Snuggles
- Enekos
- Aug 15, 2023
- 9 min read
As Saxo branded the name into the stern of the tall, once-nameless ship, Flint took his first step on board. He felt the oak boards reverberate under his feet as the personal possessions and weapons of numerous souls came to call the Behemoth their home.
When Mr Leaf arrived, he approached Mearaithe and Flint. “So, you want that I make her disappear?”
After hi,s life in the royal shipyards had ended, Mr Leaf became bored – yearning for the excitement of open-seas. He paid for passage on a trader’s ship and visited Tempest Isle in the Blue Sea – home to a small town, palm-fringed beaches, and the dwarf species of Felinus Saberus – the sabre-tooth cat. It was a sweet and friendly kind of animal and each evening, Mr Leaf would leave a small saucer of milk outside his hut, and each morning it would be empty.
As the days became weeks and then a month, Leaf’s little visitor became braver and began to patrol the hut during the day. Sometimes, it would leave little gifts of dead birds, and Mr Leaf would reciprocate with pieces of grilled chicken. Mr Leaf still liked his rum and one evening, as a distant thunderstorm rumbled, he fell asleep on the porch, awaking a few hours later to the purr of Felinus Saberus asleep on his lap.
And so became a ritual. The dwarf sabre-tooth cat would patrol, killing any perceived threats such as sparrows and Mr Leaf would reward him with grilled chicken and a saucer of milk. Then, as night approached, the cat would snuggle onto Mr Leaf’s lap and fall asleep.
In the local markets, Mr Leaf found a circular disk, something close to silver but not as rare. He also bought a short piece of silk. Back in the hut, he etched the name “Snuggles” into the disk and tied it around the cat’s neck. The cat purred. A friendship had been born and when the time came for Mr Leaf to return to Veraku, it became impossible to say goodbye. So, despite a warning at the port about the illegal trade in sabre-tooth cats, Mr Leaf smuggled Snuggles aboard the trader ship for the voyage home.
Snuggles wasn’t keen on the pitch and yaw of ship as was mightily unwell when they reached the port of Veraku, where members of the city watch became suspicious of the strange smell permeating from Mr Leaf’s baggage.
Despite his protests, they opened it and were greeted by a very pissed-off Snuggles, who leapt at the guards and ran off into the city. Mr Leaf was, of course, arrested and accused of the illegal trade in cats. He spent the next month in a prison cell and his property was seized. Naturally, he asked the union of trades for help, but they turned their backs on the once-decorated naval engineer. “The union of trades,” he was told in a firm and perfunctory way, “did not appreciate the ties to a known cat-smuggler!” His membership was thus revoked.
His release from prison saw him living rough for a time, forced him into petty thievery. He still called out for Snuggles, but Veraku was a big place with thousands of people. Eventually his path crossed with Mearaithe, and after he recounted his story, Mearaithe simply added, “Bastards” and the two became friends.
And now Mr Leaf was stood on a ship again. It was an unexpected alliance. An uneasy alliance. But it was an alliance that came with a ship. And he knew ships. He knew ships more than he knew land. And he knew the sea. And he knew how to make ships disappear.
He called out for Saxo and asked him to bring various barrels of grey, white, and black paints in a dozen shades. He then sketched a simple plan with numbers denoting which colours to use. The sketch and the numbers were transferred to the ship and Saxo got to work.
Across the docks, high on the roof top of the Barley Wine Consortium sat a lonely figure… He’d observed the comings and goings for several hours. In fact, at the behest of his masters at the union of trades he had been watching for a long time. He had watched the meeting of three crime lords, from his perch in the rafters and had a brief interaction with an elf. And now, the criminal families were coming together on a ship that was slowly merging into the background. He considered leaving and then saw one of the metal-clad warriors. He paused and reached into a pink-lined pocket and pulled out a compact spyglass that extended to three times its length and brought the subject several times closer. Something about the gait fired up an old memory…
His mind drifted back to a time when Estevez Lacroix had tended his papermill, creating the parchments so necessary in the running of the union of trades that he was able to generate a small profit and enjoy a respectful lifestyle. He was able to travel, negotiating trade across the continent and sometimes beyond. And that’s when the union of trades asked him to provide them with some insight to the happenings around the known world. Estevez Lacroix had no intention to become a spy, but the ongoing favours including a royal warrant that enabled him to show the royal crest on the gate leading to Lacroix Paper, made it an enticing proposition.
Estevez Lacroix often found this new line of work took him beyond the world of paper manufacture and supply and more often into state-sponsored espionage and sometimes into situations where he needed cunning and sometimes metal slivers with sharpened ends to survive.
The first death by his hand came accidentally, but it was also necessary. The second death was intentional and necessary. The third was intentional and unnecessary. As much as Estevez Lacroix loved paper, he loved secrets more. And he loved breathing. And he began to love the shadows. And now he had been tasked to find why some elite members of the night watch had begun to neglect their duties.
In the depths of the Menavariyam, Tirke was searching.
He wore the armour of the elite corps of the night watch, but that was a ruse to enable him to move freely from the sewers and across more inaccessible parts of Veraku. Of course, with the arrival of Jean Flint, the sewers had become a distant memory and he now lived between his official residence (as a night watchman) and his real life serving the wishes of Mearaithe or Jean Flint in their impressive guild property in the upper city.
Tirke came from Zabuzistra, a small village province to the south of Veraku that suffered a dreadful famine. To his knowledge, no one else had survived and Tirke became the last of his clan. And now he was in the depths of the Menavariyam following a suspect connected to an artifact once owned by Jean Flint.
Estevez Lacroix was also searching. He’d followed the night watchman out of the city, across countless fields, through the Forest of Daphun and now to a cave in the Menavariyam. His masters in the union of trades would be impressed enough with the connections to the criminal underworld, but why would the night watchman be so far from home?
Tirke found a recently extinguished campfire at the cave entrance, and heard the faint echo of someone humming deep under the Menavariyam. A quick search uncovered parchments that confirmed a link between his quarry and to Ekrinaya and a watchmaker. He slipped these inside his armour and descended the first stone staircase.
Estevez Lacroix saw two sets of footprints next to the extinguished campfire – one an unknown person, the other wearing the unmistakeable boots of a night watchman. Both footprints headed towards a stone staircase that descended into the Menavariyam and he followed too.
The staircase was ancient, carved by unknown peoples and he counted some 300 steps, before reaching a network of tunnels dimly lit by oil-filled lanterns. This was clearly an oft-used trade route, and he surmised it emerged on the far side of the Menavariyam.
There is a prophecy in Zabuzistra about an ancient warlord who is part man, part divine being who shall be discovered under two leagues of rock in a temple carved from stone, where a waterfall thunders and a tropical forest grows far from the twinkle of lights in the sky. It is said that the being had untold powers and favoured pink and black. It is said that a polished metal statue marks the centre of the temple and that one day a man wearing armour will touch the statue and the divine being will show his true self.
Tirke’s path had taken him from narrow, dimly-lit tunnels into a wider space, with ornately carved stones, a polished onyx-like floor that pulsed with pink lines led his gaze to a torrent of water that emerged somewhere far above and thundered into a pool; white foam bubbled on its surface, Here the ground was softer and strange plants grew – some tropical and some not seen in this world before. Tirke’s hidden smile began to widen. He looked up for any sense of sky and saw nothing, save for a statue in polished metal, some ten-men high: its distinctive features reflecting the flickering torches.
He touched it instinctively.
Estevez Lacroix had moved beyond the dimly lit tunnel and into what he would describe as a cavern, with a distinctive black floor which pulsed with pink lights. He figured his mind was playing tricks. Between sections of carved walls were paintings of deeds by some unknown figure who seemed strangely familiar – albeit dressed in pink and black.
The cavern opened to reveal a waterfall and his mind raced with questions until he saw the metal figure of the night watchman and he was touching something bigger, much bigger. He eyes scanned the whole statue until he reached the face and he let out an “Oh my!”
A startled Tirke spun around, hand on sword and met the face of Estevez Lacroix. His mind struggled to catch-up, but seconds later it did and beneath the helmet his eyes widened. He relaxed his grip on the sword and sank to his knees and began chanting “Fed-a-loup! Fed-a-loup! Fed-a-loup!”
Estevez Lacroix’s mind was racing as the night watchman spun around, hand on sword, gasped, released sword, sank to his knees, and called out one word, which he repeated often: “Fed-a-loup! Fed-a-loup! Fed-a-loup!”
There’s one thing Estevez Lacroix knew. Even dead languages are printed onto parchments and people stored parchments in libraries and the temple had a library. But this library did not have parchments. It did have a strange window connected to a desk. He touched it and the window suddenly burst into a myriad of colours and behind him he heard the gasp of Tirke. An unknown language appeared on the window.
Estevez Lacroix sighed and Tirke offered: “It words of ancient Zabuzistran. It say, ‘please touch here’”.
So, Estevez Lacroix did just that, touching the window which began showing images of an ancient warlord. And, from somewhere in the shadows a voice spoke in the same language, which Tirke translated – much for his own sense of well-being. The story told the deeds of the warlord, his benevolence, and his violence, his cunning and the secrets he possessed.
Estevez Lacroix looked from the image on the window to the face on the statue and back to Tirke, who once more dropped to his knees, bowed deeply, and offered the word ‘Fedaloup’ as a prayer that no harm would come to him. No harm did.
Estevez Lacroix had one question: “Fedaloup?”
Tirke cocked his head a little, confused. “Yes master. It means Chief.”
Estevez Lacroix, aka Fedaloup, aka Chief understood that the world is made of people who would become fearful of such wonders of sorcery and take large hammers to remove it from existence. Estevez Lacroix was not such a person and in the days that followed, he would learn more about this Fedaloup and recognised that Tirke (and others like him) could provide meaningful gateways into difficult to reach circles. He stayed for days and Tirke was forever useful, returning one day with several other members of the night watch, several lengths of timber, assorted tools, greetings of Fedaloup and a work ethic that soon had lockable doors on the entrance to the temple. Tirke kneeled before Estevez Lacroix, offering an ornate key.
More comforts for Estevez Lacroix’s temple home would appear – gifts from his small, private army of followers. And one day (he assumed it was day, for it was hard to tell in the cave) he woke to find a pink and black costume, like that worn by the warlord in the ancient texts, waiting for him. Estevez Lacroix preferred black to blend into the shadows, but this was… Something different. It was the persona of the Fedaloup.
At the docks, the man who had been Estevez Lacroix looked down. His bag moved slightly. He opened it carefully and a furry face, with long sharp teeth emerged. A metal disk was attached to a leather collar around its neck. Upon the disk was etched a name. It read “Snuggles.”
Comments