View source for In Which We Encounter a Drunk and a Beggar


==== Stubb, Angus, Slopnose, Amos, Hactor ====

'''Location:''' Ruingate: Via Caspius

There is a forlorn cast to this meandering street of uneven cobbles, made only grimmer by the steely sky of a lachrymal midday.  What merchants remain are tongued with gall, their patience short, their faces drawn and as sharp as their words.  A throng of rats, many of them garbed in martial gear, seems to flow interminably along the Via Caspius, their confidence in conflict with their deteriorating surroundings.  '''Stubb''', a weasel, thin almost to the point of frailty but composed and serious, raises his head above the crowd, scanning it for something.

Near to the weasel, '''Angus''' is likewise surveying the street--albeit his action is much less determined. Dark eyes take in the rats with marked disdain, and the lizard turns to his comrade. "No sign o' the warfox. We're jus' gonna get ourselves inna' trouble out here, mate," he grumbles, doing his best to shrink down *below* the line of crowd-sight.

'''Slopnose''' stumbles drunkenly and loudly from the main square, his various martial paraphrenalia clinking even louder than usual as his footpaws shuffle stochastically with the overall effect of propelling him forward. He jeers at the relatively more disciplined rat soldiers, "Lefrighlefrighlefrigh, that's it rotbrain! Double time now haraharhar" He touches the lip of the flagon of some vile beverage he had been hoisting to his temple in a mock salute at the soldiers.

Stubb's uneven gait is redolent of one whose easy self-assurance has come aground upon some harsh truth.  He crabs through the crowd rather than strides, smoothing the way with bowed apologies.  "Ay," he rasps back to the lizard in his wake after an oddly durable pause.  "An oi don' sappose you've caugh' a whiff a his... distinctive bouquet?"

'''Amos''' grumbles as he turns, still somewhat expecting Dangeon but the hare nowhere to be found. He's somewhat behind both the lizard and Stubb. Finally he turns back to face his comrades and his attention slightly focusing on Slopnose for a moment before turning back to listen to Stubb. Content to hold his tongue for the moment as he just watches.

Angus scowls gloomily. "It all smells like foxes here, mate--how the hell'm I 'spose t'just find *one*?" the dragon whines, punctuating his dismay with a malicious flicker of blue tongue. "He's your compadre; why ya' bringin' my fair senses into this?" Clearly cold and clumsy, he fumbles with his head-scarf, snorting a puff of steam into the brisk air.

Slopnose turns from his enjoyment of the military happenings momentarily to take in the sight of Angus and Stubb's party... The sight of the large lizard startles the weasel and he stares at the creature in a drunken slackjawed stupor.

Stubb moves off the road, taking care to step over the shallow gutter, where filth labors by in a viscous ooze flanked by streams of faster-moving slime.  He scrambles up to the stoop of a boarded-up shop, craning to look out over the foot soldiers.  "Oy.  Looks loike we're bein' watched, ma'e.  Seems your less fair sense are attracting some no'ice, moi odiferous frien'."  He points at the gobsmacked weasel.

Angus stands beside the stoop, roughly head-level with the perched weasel. ".. golly gee," he mumbles, bouncing an awkward glance off Stubb, then Slopnose. "Sure ye' ain' just foun' a lost cousin 'r somethin'? Maybe he jus' wants to lock his ole' brother in a warm embrace, mate." The lizard drops his back against the shop wall; its decrepit foundation faintly shudders upon impact.

Slopnose smells as if he had been luxuriating in the odiferous ooze of the gutters, and the malodorous pungency of his own aroma prevents him from detecting the interesting flavors of the carnivorous reptile. Idly, he takes another sip from his flagon, his ethanol-steeped faculties quite blissfully ignorant of the awkwardness his attention is causing.

Amos laughs at Angus remarks about the other weasel, turning to look him over as well. Sniffing, "I can smell him from here, I say we get no closer."

Stubb shrugs, losing interest.  "Nowt but anuvver drunkard, boi tha looks of i'.  Oi've go' enuff wine-addled rela'ives an' ma'es for free loifetimes arready.  Me mum alone was enuff for one."  He snorts and spits, some of his swagger having been regained once he'd properly extricated himself from the masses.

Slopnose blinks slowly, suddenly noticing the other weasel for the first time. A ghastly sideways grin materializes on his face as he approaches Stubb with his arms extended, as if wanting to clutch the other weasel to his bosom. "Rotbrain, matey! I ain't seen you sin' t' wedding! I've been lookin' fer ye all over this blast'd scrapheap! Who'd've thunk it, bumpin' into Rotbrain when I've jus' given up all 'ope!"

Stubb doesn't make eye contact, merely waving a paw in the other fellow's direction.  "Rotbrain, eh?  Me muvver weren't /that/ drunk."

Angus laps at the cold air--if he had fur, it would bristle with dismay.  "Yer sloshy relatives aside, mate, allam' smellin' is icicles an' booze." The first snow of the year has yet to fall, but the climate is quite unfit for a reptile. Piled with heavy garb, it's hard to tell whether the weather or the clothing is restricting Angus, but the creature is most certainly lurching, grimacing. A palm covers his eyes as the other weasel approaches, but the fingers part, shooting Stubb a glower that says: Should I remove his head now?

Amos mutters and eyes the other weasel suspiciously.

Slopnose throws his arms around Stubb, not hearing him or perhaps his alcohol-deadened senses were throwing out all evidence contrary to his expectations. He hugs the weasel tightly to him, the piquancy of his bodily odors tickling the other's nostrils. "Rotbrain, ma'ey! And 'ows dear ole Cordy! Ye've been trea'in' 'er righ' ain' ye?"

"Cordy?" Angus pipes critically. "Y'got a jill an' ye' ain' never even told yer best pally Angus about 'er? *Stubbsy.*" His hind claws flex against the cobblestones.

Stubb's seizure of disgust begins with a quiver of his violated nostrils and spreads quickly to his limbs.  He flails impotently against the clutches of this supposed relation.  "Oy!" he coughs.  "I ain' go' no jill.  Leas', none oi've kept around an' none named after a block a wood!"  He gives a final shove.  "Get _off_!"

As good a cue as any, Angus figures. He rises up begrudgingly, a snarl plastered over his features, and reaches for the uninvited cuddler--for his scruff, specifically. "Gettoffim'!" the lizard reiterates, intending to haul Slopnose straight off his toetips and into the air.

Amos crowds in closer, grinning as he watches Angus gets his paws on the other weasel, "Rip off his head I say!"

Slopnose staggers backwards from the shove, his inebriation not helping at all with his sense of balance, and was about to clatter to the ground in a splatter of fur and chainmail when he suddenly unceremoniously became airborne. After a moment of confusion, he slowly glances downward at what was holding him. There is a distinct tinkling sound as the weasel's bladder empties.

The commotion by the side of the road attracts only a few cursory glances from the passing soldiers, mingled with a few hearty chuckles as their sorry compatriot soils himself in midair.

Angus hollers unthinkably obscenities as he tries to fling the tinkling offender as far from their troupe as possible. Likely, not far--maybe to the ooze-drain at best. "OH MY LORD!" the lizard is shrieking, "GOOD GODS. It .. IT PI--auuug!!"

Amos laughs heartily, unable to contain himself, addressing Slopnose, "If he ain't considered killing ya yet, he is now mate!"

The pestilential spray that dampens his fur is enough to send Stubb into an uncharacteristic rage.  He pries a board free from the window of the shop and swings it wildly in Slopnose's direction.  The inertia carries him, stumblingly, down from the stoop, where he regains his balance for another go.  "Don' be pissin' on me ma'es, or tha lizard'll give you a taste a somethin' far stronger!"

Slopnose falls heavily on his shoulder right before the gutter and not his addled head, luckily for him. Unfortuntely for him, the force of the impact quickly lolls his head straight into the gutter and the viscous therein. Panicked shrieks of pain are muffled by muddy fluids. The weasel eventually manages to turn his body around and his face out of the muck. A flood of loud coughing and spluttering erupts that does not sound like it will cease for some minutes.

Angus isn't killing anything yet, caught amid a whirlwind freak-out of epic proportions. He his shaking his hands and stomping in a circle of rage and disgust, teeth locked and eyes screwed mercilessly shut. "Oh .. y'didn' have ta' .. y'why--holy hellsteeth .. y'can't just .. this's a civilized province, y'incontinent stretchrat twerp!" He is oblivious to Stubb's outrage, convulsing with disgust.

Amos continues to find humor in the situation, erupting into further bouts of laughter, "That'll tell him ol' Stubb!"

Stubb, heaving the board, gives Slopnose's other shoulder the what-for, but pity at the hapless drunkard's sludgy luncheon postpones any further reprisals.  Stubb tosses his weapon aside and returns, breathing heavily, to his station at the post.  "Oi fink oi'm goin' bloind, ma'es."  He buries his face in Angus' thick garments and shakes his head back and forth.  "Smells loike all 'e eats is cabbage an' spirits."

Slopnose's defeated body accepts Stubb's final reproach without much comment. The spluttering and coughing die down gradually, giving way to little whimpers of pain and a little sobbing.

It must be damned awful if Stubb is seeking refuge in lizard-garb. Angus simply continues to stammer on about the unbridled functions of yellow-livered live-birthers. The lizard claps his hand against Stubb's back for support, and brings the other arm up to his own snout, wiping away a bit of rage spittle. "Now I know why y'don' talk about yer family much," he moans, but eyes roll to the fallen heap of filth, glimmering with faint pity. "A sorry breed they are, mate."

The attention of spectators eventually dies down, and even the wildcat stops laughing as he looks upon the scene and takes a swig from his flask, "So we done here, or you two need a hug?"

Angus cries, "Fer the love of th'sun .. No more hugs! Just gimme' some o' that.." A lizard claw juts and clangs against the side of the flask.

Stubb finishes drying his face in Angus' clothes, though another dip in the Broadstream would not go astray.  "Eh?  Him?  We ain' rela'ed, ma'e.  An' oi've 'ad enuff a hugs for tha day."  His visage is an image of lingering disgust, but this melts away as he shifts back into gear.  "Now then..."

Angus adjusts his clothing a bit more, inspecting it for any unnoticed wet spots. Satisfied that his exposure was limited, except for the distinct moistened imprint of a weasel face in on one chunk of fabric, the lizard also regains his dignity--at least somewhat. A single shudder sweeps over him, and the dragon rolls a sideways stare at the unconsciously whinnying gutter-weasel. "Poor dolt," he finally admits, stepping over the tousled and twitching blob and back into the street. It's considerably more empty now; the sun is long since set.

Amos laughs and hands off the flask, "Aye."

Angus snatches it and deeply partakes.

Stubb hesitates a moment on the stoop before slipping in behind the others.  "Don' reckon we'll be foindin' tha fox lord here, then, anyway."

Angus says, "So .. what now?"

Amos eyes Angus, grinning, "Good stuff eh?" Removing another flask out, "Keep it, thought I might need extra for the insatiable hare, "Yeah, what now Stubby?"

Angus offers the wildcat a brief nod, disappearing the flask among his many mismatched garments.

The road is now lit by intermittent pools of torchlight.  Stubb remains quiet, but he continues along the shop-lined street, his eyes flickering, his claws scratching softly against the cobblestones.

Angus trudges along. The period presence of a torch throws a spindly, lurching shadow from his frame; head low and shoulders hunched. "So, mate--we jus' gonna wander th' roads like a bunch a' beggars 'til we find 'im?" He quickens his pace, an attempt to catch up with the weasel. "What're we goin' t'do when we find 'im? What's 'e got for us?"

Stubb rolls his shoulders.  Something inside his backpack clinks.  "'E'll turn up, aloive or dead.  Long as 'e's in dis town, we can be sure an eye's bein' kept on 'im, if not a knoife.  Funny to fink we was once afraid a tha one-eyed bugger."  He chuckles.  "No, we ain' lookin' for 'im no more.  No' tonoigh'."

Angus scrunches his lower lip in a small frown. "Then what exactly are we doin' ou' 'ere, mate? This place's sorta' a dump. Nonsense a'brewin', if ye' ask me; rat soldiers and relatives, yeah? I say we find us some cheap scrilla an' blow this town--les' hit the coast .. head south." He tilts his head, cocking an optimistic brow at the weasel. "I'm tired of these drab inland adventures .. I wanna' taste o' th' tropics." The contents of the wildcat's flask seem to have cheered the lizard up a bit, or, at the least, loosened his scaled lips.

Amos follows along, not carrying anything but the flask as his belongings are assumingly with the absent hare. His eyes looking to the buildings they pass, "Well, he ain't got no army and only one arm now, " Amos chimes in at Stubb, smirking as he follows the conversation, "He has a point ya know ol' weasel, ya got some kind of plan?"

The torches drop off further along the road, so Stubb pauses.  "Don' you fret.  Jes'...  Lizard, you fink you can grab me a torch?"  He points to one of the ones planted nearby.

"Torch?" Another bird-like tilt of his noggin, as Angus sizes up his quarry. "Fer what?" He does not wait for a response, however, and skulks to the base of a nearby post. It glowers, hung from a hook, just out of reach. The lizard is up on his hind claws, one arm encircling the post--then a leg, as he tries to shimmy up the thing. This is a cumbersome charge, given the amount of winter wear he's beneath. "I dunno if I kin' gettit'," he grunts, scrambling to keep his grip on the pole.

Amos puts his flask away, looking to the weasel as Angus fetches the torch but decides to say nothing. Moving over to watch Angus in his efforts, "Sure ya can mate, just reach further!"

Stubb pulls the pack from his back and sets it down at the base of the pole.  "Oi'd ask you ta do i', cat, but oi'd be afraid you'd ge' stuck at tha top!"  With that, the weasel climbs onto the monitor's back, using great pawfuls of motley garment to ease his ascent.

Angus grunts with minimal surprise as he is scaled by the weasel. The dragon peeks over his shoulder, with a lazy chortle. "Oi--kin ye' see yer house from up there, mate?" His quip causes him to stumble a bit, struggling to balance the awkwardly proportioned weight of the weasel.

An old beggar sits on a street corner, watching and listening to the group. He knows prcisley who it is, but decides to just watch before revealing himself. His thoughts are momentarily interuppted by a metallic clank. Someone had thrown a penny into his tin cup. "Bless ya sar," he slurred before training his eye back on the group.

Amos laughs and watches, "Oy Boss, ya on top of the lizard!" He shakes his head, "Wouldn't have said yes even if ya did ask." Too caught up with the latest spectacle to notice Hactor or make anything of him.

Having scaled the squamous mountain, Stubb takes hold of the pole-top torch and wrenches it free of its bracket.  "Dere we are!"  He leaps to the ground while holding the flame at arm's length from himself.  A question mark of glittering sparks rises behind him in the musty air, practically grazing Angus' clothes-thickened bulk.

Angus instinctively hops back from the spatter of sparks. "Yach .. whatchit, mate!" he croaks to stub, checking his clothing for any signs of combustion. "If ye' burn of all m'wrappins', I'll grind t' a horrible halt in this crumby weather." The lizard accents his sober reminder with a shudder. "Might be nice fer a shake, though--the inferno, that is. Mm .. warmth." His tongue flicks, and eyes drift shut. Then they snap open, wide, and roll to Stubb. "Oi .. I. I think I smell somethin' .. er."

'''Hactor''', still watching them, lights his pipe and waits. One thing he enjoyed (perhaps the only thing he enjoyed) about being a beggar was how under the radar he was.

Amos helps to inspect the lizard, bobbing and moving about the two, "Nah, ya look okay mate, " He turns to Stubb, "Why we need a torch?"

Stubb begins to inquire about the new smell on the air, when his gaze is stolen by the sudden flicker of another flame by the roadside, pursued by the muted glow of Hactor's pipe bowl.  The weasel swings the torch around, barely avoiding a heavy collision with a passing rat.  "What is i' you smelled, ma'e?" he says over his shoulder.

Angus fails to produce a vocal response at first. His gaze is likewise attached to the beggar; the smoldering bowl reflects in glassy eyes, and the lizard's mouth goes slack in semi-confident. "Somethin' canine--mebbe' with freshly healed wounds? Biggins, too."

Hactor now standing swaggers over to the group. Once with them he perpously stumbles into Stubb, and whispers, "Strike me and berate me for being late..Quickly!"

Stubb holds the torch out toward Amos.  "Hold dis, ma'e.  Oi fink our li'tle warlord needs a lesson in bein' on toime!"  His lips pull back in a convincing snarl; his eyes burn with unwonted ferocity, dancing red and white in the flame-light.

Angus takes a step closer to Stubb and Hactor, towering behind the weasel. He mimics the mustelid glare to the best of his cold-blooded ability.

Amos takes the torch as its offered, "Aye, give him a good smack I say!" He grins as he holds the touch and watches.

Hactor waits for it knowing it's better he look the beaten slave, than the knowing warlord here in Ruingate. Less suspicion be placed on him.

Stubb unleashes all the power that his springy limbs can muster in a backhanded slap across the beggar's exposed muzzle.  "Cur!" he spits.  "You come when you're told!"  He draws from his vest a short dagger.

Angus tries not to betray his surprise. The lizard stands firm, snarling and flexing beneath his wintry frock.

Angus shoots an unsure glance to Amos, then back at the weasel and the dethroned warlord.

Amos threatens Hactor with the torch, "Yeah ya ol' begger, ya do what ol' Stubby says!" He shrugs at Angus, smirking.

Hactor falls to his knees, and acts perfectly like a hapless slave. His voice going hysterical, he pleads, "Oh please sars! Ol' Hacter never ment ta get larst. Give em one mar chance!" He fell on his face in a complete display of anguish. Deep down however he could have llaughed at this.

Stubb spits disgustedly as he turns away from the supplicant Hactor.  "We'll 'ave ta fink of an adequate punishment for you.  Perhaps cleanin' tha stink outta Angus' clovthes?  An' tha's jes' for star'ers, a course."  He puts something into his mouth and chews it.  "Arrigh', ma'es, le's move on.  Don' wanna make a scene.  Amos, give tha cur tha torch.  It'll keep 'is paw from strayin'."

Angus bobs his head in relief as Stubb suggests they move, his viciousness gradually losing its steam. He cranes over the weasel's shoulder for one more bewildered glimpse of the crumpled, limb-lacking fox, before rising to full height. "All right--now that that's outta' the way," he ahems, probing Hactor with a somewhat timid foot. "Where to, Oh Monstrous One?" A shrewd smirk is directed at Stubb.

Amos gives a sloppy salute to Stubb, grinning, "Aye!" Turning to Hactor he glares at the Fox, "Cur, ya be careful not to drop the touch or I'll be beating ya with it, " He snarls and hisses at the fox even as he hands Hactor the torch.

Hactor takes the torch saying, "Oh yes sar. Ya can trast on me sar." As he followed he couldn't help but grinn.

Stubb retrieves his pack from where he set it down earlier.  "March, ya filthy dog.  Dere's free of us an half a you, so you'll do as oi say!"  The weasel starts forward, becoming a silhouette as he plunges further into the darkness of the road.

Angus trots after Stubb, his tail leaving a winding wake in the cold dust of the cobblestone road.

Amos decides to stay close to Hactor, continuing his roll of keeping watch on the fox, "Ya heard him, march ya lousy cur!"

Hactor followed closley illuminating there way through the grimy streets. It would appear sence it's invasion Ruingate had lost a bit of it's former grandure.

Amos is in the rear of the group, watches Hactor as they move down the road.


[[Category:Riverdale]]
[[Category:November_2010]]
[[Category:Vermin_RP]]