Sagebrush Inn - 09 02 2004

A log from the old website, with Libbie (Jessy), Stubb/Wesley (Riverdale), Asriel (Ajax), and Wytethorn.

And so, boredom sets in. No one bothers with the bar this early; Libbie's job doesn't start until dusk or so. The rabbitgirl sits behind the counter, blue eyes narrowed testily below the low edge of the bandana wrapped about her head, pirate-style. Arr! Her long ears are flopped to either side of her head, the large golden hoops at the ends of them clinking against the edge of the counter as the doe leans one arm onto it, the other lifting to set another polished glass precariously atop the rest -- completing her pyramid. ".. beat that," Libs is heard to mutter, straightening with a proud smirk.

Stubb sits at the desolate bar, lonely, forgotten for now, come in just recently from the sea by his look and forgotten by the world. His gaze alights, unfocused, on the figure of the barmaid. He watches for a moment, then turns away, still nursing a stale beer, just the bits left he doesn't want to drink. Unseen, he lets his paw drift lazily along the rim of the clouded glass mug.

Leaning against the wall with one paw out to prop himself up, and his other paw holding for dear life to a jug of some foul, perhaps homemade poison, is Asriel, the wine keeper, and a dirty looking gruff master of his work he is. His beard is un-kept, clothings stained, and you could prolly wonder why they haven't locked him in the basement where he belongs. He takes a swing of the jug, watching from the back of the room.

Bar/keeper/. And this one's completely forgotten Stubb's existence, by the look of things. She scoots up her stool, craning her head this way and that to look at her glittering creation, then gives one of the upturned glasses a nudge, repositioning it.. And then another one. "Not bad, Libs. Ye've outdone y'sself, this time!" Narrowed blues flit towards the exits -- the one leading to the kitchen, and then the entry hall -- as if expecting 'mister' Wytethorn to walk in at any moment. Pause. Of course he won't catch her endangering the glassware; this doe can get away with anything! Satisfied with her 'work', Libs leans back so two of her stool's legs are off the floor, picking up her own half-finished drink from where she left it. Asriel is given a brief, almost mocking look, before she takes a swig.

Stubb watches sulkily from the corner as the bar/keeper/ concludes her comical enterprise for the day. And, with more than a hint of resignation, the weasel slides the glass down the length of the bar towards her, calculating it to stop just short of the coruscating pyramid, and rises to his weary paws. With a slight wave, he hails the winekeeper and finds his way, stumbling like a fledgling from the nest, towards the wall. "Got th'time, mate?"

The wine-keeper looks slightly confused, giving Stubb a double glance to see if this weasel is indeed talking to him, "No.." He scowls, sinking against the wall, and pulling his jug into his lap, "Ask the bar wench, she might know.." He lifts his jug to his muzzle, and pours it back with more then a little spilling all over him.

"When was th'las' time ye bathed, tod?" Libbie pipes up, giving Asriel a cool look. The smirk spreads across her muzzle, and she finishes off the contents of her own glass. The doe hoists herself up, swinging her legs onto the counter so they dangle over the edge from the knee, swinging lightly. Her hands brace her on either side, eyes venomous as they land on the fox. ".. 'cause, ye know ye're not steppin' foot int' m'common room affer I jus' gone en' cleaned 't. Not wid' how ye look now, ye lil' turd." She reaches back, grabbing a bottle and pouring herself another drink. ".. git back te yore foul hole, foxboy."

In a flash, there then gone, a smile, born perhaps of schadenfreude, perhaps of innocence, flickers across the weasel Stubb's features as he watches the two employees fight. Whatever the smile portends, he is quick to conceal it, quick, indeed, to conceal whatever malice may dwell in his taciturn nature. He turns to the doe and repeats his simple query. "Got th'time, miss?" Is he planning something, or is he so simple?

Narrowing his eyes the fox glares at Libbie, he slowly pushes himself to his feet, having to ditch his jug. The jug of course makes a bit of a mess, spill everywhere, but the tod is just too busy being angry to notice, "Some beast ought ta teach yah a lesson, ya ought ta know how to treat a feller!" He snorts, holding himself up against the wall, "Ya think ya better then me, but ya ain't you disrespectful little baby!" By this point, the tod is shouting, and the patrons are sure to notice. Puffing and huffing, the fox takes a step forward as if his intent is to give just such a lesson to the bunneh, but he doesn't get too far. He leans back against the wall, holding onto it for support, "

Stubb mutters to himself. "Service mah right paw."

"At least /I/ can hold my booze," declares Libbie, slamming her glass down on the top of the counter and sauntering over to the tod. Let's ignore that what she was drinking is a fair bit lighter than what Asriel's been guzzling, shall we? THat's besides the point. Liibie leers at the tod, standing with her hands akimbo just out of reach -- he'd have to take, oh my /gosh/, two full steps without the door's support to reach her! "I ain' gonna have ye pukin' yore guts ont' my floor again, ye crossed-eyed pig. Git out a' my common room, eh? Ye heard me th'firs' time 'roun', I think, or did th'mold from yore rotten cellar somehow wind up cloggin' yore ears? Out!"

Stubb plops himself back down at the bar. "Hell, I ain't got a place t'go in the world. Fill 'er up, barkeep."

The fox closes his eyes, clinging to the wall while he trembles with rage, "No, I'll not leave, " He takes a step outward from the safety of the wall, woozy, unsure of himself but holding himself up, "Bar wench, get me a beer, I've got money too!" He leans out and grabs a seat at the bar, dragging himself onto it while he grins up at Stubb, "Pardon sir, but have you tried the wine?" Taking a seat he looks smugly to the rabbit.

"Right-o!" Libs chirps at Stubb, jeering briefly at Asriel before turning and hopping back over the counter. "Any day I git t'cuss at that louse is a good day; s'on th'house, weasel m'boy! What can I git ye?" At the mention of the fox paying, Libbie gives in, nodding and making her large hoop earrings jangle together. "Suit y'sself, maggot," she mutters, raising an eyebrow as he sits at that one particular stool with an unsteady leg... But she won't say anything. While she waits for Stubb's order, the doe turns to fill a mug for Asriel -- with some of the old, gross beer she keeps in a corner, for those guests she doesn't like very much. Haha. You can bet she'll make him pay extra for it, too!

Stubb taps his claws on the wooden bar, considering with his characteristically simple gaze, weighing his options. Turning to Asriel, he poses, "Eh... 'S th'wine any good, mate? M'gullet's tired of th'same ol' crud."

The gruff wine keeper strokes at his beard, waiting for his beer, paying in advance and leaving the tally on the counter, "Ah, yes the wine is exceptional, only the best, if ya want I could take ya down there and let ya take a few sips?" He nudges in the direction of the weasel, grinning, "Ah..." He looks to the rabbit, finally paying her some attention, "Hmmm, ya know, I think she secretly fancy's me...she may be a few wits sort of my experience...and need a bit if time charm school..." He shrugs his shoulders, looking at Stubb.

"Everythin' I serve is good!" Libbie informs the weasel, a little indignant. Well... everything but the stuff she gives this particular fox. She sends Asriel's mug /whoosh/ing down the bar towards him, expertly, with not a drop sloshed out onto the gleaming countertop. "We got non-alcoholic.. stuff.. if that strikes yore fancy. En' hoy, shut yore trap, Asriel. Ye owe me more gold, ye know. I raised th'price on beer." Only his beer. She eyes him suspiciously, scooping the few coins into her palm and biting one, out of habit. "Wine it is, then, mate? Comin' roight up!" She turns her back to them again, pouring Stubb a glass. She has nothing against him, and this drink is actually good.

The weasel darts a swift, impish grin at the fox. "Aye, I c'n see it, sar. Hate ain't too far diff'rent from love, they say. 'S inner eyes, if ya jes' look." With a scraggly paw, he points to the poor, scrutinized rabbit's blue eyes, "Right in thar, matey. Feisty, she is, but mighty lovely." The paw waves dismissively at Libbie, then; "Nay, sweet, I'll jes' go with m'mate here an' see what he's got in th'cellar." He winks brightly, then eyes the glass. "Ehh, what th'hell." He lifts the mug and tilts it back. Wiping the residue from his maw, he raises the glass in a salute, "Cheers!" Drownin' his wits, this one is.

• • Wesley** steps lightly into the room from the entrance hall, his face atwitch with a faint nervousness that belies the typical traits of his species. His appearance is largely unexceptional, though his fur is more neatly groomed than might be expected. His eyes find Libbie, and his face splits into a grin. "Libbie, darling, did I hear you call? What might be the problem, love? Are these..." -- he pauses, eyeing the early afternoon patrons -- "...gentlemen giving you trouble?"

Stubb scoffs into his wine and says in a dark undertone to Asriel, "A' embarrassment ta my kind, that one." He gestures with his head back towards Wesley. "An' t'men everywhere."

"Everythin' down in th'cellar is still agin'," Libbie points out, leaning her crossed arms against the countertop. "I got all th'good wine up 'ere, but if ye'd like t'go ahead en' indulge y'sself on whatever 'e's got in 'is foul hole, be my guest. I.. hullo, Wesley." Libbie's azure eyes falls to the newcomer, a weasel who is /much/ more easy on the eyes than Stubb, and her lips curl into more of a genuine smile than a smirk. ".. help? Asriel's tryin' t'poison our guest. En' spillin' slime on th'floor, while he's at it." Foo. She grabs a rag and goes to clean that up... As actually /drinks/ this stuff? Ech.

The fox downs his drink in one gulp, and grins at Libbie, "Another...and I don't owe yah more gold for this one..and ya know it.." He lays down more money for the second drink, he nods to Stubb at times when the weasel agrees with him, ignores Libbie, and watches as another weasel comes in, "Aye...he's that alright..." The fox turns to Wesley, "Shove off...ya ain't needed..." Then he turns and watches Libbie go to clean his mess, "Now..dat's what a lass like that should be doing, not touching ta drinks!"

Wesley eyes Asriel, from a distance, with unconcealed scorn dancing in his dark eyes. "You know, Libbie, 'e's all talk. As is harmless. Always has been. Always." His mild reproach softens into the sort of fondness one naturally feels to the town idiot. "Leave him to his wine and 'is cellar, and there's nought to be troubled about." His looks at Stubb. "As for the other one, 'e seems simple enough. If 'e causes trouble, you know where I am, my sweet."

The doe scrubs the slop off of her recently-cleaned floor as best as she can, wrinkling her nose. She straightens, hefting the dripping rag with a challenging look at the two of them. Stubb, because he's a guest, she /should/ leave alone... But she can pick on Asriel all she wants. "Leave 'im alone, ye nasty brute," the rabbit growls in Wesley's defense, looking ready to rub the towel in Asriel's face as she stalks back over to the bar. The tod's mug is refilled, though she withholds the drink and glares at As. "My bar, my prices. I should make ye fork over yore whole changepurse, AS, not jus' an extra coin each." Wesley is heard -- and it softens her towards the two other men, a half-hearted smile flashing in the weasel's direction. 'Stay,' she mouths at him, quickly.

Wesley receives the unspoken command with a faint smile upon his lips. He nodes, silently, and takes a place at the bar, a short distance from Stubb and Asriel.

"Fine, keep your dishwater to yourself, I ain't never caused yah no trouble but yah always gotta be a bloody witch don't'cha?" He glares in return at Libbie, pounding the bar twice, "Now give me my beer!" He throws the coins he already placed on the bar in her face, "Ya want trouble, I'll give you trouble, and a few coins for charm school!" He forks some more joins from his pouch.

"S'long s'I git paid," the spunky doe shoots back, with a grin. Aha! Victory. She turns her face aside as the fox's money flies at her, pursing her lips as one coin hits her in the eye. ".. was that really entirely necessary?" Libs asks, rolling her eyes, and tosses the sticky, dripping rag at Asriel's head before scopping up the scattered coins, pocketing them. She moves down the bar to Wesley, leaning across the counter to kiss his cheek in greeting, then gestures to her pyramid of upturned glasses. "Like it, hun?"

Stubb finishes off the wine and lets the mug slam down on the counter with a clatter. "More-a yer choicest wine, m'sweet! Thar's a good doe, nice an' quick! Jes' hope yer little whippin' boy thar don't take yer mind off th'job!" His vociferous voice, bolstered by the alcohol, rings out in the spacious common room. He leans towards Asriel, "Matey, know any gud sea chanties, or shall I start?" He bangs his paw on the counter, "What does it take t'get some service roun' here! C'mon, lady buck, fetch it meh!"

Wesley gives a tender pat on Libbie's paw. "'S nice, dear. Keeps the mind off the boredom, I suppose." He shoots a poisonous glance at the increasingly loud weasel down the bar. "Better do as 'e says, Libbie. It's too early for trouble."

Wytethorn enters from the kitchen, dusting off his paws distastefully. He pauses at the entryway, eyeing the gathering with an expression of mild surprise. After a few moments of observation, he makes his way to where Wesley and Libbie. "Good afternoon, Wesley. Libbie."

"Ignore them," Libs tells Wesley with a vague smile, straightening and rubbing the back of her neck. She wipes her hands on the apron wrapped about her hips, making her way back towards Stubb. "Money first," she tells him, refilling the loud weasel's mug. The pale-furred doe knows better than to let someone like him get drunk and pass out without paying upfront. She learned that all from experience. Ergh. "Hullo, Wyte," she greets the squirrel-boss with a rather impish grin, then glances to the pyramid. Er. She should really put all those glasses away, before they all come crashing down...

Wesley stands up as the innkeeper approaches. "I expect you'll be wantin' me back at my post now. Jus' keepin' Libbie company. These two're jus' bein' themselves."

Wytethorn grins at Libbie's casual appropriation of his surname. "Whatever happened, dear child, to 'Mr. Wytethorn'? Ah, the improprieties of you youth astound me." He makes a show of smoothing his already well-groomed fur, widening his grin self-conscious. "But be so good as to get me a drink, miss." He nods at Wesley. "You may remain, Mr. Wesley, for the time being. I don't suppose many customers will be checking in in the early afternoon."

Stubb slams a pawful of coins on the counter. "Count'em, miss. That sh'd hold ya for theh evenin', I pray." He lets loose a loud, coarse cackle. "Now, fillerupmissiepants!"

The doe's blue eyes sweep to Wytethorn, and she tries desperately to make eye contact, giving him a look that clearly squeals, 'Please don't make him leeeeeave!' And.. hey, it worked. Or something. Libbie cracks her calling-card impish smile, corking the wine bottle and storing it away. Wytethorn is given a mug of ale, and the rabbitgirl cocks a dark eyebrow at Stubb. ".. aye. That'll do," she says curtly, pocketing his money, as well, and pushing the mug of wine towards the weasel. How does she keep all the orders straight? "WAnt anythin', love?" she asks Wesley, gesturing to a seat closer to where she's be working -- taking the glasses off the pyramid, polishing them up, and putting them away.

Wesley waves a dismissive paw at Libbie, "No thanks, my darlin'. I'm stayin' clean till tonight. Then we can get blasted together!" He giggles maniacally, then composes himself again, gazing obliquely, cautiously, at Mr. Wytethorn, hoping his impropriety is not noted.

Wytethorn's eyes twinkle with unvoiced laughter, partly at Libbie's antics, and partly at the thought of Wesley and Libbie as a couple. "Was there something wrong with your eyes, Libbie? If you're afraid of that mad vermin over here," he gestures pointedly at Wesley, "I am certainly happy to drive him away for you." Sterner, "And I will certainly drive him away for you if he is so inebriated that he cannot properly execute his duties when I require it of him."

"My.. eyes, Mister Squirrelface? Nothin' at all wrong wif' my eyes, sir!" Libbie looks at Wytethorn with perfect innocence. To give her hands something to do, she pours cider into one of the glasses she just cleaned, sliding it towards Wesley, then goes back to deconstructing her pyramid, rubbing another, cleaner rag around the inside and outside of each glass she takes off the structure. "Tho', sir, if ye wanna be of service, ye c'd remove that drunkard, 'fore 'e starts droolin' on my bar counter..." She nods to Asriel, who's totally zonked.

Wytethorn comments drolly, "Rather. It is always a bad sign when one's cellarkeeper is unconscious this early in the afternoon." He smiles ruefully. "Perhaps I have made an unwise managerial decision." He sighs and with a shrug of his shoulders, picks up his mug of ale and ambles over to the kitchen door.

Wytethorn shouts "Mr. Rogue, would you be so kind as to come into the common room for a minute?"

• • Rogue** shouts "One sec', Mr. Wytethorn. Got m'paws tied up at th'moment." from Kitchen

Wesley downs the cider in what seems like one, swift gulp, then replaces the mug on the counter. He has, at least, inherited the insatiable thirst of his species. Standing and strolling over to Tristram Wytethorn, he lays a consolatory paw on his back. "Well," he grins suddenly, "Mr. Squirrely-face, I wouldn't be down on yourself now. As's good 't what 'e does, sir. A tad eccentric, but if your uncle trusted 'im, I would too, sir." He pats Wytethorn on the back.

Rogue arrives from the kitchen through the swinging door.

Rogue has arrived.

Rogue smiles a subservient smile at Wytethorn. "What c'n I do ya for, Mr. Wytethorn?"

To be friendly to a member of a vermin species is one thing, to be treated with such camaraderie is another. Wytethorn, with some discomfort, says, "Err, why thank you, Wesley. That's very kind of you to say." He coughs and straightens up a bit as Rogue enters. "Yes, Mr. Rogue. If you would be so kind, our cellarkeeper seems to have departed us for a happier land momentarily. Would you please remove his body to the garden so as it does not disturb the other guests? You needn't bother being extra gentle. I think it would improve his moral constitution to have some ah, physical souvenir of his trip."

SNORT! "I wouldn't. 'E's a foul ol' toad wid' a roight nasty temperament, says I." Libbie's two cents. While the rest of the staff lounges around, she keeps working, scrubbing at one glass, then another, then another, and storing them all under the conuter. "More?" The question is mumbled at Wesley, and she pauses and draped the rag over her shoulder, tipping her head to one side. The rabbit would /much/ rather be mixing drinks than cleaning glasses, that's clear as day. In fact! That's just what she'll do -- for herself, if no one else wants one. Ale sloshes into the doe's own mug, a brow quirking at the cook's entrance. ".. aye. Toss 'im int' a thorn bush, will ye, Rogue?"

"No more cider for me, thank you, dear," says Wesley to Libbie. "I've had enough drink for now. I'm goin' ta get ready for the nighttime rush." He starts towards the entrance hall.

Rogue salutes to Wytethorn, "Yessir. I'll see to it that 'e gets 'is just desserts." The old otter clearly has a bone to pick with the much-maligned winekeeper. He hurries back into the kitchen to carry out the appointed task.

".. a'ight," the doe chirps, moving around the end of the counter and going over towards Wesley. She sniggers at Rogue's words, glancing back to watch Asriel get hauled out of sight, then pecks Wesley on the lips. "Ye owe me a drink later," she tells him. You know, even though she's the 'tender, and can drink as much as she wants for free... Snug.

Wytethorn thanks Rogue, and takes a few draughts from his mug. He walks back over to Libbie and Wesley. "There you go, missy. In any case, I have the rest of the inn to inspect again. I've never properly done it for awhile." He compliments both Libbie and Wesley with a jaunty salute. "A few more minutes, Mr. Wesley, then back at your post." He leaves, muttering "Yeah, right."

The light red of a blush blooms on Wesley's face as he receives the treasured kiss. Such a strange couple, bound only by youth and circumstance, they look oddly appropriate in the dim light of the common room. In the filtering dust, against the backdrop of Stubb's low, gravelly snoring, in such a place as this -- as dim and moody and smelly as this -- these two have found love. With backward glance and lingering gaze, Wesley pads out of the room, to return to his reluctant post. "Tonight, my sweet."

This girl isn't exactly one for romance. At least, not in public. But then, who's watching? .. /Stubb/? Libbie actually giggles at the thought, brushing her knuckles up against WEsley's jaw before he turns to go, and then she turns as well, back to her bar, taking the rag from her shoulder and using it to wipe down the counter, just for kicks.