A Night on the Town, Part I (Or: Alleyway Ramblings)

[Timbones Oldburrow]

Timbones emerged from the lodge with a look of wide-eyed glee, eager to face the world with his pouch full of money and the Greysands' blessing. It was a festive night - he could hear music, singing, and much chatter from amongst the many tents of the mobile city. Before he could even decide which direction to go, a large long-legged bird with an eye-patch and a bowler hat sped up, skidded to a halt just before bowling over the young squirrel, dropped a sheet of paper, issued a loud "WHOOP WHOOP!" and dashed off again.

Tim bent over and retrieved the flyer. The handwriting was blocky and unstable, and the author seemed to have a fondness for the letter "K." There were charcoal sketches communicating the information to any that could not read: market stalls, an armadillo riding atop a massive horned beetle, a small ring-tailed creature fending off a scorpion with a pike, and a dancing lizard in a cape surrounded by squiggly little lines. There was also a primitive circular map with a red ink dot marking the location of the main event, which didn't help Tim a whole lot considering he didn't know where he was in the first place.

COME ONE COME ALL!

To the Great Guild Gathering and Bizare!

Don't miss this opportunity to see our lokal Guild Beastmasters in action! Be amazed by Rinco the Rinoseros Rider, Sonora the Skorpion Subduer, and Welvan the Worm Wrangler!

Artistsans, merchants, confektionaries, and dealers of all kinds will be setting up around the Main Show, so be sure to bring something home for dear ol' grandmammy!

Events will kontinue through the night and konclude with a Grand Beetle Awktion hosted by none other than the Wormderous Welvan himself!

All klans welcome! Don't miss out! Hosted by the Skkinned Ones Klan, NorthWest District <-NW

- Sincerely, Your Frend Fred

In the bottom right corner of the page was a stamped emblem featuring the head of a collared peccary, framed by a metal shackle. Tim's scraggly tail fur bristled - it was the seal of the Beastmaster's Guild! The young squirrel had heard of them before, and often wondered why Auntie Olna wasn't a member.

"They're misguided at best, pretenders at worst" she would say - but Tim never really understood that. Wouldn't it be something to meet other beasts with abilities like his own? Perhaps they could teach him more... and oh, yes, they would surely be impressed by Olna's journal! The rattlesnake incident may have disillusioned the young Master, but he had found encouragement amongst the Sandsline refugees, and a chance to show off in front of official Guildbeasts would be the glazing on the apple tart.

"Timbones! Lose a page from your book did you?"

It was Jones, the one-winged burrowing owl. He hobbled up to the young squirrel, laden with the two leather satchels slung over his back that marked him as a courier. Timbones couldn't contain his excitement at the sight of a familiar face.

"Jones! Jonesy! Just lookit this! The Beastmasters are holding a show!"

Jones examined the document with a weary eye.

"Ah yes, they do that from time to time. I would have expected no less, in light of the occasion."

"The occasion? What's the occasion?"

Jones recoiled back from Timbones, his eyes widening before squinting at the squirrel.

"Why, the Day of Dust, you charlatan! You cannot possibly neglect honoring your lost ones on this hallowed day?"

It hit Tim like a ton of slave-molded bricks. The Day of Dust was a yearly convocation, set aside to remember and honor fallen ancestors and loved ones that had been gathered to the sands. With all that had happened over the last week, he had indeed forgotten. Perhaps the Greysands had as well? He considered returning to the lodge to remind them, but decided he'd better not interrupt whatever important conversation the husband and wife were having. Instead he only looked at his footpaws and shook his head solemnly.

"Sorry Jonesy - I guess with the migration and all that, my mind has been in other places."

The owl laughed, winking at the squirrel.

"WHO WHO WHO! No matter, there will be plenty of opportunities to pay your respects tonight. Why, I just passed a band of ringtails all parading and chanting around a bonfire back there; it seems that just about every tribe and family has their own special way to connect with the other side. My parliament was never so extravagant as that; old uncle Bartholomew would recite old stories and poems that would frighten the youngest among us back to our nests... Oh, I'm sorry, did you want to go somewhere?"

Tim was fidgeting anxiously.

"Flyer don't say what time the show starts, so I figure we'd better git thar soon as possible."

Jones raised a feathery eyebrow.

"Young Tim - your speech does reach such a level of indignity when you become agitated."

Tim took a brief look at the sky, stars just barely visible in the fading sunlight, and headed off down the path that took him west.

"Sorry 'bout that. It's true. My Auntie was a refined beast, taught me how to talk proper. Not so much my uncle. Er, are you gonna join me Jonesy?"

"I suppose," the owl sighed. "It did only take me several hours to figure out where you had made your camp and then hobble all the way over here; it'd be foolish to make that all for nothing."

"Wait, you came all the way to find me?"

"Well of course - I am no stranger to the Links, but have found little camaraderie amongst its ranks, for reasons unbeknownst to myself. Although I exaggerate the difficulty of my venture, as the Greysands are well known, and it was by their name that I located you."

"Well Jonesy I'm flattered."

"Of course - you may not be refined but you do make good company."

The duo made their way down the dirt alley in the fading day's light, passing the backs of tents, pavilions, and market stalls. It wasn't a main route - while they could hear the din of beasts around them, their path was clear save for a few waste bins and the occasional beast popping through a stall's backdoor for a break and a smoke. Tim noted the content of the bins as he walked by: fruit rinds, bits of bone, scraps of metal, wood shavings, fish scales, broken shells, tattered fabric...

Tim found the filled waste receptacles a curious sight. Back on the ranch, they hardly threw anything out. The rinds would have fed the beetles, the scraps of cloth used as patches, and the metal shaped into new tools or traded with wandering peddlers. Even with the drought going on, were the cityfolk really so wealthy that they could just toss whatever they wanted?

"Find anything interesting?" the owl eyed Tim incredulously. "Do not tell me that you are adding the title of 'scavenger' on top of your reputation as a frequently grammatically incorrect rodent."

"What? Oh no, I just thought it was interestin' how they throw all this stuff out..."

"I see - yes, waste is one of life's necessary evils. Or so Uncle Bartholomew would say whenever one of us coughed up a pel-"

The duo was interrupted by a metal crashing sound from down a dark alleyway, and somebeast shouting.

"Dang vermint! That ain't yer garbage, that's my garbage!"

A dark streak of a creature shot out from the alley, too fast to make out clearly, but it was stockily built and hefted a large canvas bag over its shoulder. Tim caught a glimpse of a ringed tail as it disappeared behind a confectionary stall.

"Peculiar," said Jones.

Before they could continue, another shape emerged from the alley - this one a scaley ball that rolled right up to Tim and decompacted to reveal an irate armadillo. He had a large grey moustache and reeked of tobacco.

"Where'd that vermit go? Stole my trash!" he inquired loudly.

The owl opened his beak for a lengthy reply but, before he could say anything, a shout came from the direction of the confectionary.

"AHHGH! THIEF, THIEF!"

The armadillo pointed with an "Aha!" and launched himself back into a ball, rolling at top speed into the other alley and leaving the two comrades in a cloud of dust.

"Eh pah ahem! Slightly more peculiar..." Jones coughed. "I suppose in such desperate times thievery is inevitable... then again, I suppose that thievery is inevitable at an event of revelry such as this!"

Tim clutched his link pouch closer to his chest as the duo made their way further into the depths of the Western Link.

Jones noted the action. "No matter Timbones, no sensible beast would even consider carrying out a scheme right underneath the beak of an owl, eh! Then again, who can say that thieves are sensible beasts... Oh no matter." He waved it off a wide sweep of his wing and continued onwards. As they passed the confectionary stall, Tim noticed an unusual object on the ground, which he bent over and retrieved. It appeared to be a small clip made of bone.

"Jones, do you know what- Jones?"

Jones had not stopped, but continued down the alley. Timbones scurried to catch up and inquire on the nature of the object, but he noticed something that he hadn't while walking beside the owl: Jones wasn't just hobbling under the weight of his mail sacks, which in fact appeared empty, he was practically limping, pulling one leg up into his belly feathers as he hopped along.

Tim hurried up beside his friend.

"What'd ya do to yer leg? I mean, your leg?"

"Oh nothing of consequence, just a small scuffle I happened upon."

"Scuffle? I didn't take you for the fightin' type."

"I am not. Hence the injury. Although, you should see the other beast."

"What about your position as courier?" Tim said, concerned. "Are you sure you'll be able to keep up with the work?"

"Dear Timbones, my courier days are done and over with. There are younger and more agile birds in the links - and more popular ones."

Tim kicked at the dirt as they passed by the end of a busy street, ignoring the sounds and smells that channeled down into the alley. "Well I don't see what that's got to do with it - if you can do the job, so what if some are faster. The more couriers, the more that can be delivered, right?"

"First of all, young squirrel," Jones said disapprovingly, "I'll have you know that where I come from, 'kicking the dust' or stirring it up in any such malicious manner is considered disrespectful - especially on today's occasion. I would advise you to curtail such behavior in the sight of others."

It was a stern reprimand for an action so simple and innocent, but Tim was a beast made to please. "I'm sorry Jonesy, I s'pose livin' out on a ranch like I did, I never got taught proper culture manners."

Before Jones could reply and straighten out the fumbled grammar, an even sterner voice hailed from the street that they had just passed.

"I should say not!"

The two friends turned to see a tall somber ground squirrel in a grey habit, standing in front of a produce stall. Her garb included a tall, veiled headdress (that had probably gotten caught on more than a few doorways in its time) and a beaded necklace. Despite her essence of severity, Tim had to stifle a chuckle, as the hat looked like it was concealing a giant goose egg.

"The dust of the earth is quite literally made up of all that have passed before us!" she said incredulously, while slowly placing a watermelon into her basket and eyeing the two beasts in the alley as if they were about to pounce and raid the groceries.  "You should recall your elders and recite your prayers with every step that you take!"

"I do apologize," said Tim, bowing his head respectfully while secretly hiding an amused grin. "Having lost all of my family, I should know this more than anybeast."

The woman's demeanor softened just a bit at Tim's respect, and as she felt less threatened by the alleyway duo. But she wasn't about to let the argument go without a point being made.

"Quite! And I suppose you two are out on a mission of revelry - youngbeasts like you have so little respect; I tell you this day is to be set apart and hallowed, a time for mourning and remembrance. But the revelry continues: these modern abominations, dancing and gaming and shows and feasts, all the while young minds forget the reason for all of it! And old beasts like me, we pass, and are we remembered? No I say, for what care has the young mind for anything but revelry! Someday all will be forgotten, every one!"

Tim was stunned by this tirade - he stared speechless at the elder squirrel, any trace of a smile had vanished from his lips.

Jones on the other wing was never at a loss for words. The owl cleared his throat.

"Ahem my dear lady, if I may say, there are some who would prefer to be remembered with acts of joy and merriment rather than inflict pain and sorrow upon the ones they left behind."

"Hmph, well that isn't saying much - such beasts deserve little to be remembered. Besides, it's only the young new generation beasts such as yourselves that think that way."

Jones's feathers ruffled. "Ma'am, I am not a 'youngbeast' per se - unless perhaps in comparison with yourself."

"Oh! So you're going to insult my age now? I see how it is."

"I do believe that, just a moment ago, you were boasting about your age."

"Well yes - grey fur is a crown of glory! But your intentions were quite clearly to construe my seniority as a disparagement; don't attempt to argue otherwise."

Jones's bushy white eyebrows and large golden eyes combined to form a glare that would've chilled a rattlesnake's blood. "And what if I was?"

Tim feared the forthcoming conflict and tried to placate the irate squirrel. "Please, Jones didn't mean you any disrespect, he's one of the most respectful birds I know!"

"Silence child!" she snapped. "This is no longer your matter."

"Probably the only bird you know," muttered Jones.

The elder squirrel's gaze darted back to the owl and stared back with equal ferocity. "If you refuse to pay respect, then you will be known throughout this city as the meager, backwards, uncivilized note carrier that disgraced the Dowager Silvannia, late widow of Clan Patriarch Sickletooth the Scrupulous!"

Jones took a deep breath. He was already not the most popular bird in the city, to be certain, and he cared little for public attention, but the disparagements stung nevertheless.

"It is true," he began slowly, "that I was hatched into a parliament of... less-than-sophisticated owls. But my whole life has consisted of-"

"Ah, that explains much," the Dowager sniffed. "It's in the bloodline - I knew it when I saw you in fact."

"Highly unlikely!"

"I know a member of Burrow Spotwing when I see one."

Jones's chest feathers puffed out like a bullfrog's throat.

"I have overcome the shortcomings of my Burrow and will not stand to be insulted by an old widow!"

"Well then, why don't you just fly off, eh?"

Jones's head rotated for a moment to examine the patch of torn feathers where his left wing used to be.

"That's right-" the Dowager scolded. "Poor blood and a cripple too. No wonder you never amounted to anything more than a grounded courier!"

Jones's head swiveled back around violently as he shouted at full lung-capacity: "Fine! I don't give rabbit's footpaw for this city as it is! I'll leave - I can make my way in the desert well enough, drought or no!"

Tim was surprised and quite startled by this. "Jones wait, don't jump to conclusions-"

"I'm sorry Tim, but I've had all an old owl can take!"

"Oh so you're the old one now?" snapped Silvannia.

Jones turned without another word, smoothed his feathers down with a shake, and hopped off down a particularly dark side street where the alley branched off.

"Wait, Jones! Please!" But the owl only raised his wing as a paltry "goodbye" as he stormed off - or perhaps it was a rude gesture.

Now it was Tim's turn to be upset with the Dowager.

"He was my friend! Look what you've done!"

"A lad like you is better off in the company of his own kind - where you can learn manners. Owls are notorious for having bad manners, did you know that?"

"Jones was - Jones is - a goodbeast." Tim said firmly.

"Perhaps in spirit, but not in manner. Now, I do believe it's time for a proper introduction. You know my title, if you've been paying attention. What is yours?"

Tim didn't answer immediately - he kept looking back to the alley, wondering if he should go after Jones. But could he possibly do to change the suttoborn old bird's mind?

"Don't worry about him," the Dowager was unconcerned. "He won't be leaving the city, not if he has any sense. Somebeasts just haven't learned to control their anger. Now, will you provide me with your appellation, or shall I make something up?"

"My name is Tim... Timbones Oldburrow." He had introduced himself many times over the past week, usually enthusiastically, but this time with remorse.

"Oldburrow..." Silvannia stroked her chin. "Now that's a name I have not heard in a long time... and I make it my business to know all of the squirrel families. Let's see... Wait a moment, no - no you can't be an Oldburrow, because they were all killed in the-"

She hastily retrieved a pair of chained pince-nez spectacles and clamped them on her muzzle, regarding Timbones intently.

"You - you're the orphan! The one taken in by that rube and his curious mate. That would make you the only Oldburrow worthy of carrying on the family name!"

Tim bristled at the insults to his adopted parents' character, but as much as he wanted to defend them, he was not a critter of conflict. The young squirrel set his mind to be firm, but, to his displeasure, the words that tumbled out seemed almost conciliatory.

"Well... I suppose that's true in a sense. My Uncle's been dusted and my Auntie... well, I left her behind... she wouldn't come along, didn't think that she could make the journey."

That's not really what I wanted to say... Tim grumbled in his mind.

"The desert purifies all things - especially creatures. My Burrow has an ancestral saying: "The weak may perish and the strong survive - but it is the refined that truly thrive!"

Tim folded his arms behind his back as if to look regal, but in reality hoped to conceal the pawstub. Thankfully the sleeves of his tunic were so baggy that the Dowager probably couldn't see the difference anyway, as she continued on with her rant.

"What say you, Timbones Oldburrow?"

Tim only blinked in confusion. "What say I... what? If ya must know, I'd say I'm getin' purdy hungry right now."

"A-ha..." she gave a fake and disappointed laugh. "Timebones, my dear, if you wish to remain in my care, you must not speak like an uncultured scrubland dweller."

"Well Jones didn't talk like that, and you called him a- wait, remain in your care? I'm sorry I'm so simple minded but you lost me there, miss Dowager."

"You may call me Madam Silvannia. And you can't possibly expect me to allow the last Oldburrow - and any one of our kind for that matter - to go on living like a homeless scrounge rat with questionable company!"

"Miss - Madam - I am not homeless. I stay with the Greysands, they're the kindest foxes you'll ever meet!"

Silvannia dropped her wicker grocery basket, which hit the ground with a loud crunch as the melon so carelessly placed on top compacted whatever fragile items were below it.

"Foxes..." she whispered. "You've been living with... Foxes? OH MY DEAR CHILD!"

She thrust out her arms and advanced to embrace Tim as if he were some poor creature that had just lost his parents in a tragic fire that consumed his entire home. That had actually happened to Tim, of course, but Silvannia hadn't shown the slightest remorse when she realized it earlier - and yet now, all she was concerned about was the young squirrel living with foxes. Tim wanted no part in that pity party. He backed away quickly.

"The Greysands are proper foxes - even refined, and more so than you!"

"Poor boy, delusional and deceived by those... those canines!" The Dowager continued her advance, trying to hug Tim empathetically or else grab him by the wrist, but the agile "youngin" dodged her every move. "Come, let me bring you to a safe place!"

Tim swerved under a grey habit sleeve and came out on the main road.  "No! I don't want anythin' ta do wit ya!"

"But Timbones! You must! You are an heir!"

Silvannia swiveled around and grabbed Tim by the right sleeve. She had expected a paw to be there and was quite confused. Tim pulled away and the fabric began to rip.

"Leave me alone! GO AWAY!"

The sound of shredding threads rent the air as Silvannia fell backward into a basket of watermelon and crushed quail eggs, clutching the end of a sleeve. She watched as Timbones dashed away down the main street.

"You will come back to me - you're an Oldburrow, it's where you belong!"

But Tim was already far out of earshot.