Vermin? You sure?
~~~
Chapter Five
Face paints. Dozens of different shades, from the deepest black to the palest white.
"What's that for?" asked the un-gagged stoat, a tad nervously.
"To paint your face with, dear sheriff," Miniver told him sweetly. There was a pause.
"Why?"
"You'll find out soon enough!" The finger-weasel clicked her teeth in a giggle.
One by one, the weasels picked up the stoats, covering them with brightly clashing, colourful clothes, completely covering their uniforms.
Once the stoats were "clothed", Nimbalo and Miniver painted outrageous symbols and designs all over their gagged faces, the two "artists" teeth-clicking and giggling all the while like Dibbuns. After the stoat's ordeal (in their own opinions), the band dressed themselves up, although with less face paint and matching clothes.
"All right, mates, wot say we put 'em through their paces, eh?" Nimbalo was swathed in a large mahogany sheet, which covered his entire body, effectively masking his bandages and his otherwise conspicuous tail. The harvest mouse bared his teeth in a grin at the stoats and said one word: "Somersaults."
The soldiers looked at each other in confusion. The mouse sighed and looked wordlessly to Tagg. The otter did a run-up and speedily executed a perfect somersault. Nimbalo cocked an eyebrow at the stoats and repeated, "Somersault."
Miniver nudged the un-gagged stoat's back, saying with a click of her teeth, "Come on, Sheriff!" The stoat tried to stop his fall, but, surprisingly, he produced a very well done somersault.
"Come on, mates!" urged Nimbalo. "The sooner y'do it, the sooner your paint comes off!" This motivated the stoats, and they began to do a few tentative somersaults. They didn't do nearly as well as the Sheriff.
After half an hour of trying, the soldier's somersault skills seemed to satisfy Nimbalo. He paced in front of them regally, and addressed them.
"Ye are all prob'ly wonderin' why you need to learn this. . ." The stoats were silent. He stopped walking and glared at each in turn. They all nodded vigorously.
The mouse resumed pacing. "We're going to return you t'the Prince." All the stoats glanced at each other in relief. "But," Nimbalo continued, more sinister. "We've decided to 'ave a bit of fun first."
The soldiers didn't like the look on Nimbalo's face at all. They were imagining scenes of torture, drowning perhaps; none would put it past the strange talking mouse.
But the reality, in the stoat soldier's opinions, was much worse.
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