((Not on a regular basis, but I've been to some places around the US. I'd love to see more though. And that's awesome that you get to go to China! I'd love to see it someday.))
The deck of the Bloodrine was abuzz with activity from the newly freed woodlanders. While the mood was grim due to the unknown fate of Cale, Patchouli’s orders to start gathering supplies for the trek home were carried out. As Furlough, Patchouli, and Pascal headed into the Captain’s quarters, which acted as the temporary sick bay, a small band of the weaker slaves came together in unison. The group of former oarslaves felt guilty that they couldn’t have been more use in helping reclaim the ship from the corsairs.
“We’ve gotta find a way ta help Patchy ‘n Furl with their quest.”
“I ain’t goin’ on that suicide mission.”
“Didn’t say ya had ta, but we gots ta think a sumthin’.”
“Well, wot if we packed ‘em their vittles an’ supplies so they didn’t haveta?”
“I like yer thinkin’ mate, come on lads, lets get a packin’.”
In the sick bay Cale’s condition continued to worsen. Yarly and Driz dotted over the mouse as he muttered in his dreams. The two beasts dutifully stayed by Cale’s side, giving him water when the mouse croaked for it, and kept a cool clothe over his feverish head.
Twezel spent her time fixing up Furlough’s cut, cleaning it before resorting to using a needle and a bit of thread to close the wound with a few stiches. Furl clenched hard on some cloth as the squirrel worked as delicately as she could, with Pascal keeping a firm grip on the otter’s shoulders to limit the squirming. The pain was intense, but Twezel knew what she was doing. Patchouli sat himself down next to his old oar partner once Twezel finished tying the thread closed. The hare looked both tired and distraught from the events of the evening. Furlough couldn’t imagine the weight the hare had on his shoulders, both from the revolt and the upcoming quest.
Despite his own troubles, the colonel seemed well aware Furlough was distraught for killing Welts, and the experienced soldier did his best to encourage one who had his first taste of battle. Furl nodded at Patchouli and Pascal’s assertions that his actions were just. Furlough knew they were right; he did what any sensible creature would do given the situation. But then the hedgehog slipped in the suggestion of taking the lad home in front of Patchouli. Pascal figured Furlough would put up some resistance to his plan, but he hoped that perhaps a word from the colonel would change the otter’s mind.
“I wuz only thinkin’ it might be good fer the lad to foller me an’ the others back to yer mountain an’ take ‘im home,” explained the concerned hedgehog. “Surely ye can see how killin’s takin’ its toll on the lad.”
“No, I won’t go back!” blurted Furlough, before catching himself. Thankfully, Twezel had finished stitching his cheek and had a salve on, or he could’ve unintentionally hurt himself further. Seeing the confused expression on the Long Patrol hare’s face, Furl knew he couldn’t just drop the subject.
Remaining quiet, Twezel finished working her mortar and pestle and created a healing salve to apply on both Patchouli and Furlough’s ravaged backs. Since her time as a fellow slave, the squirrel had sworn to herself to heal the hare’s, and later Furl’s, backs when the opportunity arose. While she couldn’t get rid of the scarring, Twezel would make sure their wounds wouldn’t get infected. As the three debated, she went to work on Patchouli’s back, applying the stinging salve while binding his wounds in bandages.
“I lost control of m’self when fightin’ the weasel,” admitted Furlough with a sniff as he continued on. “He goaded me till I went berserk, my vision turnin’ red, and only thinkin’ about slayin’ him till I did. If I do go home, who’s t’ say I wouldn’t just snap an’ hurt somebeast on accident?”
Furlough kept the words Welts mocked him with to himself; well aware his two friends would assure him he wasn’t the same as the vile weasel. Instead he kept the words buried deep inside to mull over some more.
Furl swallowed hard before turning to Patchouli. “I’ve decided I’m gonna be a warrior instead, defendin’ beasts who can’t fight fer themselves.” The otter paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “If it ain’t too much to ask I’d like to learn under ye. The Long Patrol’s famed fer fearless warriors, an’ I’d be honored to work with ye. I’m a fast learner, an’ I promise I’ll follow orders.”
The otter wanted piece of mind after his harrowing battle, and he thought that perhaps with training and discipline, he’d never have to worry about his rage taking over him again. The otter could’ve passed for a young Long Patrol recruit begging for the chance to prove himself on his first patrol. Pascal crossed his arms and shook his head in dismay.
“I wuz worried bout this,” sighed Pascal. “Once ya walk this path lad yer never th’ same, err, no offense Patchouli. Many a good meanin’ warrior ends up buried in the ground. Lookit poor Cale, he fought an’ now he’s clingin’ to life. Yew wanna end up like ‘im?”
Furlough took a glance back at Cale as the mouse groaned in pain. But having almost died at the paws of Wharll’s cruel whip, the otter had an idea about the suffering a warrior went through.
“Better to die for standin’ up to cruelty than dyin’ an old beast doin’ nuth-OW!” cried Furlough as Twezel administered some healing salve on his still wounded back. “Ahoy there Twezel an’ watch wot yer doin’!”
Twezel chuckled as she applied a bandage to one of Furlough’s open wounds. “Settle down there, I thought warriors took their healing with a stiff upper lip?” chided the squirrel in a disarming tone. Furlough took the hint and quieted down, wanting to prove he could handle the pain.
As Furlough, Pascal, and Twezel heard Patchouli’s reply, there was a rapping at the door. Driz the shrew let the others be and opened the door. It was the grizzled hedgehog that took Kerg down to the galley.
“Th’ stoat’s ready fer interrogatin’ when yer ready,” reported the hedgehog with a salute.
--
Down below an old squirrel and shrew guarded the two corsair prisoners. Kerg trembled in his seat as he waited for Patchouli to come down and chat with him. While the stoat was thankful he survived the battle on the deck, he knew he was a dead beast should Captain Ironteeth ever set eyes on him again. Kerg gulped and felt the side of his neck, making sure it was still there, though that was difficult with the manacles clamped tight on his paws. Having found himself in the position of an oarslave, the stoat almost felt a twinge of regret for what he put the slaves through, and hoped they would be more merciful to him.
“Oh me grog, where’d ya put it?” croaked the voice of Peg Jed, held prisoner next to him on the bench. “Me head’s bangin’ like a drum.”
“Dumped it on the floor,” responded the shrew in an unfriendly voice. “Pascal ordered that yer not ta have a drop. Ya may be a corsair, but we’re gonna make ya sober yet.”
“Yer killin’ me!” whined Peg Jed, holding his head as he experienced the worst hangover of his life. Kerg’s old ways got the better of him and he kicked the recovering alcoholic.
“Good job there watchin’ th’ slaves grogsnout,” growled Kerg. “It’s yer fault we’re in this mess, so stop snivelin’.”
Peg Jed sneered at his fellow shipmate with a surprising amount of disgust. “I never wanted ta be a slaver in th’ first place,” admitted Peg Jed. “I jus’ wanted th’ adventure. ’Twas Cap’n Ironteeth who got me on th’ grog in th’ first place ta cooperate wit his plans.” Peg Jed looked downward as a genuine tear fell from his eye. “We deserve wot we get fer bein’ so cruel an-.”
Peg Jed stopped as he heard the unmistakable footsteps of a hare coming down to the galley. The interrogation was about to begin.
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