A Stratagem Disclosed

Oilrag, Punch

Location: Fortress Forgotten: Throne Room

Many beasts have a place that is their own...a place they return to when they have nothing in particular to do...For Oilrag, as Chief Advisor, that place is to the right of the King's throne, even when it's unoccupied. Paws clasped, he observes the comings and goings in the throne room.

Punch, though his title has brought him here on a regular basis, nonetheless evinces considerable discomfort as soon as he steps into the fading grandeur of the throne room. His eye probes for detail. It lights on a half-gnawed mantle or an ill-used furnishing, on the guttering of the candles--still not replaced since his last visit. His even, elegant, but somehow reticent steps bring up abreast of the oily advisor, and he nods without enthusiasm or affection.

Oilrag returns the nod similarly, other than that standing literally as still as a statue.

Punch performs a slow about-face so that he now gazes back along the route he came, the same direction in which Oilrag stares. "Hmm," mumbles the architect. He clears his throat, eyeing the silent polecat obliquely.

Oilrag says, in a slick, sibilant voice, "Yes?"

Punch's high, halting voice demands, "Wh-where is the king?"

Oilrag's eyes flash for a moment bitterly, as if remembering some unjust action on another beast's part, then he says, "He is...indisposed, and as his Advisor, all dealings meant for him during such times must go through me. What is it?"

"Indisposed?" The explanation evidently does not satisfy Punch, but he withdraws his bitterness within himself, continuing calmly, "I o-only wished t-to report that the pier is--is comp-plete." He swallows. "And i-in excellent time, I might add."

Oilrag smiles. An interesting occurence, but for what it's worth, the smile seems far from genuine. "Good. You have exceeded expectations. You may live..."

Punch smirks. "How gracious of the /king/ to let me live." He idly raises a paw to inspect his claws. "You d-didn't ask how I ac-accomplished this in so little time." He shrugs.

Oilrag shrugs also. "Well, M'Lord Darkfur wouldn't care as long as it was done...But personally I am somewhat curious."

(A wily grin cuts across the rat's face. "Split the g-groups in two. One that worked the slowest only g-gets 2 drams pay." He claps his paws together and leans toward the unctuous advisor. "K-kept the fools at each others' thr-throats.")

Oilrag smiles evilly at the idea of such deception and trickery. "Perhaps such a plan, if applied on a larger scale, could get this place back in order." That's the closest he'll get to a compliment, and the first time he's suggested dissatisfaction with the empire.

Punch inclines his head slightly. "J-just my thinking. With the m-mines sputtering a-and ships lost, we--King D-darkfur must get... innovative."

Oilrag nods. "If it's not too late...Of course, sometimes we must take the initiative in.../innovation./" It seems that he's suggesting somewhat more rebellious thoughts.

Punch looks away and seems for the ensuing moments not to have heard the remark. The hall is quiet for the moment. Guards stand at the far end of the room, motionless except for the occasional postural adjustment. "Y... yes. One m-must keep options open." With a final nod to Oilrag, Punch departs the throne room.