Saxifrage and Punch
Punch, Saxifrage
Location: Dead Hope Village
Punch's slim figure, wearing a light garment of dimpled cotton, slips into the midst of the small evening crowd that tumbles into the claustrophobic gorge of an alleyway that marks the entrance to the commercial district. But even amid the throng, the rat seems to stand apart, with his ivory fur and unhurried manner. While girthy grandmothers hustle purposefully toward the produce carts, the young advisor drifts like a leaf upon the surface of a rushing stream. His attention catches upon one of the carts, and he stops to inspect its sorry wares. Lifting a time-bruised strawberry to his nose, he draws a breath and grimaces.
Saxifrage likewise drifts among the market swarm, mostly without aim. In one hand, the polecat clenches a crumpled list, which she unfurls now and again for inspection, only to wrinkle her snout in annoyance, before crushing the paper into a wad once more. After several rounds of this, she stops, casts a sneaky glance to either side, and chucks the list nonchalantly over a shoulder. "What a wretched mob," the jill mutters, clearly unimpressed with the crowd.
Overhearing the remark, Punch looks up. His eyebrows seem to rise, suggesting surprise, but his dark eyes, amidst the tangle of dark fur, betray nothing. He starts to put the fruit back on the table. "No, no, no!" A hefty little rat, shorter and rounder than is typical of his kind, moves swiftly out from behind the cart. "Touch i', an' you bought i', chief," he growls in a voice already armed for battle." Punch stares disdainfully back at the merchant.
Saxifrage performs a lazy pirouette on the cobbles. Until then, the jill looked to take little notice of her surroundings; enough to be irritated, of course, but not so much as to be roped into interaction with anything. She watches for a moment, as beasts trample the wad of discarded paper, with a smile that just barely tugs the corner of her mouth. But the merchant's bellowing, from this distance, can hardly be ignored. Craning her head a notch, Saxifrage grabs a glance among the milling bodies, and begins to slink for the booth. "Is this foul fool giving you trouble?" she asks, when close, though it is unclear whether the question is meant for Punch or for the merchant; it could just as easily be directed at either.
Though poised for polite protest, Punch, seeing Saxifrage, looks down at the table again, cupping the strawberry in his arm. "N-naturally," he chokes in a high voice. "What with the..." he waves his arm vaguely and mumbles the completion of his sentence. Avoiding eye contact with either the unkempt rat or the polecat, he fumbles for his coin purse, paws about within it, throws too-generous recompense onto the counter, and turns to go.
"C-consider it a gift... from the k-king," the white rat says to the air behind him. The merchant snorts. "'at'd be a first."
It has become more clear that Saxifrage's derisive stare, fiery for being such a dull green, is locked wholly on the merchant. She slams a flat palm on Punch's coin before the fleshy fruitmonger get a chance to snatch it. "Gull dung!" she barks. "Punch, these fiends will rob you blind for rotten crops if you let them." She does not really mean to steal the wind from Punch's sails, watching as he attempts to depart with dignity intact, but the polecat is wildly intolerant of such scenes. "Let me look at that berry. At least pick a proper one, if you're going to empty the king's vaults for snacks."
Punch stops and lingers for a moment on the possibility of continuing his retreat. Something within prevails upon him to turn around, however, and face the young female--though sheepishly. Without a word, without even a glance at the smoldering fruit seller, he presents the deformed berry for Saxifrage's inspection.
Saxifrage's lip curls, for only a second, in disgust, before she gathers her composure, and steps to scrutinize the berry. The polecat contemplates its grotesque color, the divots gnawed by gnats, its vile existence. Holding the coin, which Punch had deposited on the booth, to her lower lip, she then turns to ogle the rest of the merchant's wares. Each product is in a worse condition than the last; in fact, many are deflated, hardly edible. Saxifrage tucks in her lip, and replaces the coin on the counter. "On second thought, you made the right choice." With a grim sigh, the polecat steps from the booth, moving in a way that beckons Punch to follow her into the square. "I remember being a kit, and everything at market was so vibrant--alive. Now it's.." she pauses, eyes rolling again to Punch's unexceptional prize. "Perhaps I've just grown old and bitter."
Punch follows. A weak smile tugs at his lips as he follows quietly, quietly listens. He tosses the pulpy fruit to a beggar leaning hollow-eyed against a wall. "N-no," he responds quietly. "Not b-bitter. Cer-certainly not old." He allots his walking companion a quick glance before sweeping his gaze over the crowd. His voice drops to a hush. "Things are bad. And-and I worry that the king is losing his grip."
"Indeed," is all the polecat says, silent for several strides, never paying Punch a single look. "But beasts are wont to talk about things they do not understand--not that I really do, either. I've even heard drunkards speak of coups." She practically spits the last word, then brings a thumb up to tuck a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. "I feel the sun has yet to set on this dynasty. And, in any case, half-starved creatures cannot put up much of a fight, let alone mobilize sufficient ranks to upset the throne."
"Yes, n-no doubt you're right," the builder responds, folding his limp arms across a small sheaf of documents. He continues at her side for a few more paces. He halts. "But I should not speak s-so openly with you," Punch says, suddenly suspicious.
That remark finally tows a short glance from the jill. It rolls sideways over her snout, but its meaning is ambiguous, as if hidden by her mustelid mask. She capitulates, dipping her chin just a notch. "I beg your pardon, Punch. I am perhaps a bit out of line; this wretched lane has rattled me. I do not visit it often." She clasps her hands at her waist. "Poor Anselm is out with a fever, and Papa ordered me to perform his errands." Her spite is almost palpable. "Unfortunately, I have misplaced my list."
"It's rare that I find m-myself here, too," Punch responds, still quiet but evidently glad of the diversion from grim economic matters. "How is your father?" He opens his mouth to continue, but it dissolves into a faint smile.
"He is well, though usually consumed by matters that do not involve me." The two have strolled nearly to the opposite end of the district, and Saxifrage, realizing that she was absently in the lead, stops, disoriented. She looks among the alleys and streets, though would sooner die than disclose her confusion. "Fortunately, he reserves his wrath for Peridiscus, so I am usually left to do as I please," she says, a bit smug.
"Er... except t-t-today," Punch manages after an awkward interval. "You, er, h-he sent you on an errand?" He slides to a stop. His momentum sustains the cloak behind him for a second or two then lets it fall. The rat clears his throat, noticing that the stroll has abruptly concluded. "D-does your father still... D-does my name still come up?" He turns away, seeming to take a sudden interest in a shop's open doorway.
Saxifrage follows his eyes into the shop, but then retraces their course, and her own olive gaze stops on Punch's face. The sun as begun to set behind the shops, and, as day wanes, shadows gradually suffocate all light in the street; lanters flicker to life, but things, for now, are very gray. "I don't think he'll be sending me again," she says with a faint smile. "Name? Oh, he spoke of the promotion. But your name? One of many, I promise you." The polecat reaches to untether her hair, allowing the tousled gold to fall upon her shoulders, only to be promptly gathered up again and retied, free of wind damage. "Tell me, can you still juggle?" Jun 12, 2012 at 5:17 p.m.
Punch laughs a voiceless laugh, eyes on his feet. He walks a small, nervous circle on the cobblestones that brings him round to face the other way. He nods. "A-a a bit." He looks up at her. "Yes. I-it's not something you lose. D-done it since I was a p-pup, you know." His typically unaccented voice breaks briefly into a more colloquial tone. It retreats again within him, like an apparition at the window of a haunted house.
"Yes. I see. Once a fool, always a f--" Saxifrage stops herself. Evidently her mother was a viper, because there is little the jill can do to quell the constant venom. She clears her throat, penitent, and then looks about. "Where have you taken us, Punch? I do not know this place."
Punch seems to notice his surroundings only when prompted to do so. "M-me?" he protests. "'Thought y-you were leading. As I said, ...d-don't get much." The pair has stumbled over the threshold of a darkened store that appears to be void of life. Its teeming shelves appear to make up for the lack. Objects large and small, and selected seemingly without reference to value, use, or visual interest, crowd every surface. In some places, they hang two layers thick, like strange fruit, from lines of string. "S-smells a bit," the rat says. "Likely some-beast's... cupboard or s-something."
Saxifrage brushes past him. "How strange," she says, voice quiet, lest she awaken some unknown threat, lurking unseen in the disorder. But curiosity outweighs her fear; the jill walks along a particular shelf, fingertips gently contacting the various objects. She withdraws her hand, wiping the dust on her cloak. "And for the door to be open." A chill lifts her hackles, but Saxifrage is quick to comb them before Punch notices.
Punch hangs back near the doorway. "Mm-hmm," he acknowledges and peers about from the safety of his chosen station.
Saxifrage narrows her eyes at Punch, seemingly irritated by his noncommittal hum. Then again, maybe she just can't see him well; he is simply a silhouette against the doorway. Turning from the rat, she inspects a nearby table. While there are many trinkets and gadgets littered about, the purpose of a particular collection is very apparent. "It's set for tea. Who in toad ponds vacates a place at tea time?" As she speaks, the polecat circumnavigates the table, until she halts, wide-eyed. "Oh. Oh oh oh." Her leg has collided with the lurking unknown: heavy, damp, fleshy. Perhaps it is all in the mind--her nerve has broken--but Saxifrage has no intention of furthering this investigation. "Oh oh ew oh," she stammers, hurtling for the door.
Saxifrage's flight takes out all manner of bric-a-brac. Things clamor and rattle in her wake.
Punch hovers, bemused, by the doorway for a few moments before following the polecat back into the crowded street.
