FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Nature was not on his side today; as the cobblestones became more sparse (though still configuring themselves to stub him at the most frequent opportunities) and the mud became thicker and deeper in the various cart tracks overlapping into snakelike channels of murky mud-water. He was forced eventually to hop his way from one semi-submerged hillock of infrequent road use to another. From time to time slices of flickering gold cast his shadow to the far walls of opposite houses as inquisitive children and nosey adults (the distinction falls somewhere around twelve years of age) peeked through curtains to observe his progress and increasingly inventive swearing. The limits of the more built up area of Moorgate ended rather abruptly as he passed, and in fact it was only for the grace of the relatively unspoiled grassland he could now opt to walk on that he noticed the burned out husk of a house marking an end to the outskirts. The weather was improving at least, if only by the gradient of the cloud cover, and a distant toll rang out the faded notes of two o'clock across the town prompting him to whip his watch out from his inside pocket and wind it accordingly as he walked. Trees began to loom with more frequency in front of him, and he was unsurprised to find himself in completely unfamiliar territory both directionally and landscape-wise once he looked up from his now semi-accurate timepiece.

Not that his homelands had nothing in the way of forests or vegetation; the island was definitely more tropical to this one's temperate though, and was covered on the western side by an incredibly large, heavily windswept beach that spread inland to the mountain dominating the eponymous isle. His kinfolk colloquially referred to this region as the 'desert', though life could and did flourish there. He had been raised in a coastal village on this sandy side of the island, mostly dominated by the fishing trade and incredibly high winds, and as such was unused to any form of vegetation save for the palm trees and wiry scrub that dominated the landscape. This was more accurately referred to as 'brownery' by a few of his friends. The majority of the jungle-dominated eastern side was blocked from view by the mountainous middle, though when trade season had finished his parents often took the family to one of the larger towns bordering the expanse of forestry. At any rate, he had little idea of the joys that torrential rain and mud had to offer until his extradition landed him unceremoniously in these greener pastures.

He found that, despite his reservations toward the cramped atmosphere and echoes from his childhood about straying out alone into the tree line, the forest was quite pleasant; the rich funk of mulched flooring rose into him with every step, and luckily the dense cover had allowed for some dryness on the sides of the road. Here and there small animals bounced and chittered their way into their homes at the site of this new visitor, some watching intently and others preferring to hole up and nibble contentedly. He was enjoying the atmosphere of this place so much in fact that he happened upon the main gateway to an estate before noticing the fencing he must have been strolling parallel to for some time.

Nothing sprang to his vision that signalled this was anybody's home in particular, save for a painted sign explaining the land as 'Pinemoore Estate' with a smaller, evidently hand-written sign reading 'signal flare in operation; pull cord for assistance' an ornate arrow pointed toward a very thin brickwork chimney with an iron grate atop it. Dutifully, and chivvied by the spacious ceramic awning around the device, Dragunov stepped into the welcome cover and pulled the length of rope. Metallic clunks and shifts could be heard within the belly of the machine, before what sounded like an air bubble glooping to a thick surface and a distant whoosh of wind; something had happened, and he had an educated guess as to what. Poking his head from the awning his theory was confirmed; a large fire had been lit atop the chimney and was now stable within the grating despite the wind and rain. He returned to cover and observed his surroundings, finding a collapsible chair and seating himself down gratefully to rest. After five minutes and a pipeful however he was beginning to wonder whether anyone was in at this time, though he couldn't fathom why nobody would be present. His fears were cut short by approaching hooves, and he grunted to a stand to hail the nearing carriage.

The driver eased the two jet-black steeds to a halt some feet away from the gate and loped toward it, patting the horses as he passed. Even at this distance Dragunov recognised the mass in the driver's hand as an incredibly large, incredibly heavy key; he stepped from his shelter to meet the man and offered his assistance through the bars, which was left unanswered. Once the padlock was unlocked and hoisted with some difficulty onto the gate itself, the driver turned to Dragunov and smiled curtly. "Depends if'n I let you in, eh?" he said and smiled. Dragunov thought better than to question his decision in unlocking the gate if this was the case. He looked like a possum, but with his wet fur and multitude of overhanging cloaks, hoods and coats it was an impossible estimate; Dragunov smiled as best he could and shrugged in a sort of defeated agreement. "Fair enough; is this the Castoone residence, may I ask?" he half shouted over a sudden burst of wind that shredded through the trees. "Yeah you may, and yeah this is the one" He shouted back, "What's yer business with Mr Castoone?" He stepped through the gate and tilted his head to the signal building, Dragunov following him toward the shelter once more. "I'm here to ask if he'd be so kind as to give that interview; I'm from the local paper up in Broadquay," He said as they huddled against the brickwork. He began searching his pockets, the driver staring over Dragunov into the distance squint-eyed as he did so.

"Here we go," He pulled his tattered wallet from his pockets, loose bits of paper and crumpled hay falling from the lining as his hand was wrenched from it. He opened the wallet and took out his press identification, handing it to the outstretched palm. Dragunov bent down to pick up his litter, eyeing the driver's expression as he did so; his face was impartial but seemed to accept the documents with little convincing. He read to the bottom and flipped the document fruitlessly as Dragunov stood up and waited before holding it out. "Okay mate; I can't tell you about the interview but in't no harm askin' him yerself, far as I can see. Any weapons?" Dragunov saw the drivers eyes dart to the bulk in his coat momentarily; he dared not even consider what kind of calibre was trained on him right now. "Yes, I have a pistol here; did you want it now?" The driver shook his head; his hand, Dragunov noticed, slid away from one of the folds of his cloak and relaxed somewhat. "Nah you're alright mate, keep it in the carriage; I'll have to nab it once we're there though, you understand." He said, smiling briefly and tilting his head toward the carriage. "Shall we?"

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The ride was luxurious as any rat having just walked several miles in the mud could hope for, and for once in these contraptions Dragunov didn't feel any guilt for his position indoors; the driver had his own miniature cab that kept him shielded from the worst of the elements, something the man was evidently quite proud of. "Mr. Castoone opted for it fer me," he said as Dragunov got in, pointing to it gleefully, "Beautiful ain't it?" he beamed. And, admittedly, it most certainly was. The forest continued for most of the journey as far as Dragunov could see, though thankfully the sky had brightened more now and the rain was dispersing somewhat. The cacophony of rustling fir trees was nearly all that could be heard other than the steady clopping of the steeds in front, though thankfully looking to the clouds whizzing past it was obvious they were missing the worst of the elements.

The extension of the carriage meant that the only views available were from the sides and back; consequently the tree line had completely vanished in the few seconds that Dragunov looked down to admire the upholstery, replaced instead with long, level grass that spread some 10 acres in each direction by his estimate, shimmying like blood under glass as the wind kneaded it. Hedges and topiaries were present, though none of which seemed too gaudy and were mostly kept in respectable condition, and dotted here and there were ceramic statues of what Dragunov assumed was a classical nature for this continent. A few minutes more and they had arrived; Dragunov felt the carriage halt abruptly and heard the crunch of wet gravel underfoot as the driver unlocked and opened a second set of gates. He clambered back onto his perch and moved the carriage inside, parking it up and wandering round to open Dragunov's door with a half hearted salute and a smile to his occupant. "There you go sir, best of luck to you," He said, for which Dragunov thanked him and asked if he could do with any help with the animals. "That's alright sir, I'll get a shout in a few minutes to say if you're going to be long or not; I'll just lead 'em in there for now," He pointed to large covered stable. "Thanks though, 'preciate the offer," His smile did indeed seem genuine, and reciprocating this kindness he watched the horses being led to their feed. A voice calling 'Sir' began to touch at his ears, and turning around to catch a face-full of wind he spotted through slit eyes a youngish fox waving to him from the gate.

He followed this lad, who seemed to insist on keeping a 10ft sprinting distance at all times, out of the red brick courtyard and alongside towering vine covered walls to a sizeable arched alcove that hid a white pained front door of the house, left ajar and wedged open with a doormat. The lad sped into this alcove, disappeared from view and was holding the door open in a manner befitting royalty for the rat. This performance was marred by the severe panting and need to lean on the door for support as much as open it, but Dragunov chuckled and pressed a coin into the fox's palm, patting him on the arm. "Is your master about lad?" he asked, smiling inquisitively, "Yessir," replied the fox between breaths, "He'll be... down in a second s...sir," before giving up and raising an arm in the direction of a very warm, golden room adjacent to their conversation. "If you'd wait in there sir, pl...please make yourself comfortable and... one sec..." he took another deep breath, "dry your things by the fire, there's a clothes horse there for you."

With that, and a quick nod, he padded off at a slower speed once more to parts unknown; a shout of "Dad! Company!" could be heard behind an indeterminate number of walls. He took his coat off and... hang on a minute, that driver didn't take the pistol after all. Well even if he didn't, Dragunov reasoned, he'll hardly forget once he gets that message through. With a shrug he hung it next to the fireplace, still dripping, and reached into the left pocket to take the gunpowder packet out. Wouldn't want that getting too hot. He did the same with his braces, placing them on this 'clothes horse' contraption, and knelt down to warm the rest of himself by the flames. It was some minutes before he was disturbed again, and he had in that time sat cross-legged on the tiling of the fireplace and managed almost to look respectable once more. He was musing on how readily the staff had let him into such a grandiose estate; perhaps his fears about the assignment had been ungrounded. Judging by the courtyard alone this place was intended for families and servants to live comfortably with little contact between the two, and every one of the inhabitants decidedly more comfortable than he. What was this oppression that he felt from being let in so readily though? Upon turning around from adjusting the clothes horse as best he could work out he started back, pinprick eyed to the huge burnt-orange behemoth of a fox filling the doorway with broad, toothy smile. The fox twitched and burst into laughter at Dragunov's overt shock, lumbering toward him and clapping him on the shoulder; "Welcome, friend!" the gunshot phrasing of the giant unbalanced the rat; blind-sided and manhandled he was gently sat down at the Fox's request.

Dragunov sat and reciprocated by thrusting his hand into the fox's and shaking it vigorously, gripping the Fox's forearm with his other and affecting the air of a very excitable individual. "It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Castoone, It really is good of you to see me in person like this," Castoone waved a dismissive free hand and chuckled, "Not at all my good rat, you would scarcely believe how little this house has in the way of entertainment; I've been informed you are hoping to interview me for a paper of some kind?" His voice was quite mesmerising when he broke into full conversation, covering Dragunov in a balmy comfort. He released Dragunov's hand and sat down heavily on a nearby sofa, obviously accustomed to the fox's size. "Now," said he, "I am a bit...well, rather let me ask you a few questions first, if you would indulge me?" The last part did not seem as open to debate as it suggested. Castoone drew a breath in to begin but stopped short, looking down in thought for a moment and turning to the doorway with a hand cupped to his mouth. "Drake!" The wave of sound slapped the rat's chest; a small affirmative reply rang out in the depths of the hallways, and the scraping of wood on tiles and footsteps were heard. "Bring us some! - oh there you are lad, yes bring us some brandy would you? Or whatever's in the pantry, wine'll do if not," Drake smiled and left for his errand. As he padded out, Castoone smiling after him, Dragunov sat further back into the armchair and waited for the fox to address him again.

"Yes, questions;" Dragunov's hair pricked slightly once more, "You're from up the coast, is that right?" Dragunov nodded, "Yessir, Broadquay local paper," Castoone waved a hand to the rat: "But judging by your accent, not originally yes?" A quick sip of wine, "Murosia was my home until, I suppose about a year ago now; isle of Tor, if you know it?" Castoone's smile widened, not altogether convincingly. "Yes, I know Murosia well; I was quite a traveller in my youth, but I have others to travel for me now." He raised his arms to his property explanatively. "Little time to run errands personally; I am wondering though, why your paper didn't contact me about this prior to your arrival?" His eyes were set upon Dragunov in a very particular way. The man was at least to some degree an Empath; he would have to tread carefully. "They didn't? I'm sorry sir, I had no idea; admin told me I was to arrive down here and that you had been written to. They even booked a hotel for the occasion. I hope you don't take offence to this intrusion Mr. Castoone, I never really have trusted their communication system." The rat chuckled and managed a smile; the fox seemed to buy it for the moment and let out a polite chuckle. "Don't concern yourself lad; chances are I'll either receive it some time next week or one of my staff had misread it." He leaned back in his chair and looked to the door as Drake walked over to the ornate end table separating the furniture and placed a bottle of red wine and two tall glasses, pouring deftly as he spoke; "Sorry dad - er, Father," he looked to the rat and his father, who nodded appreciatively at the correction. "The cook apologises but he used the last few swigs for dessert last night, but they had this bottle," he showed his father, who had momentarily slipped into a bliss of recollection animated enough that Dragunov himself became agitated by his sweet tooth. "That's fine; do tell him to order in a few more though would you? Sherry can only take a man too far in this world, you know." The boy nodded as one who was fully and repeatedly aware of this idiom, and strolled out with another smile at Dragunov.

"Cheers," Castoone raised his glass, clinking them in the warm low level fuzz of the room, glass rippling it's clarity through the hallway beyond. "Well then, now that I know a bit about you, what would you like to ask me for this interview?" he leaned forward, seemingly impatient to unburden himself of a great epic in storytelling. Dragunov patted his pockets for the notepad he usually had with him and realised it was lodged somewhere in his coat, limp as a coil of ether. "Sorry, I would have had some notes prepared but I fear they're probably water damaged by now," He nodded to his coat, "but in essence this is a running feature we're doing for the culture section about prominent individuals in the region; and your name was one of the first suggested," Castoone's eyes lit up at this, "So I was instructed to ask you for the story of your success in the world, let people see the man behind the achievement, if you would so permit me anyway." This connected very happily as the verbal equivalent of a sucker-punch; the robust fox crossed his legs and began a well-trod ritual of the tale he itched to tell. He filled his and Dragunov's glass further and stood with arm perching on the mantle-piece, seemingly at perfect height for such a position. "Well my lad, that will be just fine with me; if you would excuse me for a moment though," He paused and nodded pleasantly, pacing out of the room, shoulders barely managing their way through the door once more. It was long a custom of Dragunov's to treat even the most private and secluded of situations with the knowledge that somewhere, somehow and in some capacity somebody could be observing him; as such, a situation like this plainly convinced him of this fact and he acted as he knew he must. Leaning back in his chair and sipping his wine whilst idly admiring the décor strewn meticulously across the walls and dark oak shelves. He couldn't immediately spot anything out of the ordinary however; no eyeholes in the paintings, no floor grates to peek through, the heavy curtains drawn and shutters bolted. After some time Castoone entered again, explaining that he had informed the driver of Dragunov's more extended stay. This gave him a window to instil some plausibility in his position.

"Thank you sir; this reminds me though, I don't wish to alarm you but I still have a pistol in my coat pocket," No shock from Castoone, but his face altered in what seemed an at least interested fashion. "The driver did ask for it at the top gate but when we arrived at the courtyard I assume he must have forgotten; anyway I hope you don't think ill of me for it, I carry it everywhere," Castoone nodded earnestly, sipping his wine and looking to Dragunov's coat. "That's fine lad, thank you for being so forthright; would you mind though, if I took a look at it? The pistol I mean?" Ah. A chill ran down Dragunov's spine; this was not a happy position to be in as suddenly as this, bloody idiot that he was. But he reasoned this was the risk of his play and, he hoped, it could just be simple curiosity. He stood and padded to the fireplace, drawing the weapon awkwardly from the tattered holster and holding it handle first toward Castoone. "I would advise caution sir, it isn't cocked but it is loaded." Castoone nodded, staring at the pistol and taking it from Dragunov's grasp with an air of extreme interest. He studied the gun, giving an amused chuckle upon realising what was stuffed in the barrel."Very good idea lad, very cautious," The manner in which he spoke the last word was... odd, to say the least. This man didn't give Dragunov much chance to figure him out.

Castoone weighed and balanced the gun in his palm, looking over the construction in minute detail; the man was an enthusiast at the very least, stretching as far as a remark on the camber of the barrel in one half-murmured aside. "Quite a heavy thing isn't it? And the calibre too; I sense, Mr... I haven't found your name out lad have I? Sorry, pleased to meet you," He held his hand out once more "Montfriede Castoone; and you are?" "Dragunov Brevich, sir" they shook hands and exchanged smiles. "Anyway yes, Mr. Brevich, It seems to me that a Murosian Rat such as yourself carrying a gun that could fell a horse before the rider even saw him - and dislocate his own arm for that matter," They both chuckled in earnest, "is a Rat that does not have any intention of merely wounding, should it come down to it." Dragunov laughed, a ghost of nerves shimmying into his strings as his eye line faltered. "Well, if you don't mind me saying sir, there are many men in this world larger than me; moreover I couldn't take a swing at somebody if my life depended on it." More laughter. "So I even up the odds; not that I've ever had to," Which was true, in a sense.

"A smart man is, in my experience, a cautious one;" another proverb of a no doubt familiar resonance to this estate. Same strange way of pronouncing that word though. He switched his hand to the barrel of the pistol and handed it back to Dragunov. "Very kind of you to show me Mr. Brevich; firearms are such wonderful commodities aren't they?" Dragunov walked to his coat once more and stowed the weapon, nodding and expressing his agreement. A faint but distinct cry of 'Da... Father!' was heard down the hallway, met with an irritated grunt from Castoone. "What is it lad, I'm entertaining here!" "It's back!" Castoone was a mask of excitement, but kept his cool in the fine way a noble can scrape together with enough years; his tumult flashed obvious for a brief few seconds as droplets of claret slopped on the table, plinking out over the top. He turned to Dragunov and offered his hand once more. "I really am very sorry Mr. Brevich, but I must attend to this matter; business you see, I'm afraid we'll have to reschedule to tomorrow if you're still available?" Dragunov nodded dazedly, appearing roughly a step behind the situation. "Good, good; Vern's the driver, he's waiting in the courtyard" He released Dragunov's hand from it's fervent shaking and strode quickly to the door. "Tell him my wish is for you to be driven to your lodgings; if he's reluctant, speak the word 'Marigold'. That'll let him know it was actually from me, ok? I really must go Mr. Brevich, but it was lovely meeting you. I will arrange for Mikah to send for you tomorrow morning, at around eleven if that suits you." Castoone hardly waited to see if it did; before Dragunov could extend a goodbye of his own the fox was already bounding down the hallway and into unknown adjacent rooms as fast as someone in perpetual fear of stubbing their toes would let him. With a shrug to no one in particular, Dragunov began to collect his things.

Several creatures, evidently the staff of various descriptions, were present in the courtyard as Dragunov rounded the corner, free-handed and feeling useless. The place seemed to be in a barely contained uproar; he noticed though the carefully averted gazes and harshly dampened footstamps on the mottled cobble that quickened almost immediately once out of his eyeshot. Mikah the driver however was waiting by his carriage completely oblivious, or at least uncaring, to the turmoil around him. He waved to Dragunov and signalled him over, explaining as he neared that Drake had already informed him of the situation. "I'll just roll this up and we'll set off mate; you hop in if you'd like," The possum (now that a few layers had been removed in the clearing weather his species was more noticeable) yanked a yellow-stained packet from his waistcoat and began fiddling with various cigarette rolling accoutrements. Drag remembered his own pipe and procured it, filling and igniting the shag just as Mikah had sparked his. The smoke collided like a storm front and they both shared a smile through the vapour before Drag climbed in the back and Mikah the front.

He puffed merrily on his pipe and sank into a reverie on the plush leather as the horses heaved into motion, passing the gateposts and out once again into the lovingly tended grounds of Castoone's estate. Several gardeners had evidently sensed good weather ahead in the breaking sun, and were scurrying this way and that with sacks and tools for every garden-related occasion. Now and again a spine would snap rigid and a head would spear itself in the direction of the estate, or alternately affix to the carriage passing quickly by and managing a polite nod once their fug of non-comprehension had passed. The grounds fairly crackled with the reverberations of this mysterious arrival, even from this distance, which in turn jolted Dragunov's senses with ever increasing annoyance. He'd get no straight answers from anybody, that much was obvious, and there was no opportunity he could see short of suicidal for finding out what they were so nonchalantly attempting to conceal. If it wasn't for this kind of intrigue keeping him in an occupation Dragunov may have become annoyed with this constant interaction with shady characters and convoluted consciousnesses by now.

Before long they were stopped once more outside the wooded exterior gate, which by now had seen the good grace of a bit of sunshine; this only served to highlight the scummy puddles and gravelled mud of the area, but it was a nice effort all the same. He leaned from the carriage window and watched Mikah draw the gates open; the possum was pleasant enough, but the penchant for concealing cloaks and his greased stride spoke of a man far more capable than you were led to believe. Dragunov certainly ascribed to this, watching the man with a fixed curl of indifference, just in case. He was certain now that he was being watched. I mean, if Castoone hadn't put something in place the fox was an idiot; with any luck his act had bought him a cautious rather than suspicious eye to the man, but any estate owner worth his gunpowder would rather let actions speak for themselves.

It was an uneventful ride back to the hotel, though it was admittedly a rare treat to see the locals enjoying the weather by persistently bottlenecking the coach as it rode past and averting their gaze as they spied the embellished 'C' on the door. As he stepped from the carriage Vern was already waiting for him, having been beaten to the punch of opening the door regally for the rat and looking slightly put out. The cobbles had dried, and a haze of twilit humidity rose like a wet dog between the salted blades of sea breeze harassing Vern's many folds of linen and eliciting several hastily muted clinking tones from deep within. "I'll be round here at eleven on the morrow Mr. Brevich; or thereabouts anyway, right?" Dragunov nodded and thanked him for the ride, offering out a few coins which were grudgingly taken at his insistence.

He ascended the stairs bolted to the exterior of the building and turned once more to wave his goodbyes, but lost heart as his hand rose; Mikah, still holding the coins in his outstretched paw, was looking at Dragunov with an expression he could not for the life of him fathom. Some gulf of comprehension set his expressions to stone as he stared unseeing toward the rat. He then blinked, scrunched his face as though he were atop a sewer grate and painted a smile and a wave to Dragunov as he departed. He watched the rear of the coach slip from view, hand still raised, but quickly stepped to his room once he heard the beasts about-turn and begin their journey homeward. "God knows," he muttered to himself as he turned the key, leaning into peek through the laughably ineffective blind before he fully unlocked the door. Seemed normal.

Dragunov took his coat off and hung it on a wall lamp that could be called 'decorative' at a stretch, crossing the room to the rickety cupboard that had collapsed against the far wall. Every item of clothing appeared to be wet in areas only noticeable when one was trying to get comfortable, as he found to his dismay whenever he sat on the bed. First his trousers had somehow accumulated a puddle worth of water on his rump and cuffs, with icy patches on his shirt and waistcoat only apparent after his attempt to settle was cut short by a scream most dogs would fail to catch. His braces were soaked, his underwear was even more depressing than usual, and his fur now stank of the combined wet fabrics piled haphazardly next to the fireplace. Even his tail, which had little in the way of adornment, was numb as a rock and twice as cumbersome to haul about behind him. By this point he was very eager to breathe some life back into his extremities, and before long flames wafted hazy squinting heat into the room, filling his senses, half closed eyes drifting to worlds unknown. Before he had arrived on the mainland, not once had he lit a fire; never in his life had he felt such a biting cold either, for that matter. His home swam into view between the flames, blinding-bright sands and squat domes of his settlement cowering under the marble-clad administrative quarters of his masters. Ex-masters now, of course. Most of his time was spent in carved rooms below the surface as he grew, where the sun was nothing but a pattern tracing its way across the floor from the vents above. His heart ached for the seclusion more so now than he thought possible; the warm sands and sweetly muffled murmurings of another world gave way to this hell of muddy fur and hammering storms in less time than it took for a tear to drip from his jaw. He lay down by the fire, fatigue and concentration sapping the desire even to dress as sunnier shores engulfed the rat. It was only after some time upon feeling the slightest of tingles on his upper thigh did he survey himself, to find a small but definite trail of smoke rising from a most horrific place.

A boiling shower, a bar of soap and a pair of scissors later he looked rather presentable (if slightly patchy) from the waist down once more, and he donned his favourite of trousers with a smile before settling in for the night. It was only at moments like this, when the elements were machine-gunning his windows and he had less to his name than an arthritic juggler, that he realised how little he had to do to pass the time in evenings such as this. The past few months had been packed with daytime antics the like of which he had hoped never to see in such a miserable mainland, yet every night he returned to what ever hole he had managed to shack up in and had still not found himself anything to do for the remainder of his day. Well, aside from drinking of course; the last time he had used alcohol to pass the time though he had found a fair few other things passing through him at a much faster place, none of which he considered worth another try. So, for the fifth time, Dragunov Brevich picked up his copy of 'To live and die with the best of intentions' By P. Ritchett, and hoped with all his might one of the ceiling beams would knock him unconscious before he got to that god-awful fifth chapter.

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