And For His Encore...

[Damask the Minstrel]

"At least wait 'til I'm decent!"

The knocking stopped at that comment, and a hushed conversation began on the other side of the door to Damask's room. The bird gave only the slightest of smirks before returning to the problem at hand: someone had found him out.

True, he was currently safe from immediate harm. The problem was, one of the vermin was smart enough to give him an inside room -- no convenient window to escape from. There was no fresh air, and the light seemed dimmer. The lock didn't offer much confidence, as it currently consisted of a rusted nail jammed into the keyhole.

The meeting of the minds outside had come to a rather more hasty conclusion than Damask had hoped for, as evidenced by their reply, "Scringenose 'ere said you's can't be indeesunt. You's a bird!"

"Have you ever seen a bird's unmentionables?" Damask replied, before adding, "And I can too be indecent."

He followed that with a string of curses, most of which he had just picked up downstairs. The bird backed up against a wall and shivered. There had been a nice, high ceiling downstairs. Not like this room with its four walls leering at him, seeming to cave in. They were swallowing the light from the lone candle on the nightstand. Damask felt his body contracting as he pressed his eyes shut, praying for open sky.

The sounds outside the door grew, presumably as they found friends with bigger vocabularies, which finally spurred Damask into action. Escape, escape -- there has to be a way out...

In desperation, he began tapping lightly along the wall, hoping the discussion outside was loud enough to block out his sounds. Finally, in a back corner of the room, he felt it -- a hollow space -- the wall between his room and the main chamber downstairs. Throw dignity to the worms, I'm not gonna die in some rat-hole vermin hovel!

With a fury that belied his age, Damask began pecking and clawing at the rotten slats that made up the wall, just as he heard the first strike against the door. The wood was slow to give away, old and withered, but made of sturdier stuff than he had hoped. He had only made a few small holes when he heard the first sharp Crack! His door was giving away.

He whirled around just in time, crouching low to cover his progress on the wall with his body. As the first few vermin advanced through the portal, Damask spread his wings wide, trying to put on the winningest smile in his arsenal, "Lads, I know there's been a mix-up here --"

"Quiet, you snaketongue!" The lead thug pointed a cudgel his way, shaking a length of rope in his other paw, "Now Skreeg here says you is a spy. I'm agreein' with 'im. Never known a bird you kin trust."

Damask kept his eyes on that rope, pupils bobbing as they followed its path in the air. A free association began in the robin's mind: caught, noose, hanging, hog-tied, spit, open fire. He gulped hard, stuttering, "N-n-now, no need to be hasty..."

"'Ear that, fellas? No need to be 'asty," the weasel in front mocked, bringing the cudgel down and attempting a trusting look. He raised his brows and gave a gap-toothed grin. His crew echoed this sentiment, obviously in on the joke.

"Oh, aye?"
"No, can't have that."

Damask knew he shouldn't relax. He knew that something was up. He knew that the joke was very soon to be on him, but his body had been keyed up for so long, he felt his shoulders start to sag, his guard dropping.

"Guess we'll 'ave to slow cook 'im, then." The weasel waited two beats for the horror to show on Damask's face before he pounced forward, swinging the cudgel in a sideways arc, aiming for a wing.

Hellgates! Damask cursed to himself, as he tried to feint to that side. He still absorbed the blow. No cracks, but he could feel the wind rushing out of him. He brought both wings over his torso, in a pale imitation of a block.

The weasel couldn't resist a target so easily presented and aimed a kick right at the X created by the wings.

Damask opened his wings and leaned back, squeezing his eyes shut as he absorbed the impact full-on on his stomach.

What Damask thought would happen was that he would be easy prey for the dispatching, trapped against the wall. The wall had something to say about that, however.

As Damask sailed backwards, through the hole created by his pecking and the sharp blow, he tried not to smile. It actually worked!

----

Outside. Fresh air. Freedom.

It was a narrow escape to be sure, but Damask was starting to get the feel for this business. As he flew through the top branches of the quickly-thinning wood, he noticed a few things. The shouts were no longer audible in his wake -- definitely an improvement in his opinion. The sharp pain of the blow from that weasel's boot hadn't lessened to a dull ache like the rest of his wounds had. In addition, it hurt with every beat of his wings. A broken rib? That's just what my performance needs. An inter-chorus wheeze.

Worst of all, though, Damask could feel that dread creeping up. He got lucky this time, but would luck be with him again? Or worse, could he keep himself from being so reckless? That rush! There was no performance like it! It was better than shows, fairs, or even concerts!

He stopped at a high elm, taking in sweet, mind-clearing air. No... I can't go there. Keep on surviving. Skim along the surface, not too high.

But that voice was there now, saying, You tasted a true performance -- and did so well, too!

He shook his head once, hard, trying to drown out that idea. Better to get his pay and be done with it.

----

"Miss Bellona?" The robin was sure he was at the right camp. He even double-checked the directions on the letter they had provided. But this was--

And then he caught the scent. Fear. Vermin. Blood. He shivered at too-recent memories -- when those stenches had surrounded him -- and took to the air again. If Martin's Shadow had been there, in that charnel house of a camp, then he wasn't liable to get his pay any time soon.

----

A good hundred meters south, by a riverbank, Damask caught sight of movement in the underbrush. While most of him screamed to keep flying, that small, reckless voice got its vote in first and loudest. He alighted on a branch within earshot, but out of armslength. Taking a deep breath -- which sent another sharp twinge through his side -- he began to sing. Not a song of woodlander tongue, but a song of the birds. Teakettle trills and dips more fluid than the deftest of dexterous flute-players. He cut himself short, listening for a reply.

"If that be you, sir Robin, your report's a little late. Come to camp."

Giving a short sigh of relief, Damask followed the voice. At least Miss Bellona had survived...

----

Camp was definitely putting it kindly. A bed of coals was in a hollow, nestled up against a small boulder, presumably to warm anybeast nearby or heat water. Though its pitiful sight offered little comfort -- more a reminder of the cold, unforgiving outside. The beasts that inhabited the camp were in a similar state. Sad, bedraggled --

Children! Damask almost tripped over his feet as his beak whirled around to face a small hedgehog who was busy trying to remove an arrow that was doing its best to blend in with her quills. They're using children in this war?

His seasoned companion caught his look and stopped him short of the awning that their commander presumably stayed under. Her paw held his shoulder tight and her eyes became slits -- her voice as sharp as the blade at her side, "Make sure to watch your tongue inside, bird. The Captain is none too pleased with you at the moment."

Damask caught an undercurrent in that look as well. Don't you dare judge us, civilian. And with that, he realized that the first camp's massacre -- as far as everybeast here was concerned -- was entirely his fault.

The normally loquacious robin held his tongue -- in a vice grip of beak, no less -- and only nodded in reply, following her into the thrown-together headquarters, doing his best to ignore the looks the camp dwellers shot him. Dead-eyed stares and hissed curses trailed in his wake -- the soldiers certainly recognized him, the self-advertised savior of their cause.

"'Ells an' windstorms lass, tis be yoor preeshus spoi?" The captain was, indeed, as furious as Bellona had let on. He had been whittling with a small knife when the pair arrived in the tent and the sight of the bird caused a considerable gouge in his work. Of course it meant that the corner he had been making was very, very sharp now. As if to prove this point, he advanced on Damask, brandishing the piece of wood, "Ye' be useful as a chainless rudder! 'Alf ah me troops be feedin' t'crows, an' most ah t'rest be slaves 'r worse!"

Damask tried not to tremble, but the sight sent his knees buckling and he took a craven step back. Trying to ignore the sneer that followed his motion, he let spill a flood of excuses, "But I did as best I could! I snuck in on foot, got a head count, escaped from an indoor room! You know how hard it is not to have a window to-"

"Enough ah ye babblin' nonsense! Those soldiers died 'cause ah yer incompetence!"

"I didn't--" Damask cut himself off, pausing to gather his thoughts, "Wait, when were you attacked?"

"A few hours 'ence. Ye can't tell time, either? What kind ah --"

"I just escaped." The silence was palpable. "I just now got away from the Bloated Stoat."

"Mayhap, bird, you'd best start talkin'."

And the whole tale came together in short order.

"So... the Bloated Stoat -- the inn I was to scout out -- is a barracks or outpost or something. About twoscore beasts are there at any given time, with supplies for much more." Damask motioned to the camp with a wing before continuing, "Meanwhile, you, err... encountered the main body of the horde, presumably operating out of a number of the outposts."

Bellona shot him a frown at his summary and took a step to the edge of the awning, looking out to the motley assortment that was all that stood between this area and enemy control. "So, do we escape to fight another day? Or do we try to take their foothold?"