Off the Script

[Damask the Minstrel]

Hot. The world felt... hot.

Damask's usually melodious voice croaked from the depths of his throat. A spray of sand blew from around his beak as he coughed himself into consciousness. Where? Why am I in sand?

"Ah... so the great hero's up, eh?" A voice from above caused Damask to whirl his head around, which sent the world into a spin. The robin squeezed his eyes shut, swaying in place as he tried to keep his head upright. "Aw... got yerself a li'l bump on the noggin?"

A rat. A familiar rat. Damask blinked again, hard, willing his mind to work again. The sun was making everything washed out, like midday on a snow-covered hill: white and burning. His voice was low and rough -- a rasp against metal -- as he spoke, "Deadtail?"

"So he didn't take yer head off completely!" The rat gave a villianous wink and settled down on the bank of the slave pit, letting his paws dangle above Damask's head. He continued, a half-grin on his muzzle, "Ye're the craziest creature I ever saw, Damask. Didja really think you could beat an axe with that hard head of yours?"

An axe? Damask closed his eyes again, willing his brain to work. "So... that thing was real?"

"Thing? Now, Rath's better'n that. It's not his fault you thought yer beak was stronger'n his axe," He chuckled to himself. "Aye, you certainly startled him, flyin' into his face like that. But he smacked you to the ground like a horsefly." To emphasize, he gave a meaty smack with his paws.

Wrath? His axe? Damask's eyes snapped open, going wide. Bellona! She was on the ground, and-- "Bellona! What happened to her?"

"Oh, settle yer feathers, now, birdie," Deadtail began picking his teeth with a claw, speaking around the digit, "she's just takin' her own nap down the line."

Damask tried to stand, but one leg felt awkward -- heavier than normal. The bird glanced down, his head tilting as he examined the long growth that began at his ankle and continued some ways away, attaching itself to a length of chain between two beasts.

"Oh, we couldn't have ye flyin' off, o' course. Goin' to help that other lot 'n all."

Rope... it's called rope. "I'm tied up?"

"Aye. Though soon trussed up might be a better way to put it." The rat's tone lowered and he threw in a conspiratorial wink. "Word 'round is that game's pretty scarce in the desert, you know."

The robin stared for a moment, trying to wrap his brain around the innuendo. It hit, coincidentally, like the side of an axe. "They're going to -- you're serious?"

The toothy grin grew, displaying an array of impressive oral diseases. "Aye, birdie."

Think, bird! Damask sat back on his tailfeathers, collecting himself. He winced as the hot sand began to slowly broil his backside, the heat speeding up his mental processes. You've gotten out of worse scrapes than this one. Remember the tavern, before? Or the slaying of General Scrapesnout. The rout of the Great Mustelid Armada. The... Damask's mind flashed images of battles and deeds -- the ineptitude of vermin was a recurring theme. What did they always want?

As Deadtail got up to leave, his interest in the dazed avian waning, a low whisper stopped him. "What's that?"

"Treasure."

Deadtail's eyes narrowed and he stalked back, a wary eye on the bird. "What about treasure?"

"There's treasure, here." The bird's voice grew, hoarse but still strong as he continued, "In this place, I've heard of it, there's trea-"

"Hssst!" Deadtail moved to the pit, baring his teeth. He hopped down, drawing a knife and advancing on the bird. "You're a smooth-talker, to be sure. Now, keep it down and listen. If there's treasure here, I know where it is. So you just make like a good birdie and come with me."

Damask gawked as the rat untied the rope from the main slave line, holding it like a lead. It worked? He really thinks there's treasure in this fates forsaken hole?

--------

Deadtail kept a stoic face at the jeers that followed him into Matukhana's hut.

"Look! Th' rat's got a li'l pet!"

"Aww! He's gotta take it fer a walk!"

"I wunner if'n it knows any tricks!"

The great bird-tamer pushed his way into the hut, calling out, "Cap'n, there's somethin' you oughta hear."

The fox looked up from his dinner, a brow raised at the interrupting couple. "Aye? An' who said I'd want to meet my next meal."

Deadtail gave the bird a meaningful prod with the hilt of the dagger, nudging him a step forward. The bird cleared his throat. "Good sir... I'm a minstrel. A collect-"

"I don't need a jester, bird." The fox paused, wiping his mouth and leveling a glare at Damask. "I need supplies and useful slaves. A bird is neither."

"But, your Grace," Damask forced himself to bow low, keeping his eyes on the floor, "I know something of this land..."

The fox leaned back, nodding once to the bird. "Speak quickly, bird."

"There is a great tale," Damask began, "told of old. It was in the epic of MacGregor the Long-Lived, from the--"

A tug on the lead caused the robin to stumble in place. A voice hissed in his ear, "Less history, bird."

"That is -- there's treasure here. At this village."

The fox raised a brow, a half-smirk on his face. "Aye? And I suppose you'd be wanting your freedom for that?"

Damask stuttered, "W-well... I had thought..."

"Bird," Matukhana began, rising as he spoke, "if I freed every woodlander that tried to feed me a line of rubbish, I'd be rowing my own ship."

"But!" The bird spoke up, hopping in agitation, "It's written!" He continued in a singsong, his voice shaky as he improvised a melody, "Beneath the sleeping village lies / A treasure vast, untold. / A golden land of plenty / Err...  In a wasteland of gold! A wasteland of gold... a desert! A land of plenty... an oasis!"

Matukhana paused again, scratching beneath his chin with a claw, looking out into the horizon.

Please, please, please let him--

"All right, bird, I'll bite. Where is this treasure, exactly?"

Damask only just kept himself from dancing. Ha! He fell for it! See, Damask, you've still got it, even when you're--

"Well, Cap'n, I just happen to notice," Deadtail began, giving another sharp tug to the lead. Damask fluttered to keep himself upright as the rat slid in front of him, continuing seamlessly, "that there's a cave behind the waterfall by the oasis. Seems a likely place to find any treasure."

Matukhana's face split into a wide grin, "Did you, now? Well then, my good rat, I suppose we should take our little guide for a visit, eh?"

Deadtail gave an instinctive nod. "Yes, sir." He paused. "Wait... we?"

-------------

Damask found himself back on the slave line within a moment -- the fox Captain had decided to wait until the next morning, leaving the robin time to gather his wits. His neighbors weren't making concentrating easier, mind you. Bellona was pacing so violently it gave erratic jerks to the entire line of chains, tugging at the rope around his leg. Of course, he was getting off lighter than the ground beneath her paws -- which she seemed to hold a grudge against -- slitted eyes fixed on the sand. Her mood, however, was still less transparent than that of the squirrel next to her, who invented a new curse every few moments. Damask closed his eyes.

Captain Matahoochi thinks I know the location of some mythic treasure. I'm about to go into a cave with a dozen vermin. I'm-- The bird swayed a moment, holding a wing against his forehead. The world began to get shaky and uncertain, again.

Damask settled down on his haunches again, trying to focus his thoughts. So many stories... why do I know them? How do I know them? I know I'm supposed to sing about them, but why?

He was just beginning to feel better when a low growl cut across his reverie, "Oi, ye hellsbego'den birdie. When I get me paws free o' this..."

Damask groaned, removing his wingtip from in front of his beak, "Look, you..." He squinted at the squirrel who was baring his teeth at him. "Sailpaw... Captain Sailpaw--"

"Aye, an' I'll--"

"Sir, please," Bellona interjected, her voice sounding strained. The dormouse was leaning against the side wall of the pit, pressing herself into what little shade existed. She kept sending dark glances at her new chain mate, a stoatess. Her paw instinctively moved to her belt -- reaching for a currently absent dirk.

"No!" The warrior whirled on his companion. "I'll no' be havin' any more o' yer nonsense, Leftenan'! He cannae spy! He cannae fight! Now, he swans off t'the leader o'this filth!" Sailpaw spat in the bird's direction, continuing, "Fates know wha' he told 'em. When I'm free, birdie--"

"You'll what?" Damask finally spoke up, pushing himself upright and swaying slightly with the effort, "Thank me? I'm about to lead off the Captain and his best men into a cave."

A moment passed before Bellona finished the thought for Damask, her voice barely above a whisper, "An escape, sir."

The necessity of secrecy lost on Sailpaw, he continued in a brash tone, "Oh, aye! While tha' fox gets his claws on--"

"There's nothing!" Damask's interjection was a hiss, which the bird compounded on by taking a hop closer to Sailpaw, doing his best to look fearsome -- beak open in a snarl. "Look, you thick-headed buffoon. There. Is. No--"

"Oy, you!"

Damask took a step back, looking up to the lip of the slave pit, where a weasel guard waved a spear at the pair. The vermin spoke again, "Quit yer yammerin'. And, squirrel, Matukhana gave orders not te touch th' featherbag!"

Damask stepped back, hanging his head as if repentant. He muttered, "Just... don't waste this chance, Captain."

I couldn't save her before, but maybe this time... He glanced up at Bellona, who was watching the guards with an appraising eye. This time he won't get by so easily. This "Wrath".