A Dish Served Cold

Punch, Oilrag/Toggs

Since Oilrag's promise to help spring Punch from his cell, chaos has broken out in the Keep. Slaves—woodlander and vermin alike—have escaped from another part of the prison, the king's guard is in disarray… uncertainty rules the day. Three agonized days have passed since the seditious advisor's promise.

Punch looks thoroughly unamused. His brows are knitted over eyes that stare stonily ahead at the shadowy outline of his prison's bars. He is seated on a plain wooden bench that doubles as his bed, and which is supported by squat legs that squeak under the slightest shift in pressure. His elbows rest on his thighs. His back is hunched forward. A congregation of flies on a scratched wooden disk nibbles at the residue of a day-old meal, but despite their buzzing, the rat is indifferent to their activities.

Soft, padding footsteps echo slightly in the still air. A black-cloaked figure stalks to the door of Punch's cell, with something concealed in the cloak's folds. A single claw beckons Punch to the door.

Several moments pass before the sound of the footsteps even touches the bubble of Punch's consciousness. Even when it does, he is slow to turn, slow to notice the summoning gesture, slow to react. "W-w-what do you w-want with me?" His voice sounds depleted of its strength, as if it were the whisper of wind across rocks. "Has the k--k-king at last found h-his--his s-senses?"

A cold laugh echoes through the dungeons, and the hood goes down, revealing the distinctive slimy visage of Oilrag. "I wouldn't say that." The cloak is opened, revealing the item inside: A large sealed brown flagon, which Oilrag, with some difficulty, jams between the bars of the door.

Once the polecat's face resolves into focus, Punch rises quickly to his feet. "What k-kept you?" he demands, his voice gaining strength. He grabs the proffered flagon, swirls it, and lifts it to his nostrils. "--And wh-what have you b-b-brought me?" He eyes the contents of the vessel with a hint of suspicion.

"I took my life in my paws getting that. King's finest damson wine. Hopefully it'll keep you alive long enough to escape." Oilrag shrugs. "Understand that this is a game of patience. Rush things, and we die. Be patient, and we live."

Punch sips the wine, at first cautiously, then greedily. A trickle of the crimson substance charts a snaking course through the ivory fur on his jaw. In his thirst, he is indifferent. Lowering the flagon, he narrows his eyes. "P-p-atience?" Atomized wine bursts scornfully from his lips. "The other p-- prisoners have es-escaped. At l-least t-ten of them. Yes, I've heard about it. T-ten woodlanders can t-tr-traipse out of the keep, and you can't spring one l-l-l-lousy rat?" He sighs.

"They will be recaptured, and all the fuss over it will cover our own escape. And I have /these./" Oilrag raises his other paw, letting the sleeve of his robe slide back to expose the ring of keys in said paw. "Come on, we're going."

Punch is silenced by the appearance of the keys. He nearly drops the flagon. "Y-yes," he manages. "Of course." He looks around quickly to make sure there aren't any witnesses, or at any rate, any who matter.

Just before Oilrag opens the door, a pair of eyes glint in the darkness, and the rustling clink of chains can be heard, along with a familiar voice. "Well...If'n it ain't Mist'r 'igh-'n-Moighty 'isself..." After a moment, a young ferret emerges from the shadows, with a distinctive black slash across his face, along with a villianous grin. "Oi bin waitin' fer yew..."

Punch turns around unhurriedly, peering into the darkness from where he stands framed by the open door. "Ah, the hothead m-m-makes his appearance. Slept rather w-well, didn't you, child?" He turns again and strolls out of the cell before wheeling to face Toggs through the bars. "We are all of us eq-equal now. It will be m-much to your benef-f-fit if you underst-stand that."

The door isn't closed yet, but Oilrag swiftly slams it shut as Toggs reaches out. Although now the young ferret can't bring his chains around Punch's throat now, a paw slips between the bars and seizes Punch's throat in a grip of iron...a grip fueled by hatred and vengeance. "Equal 'r'not, Oi still got a score t' se'le wid yew, ratfoice."

Punch is no weakling, even after half a week with prison fare to eat. With cool alacrity born of his acrobat's training, he slips his wrists between the ferret's forearms and prizes them apart just far enough to take the pressure off his throat. "Your quarrel is n-not with me, ferret," he says, voice strained from exertion. For once, he sheds the tone of condescension.

"Least yew ain't callin' me choild," Toggs snarls. He tightens his grip, crushing Punch's paws up against the rat's throat. "An' moi quarrel's wid yew an' nobeast else! Yer d' one wot got me int' this 'ellhole!"

With his arms pinned behind him against the bars, Punch rotates his paws to grab hold of them. With startling speed, he lifts his legs and kicks them sharply backward toward his assailant's gut.

"Uuuuuuunh!" Toggs, not expecting this, is sent flying backwards, his grip torn from Punch's throat, and slams against the cell wall. "Yew sloimebag!" After a moment, he picks up a chunk of rock from the cell floor and hurls it with unnerving accuracy at Punch's head. Oilrag, meanwhile, locks the door again and vanishes down the corridor, laughing softly at the Builder's predicament. "Come. We're running out of time. You can beat oup ferrets later."

Punch is not spared from the force of his own kick; Toggs' tight grip breaks across his throat, winding him. He relinquishes his grip on the cell bars and slides to the floor, choking and gasping for air. Unlucky for him: his distress dulls his acrobatic reflexes. The hurled rock glances off a metal bar just enough to spare the rat a fatal blow, but not enough to prevent its striking him near the crown of his head. Blood springs instantly from the wound, and the battered rat crumples forward on the ground, moaning.

Toggs laughs madly. "Gotcher that toime, ratfoice!" He laughs for a while before settling back into the corner of his cell. Oilrag, meanwhile, returns down the stairs and crouches by Punch. "Are you all right?"

Punch staggers to his feet, using Oilrag's shoulder as an aid. "Just fine," he says, teeth gritted. He ignores Toggs' victory cackle, and though a few drops of blood sprinkle down from his battered head, he makes no move to touch the injury.

Another rock flies out, but this one misses intentionally. "Better get movin'! Run, ratty, run!" comes a triumphant laugh. Oilrag, meanwhile, tears a strip from his cloak to bandage Punch's wound.

Punch bats away the polecat's assistance. "I am fine," he repeats firmly. "We must consider our next move." He moves with exaggerated slowness toward the stairway.

Another rock, this one aimed more carefully. "Oi sedd /run!/" Oilrag quickly gathers up his robe and sprints in a most undignified manner to the stairs before any rocks hit /him./ "We'd best be leaving," he mutters to Punch.

Punch is prepared this time. He catches the rock--little more than a pebble, really--and tosses it easily aside. Without a further word to the troublemaker, he follows behind Oilrag, out of the dungeons.