You Can't Start a Quest Without A Tankard of Ale

 The Foxxfyrre Chronicles Episode Two

The Brass Cylinder

You Can't Start a Quest Without A Tankard of Ale

The damp chill of the alleyway was a stark contrast to the heat of the brawl they had just left behind. Foxxfyrre adjusted his cuffs, his glowing blue eyes fixed on the brass object in the wallaby's paw.

"Do you mind if I look at that cylinder, Rennie?"

Rennie handed it over with a grin, the intricate etchings catching the faint moonlight. "I knew you were eyeing it up when you saw that stoat put it back in his pocket. So, what is it then? A treasure map?"

"Not for treasure, but it is a map," Foxxfyrre murmured, his thumb tracing the cold metal. He looked back toward the heavy oak door they had just burst through. "I'll need to talk to that old badger."

He took a step toward the tavern. Rennie immediately grabbed him by the arm, halting his momentum. "You're not thinking of going back in there. The badger's probably scooted off after our little parlay."

"I don't think he's left," Foxxfyrre replied smoothly, unbothered by the grip. "The stoats, however, would have fled by now."

Rennie studied the fox for a second, then gave a sharp nod, releasing his arm. "Let's find out then. We can't start a quest without a tankard of ale."

Stepping back inside The Splintered Timber, the heavy scent of spilled ale, woodsmoke, and bruised egos hung thick in the air. The patrons cast cold, how-dare-you-return glares from their shadowy corners, but the tavern staff, busy righting overturned chairs, offered the duo surprisingly warm smiles.

Amidst the wreckage of the center table sat the old badger. He looked shaken, dusting sawdust from his waistcoat, but his weary face broke into a smile when he spotted them. He motioned them over with a heavy paw.

"I have to thank you boys for helping with those stoats," the badger said, raising a hand to flag down the barkeep. "Two pints of bitters for these boys, please."

"It was no problem at all," Rennie said, sliding effortlessly onto a bench. "Stoats are a sneaky bunch at the best of times, and those two looked like trouble. Name's Reynaldo, but just call me Rennie, and this is my new chap, Foxxfyrre."

"I'm Lee. So..." the badger started, wiping a nervous bead of sweat from his brow.

Foxxfyrre didn't let him finish. He sat upright, his posture immaculate amidst the tavern grime. "So, you are new to London, I gather. England, even."

"Yes," Lee replied, shifting slightly in his seat. "We came from Portugal to relocate. Get a new start."

Foxxfyrre noted the micro-hesitation in the badger's cadence. The geography didn't align. One didn't simply stop in London to travel from Portugal to the Weeping Hollows. There was a missing variable in the equation.

"You know that the expedition charter those stoats were trying to get you to sign wouldn't have given you safe passage to the Weeping Hollows," Foxxfyrre stated, his tone flat and factual. "It was a funnel into an ambush. But I think you knew that."

Lee looked down at the scarred wood of the table. "Yes, I figured they were up to something, but I just wasn't sure how to go around it. If I challenged the charter details, they would have lied anyway. If it wasn't for Rennie jumping at them like that, I probably would have signed it."

The barkeep arrived, setting two frothing tankards of amber bitters before them.

Rennie took a deep pull from his pint, wiping the foam from his lip. "Why the Weeping Hollows? That old island is nothing but bad news. Not to mention it's haunted."

Foxxfyrre let out a low, dry chuckle. "You've been listening to the rumour mill, Rennie. The Weeping Hollows is just a small island with a fishing village of about three hundred people. There is an old castle, partially in ruins, once occupied by the Lord of Huxelley. But that was two hundred years ago."

Rennie scoffed, his ears swiveling. "Oi, those weren't just rumours. The Lord of Huxelley is said to still walk those hollows looking for his lost daughter."

"Daughter?" Lee asked, leaning in, his dark eyes wide.

"Yes," Rennie said, leaning in to match him. "The tale is that his young daughter got lost in the dense forest of bogs and marsh that gives the island its name. She was never found. Some say she was kidnapped by Huxelley's adversaries. Others say she's still wandering the Hollows, and her father searches for her with a broken heart, never finding rest."

"That's a sad little yarn," Lee said softly. "But a haunting like that doesn't seem so menacing. Just tragic."

"That's only part of the story," Foxxfyrre interjected, taking a slow, measured sip of his bitters. "Huxelley became enraged by his inability to find her. As time went on, his grief metastasized into obsession. He believed it was a kidnapping gone wrong. Rennie mentioned his adversaries—he had many. Mostly higher-ups here in London, business associates who constantly undermined him. Being on the mainland, they had certain logistical advantages over Huxelley's island estate."

Foxxfyrre set his glass down, the condensation leaving a perfect ring on the wood. "Huxelley took his revenge one by one. Although no one can prove it, those bogs and marshes in the Weeping Hollows are supposedly filled with his worst rivals."

"That's horrible," Lee whispered. "Did they ever catch Huxelley?"

"No. There was never any proof, and without any bodies, there is no real crime."

"But he still walks those bogs," Rennie added, tapping the table for emphasis. "And he'll pull anyone into the muck who appears to be of status. He doesn't touch us lowlies, but if you're rich or of any breeding, you don't dare set foot in the Weeping Hollows."

Foxxfyrre looked at Rennie, a faint smile touching the corner of his mouth at the wallaby's dramatic flair. He then turned his analytical gaze back to the badger.

"There's another rumour," Foxxfyrre said casually. "A rumour about a special brass cylinder. It is supposedly etched with a map. Apparently, this cylinder was lost on the continent somewhere, but no one knew where. The object earned itself a nickname: Huxelley's Hoard. You wouldn't have heard of it, Lee?"

The badger blinked. "N-No, doesn't sound familiar. Why?"

"Just a thought." Foxxfyrre stood up, smoothing the front of his vest. "Well, thank you for the bitters, but I must be off."

"Wait for me," Rennie said, downing the rest of his ale in one gulp and hopping to his feet. "You have a good day, mate. Thanks for the tankard."

Lee offered a strained smile. "It's the least I could do."

Foxxfyrre and Rennie pushed through the heavy front doors of The Splintered Timber, stepping out into the foggy London street. As they made their way down the cobblestones, Rennie nudged the fox with his elbow.

"So, what was the third degree all about?"

"He knows more than he's letting on," Foxxfyrre replied, his voice barely above a whisper in the mist. "His caravan—even if he actually has a caravan—is not going to the Weeping Hollows to relocate. He's looking for something on that island."

"How do you know this?" Rennie asked, bouncing slightly to keep pace with Foxxfyrre's long strides.

"He lied about not knowing about the brass cylinder."

"And you know this how?"

Foxxfyrre didn't break his stride. "He stuttered. And badgers don't stutter when they're nervous."

Foxxfyrre allowed a brief, silent beat to pass in the fog.

"They chitter."

Thanks for reading:

Catch Episode One here: 

TTFN

Frank aka Foxxfyrre