The Plucky Paws Guild Issue #4

Sylvan could not keep the triumphant grin from her face. She knew she had the bard's attention now!

“What is that?” Reginald squinted at the tiny object the small but lithe raccoon brandished over her head.  A smug look of satisfaction was unmistakable on her small face. She clearly thought this strange object represented something great.

Theo peered at the object for a moment. “Is that a pick of some sort? Is that supposed to be impressive?”

The priest, the only member of the group still seated, began to laugh, clapping his paws together with delight. Melodus sputtered.

“A pick?” Reginald asked, bewildered, looking between the triumphant thief and the tongue-tied bard. “Would someone explain to me what is going on?”

“That is not 'a pick!'” the minstrel, finding his voice, cried out indignantly. “That is THE pick! That is my pick! How by the ninth hidden song…” He trailed off and turned frantically pawing through the leather pouch on his belt, but soon stopped as it became obvious the pick was no longer in its hidden spot.

“Oh, it’s not a forgery; this is your pick,” Sylvan confirmed to the beleaguered minstrel. “The Pick of Pure Melody! Blessed by the Grand Bardess Harmony Featherwing when she gave it to you! And now it is my pleasure to grant it back to you again.” With a deft flick of her fingers, the pick sailed from her paws into the bard’s open pouch.

“So, you stole my pick while I plucked my lute by the hearth. I will allow that was well done, young thief, but that is not enough to qualify for my venture.”

The fur on Sylvna’s head bristled at the dismissal. Young? Young!!! “Oh,” she said, forcing the smile back onto her face. “I didn’t take it from you at the hearth just now. I stole it from you five days ago.”

“Impossible! Five days ago, I was in the sacred grove of the Deers of the Forest Folk. None but the acolytes of that order may enter that blessed realm! Why, I used that very pick that same evening to debut my new ballad! I do not see what you hope to gain by-”

“Yes,” the thief interrupted. “You did indeed use it that night. The Lay of Harold Dragonscale, I believe you called it.  Quite good…a bit long perhaps.”

“How did you…long? A bit long?” Melodus outraged. “I’ll have you know I received three ovations when I completed my ballad!”

“Actually it was more like two,” Sylvan corrected. “You forget I was there. But Featherwing did toast you afterward and even broke out a cask of cherry wine brewed by the legendary Keldrill the Vintner. After receiving much praise from your audience, you slept beneath the stars in that same grove, between the roots of the Great Tree.  While you slept, I crept up and stole the pick from your pouch.”

“But…” he began.

“Yes, the very same pouch you use for a pillow.  Stealing from the pouch under your head just made it that much more fun! Oh, and you snore quite loudly, by the way.”

“I do not!” Melodus cried indignantly.  “But there are enchantments on that pouch. None but my paws can open it!”

“True, good spells, too,” Sylvan conceded. As a matter of fact, the spell had been the hardest obstacle, not that infiltrating the sacred grove of the Deer Folk had been easy. “But as your mage friend can attest, all spells have their counter if you know where to find them.”

The young wizard, admiration for Sylvan clear in his gaze, nodded. “This is true, Melodus. Even the greatest enchantments can be countered with sufficient preparation and forethought.”

“And in case you still don’t believe, here!” Syvan tossed a slender, fluted glass to the bard, who deftly caught it, then stood in shock for the second time this evening.  “Please return that glass to the great Featherwing with my apologies. Think it not stolen, but borrowed for a bit. And please convey my compliments as well, the wine was exquisite.”

“You even shared her cherry wine?!?!” Melodus stared at the glass in disbelief.

“Such an elegant glass!!!” Theo said, eyeing the fragile but beautiful glass in the bard’s hand.

Reginald began to laugh, joining in with the priest. The large raccoon's mirth shook the table.  “Well, there is something I never thought to see! Why, I believe our talented thief has stolen your voice, Melodus!  That feat alone justifies her joining with us!”

Sylvan surprised herself by blushing at the warrior's praise.

“Yes, well,” Melodus began then paused, still bewildered by the turn of events.  “Yes, I think our noble warrior has the truth of it. And since I think ol’ Tatterfur is not likely to show…Yes, I suppose this last chair is for you, Sylvan Fastfingers. Well met. And I must say, some day you will have to tell me how you pulled off such a daring deed. I think I may have found the subject of my next ballad!”

The thief lithely slid into the chair at the table. Her heart, even her soul, warming at the praise. 

“Well, Melodus,” began the priest. “You seem to have your quorum. Perhaps it is time you let them all know why you have gathered them together.

“You know already, Brother Fulce?” asked Reginald, receiving a nod from the clergyman. “I must say I am quite in earnest to find out why you have called us here, Melodus.”

“As am I,” agreed the young wizard, calling the innkeeper for a glass of wine.

“And you, my talented new friend?” the minstrel asked Sylvan. “Did you steal the very plans from my head as well? Why, after your last theft, I doubt even my mind is secure!” He laughed, taking any accusation out of the statement.

“No,” the rogue admitted. “I did try to figure out what you planned…but I failed.”

“Well then! Let me keep you in suspense no longer! I mean for our merry band to enter the Bleakmarsh of Umbryl Fen!”

Reginald’s eyes went wide in surprise. Theo nodded, unphased as if this was one of the options he had considered. Brother Fulce just smiled enigmatically. Sylvan was the first to speak.

“But surely that is certain death? Why by the Great Woods would we want to do that!?!?”

“Because, my dear thief, we’re going to slay the foul warlock, Shadowfell the Necromantic Newt!”

Next Issue