Rise of the Raccoon Queen (Part 15)
Expense account submitted by ‘Special Investigator’ Jhonni Dinar, to the Radiant Assurance Partners of Dawnside District, Eastness. The following is an accounting of expenditures during my investigation of The Big Grey Fluffy Butt Matter.
Expense account item one: One star fifteen dusks – a few rounds of ale at Wesley’s Tap House, while I listened to a certain fur who Knew Things, and could ordinarily be expected to confide in me.
It’s hard for a giraffe to be unobtrusive; as tall as we are, we tend to – ha, ha – stand out in a crowd. Wesley knows me though, and the rat brews good ale, so he makes sure I sit way at the back in the shadows. Ever since a run-in with King Alastair’s goons before he fell, shadows and me have been really close friends.
The certain fur, a scruffy fox named Wulf (I guess his parents hated him), lowered his mug and licked his lips nervously. “Something’s moving, Jhonni,” he finally whispers. “Something bad.”
“Bad things always move in the shadows,” I said. Wulf didn’t tell me his name; I found out, and I won’t tell him how either. “Yours Truly, for instance.”
Wulf’s ears went back and he mumbled, “Not like this. I haven’t seen anything like this since . . . “
“’Since?’”
“Since before the Aerie fell,” he whispered.
That bad, eh? “These bad things got a name?”
I had to crouch in my seat and angle my ears to catch the single whispered word, “Cabal.” Didn’t mean a thing to me.
But I was looking forward to padding my expense account in an effort to find out.
Expense account item one: One star fifteen dusks – a few rounds of ale at Wesley’s Tap House, while I listened to a certain fur who Knew Things, and could ordinarily be expected to confide in me.
It’s hard for a giraffe to be unobtrusive; as tall as we are, we tend to – ha, ha – stand out in a crowd. Wesley knows me though, and the rat brews good ale, so he makes sure I sit way at the back in the shadows. Ever since a run-in with King Alastair’s goons before he fell, shadows and me have been really close friends.
The certain fur, a scruffy fox named Wulf (I guess his parents hated him), lowered his mug and licked his lips nervously. “Something’s moving, Jhonni,” he finally whispers. “Something bad.”
“Bad things always move in the shadows,” I said. Wulf didn’t tell me his name; I found out, and I won’t tell him how either. “Yours Truly, for instance.”
Wulf’s ears went back and he mumbled, “Not like this. I haven’t seen anything like this since . . . “
“’Since?’”
“Since before the Aerie fell,” he whispered.
That bad, eh? “These bad things got a name?”
I had to crouch in my seat and angle my ears to catch the single whispered word, “Cabal.” Didn’t mean a thing to me.
But I was looking forward to padding my expense account in an effort to find out.
Story by Walt46 and M. Mitchell Marmel. Art by Technicolor-Pie. All rights lefted.
4 years ago
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