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Teahouse
© 2020 by Walter Reimer
Thumbnail art by
ahro
(Bogart D. Roach appears by courtesy of
marmelmm Thanks!)
“We’re in trouble, aren’t we?” Varan asked. Her free hand strayed to the spell book hanging from her belt.
Meredith had already drawn her sword as a group of villagers dropped what they had been doing and gathered into two ranks facing the mare and the vir. They were blocking the road into the village, and night was falling.
One farmer thumped his scythe rhythmically against the ground and the group began to sing.
“Oh little town of Bug Tussle
The Mayor won’t make a speech!
The Library’s bare
No books lie there
Stay away from the nude beach!”
The villagers all bowed and went back to their tasks, leaving the way clear.
“Yes, I think we’re in trouble,” Meredith replied.
The Teahouse of the Robust Goon was easy to find. It stood in the village’s market square, flanked by a few shops. The town hall and a temple formed two more sides of the square, and the fourth was an open space surrounded by benches. A sign over the gate proclaimed that it was an arena.
The business’ door was set back from the square, with the second and third floors of the building overhanging it. A sign by the door read Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me.
Varan raised her staff and knocked before stepping back to defend herself as ground-shaking footsteps began and grew louder. She and Meredith tensed as the door was flung open.
Both blinked.
A Kashlanin vir stands, on average, a little over two meters tall; the figure looming over them was taller than that. A huge male bovine, bipedal, almost grotesquely muscled, and his hairless hide was a peculiar shade of green. He was wearing floral-patterned short trousers and a small frilled apron.
“What do you want?” the giant demanded, shaking the tiny feather duster he held in one huge paw.
Meredith looked up at him. “You’re the Robust Goon?”
“You’ll never find one bigger than me. Name’s Claptrap. You here for the fights?”
“No,” Varan replied. “We want a meal, and information.”
Claptrap blinked at her for a second before stepping aside. “Sure. Come on in. Special’s marked on the slate.” The two femmes walked in and stopped.
The place had a barista.
Varan leaned over and whispered in Meredith’s ear. “We will not ask for coffee.”
The mare nodded, and the two headed for a table on the other side of the room. Their path took them past an insectoid mel, a cockroach close to Meredith’s height. The roach was standing upright on his hind legs, wearing a shirt and trousers, a plaid jacket, and a flat cap in a different plaid pattern.
The roach took a cigar from his mouth with his left lower paw and said to Varan, “Hey, Bud.”
“Lir demef, what does ‘Bud’ mean?” the vir asked.
The mare replied, “’Friend,’ I think.”
Varan stepped over to the roach and asked, “Yes?”
The arthropod jerked his head. “C’mere.” When the vir had drawn closer he asked, “You, ah, you bettin’ on the fights?” At Varan’s quizzical look he took two steps away from her and repeated, “C’mere a minute.” She complied and he opened his jacket, revealing a list of fighters and their odds of success. Each fighter had a small picture beside their name.
Varan considered. Neither of them had much money, but as a paladin Meredith couldn’t gamble anyway; if her integrity dropped below a certain value she’d lose her armor’s effectiveness.
Their experience at the Teddy Bear Picnic had been very instructive.
Still, perhaps a few coppers . . . She looked over the list and pointed. “Five coppers on Snickelfritz.”
The roach shook his head.
“No?”
A few more steps away from Varan. “C’mere a minute.”
Varan made sure that they weren’t getting closer to the barista, and followed.
The insect said, “Equipoise.”
Her feline eyes narrowed. “Snickelfritz.”
He shook his head. “Equipoise. I got the hot dope, see? Good breeding.”
“Equipoise, ernnh?”
“Equipoise.”
“Very well. Five coppers on Equipoise.” She gave him the money, and accepted a small piece of paper that the roach fished out of a pocket with his upper right paw. The betting slip glowed briefly as Varan put it into her belt pouch and walked back to their table.
“What was that all about?” Meredith asked.
“Just laying a wager on a fight,” Varan replied. She glanced at the menu slate over the bar. “Fish tacos . . . spaghetti . . . and the special’s . . . ‘Lobster Thermidor au Crevette with a Mornay sauce, served in a Provencale manner with shallots and . . . aubergines?, garnished with truffle pate, brandy, with a fried egg on top and . . . spam?’”
The others in the tavern softly began chanting the last word as soon as Varan said it, the chant turning into a song while a few called out various adjectives like ‘superlative’ and ‘glorious.’
The barista started glaring at the vir and the mare while reaching under the counter.
“Oh dear,” Meredith said as she drew her sword.
© 2020 by Walter Reimer
Thumbnail art by
ahro(Bogart D. Roach appears by courtesy of
marmelmm Thanks!)“We’re in trouble, aren’t we?” Varan asked. Her free hand strayed to the spell book hanging from her belt.
Meredith had already drawn her sword as a group of villagers dropped what they had been doing and gathered into two ranks facing the mare and the vir. They were blocking the road into the village, and night was falling.
One farmer thumped his scythe rhythmically against the ground and the group began to sing.
“Oh little town of Bug Tussle
The Mayor won’t make a speech!
The Library’s bare
No books lie there
Stay away from the nude beach!”
The villagers all bowed and went back to their tasks, leaving the way clear.
“Yes, I think we’re in trouble,” Meredith replied.
The Teahouse of the Robust Goon was easy to find. It stood in the village’s market square, flanked by a few shops. The town hall and a temple formed two more sides of the square, and the fourth was an open space surrounded by benches. A sign over the gate proclaimed that it was an arena.
The business’ door was set back from the square, with the second and third floors of the building overhanging it. A sign by the door read Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me.
Varan raised her staff and knocked before stepping back to defend herself as ground-shaking footsteps began and grew louder. She and Meredith tensed as the door was flung open.
Both blinked.
A Kashlanin vir stands, on average, a little over two meters tall; the figure looming over them was taller than that. A huge male bovine, bipedal, almost grotesquely muscled, and his hairless hide was a peculiar shade of green. He was wearing floral-patterned short trousers and a small frilled apron.
“What do you want?” the giant demanded, shaking the tiny feather duster he held in one huge paw.
Meredith looked up at him. “You’re the Robust Goon?”
“You’ll never find one bigger than me. Name’s Claptrap. You here for the fights?”
“No,” Varan replied. “We want a meal, and information.”
Claptrap blinked at her for a second before stepping aside. “Sure. Come on in. Special’s marked on the slate.” The two femmes walked in and stopped.
The place had a barista.
Varan leaned over and whispered in Meredith’s ear. “We will not ask for coffee.”
The mare nodded, and the two headed for a table on the other side of the room. Their path took them past an insectoid mel, a cockroach close to Meredith’s height. The roach was standing upright on his hind legs, wearing a shirt and trousers, a plaid jacket, and a flat cap in a different plaid pattern.
The roach took a cigar from his mouth with his left lower paw and said to Varan, “Hey, Bud.”
“Lir demef, what does ‘Bud’ mean?” the vir asked.
The mare replied, “’Friend,’ I think.”
Varan stepped over to the roach and asked, “Yes?”
The arthropod jerked his head. “C’mere.” When the vir had drawn closer he asked, “You, ah, you bettin’ on the fights?” At Varan’s quizzical look he took two steps away from her and repeated, “C’mere a minute.” She complied and he opened his jacket, revealing a list of fighters and their odds of success. Each fighter had a small picture beside their name.
Varan considered. Neither of them had much money, but as a paladin Meredith couldn’t gamble anyway; if her integrity dropped below a certain value she’d lose her armor’s effectiveness.
Their experience at the Teddy Bear Picnic had been very instructive.
Still, perhaps a few coppers . . . She looked over the list and pointed. “Five coppers on Snickelfritz.”
The roach shook his head.
“No?”
A few more steps away from Varan. “C’mere a minute.”
Varan made sure that they weren’t getting closer to the barista, and followed.
The insect said, “Equipoise.”
Her feline eyes narrowed. “Snickelfritz.”
He shook his head. “Equipoise. I got the hot dope, see? Good breeding.”
“Equipoise, ernnh?”
“Equipoise.”
“Very well. Five coppers on Equipoise.” She gave him the money, and accepted a small piece of paper that the roach fished out of a pocket with his upper right paw. The betting slip glowed briefly as Varan put it into her belt pouch and walked back to their table.
“What was that all about?” Meredith asked.
“Just laying a wager on a fight,” Varan replied. She glanced at the menu slate over the bar. “Fish tacos . . . spaghetti . . . and the special’s . . . ‘Lobster Thermidor au Crevette with a Mornay sauce, served in a Provencale manner with shallots and . . . aubergines?, garnished with truffle pate, brandy, with a fried egg on top and . . . spam?’”
The others in the tavern softly began chanting the last word as soon as Varan said it, the chant turning into a song while a few called out various adjectives like ‘superlative’ and ‘glorious.’
The barista started glaring at the vir and the mare while reaching under the counter.
“Oh dear,” Meredith said as she drew her sword.
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Horse
Size 71 x 120px
File Size 41.5 kB
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