The
speaker turns out to be a tall thin gentleman, clad in the strangest
of wardrobes. His tunic is white, fastened at the front by the
tiniest of buttons, tucked into dark breeches, creased at the front,
held up by the flimsiest of belts. His surcoat is far shorter than
usual, cut from the same dark cloth, hanging barely below his waist.
At his neck, a colourful cloth, tied in a knot, trailing end dancing
in the breeze.
“What
say you, good rat?” the gentleman asks again, “What news have you
for such a fine day?”
“Begone,”
he replies, not moving, “Leave me in peace to reflect upon my own
wretched nature.”
“Wretched...?”
the man begins, then asks “What possible events could have
transpired to bring you to such desolation?”
He
raises his head to look at his hands before offering them to the
newcomer. “There is blood on these paws,” he says forlornly,
“The blood of my species, the stain of genocide.”
“Goodness
gracious,” the man replies, taking a seat nearby. “Why don't you
tell me all about it. A trouble shared, after all...”
Without
knowing why, he does just that, recounting events in minute detail,
explaining his actions as he does.
“Then
you did what you did for the good of your kind?” the man asks when
he stops speaking.
He
nods sadly in reply.
“Then
your future is clear,” the man says brightly, “You must ensure
their sacrifice is never forgotten, you must make their deaths the
stuff of legend.”
