We're Quite Done, Sir
- Location: The Thorn and Shadow: Cellar (Collinsel)
- Participants: Stubb, Sandy, Angus, Drystan, Elderly Weasel/Tavern-Keeper (Stubb Spoof)
Stubb is sprawled out across the floor, looking thinner than ever. Beneath him is a blanket, bunched up into an ineffectual ball, knotted in places by the weasel's tormented slumber. The air down here in the basement is thick with mysterious smells, but such things matter little to the infirm. His breaths come slowly, but they come.
Sandy frowns a little bit as she steps into the cellar. Things felt a little... creepy to her, down here. Ignoring those feelings though, she proceeded right to the figure laying over the floor. "Poor beast..." she whispered, before pulling the vial out of her pocket, uncorking it. Looking up for someone who might be willing to help her get this down into his system.
Angus is crouched beside the weasel. His eyes is as listless as those of his chum: defeated, impotent. A knuckle drags slowly along the side of Stubb's snout, as the dragon, helpless, attempts to coax his pal to consciousness. When the squirrel arrives and produces the potion, he recoils, livid. "Nay, m'dear. I'll be damned if I'm gonna' let ye' feed 'im that venom."
Drystan seems to have adopted the small group of dysfunctional, quirky beasts into his companions, or at least theatrical amusements. The fox follows unchallenged into the basement. By now he's picked up their names and such. The bottom stair becomes his seat.
Stubb does not even stir at the squirrelmaid's entrance, nor at Angus' caress. His lips and nose are parched, though the fur by his mouth is crusted with drool.
Sandy frowns even more. She was determined to help the weasel; feeling as if it was her duty, since she had the vial. "I would prove it isn't posion by drinking it myself, if there was enough to spare!" she replys, putting the cork back on it. Seems this would take some convincing.
Angus permits no opportunity for argument. Adjusting his position, the dragon tugs at the blanket beneath Stubb, until the catatonic critter is half-swaddled in its ratty folds. The monitor scorches Sandy with a single look, then dips to collect what remains of the weasel; skin and bones, by now, easily borne on a saurian shoulder. "Nor is he rottin' in this dungeon any longer." He moves for the steps. "Move," is all Angus says, arriving at the vulpine blockade.
Drystan hops up lightly, stepping aside. "Well wishes for your sick friend, Angus," the todd offers, with a small bow.
Sandy glares right back at him, starting to not really like him. As he went for the steps to leave, she stood back up, shaking her head. "Okay, but when he dies and you find out this vial was his only hope, don't come cryin' to me." she huffed, before stomping right past him, up and out of the steps, back to the tavern.
The blockade soon gains reinforcements. Pawsteps sound in creaks as the narrow frame of an elderly weasel eases itself to the base of the cellar stairs. Half-moon glasses adorn his nose, and thick gray eyebrows grow wild upon his forehead. He scowls at the little squirrel storming past, then turns this ill-disposed look upon the dragon below him. "You lot," he says in a voice like a rocking chair. "I want you all out of here by sunup. I knew you was trouble when you came."
"Ain't gotta' lecture me twice, pops. We was on our way out just now." Angus calibrates the ragdoll's weight, hefting Stubb a notch higher, but the gesture is more a declaration of intent than a necessity. "Amy! Dang!" the dragon bellows, and starts up the stairs. He steadily encroaches on the wizened old weasel, as if the fellow was not, in fact, obstructing his ascent.
The tavern-keeper's face quickly loses its scowl. His mouth works blankly, struggling for language to express itself. "Why-why-- N-now just you wait!" He succeeds, barely, at keeping a step or two ahead of the irresistible saurian force. Obviously, he'd prepared a longer diatribe. "Y-You'll be paying for use of my cellar, of course. Rooms don't come free, least of all here in Collinsel!" He pants. Under one arm, he holds a thick ledger, which he taps for effect. "I got my expenses!"
Angus pushes forth, irrespective of his increasing proximity to the faltering proprietor. "Bill us," he grunts, ducking to ensure that Stubb's head, as well as his own, clear the low beams of the staircase. "Or talk t' th' cat. He's th' one that's always got th' money. All I got is a kid an' half a corpse." The dragon, all though still a step or two below, levels with the weasel's gaze. "Want t' check my pockets, pops?" He juts a hip. "Talk t' th' cat," Angus reiterates.
"I'm not done with you, dragon," the old weasel snaps. He eases by Angus and continues down the stairs to appraise whatever damage his troublesome guests might have wrought. Rounding up, of course.
"Oh, I think we're quite done, sir." The dragon vanishes into the tavern above, with an intent to skedaddle before the innkeeper can resurface. Again, he blares, "Amy! Dang? C'mon, ye' lousy sots. Getcher' bags." As he traipses further into the commons, his words are garbled, but the scuffling of feet above is good indication that the gang plans to high-tail it.
