The Beast Driven By Revenge

[Zevka]

Name: Silas Hetherton
Category: The Beast Driven by Revenge
Species: Rat
Age: 42
Gender: Male
 
Debtor?s prison was never kind to its inhabitants. Even the sturdiest of beasts wasted away within. The young and weak, therefore, had little hope. Silas Hetherton stood before the graves of three such beasts: his wife and two children. There should have been four markers, but the stillborn babe his wife had birthed was interred  elsewhere, nameless and forgotten. The rat wept, tearing the whiskers from his face. Ten years he had worked his paws raw, toiling for pittance in a system nigh impossible to escape, but he?d had reason to persevere. Every hour, every blister, and every resulting coin was put towards freeing his family, yet one by one they had perished. And there was none to blame but himself. And fate. Dry, unfeeling fate, that sucked the water from his fields and turned his crops to dust two years in a row.
 
After the initial drought, he?d had to borrow money to plant again as well as feed and clothe his family, but the second year had deceived them with its piles of snow and early rains. A snowy winter usually meant plenty of runoff and a bountiful harvest. Indeed, the grain sprouted quickly and plentifully, but then the drought returned, and the crops all failed.
 
Silas left the Potter?s field, wandering without purpose or hope. Had he given up after the first year and sold the farm, they would have been impoverished, but at least they would be alive.
 
After a while the rat found himself at the center of the busy town, gazing up at the gallows. A field mouse pulling a cart heaped with dirty laundry paused upon sight of him. ?Silas Hetherton??
 
The rat turned his dull stare on the other rodent. Recognition kicked in at last, bringing a name to his cracked lips. ?Orwell?? The mouse had owned the next farm down. He looked about as wasted and worn as himself. ?You?re? a launderer??
 
The mouse shrugged. ?One does what one must to get by. Haven?t seen you around in years! Heard you were sentenced to bond labor up at Chesterton.?
 
?Aye,? Silas acknowledged. ?Shouldn?t?ve put so much faith in the land, I suppose. Failed us all, didn?t it?? He glanced up at the laden cart.
 
?Turns out it wasn?t the land, actually.? The mouse?s mouth tightened with a humorless smile.
 
?What do you mean?? asked the rat.
 
?Oh it was a real scandal. I guess you weren?t exactly in a place to hear about it though. Found out a beaver bought a piece of forest land further up the east incline and dammed up Burrfield creek after the first drought. So the melt-off that usually irrigated our fields was hoarded and diverted.?
 
Silas stared at the mouse, unmoving.
 
?As you know,? Orwell continued, ?I held out through the worst of it, irrigating my crops with well water, but it was hard work filling those tanks and moving them up and down the fields every day. I threw out my back and then at harvest, we barely broke even. It was this beaver fellow, Blasio Timberfell, who approached me with an offer. It was hardly enough, but I knew I wouldn?t survive another year like that.? The mouse scratched his head fur and pulled out a flea. ?I learned later that Timberfell had already bought up everything else in our little valley. Your farm, Janus?s, Skif Ferrel?s plot, and even old Clarkson?s ? all at bargain prices. Then he broke down the dam and sold it all later for three times profit.?
 
Silas felt his heart race and his breath quicken. His livelihood, his farm, ten years of his life, his children and his wife had all been lost . . . because of one beast?s greed.
 
?Where?s the villain now?? he hissed darkly.
 
Orwell sighed. ?Oh he?s long gone. Trust me, plenty of us would love to take a stab at the glutton. Ruined a lot of lives, he did. But he vanished and it?s up to us to pick up the pieces and rebuild.? The mouse clapped a paw to Silas?s shoulder with some affection. ?Still got mouths to feed, after all.?
 
The rat looked away.
 
?And speaking of mouths to feed, I?d better get these bundles to the wash house.? The mouse gave him a nod. ?Fare thee well, old friend.?
 
Silas watched him leave, then struck out east toward the upper slope where Burrfield creek now flowed unimpeded. He would find this Timberfell character, whatever it cost, and slay him.


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Character Name: Altra Gnawear
Category: The Beast driven by revenge
Species: Fox (silver)
Age: 20 seasons old
Gender: Female

Altra Gnawear stood in the doorway of the inn, eyeing the contents of the bustling great room. Many Lowbeasts were gathered, whispering together about their petty lives and vain happenings. Altra felt the bile rise to the back of her throat. If her need for information were not so desperate she would never have stepped footclaw in this disgusting place. Anger raced through her, causing her cold, yellow eyes to blaze as she remembered her purpose for coming here. She took her revulsion in claw, and stepped inside, making for the bar that only came up to her hips in the back.

The occupants of the small, grimy tavern hushed as she passed, staring in awe at her passing. Altra smiled to herself, knowing why they stared. She stepped up to the bar, the shriveled little ferret behind it craning his head back to wonder at her height. She glared down her muzzle at him, allowing him to feel her superiority for a moment, then snarled, ?Give me drink.?

The stupid Lowbeast gaped, then scrambled for a large barrel which he tapped. He shoved the full, foaming mug at her, which she examined carefully, looking much different than the sharp brews of her home up north.

?Ye?re a long way from home, vixen,? came a snide voice beside her. Repressing a growl, Altra turned to see a red fox waiting beside her, his eyes twinkling in mischief. Her ears pinned back in outrage, causing her clan symbol to sway, and her eyes narrowed. Did he think that because they both shared brush that they were of the same species? Did he not see her dark fur? The spear, held casually at her side, whipped around to tickle the tip of his nose.The red-furred fox grinned, ignoring the quavering squeaks of the ancient barbeast. ?Yer of the Sloe-back clans up north, ain?t ye?? He slanted his eyes to the earring that she kept in her left ear. ?Of the Shadowtail clan, I see.

?Altra?s lips peeled back from sharp fangs. ?What would you know of my clan, scum!? she spat.

His grin widened. ?Mayhap it?s been told to me, a tale or two of a tragedy? in the shadows.?

Altra?s ears flattened against her scull, flashes running through her mind of burnt timbers, blood-splashed snow, and the horrifying sight of a white-tipped, black brush, hung high for all who passed to see.

Before she realized quite what she had done, the red-furred turncoat was sprawled in the dust outside the tavern, and the razor-sharp tip of her spear had sunk slightly into his heaving chest. She was satisfied to see that the smug look had been wiped off his face, and she showed her fangs in malevolent glee, the leather-wrapped haft squeaking as she tightened her grip.

?I know where he is,? the dog before her gasped, eyes flicking down in terror to the thin line of blood that dyed the white of his chest.

Altra paused. ?You lie, dog,? she snapped, straightening for the final push to end his miserable life. It was impossible that he should have the very thing she came for.

The other quickly spat in his paw, shaking his head vigorously as he held out the damp limb. ?No lie,? he rasped, gripped the threatening spear with the dry claw to keep it steady. ?The crater, where fights are seen every week, would greatly appeal to one such as he.? His strange brown eyes met her gold ones. ?Especially if he has been there before.?

They ignored the gathering crowd, staring into each other?s eyes. Altra was torn, wishing to punish her tormentor, but afraid that he spoke truth. Finally she jerked back, and her victim?s spitless paw leaked as badly as his chest. He pressed hurt paw to wounded chest, keeping the other paw outstretched.

?You will take me to this ? crater,? Altra commanded.

Those brown eyes seemed to harden, but his lopsided smile did not diminish, and the paw did not drop. Cringing inwardly, Altra finally lowered herself to make the foxes? pact with him, spitting into her own, then lifting him to his feet.

?There are some things I need to retrieve, first,? he told her, ever grinning.



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Name: Tope Benwrath
Species: Stoat
Age: 23
Gender: Male
Category: The Beast Driven by Revenge

?Move ashide,? a voice shouted in a drunken slur, ?ye wool-headed l-lummox!

?The stoat?s short ears perked up, his dark eyes now staring at the gray cat before him, bedecked in a coat of richly embroidered green velvet and walking in a less than straight line. Despite the cane in the feline's hand, Tope ignored the order.

Taking an extra-long step, the cat blocked Tope?s path, looming over him in what might should have been an intimidating manner. The rich cat flexed his claws. ?You lookin? fer a fight??

?Not usually,? Tope replied casually, ?but I don? run from em.?

?Don? you? know who I am?? Pointing a claw at his chest, he boasted, ?I?m Wil-?

"I don? care.? Fur unruffled, breathing even, and expression even, he stepped forward.

?Wh-why you?? The cat leaned back and swiped his cane at Tope?s right arm.

Tope leaned forward. Hard wood connected with thick muscle, but the stoat did not flinch or cry out. Gradually, a small, dangerous smile raised the sides of his mouth and a fire was lit behind his eyes. One practiced motion put the short club at his belt in his left paw, and a moment later the cat?s cane flew out his grip, landing in a nearby pile of broken boards. Tope grabbed the front of the fine green coat, shifted his weight to his right foot and dragged the cat forward, throwing him head-long into the wooden wall of the tavern.

The cat staggered, eyes wide and disoriented. Tope mercilessly kicked a foot into the beast?s gut before striking his skull with his club. The rich drunk crumpled to the floor, blood seeping out of a cut at his temple, his breathing shallow.

Tope forced himself to pause, to squash the impulse to guarantee the cat never woke up. Flexing his paws, he took several deep breaths, the red glow in his vision subsiding before he bent down and removed the feline's green velvet purse, wiping a bit of blood off of his club on the cat's coat at the same time. Standing up, he faced the young river otter and squirrelmaid that shivered fearfully a few feet away.

He noted the squirrel?s swollen right eye and the way the otter favored his right leg. ?Would?ja consider yer master a vile beast?? Neither responded. ?This is an importan? question. Is yer master a despicable excuse fer a beast or no? 'E?s not gonna to 'ear yer answer.?

Stepping back, the squirrel nodded fearfully.

Tope assumed as much, but the answer still reassured him. A chorus of ?A Broom for More?n Sweepin?? started up in the tavern as he grinned and pulled the white and black leather pouches from his belt. Opening the white one he removed four small pebbles and stared at them intently.

?W-what are those for, sir?? the otter asked quietly.

Most beasts were intrigued by the bags of rocks that accompanied Tope Benwrath wherever he went. Tiny, ordinary, and seemingly useless, they somehow attracted of attention. ?In a manner of speakin?,? he responded, ?these?re m? fate.?

Predictably, the two had no response. Tope explained, ?There?s a balance ?n every beast?s life: light an? dark, good an? bad, right an? wrong. A beast can only do so much good ?r bad afore ?e?s judged and thing ?appen to ?im. I just ?appen t? be one o? the few who keep track o? the score.

?To clarify, he showed them the stones. ?Beatin? a beast half t? death ain? good fer no one. Prob?ly lose about four stones fer that.? He dropped four gray stones in the black bag. Plucking one back out, he held it up. ??Seein' as a lesson were in order, so I suppose tha?s a point back t? me.? Putting another stone from the black into the white he casually threw the cat?s purse to the slaves.

The two stared at their master?s possession, possibilities floating through their heads as Tope put the pouches back at his belt and readjusted the pack on his shoulders. Before he could resume his leisurely pace, the squirrel asked, ?What happens when one bag gets full??

?Don? let the black get all full, so I don? right know, but when the white gets full o? good deeds?? He let the unspoken words hang in the air as he stepped away from the slaves.

Leaving the alleyway, he thought of the two beasts left on his list, the only two for whom he'd not properly tipped the scales. When the white gets full o? good deeds, he repeated to himself for the hundredth time, I get t? kill a good beast.