The Beast Driven by Love

[Zevka]

Character?s Name: Ander
Character?s Species: Weasel
Character?s Gender: Male
Character?s Age: 33
Category:    The Beast Driven by Love
 
?You are the handsomest?the richest, the?most adored?Ander, you good-looking  son of a king--soon you will be the most famous creature to ever  step paw in Mossflower Woods!?

?Chief!?

The weasel spun round in his chair, brown eyes ablaze as he spied the perpetrator responsible for tearing him from his ode to himself.

?What is it  now, Dummy??

The short rat standing at the entrance to his tent shifted nervously. ?Er, thing is, the name?s Dimmy, Sir?a-ah, anywho, th? corsair leader says ?e ain?t waitin? no longer an? if?n yer don?t come out soon ?e?s gonna come in ?ere ?imself an knock yew up good. Uh, uh, Sir.?

Ander reached across his vanity and picked up a heavily ornamented goblet of wine, starring crossly at the rat while he sipped it. ?Go tell the ?corsair leader? to bring his absolute best??
Nodding, Dimmy hurried off.

Ander rolled himself back around, running a brown paw across his gold coins, the gaudy trinkets on his desk, and then at last the mirror, where he arrogantly locked eyes with himself.

?Goodness knows  I  will. A toast!?                     

He shot up, jovially clinked his chalice against his reflection?s, and then proceeded to down the entire thing.
 
Outside, the tone was entirely different. Ander?s small band of six vermin were largely outnumbered and were proving easy targets for the pirates, whom already thought they had won. Even in the weasel?s own group there were rumors that their chief had backed down.

The vermin were ready to kill him be that true.
 
Ander adjusted his blue frock coat while he fumbled through his things for his weapon of choice: a thin, silver rapier with an intricate handle. Next, he attached a miniscule poisoned blade to the underside of his paw.
The weasel flashed himself a grin before he spun on his heels and paraded out into the open, tail bobbing behind him.

?Ander the Awe-Inspiring has arrived!? he announced, charging blindly through the piratical assembly.
Vermin and corsairs parted to make room, and whereas prideful Ander raced forth like an excited Dibbun, the pirate captain remained in his place.

Without looking, Ander leapt and came down blade-first into the dirt, aching with reverberation.
He glanced up at his adversary while he freed his sword.

Vermin laughed.

The captain was a large, hulking searat with a face like thunder. His eyes were a deep brown and his fur a dark gray, and his expression betrayed nothing. He held a great curved sword up in front of him.
Ander panted; surprised at the exertion it took to finally wrench his rapier free. He grinned sheepishly up at the pirate and was traded a spine-tingling sneer.

The rat curled his lip. ?I am afraid that nobeast said go; this is a duel and I expect you to follow the terms we agreed upon earlier. Do you remember them??

?Of course! You think I?m daft??

The crew sniggered.

Ander felt indignant. ?No cheating,? he listed, face glowing red underneath his fur. ?No outside intervention or action. The winner gets the riches and crew of the other.?

The weasel?s heart felt about to pound out of his chest. There was no way he would allow himself to lose this, not after so much humiliation.

?Shall we shake paws for good measure??
 
Silence.

The poker-faced rat captain extended a paw and Ander shook it for all he was worth.
At last the weasel stepped back and reclaimed his weapon, and the two were at it at once.

Back and forth and to and fro the leaders went, the rat attacking and Ander hardly managing to defend. Just when he thought he was done for, he noticed his enemy?s face screw up. The effects of the poison were working!
Ander feigned a jab at the pirate?s side, but the rat was already doubled over, pain-faced, and dead as stone.
Somewhere in the back of the crowd, six vermin raised their voices in cheer.

Stunned, Ander saw his moment. He jumped over the body and cried out, ?Another victory for me! Handsome Ander, the champion fighter!?
 
One of the most aggressive pirates raised his voice, too.
 
?This upstart killed our leader! Are we gonna stan? fer that??
 
?No!?
 
Before he knew it, Ander was running on all fours with the whole ensemble after him. He tripped on a hole in the ground and twisted his leg.
 
?Spare me!? the weasel sobbed.
 
A fox started forward with a bundle of rope.

?Oh, we?ll  spare ye, all right.?



----------

Name: Blu Yardel
Category: The Beast Motivated by Love
Species: cross fox
Age: 23
Gender: Female
 
A rotten cabbage smacked wetly against the fox?s face where it protruded from the stocks. Blu snarled reflexively but the crowd only taunted and teased ? a crowd made up of those whom she used to call friends. She spotted the baker, Cornella, who just yesterday let her barter some baskets for bread.
 
?Please ? I didn?t ?? A moldy onion thumped her on the muzzle and she bit her tongue. No one was listening. No one cared what her side of the story might be. All they saw was the placard exposing her crime to the world: Thief.
 
Garbage, stones and mud pelted the imprisoned fox until a figure stepped forward out of the mob. It was a hefty vole wearing a fine brocade doublet. Blu recognized the hat maker and looked away in shame.
 
?I hear tell, Mizz Yardell, if not for the night watch owl, I?d have wakened this morning a much poorer beast.? He held out a cane, lifting her chin until she met his reproachful eyes. ?You?re lucky not to be dangling from the end of a noose.? He spat. ?Wretched wench.?
 
Hours later the constable hare approached, clanking a set of keys. The frame was lifted and the vixen moaned, stiff in the neck and raw in the wrists. Her fur was matted with filth and several welts stood out on her body where she?d been struck.
 
?I bally well hope you?ve learned your lesson, Miss,? the officer chided.
 
Blu managed a weak nod, then stumbled away towards home.
 
~~~~*~~~~
 
From a distance, the fox could tell something was amiss, and when she came upon the shack, her fears were confirmed. All her belongings lay scattered across the road, smashed and ransacked by passersby. Panic seized her heart as she raced up to the padlocked door. She rattled it violently until a small voice called behind her.
 
?Mama??
 
She turned to find her three kits huddled beside the woodpile. She ran to them and they clung to her, crying.
 
?Oh my darlings!? She fell to her knees, covering them in kisses. ?Are you alright??
 
?Yes, Mama,? they said together.
 
?What happened?? she asked, though she already knew the answer. Her landlady had made it abundantly clear the night before that she was not giving them another extension.
 
?Mrs. Shore chased us out an? threw all our stuff out the door!? Dahlia, the oldest, replied. ?We looked for you at the basket booth, but - but you weren?t there.? The kit?s lip trembled.
 
?Chins up, my little pups,? Blu comforted her children. ?We?ll find another place to stay.?
 
The fox salvaged what she could from the mess in the road. Her tools, at least, were unharmed, and she found one of her larger baskets still intact which they filled with garments, some cracked wooden bowls, and tattered blankets. Blu washed her clothes and fur as best she could at the pump, then filled some gourds to sustain them on the long journey ahead. Now that she had a reputation, they would likely need to travel much further than the next town.
 
They set off, but after just a mile the youngest kit, Rufus, wanted to be carried. Moira too lagged behind, sucking on the ear of her ragdoll. Dahlia tried to turn the walk into a skipping game, but gave up shortly after. They continued trudging slowly along until the sun sank low in the sky. Blu was considering where they might bed down for the night when she spotted movement out of the corner of her eye. She barked a warning and her kits gathered close.
 
A familiar band of robbers stepped out of the forest on either side of them.
 
?Not again.? Blu?s hackles rose as the ferrets circled.
 
?Leave us alone. You already took everything. There?s nothing left.?
 
One of the robbers dug through the basket, tossing rags and bedding out with annoyance until he reached the bottom. ?Aye, she got nothin?, Boss.?
 
The lead ferret studied the fox family. ?Not quite, Brodin.? He made a motion and the ferret punched Blu hard in the stomach. She fell to the ground, gasping. ?Take the kits.?
 
Blu?s world turned inside out. Near her paw was the rag she?d wrapped her bodkin in. She seized it, pulling free the steel awl. In an instant she was on her feet, driving the pointed instrument up through Brodin?s throat. He dropped and Blu spun to face the rest, blood streaming down her forearms.
 
?Over my dead body.?



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

Character Name: Minerva
Species: River Otter
Age: 30s
Gender: Female
Category: The Beast Driven by Love
 
Scarred paws caressed cold iron as Minerva unfastened the lock and let the chains fall slack at the foot of the door to the old shed.   A shuffling sound came from within and the otter knelt to pick up her lantern before pulling it open. Shadows danced along the walls and rafters as her light filled the dark shack, revealing dusty crates, broken farm tools laced with cobwebs, and the weasel that was tied from head to tail to a chair on the floor.
 
The beast's whiskers drooped as she entered, cries of protest muffled by the cloth gag tied tightly around his mouth. "Hush now." Minerva set down her lantern. "Ye've got plenty of time t' talk later."
 
The otter looked at the chair the beast was secured to and how it had fallen- probably from all his desperate writhing. She worked them both back upright, chiding the vermin as she did. "Now, now, didn't I tell you t' sit still? Must've been a nasty fall you took, seein' ye've gone and hurt yerself." She stepped around to his front and wiped the edge of her sleeve against his nostril, scrubbing away a gobbet of dried blood.
 
The weasel looked defiantly to the floor as the otter knelt to his level. "Sorry, mate. No sleepin' on me. How about a story t' keep ya awake?" Minerva said, grasping his snout and forcing the beast to meet her gaze. "It's about my husband. Ya see, that oaf was never good for much, but he was a fine angler, and this..." she said, brandishing a thin, metal object on a cord around her neck, "was his favorite fishhook. Over the seasons, I saw him pull in the biggest trout you'd've ever seen with this thing, but there was one time where- I don't know how, but- he managed t' snag one rrrrright through the eye with it..."   
 
The weasel's whimper made it clear he got the message and Minerva dropped all pretense of tenderness. "Right. Listen here, scum," she growled. "I'm gonna take that gag off, and, when I do, yer gonna tell me why you and the rest of yer band of brigands were snoopin' around my farm last night. Answer well and maybe I'll let ya join 'em. Sound good?"
 
The beast nodded.
 
"Good." The gag hit the floor. "Get talkin'."
 
++++++++++++++++++++++
 
Minerva stood over the washtub in the darkness of her kitchen, scrubbing a soapy rag against the bloodied edge of her fishhook. In the end, the weasel spilled everything he knew and the otter reunited him with the rest of his ilk. Swinging from the boughs at the edge of the wood, their corpses would serve as good warnings for anybeast who'd dare come after.
 
From the window above her came a dim ray of moonlight. Minerva raised her hook towards it, satisfied when the tip shone as bright as it did the day it was given to her. The otter held it there, remembering that lazy day by the stream and the question that broke the quiet, before lowering it back to its rightful place around her neck and letting its sheen be lost to shadow.
 
  The floorboards behind creaked under careless pawsteps and she turned quickly to see a young otter peeking at her through tired eyes. Minerva wiped her paws on her apron and bent over to pick up the Dibbun. "Fable, what are you doin' out of bed, sweetheart?"
 
Fable buried her head in her mother's chest. "I had a scary dream," she sobbed.
 
Minerva ran her paw tenderly through the young one's fur. "Shhh, shhh, shhh... It's alright. Mummy's gotcha. Mummy's gotcha." A few minutes later the young otter calmed and her mother smiled at her reassuringly as she wiped away her tears. "See? There ain't anythin' t' be afraid of. The thing you gotta remember about nightmares, sweetheart, is that's all they are, just scary dreams. They're not real. Now, let's go getcha back t' bed."
 
"But what if I get scared again?" Fable whimpered.
 
"Tell you what, I'll sit next t' yer bedside 'til you fall back asleep. How does that sound?"
 
"You will?"
 
"Aye. I won't let nothin' scary getcha. I promise." With practiced steps, Minerva carried Fable back to her bed and tucked her in under the covers, humming old songs and stroking her head until the young one closed her eyes. As her daughter slumbered peacefully, the otter caressed the fishhook around her neck.
 
"Just scary dreams," she whispered to herself.