Pier Pressure

Punch, Oilrag, Darkfur

Location: Dockyards

Punch has situated himself behind a makeshift desk, arranged on the boardwalk from found bits of unusable building materials. A steady breeze, blowing in over the western sea, has compelled him to anchor his papers with rocks. But despite the flapping of the pages and writing implements that won't stay where he places them, the rat's concentration is furiously fixed on the diagram before him.

Oilrag doesn't get out much, but the advisor is prowling along the boardwalk. His greasy white fur blows slightly in the wind. He prowls up to Punch and watches him.

Punch mutters to himself, but the contents of his words are indecipherable over the whisper of the wind. He doesn't seem to notice the polecat's presence.

Oilrag, as always keeping his paws clasped as if he's planning something, leans over behind the rat. "Whadd'r yew doing, rat?"

Punch's eyes drift up from the object of his study. His face is painted first with exasperation or annoyance, as if he expects yet another interruption from the foreman. When, craning backward, he sees that it's Darkfur's chief advisor, the architect's expression sours around the edges. "My job, Oilrag," he says with faint distaste. "An-nother pier out--" he points to the skeletal remains of a what was, until recently, a pier poking above the lapping waters of the harbor. "Sh-shoddy const- construction. Got -- t-oo reb-build."

"Well," the polecat says in a gentle yet sibilant and menacing voice, "You had better design it better this time...Or," he adds, his voice dropping, "It's the block for you." He unclasps his paws briefly to make a swift chopping motion, then returns them to their previous position.

The rat grits his teeth while eyeing the greasy fellow darkly. "It was not the d-design," he says in his halting, pinched voice. "Th-they aren't g-g-getting paid." He jabs his finger at the work crews. "All th'that keeps them working is the p-promise of booze at week's end. Even that I've had to f-fight for."

Oilrag shrugs airily. "That is not my concern, or the king's. If his servants wish to intoxicate themselves to lethal extents, tell them they must first complete a pier that will not fail. Then they will be paid their due."

Punch stares at Oilrag. "And what will you p-pay them with? King D-darkfur has been paying with p-promises for too long. They've gotten wise." A gust of wind tries to knock a quill of the table, but he manages deftly to snatch it before it flies away. "The mine isn't p-producing and the latest expeditions failed. And they know." He lowers his voice and leans toward the polecat. "The only thing left now is f-force."

Oilrag lays a shriveled paw on Punch's shoulder and speaks understandingly, but his voice has undertones of menace and deceit. "Punch, friend, everybeast here is suffering in such ways. Neither you nor I are paid as we should be. We all are feeling the effects of leaner times. buut we've been through such situations before. So, let su do our work and hope for more prosperous days

"Hmm," the rat responds. "I- Indeed." He looks at Oilrag for rather a long time before turning back to the documents on his desk. "Well, d-did you just come d-down here to ch-check up on m-me?"

Oilrag removes his paw, secretly relieved at ending the facade of warmth and understanding. "Yes...partly. M'Lord Darkfur also sent me to monitor the dockworkers themselves...Where are they?"

Punch smirks, "You d-do not get out as you should. Th-they are at the dockyard, of course." He points the way.

Oilrag nods. "Yes, yes, but this was first on my way there."

Darkfur has made the journey down from the white tower to the commonfolk, in highly cliched manner - the emperor is seated in a carriage borne by four loyal rats of the guard, and he bids them to take a knee to lower himself somewhat. "That's fine..." He stamps his foot at the corner where the rat was holding it a bit too low, and the rat raises it with a grunt. He claps his paws, and a fifth tailing the procession flanks the carriage and opens the veil to let Darkfur out. "Ah, Oilrag. Keeping on top of things here, then?"

With a sweeping bow that causes his black robes to flutter, Oilrag says, "Yes, m'Lord. Just reminding your architect here of what his fate will be if this dock does not hold, and telling him that the workers should not expect pay or alchohol until it is complete."

"Have there been complaints? I thought your first priority was to see that our mainlander guests were sufficiently fed and the parade for tomorrow's exhibition overseen? Has all that been done /already/?" The emperor shoves past him and looks across at the pier, "I thought I had instructed it bigger? Is that it? What am I looking at?" The ignorant leader shakes his head, "It doesn't very well seem like they want the good wine I've set aside for them, does it?"

Oilrag staggers a bit. "I do not know, Lord. I am not a builder. All I know is that it was not built to satisfaction."

Oilrag, fearing his ruler's wrath, flees to inside the palace.

Darkfur hms, and scowls, remembering his pride, "Well I /know/ that's the old one, you daft cat! Er, they had better get the new one in place before long, or my promise to them will go spoiled before they are to see it!" He huffs, and spins around, noting Oilrag's departure. "Zephyrcloud! Go see where Oilrag's gotten to, I'm not in the mood for his idea of hide and seek!" The rat departs post-haste, and the emperor smashes his paw against the side of the carriage, almost knocking it over, "Is this how the Empire is turning? Everybeast has been entirely too lazy!"