- Character Biography
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She would stir fitfully at first, not willing to give up the gentle caress of unconsciousness. But the body would become aware of pressure, and she would have to sit up and fish the chamber pot from under the bed. Not always, but most days. Bleary-eyed, she would pat at the table beside the bed, knocking over a stack of gilders, or perhaps an unfinished piece of bread or a drumstick which would be crawling with flies. Such food would be eaten regardless, then the drawer pulled open and whatever was inside would be put in her mouth, or rubbed into her nose. Sniffed, swallowed, chewed, as was necessary.
She would then rise, and cast about the room for clothing. The previous day's, or some other day's. Kicking aside a broken lute, a chipped whack bat, empty dishes, a diaper so long changed it had solidified; detritus of countless lives attempted and found wanting. With pockets equipped, she would peel the gilders off the table and fill them.
Dressed, she would sit back down on the bed with her head in her paws, until the ache receded and whatever was ingested made the fog congeal again. She would stagger to the door, down the hall, down the stairs, down the street, the setting sun at her back. The streets would twist, alleyways would tighten. She would knock on this door or that door, or nudge up against some cloaked beast huddled by a specific barrel or crate. Gilders would change paws, and more of something to chew or inhale would fill her pocket, to be portioned out for the night.
She would find a quiet street to sit and wait for the light to fade entirely, maybe save a few gilders for something small from a street vendor. When music drifted over the rooftops from the taverns, she would find the nearest one and slip inside, and do whatever it took to get a drink and small pieces of food from whoever would acknowledge her. The heat would well up in her belly and keep her going, keep her awake long after most others had gone to bed. But the sailors who would be setting out in the morning, or the ones like her who shied away from the sun and were looking for that next moment of blissful ignorance and numbness, she would seek out. She would whisper in their ears, and if they didn't strike her, if they didn't flinch away from her mange, or her breath, or her rotting teeth, they might take her paw and let her lead them home. A full bed meant no empty belly on the morrow.
And all the while the little kit would hold on to her skirt, following her everywhere, gazing up at her with adoring eyes.
~ ~ ~
When they got home, the kit would pull the book out from under the bed, the only spot it was safe from being flung about in a rage. It would wait by the door for its mother or the stranger to tell it to go, then climb up on the chair and pull the handle until the door swung open. It would push the book out and pull the door behind it, and lift the book to its chest in a tight embrace - the book as wide as its arms could reach.
Down the hall, down the stairs, and down two doors to the kind old rat with the wet cough who would sew patches in clothes for gilders. The kit would knock on the door and wait patiently, and the old rat would crinkle his eyes and scoop the kit up. They would sit in the old musty chair and the rat would feed the kit biscuits and cordial, then open the book and read Tizzi Poof and the Case of the Missing Blanket out loud, twice, and the kit would scream with laughter and delight at the pictures and the voices.
Then, tired from the excitement, with the morning sun streaming in the windows, the kit would curl up on whatever clothes were piled up waiting for work, and the old rat would drift off in his chair. When the light began to dim, the kit would awaken, let itself out, and drag the book back up the stairs. It would press on the door at a certain angle it had learned of, and the latch would come undone, and it would put the book away and climb into the bed that now only had the one occupant. It would curl up against her back, or against her side, and rest quietly until she stirred.
~ ~ ~
One morning, the old rat would not answer the door.
The kit would wait, hugging the book, until it fell asleep leaning against the door.
The day after, the old rat would not answer the door. The kit would put the book down and try to climb up to a window, but the curtains would show nothing but the darkness inside. It would sit down with the book spread open on the ground, and recite the words it had memorized, but the warm lap, the funny voices, and the comfort was not there. Just an uncomfortable silence and a sweet, musky smell that wasn't very enjoyable.
The third day, there was a sign on the door, which the kit could not read, but which said "QUARANTINED, DO NOT ENTER".
The old rat again would not answer the door. Nor on the fourth day, or the fifth day, or the sixth day, when the sign was removed, and the smell was gone. The curtains were gone, and through the window the kit could see that the old musty chair had gone, and so was everything else in the room.
It would sit by the door and read to itself again, feeling cold, and tired, and more hungry than a kit should ever feel.
It had begun to rain.
The kit managed to lift the book over its head, protecting itself from the cold droplets, and decided that as Tizzi Poof had lost her magic wand, the kit had lost its friend, and so they would look together. Though it was morning, the sun did not rise. The darkness of the clouds gathered in force, and the rain drove in torrents, great dark sheets of it that made the day as night. Streams of murky water ran down the street, and here and there gurgling could just barely heard over the cacophony of the storm.
Soaking wet, the kit stopped at one such noise-making hole in the street and put the book down to get on all fours and peer into the darkness behind the rusting metal bars just wide enough for it to crawl through. "Moles?" it called, and there was no answer, just the smell of a city being scoured clean. Turning around, the kit shuffled itself backwards towards the hole, dragging the book along and pulling it through the bars. Together, they fell into the raging river beneath.
Gasping, sputtering, the kit held onto the book like a raft. The paper crumpled, the hard cover bending as they were banged from wall to wall and swept away. The book fell apart and sank, and the kit's arms and legs paddled in panic, its shrill screams cut off by choking sobs as it swallowed the foul water. Its claws gouged the tunnel walls until it caught something in the dark, something that kept it still while the water pounded and raked across its back. It managed to pull its head out of the flood and breath, and cried and cried for help until it was hoarse, until it had no energy left to hold on anymore.
~ ~ ~
It awoke on the shore, staring up at the purples and oranges of sunset, and threw up until its belly couldn't handle the pain. It crawled up the sand, away from the still-spewing sewer exit, into a bush. Along the beach, it could see docks and distant ships. The call of gulls rang out like tender bells, and the world seemed to grow still. The kit's body ached, and its head felt like it was full of tavern smoke, and it slept deep into the night beneath the bush.
When it awoke again, it found the strength to stand and make its way to the docks, and up to the streets.
It would never find its way home.
Nobeast would ever come looking for it.
Nobeast would ever notice it was gone.
Nobeast would ever know it existed.
But the kit would be brave, and as it kept searching for home, for warmth, for family, it would come to realize that it didn't need any of these things. It needed no one.
She would then rise, and cast about the room for clothing. The previous day's, or some other day's. Kicking aside a broken lute, a chipped whack bat, empty dishes, a diaper so long changed it had solidified; detritus of countless lives attempted and found wanting. With pockets equipped, she would peel the gilders off the table and fill them.
Dressed, she would sit back down on the bed with her head in her paws, until the ache receded and whatever was ingested made the fog congeal again. She would stagger to the door, down the hall, down the stairs, down the street, the setting sun at her back. The streets would twist, alleyways would tighten. She would knock on this door or that door, or nudge up against some cloaked beast huddled by a specific barrel or crate. Gilders would change paws, and more of something to chew or inhale would fill her pocket, to be portioned out for the night.
She would find a quiet street to sit and wait for the light to fade entirely, maybe save a few gilders for something small from a street vendor. When music drifted over the rooftops from the taverns, she would find the nearest one and slip inside, and do whatever it took to get a drink and small pieces of food from whoever would acknowledge her. The heat would well up in her belly and keep her going, keep her awake long after most others had gone to bed. But the sailors who would be setting out in the morning, or the ones like her who shied away from the sun and were looking for that next moment of blissful ignorance and numbness, she would seek out. She would whisper in their ears, and if they didn't strike her, if they didn't flinch away from her mange, or her breath, or her rotting teeth, they might take her paw and let her lead them home. A full bed meant no empty belly on the morrow.
And all the while the little kit would hold on to her skirt, following her everywhere, gazing up at her with adoring eyes.
~ ~ ~
When they got home, the kit would pull the book out from under the bed, the only spot it was safe from being flung about in a rage. It would wait by the door for its mother or the stranger to tell it to go, then climb up on the chair and pull the handle until the door swung open. It would push the book out and pull the door behind it, and lift the book to its chest in a tight embrace - the book as wide as its arms could reach.
Down the hall, down the stairs, and down two doors to the kind old rat with the wet cough who would sew patches in clothes for gilders. The kit would knock on the door and wait patiently, and the old rat would crinkle his eyes and scoop the kit up. They would sit in the old musty chair and the rat would feed the kit biscuits and cordial, then open the book and read Tizzi Poof and the Case of the Missing Blanket out loud, twice, and the kit would scream with laughter and delight at the pictures and the voices.
Then, tired from the excitement, with the morning sun streaming in the windows, the kit would curl up on whatever clothes were piled up waiting for work, and the old rat would drift off in his chair. When the light began to dim, the kit would awaken, let itself out, and drag the book back up the stairs. It would press on the door at a certain angle it had learned of, and the latch would come undone, and it would put the book away and climb into the bed that now only had the one occupant. It would curl up against her back, or against her side, and rest quietly until she stirred.
~ ~ ~
One morning, the old rat would not answer the door.
The kit would wait, hugging the book, until it fell asleep leaning against the door.
The day after, the old rat would not answer the door. The kit would put the book down and try to climb up to a window, but the curtains would show nothing but the darkness inside. It would sit down with the book spread open on the ground, and recite the words it had memorized, but the warm lap, the funny voices, and the comfort was not there. Just an uncomfortable silence and a sweet, musky smell that wasn't very enjoyable.
The third day, there was a sign on the door, which the kit could not read, but which said "QUARANTINED, DO NOT ENTER".
The old rat again would not answer the door. Nor on the fourth day, or the fifth day, or the sixth day, when the sign was removed, and the smell was gone. The curtains were gone, and through the window the kit could see that the old musty chair had gone, and so was everything else in the room.
It would sit by the door and read to itself again, feeling cold, and tired, and more hungry than a kit should ever feel.
It had begun to rain.
The kit managed to lift the book over its head, protecting itself from the cold droplets, and decided that as Tizzi Poof had lost her magic wand, the kit had lost its friend, and so they would look together. Though it was morning, the sun did not rise. The darkness of the clouds gathered in force, and the rain drove in torrents, great dark sheets of it that made the day as night. Streams of murky water ran down the street, and here and there gurgling could just barely heard over the cacophony of the storm.
Soaking wet, the kit stopped at one such noise-making hole in the street and put the book down to get on all fours and peer into the darkness behind the rusting metal bars just wide enough for it to crawl through. "Moles?" it called, and there was no answer, just the smell of a city being scoured clean. Turning around, the kit shuffled itself backwards towards the hole, dragging the book along and pulling it through the bars. Together, they fell into the raging river beneath.
Gasping, sputtering, the kit held onto the book like a raft. The paper crumpled, the hard cover bending as they were banged from wall to wall and swept away. The book fell apart and sank, and the kit's arms and legs paddled in panic, its shrill screams cut off by choking sobs as it swallowed the foul water. Its claws gouged the tunnel walls until it caught something in the dark, something that kept it still while the water pounded and raked across its back. It managed to pull its head out of the flood and breath, and cried and cried for help until it was hoarse, until it had no energy left to hold on anymore.
~ ~ ~
It awoke on the shore, staring up at the purples and oranges of sunset, and threw up until its belly couldn't handle the pain. It crawled up the sand, away from the still-spewing sewer exit, into a bush. Along the beach, it could see docks and distant ships. The call of gulls rang out like tender bells, and the world seemed to grow still. The kit's body ached, and its head felt like it was full of tavern smoke, and it slept deep into the night beneath the bush.
When it awoke again, it found the strength to stand and make its way to the docks, and up to the streets.
It would never find its way home.
Nobeast would ever come looking for it.
Nobeast would ever notice it was gone.
Nobeast would ever know it existed.
But the kit would be brave, and as it kept searching for home, for warmth, for family, it would come to realize that it didn't need any of these things. It needed no one.
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