FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Ringo's tongue stuck out one side of his muzzle as he fiddled with the lockpicks, trying to find the right mechanism to push down. It wouldn't surprise him if the lock itself was trapped, fitted with extra grooves that would explode or something if he wasn't careful. So he worked slow, doing his best to concentrate -- not his strong suit even in prime conditions -- while chaos swirled around him.

His fellow adventurers were in a room roughly fifty feet by thirty feet, with a ceiling ten feet high. In the center of it was a low platform on which sat a locked chest presumably filled with treasure; they wouldn't know until he managed to get it open. Nathan would have been able to lift the thing on his shoulder with no problem, but then he wouldn't be able to fight the skeletons that were bottlenecked in the room's entrance and the platform probably had a pressure plate that would have triggered some other trap anyway.

"Assume everything you interact with is trapped down there," Bransam, the group's mentor told them before they set out. "It's better to be methodical and bored than dead."

The week they spent going over the many different kinds of traps was anything but boring, Ringo thought. It was fun learning about the many different ways you could be felled by one, even if it was a little gruesome, and he was fascinated by how you could hide spikes and daggers and arrows just about anywhere, with trigger mechanisms placed just where a careless person might trip them.

He flicked his bushy tail and paused for a moment, looking up at the room's ceiling. Where would the trap be hidden in a place like this? Maybe behind some of the extra torches making the room extra well-lit, or maybe that stone in the ceiling that wasn't quite flush with the others -- and just happened to be over his head. Or maybe--

"How are we doing on that lock, Ringo?" Tarsus sounded worried, but then again he always did. Ringo had never met a Rabbit or a Wizard who could relax, and Tarsus was both. He was constantly surprised that the magician's heart hadn't exploded out of his chest well before now.

"I'm nearly there!" Ringo flicked his tail again and refocused on his task. It was hard to concentrate with everyone shouting all around him.

"As quick as you can, then!" Nathan's voice boomed in the empty room, the huge badger noisily sweeping to his left as he avoided a skeleton's attack and followed up with a slow -- but quite effective -- blow from his warhammer. The undead canid collapsed with a sound much like a bundle of sticks falling to the ground...at least until the warhammer crushed the pile of bones into a fine powder.

"Right!" Ringo grunted as he felt the mechanism resist his pick. He knew he was applying pressure at the wrong angle, so he flipped the thin, curved bit of metal in his nimble fingers. He wiggled until he felt a recess, pushed gently and heard a satisfying click. He churred, his tail waving against his back twice, and grinned wide. He hadn't even broken one of his picks this time! "Got it."

"Great; now open it up and tell me if you see anything other than gold." Tarsus' voice came closer to his left shoulder. As the Wizard approached, Ringo could feel his fur bristle against the field of magic that surrounded him at all times. It was weird. It reminded Ringo of some half-forgotten dream where the details were fuzzy but the feeling of being terrified was so clear.

He opened the lid -- slowly, the way Bransam taught him -- until his eyes lit up with the sight of so much gold. There were jewels, too -- in rings, on brooches and cups and necklaces, or just lying nestled in between the coins. One necklace in particular stood out, though: a thin linked chain of some shiny black metal, with a pendant made out of the same material but with a picture of a red sword stuck in some grey rocks. As soon as Ringo looked at it, he couldn't look away. It was practically begging him to take it, to wear it now.

With that necklace, maybe Tarsus wouldn't be so impatient with him. Maybe Nathan would let him stand beside him in a fight instead of behind him. Maybe The Saint wouldn't look so worried about him whenever he said something.

While he was thinking, his hands moved on their own. He felt the chain in his long, thin fingers, undid the clasp, and slipped the necklace on. As soon as he fastened the clasp, everything in the room sharpened. The colors of the flame dancing from the torches were so much brighter; the mustelid scent of Nathan as he felled another skeleton stung like pepper in his nose; he could make out the hushed, fervent whispers of The Saint as the Fox prayed for favor from his God. He could even smell the surprise and anxiety well up within Tarsus once the Rabbit realized what he had done.

"What are you doing? The Saint needed to see if there were any cursed objects in there!" Tarsus was behind him now, looming over his shoulder, panic and condescension in his voice in equal measure. The Rabbit's hand fell onto his shoulder, squeezing it through the silk-lined black leather vest that covered Ringo's torso.

"This doesn't feel cursed to me," Ringo said, half a second before he realized he was saying it. "In fact, I feel a lot better. Clear." He stood up and turned to face Tarsus, grinning wide. He and the Rabbit were roughly the same height, both being rodents, but for some reason he was looking down at his friend. Maybe it was because he was standing on the platform. That must be it.

Tarsus' eyes widened, and his muzzle worked dumbly for a moment or two. "Saint! Some help over here!"

Ringo held up a hand as the Saint started to make his way over; the Fox paused immediately. "I don't need your help, friend. But Nathan needs mine! I'm coming, brother!"

He felt his breeches stretch around his thighs as he strode forward, and each breath pulled his vest taut around his chest and shoulders. Even his clothes were fitting him better! This felt right and good.

Nathan was holding his own at the room's entrance. The Badger was a few inches over seven feet tall and more than half that wide; he looked like a dwarf who had been permanently enlarged. In two ham-sized fists he held his warhammer, which had been liberally dusted with the remains of the four skeletons he had dispatched already. But there were more. Two of them slipped into the room, one waving a short sword and the other only its unnaturally long claws. Behind them, Ringo saw the pinpoint glow in the eyes of more undead, burning with their hatred for the living.

Ringo's hands itched. He reflexively unsheathed his daggers, then looked down at them. The handles felt strangely short, the blades too small and light. He looked longingly at Nathan's warhammer, not noticing that the Badger had paused in his slaughter to get another look at the Squirrel in front of him. One skeleton raked across his vest with its claws, leaving scratches on the material. Ringo refocused, looking down (!) at the grinning malevolence in front of him.

Daggers were barely better than his bare hands, he thought, but they would have to do. He was more than a match for this puny bundle of bones.

The growl rose unbidden in his throat, and he found himself surprised at how quickly he could strike. The daggers weren't a great weapon against these skeletons, but his ferocity made up for what the weapons lacked. He plunged the pointed length of one dagger through its skull, and the other sliced its spine in two with a swipe that shattered one of its vertebrae. The cold white glow in the skeleton's empty eye sockets faded as it collapsed into a pile of bones.

Nathan recovered from the shock quickly enough to make short work of another skeleton, swinging his warhammer around in a complete circle before connecting with its ribcage with a mighty swing. The room reverberated with the sound of bones shattering like a broken window; what was left of the evil scattered along the floor behind the Badger.

Ringo roared gleefully as he stepped forward and slammed a dagger through the top of the next skeleton, lifting a broad paw and kicking it back into the gloom of the hallway beyond. His body moved with barely a thought, limbs arcing in graceful movements that met bone and tattered armor to disastrous effect. The Squirrel barely realized that his leather vest has broken its stitching around his chest and shoulders, or that he nearly filled the door frame entirely before he raced down the hallway.

He was dimly aware of voices calling his name behind him, but they sounded thin and reedy under the pounding of battle-lust in his ears. He felt his breeches stretch around his thigh and the bulge between them, which pressed painfully against the fabric. He cut down another skeleton, and another, the sheer bulk of his body enough to smash the undead against the dungeon walls.

It was a glorious feeling. He looked forward to sharing it with his fellows when he was done.