Old Friends Under Shrouds

The night fell like a heavy curtain over the Coins district in New Nottingham. The Coins - once the wealthiest place in the world - had fallen into disrepair as the war with Veilwinter had entered its tenth year. The statues of legendary badger kings and rabbit deities who were supposedly the protectors of New Nottingham were now falling into disrepair: their copper fading and chipped in a mockery of what was happening outside.

 Farah the renowned ferret thief flitted among the betting tables of The Last Drop, The Coin’s finest speakeasy. There were a lot of speakeasies now, ever since the Tyrians had made their move in the city. 

Now that alcohol, gambling, and vice were illegal, debauchery was pouring out of every stone, weeping out of the eyes of the mythical kings who stood watch outside.

Farah, however, was not there for drink or game. The ferret - still a thief down to the soles of her fashionable sandals - had been sent there by ‘the New Light,’ - Queen Rejita of Daedalia. As New Nottingham was being overcome by the high-and-mighty and the religious followers of the God of Justice, Daedalia was building a new empire.

Farah admired the old decor of the place. The ceiling was strewn with moth-eaten red and gold banners that were starting to mirror the Coins district itself. Badger soldiers at one table - long past caring for law and justice - used the hooks that were once their paws to put their weekly salary next to a roulette wheel... hoping for that one glimpse of glory that they didn’t see on the battlefield.

The wine - most certainly made by the Veilwinter Temple - was flowing heavily that night, and the lost souls in the Last Drop were drowning in it. Farah was looking for someone in particular this night, however. While the establishment was starting to garner a reputation for struggling creatures, it still commanded the attention of the few still-wealthy in New Nottingham: Those who were so rich that their wealth couldn’t be taken for “the cause.” 

This particular creature, who Farah thought could be in the backrooms of the establishment, was in league with Daedalia too. An informant and scion of an ancient family in New Nottingham.

Farah strolled past the huddled figures and decided not to take any of their last coins from their belts and to an idling squirrel next to a rather imposing portrait of the mouse saint, Sir Reginald, in action atop a pile of predators. The squirrel eyed Farah suspiciously as she approached.

“What do you want, predator?”

Farah - not used to being shy or modest - rubbed her paws together. “My noble squirrel,” she said with a forced nervous laugh. “I-I am the attendant of Mistress Marcella. I have her family pendant here as proof.”

The squirrel reached for the pendant, but Farah didn’t fully release it from her grasp. He turned it over in the light and saw the hare on it flash, proving that it was indeed the Urnfoot family pendant, which she had stolen from their manorhouse a week ago. He sighed and tapped the large painting that the two were standing next to. Slowly the large painting creaked and a large pair of yellow eyes greeted Farah as she stepped inside the hidden downward staircase.

The bulldog huffed as he closed the painting behind them and walked behind Farah, holding a torch. He had a limp - useful to note in case she had to make a quick escape later.

“More preds in the back than in the front,” the bulldog said with a slur. “You creatures multiply faster ‘n rabbits.”

Farah rolled her eyes as they marched down the stone staircase. You’re a dog... aren’t you technically a ‘pred’ too? 

Floating up from the basement were the sounds of murmuring: the frozen tones of a frightened elite class, wondering if their profits will continue to plummet.

The basement was lined with velvet and red tapestries and hushed orange candlelight. Farah had been there before: before she had even heard of Vulane, “the City of Dark Rain.” 

Gods, does EVERYTHING need a fancy nickname? She thought to herself.

Back then it was even more splendid, and the vintages of the wine bottles that adorned the splendidly decorated walls were even older. The ruling class was larger too, and the party louder and filled with more scantily clad creatures.

The bulldog closed a second painting leading into the room behind her, this one of Urstripe the Great - badger paladin and founder of the Church of Augustwrath - stomping on the skulls of more predators underpaw.

Farah scanned the room and noted that in one corner of the room was cast in a shadow so deep that her keen eyes couldn’t penetrate it. On the other side, at the bar, was her quarry. She crept up behind him, always with one eye on the magically darkened part of the bar.

“Kieran!” She said, startling the jackal. He was wearing scuffed armor and had obviously been enjoying himself.

“Kieran Lan at your s-” he said, stopping when he saw who it was. “Oh.”

Farah chuckled. “Yes, yes, it’s me, your favorite ‘pred’,” she said quickly, still looking at the dark area of the speakeasy. “Why don’t we get out of here?”

Kieran looked too, then smiled a tipsy smile. “Oh? Something scaring you about the permanent darkness in that corner of the bar?”

Farah sighed. “No, not at all,” she said. “I would simply like some privacy is all.”

“I’m sorry, Farah, but the drink is too good here and the company outside of this place is much worse than the ones within.”

Farah blinked and suddenly she could partly see the darkened area of the room. Something was sitting in a booth directly opposite them.

“I’ll buy you as much Veilwinter wine as you want if we get out of here.”

“You?” Kieran scoffed. “Buy another creature a drink? The day you do that is the day I... is the day I...” He looked at the goblet in his paw. “No, we talk here. I still remember that day in Cringebind.”

Farah had grabbed a stool and was watching as the magical darkness from the other side of the slowly seeped away. The thing at the booth was motionless and covered in a deep blue shroud. 

As she watched, Farah could see that it was translucent - she could faintly see the planks of wood and red leather of the booth-back. The figure under the bizarre shroud was decidedly vulpine-shaped with pointy ears and a pointy snoot, held together with a necklace around its ‘head’ that ended in a sapphire laid into a bronze, seven-pointed sun.  It was nursing a goblet of wine with a blue-gloved paw, its head turned fully toward Farah.

Farah put her paw on her hand-axe. “Let’s have a discussion here, then,” she snarled at Kieran.

Kieran chuckled. “Consider this payback for Cringebind.”

Farah ignored him and leaned in. “Do you see him?”

Kieran squinted in the direction of the figure then turned back to Farah. “Stop dilly-dallying. I’ve got some information for you, besides.”

Farah sighed. “Go ahead, go ahead.”

“There’s someone in New Nottingham that is stirring a rebellion among the Tyrians. There have even been some sightings of silver masks...”

Farah watched the shroud slowly move from its seat. Kieran continued.

“...We don’t know who it is but they’ve got a lot of resources. I mean a lot. Already there are two brigades of Tyrian troops that are plotting revolts against their leaders.”

The shroud was standing now. It was definitely vulpine-shaped and the average height of a vulpine male.

“Hurry up, dammit!” Farah said.

Kieran smirked. “I’d appreciate a little gratitude. We’re both on the same side here.”

“All right, jackal, thanks for being extremely slow!”

The shrouded figure was now within striking range. Farah reached for her axe but couldn’t. That’s when Kieran sighed and pulled the shroud up the head and over, revealing three goblins stacked on top of each other: a wiry female one on top with a makeshift fox snoot, a fat one in the middle, and a thin male in broken glasses on the bottom. They collapsed in a pile, giggling.

“Are the Gods playing a joke on me? Three goblins in a ghost sheet? I never thought I’d live to see that actually happen. I thought that was just something that happened in fables.” 

The female goblin - her disturbing voice as high as a flute - giggled. “Our master has been looking for yooooou!”

Kieran recoiled, his hand knocking over his drink on the counter. “Goblins! What in the Hells?!”

“Little spies. I told you we should have gone elsewhere.” Farah sighed. “Wait looking for me, or Kieren?” 

This time the stout one from the middle got to his little feet and pointed at Farah. “The little thief! The little thief!”

The female with the sickeningly high voice fluted again. “Master is looking for you! He sees yooooooou!”

The bartender grunted. “Hey, we don’t serve goblins!” 

Suddenly the goblins assembled themselves under the shroud again and headed back toward the now-dark corner of the most debauched speakeasy in New Nottingham. Farah and Kieren scrambled after, but when they entered the black fog, they had disappeared.

Farah craned her neck. “Soooo, want to finish that report?” 

Kieran rubbed the back of his neck, not sure what to make of what just happened. “The old archbishop of foxes is in New Nottingham... and he’s got something planned.”

Farah nodded. “Yes?”

“You like heists?” He asked.

Farah put a paw to her chest. “I am offended you felt the need to even ask that of me.” 

Now Kieran was suspicious. “Let’s get out of here. Bygones be bygones and all that.”

“Fine, fine.” Farah nodded. “But I’ve had enough of that crazy fox.” 

They knocked on the painting and the same surly bulldog led them up the same cold stone steps. “What do you mean you’ve ‘had enough’ of him? Do you... know him?”

Out on the black streets of New Nottingham, Farah instinctively reached for her axe but couldn’t find it.

“No way! Am I losing my touch, someone stole from me? Where’s my axe? Ugh, at least I still have my shortsword,” she said, pulling it out of its sheath and waving it into the darkness. 

Just then, a fluted voice called from some faraway place in the labyrinth of streets of New Nottingham, echoing down the stones like an insane shadow.

“He sees yooooooou!” 

“Damn goblins.” Farah growled, “Yeah I’ve had run ins with Mr. former Archbishop blahblah Veilwinter, before.” 

Kieran drew his saber too as the two predators headed back down the dark streets.

“You have a tough time making friends, don’t you?”

A cackle from somewhere.

“I resent that statement,” Farah grunted.

The two continued walking carefully, waving their swords at shadows. “We’re headed to his cache in the sewers. Rumored to have lots of weapons that we could steal for the Daedalian resistance.”

“If we can manage. Weapons tend to be heavy things.” 

The two stopped and looked at each other in the dark, and then they heard it again: farther away but somehow closer... the flute-voiced demon, taunting them.

“...He sees yooooooou!”