Pachelbel's Canon 1
The first part of a longer story. Nothing graphic in this one - it's possible later, but probably just romance. Could that be... ~foreshadowing???~ you'll just have to wait and see!
The most important rule of being a magician? Never, not once, do you explain the trick. And in poker, it's better to fold than show your hand. I'm not a magician, nor a poker player, but I am a con artist, and the same rule applies. Information is our currency, and the less everyone else knows about you, the richer you are.
There are a few things you can see about me. Unfortunately, I can't do much about that. I'm a mutt, certainly, but what kind, you probably aren't sure. Could my mother have been a German shepherd? No, I'm a bit too short and thin - unless I was malnourished as a child. Or maybe, you think, I have a distant whippet relative, my paternal grandmother, perhaps? It's hard to say. My fur is a mottled, ruddy brown, but I have a handsome face. I know, because I hear the ladies chitter as they walk by when I perform. Dashing, but a tramp, it's such a pity, I overheard the other day. Dashing! Imagine that.
Other than that, it's hard for you to know much else about me. Where did I come from? No idea. Even what I ate for breakfast this morning - if I ate breakfast, that is - would be almost impossible for you to ascertain.
As you see me now, I am standing on the northeast corner of Shrewsbury and Main. I'm wearing a brown overcoat and ill-fitting, patched up trousers, which you might presume are hand-me-downs. My feet are bare. Am I too poor to afford shoes? Perhaps. Or, perhaps I simply like the feeling of the cool, wet ground beneath my paws. The grey drizzle of morning has lifted, and so I've removed my violin from its case and begun to play. Today, I've chosen Johann Pachelbel's Canon in D. It's a simple melody, but cheerful, which should go over well on a dreary winter morning such as this. Being a canon, it can also be repeated endlessly, which is convenient for a street performer. I hardly have to think about playing the music at all, and instead can focus on the reason I'm actually here: reconnaissance.
I am performing on the northeast corner of Shrewsbury and Main today not because it is a particularly lucrative location for a violinist, but because, across the street, on the _south_east corner of Shrewsbury and Main, there is a flower shop: Wren McDonald Florist, owned by none other than the petite, markedly aged, and possibly senile Wren McDonald herself (who is, much to the confusion of her more dim-witted customers, a common vole, not a wren). Now, you might be thinking that a florist is probably not the most obvious target for a con. Flowers aren't cheap, but they're not diamonds, either, and add in the high rent for this area, the waste associated with specializing in a perishable product, and Mrs. McDonald's secret (or so she thinks) late-night trips to the chemist to refresh her supply of laudanum, the possibility that this business makes any sort of profit at all is - what's the word? Oh, yes - _extraordinarily_unlikely.
However, certain people, such as myself, happen to be privy to an important fact: the recently deceased Duchess of Norhamsted's great fortune, due to a series of strange and occasionally suspicious marriages, annulments, illnesses, carriage accidents, and at least one likely murder, will soon be bequeathed, in its entirety, to none other than the aforementioned Wren McDonald herself. She might seem an easy target for a con, but of course, I'm not the only person interested in acquiring this fortune, so I can't be careless: hence the violin. They never catch you hiding in plain sight.
I reach the end of the song and begin anew with those slow, simple introductory notes, scanning the other side of the street closely. Mrs. McDonald only just opened up shop, and hasn't had any customers yet. The café next door is bustling with early morning patrons on their way to work, as well as a few more leisurely coffee drinkers chatting or reading the morning's paper. I've been here all week now, long enough to recognize all the regulars. One in particular is making me nervous. He's an older fellow, a badger, going a bit grey around the muzzle, and he's been watching me. Of course, lots of people watch me - I am performing, after all. He may simply be a regular who happens to appreciate the violin, but I can't assume he's not also up to something. Occasionally I chance a look in his direction, but I don't want to be too obvious. He seems very much to be enjoying the show, but then something in his expression changes. Does it look like surprise? It's hard to tell at this distance. I sense motion behind me, but before I am able to ponder any of this further, I feel a sharp crack on the back of my head accompanied by a flash of light, and then ink, pooling around my vision, until all fades to black.
As I come to, I feel a hand on my neck, searching for a pulse, another squeezing my shoulder.
"Are you alright?" A voice says.
The pain in my head is overwhelming. I blink and look around with blurry eyes. A black and white form takes shape above me. It's the badger, he's holding both my shoulders now and looking down at me with concern.
"Frankly, I've been better," I say trying to sound chipper, though it comes out pretty weak.
"You look a bit rough," he says. His voice is a little higher than usual for a badger, but worn by his many years.
"I feel as if I've been hit in the head with a shovel" I say.
"Just a trowel," he responds.
"That's it, a trowel?"
"Was a big fellow," he says, "I'd hate to see what he could do with a full shovel."
"Hm." I gaze at the ground in front of me. I prod gingerly at the back of my head, and feel the fur is wet with blood. My violin has been smashed to bits, too. The refuse is lying just a yard or so away in the street. I can always steal another, but the message is clear. Someone knows exactly what I'm up to here, and they don't like it.
"A big fellow, what'd he look like? Anyone else?" I ask.
"Big one was a red deer, large antlers, but one tip was broken off. Was traveling with a fox, but the fox just watched," he pauses, "you run afoul of anyone recently?"
I pretend to ponder this for a bit.
"I don't think I even know any important people," I say, innocently, "must just not have been big fans of Pachelbel."
He chuckles at this. "Listen, about that," he says, "you're quite good. My first violin just graduated, and we're holding auditions in a few days."
I blink slowly, taking this in, my mind is still not fully functional. "You work at the conservatory?"
"I run it," he says.
Now things are getting interesting. An in at the conservatory could be life-changing. Instruments to steal, wealthy patrons to swindle. I like where this is going, but I play dumb.
"That's so kind of you sir, but I'm afraid my violin has been, well, shattered." I look longingly out into the street, and my lip quivers, as if I might be about to cry.
"That's no worry, young man," he says, "of course we have spares you can borrow. Now, do you have somewhere to sleep tonight, or would you like to stay in the dormitory? It's a bit unorthodox, seeing as you haven't even auditioned yet, but for a nice young man like you, especially in such a hard spot, I think we could bend the rules a bit."
"I..." I hesitate.
"Oh, there's no need to be embarrassed, come on, let's get you cleaned up."
He helps me to my feet, claps me on the shoulder, and we head off. I can't believe my good luck, this could turn out even better than the Norhamsted fortune - but I make sure to look as pitiful as possible as we walk. I may have been beaten in the head with a trowel this morning, but I think today is going to be a very good day indeed.