A Persistent Pest
Toggs, Punch
Location: Dead Hope Village
Sometimes Toggs, by preference, will choose to hang out in the village rather than the fortress...or, as in this case, by default, after the guards caught him stealing food and chased him out of the fortress. He managed to lose them in the village square, and now sits on the edge of the gutter, munching on the fish he managed to hang on to.
The village square looks rather a sorry sight nowadays, peopled with beggars and the timeworn bones of empty wooden stalls where once commerce reigned. Refuse from bygone revelry has been recently swept off the central cobbles of the courtyard to a spot at the far corner, where a substantial midden of discarded bottles and shells now resides. The humidity of summer has summoned flies to the island, and one buzzes near Punch's ear. He swats it away almost unconsciously. His concentration is fixed on his surroundings, but his eyes are oddly abstracted, as if he's seeing not what's there but what could be... Watching him and pacing close at hand is a four-man contingent of rats, waiting for orders.
Toggs knows Punch, at least by name, if not personally, and the young ferret looks up at the rat and his companion rats. "Wondah wot' s going on?" he mutters.
Punch walks carefully in a straight line, planting one foot neatly before the other. It's not quite as easy as it looks; the cobbles are uneven: lifted here or sunken there, no doubt from the abuse of the rain. His paw runs across his chin and, having duly considered something, he begins nodding--a sort of signal to the rats who stand uneasily in his wake. "Er... sir?" one of them grunts.
Normally Toggs would be scampering out of the area at teh sight of the formation of rats, but he stands (or in this case, sits) his ground out of curiousity. Finally he speaks up. "Wot're yew doin' out 'ere?"
The interruption barely phases the usually nervous Punch. He squints without recognition at the young ferret, then faces his workers without answering him. "S-start dig-ging," his high voice commands with as much authority as he can pour into it. "Here." With his arm he draws an invisible line through the cobblestone square. A moment's pause is all the rats allow themselves before they trundle off to fetch their tools from the pile.
"Wot's goin' on?" Toggs asks, a note of concern in his voice. "Wot would y'wont wi'diggin' 'ere?"
Punch turns again to Toggs, this time taking a couple steps toward him. "I am on b-business f-from the king, ch-child!" he spits, inflated by authority. "Mm-ove along!" A small group of onlookers has clotted at the edges of the scene.
Now the ferret is mad. "I don't 'move along' for a stuttering bully. I come and go as I pleases, an' yew lot don't give a demn about us starvin' peasants till yew trips on us. I don't take orders from a beast wot doesn't care if Oi live'r'die."
The rats, if they are sensitive to Toggs' gripe, show no sign of it. They have already hefted a few stones from their muddy sockets, and a pile grows nearby. Punch forces a laugh. It comes out as a staccato "Ha!". "Ssseem to be eating w-well eenough," he manages, trying vainly to conceal the speech defect beneath a patina of intentionality. He points to the remains of the fish. "Mm-move along!" he repeats, to the little crowd of rubberneckers.
"Well fed? Hah!" The ferret's own laugh carries strong undertones of bitter hatred. "Tha's the first meal Oi've 'ad in a week, yew soft 'eaded ole windbag! An' if Oi 'adn't stolen it from yew Imperial lot, Oi'd 've died fof starvation!"
Punch wheels coolly around to oversee the progress of his latest project, effectively disengaging with the young hothead. "G-good work." He barks words of encouragement that, coming from him, sound like words read from a foreign dictionary.
"Good work? Wot's that gonna accomplish? Pullin' up rocks ain't th'same thing as feedin' hungry beasts," Toggs says from behind, picking his teeth with a scrap of fishbone.
"The qu-q-queen's bathhouse must be b-built," Punch sputters, spinning to face the persistent little pest. "S-sacrifices must be made!" He eyes the workers. "D-don't stop!" he cries, warningly.
"Bath'ouse! Yew'r worried wether the queenie, who, by tha way, 'asn't done a demned thing to 'elp anybeast, kin wet her royal paws when there's a 'ole ocean right nearby that could do tha' job! Out 'ere, if a beast wants a bath, the only ploice they'll get 'un is in tha gutter, if at all! Yew short-sighted scum! Sacrifices! Yew know 'ow much the beasts out 'ere have sacrificed?" The ferret yells.
A wicked grin distorts Punch's strange visage. He lifts a finger to his mouth and whistles. "Little f-fool," he hisses. "You d-do not s-speak of the queen like that!"
Desperately, Toggs searches through the pockets of his roughly woven burlap tunic using one paw. Finding what he's looking for, he seizes the object, and pulls it out, brandishing it before the rat, as well as any onlookers. The item is revealed to be a long, jagged dagger. "Fool or no, yew cowardly scum'll never take me aloive! Step forward anybeast wot wants ter die!"
Punch's whistle summons a pair of guards from the direction of the docks. Despite the heat, they are clad in the heavy leather armor that is the livery of their trade. The architect whistles again to draw their notice and points to Toggs. "I w-would run now, if I w-were you," he says, leaning toward the ferret and giving him a discreet wink.
In a loud, unafraid, strangley calm voice, Toggs says. "No." Recieving several bemused looks from bystanders, he says, "No. Oi ain't a-runnin' no mores. It won't make a difference. Yew beasts'll still try ter lord it over us all, and we'll submit. Terday it all ends. Today I foight. Oi ain't scared of yew rats, nor no otherbeast livin. Come and die."
As the two guards swoop in to flank the rebellious kid, Punch sternly advises them. "T-take him to the dung-geons. L-leave him unharmed." One guard nods boredly; the other looks faintly quizzical: "Oon'armed? Ay, as yoo loike!" Both draw their sabers and raise them, teeth bared. They circle Toggs at a distance.
"Un'armed? Tha' sure ain't 'ow Oi'm gonna leave /yew/ lot!" Toggs says defiantly. Ignoring the guards, Toggs runs straight for Punch with a wild scream, his blade jabbing forward at the rat's throat.
Punch's present office does not often afford him an opportunity to put his acrobat's skill to work. He evades the charging blade easily, with an economical sidestep and a spin. He lets the guards do the dirty work; they may be less agile, but they're decidedly more powerful. They split again, one going around the opposite side of Punch, the other charging right after Toggs' back--both brandishing their blades.
Knowing there's nothing for it, and that with a life like his, he's got nothing to lose, Toggs, being of lesser size, ducks under the blades and thunks his dagger into the footpaw of the guard behind him.
The wounded guard screeches and hops back, fluently cursing the feisty ferret. He swings his blade down, but Toggs rolls to the side, nimble from many seasons of hiding and evasion.
Punch withdraws from the fray. His eyes remain firmly planted on the unpredictable little hothead, apparently indifferent to the raging of the injured guard. The other guard's anger is stoked; he growls and rushes forward, swinging his blade (and seeming to forget Punch's admonition not to hurt Toggs).
"Har! Yew can't even get yer own beasts ter foller orders. No matter, Oi wants ter die any'ow." Toggs says, his voice almost friendly for a moment. The blade scratches the dodging ferret's shoulder and the lad screeches. He rises again, lowering his head, and charges, swinging his dagger wildly. He bulls the guard aside and heads for Punch again. "Oi'll gut yer if it's the last thing Oi does!"
Punch is quick, though. He manages with a single, deft movement to put a guard between the ferret and himself.
Toggs just rams his blade into the guard instead. "Out o'my way, yew slime!"
The guard's leather armor turns the blade aside, but the impact in his midriff jerks his arms forward. He makes a grab at the kid's back while the other guard limps up from behind with a blade pointed at Toggs.
The guard's paw snags Toggs, and the ferret is caught. However, Toggs struggles madly, scratching, kicking, biting, and still stabbing.
With a surprising amount of effort, the guard behind Toggs succeeds in looping his arms under the ferret's. He squeezes him tight against his chest and tries to still the fighter's flailing sword arm.
Toggs savagely bites at the throat of the guard in front of him. Then a crack over the head from a spearbutt of a nearby guard, and, stars exploding in his head, the young ferret slumps. "He ain't dead," one guard grunts, and it's true; the lad still breathes, however weakly.
