The Brigand

[Airan]

Name: Antonia St. Myra
Species: Mouse
Gender: Female
Age: 31

A pillar of smoke rose on the horizon, through still air and fading into dusklight. A drawing-team of otters stood, their carriage creaking as they faced their obstacle, a straw-brown mousemaid in torn and charred tunic and scapular, falchion in paw.

"I've no quarrel with you lot. My company waits behind the tree line to the north. Go to them and they'll get you back to your homes safe, and make sure you stay fed whatever happens tonight."

She stepped forward, brought her blade down and severed the lines that held the team to the now-static carriage.

They looked at each other, and ran.

"But you! Lord Briar Haversham! Get your hide out here sir, you've some explaining to do!"

A gilded ferret emerged from the carriage, paw on hilt and snarl on maw. "Cowards!" He bellowed to the tree line.

"Forget them." The mousemaid faced the lord in his fineries. "Your daughter, sir. You sold her for marriage, then sent her to a nunnery when she refused to honour it."

"Who are you to care? I am her father. It was my right." Haversham withdrew his sabre slow. "Clear the path, or die."

She grinned. "You misunderstand, sir. Your coachbeast is unconscious, your team have fled, and the only eyes on this scene are yours and mine. Had you shown some remorse perhaps you would have survived this night but sir, you doubled down." She strode forward, flicked her wrist. The tip of her falchion dipped for a moment, swooped round, jounced his sabre aside. She drove her off-paw into his gut, bared her teeth as he went down.

The ferret surged upright, lashed out, struck hard at Antonia's head as he should have done from the very beginning. She stepped back, barked out a laugh. "Good, excellent! Fight for it!" She braced herself against the ground and met his next blow strength for strength. He staggered. She stepped into his defence and dug the tip of her falchion into his shoulder. He let out a grunt of pain and fell back, casting his gaze around, looking for escape or advantage.

"And now you're realising, aren't you sir? This isn't a duel to first blood. No friends to help. No protocols to fall back on. Just me, and the unwelcome consequences I bring."

"What is this?" He suppressed a grunt of pain, switched sabre to his uninjured arm. "Why are you here?" He feinted left, right, back again. "How do you even know about Pippa?" He brought in a blow, but was neatly deflected. "Who!" Again. "In all Hellgates!" Again. "Are you?!"

He swung once more but this time she took a smart step back and sideways. He overextended, stayed uncertain on his paws for just a tremor too long, and she carved a chunk of flesh from his arm.

He dropped to the ground, clutching the wound and gritting his teeth.

She hunkered down in front of the helpless gilded ferret. "My name is Antonia St. Myra, and I had the honour of being sentenced to the nunnery at Blackridge, where I met a ferret jill called Philippa Haversham. And we, and a great many of the other sisters, were there for the same reasons - laws that beasts like you put in place to keep us obedient and diminished."

"Forget the nunnery. You'll hang for this."

She chuckled. "I think that your only heir, having just escaped a terrible fire only to find out her father has been killed on the road by brigands, will make very certain that I do not."

And she pierced his throat.

[Airan]

Name: Kiri
Species: Sparrow
Gender: Female
Age: 22

The sharp bite of bitter tea invaded Kiri's nostrils, causing her to give a little sneeze. She fought to keep her head as still as possible, however, so as not to waste the dark, sandy paste that she rubbed onto her forehead. Ruddy feathers soaked up the mixture greedily, masking bright colors to muted tones. Darker lines were added with a stick of charcoal and flecks of lightness were made by stripping away some of the primitive dye with her beak.

She hopped over to the waters' edge to survey her handiwork. The mottling of a younger sparrow looked back at her. Perfect for blending into the leaves, too.

"Oi, princess, you done puttin' on yer face?!" A raspy voice called out from behind her.

"Shaddup, or I'll wear yours!" Kiri turned and hopped away from the stream where she had been preparing her mask. At the edge of the woods stood a pair of stoats, four times her size and built like a pair of yew trees: Barnard and Greentail, the muscle of her little band.

"Don't think it'd fit, princess," Barnard, the slightly shorter one remarked, padding down to the shore and poking at her jars with a clawtip. "What is it this time? Rabbit dung an' mud?"

"Shove off, Barny."

"Oi," yelled their companion, "ye can finish yer gabbin' later. We got to get into position. Gerrig said we got a small group comin'. Family, or a couple of traders, somethin' like that."

"Just don't look my way this time. Hard to surprise a beast when yore gawpin' into the bushes like yore snipe huntin'," Kiri said with a sniff, securing the small blade at her leg before taking off into the treeline.

It took only a moment for her to find the perfect spot. The gang changed their ambush spot each time, but her place was consistent no matter what: low, in the brush, to one side, unseen and unsuspected.

But waiting was always the hardest part.

Gerrig's instincts were good once again. Her claws didn't even have time to fall asleep from her roosting before she heard heavy, plodding paws and the creak of a handcart. Then a shout called out as the group spotted a pair of brawny stoats before them. Another when they heard the meaty thud of a large rat landing on the road behind them.

She peeked out between the leaves at the scene before her: one otter in the front was squared off against Barnard and Greentail, another was behind the cart, menacing Gerrig, and a mouse stood in the cart itself. The latter beast had a bow at the ready, but even from the undergrowth, she could see the nocked arrow shaking in place.

Soundless on the still afternoon air, she slipped out and with two tiny flaps landed next to him, her knife held out in one claw, pointed at his wide stomach. "You'll want to be droppin' that, friend," she said, her voice low a gravelly hiss, "and you'll want to be calln' off yore guards, too, unless you want to share yore lunch with this cart."

With a gentle thud, the bow fell to the wooden planks of the cart. "Y-yes, take what you wish, please, just d-don't -- Ah!"

Kiri dug the point in just enough to cut the conversation short, but not enough to do much more than draw a small bead of blood. "Don't you worry, mate. Long as you don't cause a fuss, this'll be over before teatime."

[Airan]

Name: Smooths
Species: Weasel
Gender: Male
Age: 30s

Some beasts knew well the smell of death, and Smooths, being one of those intimately familiar with its many scents, recognized the acrid tang of blood the instant the gang of shrews melted into the trees. He sniffed the air, trying to pinpoint the stench, and turned to find a ferret lying prone on a gnarled patch of roots. He knelt down beside the writhing beast. "Oi, Muli. Whatcha doin' down 'ere?"

"Fell," grunted Muli. "Liddle spi—" A hacking cough interrupted his words, and he curled up into a ball. His paw pressed tightly against his side, wet with blood. "Dem bastards tripped me."

Smooths lifted the ferret's paw and pressed his own against the wound. Muli winced, lips pulled back tightly in a skullish grin. "We're close ta town," said Smooths. "I'll carry ya. Betcha we can make it afore light." Despite a stream of weak protestations, Smooths grabbed Muli and lifted the ferret onto his back.

Grimacing at the weight on his back, Smooths set off into the forest. Muli laughed weakly. "Toldja dem shrews was a bad mark."

"Uh huh," replied Smooths. He walked as quickly as he could without losing his balance, but it was still slow going. His strides were short and heavy, and the trees drifted along the corners of his eyes almost leisurely. From deep inside the forest, a sharp caw rang out. Startled, he stepped back with a curse. The weight on Smooths' back shifted suddenly and the Muli slipped from his shoulders and crashed into the earth with a thud, sending a plume of dust spiralling into the still air like smoke.

Smooths leaned forward with his paws on his knees, panting heavily. He turned to look at the ferret lying in the dirt. "Aw, c'mon, mucker," he whined. "Can't ya git yerself up now? Ain't got much left." Muli, stirring slightly, mumbled incoherently and waved a paw in front of his face. "Naw?" Smooths asked again, prodding the prostrate ferret with a toe.

There was no reply this time. Muli lay spread-eagle, head tilted back and jaws slightly agape. His breathing was ragged, and with every inhalation came a quiet gurgling in the back of his throat. Smooths frowned, and then nodded. "Aye, aye. I'll carry ye a bit longer." He reached down hauled the ferret onto his shoulders again. "Y'know," he began as he started forward, "ain't an 'air less'n funny, innit? I'm allus the one bein' dragged outta scraps 'n whatnot, an' now yore the— 'ellgates!" He stumbled forward, nearly dropping the ferret again.

Steadying himself, he swore violently at the darkness that hid the obstuctions in his path. He reached back and gave the ferret a pat on the head. "Don' fret, mucker, I gotcha." He took a moment to gather his breath before continuing. Peering into the dark, he tried to make out the vague shapes on the horizon. "See anythin' up there? Any lights? Think we might be gettin' close now."

Muli gave no indication that he had heard the question. "Muli?" Smooths repeated. He pitched forward slightly at the suddenly increased weight of his burden. Muli seemed to whisper something in his ear, a muted exhalation, and the ferret's body went slack. Smooths stopped and cocked his head, listening intently for another whisper. 

In the distance the wind rustled through the trees and the faint gurgle of a stream rolled through the quiet night. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "C'mon," he said. "We're almost there. When we get there, I'll find ye a place to rest. Somewhere nice an' peaceful-like."