"There's a Tee-an-who-oh on the list, yeah. Weird name for a sheep."
"I think it's pronounced 'Tianhuo,' ma'am."
"You think? It's your name, lady. Whatever, get on."
"Oh, I mean it isn't—"
"We're leaving right now, get on."
Pom arrived at the docks without a moment to spare. As she and her dogs rushed over, Pom realized with horror that Tianhuo had failed to give her any kind of ticket, but fortunately for her Huoshan's diplomats had set up the journey in advance and booked her by name. Pom, or 'Tianhuo' as far as the staff are concerned, begins boarding the ship, only to be stopped partway up the ramp.
"Aren't we in a hurry?" Pom asks.
The crewman, a light-coated doe chewing on some gum, points behind Pom. "No pets."
"Hang on, I can't leave 'em behind, they're important."
"Then you'll have to forfeit your cruise. No pets."
"You dinnae get it, they aren't pets, they're..."
"Mhm?" The doe looks on, blowing a bubble.
Pom dances in place for a moment, before the idea comes to her. "They're my guide animals!"
The bubble pops. A sprite in a sailor suit immediately begins cleaning the doe's face, rolling another gumball into her mouth. "All of these are your guide animals?"
"I... I'd be lost without all of 'em." Pom says, flustered at how true the lie actually is.
"ᛒᛟᛈᛒᛟᛈ" says the sprite to the crewman.
"True, she is a sheep." the doe whispers back. Facing Pom she says "we're prohibited by law from declining service animals, your lucky day. If they cause any trouble, however, expect consequences."
"Thank ye so much, lass." Pom says.
"Get them on the ship. We're raising anchor."
"Sorry, sorry." Pom rings her bell and the dogs come running up, the larger ones nearly knocking the doe over. With a bitter look, she and the sprite follow, and the ship sails.
The ship is magnificent. It's massive, but every inch of it is luxurious. From the massive dining hall to the decadent bedrooms that make Reine's prison cell look like, well, a prison cell, to just the wonderous view of the frigid ocean from the deck of the ship, it's an awe-inspiring behemoth.
Pom experiences none of this. Pom sits with her dogs in the cargo hold, making sure none of them leave to cause trouble. The floor is cold metal, and Pom huddles close with the pack to avoid contact with it as she waits for her destination to arrive. Tianhuo, or whomever arranged it for her, probably didn't expect such an extravagant cruise to be spent like this.
If these pups would behave, I could run up and grab a snack... Pom thinks to herself. That thought is pushed out of her mind when, to Pom's concern, Woof begins whining for food.
"Ohhhh, poor lad. There's nothin' on this ship for sheepdogs, is there?"
A few hours later all four of her pups are whining. Och, if they'd just eat some clover... Pom's own stomach has begun growling by this point as well. Maybe, without any alternatives, the pups would at least try the greens?
Figuring there's no sense not to try, Pom instructs Mama and Papa to keep her puppies in one place and, second-guessing herself, ventures upstairs.
"'scuse me, could I ha'e seven orders of clovers and dandelions? Tae go."
The chef, turned around, asks "To go? What do you mean by this, it isn't as if—ah!" The chef is startled at Pom's appearance, as if the sudden appearance of a scrawny, baby-fleeced sheep was the most horrifying thing in the world. "Apologies, I simply wasn't expecting... it does not matter. Why to go?" The chef looks her up and down, wondering where she plans to fit those seven orders.
"They aren't all for me," Pom quickly assures. "It's for my..." Pom struggles to remember the term used by that crew member. "I have service animals in the cargo hold."
"You think my cuisine deserves to be eaten by mere animals?!"
"I dinnae mean it like that! But, um, they're hungry..."
Rolling his eyes the chef calls forth his assistant, an anxious fawn with budding horns. "Slap together some dandelion and clover. Seven leftovers boxes of them. Do it quickly."
"Y-Yes sir!"
Pom is forced to wait. Minutes and minutes pass without a peep from the kitchen, anxiety creeping up at what havoc may be wreaked by her pups without her authority. At any moment some important socialite may be getting harassed. What if I'm fined? I've nearly no salt! They'll make me work, and then I cannae deliver the letter! These thoughts and worse intrude Pom's mind as seconds turn to hours in her head.
"H-Here. Sorry for the w-wait."
Pom snaps her head at the fawn, carrying her order on a cart, who jolts back at the sudden action. With no more than a "thankyesomuchthankye" Pom grabs the cart and wheels it back to the hold at full speed. The fawn meekly asks for the cart back, running after her for a moment but giving up after a few steps.
Pom turns into the doorway leading down to the cargo area—forgetting entirely the stairway that makes up that passage. Pom narrowly avoids another tumble down a flight of stairs; the cart does not, careening downward and crashing at the bottom with an audience-attracting noise. The fawn chases the noise, almost bumping into Pom, and seeing the damage to the cart she puts her hooves over her head and starts crying.
"Don't cry, dinnae cry, it's okay!" Pom pleads, sliding down the stairway and almost falling face-first at the bottom. Pom rights the cart, perfectly fine other than some very minor dents, and tries to push it back up. This effort lasts for four steps before the cart tips backward, nearly crushing Pom underneath before it tips over entirely, causing a second crash almost as loud as the previous.
"Sacre bleu!" Pom sees the chef at the top of the stairway, visibly incensed, all attention focused on the dumbstricken fawn. "Apprentice! Explain yourself!"
"I-I-I-I-I—"
"You could've killed one of our patrons! Trying to push that down stairs? Look at it, damaged beyond repair!"
The chef steps forward, causing the apprentice to scrabble away from him. "I'll have this put on your record!"
He takes another step forward, trapping the fawn against a wall. "I'll have your pay docked to pay for this!"
Leering at the fawn the chef presses his snout against hers, delivering the coup de grace, "And I'll be telling your parents."
"W-W-W-Wait I-I—" stammers the fawn, eyes darting every way except in front of her, before being dragged away from the scene by her shirt.
Most of the boxes are flattened or the contents spilled out. Pom picks up the one mostly-unharmed box, balancing it on her head, and returns to where she hopes the dogs still are, rounding them up more important than the rest of the food. "Yip yip!" she shouts. "Tae think, I was worried about ye but I'm the only one who caused any trouble."
To her confusion, though, Pom bumps into a familiar patch of fur when she tries to check on her pups; Big Papa blocks the doorway. It's a rather large doorway, enough for Mama and Papa to fit through, but Papa spreads himself even wider than usual. With perhaps a bit too much optimism Pom lowers herself to maybe squeeze under Papa, but he simply sits down to stop it.
"'s wrong, boy? I need to check on the wee ones. Pardon," Pom says, trying to budge him. Big Papa stares as she futilely nudges him, a clear motivation to hide... something. "Papa, out! Out." Pom points at him, then toward the stairway, but in an act of clear defiance Papa stays put.
Placing her food down, Pom attempts to pull Papa by the scruff with her mouth, exerting what force she can. Papa still refuses to move an inch... and utters a low growl.
"What was that?!" Pom bleats at the much more powerful canine. "Don't ye take that tone! I am in charge of ye, dinnae growl at me! Bad dog, bad dog!" Papa's head hangs at the beratement, and with one final "Out!" from Pom, clears the doorway.
Pom re-obtains her meal, briskly enters the room—and then the meal falls to the floor as Pom jerks still. All four of her pups are accounted for, happily wagging their tails, not a worry in their little minds. Pom's attention is focused on the other items in the room, though: rats. Numerous, large, dead rats.
Mama enters from behind, tail also swishing behind her, one more rat in her jaws. As she catches sight of Pom her tail goes still, though. They stare at each other, an unspoken code broken.
Pom is the first to move, stepping toward the door. She doesn't look directly at Mama or the poor thing in her jaws. She says, barely above a whisper, "...thanks for finding food for 'em, Mama. Good lass."
Pom exits the room, and pets Papa a bit. He looks at her with a bit of sympathy, him having failed his part as well by letting Pom through, but Pom compliments his behavior just like Mama's.
This is what they have to do. They're carnivores, and the rats weren't meant to be on the ship anyway. They were probably stealing food from the kitchen. It's... not nice, but it's just how it is, and they even do their best to hide it. You know they're good dogs, always have been, always will be.
Despite these self-assurances, Pom has lost her appetite.
The remainder of the cruise is uneventful. Not wanting to let the herd out of her sight again, Pom stays in the hold. Their meal was enough to satiate them, and the pups bounce around the room looking to play as usual. As unsavory as it was to experience that first hand, Pom can't help but feel... nice, relieved even, that her dogs can and will be able to feed themselves. Should anything happen, should they get separated from her, they'll be okay, at least for a while.
"Excuse m-me." There's a quiet knock against the metal frame outside the doorway. Pom checks it and finds the fawn from earlier, as anxious as she was before. "W-We're arriving at the Goata—G-, the G-Goatani Islands in five minutes."
"Thank ye," Pom says. "I'm so sorry about earlier, I just really, really needed tae get back tae my dogs."
"It's okay..." The fawn peers in, gets one peek at the group, and backs out with a tiny squeak.
"They're friendly, I promise. I could introduce ye," offers Pom, but the fawn shakes her head, nearly tripping over her own hooves as she backs up. "Okay then. Your food was, uh, great!" Pom never actually touched any of the greens, but a compliment can't hurt, especially for something as hard to mess up as clover. With the most minute nod the fawn mumbles something unintelligible, then hurries back up the stairs.
What a poor, poor lass, Pom thinks. More nervous doing a simple job than I am when I'm... well, doing anything.
A few minutes later the loud rumbling of chains begins echoing through the hold as anchor is dropped. Pom shovels some of her food into her mouth, corrals her companions, and feels the warmth of sunlight as she surfaces to the deck of the ship. Such a shame she couldn't properly enjoy such a majestic cruise...
"Not tae trouble ye, lass, but where are the other ports?"
Rolling her eyes, the same doe from earlier wordlessly—and impatiently—draws a large circle in the air above her head.
"Wait, ye mean—"
"Yes. It's an island. Please, you're holding up the line."
Pom turns, and behind Big Papa is a score of angry deerfolk trying and failing to get around him. One buck, so bold, hangs halfway over the side in his desperation to shop.
"Sorry! Yip!" Pom instructs, clambering down the wooden ramp. Eager to stick close, the canines do the same, shaking the entire ramp and knocking several deerfolk off their hooves—or in one case off the side into the water.
Inhaling sharply, Pom mutters "Faster." as she and her pack leave the area. Pom doesn't look back to see the aftermath, or to hear whatever the attendant began screaming.