Panic On Haver Street

Haver Street, Naurlinz, South Wisana, Jaboa 9:23pm, Sowenmoon 24th, 456 NE

Pan, the marten, moved amongst a forest of moving legs in dim light. Boots all about many almost crushing him, some intentionally. Those ones often accompanied with the yell of “Varmint!”. He scurried in zigs and zags, frantically sniffing and looking about.

There were too many smells amongst the rowdy crowds. When he did find his charge’s scent, he would pick it up and follow it. Repeatedly he would end in the same spot. She was gone. It was like they had been carried away by an eagle. “Always got to watch out for eagles”, he thought.

In desperation he back tracked to Madame Fem’s. He would wait there, hoping that maybe she would come back there in her search for him. He needed to get there quickly lest she had already come and gone.

He slunk down the arched pass way and into the quiet courtyard. A Gensii servant dressed in white livery leaned against the wall next to the sigil encased and charm curtained stairway. He was smoking a cheroot. Against the wall next to him was his unlit lantern hanging on its crook pole. Next to him was a tan Borbelle, the regional breed of mastiff used as a family/livestock guardian and slave retriever. It outweighing the servant by another 50 pounds. Its cropped ears giving it a devilish look. This was juxtaposed with the pleated red ruff it wore. Unphased by the hidden cats the monstrous dog was half dozing.

The clowder of cats was on alert. Most had taken the high position on the mezzanine. Others lurked in the shadows of the container garden. Their tails tik-toked in near unison, showing their collective unease with the canine visitor.

Suddenly, a tuxedo tom, large and muscled, appeared in front of him. It moved forward in a crouched position with ears back and sharp teeth showing. Pan knew what this cat was about.

He turned and fled in an undulating zig zag and up along the wall. “RRRRRRrrrrrrrreoww…” Tuxedo Tom pounced past him, turned in mid-air and landed blocking the marten’s egress into the alleyway. The mustelid scurried further up the peeling stuccoed wall and a quarter way onto the arched ceiling. There he leapt high above Tuxedo Tom again towards the alleyway. The cat, bigger, stronger and quicker, shot up like a champagne cork, not just grabbing Pan but smashing into him and carrying him back into the passage. His teeth sank into pan’s neck. Front claws grappled his shoulders and the rear ones positioned to rake his belly.

Like cats, perhaps even more so, mustelids are supple and agile. They also have sharp teeth, claws and more so than cats, a strong musk. Spraying oily musk, Pan managed to bite onto and hold the tom’s cheek. He began clawing at the cat’s eyes as he tried to flip his torso around out of harm’s way.

Before he achieved the latter, the cat’s rear claws hooked, yanked and pierced through skin into muscle.

He bit and scratched harder.

With another powerful rake Tuxedo leapt off to preserve his face, clear his senses of the overwhelming musk. The tomcat repositioned to a puffed-up sideways stance. Other cats, growling and set to leap in, were beginning to gather.

Again, Pan sped to the alleyway, dodging around Tuxedo Tom. About twelve members of the clowder rushed at him with hisses, reows and ensnaring claws. The musk seemed to forestall the bites. Yet, he was overwhelmed. Wound after wound was inflicted. Grapples were wrested against. There were too many.

They had his neck, back, legs and more.

He felt his strength fading away as he struggled and began to lose blood.

“Woof!” the Boerbelle suddenly leapt into the fray sending the cats flying like billiard balls. Pan heaved himself up and clumsily tried to flee again.

The Gensii servant was standing with a look of ‘oh shit’. He then gave a sharp whistle. “Come Tucker. Come boy.” With a “Woof!” Tucker snapped up the bedraggled marten in his mouth.

Pan struggled but this adversary’s strength was beyond him. Teeth and claw seemed ineffectual against the floppy skin bred to not know pain. The pathetic assault by the weakened marten went unnoticed. Pan’s next strategy was to play dead. That was when he noticed that, albeit that he was firmly held, the powerful jaws and teeth were not crushing and rending him. They were merely holding him captive…and quite gently at that. The less he squirmed the less pressure there was.

He was soaked in dog slobber. The musk was causing the already drooly creature to salivate profusely.

It was time to conserve energy until a realistic opportunity of escape came.

It did not come.

The dog, with the servant, resumed their waiting. From his toothy prison Pan watched the cats return to the courtyard and their vigilant monitoring of the Borbelle.

Eventually the servant’s master came down the stairs accompanied by Ol’ Scratchy. The man was well dressed, wearing a bright red ascot, a sable top hat and a monocle. His diamond willow cane clicked on the steps. His well-trimmed grey beard relayed his age.

Ol’ Scratchy stopped about half way down and watched from a safe distance from the dog. Once seeing who Tucker had in his maw, the nasty grin spread across the monkey’s face. “Have a good evening sir.” Ol’ Scratchy said and headed back up the stairs.

“What do you have there boy?” the gentleman said in a kind voice. The Gensii servant replied with something in a Wisana Treole accent too thick to comprehend. The master responded in the dialect, not as thick but still beyond Pan’s skills to decipher.

The master squatted down on his haunches with one hand knobby hand gripping the brass dragon handle of the cane supporting him. He eyed the marten closely after removing his monocle.

Speaking softly to himself in Mercantile he queried, “Looks and smells like some sort of mink it seems.” Looking into Pan’s eyes he added “Well, little friend, we shall get you fixed up.”

He stroked the dogs head and praised him. Tucker did not open his toothy prison.

Following a few words in the unintelligible tongue between master and servant, the lantern was lit and they left. At the street a brougham carriage waited. The dog, with Pan in his control, and the master loaded into the conveyance. The servant got onto the front bench outside and took the reins.

Mr. Monocle’s residence, north of Naurlinz, South Wisana 7:34am, Sowenmoon 25th, 456 NE

Pan watched from his large cage where he had awoken. The cage was in Mr. Monocle’s well-established study. It had a upside down wood box with a hole cut to get in. Stuffed with straw, it was quite comfy. There were some tree branches to climb around on, a dish of water and another dish that the man with the monocle had filled with meat scraps. Later the master had a servant boy catching mice, whom he had instructed to bring to Pan. That was fun and tasty. But none of it filled the void he had without Emmy in his life. That and his true master, Emmy’s patron, did not sit well with a familiar who failed in its duties.

Despite imprisoning him, Mr. Monocle was very nice and spoke pleasantly with Pan. Tucker seemed to think Pan was some sort of pack member, a pup that needed affection, play, training and boundaries. The first days the mastiff would snuffle against and wiggle his tongue between the bars. On the third (?) day Mr. Monocle let Pan out for a while with Tucker as a chaperone.

This became a regular event. Pan began to trust Mr. Monocle, Tucker and the various servants.

Not only was the dog powerful, it was quick and attentive. It was also playful. After a few attempts to sneak off and quickly being playfully thwarted, Pan decided to join in the fun. Great fun was had, with Mr. Monocle as referee to tamp down the rambunctiousness. After five Pan had taken a liking to Mr. Monocle and his dog. Mr. Monocle praised him in his rapid learning of tricks and had the mustelid leaping, fetching, riding the dog and more. These games would go until the little marten fell deep asleep curled upon Mr. Monocle’s warm lap as the gentleman worked at his desk.