of a bawdy sea shanty caused her to pause a moment. This was mad. Ladies of her standing did not patronize establishments like this.

Eliza glanced down the way. No better prospect presented itself, so she swallowed her trepidation and slipped begrudgingly inside.

Ghastly. The air smelled of fermentation and vomit, and a number of other noxious things Eliza feared to guess at. She pushed her way through the noisy drunkards, wading towards what she assumed to be the bar area.

There was only one available stool, between an inebriated dogfox and a dumpy-looking female stoat. With a grimace, Eliza mounted the rickety seat. 

?I wanna drink,? the plump stoatess informed the barkeep.

?What kind??

The stoat thought about this for a second. ?One in a cup.?

?Right,? sighed the old rodent. ?Juniper grog it is. And for you, Ma?am??

Eliza?s glass of ruby liquid had scarce been set before her when an overzealous ferret jumped atop his table and bellowing something about paying for everybeast?s drinks.

As the inebriated mob vied greedily for the barkeep?s attention, an emaciated hogwife detached from the crowd and made a beeline for the stoat.

?Oh, thank the Fates I found you!? gasped the hedgehog. ?I?ve been lookin' all over... Are you drinkin'??

The stoatess peered at her full cup. ?Not yet.? 

?But, but,? stammered the hogwife, ?You... you shouldn?t be drinkin' in your condition...?

With a huff, the stoat snatched up her grog and disappeared into the crowd. The nagging hog followed her, whining fearfully. 

?Buy you a drink?? asked a smooth voice.

Eliza looked up. The ferret who?d appointed himself Financier of Drunks gave her a roguish grin, exposing several yellow teeth. Glech. Not even if she had been in the mood for flirtation.

?I already have one, actually.?

A sensible beast would have taken her sarcasm for the blazing sign of disinterest that it was.

However, the harmonious marriage of ?arrogant? and ?slovenly? embodied here had apparently crowded out any room for ?sensible.?

?Perhaps ?your drink? is lonely and would like a companion??

?No,? Eliza snapped, ?It would not.?

Displaying some seriously misguided self-confidence, the ferret pressed harder. ?Come now, There?s no need for hostility. I?m only trying to be friendly.?

?Then I suggest you befriend a different lady. Preferably one drunk enough to find pretentiousness and a petulant stench attractive.?

The ferret?s voice chilled instantly. ?Young lady, with a face like that, you?re hardly in a position to be choosy.?

He spun on his heel and melted back into the revelry.

Eliza drained her glass, the hideous scars burning with fury and embarrassment.

Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

She signaled weakly for a second glass. The lump rising in her throat needed to be drowned, quickly.

Much, much later, when the refill and his twin brother had been slowly and seethingly dispatched, Eliza began to feel marginally better.

As she courted the idea of a fourth dose of forgetfulness, it suddenly occurred to her that most of the noise had subsided.

The pine marten?s dark eyes wavered slightly as she looked about the tavern. The drinking population seemed decidedly thinner than she recalled.

The ferret she?d dismissed earlier watched impassively as a pair of searats in green tunics staggered past, supporting between them a decidedly soused wildcat. The feline giggled insanely as the odd trio squeezed through the door.

A dark-furred rat scuttled up to the ferret, grinning crookedly. ?That?s the last of ?em, Verand.?

?Good. How many did we get??

?I?d estimate a good half-score of hearty crewbeasts, plus the runty hedgehog.?

Verand nodded approvingly. ?Let?s go, then. We?ll have to be well out of port by the time they come round.?

A red flag unfurled itself in the alcohol-fogged synapses of Eliza?s mind. Something sinister was going on here. In fact, now seemed rather a good time to leave. She slipped off of the stool. Her paws wobbled slightly.

Verand?s peripheral vision caught the movement. ?Hold on, lads.? The smirking ferret?s paw wavered a little as he pointed at Eliza.

?Bring that little hellion, too.?

Said hellion had no intention of allowing herself to be brought anywhere. Eliza made a break for the door, but a blockade of green tunics swelled up in her path.

?Mates," the ferret opined mockingly, "This fine lady does not know how to properly address members of Baron Proklyan?s service.? 

A greasy searat grinned wolfishly. ?I reckon we?ll ?ave ter teach ?er some ettykit, then.? Several of his compatriots snickered.

?Indeed we shall,? Verand replied, clapping a paw onto Eliza?s shoulder.

Crack!

A ringing slap whipped the brigand?s face to one side. There was a moment of consequential silence.

The ferret?s head turned back around with ominous leisure. A predatory grin danced in his eyes.

?Oh, you?re going to be quite sorry for that, young lady.?

He was wrong. If Eliza was going to be made sorry anyways, it was not going to be for one slap. It was going to be for scratching those dancing eyes right out of his head. She swung at Verand?s face, claws bared.

Without flinching, the ferret knocked her unpracticed paw aside. With the other paw, he gave her a hefty shove backwards. Pitched off balance, Eliza stumbled into some chairs. She hit the floor, hard.

Several gnarled paws instantly latched onto the pine marten, dragging her upright.

?Take this snotty wench to the ship. Perhaps a few days of starvation will make her realize the true value of respect.?