Dewhurst Player Applications

[Balmafula]

Character's name: Vist
Character's species: Ferret
Character's gender: Male
Character's age: 35



?I  told ye I?m not going to fight him again!? Vist growled as he moved wide crimson suspenders in place over his shoulders. ?I?m done fighting. It?s not worth it.? He sat down and opened a jar of fur paint.

?But didn?t you tell me just yesterday that you loved ?er?? A gangly rat took a seat near the ferret. He dipped his paw into the white paint. The rat began to smear the chalky mixture over his features.  ?Ain?t you got a back bone mate? You just going to let ?im walk all over you??

?What do you care anyway Fistal?? He began to spread the white mixture over his face. It was already humid in the dressing tent but adding a heavy clown outfit and face paint made the temperature almost unbearable. Vist could feel sweat beading up under the layer of paint he had applied to his face.

?Because that Reng is the scum of the earth that?s why!? The rat bared his front teeth as he reached for a jar of red paint. ?I know it was him that took me gilder bag last week. If it wasn?t for the fact that I need this blasted job to keep me from rotting away I?d kill him right now.? Reng glowered as he applied a large smile onto his glowering features.

?Aye, life?s got us there don?t it mate?? Vist had added rosy cheeks and raised eyebrows to his mask of paint. ?If it wasn?t for this travelling troupe, we?d be the worse for wear.? The ferret sighed as he completed his costume by adding a huge red nose to the end of his snout. He glanced at himself in a reflective bit of quartz. Who could tell that behind the jovial smile of his clown costume lay a soul tormented by unrequited love? If not for Reng, the third of their trio of clowns, his love might be returned.

Siltra was perfection to him. But Reng stood in his way. He had claimed Siltra as his own when he arrived. Everyone in the troupe knew crossing Reng would lead to death in one way or another. The ferret sucked in  breath and reached for a set of juggling pins.

The traveling troupe had set up outside of Yew for the evening. A group of expectant patrons were sitting in a semi circle around the performing ring. Vist wrinkled his nose as the familiar sights and smells of another night on the job greeted him. How had he sunk so low? He was a clown, acting foolishly for someone else?s enjoyment. All this while another beast stole the heart of the one he loved.

?Knock im? dead mate.? Fistal punched him on the shoulder as he trotted out on stage. The rat had the audience laughing within moments as he hit himself in the face with pies. Vist grit his teeth as Reng entered from the opposite side. He hated Reng, hated him for bullying the rest of the troupe and hated him for taking Siltra away from him. Until Reng showed up Siltra and Vist had loved each other.  Now that was gone.

Vist entered the stage, his clown costume masking the rage boiling within him. If he wanted Siltra the only way to get her would be if Reng were gone. Vist felt the cold metal of the stage knife in his paw as he moved forward. The ferret moved back his arm and threw.

Silence. Reng dropped to his knees, the knife protruding from his chest.  Vist could hear his heart beat as he watched his enemy?s eyes roll up and his tongue loll. Reng fell face down on stage, his blood mixing with pie filling.

Then there were screams, so many screams. Vist locked eyes with Fistal just once. The rat?s eyes were big with fear as he stepped back from the fallen clown. He knew what would happen if Vist stayed where he was.

?Run!? Fistal yelled to Vist over the panicking crowd. ?Get out of here!?

And so Vist ran until he could run no further. It was a few seasons later when he came across Dewhurst Players. Here he could start anew with no one knowing he was a killer. His heart ached for Siltra, the pretty ferret maid he had left behind. He carried a throwing knife at his side always, least anyone try to wound his heart again.

[Balmafula]

Character's name: Risk
Character's species: Ferret
Character's gender: Male
Character's age: 43



"- an' ye get this kind o' knife."

"Ooh, that's a spiffing knife."

"An' a red kerchief, t'show yer one o' us."

The fox twins ogled the weasels' kerchiefs and whispered in awe together: "Champion!"

"What's all this?"

All four beasts spun in surprise as Risk stood up out of a bush. Mud painted the champagne ferret's fur from nose to tail. A drab blue kilt provided further decency.   

"Who are ye?" One of the weasels jabbed his knife at the ferret.

"Ahh... Don't do that," said Risk, calmly. His voice rumbled like oiled pebbles between a vixen's thighs.

"He's Risk the Cutter! The ol' lord's right-paw Cap'n! Wot slew th'badger prince!" The other weasel glanced at his companion and batted the knife out of his paw. "Y'idiot! Show some respec'!"

"Were you just tryin' to recruit these two young todds into your fool's army?"

"Oh, er, no, sir, just- but, say... wot are you doin' with runty an' stunted 'ere?"

Risk scowled. "I'm their..." He suddenly turned his head to the side, ears flicking. Someone was cursing and thrashing foliage in the distance. "Dank, Sere, stay low, an' don't move- you two, get yer hides outta my sight afore I strip 'em off for tent flaps." He cupped his paws and shouted toward the noise: "Hold on, Hoc! I'm comin'!"

"Go, Risk!" The twins shouted, pumping their paws in the air and jigging. "Give 'em Hellgates an' bite marks!"

Risk careened through the woods towards their campsite, flattening ferns left and right. Up ahead, two stoats held the twin's father, while three rats rummaged through the family's belongings. Their only warning of the ferrets' arrival was a soft crack and the gurgles of the rat closest to the trees. Risk gave him one last shake and tossed him aside, neck broken.

The second rat had just enough time to drop and retrieve his spear before Risk was invading his personal space. Risk grabbed the spear, twisted the rat around and squeezed his neck between the haft and his chest. The third rat stumbled towards them, holding his sword up with his eyes shut and his head down. Risk tilted his head; who was training these pitiable whelps? Anyone? He leaned to the side to let the rat pierce himself on his companion's spear. Then the haft broke from the strain and the second rat fell forward, dead, or wise enough to pretend.

Risk hefted the third rat, still with half a spear protruding from his head, and with a running start, bodily hurled him at Hoc's captors. It caught one stoat in his back. The other dropped Hoc and fled face-first into the nearest tree. Risk tsked. Hoc made a disgruntled face as he picked himself up from under the first stoat. He pawed at his faded red tunic.

"Stars have mercy, Risk, must you be so boisterous? You know this causes dapples when it dries."

"Sorry, Hoc. Couldn't be helped." He licked his paw and rubbed a little at some blood on the sleeve. "What did they want?"

"Wanted me to go heal their stupe of a warlord or something, I don't know. Shame on you for leaving my side in the first place!"

"Sorry, I was just keepin' an eye on the twins... some other hordebeasts were tryin' to recruit 'em-"

"Well maybe just let them next time, two less mouths to feed. Now help me set my alchemy table back up, those witless brutes knocked it over."

"Aye... Hey, knock it off, you two! Show some respect."

The twins, having returned, were prodding the eyes of a rat.

Hoc waved dismissively. "How else are they going to learn anything?"

Risk sighed. The adrenaline in his veins fizzled out like a dud batch of the twins' favourite strawberry drink, leaving only a dull ache in his arms. The weasel's question stuck with him as he cleaned up the ravaged campgrounds. What was he doing here?

* * * * * *

Sometimes it's funny what you come to think of as 'The Good Old Days'...

"What are you doing here? This is my bunk."

Risk took his arm off his face and looked up at the white-faced stoat.

"Mimes don't talk."

"And new hires don't steal the star act's bunk. Scrat, juggler."

Risk spat on the pillow as he hauled himself away to the front of the cart. Over the stoat's protests, he grinned and said loudly, "Pyracantha, what do ye say about blindfolded knife throwing next performance? I've got just the volunteer."

[Balmafula]

Character's name: Poko
Character's species: Ferret
Character's gender: Female
Character's age: 14



?Evil urchin child!? A badger cuffed the young ferretmaid across the ears, knocking her pointed hat several paces from where she cowed. ?I saw you take that mouse?s coinbag,? he growled, ?And you?d best give it back before I report you to the authorities!?

Poko, her face still painted  from her performance, brought a black-furred paw to her ear with a wince, ?Owww! Whadja go an? do that fer? I ain?t done nuthin? ya crazy jerkface!? She glared at the badger fiercely.

?Just over there at the fortune-teller?s table ? I saw it with my own eyes ? you cut that mouse?s pouch right off his belt!?

The ferret?s nostrils flared, ?You callin? me a thief? Go ahead - search me! I got nothin? ta hide!? she sneered at the larger creature, challenging him to try it.

Unphased by her confidence, the badger grabbed the young ferret by her brightly embroidered vest and started pawing the insides for pockets. With a shriek she began to flail, beating the badger?s snout with her fists. ?Help! Help! Lemmee go! Somebody Heeeelp!? A small crowd began to gather at this new spectacle.

?ExCUSE me, sir ?? a full-grown ferret with a painted face and a bell-covered cap tapped the badger on the shoulder, ??but I do believe that is my daughter you are fondling.?

The badger turned on him, dragging the ferretmaid with him by the nape, ?I am SEARCHING your thieving offspring for stolen goods, CLOWN, and you?d best stay back or there?s a cell for you in the dungeon as well!? He poked a long claw into the painted ferret?s chest, ?How?s THAT for a laugh??

?Ha ha!? the ferret returned nervously, raising his paws in a placating gesture, ?Fair enough, my friend, but what if you find no such ?stolen goods?? Will you release my daughter then??

?That remains to be seen,? the huge shovel-sized paws continued to frisk the ferret fruitlessly. The longer he searched, the more the surrounding crowd began to grumble and mutter as the ferretmaid stood stiffly with her arms spread and her nose held high, taking the abuse like a true martyr. When it became quite clear that there was nothing to be found aside from a few nuts, a handkerchief, and a small pocketknife (which were unceremoniously tossed into the dirt), the badger knew he?d been outwitted. ?Very well, you can go, but if I catch any of you vermin pick-pocketing again I?ll petition to have the whole lot of ya locked up til fall!?

As the hulking badger stalked off the ferrets began to pick up the discarded items from the ground. A sympathetic squirrel who had been quite fond of the jesters? earlier performance picked the ferretmaid?s pointy hat up and started to dust it off when she felt an unusual lump inside. ?Hey, she did steal that mouse?s money pouch!?

Father and daughter exchanged glances then bolted before anybeast got the bright idea to seize them. ?I?d best tell Pyracantha it?s time to move on!? puffed the elder ferret cheerily, ?I?ll find your mother ? you change roles.? Poko dashed into her family?s small tent and started scrubbing her face clear with soapy water. Soon she was decked out in a completely new red outfit with flame-like fringes along the sleeves and breeches. She tied a black scarf over her head and added gold rings to her ears. Then with a quick spray-down of heavy musk, she was not even recognizable by scent.  In a flash she was sprinting for the stage ? the last place her pursuers would be looking.

?Which way did they go?? the badger pressed the squirrel for information once they reached the spot where the ferrets had previously stood. By the time the squirrelmaid had thought to report the discovery of the coinbag to the antagonizing badger, he had already reached the sheriff and did not want to be interrupted. It had taken several tries before her message made it through, and the badger knew he had lost many precious minutes.

The squirrel gestured vaguely East, ?Um, that way?I think?? She was distracted by the new performer on the Dewhurst stage, fire blooming up in a great burst as a two double-ended torches spun mesmerizingly in the black-gloved paws. The young ferret lad was handsome and daring, spitting fire above the  awed crowd with a grin. The squirrelmaid gasped, her heart skipping a beat, ?Oh if only he were a squirrel and not a ferret?? she sighed forlornly.

[Balmafula]

Name: Shortstack
Species: Stoat
Gender: Male
Age: 30s



?It is my pleasure to introduce to you all, the one and only, Francisco the Fabulous!?

Francisco back flipped onto the stage, greeted by thunderous applause from the town folk of Yew.  The ferret's lithe form leaped and spun across the stage.  His lean, long body was draped in red silk as light and delicate as a spider's web.  This gave him the appearance of being engulfed in flame.  One small figure peaking out from behind the stage curtains, wished dearly that these flames were real.

?You're up in five, Shortstack.?  Pyracantha's reminder sounded from behind.

The stoat donned his green, feathered mask, and pulled his three silver daggers from his sash.  These were the tools of his trade.  He  fiercely polished the daggers, and then practiced juggling them until he felt confident in his routine.

The five minutes were up.  The small stoat pushed his way through the curtains.

Francisco was still on stage, apparently spinning on his head.  The crowd loved it.

?Hey, Francisco, your acts up.?  The stoat yelled, much to the chagrin of the audience.

?Somebody get that kit off the stage!? A voice in the crowd yelled.

Before beasts could start throwing produce, Francisco flipped back onto his paws and smiled apologetically.

?Sorry, Shortstack. I was having so much fun I must have lost track of time.?  The flawless example of mustelidian kind turned back to the crowd, ?Weren't we having fun, folks??

The cheering was almost deafening.

?What do you say we take a vote.?  Francisco asked.

?No.?  Shortstack replied.

?Everyone who wants to see Shortstack here perform, give me a holler.?  Francisco continued.

?I wanna see the dwarf dance!?  A single drunkard called out.

Shortstack glared at his only supporter.

?Everybody who wants to see my new, never-before-seen stunt, give me a yell.?

The screams must have been heard to the River Moss.

Francisco shrugged helplessly to Shortstack.

The stoat wanted very much to send one of his silver daggers flying into Francisco's perfect face.

* * *

The crowd's cheering could still be heard as Shortstack wandered off into the night.  One might of mistaken him for a lost, drunk clown, if not for the fiery determination alight in his eyes.

It probably would not be Francisco, but somebeast was going to have a very bad night.

The stoat soon found himself at the door of a small shack on the edge of town.  He knocked on the door, then pulled one of the daggers from his sash.

?Who's there?  Is it you, Polly??  A drunk voice called from within.  It was followed by the sound of crashing furniture.  A moment later the door opened.

?Good evenin- Great seasons, not you!?

A drunk, fat otter tried to slam the door, but Shortstack's small but muscular shoulder was in the way.  The stoat pushed his way in.

?Well hello there, Shortstack.?The otter said nonchalantly, ?Would you care for a glass of ale??

?I didn't come here to drink, Skip.  I'm here for the debt.?  Shortstack said, polishing his dagger on the corner of his sleeve.

?Debt?  But it ain't up for another season.?

?It's up right now.  Give me the silver I borrowed to you.?

Skip hesitated for a moment.  Perhaps he was preparing to attack preemptively, or maybe he was just drunk.

?I...  Haven't got your silver.  I used it to buy a boat last season.?

?I can't take a boat as payment.  How much fish do you have on paw??  Shortstack asked, feeling he was being more than fair to the old drunkard.

?Well... not any.  The boat got washed away during that last flood.  I've been eating off Widow Polly since then.?

?Do you have anything to pay me with??  Shortstack anticipated the otter's answer, tightening his grip on the dagger.

?Not now, but I will by next season... Promise.?

?I see.?  Shortstack's face broke into a grin.

Skip chuckled, relief beginning to show in his eyes.

?The promise of a drunkard is worth nothing.  I'll need to take some collateral.?

?But I haven't got anything!?  Skip yelled in protest.  Then his eyes showed something very far from relief.  It was pain.

* * *

Shortstack left the shack a minute later, his daggers cleaned and secured in his sash.  Around his neck hung something furry and bloody.

It was an otter's tail.