The Wildcard

[Airan]

Name: Rynn
Category: Berserker
Species: Ferret
Gender: Female
Age: 23

"Where are you off to?"

"Adventure."

The ferret jill was stuffing supplies in a satchel, her half-hearted answer eliciting a frown from the male. "Adventure ... where?" he said.

"I don't know, somewhere south."

The male sighed and crossed his arms. "Rynn, that's the only direction left to go."

Rynn ceased her packing, glaring at the male and throwing a paw up in exasperation. "And that's where I'm going! Where else do you think it would be, Zali? North? East? West? There's nothing but bloody cliffs on all sides of us. I'm going south. That's all you need to know."

It was Zali's turn to throw his paws up. "I want to know where my friend is going. Running off on some fool's errand because why? You can't stay in one place for longer than a season before you're off wandering somewhere else."

Rynn rolled her eyes before jamming a loaf of bread and cheese in her satchel, not bothering to wrap it first in paper.

"And guess what? You always come back, for some reason," Zali continued, waving his paws around like he was some lunatic. Rynn wanted to slug him. "So what is it? What are you running from? And what keeps bringing you back?"

Rynn stopped to give Zali a hard glare, her eyes so hot they could have melt steel. "You know very well why I want to get out of this village."

"I don't, actually! It's a mystery! All you do is complain and fight. You want to know why beasts don't like you, it's because you're an ornery old hag!"

Rynn dropped the satchel, marched right over to where Zali was standing against the door frame, and threw a wicked left hook at his muzzle. "Get out!" she screamed. "Get out of here! I'm sick of this! I'm sick of you! I'm sick of everything!" Picking Zali up from where he had stumbled with the force of her punch, Rynn dragged him outside and threw him to the ground. Three steps later she was back inside, slamming the door behind her. The whole house shook with the force.

The world had become a crimson shade. Rynn's entire body was shaking, her breaths heavy and ragged. She wanted to scream, she wanted to hit something. Nothing mattered to her anymore; it could all go to hellgates. Curse her for trying to do something nice, helping a beast she did not know because of the panic in their voice, their desperate cry for help, and that maybe for once Rynn could do something useful. It was all ruined now, whatever Rynn's intentions, soiled because Zali wouldn't quit with his stupid fat mouth.

It was over now. There was nothing in this village that would have Rynn coming back. She would make sure of that. Storming through the simple dwelling, Rynn tore it apart, upending tables, pulling down cabinets and breaking dishware, until it looked like nothing less than a tornado had hit.

Standing at the door frame, admiring the mess she had made, Rynn took a deep breath, and another. Had she a match she would have burned the whole thing to the ground. For now, this would have to suffice. Opening the door, Rynn marched off, away from the village and towards her new life.

[Airan]

Name: Seamus Blackquill
Category: Seafarer
Species: Raven
Gender: Male
Age: 17

"You can't just wait around. Every bird must leave the nest someday, dear!" said his mother at the porch of their beach-side villa.

"I know just what to do with you!" said Admiral Cilla, a good friend of the family.

"I have no idea what to do with you," said General Willowtail, a good friend of the Admiral's.

"Welcome ta Hellgates," said Captain Brightjoy, someone's friend, somewhere.

Seamus swayed within the salt-rimmed bucket. The position was deemed providential by Brightjoy: a crow for a crow's nest, despite Seamus being - very thoroughly - a raven. The misnomer stuck, like the questionable gruel calcifying in his gaunt stomach.

Hellgates, as it turned out, was full of irony.

Seamus moaned, nausea dribbling its way down his beak to join the shanty-singing otters below. He paid them no mind, longing for land, for books, for common sense and decency and—

Something hard struck his temple. Seamus squawked and the world spun until centering on a mischievous grin.

"Hi, Mistah Seemusk!"

The gruel gurgled and the haze hissed. The Imp.

To the unknowing eye, the Imp was only an otter lad who answered to "Dehva" or "boy" or the dinner bell, but Seamus' eye was very much in the knowing business – this was the Messenger of Torment, come to haunt his soul on this floating purgatory vessel.

The Imp dangled from the rigging like a spider, a collection of shells dribbling from his paw. "Paw-pah says I kin talk if'n I don't boffer you wit' yer lookin'." He threw another shell, striking his other temple. "Do ya get tired when ya fly? Kin I fly on yer back? Reffa says yer too fat fer that—is that true, Mistah Skeemus?"

"S'pronounced: Shame-us," he gurgled.

"Shamey-shame." The Imp pushed a paw to the raven's forehead, then dropped his seashells to fish out white powder from his pocket.

Seamus stiffened. Temptation from Underworld Molefolk – opiates of pleasure that would cost him—

The Imp smacked his paw against Seamus' nostrils. The world sparked blue, his tongue tasted like burnt lightning, the gruel boiled in his stomach, and in a motion, he retched over the side of the crow's nest.

The haze peeled from him like dead skin. He was suddenly aware of how bright the sky was, how crisp the air was, and how well-versed in expletives the crew was.

"What was that?!" he gasped.

"Paw-pah's salt. Says it makes ya feel beddur."

Smelling salts; of course. No more offensive than a poultice. His books would have told him as much; he was going mad here without them. That's what he needed: literature to cleanse his mind of all this otter blatherskite.

"So kin I fly on ya?"

He whirled. "Of cours—" The sibilance sizzled in the air like a gnat. "...did you say your father's salts? Did you steal them?"

The shaking head told him: no. The massive grin told him: absolutely yes.

"Oh, that's a shame." Seamus folded his wings and kicked morosely at a barnacle. It didn't budge. "I've heard the Captain has some lovely books, but he never lets me see them."

The Imp scrunched his face into a very unimpressed expression. "Books?"

"Books of... magic?" Seamus winced, shrugged, then committed to it. "Magic enough to let fatty old me fly to the heavens, even with a dozen beasts on my back."

He gave a long, wistful look to the sky. When he turned, the Imp was already gone. All he had to do now was wait.

For his first time at sea, Seamus grinned. "See? All without leaving the nest, mother dearest."

[Airan]

Name: Zandir Firesage
Category: Guardian
Species: Pine Marten
Gender: Male
Age: 26

"Is that 'im?"

"Aye, the Grand Sentinel 'imself, back from sabertick... tickler..."

"Sabbatical, numbskull."

"Wi' that saber o' his, it makes more sense."

"You wouldn't know sense if'n it hit ye between the eyes!"

Zandir froze midstep. He glanced around the wagons that circled the central fire, cursing his laxness. How had he not noticed the stillness, the lack of prickled beasts moving around in dinner preparations?

The shadowy figures gathered around the fire all held weapons in their paws, and Zandir snorted. Now he knew what he faced.

"We're the Argrent Band!" a swaggering stoat barked, one paw on his sheathed short sword.

"Who?" Zandir asked absently, focusing on the spread of enemies, calculating exactly where to strike first.

"Ain't ye heerd of us?" the stoat growled.

"Should I have? It matters not." The quivering figure at the stoat's footpaws lit the fire in Zandir's chest. His fur slicked closer to his body as he moved his claw to his saber. "You're all alike," he pronounced, glancing dismissively around the gathered band. "You come for that which is not yours, and you die."

"You arrogant little..." spluttered a ferret, charging pike-first. Zandir dove under the waving weapon, sweeping his blade across the beast's throat. His next foe took a single strike to the heart, and Zandir was past.

The razor-sharp blade sliced limbs and paws, ending with the stoat, who fell without a sound. Zandir stood for a moment, staring at his fallen enemies, his breath even and calm. Figures began to creep from the wagons, his charges heartened by the demise of their captors.

They took no notice of the red spattered on his rich brown fur, swarming him in welcome and gratitude.

***

The old marten, no longer crouching, smacked his paw as he tried to wipe his sharp muzzle clean. "I'll do that," she scolded him, her cracked voice still holding whipcord strength. "The Sentinel has loftier things on his mind than his own ablutions."

"The Sentinel grows weary of the stink of blood," Zandir retorted.

Sounds of celebration wafted through the curtains that hid them from the outside world. The wagon creaked and jostled as the old one puttered about. She pulled out a jar and popped the cork. A burnt smell wafted from it. Zandir recoiled. "No."

"You've let it fade," she snapped, dipping a claw in the horrid mixture. "How will the Rooted Ones recognize the Sentinel if you do not carry the mark?"

"Grandmother," Zandir protested, but subsided when the offending claw poked his brow. He mentally traced the fan-shape she painted with the mixture.

"You should not have left," Grandmother remarked. "It leaves us open to those hunting the treasure."

Zandir kept from bristling. "I needed to think. I have been the Sentinel for six seasons now, and the enemies continue to descend on us."

"And without the Sentinel to protect them, the Chosen would be wiped out."

"Not if I take the Burden elsewhere."

The silence that met this statement was punctuated with singing from outside and the crack of bottles. "Why do you say this?" she queried, her tone deceptively even.

"I am suffocating!" Zandir burst out. "I guard a Burden that all desire, but would destroy those who knew it's true nature! I cannot..."

He partially blocked the slap aimed at his snout, and he held the gnarled paw as gently as he could.

"Our numbers dwindle, and those of the Chosen," he said quietly to her glistening eyes. "If I do not remove this Burden, soon there will be no beast left."