Memories in the Fog

It was a dark and stormy night as the young terrier male sat at a corner table of a forgotten tavern in a drenched overcoat, waiting for his mysterious contact.

The “Fog District” of Vulane - the City of Lies - was a place to go to forget - and be forgotten - by the outside world. Even the Veilwinter Silvermasks rarely stomped around the place.

But every resident of the Fogs was known to every other, at least by sight. Their true names - or at least what they were named when they were born - had been lost in the mists.

A lute from an enchanted musical instrument near the bar strangled out a thin tune as the terrier wiped his fur with his damp hand. There were no time-telling devices in the tavern, but the terrier had nowhere to be in any case.

He hadn’t had ‘somewhere to be’ in a long time.

The tavernkeeper - a mongoose with one eye - returned to his post at the bar and spent some time studying the terrier as he idly rubbed a cloth over a dirty glass. The terrier noticed and, being somewhat lonely, wandered over.

The tavern itself was a dark brown, lit by sparse orange candles which cast strange, flickering shadows.

“Still runnin’?” The mongoose asked. “Or have you stopped?”

The terrier lifted his head, his long white ears drooping. “I’m sorry?”

“You runnin’ from somethin’?”

“Nah,” the terrier said, looking into his glass of ale. “Looking for someone I lost.”

The mongoose chuckled, shaking his head. “Diggin’ up the past in the Fogs? I could try and save you a lotta time, boy, if I said this is the place to disappear... but lookin’ atcha, I bet you’ll have to learn’t the hard way.”

The terrier cleared his throat and slid a copper piece to the barkeep. “I’m, uh, new to Vulane... and the ‘Fogs’ as you call them... I wonder if I could ask you some things.”

The mongoose eyed the copper and slowly slid it into his palm. “New to the City of Lies and you run straight inta’ the Fogs? Well, ye can ask whatever you’d like. Whether ah’ll answer, though...” he trailed off.

The young wanderer, annoyed at having lost a coin, smirked and shook his head. “What causes the fog in this district anyway?”

“A friend of mine,” came a deep, sly voice from behind him. The terrier jumped in his seat and turned.

“Wh-are you my contact?”

The owner of the voice was an arctic fox with two ice-blue, world-weary eyes in a black coat. In the gloom of the tavern, he looked like a white, fluffy, floating head being followed by a fluffy white tail.

“I’ll have a Graveyard Special, barkeep. Name’s Detective Uresh Greystone,” he said to the terrier.

“Where’v you been keepin’ yourself, fox?” The tavernkeeper asked.

The fox examined his claws. “Back alleys, mostly,” he replied with a flat tone. “Crime scenes before a crime. In the shadows.”

“So everywhere in Vulane, then?” The mongoose replied as he slid a shot glass made of lacquered wood over to the fox. The terrier got a brief wiff of it before the fox drank it, and then held up a finger to the mongoose and nodded.

“Come along,” Detective Greystone said to the terrier without acknowledging the mongoose’s witticism. The fox and terrier went back to the original lonely table in the back corner. “So you’re the son of Rusty Dayglow, then? You look just like ‘im.”

“I’ll, uh, take that as a compliment, I guess.”

Detective Greystone put one finger up to the barkeep, who nodded and brought over a small glass of something stronger than ale. “How long have you been looking for him?” the fox asked.

“A decade. Been gone for fifteen, ever since I was a teenager. Last year I finally ran into his old partner...”

At this, the fox’s white ears peaked. “Skreet Snickertooth?”

“You know him?”

The fox took a swig of his drink, then held up another finger to the barkeep. “Never heard of him. So you finally came to Vulane to look for him?”

“I didn’t want to believe that he came here. I didn’t want to believe that he stayed. I guess I wasted my time.”

“Creatures waste a lot of time holding on to ideas that don’t fit reality. Life of a detective, by the way. Mr. Snickertooth knows it too.”

“I thought you said-”

CLINK. Another shot was put in front of the arctic fox, who drank it in one gulp. Again, the terrier got a whiff, but it was gone too fast.

“And another for my friend here,” Greystone said.

“You planning a long night?” the mongoose asked.

“It’s always night,” the fox said dryly. “Dark and stormy. Always and forever.”

“That’s all right,” the terrier said. “I’ve already had a few.”

“Comin’ right up,” the barkeep said, ignoring him. The arctic fox looked at the terrier with a knowing glance.

“Just drink up when it comes,” he said.

“Wh-what is it again?”

“The Graveyard Special. You’ll hate it.”

CLINK. The terrier looked at the slime-green concoction that roiled and boiled and smelled like spices that shouldn’t be in a drink.

“Whoa! What... what’s IN this?”

“Essence of garlic,” Greystone said. “And some other special things.”

“I’ve got a cleric who blesses a few bottles of whiskey every week,” the tavernkeep said.

“What do we need this for?” The terrier asked, holding it up with two fingers and examining it like it was an alchemist’s experiment.

“Well, I happen to know where your father is,” Detective Greystone said solemnly, leaning in. The terrier leaned back, slightly concerned by the small canine’s sudden intensity.

“Yes, I know...” the dog answered slowly. “That’s why I met you here.”

The fox leaned back to the mongoose across the tavern.

“Another couple, Trill! Boy’s not ready yet.”

“You got it, Uresh.”

Half an hour later and the two were outside. It was always literally dark and raining in Vulane, but in the Fogs the rain was ice cold and the dark was like a thick blanket that covered the entire quarter more deeply than in other parts of the city. But the faintly purple Fog - of course - was the distinguishing factor - along with its subtle mind altering affects.

The terrier was a little tipsy, but it was the taste that was unsettling him.

“My Gods that was horrible,” the terrier gulped.

“You’re protected now... until you piss it all out, at least,” the fox said, hunching his overcoat over his shoulders.

“Protected?”

“Any ideas?” Uresh asked, strolling down the street and occasionally peeking around corners. The buildings were generally in need of repair, as were the creatures stumbling in the dark. The fog was swirling around them like violet tentacles.

“I suppose my father is... in a dangerous situation? Or maybe you’ve gotten me drunk before you kill me, heh.”

Detective Greystone shot the young terrier a look. “Don’t joke about that, sonny. Not here. Not now.”

“O-Okay...”

That was when the fox bent down and examined a wet, rune-covered cobblestone, then took out a small notebook. He examined it for a moment. His tail curled, and then he flipped the notebook closed with a PLAP! and put it back in his inky-black overcoat.

“This way,” he pointed into the dark, purple vagueness with his gloved, furry hands.

Soon the two could hear voices in the distance and then, shortly after, the fog thinned, revealing a square with a fountain and creatures running to and from shadows. The dog could see a stately building with all of its windows emanating eerie red lights into the dark.

The fountain was a statue of a prostrate, winged hare angel weeping in anguish - her wings draped around her as she screamed silently. The water gurgling from her eyes was murky and dripped into a thick basin of equally murky water.

The terrier regarded it with concern.

“There’s our target,” Uresh said, pointing at the manor with burning red lights in each of its nine tall windows. “The Devil’s Salon. Your father is... there.”

The dog stopped.

“Don’t worry,” the fox said. “They’re not all devils.”

As they approached, the heat from the building began to burn off the mist. Immediately, the terrier felt clearer. Detective Greystone grabbed the handle on the door - a golden fox-like devil - and knocked loudly six times.

“I-” The dog began, but soon the heavy black door of the manor slowly opened, revealing a haggard old terrier in a pristine butler’s uniform.

“DAD!” He said, nearly leaping into the old dog’s arms. In the back were vague shapes flitting back and forth to raucous drum and violin music coming from somewhere deep in the manor.

“DAD! It’s been so long! It’s been-” He began to cry. The older dog was stunned. His gray eyes widened as he hugged the younger terrier.

“Dog!” Detective Greystone said.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m a little overwhelmed, detective!” The young terrier said, his arm still around his father.

“You owe me,” the fox said. “And do not visit the bathroom. And do not mention me. And don’t dance the ‘Devil’s Two-Step' no matter how ravishing the invitation. And do not speak to Lord Falseshadow. And don’t mention the Veilwinter Temple. And there are skeletons in the closet. Literal skeletons. Don’t open them unless you want some vigorous exercise. Got it?”

The terrier blinked.

“I-I get it.”

The fox turned and disappeared into the mist, his long brush seemingly waving goodbye.