Another Night, Another Game

[Seki]

A certain marten glanced out the window of the Tavern's washroom, noting the position of the sun in the sky. It wouldn't be too long now before the evening rush barreled into the tavern, destroying any hope of rest during the remainder of her shift. She sighed, the puff of warm air misting over the cool bottles and glasses, recently washed. She supposed it was a blessing, working inside during the heat of summer. It sure didn't feel that way during her night shifts. Crash! Went one of the bottles, shattering onto the floor.

"Dreck."

She gingerly swept up the pieces, careful not to knick her own paws. You're slipping, Fathom, she told herself. Yore not even a full 30 years yet, girl! Pull yoreself together!

Oh, shaddup.

Pushing herself out of her kneeling position, the pine marten dumped the glass into the wastebin. Looking once more out the window, the seconds ticked by, counting down. Always down.

Five, four, three, two, one... As if on cue, the doorbell rang, followed by the raucous laughter of seafarring beasts. Seki smirked. Never was off yet. She speedily twisted her head-fur into a bun, briskly walking out to the bar. Seeing the customers, she swore. Not those two louse-heads.

"Well, well, well," the marten hissed, "If it isn't me two most fahvoraite cronies." The word favorite came out mangled, as if it took great effort to say it. "The usual, Captain?"

In answer, the searat plunked down a pawful of coins. Swiping them up, Seki set a tankard of ale in front of each stinky, salt-breathed vermin. The pine marten knew what would come later that night, at looked forward to it in distaste.. The duo would become completely wasted, try to flirt with her, and stagger out the door after closing time. It was the same every single time. If only she could convince her boss to hire a bouncer..... a lithe girl like her had trouble tossing beasts out the door.

[karka]

His sight was better today. He could see a little further, and the haze rimming his vision had receded a little. He'd spent the day enjoying the rare gift--even if it was still far less than what most enjoyed and took for granted--but come the night, everything turned dark and he did not have to be near-blind or colorblind to stumble constantly through the lightless streets. He could only see the light some way ahead, illuminating the area about in paler shades, and he recognized it as the tavern. As good a place as any to spend a night.

His heavy step was stilted by a slight limp, caused by his reckless roll down a thickly wooded hill. The newest scar on his cheek had opened yet again, and left a trickle of blood dried and matted in his thick, oily fur. His clothes were as ragged as himself, once stately but since reduced to ragged tattiness that nevertheless spoke of the definite danger that defined his very being. His long coat, heavy and quite resistant to tearing, covered a linen shirt and woolen leggings tucked away into tall boots. Stains of various, mysterious shades splattered the cloth of each.

He reached the door of the tavern and stopped with a growl. His wet, glistening claws scraped along the wood, the texture of which he could barely see. Missing the doorbell to the side, he knocked heavily and pushed it open. The door slammed open, and he stooped to enter, his bulky presence noted by most with a moment of suspicious quiet. The massive wolverine growled again, and didn't care to sniff. The strong smell of spirits and ale permeated the air quite thickly enough already, even so early in the evening.

Uneasy talk returned the noise to the tavern and Karka pushed forward. He held up a claw and licked it clean of what he tasted and remembered as blood, and kicked aside a chair. He had barely felt himself stumble a little over it, and he neither knew or cared if any beast had been sitting in it. For all the effort it cost him, it made no difference. Growling again, he forced his way to the counter, navigating towards the strongest source of the alcoholic scent. That scent still did not mask a familiar smell he remembered, of a marten who he'd noted for carrying poisons. He smiled a little, baring his fangs as he did, and set himself heavily down at the counter. He rapped the heavy claws on the counter, and growled gratingly from deep in his throat, loud enough for most to hear.

"Hah! What a coincidence, girl." He said to the marten. "But ah ain't surprised ta find ya here. Ya got a rum coffee fer me, darlin'?"

He patted his coat pocket for some change, and, to both his surprise and amusement, found nothing. He chuckled loudly, a sound laced subtly with a bitter snarl. With a jerk of a paw placed on the counter, a claw dug a rent through the wood with a splintering sound. Having obtained the attention of the surrounding bar patrons, each wary of this strange, impudent newcomer, he addressed the owner of the nearest scent. It was a cocktail, practically an assault of essence of dumb rat, caked saltwater and alcohol, and the wolverine did not bother even turning his head.

"You." He grunted, his voice sharpened with a grating edge. "You gon' pay for my drink, yah? Tanks, boy. So quick now, girl."

[Seki]

Her ears perked up in the sudden silence. Silence in the barroom was uncommon, if not freakishly rare. Her eyes left the wine spill she had been wiping up for a moment, the pupils of her dark eyes directed at the door. Her paw went semi-limp in a state of slight shock; the beast was there, stumbling though the early throng of drinkers and pirates. What in the name of the Deity was he doing here? Her body went on by memory, throwing the towel underneath the table, weaving around the debris strewn on her side of the bar. Her voice took on a dull monotone, yet her eyes kept darting back to the beast. "Another beer, aged 20 cycles? Yes sir, it'll be jus' a momen'." "If you really plan on stay 'till ye fall o'er yore boots, I'll be needin' 50 copper. T'ankee." She whipped about the tavern, trying to avoid getting back to her post.

It was bound to happen. He was half-blind, from the looks of it, and was sniffing his way about. Smells were hard to conceal, she knew, and odds are, he would remember. So, she shouldn't have stiffened when his voice rasped out, like the sound of two coins being dragged across a metal rail.

"Hah! What a coincidence, girl." He said to Seki, amused, it sounded like. "But ah ain't surprised ta find ya here. Ya got a rum coffee fer me, darlin'?" He laughed, a loud, obnoxious chuckle at some joke she didn't know, and spoke to the captain scum seated next to him. "You." The beast grunted, his voice becoming dangerous- well more dangerous than it already was. "You gon' pay for my drink, yah? Tanks, boy. So quick now, girl."

The rat grumbled, his usual ruler of the world attitude smothered by the other's presence. A coin plopped down in the congealed grease, followed by it's brothers. The marten smirked, dragging the money across the table and out into the pay box. Without a glance his way, she retreated into the backroom. Her paws found all the requests from the other wave vermin first, the rum coffee balanced precariously on the corks of two bottles. She walked out right past him, dropping the tankard squarely in front of him. Bottles crashed onto tables without breaking, cups slid to the drinkers. Seki's skill was second to none, besides maybe her boss.

She smoothly slid back into her place, her sable face directly across from the wolf-beast.

"Well, sir," she said, a uncustomary edge to her voice. "T' wot do I owe the pleasure o' yore visit t' me tavern?"

[karka]

((OOC: Very sorry. D: Hope you're still willing to keep this going, if you have the time.))

He heard the muted clink of the coins on the countertop and settled back in satisfaction, ignoring the disgruntled glares of the rat he'd persuaded to pay for him. He listened attentively to the rowdy, inarticulate conversations of the tavern, absent-mindedly licking clean his claws as he did so. Some were talking about the growing tensions in the land, but most of them were unconcerned, for what reason did they have to be concerned? They were corsairs, pirates, scavengers of the seas.

Holding his vicious claws close to his eyes, he clicked and rubbed them together, enjoying the dull, polished gleam that penetrated the fog. They smelled of spittle and earth, a grimy but refreshing change from the stuffy atmosphere of the little tavern. He had to admit that his senses felt overloaded: the pirates were speaking louder and louder, their voices getting rowdier and more offensive, and the smell of drunken, filthy sailors made Karka's nostrils flare with pain. He could practically taste the perspiration of others in the air.

Scratching the back of his neck irritably, annoyed by the heat so incompatible with his thick fur, he leaned forward heavily on the counter. He could smell the marten approaching, and more importantly, he could smell his rum coffee coming. It was an unusual mixture to be found in taverns, for sure, for few liked the strange, diluted warmth of the sweet drink. As a northerner, though, the wolverine appreciated it wholeheartedly.

The marten passed him by and dropped the drink before him, seemingly determined to ignore him. The wicked fumes of the drink insinuated into his sensitive nose, cloaking the other smells he found so offensively strong. He licked and clicked his claws again before wrapping them around his mug and letting the warmth creep into his paws. However, he waited, and did not drink.

His ears followed the marten in place of his eyes, and heard her progress around the room. She was a skilled server, to be sure, for he could hear no complaint nor mishap, but it remained to be seen how she would handle the increasingly intoxicated beasts as the night went on. For him, that would be quite amusing.

He smiled to himself as he heard her approach, and lifted the faded amber gaze of his weak eyes, though in vain. He carefully raised the mug to his lips, with pretentious nonchalance, awaiting her arrival, expected simply out of vanity.

"Well, sir," she said, finally arrived. "T' wot do I owe the pleasure o' yore visit t' me tavern?"

The wolverine snickered slightly; at least it was his version of a snicker. It would easily have been an ominous growl for any other beast. He was growing increasingly irritated by the heat and crowdedness of the tavern, for he was accustomed to neither, but it did not detract the pleasure he derived from savoring the apprehensions and suspicions of those he addressed.

"Well," he drawled, "hmm. Ah'm bored, girl, got a problem wit' dat?"

He took a long draught of his drink, enjoying the bite of the rum as it flooded down his gullet. It rose quickly to his head, unexpectedly inflaming his discomfort. He coughed, scrunching his nose into a distorted expression, and the scars on his face squirmed.

Spitting onto the counter, he grumbled, "Actually, girl, ah'm lookin' fer somethin' interestin' to do on me free nights. An' ah hear that this place gets plenty cocky fools thinkin' they can take anythin' down."