Sagebrush Inn - 09 04 2004 1

Another scene from the now-abandoned Sagebrush Inn. Features the staff of the inn and Salabim, a local farmer.

The rabbit 'tender takes up all the space at her bar, laying on her back on the counter. Her arms are folded behind her head, long ears flopped over her eyes, and a half-empty glass of some amber drink sits on the edge of the countertop, threatening to fall over the edge if she jostles it when she moves. Apparently, Libbie is one for mid-afternoon catnaps when there are no customers -- and she's too lazy to go to her room to do it, even though it's just through the trapdoor a few feet away. Psshaw.

Wytethorn enters from the entrance hall, yawning loudly. Stretching himself while walking in a slow meandering course in the general direction of the bar, Tristram surveys the room. A small smile plays at his lips when his eyes alight on the bar and the napping form of Libbie. He quickly strides over to where she is and seats himself on a nearby stool.

Wytethorn snatches the half-empty glass off of the counter and takes a good gulp of it before slamming it back down onto the counter. "Madame Barkeeper!"

Jerking awake, Libbie sits up with her ears plastered to either side of her head. Then, she beams at her boss. "Mister Squirrely-face!" The rabbit swings her legs over the edge of the counter, giving him a grin, and then reaches for where her glass was -- only to find it empty. She does some acrobats, leaning so far back to grab a bottle that she looks about to fall, then filling her empty glass with ale. "What can I do ye fer, boss?"

Wytethorn flashes Libbie a quick grin at "Mister Squirrely-face" before settling his expression into a more severe manner. He is apparently completely undisturbed at Libbie's wild acrobatics outside of a quizzical eyebrow quirk before turning his eyes to the idle examination of Libbie's glass. He muses, imitating Libbie's mannerisms, "What can ye do me for..."

Wytethorn says without looking up, "Perhaps a nice brandy."

Wytethorn adds, "Cognac, if we have it. Do we have cognac?"

The bargirl takes a gulp of her own drink, then shakes her head to wake herself up. "Hold this, boy-o," she tells him, thrusting the bottle of ale at the squirrel, then braces her hands on either side of her on the counter, leaning back, and flips her feet backwards over her head, landing lightly behind the bar. She straightens, dusting her hands on her blue apron, and gives the innkeeper a look. "What do ye think this is, Redwall? 'Course I got it! I got near-on everythin' ye c'd ask affer, mate," she declares, with a proud swell to her chest -- and then ducks down to search out the right flask, humming a little ditty.

Wytethorn is surprised at the sudden alcohol hand-off, but being a relatively agile squirrel, receives the bottle with as much deftness as the situation can allow. Dropping his previous sedate musing tone, he exclaims. "My dear lady, I say! Be careful with the merchandise there. What do you think you are, a blinkin' squirrel?"

"My dear sir," Libbie drawls back, clearly mockingly, "what th'hell d'ye expect me t'de? Wall /all/ th'way 'round th'bar every time I gotta git back there? Pssh!" She finds the right bottle, finding it unopened. "Huh! No one's asked affer this crud in a while, looks like." She uncorks the bottle, grabbing a clean glass and filling it, then pushing it towards Wytethorn. "That's expensive stuff, yanno. Empty yore pockets, man."

Wytethorn grunts noncommitally. At least she hasn't broken anything so far. He receives his glass of cognac with a wry grin, "I do sort of own this place, missie, and therefore all of the drinks. Including this crud." He takes a small sip of the brandy and stares into space for a moment. "Not bad. Though, it's not going to keep being that way if you slosh it about like the other swill you serve in this place, you know." He takes another, larger draught.

"Pick-ee!" the doe returns, and tosses her head. She hoists herself back onto the counter, sitting crosslegging. A bit of the cognac is added to her ale to fill the glass once again, and then she recorks the bottle and leans over to stow it out of sight, under the bar. Her glass is cradled carefully in her hands, and she slurps the first few sips off the top before she's sure it won't spill. "Mm. Gives it a flare, I suppose. En' ye really sh'd quiddit, Wyte. Th'worryin', I mean. 'Tis turnin' yer fur gray, en' honestly, ye were plenny ugly before that all started. 'M doin' me job jis' fine!"

Wytethorn had his glass of cognac half-raised to take another sip when he heard Libbie's comment about his physical attractiveness. He aborts the movement and turns slightly to face Libbie full-on, staring directly into her eyes. With a slightly lopsided grin and laughter in his eyes, he says in a grave voice, "Now that, Miss Liberty, was uncalled for." He tips his glass in her direction as a salute before taking another sip.

Liberty? Oh, /no/ he didn't! ".. en' /so/ worth it, te, I assure ye!" Libs cackles, grinning into his face and then raising her glass in returning, before taking a swig along with him. She thunks it back onto the counter, then, and shakes her head, smiling ruefully. "..erhem. Te business, sir! Eh? We gettin' another shipmen' a drinks in, soon? 'M runnin' a mite short on some thin's, yanno, boss."

Wytethorn is bemused, swirling the brandy in his glass thoughtfully. He looked as if he was about to speak when Libbie queried him on the new shipment. He tilts his head slightly. Oh well, that could wait for another time. "Libbie, I think the cellars are still well-stocked, though I honestly don't know when I'll be able to get any sort of regular supply chain going. For now, just tell Asriel to fill up some bottles for you." He sighs and frowns. "I might have to take a trip south soon to see about the stocking cellars, though. I'm dreadfully sorry."

"Wid' /wine/, my bizarre lil' fluffed-tailed friend, /wine/. Wine leaves our stores slower than anythin' else, 'cause 'tis light... en' Asriel.. contaminates it.." Evil grin. She hates that fox. "Beer en' ale go fas', ye know? En' not /only/ 'cause I drink it. I checked in th'cellar. We got ten barrels a' beer, maybe a dozen a' rum... En' ninety-nine bottles a' beer on th'wall!" Libs tosses her head back, launching into song. "Ninety-nine bottles of beer..! Take one down, pass it 'round, ninety-eight bottles a' beer on th'wall!"

Wytethorn raises an eyebrow in the beginning of his trademark detached quizzical expression, but starts chuckling instead. "Are you all right, Libbie?"

"'Course I am! Sing wid' me, Squirrelly-face, c'mon!" She hops up onto the counter, striking a jaunty pose with her glass in hand. ".. er. Well. I know countin' te a hundred is a tad difficult fer ye, boss, se w'd ye prefer if I started at.. ten?" She starts it up again, sing-song: "Ten bottles of beer on th'wall!"

Wytethorn stops chuckling and raises an eyebrow high while raising his head to stare at Libbie's face. "Good lord! Do you actually expect me to sing that?"

"/Yes/! Did I /not/ jis' say that? Good lor' y'sself, Wyte, git up 'ere as waltz w'd me!" Libbie tosses down the rest of her drink, then leans offer to offer Wyte a hand up, grinning.

Wytethorn hesitates a moment before shrugging and accepting the proferred paw, pulling himself up, holding the brandy in the other paw daintly. He swings over agilely, and slides straight around Libbie to her other side. Settling himself down on the counter, he sips his brandy with a grin.

The doe sets her empty mug down on the end of the counter, turning and giving Wytethorn a low bow and a grin -- as if he were the female, and she were about to lead the dance. Well, the second part is true, at least. "Iffen ye fall flat on yer face, boy-o, 'm gonna laugh me arse off," Libbie declares delightedly, offering her hand.

Wytethorn raises up a paw. "One moment, my lady!" He holds up his glass to eye level and croons softly to it. "Alas, a fair lady demands my time and I cannot give you your due attention. Please forgive me." With that, he empties the glass and sets it down on the counter leaps up and grabs Libbie's hand in what seems like one fluid motion. "Now. Shall we?"

"Stop kissin' up te inanimate objects an' dance wid' me!" Libbie whines, pouting and stomping her foot for emphasis. Then, her muzzle breaks into a grin when the squirrel turns his attention from the booze to her, and she grasps his hand with a delighted twinkle in her eye. "A waltz!" the doe declares, giggling, and twirling around, still holding the innkeeper's hand, before stepping up to him and into what she hopes is a kinda-sorta waltzy position.

Wytethorn declares, "No other kind of dance quite like it!" He grins confidentally and steps in closer to Libbie, putting his arm partly around her. Noting the slight abberations in Libbie's stance, he naturally takes the lead position, being an experienced ballroom dancer. "Ready?"

"Music!" Libs laughs, nodding and tossing her head. She gives a little sway into the first step, but other than that let's him lead -- the barbunny has /no/ idea what she's doing. After a moment, she softly begins to hum. And what else? The slightly off-tune notes of 'Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall' drift through the common room.

Wytethorn throws his head back and laughs at Libbie's musical selection for a short moment before adding his tenor to the medley. He nimbly leads Libbie in a fast, sweeping waltz on top of the bar, grinning madly.

Caught in a odd state known as sober, the wine keeper pokes his head into the common room after entering the Inn through the back way, his eyes focusing on the almost unbelievable sight of a squirrel and a rabbit dancing on the bar. Now the tod hadn't expected to see anyone, so he almost ducks his head out before he ducks it right back into the common room and takes a double look. He shakes his head, scratches it, and eventually shrugs his shoulders in acceptance that Mr. Wytethorn can do whatever he wants although a nice stiff drink would be welcome. For now though he simply watches from the door, more then a little curious.

With all the commotion and noise going on above, the night-owl's been awoken and emerges from the belly of the inn. She's in the common room before she actually notices anybeast else is about. Asriel's double-take action is viewed with interest. Pale features forward, Morolt peers around the door frame and.. Whoa.. "Sweet lady agony an' 'er misshapen sisters.." She mutters, jaw agape.

The 'tender giggles around the scattered, repetitive notes of the song. She shuffles and hopskips along the counteryop to keep up with Wytethorn's much more graceful movements, laughing. The doe really is a klutz, when it comes to dancing. On her bar. With her boss. Bwaha! She seems to know this, and uses it to her advantage, trodding on the squirrel's toes as much as she can without making it too obvious that it's not entirely accident. When the song inside her head becomes too much, she starts back up again, tipping her head towards the ceiling and bellowing out, "Ninety-niiine bottles of beeeeer of th'waaall!"

Wytethorn's much more graceful movements become decidedly less so with each "accident", but he keeps waltzing and humming in good nature, though his grin is becoming more like a grimace. He suddenly notices the group of creatures watching them beyond Libbie's back. He is startled to see Morolt, most likely a customer, and his huming suddenly dies down to a stop, as does his waltzing.

Turning his head to face the vixen, this being his first time meeting her, he scratches his head again and just stares at her, "Mmmmhmmm, always knew I was more sane on the booze, " He shakes his head, and turns to look back at the squirrel and bunneh dancing on the counter, "Not only them two, but a vixen I've never seen in my life, " He strokes his beard, and ponders, "Gotta admit though ma'am, your right about that!" Oh good, he's talking to his imaginary friends now.

Stubb stirs at last from his sleep, sitting up and gazing with clouded vision at his surroundings, evidently oblivious to the ring of a beer mug engraved in fur around his right eye. Ugh. The world swims lazily into focus as he casts his eyes about the room. What is this? Singing? Dancing? He lets his beer-dulled brain rest on his arm. He did NOT order this with his hangover.

The rabbit tries to duck under Wytethorn's arm and spin, just as the squirrel decides their dance is over. The extra momentum makes her slip, and Libbie releases his hand, falling onto her bobtail with a squeak -- and then, belatedly, a grimace. ".. that's gonna leave a mark. What's yore problem, brat?" she demands cheerily of Wytethorn, beaming up at him. "Ye c'd at leas' give a gal a fair bit a' warnin' 'fore ye stop! .. /Bugger/, that hurt." Libbie hops off counter, behind it, and goes to pour herself another glass of ale. Asriel and the other fox catch her eye, and she raises the glass to them, beaming. "How ye doin', both? Good? Good! Firs' roun's on th'house, c'mon in!"

"Now, I've seen jes' 'bout all I want o' this.. whatever y'wanna call it. S'fine, s'fine! Jes'as long as I don' get dragged up on no counter, I'll be jeees' fine." The vixen flicks an ear toward the young doe. "Crazy rabbet, I can' leave you 'lone fer two seconds 'fore you start sommat nutty, can I?" She swaggers into the main room and flops into what will be known as 'her chair' in good time. At the invitation, Morolt quirks a brow. "Don' 'member a damn thing, do ya?"

Wytethorn leaps nimbly off of the bar and approaches Morolt in a brisk and business-like manner, rubbing his paws together. He adopts a warm welcoming smile and booms out, "Indeed! First round is on the house!" His voice softens in volume as he reaches where Morolt and Asriel are standing. "Good evening, my lady, and welcome to the Sagebrush Inn. I am the proprieter, Tristram Wytethorn."

Wesley darts into the room, clearly in high spirits by the spring in his paws -- spirits perhaps bolstered by a bit o' the drink, but then it's not our place to entertain such unfounded notions. He spins off towards the bar, and, ah, yes, there it is, extracts a jug from amidst the ruffles of his generally well-kept jacket. In a flash, he sets the glinting bottle on the counter, then, with mock timidness, approaches Libbie and bows in entreaty; "Hello, *burp*, Miss! If you would, *giggle*, honor me with a dance, I would, hehe, be much obliged."

Wesley burps quietly.

Closing his eyes once, he opens them again to an expected empty room, but nope no such luck. At the mention of drinks though, he decides to just go with it, grinning from ear to ear, "Ah Libbie yah know the very way to my heart, ya do!" He quickly rushes to a seat, and sits, "Uh, whatever you recommend, " He nods to Libbie, ah well, he then notices Stubb and considers for a moment that he just might be sane after all, which leaves him beaming. Oh, Wesley has joined too, but his sights soon focus on the vixen he doesn't know that Libbie it seems does.

"That's nice, squirrely-butt." Morolt replies to Tristram's generous introduction. "Now 'm sher yer drinks're better'n th'rest o' th'taverns out this way, but I ain' 'ere t'drink. Yet. Got business to tend to firstways. You know th'way it goes. Business 'fore pleasure. An' believe you me drinkin' is one fine pleassure!" A little rough around the edges, yes. Obviously. She turns from Wyt and looks around to the doe again, brow quirking.

The barbunny abandons her post for the time being. If Asriel wants something, well, then, he can wait. Hah. She spies Wesley, tipping him a wink and blowing him a kiss then turns to the matter at hand. Morolt and Wytethorn are waves over, to where she can talk to them and serve drinks at the same time. "Nice te see yore still kickin', Moron," the doe cackles, pouring Asriel a glass of ale and sliding it down the length of the bar towards him. ".. erhem. Morolt. Roight. Wytey, thissere's Morolt. Mor, Wytethorn, my new boss. Ehe.. Hoy, squirrel-face, this'n firs' taught me t'drink!"

Stubb raises his head again at the possibility of free drinks, propping up his rolling world with two paws beneath his chin. "M'mum'd say I shudn't," he says in an 18-foot voice, "but, hell, mum's been dead fer ten seasons, lady buck!" He topples off his stool with the ensuing laughter that courses through his scrawny frame. Pulling himself back up, he scratches his aching head; "Er, I'll take th'stronge' crud ya got, missie."

Wytethorn rolls his eyes behind Morolt's back. He's getting kind of sick of the squirrelly-whatever business. He seems a bit surprised at how the doe would be on apparently good terms with this abrasive fox. He shrugs and decide to wait to see if there's any further need of him.

"Watch it, doe-bag, I'll stuff ye in 'nuther whiskey barrel. An' this time I won' let up 'til y'quit wrigglin'!" Turning back to the squirrel and jutting out a calloused paw. "Morolt Lockwood, atcher service, if yer needin' it, that is. Looks t'me yer a liddle unner staffed.. Big place like this needs a good few sturdy beasts t'keep the peace.." She lets her eyes wander around, flicking them at Stubb and Asriel once or twice, curiously.

Asriel stares at his drink for a bit, looking quite thoughtful for a moment, "Eh...right...if it's too good to be true...it prolly is..." He takes a sip of his ale, and sighs, "Ah well...free is free..." Course it dawns on him that he's talking to himself, but what the hell. He gulps down the drink quickly, still staring out at space after he done.

Deciding his offer for dance has been officially declined for the moment, Wesley takes a seat at the bar and offers the jug to Libbie with a toothy smile and a wink. "Well, fill 'er up, Miss, if the date's off."

Wytethorn hmms and adopts a more business-like, formal tone. He shakes the profferred paw. "I do see what you mean, Miss Lockwood. Admittedly, I wasn't expecting to address this problem before we gather a large clientele. I'm not sure how well-known we are as of yet."

"Comin' roight up!" Libs chirps at Stubb, ducking under the counter. There's the sound of bottles clinking together, and then she appears with a hefty flask, uncorking it and filling a glass for the weasel. Not /her/ weasel, mind. The weasel. "Enjoy it, mate!" the doe gruffs, sniggering. She keeps an eye on him, watching for Stubb's reaction to her concoction... One of those combinations of every kind of booze she had left over, one night, all together. Bwaha.

The doe pipes up, on Morolt's behalf, "'Ve seen 'er kick some real arse in a bar-brawl, I have!" Then, she scampers down along the bar to Wesley, leaning in to peck him on the lips. "Ye've already been drinkin', love, en' wid'out me there? Psshaw! Whadda ye wan'?" As he answers, she stows away the various bottles that were out and refills her glass.

"Morolt, please. Formality's a waste." The vixen flips her tail, shifting her wait cockily to one leg, leaning. Her arms cross over her chest. "See, 'm new t'these parts an' I need a way to 'stablish m'self. I offer you m'services, you offer me a room'n pay fer a good job. S'ain' the first inn I been to. Veteran, you c'd say." Strut strut. She swishes her tail. For Asriel's benefit. Hah.

Wytethorn appraises her with a quick sweeping glance. He completely ignores Morolt's request for less formality. "Miss Lockwood, we would be willing to offer your lodging and a reasonable wage, provided, of course, that your abilities are up to the task. Is there anything you can offer in the way of reference or demonstration?"

Asriel seems a bit too dry to appreciate what Morolt offers, still staring out in space at absolutely nothing behind the bar, pulling at his beard only to break from his focus on the wall moments after, he looks over the whole of the gathered, biting his lower lip while he listens in on the conversations throughout the bar.

Drink could drive the tamest beasts to unleash their inner devils. Martin himself would succumb to his inner demons once thoroughly besotted, once his heroic mind dropped its noble defenses. But give a weasel drink, and... well. Stay tuned, folks; this could get ugly. As Stubb takes a deep draft of the substance set before him, his buttresses are breached, his ramparts overrun, garrisons gouged, and... inebriation steps in. Rising clumsily to his paws, he brandishes his pirate's sword and waves it high above him. "Arright!," he shouts. "This's a raid, missies and gentees! Han' over y'junk 'n' stuff!" He tries to climb onto the bar, but, faltering, thinks better of it.

A brow raises, and the edge of the vixen's maw curls up into a smirk. "I'm in th'bouncin' business. Y'want me t'beat one o' yer fellers 'ere up..?" Oh, perfect. Morolt turns around momentarily and looks at Stubb.. "'Ow 'bout 'im?"

"'M referencin' her, ye dunce!" Libbie calls from over at the bar, having kept her long ears on the conversation between Wytethorn and Morolt all this time. She hauls over the stool she keeps behind the bar for herself, perching on it and leaning back to set her boots on the countertop. Her drink is lifted in a salute to the vixen. "Have at 'im, sarge!"

Wytethorn gestures toward Stubb and bows. "Bounce away, miss." he says, wryly.

Stubb stumbles awkwardly around and starts swinging the sword. "Yo ho ho an' all that!"

The lyric dawns on the blasted weasel after a moment. "Rum!" he shouts with considerable satisfaction. He tests it; "Yo ho ho an'... RUM!"

The doe chuckles as she looks on, then slides her gaze over and gives Wesley a prod in the chest with the toe of her boot. "Hoy. Whadda ye wan', lovah mine?"

Morolt bows her head formally to Wyt and swagger toward the bar. She examines a glass closely, plucking it from the counter as she walks around Stubb and his flailing. She's behind him before she begins. One footpaw is thrust toward the back of Stubb's right knee.

Wesley hmmphs and shoots a sidelong glare at Stubb, serious suddenly despite the booze blundering through his blood. "Nothin' but trouble, that one's ever been. Like I said..." He sloshes around the little bit left in his jug. He starts at Libbie's question. "Er? Well..." He quickly downs the contents of the jug, dribbling much of it down his chin. "I c'd go fer..." He grins again and hollers, "Some RUM!"

Stubb cackles, still drunkenly swinging the sword above his head. With a gleeful cackles he rejoins, "Aye, matey! S'm rum!"

Morolt sets the glass down and steals up next to Stubb, one arm reaching for his blade-paw. The other moves to encircle around his neck in what would be a sleeper hold, were her other arm not otherwise busy. Her leg curls forward in an attempt to to tangle his footpaws.

"Wipe yore mouth, Wesley, there's a dear," Libbie teases her weasel, dropping her legs and reaching for a flask under the counter. She pops the cork, tugging the near-empty jug from Wesley's grip and filling it. "Don' down it all straight away, aye? Only th'firs' roun's free, yanno!" She chortles, passing the jug back and leaning forward to watch Morolt's 'performance'.

His mind wrapped in a sweet, booze-induced oblivion, Stubb makes a concerted attempt to mount one of the stools, setting his sword on the counter in the mean time. "Yo ho ho!" He cries, mustering his breath as he sets his mind on the task.

Morolt closes her arm around Stubb's neck. Her paw nabs his wrist, bringing it down on the bar with enough force to make the counter grunt. She brings her foot in closer and lowers him to his knees. Her other arm available, Morolt tightens her arm against Stubb's neck and throat, securing the arm with her other paw. She begins to cut off the weasel's air supply.

Asriel doesn't seem to surprised, a bouncing vixen, dancing squirrel, almost nice Libbie, not much could surprise him this evening and he simply watches a little bit more cheerful with the weasel's delightful futile act. He watches Morolt now, impressed by her and knowing full well that she's exactly the type of vixen he should stay away from.

Stubb continues to sing, his legs kicking feebly the air. "An' a bottle of RUM!" He bangs his free arm against the counter. "Barkeep! Fetch a rum here, missie!" He giggles as loudly as he can, though his airway is constricted. "YO HO HO!"

Wesley observes the fight from a distance, then raps his knuckles lightly on the wooden countertop. "Drink, my sweet?" He flashes that smile again, sloshing the empty jug around in his paw.

Morolt continues closing her arm around the weasel's neck, ears switching directions rapidly. What.. an interesting fellow. Yes. That's exactly what she's thinking. She leans her maw down toward Stubb's ear and whispers in an almost maternal tone. "Beddy-bye time fer all raidin' weasels. Y'best join yer mates in dreamland.." Her arm is drastically tight against his neck, now. Any minute now.. He should pass out. With any hope. Just.. to make him stop singing. x.x

The singing does indeed stop, sputtering slowly out, first as a rasp, then as a whisper, then... it ceases. Stubb's breath becomes shallow and his eyes, tired, and glazed with an aloofness born of drink, ease shut. Long day, though tomorrow will be longer, poor feller.

Libbie is /always/ nice, durnit! .. just not to Asriel. She cackles at the goings-on 'twixt vixen and hob, moving away from where Morolt has Stubb leaned up against the counter and giving her own weasel's hair an affectionate ruffle. "/More/? So soon? Don' blame yore achin' head tomorrow on me, love, s'all I ask!" She refills his jug a second time, recorks the bottle of rum, and sips her own drink, smiling at Wesley. "Ain' she somethin'?" she asks, jerking her chin towards Morolt. "Gaw-lee, I missed ye, Moron!"

"Shuddup, doe-bag. Ye'll wake the ugly babe." Morolt says. She lifts Stubb's limp, tired body and sticks him underneath a table for the time being. Tail switching the air, the vixen moves away from Stubb's sleeping body and creeps over to the bar. "Make like a good wench'n gimme an ale."

Asriel chuckles, sits up, stands up, and pays up, regardless of the free round, then he makes his way to the door with no apparent haste. Taking a side-ways glance at the others for a moment before he walks out of the bar. All under his own power, and without any difficulty, a novel idea for the tod. Yet the one ale wasn't really much, didn't even give him a buzz, he smiles at the last word from Morolt and slips out.

Salabim pokes his head in the door, and looks around. Smiling to himself, he enters and makes his way towards an empty table nearby. The otter settles down in the chair, looking tired.

Wesley nurses the jug in his paws, gently batting it back and forth between them. He gazes at the figure of Stubb, limp, inert beneath the table, with a sort of distance in his eyes that could be read as sympathy, maybe, oe perhaps as nonchalance. He takes a quiet sip from the bottle, then smiles again in admiration of the lovely barkeep. "My, darlin'. How /do/ you keep such a trim figure?" His eye twinkles.

Stubb's eyes flicker open as the otter trods on his tail. He groans softly, a low moan on the dim, smoky air of the pub, then drifts back into his troubled slumber.

"Yessir, Moron, sir!" The doe hops to it, pouring the vixen a glass and sending it flying down the counter towards her. She waves one hand at Salabim as he comes in, beaming. "What can I getcha, huh? Firs' roun's on th'house, t'night," she explains, for the third or fourth time, and then jogs over to Wesley, dropping a kiss on his nose in exchange for the compliment. "My sweet, sweet hob! Have ye ever tried bein' a barkeep? No? Ye'd drop five pounds in a day, I reckon! 'Tis busy work!"

Salabim grins at this. "Well gimme something good and strong." He glances around the bar, casually, before adding "How long's this place been around? Never been here before..."

Wesley sets aside the jug for the moment and pauses to consider, "Errrm... sweetpie. Got anythin'... er, substantial I can cram in m'tumtum?"

Stubb stirs again, restlessly, beneath the table, a drop of drool issuing lazily from his gaping maw. Again, the leaded eyes float open, overcoming the headache that fights to keep them clasped. He grins tiredly as he espies, near at hand, a pair of lovely looking legs... mmm. He takes a bite.

The doe glances around, letting.. someone else.. answer SAlabim's question. Why? She just dooesn't know. And as Wytethorn seems to have slipped off somewhere... "Erhem. Wesley? How long's this place been up'n runnin', lovedove?" She busies herself with the otter's drink, pouring him rum, since the bottle is already out, and walking out from behind the bar for the first time since dancing on the counter to personally deliver. Feel special, durnit! ".. food, Wes? I don' do food. But..."

Libbie shouts "Rogue! We need yore arse in 'ere, pronto!"

Rogue shouts "Arr. Gi'me a minute, will yeh? Got some soup on th'boil!" from Kitchen

Libbie grins at her weasel boy, pulling a chair over and sitting on it backwards. "Well, he's got soup, iffen ye wan' that..."

Taking her ale from the counter, Morolt stands and begins to pace, keeping an eye on the stirring Stubb under the table. He's still her responsibility, as far as she's concerned. Silly drunks. Vixies are for tods. Not hobs. "Doe-bag. What /kinda/ soup y'got 'ere?"

Salabim winks at Libbie. "Thank you." He takes a big gulp, and then grunts as he's bitten. Slamming his drink down on the table, he bends his head down to see what bit him. "What the... Get away from me. #$&@ weasel!" He kicks at him a few times a few times, and then stands up from the table, picking up his drink.

Stubb recoils in pain at the harsh beating. Drink is a harsh mistress, but wrothful otters are harsher. His head sinks once again to the floor, and darkness veils his eyes.

Rogue clambers out of the kitchen, looking rather frazzled, judging by his fur, turned up and confused as it is, but his eyes, and the proprietorial manner with which he surveys the crowded room, betray no such freneticism. He turns with a courteous nod to Libbie. "Miss Libbie, what c'n I do f'yeh?"

Wytethorn follows closely behind the otter into the room and flitters hurriedly across the floor, hands clasped genteelly before him, a grin plastered on his well-groomed mug. "Ah... Welcome to the Sagebrush Inn, sir. A local, are we, or perhaps come in from a long trip?" He hovers nearby for a moment, waiting for a reply, then looks under the table at the weasel curled, fetal position, beneath the table. Looking at Morolt, he raises an appreciative brow.

Wytethorn inquires in a tone of mild surprise, "Your handiwork?"

Morolt sips her ale. "Easy job." She mutters in reply to Wyt, peering at him over the top of her mug.

Dissolving into peals of laughter, Libs bounds up onto her chair, waving Morolt over. "Hoy, foxy, deal wid' yore pet, eh?" She sits on the back of the chair, feet on he seat, then beams when Rogue comes out of the kitchen. She's barely sat down before she's up again, strolling over to the otter chef and tipping her imaginary hat to him. "Top a' th'mornin' t'ye, Rogue! W'd ye be a dear an' fetch Wesley somethin' t'eat -- big enough so's I can sink me teeth in, too? I'm roight famished!"

Salabim nods slowly. "Aye. Passing through. I live a bit north near the lake. Was enjoying a drink til he started nibbling at my toes. How long's this place been here? Never really noticed it before."

Morolt quirks an ear to Libbie and snorts. "Lookid 'im! Back t'sleep, the stinker.. An' good on 'im, 'cause if I 'ears 'is singing one more time I'ma throw 'im off th'roof."

Wytethorn nods, "I see. This establishment was founded by my... munificent late uncle, Riverdale Fleetfoot. It has been here for ten seasons?" He inflects the last syllable slightly, then turns a questioning look on Wesley. "Ten seasons, is it? Ten, at least..." He trails off, then picks up where he stopped. "At all events, I recently came into my inheritance, and, haha, part of it was this very inn. I've cleaned it up a bit, hired new help... But... yes." He shoots another reproving glance under the table. "I... hope your visit here is not in any way impeded upon by the interloper we're entertaining under the table here."

Rogue nods gracefully to Libbie, "I know jus' th'thing fer ya beau there. Jes' the thing."

Salabim scratches at his chin, and takes a sip of his drink. "Ahh I see. Well I'm Salabim Mariscal. Live up the river aways. What's your name again?" He reaches out to give Wytethorn a firm pawshake.

Stubb massages his bruised face in his sleep.

"Squirrel-butt." Morolt mumbles from behind her ale.

"Riverdale. Psshaw. 'E danced on his grave, ol' squirrelly-face 'ere did!" Libbie giggles, glancing over to Wytethorn and Salabim as she lets Rogue get to the matters of foodstuffs. She meanders back over to the bar, waiting for someone to ask for a refill, or.. something. She sits next to Morolt, nudging her. "So's. Ye missed me, did ye? ..hoy, shnookums, come meet me ol' buddy."

"Y'smell better'n some other company I keep." Morolt replies, draining her mug of its contents. There goes her free drink. She's watching Wyt closely, waiting for her chance. But! She'll talk to Libbie and Shnookums for the time being.

Wytethorn grasps the otter's paw firmly. "I am Mr. Tristram Wytethorn, owner and proprietor of this beautiful inn." He quirks an ear; "Mariscal, is it? I believe I've heard the name." His prefab smile congeals into a genuine grin of approval. "A local, then. Glad to have you." Over his shoulder, to Libble, he says darkly, "My uncle was my strongest role model. I miss him dearly."

Loud snoring begins to issue from beneath Salabim's table. It bears, faintly, the sound of singing. "Yo... ho..." Very vaguely, slipping in with the background noise of the inn, the tune begins anew.

Salabim perks up a bit. "Heard it, eh? Where'd you hear the name, mate?" Salabim finishes his drink, grinning, and sets the empty container on the table.

There's a soft nudge to Morolt's side. "Free refills f'an ol' friend, s'long s'ye keep th'same glass," Libs murmurs to the vixen, hoisting herself up and over the counter to the other side of the bar. With all the booze. Bwaha. "Wesley, ye comin'?"

Wesley screws the cap on his jug and tucks it back into his clothes, for later use, when the doldrums set in on his daily shift. "Coming dear," he plops down on the ground and drags his feet towards the formidable looking fox. An unlikely friend, but then Libbie /is/ an unlikely gal.

"Yo ho hoo.... Yooooo hooo.... ho!"

"Wes, Mor, Mor, Wes. Mor, he's, well.. mine." Possessive, hm? "Wesley, dear, Moron here taught me to drink. En' tried to drown me, once or thrice. Lovely chapess, really. Ye know that drunken night?" No, not /that/ one. Perv. The other -- the one where she admitted to liking him, too... "Ye owe that /all/ te her." A wink, and she leans in to kiss her weasel. Yes. Hers. Rawr.

• Burp*

Stubb passes gas under the table.

Erk. "No more singin.." Morolt's ear twitches irritably, but she's soon distracted with introductions. In such close range, it's no big thing for Morolt to lean a paw out and cuff Lib's ears. "S'Morolt t'you, n'don'---..." Whaaaat? The vixen turns and looks at the table.. Underwhich Stubb just.. Whaaat? Eeeww.

A renewed bout of farts issues from under the table.

Wytethorn explains, "Well, after I arrived here, I naturally inquired after the nature of the region. Your name came up a few times."

"So, aaanyway... /ow/! /Mor/! Was that really very necessary?" Libs asks, massaging the base of her long ears. She pouts, and snatches Morolt's empty glass-mug-thing from her, refilling it with ale. "Free refills, en' that's th'thanks I git? Boxed 'bout th'ears like a misbehavin' levert? Bah!"

Wesley's brows raise at Morolt. "Y'mean, you taught 'er how t'be more like a weasel?" He laughs. "I owe ya one, sister!" He withdraws that jug again and kicks it back.

"Teach ye t'r'spect yer damn elders. I c'n still tan yer rump, an' don' ferget. 'Member th'last time y'tried stealin' my ale?" Morolt snickers. Corrupting 'em young since.. well, a while. She looks at Wesley and chuckles. "Good, you c'n pay fer my drinks later on."

Salabim stretches his arms a little bit. "I see. Well I think I'll need to be on my way. Hafta get up early tomorrow. Can't really take much of a break, or I'll lose the whole crop..." He half mumbles the statement, and starts to head for the door.

Wytethorn rises with Salabim. "It was very good to meet you, sir. I look forward to your custom and company in the future."

".. but they're /free/," Libbie mumbles, pulling her behind-the-bar stool over so she perches in front of Wesley. Morolt is cast a glare, then a smirk, before the doe finishes her glass off and fills it /yet/ again, eyeing her weasel with a wan smile.

Rogue comes into the room backwards through the swinging door, holding a tray aloft with one paw. "Hot stuff, comin' thro'!" He lets rip a loud, gravelly laugh. Sidling up to the bar near Wesley, he swings the platter down in front of the weasel with alacrity. "Laddie, here's sommat to put th'fire in y'belly!" He leans over to Libbie discreetly, "Y'may wanna stay away from 'im for t'night, if ya know what I mean." He gives her a furtive wink, then heads back towards the kitchen door.

Wesley looks at the dish blankly. "Er, what is it, Rogue?"

".. roight. Ye know, I don' git 'im drunk very offen," Libbie scowls after Rogue, good-naturedly, "ye didden after ruin it wid'... Oooh! That smells /good/! Scoot o'er, shnookums, lit me at it!" Libbie inhales deeply of the scent of Rogue's soup, grins, and goes around in front of the bar with her drink in hand. To sit on Wesley's lap. Giggle.

Setting her mug on the counter, the vixen stands, stiff collar flipped up. "Off t'bed wit' me. Tired vixen. Libs. 'M crashin' in yer room t'night." She glances over at the hob-under-table.. And goes and plucks him from the floor. "Stinky 'ere's gonna keep me company." Trot trot. Mrahahah.

Wytethorn, already sleepy, bids everyone adieu and retires to his rooms.

Wesley scoffs down the meal, then wipes his mouth on a napkin. "Mm." He burps. Ergh. "I better lie down for a while, dear. I'll catch y' in d'mornin'." He burps again.

The doe looks about to kiss her weasel goodnight, but remembers Rogue's warning, and mutters something nasty under her breath about the cook. "Goodnight, sweetheart," Libbie replies around a small yawn, nuzzling Wesley gently.

Wesley replaces the jug in his pocket and sets a light kiss on Libbie's cheek. "Nighty night, dear!" he smiles, still under the spell of drink, coasting from side to side as he makes his way back to the entrance hall.

She beams at him, then turns and saunters over to the bar, her own hips swaying under the influence of the alcohol she's consumed. Rather than follow Morolt down the trapdoor to her own room, Libbie pluck a spare pillow and blanket from behind the bar, kept there for just this purpose, and goes to curl up under one of the tables with a yawn.

Erm. Not the one Stubb passed gas under.