Chương 18: Vol 1. The Three Hares

Tahir grunted as he forced himself onward despite his obvious limp. His paws hurt. They had been walking for five days now, and he was really beginning to miss the horse and cart with a desperate, almost romantic intensity that words could not describe.

"Hey, check it out, kid!" Morton said. Tahir looked up. Beside the road stood a sagging, ancient building whose wooden framing looked as if it had lost a war against an army of termites. The roof was slanted, made of some odd lumber Tahir could not quite identify, and covered in patchy, mismatched shingles that looked as though they would wash away with the next rainfall—birds nestled in the gutters.

A weather-worn porch stretched across the front, and beside it stood a stable that aggressively attacked Tahir with its stench. Dangling in front of the entrance was a sign that read: The Three Hares. Tahir groaned at the name. The gods really were mocking him. Morton grinned.

"Well, would you look at that," Morton said.

"Some civilization." Tahir grunted.

"That building looks horrendously designed. At that slope, it is losing a war with gravity itself."

"Eh, roof's still on."

"Barely," Tahir muttered.

"Well, ain't that all a roof needs to do?" Morton asked. They walked towards the entrance of the inn. Tahir wrinkled his nose. He could smell the fresh manure and damp straw that littered the stable outside, but beneath that came a variety of smells from within: woodsmoke, frying onions, simmering meat, spilled booze, and something yeasty and warm--hopefully bread? Inside came cackling, shouting, the slamming of paws and mugs, and the scraping of chairs against old floorboards. Tahir's heart raced.

He didn't do well in cramped, populated spaces. They stepped inside. Immediately, the room assaulted Tahir from every direction. Wet coats hung near the entrance, dripping onto the floorboards. A hearth burned stupidly hot along the wall, filling the room with thick billows and smothering heat that clung beneath his fur. The ceiling was low and stained black by old smoke. At the end of the room, the bar's countertop had been worn smooth by years upon years of elbows, coins, and spilled drinks. Tankards clacked.

Chairs scraped. Patrons, mostly working women, sang and jeered and yelled and ate and talked merrily, while a couple of serving men hurried between the tables with trays held close to their chests. Tahir cringed as one rowdy older patron attempted to speak sultrily to one of the serving men. When that failed, she slapped his rump with one paw, and she and her friends began to laugh hysterically as the serving man snarled and swatted her paw away.

The room did not immediately fall quiet when Morton and Tahir entered. Instead, it simmered down in little patches--table by table--as patrons began to notice Morton. Tahir shifted uncomfortably. He had not bathed in five days. Did he smell? Did he look bad? Was the mud in his fur noticeable? The thought of the bar's throngs finding him hideous made him feel ill. Tahir felt a warm hand press against his shoulder. He looked up. Morton gave him a small nod, wordless yet packed with meaning.

The two began making their way toward the bar, with Tahir holding tightly onto Morton's hand, his ears lowered as he quivered, like the room was composed of hungry monsters ready to swallow him whole. Someone muttered, "By the Great Mother, is that an elf?"

"Nah, it can't be," someone else said.

"Way too broad for an elf."

"Is that a man or woman?" one woman asked.

"Got no clue," another said, "but if that is a man, oh, boy, the things I would do to him--""Ugh, gross," a man said.

"Hey, you can't tell me he doesn't look like a good time."

"I've never been into feminine men," another woman said.

"I like my men masculine."

"What men?" another woman spat.

"You don't get any men!" A few patrons burst into laughter. Tahir looked up at Morton. None of the remarks seemed to faze him. In fact, Morton only tipped his hat slightly, gave a polite smile, then continued walking towards his destination. Behind the bar stood the innkeeper, a broad, robust, middle-aged Kharani woman with faded auburn fur that had begun to grey around the muzzle and go patchy around the wrists.

She had one torn ear, one chipped fang, thick, vascular forearms, and wore an apron permanently stained with stew, ale, and the juices of steak and other meats. Her mane was tied back messily with a strip of cloth. Her claws were trimmed short. She looked Morton up and down with a look of suspicious curiosity, then looked at Tahir, then back at Morton. Then she let out an exhausted sigh. Leaning her paws against the counter, she said:"What are you two looking for? Room, food, drink, or some trouble?

Because I warn you now, I charge extra for that last one."

"Well, ma'am, I was hopin' for just the first three." The innkeeper fell silent for a moment, then cocked her head.

"And what exactly are you supposed to be?" she asked flatly.

"Human, ma'am." The innkeeper twitched one ear.

"I got no clue what that means, but I'll take your word."

"Does that usually cost too?"

"No," she said evenly.

"Alright: one room, two bowls, two drinks, and maybe bathwater if you want that hauled up for the morning. Hundred copper… oh, and an extra ten if your kind sheds." She looked at Tahir.

"You know if he's a shedder?" Tahir pressed his ears flat, mortified. He began to look himself over. Sure, he hadn't had time to brush properly, but was he really starting to get noticeable loose hairs in his coat?!?! Oh, Seroth, take me now, he thought. Morton said, "Not sure, but I think he's been leavin' a clone of himself on the road." Tahir glared at Morton with a look of fury he hadn't known he was capable of. He reached into the luggage, pulled out the coins, and set them gently on the counter.

After the innkeeper counted them, she grunted, tossed Morton the keys, and said:"Second floor. Last door on the left. The window sticks… don't force it, unless you want to pay for it. The bed is clean… Well, mostly." Tahir shuddered.

"Thank you, ma'am!" Morton said with a smile.

"Whatever," the innkeeper said evenly. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"Wonderful," Tahir said.

"May we retire for the evening?"

"Not yet," Morton said. Tahir's ears flattened.

"What do you mean not yet?"

"Kid," Morton began, straightening his hat, "you've been complainin' about only eatin' hare since the dawn of time. So you can be hungry and miserable upstairs, or you can be hungry and miserable down here with some food and drink in ya'. Which one sounds smarter, you reckon?"

"I am not eating or drinking from this--" Tahir's stomach ravenously growled. Morton smirked. # Morton chose a table in the corner near the stairs, slowly settling into the rickety old chair. Tahir was unsure what the sticky substance on the table was, and that was very disconcerting. The server arrived a moment later. Tahir could not help but notice that he was quite handsome.

His fur was a soft, natural grey, his eyes bright, his waist narrow beneath his simple linen shirt, and his cute but tired little smile suggested he had only survived his shift thanks to divine intervention. He carried a tray with both paws and walked over to them. The server looked at him, and Tahir suddenly found the little crack in the table highly interesting—probably the most interesting thing in the world. How fascinating, he thought. Wood.

"Good evening…" The server looked Morton up and down.

"Um, gentlemen. Here is your stew." He set the bowls in front of them. The smell immediately overcame Tahir.

"Now, what can I get you two to drink?"

"Um," Tahir said, a little flustered, "do you have wine?"

"Red," the serving man said.

"And um, what vintage is it?"

"... Wet," the serving man said slyly.

"That is… that is fine then."

"And for you?" the serving man said to Morton.

"Ah, just some beer, will ya? Biggest you got!"

"Got it," the serving man said.

"I'll be right back." Tahir looked down at the stew below him. The steam prickled his face. He watched the small chunks of meat and vegetables bob and swirl in the broth. The serving man returned and handed them their drinks: a small glass of wine for Tahir and a large mug for Morton. Picking up his spoon, Tahir scooped up a little stew and tried to eat in a dignified way-- He slurped it down as fast as he could until there was nothing left in the bowl.

"Wow, slow down there, kid," Morton said, taking a big swig of his mug.

"Any faster and you'll be throwin' up all over the place."

"Excuse me, gentlemen?" The serving man approached them and set down two more drinks.

"These have been paid for." Morton looked across the room. Near the hearth, two women raised their cups. One looked to be in her salad days, bright-eyed and filled with eagerness, while the other seemed a few years older and carried herself with a weary confidence born of a rough life. Then, with staggering speed, they stood and made their way over. One was broad, calico-furred, with a patch over one eye and a scar running from her ear down to her muzzle.

She wore plain travelling clothes, the kind worn when one did not wish to be remembered. The other was slimmer, golden-furred, freckled with dark, pepper-like speckles across her cheeks, wearing cheap earrings of poorly wrought brass and a sharp gaze that made Tahir slightly uncomfortable. Tahir lowered his gaze to his wine; alas, the wine was lousy protection. The calico woman leaned one paw against the table, a coquettish glint in her eyes.

"Hello there, stranger," she said, her voice low and sly.

"I don't think I've seen someone like you around before. Tell me, is it my lucky day or what?" Morton took a long, slow sip of his beer.

"Ma'am, I'll tell you somethin': there are many things you can associate with me, but lucky ain't one of 'em."

"Is that so?" she said.

"Perhaps I can change that. What's your name, gorgeous?"

"You can call me Morton, miss," he said. Tahir peeked over the rim of his wine glass. She was handsome enough. Her smile was warm, cheeky, and flirtatious enough. Still, something about her made the fur along his neck prickle ever so slightly. She tilted her head, flicked her tail, and bent her ears in ways that were almost natural, yet not quite, as if socialization were a learned trait rather than a natural one. Tahir jolted. He felt warm, rough paws settle on his shoulder.

"And your friend?" the golden-furred one asked.

"He's very pretty… a little dirty, though. He looks like he lost a fight with the road." Tahir scowled.

"I will have you know I did NOT lose; the road simply resorted to incredibly dishonourable tactics." The two women laughed. The calico woman pulled out a chair, flipped it around, and sat down with her chin resting on her crossed forearms, her single eye still fixed on Morton.

"Name's Vessa," the calico woman said.

"This one's Liora. Don't worry, she bites way less than she looks like she does."

"I only bite if you want me to," Liora purred.

"That there is Tahir, miss," Morton said with a slight smirk.

"Are y'all from around here?" Tahir noticed that Morton had neglected to refer to his noble rank. Perhaps that was for the best, he thought.

"Yep," Liora said cheerfully.

"I live in the nearby town, but the big-city prices… You can't beat a roadside place, you know? Plus, Vessa here refuses to go into town with me!"

"You know how much I dread the big city," Vessa snarled.

"So busy, nobody has time for anyone."

"Big city? Vessa, it is only three thousand people. I suppose three thousand is bigger than one."

"I live around the woods," Vessa clarified.

"Have for years."

"I used to do that," Morton said.

"Built myself a log cabin."

"Oh, an outdoorsy man," Vessa purred.

"I have always wanted to get with a hyper-feminine man like you. I am guessing you are travellers?""'Deed," Morton said.

"Are you heading to the nearby town?" Vessa asked.

"That's the plan, I think."

"What for?" Vessa asked.

"Business," Morton said as he took a swig of his beer.

"What kind?" Vessa asked.

"The kind I don't know anything about," Morton said with a wry smile. Vessa looked him up and down.

"And what are you, exactly? You aren't an elf. Aren't Kharani. Far too polite to be some bandit." Morton laughed.

"Human," he said.

"Oh? Is that contagious?" Vessa said, rubbing one digit across Morton's forearm.

"Only if I bite, I reckon." Tahir choked on his wine. Vessa's claw traced a slow circle against the rim of her mug.

"You sure talk like a man who believes someone is watching over him." Morton huffed a little laugh.

"I suppose I do."

"Religious then?"

"Oh, here we go," Liora said with an eye roll.

"You don't care about that type of stuff, do you, pretty boy?" she whispered into Tahir's ear.

"None of that 'waiting until marriage' type stuff? I can give you a wonderful night you won't forget, trust me." Tahir looked in the corner of his eye.

"Oh, well, that is very nice of you, um…"

"Hey, go easy on the kid, will ya?" Morton said to Liora. He turned back to Vessa.

"And 'deed I am. Maybe not as good at it as I oughta be, hell—I ain't certain I am going anywhere good after death, but I believe in the Lord above." Vessa cocked her head quizzically.

"The… male-lady? Pardon me, I do not think I have ever heard of such a belief. Is that some elvish or orc religion or?" Morton did not know how to phrase it. It was not as if he was as devout as he had been prior to… well… but he did, even if just from a cultural standpoint, still believe in the good book (and he couldn't say meeting an angelic-like figure and being sent to an alternate reality really dispelled any belief in the supernatural for him).

His father had been a Methodist, and his mother had been a Baptist. He remembered how much they fought on what the "correct" religion to raise him in was. There was one thing they both agreed on: Uncle Jimmy from New York was NOT going to be teaching their baby boy about Catholicism.

"I believe there is one god, miss," Morton said, "and that one god had a son, and that son suffered a horrible fate so that we may receive life upon our death."

"Oh!" Vessa said.

"You mean like Seroth? You believe in an incarnation, and that the creator is man?"

"Yes," Morton said.

"Would that not be two gods then?" she asked. Morton chuckled.

"I ain't exactly sure how to answer that." Not even John Wesley himself could answer that question, and he was a damn smart man—smarter than Morton would ever be. Tahir yawned. Morton could see his ears drooping, his eyelids lowering, and the effort he was making to keep himself upright, failing miserably. Morton stood.

"Well," he said warmly, "I really appreciate the drinks, but I think it's time to start getting this guy to bed." Morton scooped Tahir into his arms.

"Aw, going to be without me?" Vessa said.

"No cats allowed on the bed," Morton answered wryly. He began to walk up the stairs.

"Aw, man," Liora said, rubbing her paws through her muzzle, "I was really hoping to get laid; he was so gorgeous too, no one would believe I banged someone like him either."

"There is always next time," Vessa said with a slight smirk. She looked up at Morton and narrowed her gaze on Tahir. Liora was right about one thing. He was beautiful. Small, nervous, soft in ways you only ever saw in men of noble blood. There was an innocence to him, too—a really charming one. Vessa's smile thinned. He would be perfect.