Descent into Melancholy

[Clutus]

Death flew overhead, drifting on the breath of a million souls.  Its outstretched wings blocked out the sun as it waited and watched.  No matter how clever or brilliant a creature was, Death would find them eventually.  At that fateful moment, Death would descend silently upon its prey, and the last thing a beast would see was its scythe-like talons.  That was the end.  The captivity of Death was eternal and nonnegotiable.  Clutus had deduced this as a simple fact of existence.

The Great Philosopher of Mossflower had been wrong; for once though, his fault did not greatly upset him.  It did puzzle him though.  Not the part about him being alive, or even the fact that he had gone back in time.  It was the objective of the mission that bothered him the most.  If Kotir was destined to remain standing for many seasons yet, then how could it be destroyed now? If a beast had supposed to have died, then how had it survived?  How was it that some events were supposed to happen, while others were forbidden?  Clutus could not answer these questions, not yet.  He had always believed that time was like a rug being rolled out on the ground.  The portion of the rug that was still rolled up was unknown and unknowable.  Its pattern or markings were not predestined, but created as it rolled out across the floor of existence.  Vulpez had proved otherwise.  The future was planned out ahead of time, but it was not truly predetermined.  If every event, every action, really was predetermined, then Vulpez would not have needed to send his rag-tag little flock of helpers to correct the future.  Time was not an unrolling rug, but it was also not a story whose ending had already been told.  It was seemingly a chaotic jumble of 'should's and should not's.  In other words, time was like a ball of wibbly, wobbly, timey, wimey clay, and that clay was being molded by Vulpez himself.

Clutus's philosophical meandering was interrupted by the near deafening slam of a freshly cut, oak door.  Rexim grunted an apology, and continued leading Rousseau, Clutus, and crippled fox named Luka, down into the heart of Kotir.  The arrogant mink captain, Alan was his name, had ordered the four of them to investigate a secret tunnel that lead out of the castle.  It was a demeaning task for Clutus, acting as some sort of scout, and he would have been far more useful with the group that was meeting with the seer.  However, he had been given little choice, and he had not been fond of the look the captain had given him.

Rexim opened another heavy, oaken door, gesturing his band of followers through the dark doorway.  ?We're just about there.  Thes ees the last staircase.?

Luka was breathing heavily in the dark atmosphere, already thick with the smell of mildew and mold.  ?I sure hope we are, I'm not getting any younger.?

They descended the last flight of stairs.  As they reached the bottom step the world opened up around them, and for a moment Clutus thought they had somehow made their way outdoors.  Except it was night, certainly they had not been gone for so long.

Rexim grabbed a torch from the staircase, and cast the darkness aside. ?Weelcome, to the deepest foundations of the castle, Koteer!?

Rousseau and Luka both muttered exclamations of wonder, the sight was indeed wonderful.  A dark, mysterious lake sat in the middle of cavern, its mirror-like waters stood eerily motionless. Great sandstone walls reached into the darkness above, where tiny pinpoints of light shined down like stars in the night sky.

Rousseau pulled a beaten and torn notebook from a pocket, hurriedly sketching her breathtaking surroundings.

?Those lights are drains.  Every drain and sewer in the castle leads to this place, and that was my idea.  Don't believe what Forst tells you.?

Clutus covered his face with a pinioned wing.  ?That explains the stench.  Great seasons it smells worse than a badger's back side.  Could we get moving along??

Rexim led the way to dark, inconspicuous corner.  Clutus's heart jumped in his chest as the torch-light pushed back the darkness.  A snarling wolf head protruded from the wall.  Its grotesque features seemed almost alive, despite the stone it was made of.  Rexim reached a paw into its mouth and far down its cold throat.  The three beasts behind him jumped back in unison as a vicious growl issued from the wolf, but Rexim showed no surprise at the attack.  Rather, he waited several moments for the growling to stop, and stepped back as the wall growled open. 

The secret escape tunnel reached off into the dark.  The hewn sandstone walls and arched ceiling stood impassively holding back the impossible weight of the earth.  Clutus followed behind Rousseau, his heart beating like a drum in his chest as the world closed in on him.  The bird of prey was hard pressed by the narrow tunnel, but at least he was on his way to the world above.  The tunnel slowly ascended, and the four beasts did the same for what seemed like hours.  Clutus forced his sore feet to keep walking over the rough floor. The sandstone blocks had settled and rose with time, and it had become a considerable hazard for creatures who did not bind their feet in boots.  Following the example of the hostile floor, the ceiling seemed to reach down and strike Clutus on the head.

?Watch your head, owl, the ceiling gets a beet low now and theen.? Rexim warned belatedly.

Clutus released a rasping hiss.  ?Indeed it is.  It calls into question the wisdom of the architect who made it.?

Rexim's thickly accented voice called back through the dim, smoky atmosphere.  ?Eet wasn't designed for luxury, or great beeg honking beerds.?

?I can tell, and dare I say that it was poorly designed for that very reason.?

?Well next time I make an underground passage for a wolf's castle, I'll be sure to design eet with beerds een mind.?

?There is no need for sarcasm, fox.  Understanding your words is difficult enough already.?

The fox spun around from where he was leading the group, his eyes burning nearly as bright as the torch he had in paw.  His three followers made an ungraceful stop.  Rousseau nearly walked straight into Rexim's torch, and Clutus felt the jolting impact as Luka collided with his tail feathers. 

?Ah, so now your eensulting the wee I talk too!?

?I just believe that when a beast migrates into a new territory, that beast should learn to speak as his new neighbors do.?

?I keen speak just feene!?

?I swear, I could not understand a word of what you just said.?

?Well meeybe you'll understand a torch down your-?

Rousseau drew her sword, standing her ground between the two beasts.  ?Will ya both shuttup!?

Clutus issued an irritated click of the beak, but held his tongue.  Rexim's face burned beneath his fur.  A prolonged silence stretched out in the subterranean environment.

The uneasy silence was broken by a faint clatter, sounding from further up the tunnel.  The flickering torchlight revealed a retreating shadow.  For a moment, the four creatures stood motionless, as they tried to discern the shadow as real or imaginary. 

Rousseau was the first to react, she bolted towards the figure.  ?C'mon you lot, catch 'im!?

The group was galvanized into action.  Four pairs of feet scampered after the mysterious shadow, and chaos soon descended upon the dark confines of the tunnel.

Luka pushed at Clutus's tailfeathers.  ?Move it, you great bag of feathers!?

?Quit shoving me!  How am I supposed to run faster with our brilliant architect waving his torch in my face??

?Well stop raking my heels weeth your claws you beaked buffoon!?

?Pardon? I sense I distinct lack of respect from both of you vulpines!?

?Get off me, bird!  You meet as well just jump on my back!  'Gates!?

?I'm burning! Put me out!?

?Oh, I'll put you out for good eef you don't get off me!?

Clutus and the two foxes found themselves in a furry, feathery mass of screams.  The light of the torch disappeared, leaving the tunnel in pitch blackness.  The smell of burnt feathers drifted on the cool draft.

Luka pulled himself from the mass, commenting to the foxy, owly pile at his footpaws.  ?You ain't burning.  If you were maybe we could see right now.?

?Perhaps we would not be finding ourselves in this position if a certain architect was worth his weight in pellets.?

?Just get your great feathered belly off of me, I'm half smothered.? 

Clutus extracted himself from the pile, and was immediately struck by the glowing end of the extinguished torch.

?That's for eensulting my tunnel.?

Before Clutus could speak again, another 'thud' sounded in the darkness.

?And that's for eensulting my the way I talk!?

Luka's pained voice replied.  ?Blast it, Rexim!  That was me!?

?Where deed that owl get off too?  Confounded beerd!?

Clutus advanced up the tunnel, leaving the two angry foxes behind him.  Even in the complete subterranean darkness, the owl used a thousand generations of nocturnal instincts to navigate the tunnel.  Still, he stubbed his talons on more than one stone.  The walk up the gradually ascending tunnel felt like a death-march to the owl.  His bruising feet protested every step.  To add to Clutus's sufferings, the torch had extinguished itself in his breast feathers.  His burnt flesh pained him like a score of hornet stings, and Vulpez only knew how ridiculous he looked with a chestful of burnt feathers.

The smell of his burnt feathers was almost overpowering for the owl, but slowly, another scent began to gain prominence.  It was a familiar smell, and it sent waves of excitement through Clutus before he had even identified it.  He stubbed his talons once again, but this time the offending object felt soft.  It was also warm, wet.  It was the smell of death.  Not the sickly sweet smell of decaying flesh, but that of a fresh kill.  A plant eater would not even be able to differentiate the scent from that of a living beast, but for a pure carnivore, it was the smell of survival.  Clutus investigated further.

It tasted like rat with just a hint of onion, oddly enough.

As Clutus savored the taste of his second bite, it occurred to him that the delightfully talented Rousseau was a rat.  He paused for a moment, his beak hanging open in shocked realization.

He would never get his painting now.  The painting he had earned with his sweat, blood, and even his death, was lost forever.  It was only right that he should gain some kind of compensation for his hardships.  With renewed gusto, Clutus continued his meal in the dark.

?That you, Clutus?? Asked the voice of Rousseau

Once again, the owl paused.  He had never been the sort to believe in ghosts.  After all, if ghosts did exist, Clutus was sure he would have been the target of more then a few hauntings.  However, in the last day, he had died, met the Lord of the Underworld, and came back to life; not to mention the time traveling extravaganza.  Needless to say, the usually skeptical owl was starting to put more faith in the supernatural.

?Who is that??  He replied, with a hint of uneasiness in his voice.

The disembodied voice replied.  ?It's me, Rousseau!  What are ya doing??

Throwing his head back, Clutus swallowed his last bite.  ?Nothing, I just found the body.  I am...  I'm sorry.?

"Sorry? What are ya talkin' about?  What are ya doin'!?"

?Seeing as you no longer have a need for your body, I concluded that it was only right that a friend of your's should at least make use of it.?

There was a short silence.

"Are you eatin' the water rat?"

Clutus cocked his head. ?Pardon??

At that moment, Luka and Rexim managed to re-light the torch.  The light was dim at first, but the warm, flickering light grew in intensity as they neared.  The two foxes came upon a strange sort of scene.  Clutus was hunched over a dead, disemboweled water rat, with his bloodied beak poised to take another bite.  Rousseau sat on a nearby ledge, paused in the act of cleaning his blade, and with her eyes fixed upon the carnage.

Luka broke the horribly uncomfortable silence. ?Clutus, what in Vulpez's name are you doing??

?I was enjoying a pleasant meal.?

Rexim pointed an accusing paw at the owl.  ?You eediot! We could have questioned that rat, eet might known something eemportant.?

Clutus climbed off the corpse, clicking his bloody beak at the Rexim.  ?I did not kill anybeast.  I was simply enjoying the spoils.?

Both foxes turned their attention to Rousseau, who was quietly glaring at Clutus.

Rexim approached her.  ?Why did you kill heem? Or her, whatever eet was.?

Rousseau kept her eyes on Clutus.  ?It was dark, and he was armed.  It was kill or be killed, and I wasn't 'bout to die again.?

?That's all well and good, but we need eenformation.  Now we have nothing.?

?Not entirely true.?  Clutus chimed in helpfully, as he returned to the dead water rat.

Luka shoved the owl away from the corpse, his teeth bared scornfully.  ?You're disgusting, bird.?

Clutus, with his dark eyes still fixed on the corpse, retorted.  ?What would you do?  Abandon the body in this dark place, and let it fester and collect maggots? You, Sir, are the disgusting one!?

?You're eating a beast that was walking around only moments ago!?

?Well, it is always bet-?

Rexim pushed past Mister Graves, heading onward up the tunnel.  ?Luka, just ignore him.  Oh, and Clutus.  I just got this torch relit, do not give me another reason to put it out in your feathers.?

The two foxes continued down the tunnel, leaving a fuming owl in their wake.  Rousseau picked herself up off the stone and followed the pair.

Clutus slid in beside her, with two murderous eyes peering from his skull towards the architect.  ?The insolence of that fox is limitless.  Can you believe him??

?You thought you were eatin' me.?  Rousseau stated.

Clutus quietly assessed his burnt breast feathers before responding.  ?I am very relieved to see you alive, Miss Rousseau.?

?Aye, I bet ya are.?

The four creatures continued up the tunnel.  Few words were exchanged, as each beast entertained their own thoughts.  Their flame-lit shadows danced erratically on stone walls, taking the forms of monsters and distant memories.  For a moment, Clutus's own shadow seemed to take flight, teeter on the edge of reality, and then morph back into the shadow of a burnt and beaten owl.  Clutus was beginning to miss the days when his only worries involved swindling singing, dancing mice.