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Fantasy Anthroterra (1:1, closed, scantilycladsnail & ThieviusRaccoonus)

Silvano groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, wincing slightly at the soreness in his legs and back. Minor scrapes and bruises stung, but nothing he couldn’t shake off. He dusted the dust and wood shavings from his clothes, his sharp gaze flicking toward the rooftop, where Zifraa had disappeared—her retreat silent, quick, and purposeful. A soft sigh escaped him, though he masked it quickly with a smirk. “Of course,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “Trust her to make a clean exit without looking back.”

The sound of approaching footsteps caught his attention. A few passersby had heard the commotion—murmurs of concern floated in the air. “Hey, you alright there?” a voice called from the crowd, eyes narrowing as they took in his disheveled appearance.

Silvano straightened, brushing himself off with a casual shrug. “I’m fine,” he replied smoothly, a small grin playing on his lips. “Nothing to see here. Just… slipped.” He cast a dismissive glance at the growing circle of onlookers, his tone light and dismissive.

Another voice piped up from the crowd, more insistent. “You sure? That was a pretty loud fall.”

Silvano gave a slow shake of his head, feigning nonchalance. “Really, I’m fine. Just need to get moving. Business to attend to.” His gaze flicked toward a narrow street nearby, a quicker escape route. Without waiting for another question, he turned smoothly, slipping into the shadows of the alley.
The murmurs of concern faded behind him as he disappeared down the street, blending into the night once more.
 
The first droplets of rain began to fall, light at first, barely noticeable against the bustle of the merchant quarter. But within moments, the drizzle turned into a steady downpour, soaking the sandstone streets of Unity. Water streamed down the sides of buildings and pooled in the cracks of the uneven cobblestones, forming tiny rivers that snaked toward the nearby canals. Rain was rare here—Unity wasn’t the kind of city that saw storms like this, and it didn’t take long for people to start muttering about bad omens.

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The marketplace didn’t stop for the rain, though it buzzed with a new kind of energy. Ratkin vendors scurried to save their wares, barking orders to their assistants. A stall filled with shiny brass gadgets and clockwork toys was quickly covered with a tarp, the gears clicking faintly beneath it. Nearby, another Ratkin merchant cursed as the rain splattered across rows of carefully stacked jars of pungent spices, the smells mixing with the damp air. A third Ratkin, taller and more fidgety than the others, stood at a wooden stand lined with canvas bags. Faded lettering on the bags read: “Breath of Snail.”

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Across the plaza, the Velvet Fang brothel glowed warmly, its doors swinging open and shut as traders and sailors hurried inside to escape the storm. Laughter and music poured out into the street, loud and inviting, offering an easy refuge from the chill of the rain.

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Further down, two Lizardkin guards stood by another spice stall, their focus locked on a heated argument with a short, frantic Ratkin merchant. The taller guard occasionally gestured with one clawed hand, while the Ratkin waved his arms and pointed at a stack of goods as though his life depended on it. The guards weren’t paying attention to anything else, their backs turned to the rest of the square.

The rain kept falling, faster now, the sound of rushing water echoing from the canals. The streets of Unity weren’t built for storms like this, and it showed. Water began spilling into the lower alleys, thin streams growing into small floods. The air felt heavy, almost electric, like the storm was building toward something worse.
 
Silvano brushed the rain from his arms, his fur already soaked through and clinging uncomfortably to his skin. The downpour was relentless, turning the streets into a network of small streams and making the air thick and heavy. He stood for a moment in the bustling merchant quarter, taking it all in.

The Velvet Fang’s warm glow caught his attention briefly, the sound of laughter and music spilling into the street a tempting refuge from the chill. But he dismissed it almost immediately—too crowded, too noisy, and not worth the trouble. His eyes wandered instead to the market square, alive with the scurrying of Ratkin vendors trying to save their wares from the rain.

The air was thick with the scent of spices, damp and pungent, mingling with the faint metallic tang of wet brass from a nearby gadget stall. Silvano’s ears twitched as a sharp argument drew his attention—a Ratkin vendor gesturing wildly at two Lizardkin guards, his shrill voice cutting through the rain. He noted it briefly but didn’t linger; it was background noise to the real scene unfolding.

His sharp gaze moved across the square, landing on a taller Ratkin merchant standing behind a modest wooden stand. The merchant’s nervous energy was palpable, his eyes darting around the plaza as though expecting trouble. The stand itself was simple, lined with canvas bags bearing the faded label “Breath of Snail.” The name was peculiar enough to catch Silvano’s attention.

"Breath of Snail," he murmured, narrowing his eyes as he tried to place the name. It tugged at something distant in his memory, though he couldn’t quite grasp it. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel ordinary.

He adjusted his posture, shaking droplets from his fur as he stepped forward, his boots splashing lightly against the rain-slicked cobblestones. He wove through the crowd with practiced ease, his movements casual but deliberate. As he approached the stall, the Ratkin merchant’s gaze snapped to him, eyes widening slightly.

Stopping a few feet from the stand, Silvano tilted his head, letting his eyes flick over the canvas bags. “Odd name,” he remarked, his tone low and measured as he gestured toward the display. “Breath of Snail. What’s it supposed to be?”

His calm expression masked the sharp attention in his gaze, which flicked between the merchant’s fidgeting hands and the surrounding market. Something about this setup felt off, and Silvano wasn’t one to ignore his instincts.
 


The Ratkin’s nose twitched, his darting eyes locking onto Silvano. His hands flitted restlessly—adjusting his coat, tapping the table, straightening one of the bags like it might win him a prize. “Odd name?” he squeaked, flashing a sharp grin. “No, no, my friend. It’s not odd—it’s legendary! Breath of Snail!” He threw his arms wide, motioning dramatically to the damp canvas bags on display.

“You inhale it,” he said, snatching one up and shaking it gently. The faint shimmer of green powder caught the light. “One breath, and whoosh! Visions, truths, maybe even a peek at your future. Or…” He shrugged with a nervous laugh. “Maybe just some colors. Who’s to say?”

Then, with a theatrical flair, he produced five battered cards from his coat, fanning them face-down on the table. Their worn edges curled slightly, and the swirling patterns on the backs glowed faintly in the dim light. “But here’s the fun part,” he said, leaning in close. “You don’t just pick a bag. No, no. You let the cards choose for you.”

His claws tapped each card in turn. “Five cards, five symbols. One bears a Clown, another an Eye, another a Paw. Then there’s the Apple…” He paused for effect, his grin sharpening. “And the Ladder. Each symbol has its meaning. Each one a fate.”

He leaned back and wiggled his fingers dramatically over the cards. “Pick one. Let fate guide you. The right choice? Breath of Snail is yours—for free. Wrong choice? Well… let’s just say the universe gets its laugh and I get 3 marks of gold."

The Ratkin folded his arms, tilting his head with a knowing smile. “So, my damp stranger. What’ll it be? Clown, Eye, Paw, Apple, or Ladder? Choose wisely.”
 
Silvano smirked faintly, his sharp eyes lingering on the card. The faint glow of the intricate eye symbol seemed to flicker in rhythm with the rain’s steady patter. He tilted his head, considering it for a moment longer before finally nodding.

“The Eye,” he said, his voice low and steady, a trace of curiosity threading through the words. His fingers flexed subtly at his sides as he met the Ratkin’s gaze. “Let’s see where it leads.”
 
The Ratkin’s nose twitched as Silvano made his choice. His beady eyes flicked to the card, then back to Silvano, and a toothy grin spread across his face. “The Eye,” he said, pulling a bag from beneath the stall and dropping it onto the card. The same intricate eye symbol marked the canvas, faintly glowing under the dim light. “This one’s on the house.”

The rain hammered harder, dripping through tarps and pooling around the cobblestones. Other Ratkin merchants nearby, their movements hurried and tense. One packed jars into crates with jerky motions, muttering under his breath. Another was folding up his stand, casting nervous glances toward the sky.

The merchant leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “The Eye sees all,” he said, tapping the bag lightly. “Your kin is drawn to it—one before you, pale of color, couldn’t resist its call.”

Straightening, he began hurriedly gathering his own wares, his fidgeting hands unusually steady. “Best move on, stranger. Something’s coming, and you don’t want to be here when it hits,” he warned, glancing at the dark horizon as he pulled a tarp over his stand.
 
Silvano regarded the Ratkin with a lingering, skeptical gaze. The merchant’s words replayed in his mind as he tucked the canvas bag securely beneath the cloth tied at his waist. Offering the Ratkin a curt nod, he stepped away from the stall and into the deepening rain.

The storm showed no signs of mercy; droplets pelted the cobblestones, pooling into streams that swirled around his hooves. The marketplace’s clamor faded behind him as an inexplicable unease crept into the air. With a cautious glance at the darkened horizon, Silvano adjusted his pace, heading toward the slums—a warren of twisting alleys and crumbling facades he called home.

Reaching a quieter section of the city, he turned sharply into a narrow passageway, his ears twitching for sounds of pursuit. Satisfied he wasn’t being followed, Silvano darted to a leaning stack of crates. With practiced efficiency, he climbed up to a blocked window. The boards weren’t fastened securely; with a few precise tugs, he created just enough space to slip through.

Inside, the air was damp and musty, the building’s decay evident in every creak of its structure. Silvano pushed through the window boards and into the attic, landing lightly on its uneven floor. Though sparse and in disrepair, the space was familiar—a mattress laid out with a haphazard assortment of fabrics and worn blankets, a broken mirror propped against the wall, and an assortment of salvaged odds and ends strewn about. The rain trickled through gaps in the roof, and he noted with a grimace that his makeshift coverings were failing to hold the weather at bay.

He moved toward a nook by the window where he often sat. The corner was arranged with a few flattened cushions and threadbare pillows, a clear testament to the hours he spent gazing out at the city. Tonight, the view of twinkling lights was obscured by a cascade of rain against the glass, the sound of water accompanying the rhythmic tapping of his claws on the canvas bag.

Settling into the corner, Silvano withdrew the bag the Ratkin had given him. His amber eyes flicked to the glowing symbol of the eye emblazoned on its surface, his tail twitching sharply behind him.

“Well,” he murmured to himself, his tone laced with a dry edge. “I suppose idleness is hardly becoming.” He tilted his head, smirking faintly. “Let us see what truths this fabled vision may bring.”

With measured deliberation, Silvano opened the bag, following the Ratkin’s instructions as the storm raged on outside.
 
The rain pounded loudly outside, and for a moment, everything in the attic seemed normal.

The Eye symbol on the bag glowed faintly, the substance still sitting untouched at the bottom. Nothing had changed—until the air began to feel heavy, like the weight of the storm was pressing down on the room. The sound of rain blurred, fading into a strange, low rumble, like distant waves crashing. It wasn’t right.

The attic floor seemed to shimmer, and with a blink, the world around had shifted.

There was no attic anymore—not really. Now standing in the middle of rushing water, surrounded by a fragmenting Unity. Streets turned into rivers, buildings crumbled like sand, and debris floated in the flood. Faces appeared in the water too, blurry, their mouths wide open as if screaming, yet silent. The water pulled everything away.

A pale foxkin then appeared, standing amid the chaos. Its fur soaking wet, glowing eyes fixed forward. Its mouth moved quickly, silently, perhaps a warning, but the words remained unheard. The fox stood still as the flood swirled around, its gaze unwavering.

With a sharp gasp, the vision ended.

The attic returned, unchanged but somehow heavier. The bag sat in the same spot, its faintly glowing Eye symbol staring back. It hadn’t moved—but the vision it gave lingered, the images refusing to fade.
 
The sound of the rain returned in a gradual crescendo, as though the storm had only just resumed after a long pause. Silvano sat motionless, his breathing unsteady, eyes wide as they darted around the dim attic. His heart pounded against his ribs, the images from the vision refusing to release their hold.

He glanced down at the bag, its faintly glowing Eye symbol almost mocking him in its stillness. It sat as if nothing had happened, yet the air felt undeniably different—denser, charged, and colder than before.

His claws flexed against the worn fabric of his seat, the feeling of the rushing water, the pale foxkin’s piercing gaze, and the crumbling streets all too vivid to dismiss as mere imagination. The vision had felt real, more than a dream or a trick of the mind. It was as if he had been there, standing on the brink of a Unity undone.

“What in the…” he murmured, his voice low and unsteady. He dragged a hand through his damp hair, his ears flicking as if trying to shake off the oppressive hum of the vision’s silence.

The pale foxkin’s face burned in his memory, its mouth moving as though trying to convey something vital—something he couldn’t grasp. The inability to understand gnawed at him. Was it a warning? A message? Or simply madness?

Silvano’s tail lashed sharply against the floor as he reached for the bag again, hesitating just as his fingers brushed the canvas.

“Damned thing,” he muttered, pulling his hand back and shoving it into his pocket instead. He pushed himself to his feet, pacing the small space, his boots scuffing against the uneven boards. Rainwater trickled through cracks in the window, pooling in the corner, but he barely noticed.

The vision’s weight lingered in the air, oppressive and unrelenting. Silvano turned back to the bag, his amber eyes narrowing. Whatever this “Breath of Snail” was, it had shown him something—and whether he liked it or not, it demanded his attention.

“Looks like I’ve bought myself more than a storm,” he said softly, his tone edged with frustration and intrigue.

Silvano cast a final glance out at the rain-soaked city through the cracked glass of his window. The storm felt closer now, as though it carried the vision’s chaos within its winds. Whatever the pale foxkin had tried to tell him, one thing was clear: the Eye had shown him a path, and ignoring it might not be an option.
 
Wisdom (5) – Failure
You try to make sense of the vision through instinct, but the flood overwhelms you. The rushing water, the collapsing streets, and the chaos of Unity crumble in your mind as quickly as they did in the vision. The movement of the water feels heavy, purposeful even, but you can’t grasp where it was going—or why. The rain outside pounds harder now, and it presses into your thoughts.

Intelligence (8) – Success
As the fragments of the vision replay in your mind, a few connections start to solidify. The pale fox stands out—its glowing eyes, its silent stare. You remember the Arctic fox in the Gilded Tankard, their fur so bright it almost glowed in the dim light. They had been watching Leviathian closely, almost studying him. The fox in the vision mirrors that same intensity. Is it the same fox? Or are they connected in some deeper way?

Then there’s the words. The Ratkin’s voice lingers: “This one’s on the house.” The phrase feels harmless at first, but it echoes with a heavier, sharper tone: Leviathian’s warning in the tavern, “The house always wins.”
 
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Silvano sat on the edge of his makeshift bed, the vision playing on a loop in his mind. The pale fox, its glowing eyes, the rushing water—it all lingered like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He rubbed his temples, the pressure behind his skull building until it felt like his head might split. The harder he tried to make sense of it, the more elusive the answers became.

The Arctic fox in the Gilded Tankard, he thought. The way it had watched Leviathian—it wasn’t casual curiosity. No, there was intent, a purpose in its gaze. Was it a coincidence that the fox in the vision bore the same intensity? Silvano shook his head, unable to quiet the questions swirling inside him. The ache in his skull flared, and with a groan of frustration, he slumped back against the wall.

"Enough," he muttered, massaging his head. Sleep was his only refuge now. He curled onto the tattered mattress, pulling a patchwork blanket over himself. The sound of the rain softened in his ears, and eventually, exhaustion took him.

The next morning, the rain had cleared, leaving Unity glistening under a bright sun. Silvano perched on the rooftop of the crumbling building he called home, the warmth of the morning sun soaking into his fur. He stretched lazily, his tail flicking as he gazed over the bustling streets below.

“Well,” he said, his voice dry, “seems like I’ll need to track down that Arctic fox. Hopefully, he’s a little more friendly to his own kind…” His voice trailed off as his gaze dropped to his legs—the telltale sign of his curse. His lips thinned, and he bit down lightly on the inside of his cheek. “...Hopefully.”

Shaking off the thought, Silvano rose to his feet, his movements fluid. He stepped carefully across the roof, navigating the uneven shingles before sliding down to a lower ledge. From there, he made his way to the ground with practiced ease, landing lightly in an alley.

Dusting himself off, Silvano straightened his posture and set his sights on the Gilded Tankard. If anyone’s seen that fox, it’ll be someone there. He tucked his hands into his pockets and melted into the flow of the city, ready to start asking questions.
 
The morning sun was a fleeting illusion, barely warming the streets of Unity before the heavy clouds returned, smothering the light and bringing back the rain. It started with a light drizzle,
The rain had stopped briefly that morning, just long enough for the sun to break through the clouds, warming the damp streets and offering a glimmer of hope. But the reprieve was short-lived. The clouds rolled back in with a vengeance, and when the rain returned, it came hard, turning streets into rushing streams. Water pooled at the edges of the cobblestones, and the air hung heavy and charged.

Inside the Gilded Tankard, the fire in the hearth burned low, and the usual morning buzz was gone. Only a handful of locals sat scattered across the room, their conversations muted beneath the relentless drum of rain on the roof. At the bar, a freckled human set down his mug with a dull thud, and the badgerkin barkeep glanced up from polishing a glass.

“Another?” the barkeep asked, his voice gruff.

“Not yet.” The man scratched his chin, his gaze flicking toward the rain streaking down the window. “Thought we’d seen the last of it when the sun came out this morning. Guess I was wrong.”

“Storms don’t end that quick,” came the reply. “This one feels like it’s just getting started.”

A dry chuckle. “You’re not the only one saying that, Grath. Down at the docks, they’re talking about the water rising fast—faster than it should. One of the canal locks almost broke last night.”

“Not natural, that.” The barkeep, Grath, frowned, setting the glass down. “Seen floods here before, but never like this. Something’s off.”

“It’s not just the storm,” the man muttered. “The Ironclad are gone. All of them. Marched out yesterday.”

“With the wolf.” The barkeep leaned on the counter. “Him and his recruits took every soldier stationed here. No patrols. No one at the gates. City’s wide open.”

“Reckless. What’s so important they’d leave Unity defenseless?”

“Some bullshit artifact. Leviathian’s offering a thousand marks a head for anyone who makes it back from the Caverns alive. Took that flashy bird, too. Kaelion, or whatever his name is. Made quite a show of it; though it's nice to be free of his voice."
 
The doors of the tavern creaked open, letting in a damp chill from the streets as Silvano stepped through, his sharp gaze sweeping over the dimly lit room. His ears perked at the sight of Grath behind the bar, and a broad grin broke across his face.

“Grath! A finer gentleman I could scarcely imagine!” Silvano declared with playful exuberance, his voice carrying a lilting charm. With arms spread wide and an exaggerated strut, he approached the bar, turning a slow circle before settling onto a stool with a practiced flourish.

“Good morning to you, my fine fellows,” he continued, nodding to both Grath and the freckled human beside him. “Pray forgive my intrusion, but I find myself in need of your wisdom—such as it may be.” He winked, his tone light and teasing. “Tell me, do either of you recall an Arctic fox frequenting this establishment last evening? Around the same time that pompous slobbering chew-toy, Leviathian, was strutting about?”

Without waiting for an answer, Silvano tapped the counter lightly, his grin softening into something more cordial. “Oh, and dear Grath, might I trouble you for a pour? This dreadful weather has left my stomach as parched as these streets are soaked.”
 
Grath raised an eyebrow as he poured the drink. “Aye, I remember him. Avarice, yeah? Twenty-two, son of one of Unity’s bigwigs. Didn’t always look like that—fur’s gone white as snow these days. Hard to miss someone like him.”

The freckled man snorted, swirling his mug with idle fingers. “Came by last night, asking about Leviathian. Didn’t stick around long, though. Left on his own—didn’t seem too keen on the expedition, or joining it. Used to be a bit of a brat, that one... though he’s gotten awful quiet lately. Still around the city for sure; them nobles don't get too far."
 
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Silvano took the drink from Grath, raising it to his lips for a hearty gulp before setting it down. His fingers traced the rim of the mug in idle circles, his expression contemplative. “A noble, you say?” he muttered under his breath, the words laced with intrigue. If one were paying close attention, they might’ve sworn Silvano’s eyes gleamed as though coins danced behind them.

Catching himself, he straightened and cleared his throat, a sharp grin creeping onto his face. “Ah, well, it’s good to know he likely hasn’t strayed far from the city. Would you happen to know, perchance, a more... particular corner of Unity where a fine fellow of his stature might be lingering?”
 
Grath chuckled softly as he wiped the bar with his rag. “Aye, nobles and their mysteries,” he said absentmindedly, nodding toward Silvano’s mug. “But enough about him—how’s that drink treating you? Just tapped that keg this morning. Thought it might have a bit more bite to it than the last batch.”

He leaned on the counter, gesturing vaguely as he spoke. “You know, it’s always a gamble with these things. Too bitter and folks turn their noses up, but go too light and they call it weak. What do you think? Got it right this time?”
 
Silvano paused, narrowing his gaze slightly as Grath shifted the conversation. It was a subtle thing, but enough to make him ponder the need for a bit more wariness. Taking a hearty gulp of his ale, he wiped his mouth with the back of his arm and offered a grin, his words carrying a touch of playful charm.

“Ah, Grath, fret not over the whims of taste and critique. Yours is a tavern that draws all manner of folk, night after night—characters as colorful as they are plentiful. Why, no matter what ambrosial draught you deign to pour into their cups, they’ll return, drawn by the life and spirit of this fine establishment. It is not merely the ale, my dear man, but the soul of the Tankard itself that keeps it brimming with patrons.”

He chuckled softly, the gesture light and disarming, though he refrained from offering a true critique of the drink, his own guard quietly raised.
 
Grath chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned on the counter. “Ah, Silvano, you’ve got a way with words. ‘The soul of the Tankard,’ eh? I might just make you my new marketing man. Course, that’d mean you’d have to stick around here more often. Not sure the city’s ready for that kind of trouble.”

He was about to reach for another mug when a faint tremor rippled through the floorboards. The glasses on the bar gave a soft rattle, one of them tipping slightly before settling back in place. Grath paused, his hand hovering midair, his brow knitting for the briefest moment.

“Huh,” he muttered, glancing around as though waiting for it to happen again.

The freckled man beside him grunted, gripping his mug a little tighter. “Damn city’s falling apart, that’s what,” he muttered.

Grath gave a low chuckle, brushing it off as he returned to polishing. “Probably just one of those underground shifts they’re always grumbling about near the canals. Anyway,” he said, sliding his attention back to Silvano with an easy grin, “you still haven’t told me—how’s that ale? I’ve been fiddling with the recipe, y’know. Got it where it needs to be, or do I need to keep tinkering?”
 
Silvano’s ears twitched at the tremor, his tail fluffing up instinctively as his sharp eyes scanned the room, gauging the reactions of those around him. A subtle unease crept through him, like a thread pulled too tight, and he forced himself to stay composed despite the nagging sensation that something was amiss. His gaze eventually returned to Grath, whose grin and casual demeanor only deepened Silvano’s growing irritation.

With a faint sigh, Silvano leaned forward, resting his elbow on the counter as he traced the wood grain with a clawed finger. His expression shifted, a wry smile tugging at his lips though his tone carried an edge of playful severity.

“Well, if you’re so insistent on prying my opinion, Grath,” he began, his voice smooth but laced with quiet insistence, “perhaps a trade is in order. Tell me—what is it you truly know of Avarice and his noble entanglements? Spare me the vague pleasantries, if you would. Then, and only then, shall I grace you with an honest critique of your latest concoction.”

His gaze flicked upward, catching Grath’s with a glimmer of sharp curiosity. Though his words danced with jest, there was no mistaking the underlying demand in his tone.
 
Grath’s grin faded completely, replaced by a flicker of hurt that he didn’t bother to hide. “Didn’t think I needed to spell it out for you,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Avarice headed back to the Royal Houses last night. Only other place he’s been spending time is the Velvet Fang—brothel over by the merchant quarter. Beyond that? All I know is he and his father aren’t exactly on good terms. His old man’s been talking about stepping down, passing the reins to him. Seems like that’s not sitting right.”

Before he could say more, another tremor rocked the bar, stronger this time. Glasses clinked loudly, and Grath gripped the counter to steady himself. His eyes darted to the rattling windows, a frown deepening on his face. “There it is again...”

He glanced back at Silvano, his tone softer now. “Look, I wasn’t trying to hold out on you. Thought I was just giving you what you needed. Didn’t realize it was this important.” He straightened, running a hand over his face.
 
Silvano’s ears flicked at Grath’s softened tone, and a pang of guilt tugged at him. He shifted in his seat, smoothing the fur of his tail absently before offering a faint smile.

“Ah, Grath, forgive me,” he began, his voice dipping into a quieter register. “The past few nights have left me... frayed, to say the least. Restless dreams, ill omens, and this infernal rain—it’s all left me feeling more on edge than I care to admit. My sharpness wasn’t meant for you.”

He offered a slight incline of his head, enough to acknowledge his misstep but not so much as to linger on it. With a quick shake of his ears, he cast off the momentary vulnerability and let his usual air of charm resettle over him.

“Now,” he continued, his tone brightening, “as a gentleman does, I do believe I owe you my end of the bargain.”

Silvano stood from his stool, grabbing his mug and downing the rest of the ale in a single, exaggerated gulp. He let out a small, satisfied sigh and set the empty vessel back on the counter with a flourish.

“Truly, my dear Grath, nobody brews them quite like you. That said—” he tapped a claw lightly on the counter, as if considering his words carefully—“perhaps a touch more... pine? Yes, pine. I dare say it would lend the brew a certain refreshing zest.”

With that, Silvano pulled a few gold coins from his pocket, their edges catching the dim light as he placed them deliberately on the counter.

“But alas, duty calls, and I must bid you adieu,” he said, offering a dramatic bow, his tail swishing behind him. “Until next time, my friend. Keep that ale flowing and your tavern brimming with life.”

He turned on his heel, his usual jaunty strut carrying him toward the door, his cloak sweeping behind him as he stepped out into the rain.
 
As the door of the Gilded Tankard swung shut behind him, the outside world greeted with an oppressive stillness. The rain had stopped completely, leaving the cobblestones slick and gleaming under the dull, shifting light of the overcast sky. The air felt wrong—heavy, salty, and charged with an energy that prickled against the skin.

Ahead, the city was unraveling into chaos. The once-bustling streets now echoed with panicked shouts. A fruit vendor stood frozen, his cart tipped and its contents scattered, as his wide eyes stared at the canal beds ahead. They were completely dry, the water having pulled back unnaturally far, leaving behind mud, debris, and stranded fish flopping helplessly in the exposed muck.

“The water—look at the water!” someone shouted, pointing toward the horizon. Heads turned, and gasps rippled through the crowd.

It was there, unmistakable now: a towering wall of water rising far in the distance, stretching across the skyline like a living force. Its dark, churning mass swallowed the horizon, growing larger with every passing second. The faint roar that had been building was now deafening, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the air and ground alike.

Another tremor struck, more violent than the last, shaking the cobblestones underfoot and sending a roof tile crashing to the ground nearby.

“Run!” someone screamed, breaking the collective paralysis of the onlookers. People surged into motion, scattering in every direction. Some bolted for higher ground, while others stumbled over themselves in blind panic. The streets became a frenzy of clattering feet, dropped belongings, and frantic cries as the shadow of the wave crept closer, casting Unity in an ominous gloom.

The canals began to refill, but it wasn’t the gentle trickle of returning water—it was the first surge of the tsunami. A rush of water shot into the city with terrifying force, dragging debris and sweeping into the lower streets. The wave was moments away now, its roar overtaking all other sounds. The city was out of time.
 
PROLOGUE COMPLETED.

Prologue Recap:
In the bustling Gilded Tankard, Leviathian, a wolf from the Iron Clad Legion, announced a daring expedition to recover an ancient artifact from the perilous Caverns, promising wealth and glory. Amidst the tension-filled tavern, Silvano Bramblethorn, a skeptical fox-donkey hybrid, openly dismissed Leviathian's call, setting himself apart as a defiant and independent figure. His subsequent discovery and use of the mystical "Breath of Snail" provided him with a prophetic vision of Unity's impending disaster, dramatically intertwining his fate with the city's survival. As Unity began its transformation into a waterlogged landscape, Silvano's interactions and decisions painted him as a crucial player in the unfolding drama, with his choices leading to varied potential pathways that could have drastically different outcomes.


Silvano Character Analysis:
Silvano is characterized by his skepticism and strategic cunning. His reluctance to join Leviathian's quest highlights his independence and his resistance to authority. The use of the "Breath of Snail" not only linked him to the mystical elements of the story but also made him a pivotal character in understanding the looming threat over Unity. Silvano’s actions reveal a complex individual who navigates through wisdom and wit, often choosing paths that align with his self-preservation yet showing potential for greater involvement in the community's fate.

Prologue Characters:
  • Silvano Bramblethorn - A fox/donkey hybrid known for his skepticism towards authority and his cunning nature. He openly challenges Leviathian's recruitment and experiences a mystical vision that deeply ties him to the crisis in Unity.
  • Leviathian - A wolf from the Iron Clad Legion, seeking recruits for a dangerous mission into the Caverns. He is authoritative and pivotal in the unfolding events.
  • Zifraa - A resourceful Catkin who interacts with Silvano early in the narrative. She is quick and agile, demonstrating her survival instincts during conflicts and her involvement in the city's dynamics.
  • Avarice - An Arctic fox whose appearance and inquiries at the Gilded Tankard draw attention. Known for his distinctively bright fur and his quiet, calculated demeanor, Avarice's actions suggest deeper layers to his character and connections to the broader narrative.
  • Grath - The barkeeper of the Gilded Tankard, a central figure in the community known for his deep knowledge of the city's pulse and for providing a gathering space for many characters.
  • Kaelion - Referred to as the "flashy bird," who participates in Leviathian's recruitment. His distinctive presence and dramatic flair make him a notable figure in the tavern scenes.
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Two years after Unity was reshaped by a catastrophic flood, the city has morphed into a labyrinth of waterways and makeshift bridges. Amid this new aquatic cityscape, Ratkin vendors now paddle along in small boats where their stands once sat, selling goods to customers who navigate this Venice-like metropolis. The Iron Clad Legion's presence has dwindled, with their occasional patrols serving as a faint reminder of their past involvement in the city.

At the heart of this transformed inner city floats Calamite's Cupboard, a rooftop farm and shop managed by Calamite, a Coyotekin. Having inherited the shop from his parents who owned it before the flood, Calamite has adapted and transformed their legacy into a thriving hub of trade and community. Accessible by docking one's boat and climbing the stairs to the platform, his shop stands as a beacon of resilience and innovation. Dressed in overalls and plaid, the tall, slightly toned Coyotekin greets his customers with a warm smile, making the shop a focal point for those looking to trade, gather supplies, or exchange news.

As a customer docks at Calamite's Cupboard, Calamite launches into a detailed explanation about the historical significance of Clawridge and the origins of dinosaurkin. "Did you know Clawridge was founded right after the Great Merge? Those dinosaurkin are descendants of real dinosaurs, mixed with human traits. It's fascinating how they adapted over centuries."

The customer, while unloading her goods, nods politely but her attention seems focused on her immediate needs. "Uh-huh, that's interesting," she murmurs, her tone polite but detached.

Despite her lack of enthusiasm, Calamite, caught up in his passion for history, continues, "It's almost like a tale from another world, but it's all there in the history of Anthroterra. Knowing about our past, especially something as incredible as dinosaurkin, might help us navigate these tricky political waters, don't you think?"

The customer offers a non-committal grunt, "Sure, maybe," her response automatic as she arranges her purchases.

Calamite, still buoyed by his topic, doesn't seem to notice the lukewarm reception. "Exactly! If we learn from the past, maybe we can find some better paths for the future," he declares, finally catching her preparing to leave. "Anyway, thanks for stopping by. Don’t forget to try those tomatoes with a bit of salt!"

As the customer pushes off from the dock, she gives him a polite smile, relieved to escape the historical monologue. Calamite, undeterred, turns back to his other customers, ready to share more tales and tips, his shop bustling with the life of a community adapting to their new water-filled world.
 
The rhythmic lapping of water against the boat’s hull underscored Silvano’s approach to Calamite’s Cupboard. He sat with his legs crossed in the modest skiff, one hand resting lazily on the oar while the other twirled a silver coin between his fingers. His cloak fluttered lightly in the breeze, though the dampness of the air clung to the fabric like an unwelcome guest.

As the shop’s wooden platform loomed closer, Silvano straightened, a glimmer of curiosity flashing in his sharp eyes. Calamite’s Cupboard was alive with activity, the Coyotekin proprietor’s voice carrying above the hum of trade and chatter. Silvano’s ears flicked, catching snippets of an impassioned history lesson about dinosaurkin and the Great Merge. He smirked to himself, the corner of his mouth tugging into a sly grin.

Docking with practiced ease, he rose with a fluid motion, his hooves landing on the platform with a light thud. He dusted off his coat as he approached, casting a keen glance at the array of goods displayed under the warm, makeshift awnings. The air here was thick with the scent of fresh produce and the faint tang of the canals below.

“Calamite,” Silvano called, his voice smooth and almost melodic as he stepped closer, his tail swishing behind him. “The Cupboard is as lively as ever, I see. And you—always the historian. Tell me, my friend, does Clawridge history include a recipe for finding rare herbs? Because I find myself in dire need of one—or perhaps a tale to lighten my mood if the herbs prove elusive.”

His gaze darted around the shop before settling on the Coyotekin with a faintly raised brow, his usual air of intrigue mingling with a genuine interest in what Calamite might say.
 
Calamite chuckled warmly in response to Silvano's remark. "Lively as ever, indeed! As for Clawridge, its stories are as rich as the soil itself. The witch doctors there are renowned for their ability to find almost mythical herbs."

He paused, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "Herbs are truly fascinating, particularly the rare ones. They emerge in such unique circumstances—some sprout where great battles have been fought, others in places steeped in deep sorrow. Take the Breath of the Snail, for example; it is said to manifest in locations touched by profound death. Nature indeed has its own mysterious ways of balancing energies, doesn't it?"

Calamite then reached beneath the counter, producing a small package wrapped in vibrant cloth. "Speaking of nature's gifts, I've set aside something special for you from Beakburg. These aren't just any berries—they embody the cheerful spirit of Beakburg’s lively festivals. I thought they might brighten your day a bit. They may not be as magical as some herbs, but they're delicious nonetheless."
 

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