Fun and Games 1

Wallace , Notch, A guard (Riverdale), Punch, Saxifrage

Location: Isle of the Unforgiven: Arena Dungeons

Notch takes an interest in one of the captives.

A guard stands at ease by the side of the door, his limbs loose, his paws lightly grasping a spear. He raises a finger to scratch his nose and sniffs, muttering something darkly and quietly about "bloody" something or other.

The dungeons hum quietly with the usual sounds of unhappiness as they prepare for the emperor's grim festivities. There isn't much going on at present, but -- hark, here comes the contingent now, leading a line of captives to the cells. A rat here, a weasel there, and - looking completely out-of-place - a pair of pygmy shrews, looking much the worse for wear.

"Ya got sumthin' ta say do ya mista guard?" Notch makes his way into the dungeon unnounced, having been here several times before and before anyone can say anything in reply he starts to inspect the residents of the dungeon, "So we got some new one's eh? Don't look too tough eh?"

The guard straightens twice, first at the entrance of the new captives and yet further, stiffening to textbook attention, as the young prince stamps in. "Ye'ssar, jest in!" he clips in a jowly voice. "No, sar! No' tuff!"

The iron door slams shut on the new fighters-to-be as a rat throws himself against the bars, pleading - before he's jabbed back by one of the guards' staves. One of the shrews carries the other to the back, meanwhile, and tends to him as best he can, giving the other occupants a constant stream of wary looks.

The other rat bores him, he's heard it all before as he ignores all but the shrews that seem a bit of curiousity to the young prince, "Them two, ya really think they can last very long? I mean, they ain't exactly all that impressive really is they?" Notch turns to the guard who straightened as his arrival, pointing to him, "You, you make speak."

The guard, looking stricken, grapples mutely for words, "Er... Oi, er..."

Notch grumbles, pointing to another guard, "Useless fool, " Notch mutters.

The ferret by the cell door clears his throat, loudly. "Them's new priznuhs for th' fights, sah!" he barks. "The Unmentio--er, the Parti.. cular.. icles sent 'em down, sah!"

"They any good in a scrape, ain't going to make for boring entertainment is they?" Notch approaches the cage, still curiously glancing at the shews, "Hey you lot, you shrews ya ain't gonna die too easily is ya?"

"Donno, sah!" the ferret answers. The rabble scatter from the emperor's heir, drifting hurriedly to either side; meanwhile, the shrew is just audible at the back of the cage, tending to his limp companion. He eventually turns, struggles to his feet and wipes a smear of blood from his mouth, gathering up the shards of his broken defiance. "An', an'.. who's -you-, then?"

Notch laughs, grinning at the shrew, "Oh, I think I like this one, " An excited notch approaches the cage further despite the apparent danger in doing so, and it isn't a moment later that the rat that was pleading before approaches again and gets a painful crack to the head with the staff and is soon laying motionless on the floor, painful sounds enough to let them know that the rat is still alive. The prince is oblivious to this though, still watching the shrews, "I'm da prince ain't I guard? I say we make them two shews fight each other maybe, that I think would be terribly entertaining."

As Notch approaches the guards around the cage tense up, keeping a much closer eye on the ones past the bars. The stocky little shrew barely moves a much-abused muscle at the taunt, the defiance coming back as the prince gives him all the anger he needs to prop himself up with. The only sign of emotion is his fists, as they curl and uncurl themselves.

Notch laughs in response, "This one amuses me greatly, funny little shrew with his big ideas, " Notch grins toothly, "Would you like that? The two of ya forced to fight least both of ya be killed? What would you do then little shrew?"

The guard by the door quietly repositions himself by the bars of the cage, just near enough that his lance might extinguish any quarrels in their infancy.

The shrew mutters an oath and turns his back on the prince. "I'd fin' you," he answers, as he limps back to his comrade, "an' I'd wring your bloody neck."

None of this seems to be taken very seriously by the prince who just laughs and laughs, "Funny little shrew, and what if I was to spare your life and save ya from the arena?"

"C'mon, Cogsie. Come on. Siddup, eyes open." The prince goes ignored. "Sarge, izzat.. you..?" "Oh, good.. yeah, it's me, Cogsie. Siddup, an' that's an ordah." The two carry on just on the cusp of hearing, the younger shrew clearly not in good health, and his superior starting to bandage him up with whatever filthy rags come to hand.

The dungeon echoes with the laughter of young Notch, "I can't say I like the other one too much, guards kill the other one."

"Er, me lord," says the jowly guard, remaining positioned a lance's length from the little brat. "Wif all respect', me lord, dem pris'ners dee property uv 'is 'oighness emp'rah Dahfur. Ee's, er..." The rat's languid manner of speech does nothing to impede his thoughts, "Plannin' a spectacle for yew, me lord."

The sergeant draws himself up, moves between his shipmate and the door, balls his fists; for all his cuts and bruises and mysterious burns, the look of barely-upright anger in his eyes dares Notch to come inside.

"Aw, well I guess I can wait, " Laughing at the response of the shrew, which apparently doesn't fail to amuse the young prince, "A spectacle eh, ya'll aught to be proud then you lot and try to be entertaining the rest of you. Ya can learn a thing or two from this one, " He points to the sergeant.

Once the immediate danger's past - or so it seems, anyway - the indicated sergeant turns his back on the prince again and sets to bandaging Cogs again, tearing strips from what's left of his own trousers and muttering what's undoubtedly an educating journey in profanity.

This ail is amusing as ever to te young prince but curiousity trumps amusement and the young prince is starting to ache from laughing so much, "Enough, I'm tired of laughing so tell me a story, your story slave. Who are you and how did you come to be here?"

"Fink you got me a bit wrong, rat." The shrew eventually finishes his work, pats his comrade on the back, mutters something encouraging and shoots Notch a venomous glance over his shoulder. "I'm jus' 'ere on 'oliday."

"Heh, maybe I should see if I can convince my father to make ya court jester. Ya a funny one ain't'cha?" Notch turns to the guard, "What about poking him a little... ain't gots to kill them, just encourage that one to talk maybe?"

The guard hesitates a moment before adjusting his lance and lacing it between the bars. "Er, which one did yer 'ave in mound, me lord?"

Notch points to the funny one, the sergeant.

Wallace keeps a wary eye on the lance as it ventures into the cage, tensing up to start something.

Notch asks, "Talk, or would ya rather I have them poke at the other one?""

"You done playin' games yet, rat?" the shrew snaps.

Notch hmphs, "Well, I was thinking of saving ya, sparing ya since I'm kindly like that but ya ain't giving me a very good reason to do so is ya?"

With undue enthusiasm, the ratguard screws up his face into a terrible expression and delivers the bold shrew a sturdy poke in the flank. "Maybe dat'll loosen 'is tongue, ey, me lord?"

There's a flicker of movement as the lance comes forward, but not fast enough. The sergeant yells out, cursing and stumbling back. "What you bloody want from me?" he spits, in a tone that might otherwise be a demand if he hadn't been beaten and locked in a cage.

Notch eyes light up at the pain from the shrew, and grins at the guard, "Aye, good 'one, " Then to Wallace, "Ya name would be a good start eh?" Notch muses, "Less ya want me to call ya shrewface or I don't know, somethin', am sure this guard here has a few more creative names in mind eh?"

"Wallace Clearweathah." The shrew musters the strength to stand up tall, though he winces, favors one leg. "Sahgeant, Gweriller Union o' Shrews in Mossflowah."

The guard withdraws the lance to his side. Judging by his smirk, he's pleased to have curried the fickle young royal's favor, even if such preference is fleeting.

"Wall-ace, " The young prince tests the name on his lips, "See guard, ya give a slave a little "encouragement" and he'll play right along, ain't that right Wallace?"

Wallace's jaw tightens. He doesn't answer, but shoots another angry look over his shoulder at the prince.

Notch stifles a yawn, backing away from the cage, "You're beginning to bore me slave."

"Is that right," Wallace mutters. Now that the lance is out of the cage he returns to keeping a wary eye on the other, injured shrew, with half an ear on the events outside his new little world.

"Yes, but ya can unbore me by answering more questions and mindful of Mr. guard here who would be ever so cheerful to give you a good poke or two." Notch grins.

The shrew's ear twitches. "I'm listenin'," he says, without turning.

Notch smiles, "Good, so ya ever killed anybeast? I guess that's why ya here though eh?" Meaning the arena rather than somewhere else as a common slave.

"S'pose you might ask y' mates upstairs," Wallace answers. "Th' ones what call 'emselves 'Particulars'."

"I'm asking ya, and I think they rather tell me how they'd like to kill ya if I know ya answer, " That nasty grin of Notch's has returned, toothy and rat like.

Wallace half-turns. "Already talked to 'em, me an' Cogsie did. They wasn' real bloody polite, neithah. An' your answer's yes."

This stirs the prince's curiosity and he approaches once more closer than he should to the cage, grabbing the bars as he stares in at the shrew, "How old were you when you killed your first beast? What was that like?"

"Hah!" Wallace turns and faces Notch, his expression colored with disbelief. "You, a rat, an' you ain't... hah!"

"What's that suppose to mean, and ya want a nice poking again?" Notch responds angrily.

The guard compliantly tightens his grip on the haft of his weapon.

The shrew sobers up a bit at that. "Hah. I don't believe a word'ah that. You an' your lot kill plenny'ah things."

"Poke him, make the bastard pay for making fun of me, " Notch glares, his anger only rising as he grips the bars tighter and hisses, "Answer the bloody question!"

Darkfur nods to Punch and Saxifrage, looking over his shoulder, and after a bit of distraction by the kiss and the queen's embarking into the carriage, complains, "Well, do I need to shout out the order?" Immediately, the highest ranking officer gives a forward march command, and the king strolls nonchalantly alongside, allowing himself to drop back adjacent to the carriage, "Beautiful day, your highness... it will be hot in the arena, though, and full of excitement for the woodlanders' deaths. Shall you make the calls for their lives today or I?"

The guard is more than ready to obey. He slips the sharp point of the lance into the cage again and indulgently lets it fall to rest on the captive sergeant's back. "Answer 'is question, boy," he growls, engorged by Notch's encouragement with unwonted power.

Wallace slumps forward, one arm in front of him and the other clutching at his back, and curses in pain. "Agh--bloody--damn--"

Notch hisses, "Answer the damn question, and don't you dare mock me again ya stupid shrew!"

Wallace grits his teeth and turns to face the rat, struggling to get to his feet. "What /was/ the stupid question?"

The guard's grip slips, and the lance-tip tumbles off Wallace's back.

Punch and Saxifrage enter...

Some distance away, within the dark yawning bowels of the arena dungeons, the rattle of a door sends forth its echo into the chamber, to mingle with the groans and shiftless pacing of the enslaved. The door opens with a heavy grind that drawls into a noisy pivot on its hinges. Punch pulls the keys from the lock, careful to dampen their jingling. He has led Saxifrage through the secret back passages of the arena. He raises a silencing paw to his lips as he guides her into the dank chamber.

"The stupid question was when ya killed your first beast, and if ya enjoyed it and that's enough for now mista guard, " Notch calms as Wallace finally answers, still holing to the cage as he stares intently in at the shrew.

"Don' remember when it was. It don' matter, anyhow." Wallace shakes his head, watching the rat prince carefully. "Ain't somethin' no sane beast likes doin'."

"Where are you taking us?" she had asked, just as the pins clinked in the lock mechanism, but Saxifrage is hushed by his gesture. The polecat inches into the chamber, poised on her toes, with a fist clenched on Punch's shirt. This is not her idea of a romantic retreat. Though she half-regrets following him, the jill cannot deny her own curiosity, and pushes forth.

"Ya seem to think us rats are different though eh, and ya honestly don't remember? I don't believe you, " Notch eyes the guard, "Do you want him to hurt you again or are you going to answer?"

"It was a bloody long time ago!" the shrew snaps.

Punch taps his ear and points in the direction of the sounds. "The empire," he says in a whisper, "is in b-bad enough condition now. But im-imagine..." he trails off and raps his ear once again. They creep forward just far enough that they can see Wallace through another side of the cage.

"Fine, enough questions.. I'm bored of you, " Notch lets go of the bars and turns his back on the shrew, grinning at the guard, "Thanks for ya assistance!"

Behind him, the GUOSIM sergeant finally relaxes, shoulders slumping. He deflates slightly.

With a bow, the guard withdraws to his station by the door. He dons a self-satisfied smirk.

Saxifrage grimaces at what Punch has left unsaid. She slips around the rat, entreating a better glimpse of the noisy figures opposite them. "He will be the end of us all," she whispers, sinking to the refuge of the shadows which veil their furtive vantage.

"Now to find that bloody stuttering idiot, " Notch can be heard saying out loud before he moves to exit the dungeon. Has for the evening at its end.

Satisfying himself that the little turd has departed, Punch emerges casually from around the corner. He looks utterly at ease, poised perfectly for the setting, inspecting the bars of the prison cell. He nods curtly to the guard but says nothing.

Wallace straightens up as the newcomer arrives, watching him with a steady gaze and sizing him up. Not a drone, then. Says nothing either, keeping his mouth shut, and occasionally glances back at his prone comrade.

Saxifrage materializes from among the shadows; unlike Punch, this scene does not befit her. She slinks behind the rat, jaw set tight in a commendable attempt to look brave, unfazed by the dreadful dungeon.

The guard returns Punch's nod uncertainly, but he neither demands answers nor moves to intervene him or his companion, allotting only an extra moment for Saxifrage's visual inspection.

Punch assumes his familiar pose of supercilious study. He eyes the new prisoners, one by one, taking their measure. He adopts a didactic tone to address Sax: "Ffresh workers." The specter of his stutter gives him pause, so he leaves it at that. He travels a brief circuit, nodding periodically with some vague bureaucrat's assimilation of the facts.

Wallace's eyes are the only part of him that moves as they follow the newly-arrived pair, occasionally darting from rat to cat and back again. He's still kept his mouth shut through Punch's entire patrol.

(One can live for many years in a place without ever facing its grim underpinnings. Though it would be unjust to call Saxifrage sheltered, she had, until this, never confronted the reality of slaves and their cages. But the girl is wise enough to keep her mouth shut, even if her eyes dawdle on the defeated, slumped creatures immured here.)

"Are they criminals?" the polecat asks, finally breaching her silence.

Punch concludes his rounds by standing near the guard and leaning in. He smiles. "Shhrews," he says. "You caught shrews." He ignores Saxifrage's question, chuckling and slipping out of the dungeons.

Saxifrage's lips bend to a small frown as Punch ignores her. When he exits, she hustles after him, but not without a final look over her shoulder. Her eyes lock with Wallace for just a minute, but in a place like this, each second feels like a millennium. Their olive stare betrays no symptom of compassion, though; the polecat simply studies him, as if intrigued, then swiftly departs.