The Boys are Back in Town
✧ ✧ Reavers ✧ ✧
- Jaksor, Bafaloukos, Kevi
- Black Gull Tavern
"Well, we could have picked a better time-a year t' come back t' the blasted cold," comes a grating, complaining voice as a polecat pushes open the door to the Black Gull, entering the tavern with what can only be described as late summer heat. However, this particular polecat has mastered the art of thinking two disappointments ahead, it seems. [Jaksor]
Bafaloukos slides in on Jaksor's heels, commiserating with a bob of his shaggy, sweat-soaked head. "Welp, chief--some things'r just outta' our control, you know?" He stops to grin, then casts a look around the tavern. "Least we'll escape the perpetual boot sand here."
"Y've got that much dead t' rights," Jaksor agrees, making his way up to the bar through the mostly empty tavern and throwing his rump down roughly atop a stool. "At least we're back in familiar haunts. Claim-jumpin' 'n' bush-wackin're hardly my style." Shaking his head, he raps on the bar, waving down the barkeep with his hook. "Drink, anythin' cheap."
Before he sits, Bafaloukos braces himself against the bar with one hand and yanks his left boot off with the other. Sure enough, once inverted, the thing empties a steady stream of sand onto the floor. He watches the flow of granules slow, then repeats the trick with his other shoe. "Aye. Ye' never know what ye' got 'til ye' take a dozen moons' leave of it. S'good to be back in the forest. No seagulls, no hurricanes. No hares."
"Let's just forget about that," Jaksor snorts, waiting with clear impatience for his drink, picking a large splinter from the worn surface of the bartop with his hook. He's destructive like that. A terrible customer, by all accounts. When his drink arrives, he quaffs half the tankard in one long, thirsty swig, wiping the back of his paw across his forehead.
A soft rhythmic creaking sounds from the top of the stairs as Kevi slowly, confidently makes her way down. She's followed by a big, brutish-looking stoat in a kilt and eyepatch, "Aach, ye dun' ge' tae jus' roon away and leave yer debts, missy. Tis a good thing yer here, and wae did ye say? Ye were goon tae be workin' 'ere? Good. Ye kin pay me lads 'alf, and ye kin be sure I or ach, any 'f me wee bunch'll be aroond tae collect. Ain' goon tae use yer wee charms on me, missy.." He tips his cap to Baf and Jaksor and the barkeep, before exiting. Kevi sighs, adjusting the mask. She's dressed nicer than usual, in a dark green vest and a white frock underneath, and she has the mask.
Bafaloukos hops onto a seat near the polecat, though leaves the stool directly between them empty--for elbow room or maybe just so they don't have to smell each other. Boots set on the bartop, the fox fixes to get the bartender's attention with a needy tilt of his chin. He almost gets it, but then a Kevi and the stoat come thumping down the stairs, and he snaps his head to stare at Jaksor, mouthing, "Wuuuut?"
Looking no more enlightened, Jaksor can only return the stare, while a swipe of his arm knocks the boots back onto the floor with a loud *thump*. At least he knows not to be a total barbarian.
Kevi looks at the sand on the floor by Bafaloukos' feet, "This had better not be a sign of things to come. I refuse to be a common floor-sweeping wench, even if they make me. Strictly behind the bar, an' I'll have to be strict about it. This thing, hell's mother! It's in the way, and it looks awful." She fidgets with the mask, smoothing back areas of fur situated underneath of it, though mostly it's all scar tissue, of course.
Bafaloukos watches his boots fall to the floor with a dusty thud. One bounces under his chair, the other into the open aisle along the bar. And then Kevi starts in on the sand. His mouth opens to snark, but he rethinks it and instead orders a trio of rum shots for himself and his grimy co-conspirators. "Nice mask," the fox says with a half-smile, raising his cup.
Jaksor laughs to himself and at Bafaloukos, a harsh grating sound, and buries his snout in the mug. "You two play nice, now. I'm goin' t' find some decent accommodations 'n' accouterments." With booze in tow, apparently.
"Oh, being nice to me now, Baffy?" Kevi regards the other fox with a once-over and her own half-smile. Well, not like she has any choice. "I suppose dressing like a savage wasn't doing it for you? Can't say I blame ya. Oh. Leaving so soon?" The vixen occupies Jaksor's previous seat, ordering her drink, scratching her head as she's facing Baf but looking toward the barkeep. Another sigh.
"Don't jinx it," Bafaloukos tells the other fox. Ears sink in lazy surrender as Kevi continues to gripe at him, until eventually he stops listening. A mug of ale replaces his empty rum cup, and the fox brings his snout to its edge, slurping. "That's what I like about this place. Nev'r changes, ye' know?" he says, onto another subject.
"Well, I wouldn't know anything about that. It would seem I have to change for it, so I'm sure that ruins the feeling. There is something about it, though... like our little group has come around in a circle again. Mossflower is more inviting than the other place." Kevi takes a great, ridiculous swill of her drink. "I'm, uh.. glad you like it, though. What happened to your little apprentice brat?"
Bafaloukos turns on his stool so that his back faces the bar, where he props his elbows. The old fox reclines somewhat, sinking, legs kicked out and bare toes flexed. "'Round 'ere somewhere, m'sure," he tells the vixen, unconcerned. "None of ye' lot bloody has to do anything. But if ye' got gold in mind ye' gotta' grin and bear crud once 'n a while."
Kevi can't help somehow but watch his toes flex, whether out of sheer fascination with his disaffected mood or some interest in the actual toes. Has she seen his toes before? She had to have. "Uh, oh, well if you see 'im, tell 'im he's gotta say hello to 'is sister once in a while." Her eyes go back to Baf's, "Gold? Well, it's not so important to me as my dignity. Or what's left of it." She looks down at herself, and takes another drink.
Why must she be so contrary, always? Bafaloukos shifts uncomfortably, then pulls himself from the bar and hops off the stool. He faces the vixen, glaring down at her masked head while trying to shove his feet into his boots, hands-free and without looking. "Kevi, yer dignity don't mean spit to me. Y'know that, yeah?" The soft leather bunches around his feet, but will never slip over his heels without a tug. Although he continues to speak, Bafaloukos has begun to exit, dragging flappy half-donned boots like a clown as he goes. "Work 'ard, get paid. Waste yer energy gripin'? Someone else'll steal all yer opportunities out from under ya'. S'how this works. S'how the /world/ works, love." And then the old fox is gone.
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