Riven Isles

43 | Alively Celebrating A Lively Celebration

They had been right, of course, that the party was close to over. Really, the party is over. The only stragglers remaining are those too drunk to go elsewhere, those already asleep, and the quiet few lost in conversation in pairs or threes, including the doctor and Mrs. Marks sharing a drink on an isolated bench.

The strangest aspect of it all is the number of foxes mixed among the men. Foxes like Dorian; large as wolves and sitting around tables and on benches like humans would, holding mugs in their paws. Dorian holds familiar banjo instead, strumming his lullaby to the stars, away from everyone else with drooping ears.

I rub my rear, half-consciously. I can hardly help myself, after such a ride.

Dr. Oswald and Mrs. Lydia wave, offering smiles complete with worry lines in their brows.

I smile back, just to tell them that I am okay, and look around.

I quickly remember to jerk my hands away from my throbbing buttocks. "Have some dignity about you, my man," I chasten I under my breath, dusting my fingers against my blouse.

The celebration must have been good, judging by the sights of the aftermath. Bottles and mugs litter the stone floor and cover every bench and tabletop. A few drunks stagger on the dance floor as if music were still playing. The lights strung on the ceiling, a combination of lanterns housing fire and lanterns housing the blue wisps of the land, set a calm, yet vibrant mood. Empty kegs are haphazardly clustered in a puddle of mixed leftovers which drip from their nozzles behind a long bar. A large black fox's head pops up behind the bar.

Strange. I frown. It is even larger than the other foxes, though scrawny and scruffy with a roguish look about it. He has one white, scarred eye, and a glowing crescent-shaped pendant around his scruffy neck. How could it possibly be... I creep closer, but his eyes catch on me and he ducks down with haste.

Simon throws himself over the bar. "Officer Langley! Is that you? I would know that scar anywhere. How can you possibly be a fox? A complete fox! Complete!" He climbs over, chasing the poor man—or, fox—into a corner. "I want to learn everything. How is this possible?"

"Aye, ya rottah, leef meh ahloon," Langley growls, mismatched claws kneading the stones with a knife-like scraping.

"What's that on your paw, sir?" Simon asks, stooping to investigate, holding his glasses to his nose.

"Eet's woot ah'll yeuse to slash yer quifferin' throot, thas woot." The fox raises its claw, a contraption built of rusting steel, in place of flesh and bone, too large on his little frame. He slashes the metal hand through the air, grabbing it with his other paw before it can slide off. Something sparks in the back of my mind after the scrawny officer scampers off with a silver flask and disappears.

"He always had an incredibly hard grip," I remark, brows raising. "But I never thought... A false hand?"

"Fascinating!" Simon draws his notebook from the inside of his waistcoat and flourishes a quill. He opens a bottle of ink and sets it on the bar, then starts to scribble in his book. Elian sits next to him, sliding a mug towards his friend.

"Darling took his hand when he mutinied, along with his eye," Elian says, raising his mug suggestively. "That's what I heard."

Simon stares at him eagerly. "Tell me more things that you have heard."

Elian waggles his drink.

Simon sighs and lifts his own, "Very well."

They clink their mugs together and drink.

"All right, Sim, is your quill ready?" Elian teases.

I roll my eyes and limp for a keg. I push the bottom of my shirt into a mug on the counter and clean it out as best as I can before filling it, then survey the guests. Did I want to approach strangers from the Witch's crew? No. Foxes? Not particularly. Drunk and bizarre werefoxes? No. Simon and Elian? In a million years I could not fathom understanding what goes on between those two. But I will dance with some of these people. I can't dance with everyone, like the captain would, but I would like to try. I would like to have that confidence. In his honor. I am his son, in blood. A part of him may live on in me.