I figured since I got this typed up I might as well get some thoughts. It is in very rough condition. So have at it X3
There was a field in the south of Yorkshire near the city of Sheffield. Normally the field was empty, covered only in grass and blood red poppies, and the remnants of centuries of old farm stones. On one particular day, in one particular year, toward the end of spring, when the field was a brilliant kaleidoscope of gold, green, and crimson, the tents and sounds of sideshow appeared.
Most sideshows and carnivals and other traveling fairs arrive in a caravan as an assembly of different vehicles filled with the trope, their stages, homes, and all their belongings. They would arrive, unload, assemble, perform, unassemble, pack, and off they would be to their next destination. In complete contrast to the tradition and history of traveling entertainment, this sideshow just appeared in a blink.
Roscoe blinked his one eye, wrinkles drew through the dirty brown fur on his forehead. He poked at the furry object at his feet, unable to recognize through sight or smell.
“Wass ‘at you pokin’?” A cat appeared, dressed in a mix of vibrant colors, appeared, looking over the mole’s shoulder.
“What looks like a stowaway.” The mole knelt and grabbed the form’s wrist. “At least he’s alive for the moment.”
“What makes you think he’s a he?” Puck asked, leering down to try and catch a glimpse.
Roscoe could feel feline whiskers brush the fur of each cheek as he shifted from shoulder to shoulder like a gnat. “Obviously, I have a better view, don’t I?”
“You can’t see shit and you know it,” Puck relented and stepped back, giving Roscoe some space.
The stench of straw and unwashed fur caused the mole’s whiskers to tremble. Whatever the figure was, he appeared largely canine. His muzzle was slim like a fox, but his fur blended perfectly with the straw and yellow underbrush. It did not take Roscoe much effort to pull the body up to a sitting position. Whoever he was, he looked rather young, but sickly and bone thin. Rags barely covered him and did very little for his dignity. With a grunt and a strong back, Roscoe hoisted the sleeping creature into a standing hug.
“Blind as you are, that’s hard to miss, so to speak,” Puck murmured as he moved to take a sandy furred shoulder from Roscoe.
“I didn’t need sight to know that, ass,” Roscoe huffed under the shifting of weight.
“Ha!” Puck exclaimed, sarcasm dripping into Roscoe’s ear. “Yes, I am an ass, so what does that make you?” He let the comment linger as they started to shuffle to their leader’s tent. “It makes you a chicken.” They stopped for a moment, the mole’s eye biting across the mostly nude canine at Puck. “A cock is a chicken, right? Cocks also fuck asses. A fair conclusion if I am an ass.”
The tent was closed, the way Maryana liked it. A three tiered candelabra flickered in the drafty space, making her home filled with shadows. Her oily black hair was pulled in to a single curly tail. A simple shawl covered her shoulders and the curve of her chest. She lay on a chaise with a wrap around half back, stroking the strings of a long guitar, slate gray eyes observing each minor vibration.
She lowered the instrument before the tent flap door fluttered. The canvas rustled and Roscoe entered carrying a naked skeleton with Puck’s help. Without a word, Maryana shifted herself, standing beside the chaise sofa to allow the delicate form a place to rest. The last of his rags fell away with the slightest touch. The otter, towering above Roscoe, about even with Puck, removed her shawl and covered the naked canine as best she could. “Another stray?” Her intonation made the question sound more like a statement.
“Hard to say where we picked the poor bugger up,” Roscoe answered, looking up at Maryana.
Puck brushed the canine’s forehead. “Was out of the whole thing. Tore ‘is clothes to shreds, it did.”
“No wallet, either,” the mole finished.
Maryana grunted and pulled Puck away. “We’ll have to do a role call soon, take stock of who is still here.” With a heavy paw on both their backs, the otter herded mole and feline out of her tent. “Leave him to me for now.”
The ten returned to silence. Maryana poked about in the dark corners, through piles of discarded clothing. Her ears kept a close monitor on the deep breathing of the unconscious canine, a jackal, she reasoned from the sandy colored fur and the pattern she’d glimpsed on his back. Frustration rose out to her claws, leaving occasional holes in the decades worth of wardrobe scattered throughout the tent. “Where’s the fucking thing,” she muttered, a lacy Victorian corset falling to pieces in her claws.
At last she pulled out a satiny black robe. As tall and broad as she was, all the clothes fit as they’d been tailored for her in some time or another. The robe covered as much as she could stand, wide enough in the chest to comfortably fit and a few inches down her thighs. Best to greet newcomers with some matter of modesty, even if she didn’t care, more often than not, they did.
She pulled a chest up beside her couch. It was empty, formerly holding the clothes she now left strewn across the room. Aside from his sunken features and dirty fur, he wasn’t unattractive, at least in her eyes. Puck had appeared more than a little interested. He was as weathered as any of the other strays and wayfarers they came across after a move. Still, she eyed the guitar, the strings sang happily, vibrating beyond any of their ears could detect. Her bones could hear it though, the welcoming melody soothing her tense muscles. “Welcome home,” they sang.
His breathing changed a little after noon. Maryana sensed the change coming. Moans followed, sounds of terror escaping from his dreams. The strings sang sadly, quivering a deep tremor. She brushed at his forehead and cradled his cheek. The muscles in his cheek felt taut. Leaning close to one ear she murmured whispers. Words did not matter, just the sounds and feelings they conveyed. His body calmed, the smell of his fear and adrenalin subsiding somewhat. She saw his muzzle part and his tongue across his flew (lips?). Her murmurs were replaced by a subconscious melody.
Melancholic, driven by the vibration in her bones, she wormed her humming into the jackal’s insides. The strings joined, echoing in a quiet major tonality. Their duet picked up a dissonance and the jackal responded, the muscles through his body flexing and unflexing. She slid a paw over his shoulder and down his arm, clutching the back his paw. The blood was rushing, practically screaming in her ears as her song trailed off. He could only be waking. His paw was warm. “Shh,” she whispered in his ear before pulling away.
As she stood, her ankles and knees cracked and muscles reawakened. Charging out, she was blinded by bright sun. She didn’t wait for her eyes to adjust as she sniffed at the air, all the while keeping her attention focused on the jackal behind her. Roscoe was near, she could pick out his scent stronger than any other. “Oi!” she shouted, paws forming a cone to carry her words farther. “Roscoe! Bring us some water!”
Any reply the out of sight mole may have made, Maryana was already back beside the shawl covered jackal. His breathing had turned raspy and irregular, a mixture of deep breaths and gasps. The thin muzzle was scrunched up, deep lines carved into the sunken features on his face. Beneath his eyelids she could see movement.