Spiced Rum

Saxifrage, Punch, Peridiscus

Location: The Knothill: Lounge

This evening finds the lounge mostly vacant, save for the slim figure of a polecat reclined in one of the chairs. Her head is tilted back, eyes upon the ceiling, though locked upon nothing in particular; Saxifrage is staring into space. A hand lifts to scratch the tip of her nose, but the gesture fails to break her idle concentration.

The subdued crunch of a thick carpet underfoot is the only sound that betrays Punch's approach, paired with the hesitant creak of buried floorboards as he shifts his weight gingerly forward. His head is hunched as an aid to peering through the dim light. "Ffound you." His high voice is bare; the padded room absorbs all resonance. Seeing no one else around, the young builder charts an itinerant course through the lounge, making stops at each curio that strokes his idle interest. He stops to pick up an olive wood pipe. He balances it across his forefingers and smiles.

His words resonate long before the jill pays them any heed; she stays inert, still transfixed by some invisible marvel on the ceiling. Eventually, Saxifrage inhales, and peels her head from the back of the chair with an audible effort. "Punch," she says, stooping forward. Her olive gaze only favors the rat for a moment, before it flicks to the table beside her. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Hmm." Punch continues to manipulate the long stem and deep bowl of the pipe, and to appraise it with a delicate eye. After an interval of silence rippled only by the chiming of a clock from the dining room, he looks up and smiles. The expression falters slightly when he sees her languor. "Er... l-lon-long day?" He hurriedly replaces the pipe and approaches awkwardly. "I did-dn't mean to be a bother. I-i-it's just so rare that I, I get a," his paws and eyes clench and unclench. "That I get aw-way." The inflection of his voice is poised to fall, but he stops there, punctuating the sentence with a jaw snapped shut.

Upon the table beside Saxifrage, there is a clay vessel--corked, but sticky with dribble. She lifts it with a torpid arm, dislodges its plug with a thumb, and dumps its amber contents into a tumbler. The sedate pace at which she accomplishes this suggests this to hardly be her first drink of the day. "Yes, they keep you quite busy," she says. "Would you like a drink?" The polecat raises the jug for Punch. "Spiced rum--papa had it imported from a neighboring isle. It'll thicken the hair on your chest."

"May not do much for your words, though," Saxifrage adds with a lopsided grin.

One of Punch's paws unconsciously strokes his chest. He nods, mirroring Sax's expression.

Saxifrage rises from the chair; she wobbles a bit, bargaining for equilibrium. "I'll fetch you a clean cup," she tells Punch, and moseys into the adjacent room. The jill is only gone for a moment. She returns, teetering beside the rat, with an unsullied tumbler balanced on her upturned palm. "I joined Anselm on a recent trip to the docks," Saxifrage says. "Ran into your chums from the castle--the fellow who split early from dinner, and the survivor from the lost fleet."

Punch still holds the paw to his chest as he extends the other to fetch the drink. He lifts it, smiling faintly over the rim, and puts away about half of it. He coughs a bit but nods gratefully. "E-excellent," he chokes. He lowers himself into the chair. "A m-meeting of the c-cats." He finishes the rum. "That w-will g-get tongues w-wagging in, in the town."

"Tongues will wag either way," she grunts, and drops into her own chair with no respect to grace. "And, at any rate, I think the dock beasts were mostly distracted by some.. tar spill." A hand strays to locate her cup. She fumbles a few times before finally locating the thing, but then lifts it to her mouth. "Difficult to be nosey when your flesh is sloughing off in sizzled chunks." Her eyes lid, and the jill draws a short sip from the tumbler. "Mmf."

"Nonetheless," Punch says, fingering his empty glass. "S-some of them are clever. Obs-servant. And our position m-must be def-fended." A claw elicits a chink from the rim of the tumbler. "Your k-kind must be very careful," he intones darkly.

Saxifrage's eyes roll sideways to Punch. "Our 'kind' has less to fret about than yours." She empties the rest of her cup, and leans to collect the clay jug. "Another?"

Punch's torso lurches forward, arm extended. "Please."

Saxifrage plucks the stopper from the jug again. This time, the jill chucks the cork across the room; it smacks a portrait square in the forehead, and she grins with mischievous satisfaction at her aim. Refilling Punch's glass, and her own, she says, "Now we have to finish it."

Laughs do not come naturally to the serious young rat, but he makes an effort at sharing in his hostess' conviviality. He elevates the glass in a reenactment of his earlier mute toast and slumps back into his chair. "You don't know how th-they spe-speak of you," Punch says, picking up the thread. "You c-cats have p-prospered and sought high st-station while the regular r-rats s-suffer." He eyes his drink before swigging it. "St-trong." He coughs again.

Without any warning, Peridiscus ambles from the bar carrying a bottle of port wine (not the best vintage, but one no one will miss very much) and a wide wine glass. "Nice shot," he casually remarks to his sister as he falls into one of the overstuffed chaises on the other side of the room from the other two. The polecat pours himself a glass of wine, plops the bottle on the table, and then proceeds to lean back and cross his legs, grinning at the pair impishly.

"But it is not by our hands that they suffer!" the jill snaps, indignant. In exasperation, Saxifrage finishes the remainder of her drink, and looks up to spy Peridiscus' arrival. "Peri." She settles back into the chair, vessel clenched in her lap. "Look who paid us a visit, brother," she says, bobbing her head at the obvious.

Peridiscus gives Punch a friendly smile and tips his head slightly in the best imitation of a bow manageable from his seated position. "It is a pleasure to see you as always, sir. I do beg your pardon for the interruption. Please, pay me no mind at all."

"I-it's not a problem," Punch says, standing. "I was j-just departing. Only came to s-say a word or, a word or two to your sister." He points rather than looks at her. "I realized i-it wa, wasn't important."

"Punch," Saxifrage drawls, penitent. "I didn't mean to frighten you off. Please stay!" She lifts the jug, wiggling it at him. "We've only just begun."

Peridiscus, half-risen from his seat in order to offer to walk the rat out, looks solicitously on for Punch's response.

Punch's arm cuts the air, turns his head aside in a look that brooks no protest. "You f-forget I was r-raised on grog and w-weak beer. N-not this f-f-foreign s-stuff!" He juts out an accusing arm at the bottle. "Where w-was your f-father's open invitation then?" He takes a sedative breath. "My ap-pologies," he softly preempts.

Saxifrage, defeated, returns the jug to her knees, but not before a heavy draw from its mouth. Her head hangs for a time, eyes lost inside the neck of the clay flagon. "No," she finally says. "Mine."

Peridiscus's face twitches as he processes Punch's outburst, and as no one is looking directly at him, he allows a touch of guilty dismay to slowly creep into his features before he schools them back to a (much smaller) polite smile.

Punch bows to Saxifrage, then to Peridiscus. As he's beating a hasty retreat, he points to the wine glass the brother is holding. "Wr-wrong glass," he mumbles impassively before showing himself out.

Saxifrage has no farewell for Punch--not even an affected smile. She remains glued to the jug, idly wishing she could crawl inside of it.

Peridiscus, surprised, darts a quick glance at his glass before looking up at the retreating rat again. "Sir, I'll fetch your coat....." he starts but trails off as Punch departs.

Saxifrage waits until the echoes of Punch's footfalls have left the hotel corridors. Then she stands, looking lost in her own home, and turns to Peridiscus. "Do you think it's true, Peri? Are we at fault for their suffering?" The jill's eyes are glassy with booze and despair.

Peridiscus sits back down and takes a prolonged sip of wine. When he answers, the polecat is looking downward and mumbling into his wine glass. "I doubt it's so melodramatic as all of that."