~ Chapter 10: All Hail, Apathy ~

Smoke rose in the distance, the narrow plumes of white trailing up beyond the edges of the city walls, indicating to all who cared to know that Nurjan's army was performing their morning prayer. The Niverron walls were steep and ramparted limestone, as high and thick as Hieron's had been; from a distance they could fool anyone into thinking they made a decent defence. As Breeze looked closer however, he saw flakes of weathered stone crumbling away, no doubt a result of the merciless combination of time, the elements, and the nobility's reluctance to part with money in exchange for proper upkeep. Union war flags sailed high across the city, scraping the overcast clouds gathering beyond, the heady smell of an impending rainstorm fresh on the air. The city was under siege, and the people were trapped inside like rats in a cage - soon the supplies would dwindle, and without careful use of strategy and reinforcement from the Union's generals, Nurjan's army would soon scale those weathered limestone walls and slaughter everyone inside. That is of course, if the city wasn't simply starved to death first.

The citizens within were, appropriately, having a festival.

“What is this?" Breeze growled, watching incredulously as a procession of foxes and their kin marched down the street. They wore colourful ink upon their skin, the echoic sound of firecrackers and drumbeats filling every inch of the air. He didn't know how to act. “The hell is this?" He repeated, looking back at Fenton.

“Festival'a soul." The Doberman replied tartly, as if that were explanation enough. Breeze glanced at Erasmus, who had already begun to approach a nearby city guard before the wolf could stop him. The bored fox guard was in his late forties, and had a peace-time gut warring against his studded leather armour.

Union's finest, no doubt helpful as always. Breeze thought, lip curling.

Erasmus cleared his throat, struggling to be heard over the revelry just beyond them. “Pardon sir, but er, is it truly wise to have the festival go ahead, considering the... circumstance?" He asked meekly, two fingers pressing together before his chest. Abigail slept peacefully in the sling on his back, easy to miss, a small hood flicked over to hide her tiny face.

“Who's askin'?" The guard huffed, scratching his chin and shaking free a spoonful of dandruff, not even bothering to look at Erasmus. He threw a gloved paw out at the festival march. “It's the festival'a soul! It's tradition!"

“C'mon Ras." Breeze muttered, taking the otter by the elbow and tugging them along, scarcely glancing back as Fenton jogged to keep up. “We should get away from the crowds, and then we can see about tracking down this smuggler." The sooner they found Gorm, and convinced him to smuggle them through the blockade and into Lyskirk, the better; Nurjan wouldn't wait forever. Breeze felt the eyes of the horde keenly as they pushed through the throng of half-naked, half-drunk, and all-dancing foxes, small gossipy chatter rippling through the crowd as he and his two companions waded through the middle like explorers crossing a river.

“A wolf, and dressed like that? Where they goin'?"

“He ain't celebrate the soul? What's his problem?"

“Could be an Astmoor spy, I say, oi pass me that there drink--"

“What's he need a sword for? Soulless aye?"

Hieron had seemed a rather diverse city, but while Breeze spied several people in the Niverron crowd that were not foxes, he noticed they kept to the sidelines, eyes lowered and body language passive. The foxes marched with abandon, and Breeze felt their bodies knocking and shoving around him, most of the revellers already drunker than shit, despite the early hour. They all sang together out of both time and tune, laughing and guffawing like they were of slow minds, clapping one another on the back and showing their teeth. The northern wolf found it all rather horrifying.

These people have no idea what they're in for. He thought, eyes wide.

Taller than most foxes by a good half-head, Breeze peered easily over the crowd even as his group shambled through it. As they went he spied what seemed like small, layered farmlands nestled between the buildings, the tufts of grass and dirt brutally out of place in the concrete jungle. Breeze was so shocked he stopped in place, with several foxes bumbling right into him and staggering sideways. He ignored them as he realised the 'farmlands' weren't some fancy decoration, and that there were in fact actual chunks of corn growing right next to the main road.

“Are those crops? Inside the city?" He called, words stolen by the marching crowd.

Fenton shrugged, apparently having heard him. “Good fer times like this, huh? Least they won't starve too soon!" He shouted, as if it was no big deal. Breeze wondered how much more backwards the south could get. Seemed a perfectly good way to crowd up a city and make shitty food, all at once.

A tall and cream-coloured fox practically fell onto Breeze then, ricocheting in place as he fumbled for the wolf's shoulder, struggling to find purchase amidst the sea of fur and grog. Breeze stood firm as an oak, frowning mildly as the fox righted himself, examining the red ink painted across the fox's shirtless chest in the visage of a ribcage. Some of it was smeared now, fur dripping from the ale he'd sloshed across his breast.

“Whoa, hey there big fella! My, yer... big!" The fox brayed, reaching out to pat Breeze's leather-strapped chest. “What you lot doin' runnin' about that way at a time like this? You should be… relaaaxin'! Let yer belts out, march on!" Breeze felt the urge to grab him by the scruff of the neck and dash his head against the street, but he quietly denied it, jaw muscles tensing. Around them the partying foxes continued their march like a river splitting around an island, only occasionally slowing to look at the small gathering in the middle, the odd hushed question muttered to a friend.

“The Astmoor army is camped outside your walls, good man!" Erasmus said right into the fox's ear, shoving through to Breeze's side. “Is this really a good time to be drinking so much?"

“Wot?!" The fox exclaimed indignantly, his face taken over with the familiar look of a drunk who'd decided he was going to get in a fight. Breeze put his paw on his sword hilt, but the subtler approach had no effect on the oblivious drunk. “You. Are saying... We sh'just let this savage wolf cunt Nurjack dictate what we do then, huh? This's 'ah tradishuns, ain't nobody gone' be bestin' our walls, no-way-no-how! What you got 'gainst that, sir?!" He hiccupped once, reaching forward to shove Erasmus back. Breeze caught his wrist before the blow connected.

“Think about this." He said sharply. “Be smart."

“You fuckin' let go'a me, dog!" The drunk cried out indignantly, lips pulling up as his hackles rose. “Callin' me a coward? Those pissant heretics get over that wall I'll be the first one to give them a kick in the balls!" He burped, emphasising his point. He swayed in place, pointing a fat paw and making as if he were gearing up to hit Breeze. The wolf glanced around, aware of the many eyes now on them. On the opposite side of the flowing crowd, two (decidedly sober) guards were watching keenly, one of them making moves to get a closer look.

And this time, there'll be no fast-talking Inquisitors to set us free. He thought, curling his fingers into a fist. But Breeze knew drunks, and he knew that once they were fixed for a fight, there was nothing that'd set em off it, not in all the world of dirt and death.

“Hey now," Erasmus said suddenly, stepping even closer and putting a paw on the sloshed fox's shoulder. “No one here's doubting you, friend. I can see the fire in your eyes. We're from out of town, from Hieron, and we're no friends of the Emperor neither." The drunk licked his lips, swaying in place, muddy hazel eyes staring into the otter's cool blues.

“I…" Breeze braced, readying to bury his fist in the drunk's teeth. “I s'pose, you'd be right. The drink, got a bit t'me head it has." He turned to face Breeze with a wan smile, tugging his wrist free and patting the big wolf on the chest. “Relax big fella, enjoy the festival, this is only day two of six! Let out yer inner soul!" And with that he turned, linking up with the crowd like an errant trout re-joining his school.

“What in the bloody hells?" Fenton asked, his face suddenly poked between Breeze and Erasmus. “Didya offer to suck his cock later?"

“Absolute moron." The otter grunted, teeth grinding. “Going around sloshed like that, celebrating at a time like this! Selfish prick." Breeze nodded, realising what had happened. He put a paw on Erasmus's back, shushing him as they stepped away from the festival procession.

“Calm down." He said, leaning close as the trio shuffled into another alleyway. “Soothing's easier when you touch em, huh?"

The otter nodded, grimacing. “In a crowd at least, easier to focus. There's a lot of stress here, even with... all this. We should get out of it."

“'Bout bloody time." Fenton whispered, as the trio found a snaking path and took it, eager to get away from all the noise and eyes. They headed north through the city streets, slinking around guards and doing their best not to draw attention to themselves. Everywhere they went, Breeze could hear the drums, and smell the sickly mixture of ale and food wafting on the air. Mixed in was the heavy scent of prayer smoke, a constant omnipresent reminder of Nurjan's forces amassing outside.

Every time I think I understand the south, they manage to get even stranger.

“Bloody southerners." He mumbled. He then turned to Erasmus, speaking louder. “So this smuggler'a yours, he'd have contacts in the city right? Someone who'd know where to find him?"

“Fellas how long's this business gonna take?" Fenton interrupted from behind, bouncing on his heels. “I never should'a agreed to this, never in me life. Ma always said I had more looks than sense, she always said, old bitch." He muttered, head permanently on a sharp swivel.

Erasmus shook his head. “Gorm? Oh, folk'll know him alright, half of them will owe him money I expect. Inquisitor Morgan said he gets nervous, always moving shop and not tellin' us where, but apparently he's always close to the money." Erasmus answered, ignoring the whining Doberman behind them. “That's the south side, in Union cities."

“I mean, I ain't got as little sense as these other knobs right?" Fenton went on, to Breeze's eternal joy. “I'm fixin' to get out, ain't no festival good enough worth dyin' fer!"

“Shut your mouth!" Erasmus snapped back, the outburst shocking Breeze so much his ears snapped back against his head.

“Still angry then?" He guessed, as the otter looked back.

“It's the slowest to leave." The otter hissed. “Soothing's a fickle magic. Doesn't help when a mouth-breathing duke-of-limbs won't keep his bleeding maw shut for two stinking seconds."

“Nobody gone and asked yer opinion on it, weasel boy!" Fenton snapped. “Ain't nobody made you listen to it!"

“I'm an otter!" The otter exclaimed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “An otter! Why is this so difficult? Are you truly that much of an idiot?"

“Hard words from a man with a puny knife and a puppy strapped to 'is back!" Fenton snarled. “What's so special 'bout her anyhow? Fact, where're you two even going?! Why yous need a smuggler to Lyskirk so bad, huh?"

Breeze gritted his teeth, trying to ignore his two fussing companions. He was glad Erasmus didn't rise to Fenton's jabs a third time, the otter instead choosing to – very maturely - cross his arms and sulk.

I am surrounded by pups, all three of them, the same. At least Abigail doesn't bitch and moan. Breeze thought, crossing another road and ushering the three to a tavern.

“Thirsty, are we?" Fenton chuckled as they pressed inside. The door swung in and music and revelry swung out. There was warmth and mirth to the air, the stench of sweat and ale and burnt meat touching Breeze's nose. Fenton leered as the door clattered shut behind, readjusting his belt even as Erasmus picked at a loose strand on his sleeve. Breeze stood still behind them, merely watching. The tavern was packed wall-to-wall, while open ears were bombarded with drunken songs and catcalls, the long bench-style tables all fully attended despite the fact it was barely eleven in the morning. Say one thing for Niverron – say they went hard. The Doberman whistled, nodding as he placed his fists on his hips. “I ain't complainin'! Could stand to wash away this dusty tongue meself, been a long night of dark work."

“For once in your life boy, just shut up, okay? Don't start none. I'll be back soon." Breeze hissed, pushing past the grinning Doberman and making his way up to the tavern bar. As he went he muttered beneath his breath, “you don't know nothin' bout dark work."

“Fine steel in that there scabbard, I s'pose." A bear mumbled at him as he reached the bar, the ursine's shaggy face slumped on the wet countertop. “Yous here to fight Nurjan off our hides all by yer lonesome?"

“Maybe tomorrow." Breeze replied, ignoring the drunk and waving at the staff. An out-of-breath barmaid hurried over to him, her long red tail curling behind her back as she leaned in so as to be heard.

“What can I get you then, good sir?" The vixen asked huskily. “You look a whit dry I'd dare say, yous lot from out of town?"

“Lookin' for someone, someone works close to here." Breeze replied, struggling to be heard over some new Ferrin song starting up behind him.

“Ooooooooooh away-away-away my lady indeed, away-away, twos to dance, as to prance, for a spot of romaaaaance~" The voices all sung over one another, half the group completely out of time and tune, the other half barely approaching it. It was a fucking awful racket, and Breeze winced with each new verse.

“Oh, right then?" The barmaid called back, waving politely at one of the groups as if she didn't even notice the singing. The drunken bear reached out to pull at her conspicuously loose shirt, and she slapped his paw away without even looking. “Maybe I knows some names. Who's it yer in for?"

“Fella by the name of Gorm! He's a broker, of sorts." Breeze said back, wincing as some of the foxes decided they would try their paws at howling. He tried to give a lop-sided smile, but it had been a long time since he tried impressing anyone. “Scores, they're shit at that, huh?" Ignoring his levity, the vixen's face fell, and she stepped away from the bar without another word, muttering in the ear of a giant pig in an apron, who was currently occupied with filling up mugs of cider. As she whispered, the pig stopped mid-pour, scowled, and begrudgingly put the vixen to the task, stomping over to Breeze.

The northern wolf sighed. Why can't anything ever be easy? He glanced around. You all got it so nice down here, but you can't stop fighting and killing each other enough to try enjoying it. He thought of Slaugh Morningbreaker, and of how he'd helped Breeze earn the name Witchborn. Guess you'd say the same of us, least our land is as violent as we are.

“Yer a friend'a Gorm, aye? Well fuck off." The pig spat, jowls clapping as his thick garlic-breath came like a punch to the face. He slapped a fat pink hand down on the counter, snorting like a bull about to charge. The drunken bear chose that moment to lean on Breeze once again, this time with an arm sliding around his shoulders. The wolf shrugged him off, growling a terse warning. He turned back to the pig.

“I've got gold, just needa know where he's to be found." Breeze explained.

“Don't suppose you've got twelve-hundred marks weighing down yer pocket then?" The pig asked, cocking his leathery eyebrow like they were a flatbow. He glanced away from Breeze as some drunken idiot fell off a table, naturally to a chorus of roaring cackles from his mates. The pig then swung his thick head back on his thick neck, eyelids twitching as he met Breeze's gaze. “Thought not. Gorm an' his lot ain't welcome near here. Not now, not ever. So like I said, you can fuck off!" And he raised a trotter, waiving towards a coin-guard toward the back of the room.

“So you do know him!" Breeze exclaimed, starting as he realised Erasmus was suddenly leaning in next to him. “How long have you been there?" He stage-whispered in the otter's ear. “There's a coin-guard over there 'bout to throw me, and maybe you, right outta here, you got maybe ten seconds."

Erasmus shrugged, putting all his focus on the odious pig. “My good man, were you by happenstance saying our mutual friend Gorm holds debts here too?" He said, his own voice nearly lost in the wash of revelry.

“Fuckin' right he do!" The pig roared, again banging his fist down on the countertop. “Twelve-hundred bloody marks that brick-born shithead owes us!" He shifted, suddenly uncertain. “Give or take."

The drunken bear groped at Breeze again, this time tugging at his sword. That was a stretch too far for the wolf, and despite his better judgement, he balled his paw into a fist and crushed the bear's nose with it. Blood spat out as the big man flopped on his arse, clutching his face and begging for it to stop even after it had. Breeze wrinkled his snout, turning back to the bartender, a small space in the crowd clearing around him and Erasmus. The pig looked unamused.

“Cause trouble, you get trouble." He snorted.

“Might you hear us out a spell, good man?" Erasmus asked, ignoring the wailing bear sprawled near his feet. “I suspect we have like-minded opinions, and perhaps, like-minded goals as well."

“All's right here Hando?" The coin-guard, a broad wolf, asked, one paw resting on his belt as he eyed Breeze and Erasmus. The pig waved him off.

“F'now, but stick close by Laden." He licked his lips. “Lest this lot don't tell me what I wanna hear."

“Well. As my northern friend here has failed to mention," Erasmus continued, gesturing at Breeze, who watched on incredulously. “Gorm in fact owes our employer the sum of nearly nine-hundred marks! Gorm's man – who he promised had nerves of steel - got one looking over from the city guards and dumped all his cargo straight into the canal! Atrocious business practice if you ask me, and then, he ups and runs off with our money!" The pig shook his head, the hint of a smile touching his mouth.

“E's a swindler, that mangy badger, deserves the rope I say." He glowered. “That's the third time I heard 'e gone and pulled that kinda stunt! Yellow bellied thieves, I've no doubt they hoard it for themselves, piss on any stories of guards." Breeze looked away, noticing that the bear he'd punched had managed to crawl away, already cradling a new drink and harassing some other unlucky patron.

“No doubt. But now, good man." Erasmus went on, leaning in even closer. “Personally, I doubt that blackguard has close to two-thousand marks in his den, but tell you what – you give up his stash-house, and when we kick in his door and break his kneecaps, or rather, when my northern friend here does, we'll give him a good kick in the teeth on behalf of you and your tavern." Breeze was gobsmacked to see the ornery pig actually considering it, the tavern owner frowning as he stroked his multiple chins. Erasmus raised a finger. “And, whatever we do find, more or less of two-thousand, we'll split with you. Our employer doesn't care about money, it's a lesson what he wants taught."

The pig waited a minute, then blew out a fat breath. “Got y'selves a deal, little ferret." He exclaimed, sticking out a greasy trotter. Erasmus shook it with a little trepidation, before quickly taking in the pig's instruction. “Head east a whit, down the road to the coin-guard barracks. Few blocks away from that's a Red-Lantern Inn, check in the back'a that place. Gorm'll be there, if that yellow-belly hasn't left the city yet, that is." The otter nodded, then paused, considering.

“Pardon the intrusion but, why haven't you all left?" Erasmus asked, looking around. “Why the celebrations, with Astmoor quite literally at the gates?"

The pig shrugged, motioning for the tavern coin-guards to throw a few drunken (and likely copper-less) loons out. “Wasn't no time, they crept up outta nowhere they did. Besides, Union's been at war since forever, the hundred's just how it is. War comes and goes, no need to quit our traditions 'cause of that noise; it's the damned festival of soul! Fuck the Emperor, and between you and me, fuck the King near as much."

“You could all die." Breeze added, leaning close. “Ever been in a city after it's lost to a siege?" Breeze had, but on the side of the invaders. It was never good.

“'Course not. But we ain't scared." The pig grunted, wiping his fingers on his apron and straightening up. “Now get outta here, an' when you cut off that cheat Gorm's prick you tell 'im Hando hopes he's well!" And the pig turned away with a great belly-shaking laugh, shuffling along the bar and barking orders to the maids.

“Right then. Where's the idiot?" Breeze asked, as they turned around, scanning the room. Unless he was crouched beneath a table, the deserter Goodman Fenton was nowhere to be seen.

“Think he's run off?" Erasmus scoffed, heading toward the door. “Good riddance."

“He's still got my knife. And we owe him money, he ain't gone far I reckon." Breeze huffed, following after the otter. The question of Fenton's whereabouts was answered near as soon as they left the noisy tavern however, as they stepped outside to see the Doberman doubled over a little way down the street, his sinewy form curled up on the ground, three figures looming over him. Breeze shifted, realising it was three city guards stood over him, their lips pulled up, hackles raised, boots bloody with the dog's blood. They were all near-identical red foxes, one with a sword out, the other two with their paws screwed into fists, a bow hanging from one of their shoulders.

“Triumvirate's breath." Erasmus groaned. “Why is he even along with us again?"

“Lotta fucking nerve you got, showin' yer face here Fent!" The guard with the sword growled, his words slurred with a touch of drunkenness. “Didn't think a deserter like you'd have enough spine to come back!"

“I…" Fenton wheezed, lifting a paw to shield his face. “Thought better of it?" That earned him a fresh kick to the gut, his stomach heaving as bloodied bile was forced out his muzzle. Breeze looked around; the nooks and crannies were clear of even the most curious beggars, the cobblestone street seemingly devoid of life. The festival of soul demanded the entire city's attention, and that suited Breeze just fine.

He took a step toward the guards, putting a slight limp to his gait, a slackness to his jaw, letting his paws hanging loose. Hard words and bluster got you nowhere fast, in his experience, better to look less'n you are.

“Watch where you're walkin' wolf shit." The shortest fox spat, and Breeze named him Squat. “This ain't concern'n you, it's a matter for the army!"

“King's justice!" Another piped.

“This mutt here's a deserter!" Hissed Sword, waving his steel prick about as he leered over Fenton. “A coward who ain't got the stones to keep his post! You think we're gonna lose, huh, is that it? Well Astmoor's got another thing comin', they think we're gonna just lie down and take it!" Fenton got another kick to his side.

“Master Breeze…" Erasmus whispered, pulling at his arm. Breeze winced as Squats stomped on Fenton's wrist. “They're soldiers!"

Shit ones. Breeze's pelt itched. The festival may have drawn all the eyes, but Erasmus had a point, they were still soldiers. If one got away, or yelled for help, or there was a patrol just around the corner... He helped us though, didn't he? Since when did the Witchborn care about authority?

“H-help!" Fenton spluttered, blood running from his nose. Leaving was the smart thing to do, Breeze knew it – no money owed, no more trouble, no more petty bickering with Erasmus. It's what he would have done in the old days, it was the ruthless choice, the logical choice - anyone would, right? That was who he was, and he had no regrets.

“Piss off already, 'less you two wanna join 'im!" Squat snapped, spitting on the Doberman. “This's only right!" Breeze sighed.

Be better.

“Fuck it." He groaned, stepping forward and smashing the first fox's face straight into the unforgiving brick wall. The guard dropped without a sound, his body sagging and flopping like an upturned basket of fish, a splattered line of red trailing along the brick behind. Squat went for his sword and Breeze shoved him over, the fox stumbling back and tripping with a shout, rolling feet-over-head. Sword raised his namesake, and Breeze drew his own blade, taking a loose stance over Fenton's cowering body.

“Thank you, oh thank you Bree--" The Doberman whispered, but the wolf ignored him.

“Think on this big man," Sword hissed, as Squat picked himself up, brandishing a short sword. “We're city guards we are, we ain't the kinda folk you can ju--" His words were cut off as Breeze struck. His sword dipped forward and around in a quick slash that the guard was lucky to meet. Their weapons clanged, and Breeze pushed the fox's grip aside with a two-paw grip, twisting his wrists and ramming his pommel into Sword's teeth. Enamel cracked and blood sprayed, all to the chorus of a choking sputter.

“Bastard!" Squat cried, coming forward with a much-too-enthusiastic overhead blow. Breeze batted it aside, throwing Squat off balance and bringing his blade low, slicing across both of the fox's poorly armoured thighs. Pain always took a moment to catch up, swords were fast, and the body needed a moment to send the right signals from wound to brain. The guard looked down at the open flesh on his thighs, frozen with the shock of it – and then the pain hit. He dropped his blade in surprise (idiot) and Breeze punched him in the face.

Sword was back up then, swaying from side to side, red goop dribbling down one side of his muzzle.

“Don't do it." Breeze grunted, but as always, the fool didn't listen. The fox lashed out with a dramatic cry, like some downtrodden hero in a pup's fable. Unfortunately, in Breeze's experience, heroes tended to die grizzly deaths at times like this. The guard's sword came up and around in a swooping slash, which Breeze met with his own blade. There was a grinding shriek of steel on steel, and Breeze pushed forward, free paw snaking through Sword's arms and drawing a fancy-looking knife straight from his belt.

“Oi!" Sword piped, as if Breeze committed a social faux-pas at the dining table. Breeze pressed close, knocking the fox off-balance and punching the knife deep into the fleshy meat near his elbow. The guard screamed as they twisted in place, Breeze yanking the blade toward himself and opening a jagged line of flesh down the arm from end-to-end. The fox's fingers flew open in shock, and his sword clattered as it hit the ground, the paw at the end of his wounded limb seizing, the good one clutching at the slice but not knowing where to squeeze. He was stumbling drunkenly, Breeze's presence almost totally ignored. He looked up then and met the wolf's eyes, and as he opened his jaw to scream once again, Breeze dashed his head against the wall, knocking him out cold.

It was over as quickly as it begun, and Breeze was barely puffed from the effort.

“Oh, my word." Erasmus exclaimed, as Breeze stepped back, using a vambrace to wipe the blood off his sword before sheathing it. To one side of the narrow road, Squat had crawled to a piss-stained wall and was sitting quietly against it, holding his paws over his slashed thighs and murmuring prayers against pain. The otter blanched. “Why does this keep happening to us?"

“Trouble follows me like a bad smell Ras. Her and I go way back, and she won't let me go easy." Breeze replied, taking Fenton's shaking paw and yanking him to his feet.

“Thank you." The Doberman said, wiping his bloody nose and sniffing. “I think they mighta 'bin fixin' to kill me." Breeze nodded, he'd seen it before. Sieges addled men's minds, the tension playing at their thoughts same as the plague, and stuck in an impotent role they often sought someone – anyone – to take their frustration out on.

Though far as punching bags go, a deserter ain't a half-bad choice. He had to admit.

“It's in the air." Breeze said aloud. “They can pretend nothin' bad has happened all they like, but they still know – this city is a thief on his way to the gallows."  

“I'm sure Arch Brigadier Audric will send ample reinforcements, as soon as he's able." Erasmus added nervously, sounding like not even he believed it.

“Pardon if I'm not a paragon of faith in you southerners and your plans." Breeze snorted. “We need to keep going."

“I still have to come?! Don't this change none?" Fenton cried, sighing deeply as Breeze's expression gave him his answer.

“You're welcome to stay here." Erasmus muttered.

Fenton waved a paw unenthusiastically. “Just, wait one--, for fuck's sake, fucking northerners." And he waddled over to the first fox Breeze had knocked out, grimacing at the red blot mark left on the wall by his face. With a heave, Fenton yanked the lightwood bow and quiver from the guard's twitching body, grinning back at Breeze and Erasmus.

“What the bloody hell's all this?" A new voice interrupted, words slurred. Breeze's heart sunk as he turned around to see the drunken bear he'd punched earlier, escorted by the tavern's coin-guard. The burly wolf had a firm grip of one flabby arm, the bear's limb pinned behind his back. Still, the drunk let his jaw drop at the three broken guards lying on the ground.

Breeze and Erasmus stared right back, while Fenton hurriedly slipped the bow over his shoulder.

“Ain't what it looks, it ain't." The Doberman said.

“They're friends'a Hando, if you don't wanna get hit again I'd move along." The coin-guard said, shoving the bear away. The fat ursine stumbled once and caught himself, rolling his shoulder and sneering at Breeze as he hobbled off into the daylight, vaguely pointing himself towards the festival centre.

“This whole city is completely insane." Breeze muttered, amazed that the lunacy of Hieron had already been so thoroughly and completely outclassed.

“Y'can say that again, friend." The coin guard replied, pushing back inside. “Get out while you can."

“Now that there is a wise fuckin' man tell you what." Fenton said, his words slightly slurred by the swelling on his lip.

“Got your toy then?" Breeze asked Fenton, who simply shrugged. “While you were busy getting the shit kicked out of you, tavern owner told us where to find Gorm. You even know how to use that thing?" And the wolf pushed by the bruised Doberman, already unsure why he'd bothered helping him.

“I'm an archer! Whatever it is we're doin', if there's trouble 'least I can be a white more'n useless!" Fenton exclaimed, hurrying to catch up. “The hell are you two even about? A shit-for-brains soother, a northern savage, and a fox pup all about lookin' for a smuggler in a city what's under siege? I mean I'll help, but maybe if I knew what it was all about..."

“Help? That'll be a new experience for you." Erasmus said under his breath, briefly checking on Abigail – he gave Breeze a nod, the pup still happily asleep.

Fenton scoffed. “I ain't see you do much in that--"

“Shut up, both of you!" Breeze cried, whirling. “Please, for the sake of the world and all us still living in it, keep your fucking mouths shut!" Erasmus crossed his arms in a huff, and Fenton suddenly decided the ground was a very interesting subject to study. “Let's just go to where we're s'posed to and do what we came for! Then you can leave, and we can go. Is that too much for the both of you to manage?!"

“I mean, not for me..." Fenton mumbled. “You two bastards are the queerest lot I ever met, s'all I'm sayin." Breeze pointed at him, grinding his teeth.

“I saved your life once now deserter – but don't think that means I won't take it right back, if you keep getting on my nerves." He waited, but neither of the two had anything left to add. “Good, then, let's go find this pissing smuggler everyone hates and get the hells out of this damned city." He sighed, turning away and walking deeper into the city.

“Hopefully before Nurjan burns it to the ground."