World Tree MUSH

  Summer has fallen lazily over this stretch of forest through the World Tree's varied boughs, and the forest shimmers like a jewel in the hot, still air. Thunderheads brew on the horizon, towering into the pale sky. A salty breeze sweeps over the forest's western flank. It might rain, soon, bringing fleeting relief from the heat and humidity.

  And... word has spread through the forest that there's a ship riding at anchor off the shore with its gleaming white sails, and all manner of crew setting up... something. It almost looks like some kind of weird bazaar or carnival. There are tents and canopied stalls and simply wares set out on blankets of rich, luxurious fabric. Only the crew are not humans, but animals of roughly human stature: Sea rats, for the most part, but there are occasional ferrets, weasels, and stoats. There are no foxes, though, except one: Striding up and down the lanes is an enormous and muscular white fox, so white that the sun seems to go right through his fur; even from a distance, his eyes are the colourless pink of an albino. He's dressed more richly than any of the other vermin, impressively clean and tidy in his appearance, and sporting a battered tricorne hat festooned with magnificent feathers. He's pointing and gesticulating as he walks, and beside him, an equally massive ferret who doesn't make a sound.

  Curiously, none of the stories spreading of this ship at anchor account for any aggression from the crew, despite their fearsome appearance. It's almost like they're setting up some kind of carnival. Amidst the goods for sale, a lanky weasel is setting up a target-shooting booth with stoneware grog mugs and sacks full of pebbles; articles for rewards are piled near his feet. Over near the shore, two sea rats argue crudely as they set up a ring toss game. It takes a charcoal grey ferret coming over and arguing with them even more loudly to get them to agree on where to set things up.

  That ghost-white fox strides through all the commotion, jovially ignoring it. He, clearly, must be the captain. He stops nearer to the forest than the shore, folding his arms and regarding the bustling sea vermin with what seems to be approval. His fluffed, impeccably-groomed tail switches back and forth in satisfaction. "Har. How d'ye gauge the crew, Vikar?" He must be talking to the silent black ferret beside him, and reads the weasel's shrug with evident scrutiny. "Thought so meself. Few days' time at anchor will give them some rest."

  So, instead of raiding and pillaging, these vermin seem to be setting up... some kind of... carnival... or... market...?

    It's far from Martin's first time dealing with vermin, in particular those of the swashbuckling, yo-ho-ho-and-a-bottle-of-rum variety. However, it's unusual for them to land on a beach like this unless their ships are in need of repairs, and the vessel in question seems to be kept in immaculate shape all things considered. Thus, in the middle of exploring this forest for the sake of the nostalgic feelings it brings him, the warrior can't help but go to investigate.

Leaving his armor behind in a secure location yet keeping his sword close at paw, Martin strides confidently toward Covro and Vikar from the cover of the trees, stopping a respectful (and relatively safe) distance before hailing them. "Ho there! What be ye salty scallywags takin' ashore for?" he greets them in an imitation of the typical corsair accent, arms folded across his chest. Should they look, he's dressed in nought but a simple green tunic tied at the waist with cord, his sword sheathed in its scabbard at his side.

  Vikar is turning in a single fluid motion, and somewhere between one blink and the next he's fanned a selection of throwing knives between each claw, cocking his wrist to throw--

  Covro pricks the ferret's wrist with an extended claw and shakes his head. Vikar sighs, shrugs, and rolls his beady eyes in obvious 'done with this' exasperation. He folds his arms and settles for giving Martin the foul-tempered fish-eye.

  The white fox clasps his paws behind his back, strolling lanky-legged in his well-dressed finery. His clothing is very much expensive, and he wears it well; it's all impeccably maintained. A flick of a claw straightens his tricorne hat, and he grins, baring needle-teeth as white as his fur. He's in his prime, and maybe some time soon heading past it: Despite his universal white colour, his whiskers are grizzled, and scars grizzle his immaculate fur.

  "Ahoy, there, mousebeast. Join us in the shade. That sun be hot today! Har." The sword is eyed by both vermin for a moment, but it's Covro who shows his teeth again. It might be a grin? "Stick to yer own tongue, lad. Less embarrassing for ye that way. Welcome to the carnival. Games, from the Land of Ice an' Snow. Trinkets from around the world, an' beyond." Covro drapes an arm around Martin's shoulders, and the other sweeps outward as though to underscore something dramatic and grand. "Souvenirs. Luxuries from beyond the Tree!" His arms drop, and he gestures toward the mute ferret. "An' what do curious beasts do when a market pitches tents next door, Vikar?"

  The ferret stares very flatly at the fox.

  "Har! That's right! They spend! Gold an' silver, copper an' gold... gold an' gold! Even a crew fine as this one can't be pillagin' all hours of the day an' night, har. So I shake things up for 'em. I'm the Pirate King, me good lad, and that means bringin' /in/ the silver!"

    Martin's paw immediately darts to the hilt of his sword, but he stops himself from drawing it once Covro calms down his ferrety friend. He doesn't take his paw /off/ his sword, mind you, but he doesn't draw it. "I see. In the interest of honesty, the last time I spoke to any seabeasts was when I was a fair few seasons younger. I don't even properly recall it, though clogs come to mind." he converses, keeping one eye trained on Vikar the whole time, even as Covro places an arm around his shoulders.

It takes everything he has not to draw his sword right there.

"A market, you say. I'm not the sort to keep much coin with me, as I often travel long distances and the extra weight... well, you get the idea." He shrugs Covro's arm off and takes a few steps away, keeping the fox and ferret in view as he examines his surroundings for signs of a trap. "If things are truly as they appear, however, a trinket may be nice. I have a friend who might appreciate an exotic gift."

  "Clogs?" The fox folds his arms, cocking his head and regarding Martin a little blankly. If there's a reference there, it sails right over his head. He shakes it, turning and watching the vermin on the shoreline scurry about with their preparations. "Oh, aye, that's all right, lad. There's always a mark out there. Or a customer, in this case. Har."

  He glances back at Martin, eye of palest pink cocked to study the mouse. If he's heard stories of the storied warrior, he plays his cards closer to his vest; his jovial mannerisms suggest he's certainly not intimidated. Or good at hiding it, if he is.

  "Ye've a good look, an' ye got cheek. I like the cut o' yore jib, lad, even if ye are a mouse. Ye mousebeasts have a disappointing lack o' appetite for adventure." Some of the vermin dialect slides, and the fox sounds, for a brief instant, much more intelligent than the seafaring thug his lifestyle would suggest. "Of course, speaking strictly candidly, it isn't my intention to bring a revolution down on my head, either. I know where to pick my battles, laddie mouse." Covro's grin is fleeting and shows a lot of needly teeth. "An' I know how to control my crew, an' see that they know how to pick /their/ battles, too."

  He pulls from a pocket of his elegantly embroidered coat a spyglass. Its brass frame is elegantly engraved and embossed, accented with rich wood. A practised flick of his wrist telescopes it to full extension, and he presents it to the mouse. "Look at the ship riding at anchor on the bay, laddie mouse. Look well. See what fine seaworthy condition she's in. It takes a great deal of work to /keep/ her so radiant... work, and a great deal of discipline. Put yore back at ease, lad. This crew won't be causing any trouble here."

  The fox winks.

  "'Course... that's if ye choose to believe me. I know what ye mousebeasts say about us so-called 'vermin.'" But he seems in good humour, despite his words, barking another of those coarse laughs. "Har!"

    Martin may certainly have /some/ stories about him by now... particularly from the northlands, which Covro may very well have visited. Of course, the mouse warrior doesn't know for certain that his new acquaintance is from his own world, but... well, there are certainly enough familiar markers at play here.

"Discipline is good. Rare, too, from pirates." he remarks, taking the spyglass and moving out of arm's reach before having a quick glance at the ship and its crew. He then hands it back, nodding satisfactorily. "I'd almost say they were trained by Salamandastron hares. If anyone could whip a bunch of flea-bitten searats into shape, it'd be them."

A moment later, he gives Covro a dark look, paw gripping his sword's hilt ever so slightly harder. "Not without reason, as I'm sure you're well aware." He holds that glare a little longer, before relaxing his stance and starting off toward the marketplace with a small smile. "But I'll give you a pinch of trust for now."

  The spyglass is brought back into paw again, and another practised flick closes it from full extension. He tucks it back into the pocket, folding his arms again. A cock of his head sets the feathers in his tricorne to bobbing. One of them gleams irridescent. "Har. Ran into some of them, once. Respectable fighters, every one. Gave as good as they got."

  "Discipline wins us more treasure, laddie mouse." Covro flicks a hand at the assembled vermin in grand gesture. "They do what I say, when I say it, exactly how I say it... an' in exchange, they have treasure in the hold and food in their bellies. An' that's all they want, at the end o' the day."

  "But don't go thinkin' the crew o' the Terrible Omen is gone soft, Warrior Martin." The fox winks. "Aye, I heard stories o' /you/. Even Vikar, here." The big sable-black ferret nods in what might be grim approval, but he still doesn't say anything. "Never thought I'd see ye come waltzing into my camp." He sticks out a paw, claws splayed to shake, cheerfully bold as one pleases. "Covro Saltclaw, at yore service. Though I can't promise we won't ever cross swords, either. Now you'd be a worthy adversary. Har!"

    So these pirates are from his world after all. Martin nods as he strides along, keeping Covro and Vikar where he can see them the whole time. "Aye, they're famous for their fighting prowess for a reason. Many a buccaneer have met their end trying to conquer that fortress. I spent some time there myself, trained personally under Boar the Fighter no less. That was just before I came to this... World Tree." he explains, while continuing to watch for anything amiss.

However, as Covro mentions his name, the mouse stops and turns fully toward the fox, eyeing his paw with some suspicion. "Tales from the north spread far, I see. No doubt embellished, though I couldn't tell you to what degree. Those days are all fuzzy in my head, mayhaps one too many nights with cold stone as my pillow. Chilled the memories right out of my brain." He chuckles and grips Covro's hand for a quick shake, lasting nary a moment before he lets go.

"Nonetheless, you catch me at a disadvantage. Many to one, and I'm walking right into the midst of your crew. Why, your mate there might have stuck me before I'd even had a chance to draw my blade, if you'd not stopped him." He grins, then, his chisel-like front teeth on display as the light gleams from his eyes. "Should you wish to put that to the test, however, we can drop the pretenses. I can't guarantee that more customers will come with blood on the sand, though."

  "Don't worry. I won't be tellin' no secrets, lad." The old white fox winks, still showing those needle-teeth. "An' Vikar be mute." Cogro gestures, and blandly, the ferret lifts his chin. A wicked scar runs the length of his throat, which probably explains his lack of conversation.

  The fox slinks after the mouse, keeping pace easily at a long-legged lope. "Oh, aye, we know the Long Patrol. An' they know us. We are..." Covro taps at his chin with an extended claw, a delicate crescent of translucent white. "Agreein' to respectfully disagree, if ye know wot I mean. Har. Good fighters. Watched a Long Patrol hare crack the jaw of a ferret twice his size, once."

  "'Course tales o' the north spread fast." Covro shrugs, elabourately, in a gesture of feigned innocence. "Plenty o' time for the tellin' o' tales when the snow comes down. There be nothin' /else/ to do when ye an' yore crew are landlocked until the ice melts."

  He strides alongside the warrior at an exaggeratedly casual saunter, the fluffy brush of his tail bobbing with each pace. He folds his arms behind his back as he strolls down toward the shore, headed for the fleet of dinghies pulled halfway onto the sand. "Irontail!" Covro snaps crisply.

  A tailless sea rat stands at attention, saluting sloppily from the middle of a crate of foodstuff being set up. "Cap'n!"

  "Get those rats' stall over there set up, and have 'em shake their paws. Report to Ripsnarl an' help get this set up before sundown."

  "Aye, aye, sir!" The tailless rat ducks down and vanishes, scampering on all fours toward a big, burly weasel directing a team of sea rats to heave a scattering of large, heavy crates from shore to carnival grounds.

  Covro looks away, then back to Martin, flicking a pale, unmarked ear. "Too much roughin' it's bad for ye, laddie mouse. Life's meant to be enjoyed." He shakes out his paw when he takes it back from Martin's brisk shake, flexing each claw one by one. Covro studies Martin, head cocking thoughtfully. "If he wanted you dead, my mate /would/ have stuck ye, laddie mouse. If anybeast on this ship be more dangerous than its captain, it's Vikar."

  Vikar only returns any stare directed his way, beady eyes so flat and cold they almost look like a lizards, or a shark's.

  "What for?" Covro turns his back on the mouse, shrugging expansively and then folding his hands behind his back. "I've not had lunch. My crew an' I are havin' fair weather an' prevailin' winds, all told. Why muck up the day by spittin' ye on my trident? Besides, ye might dig up some coin to spend after all, laddie." Again those needle-sharp teeth are flashed. "I don't bleed me potential customers. 'Tis bad for business."

  "Aye, ye'll be welcome at market. These salty rats ought to be ready... say, a bell after sunset, at the rate they're going. Vikar, go hustle those scurvy landlubbers along, will ye?"

  Vikar peels away from the others without a sound.

  It's not clear where he pops back up again, but suddenly, the rats seem to be moving with much more singularity of purpose and deliberation.

  Huh. Funny, that.

  Covro glances back to Martin. "But as I said before... I like the cut o' yore jib, mousebeast. Only an idiot capain doesn't recognise talent." He narrows his pink eyes, as though gauging to make sure Vikar's truly left, and that the fox and the mouse are really alone. His gaze swings back to Martin. His grin is the slash of a blade. Many fine and needle-shaped blades. "Better to have ye on me side than against it. Har. Not to say I won't take advantage if the situation ever changes, mind you." He tugs at his lapels, as though self-satisfied. "Pirate," he adds, by way of explanation. "But for the time being... aye, my crew can stay their paws." There's a gleam of jovial amusement in those pink eyes; a dangerous, focused amusement. "An' if that's a /problem/, they answer to their Captain."