FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

*CONTENT WARNING: * This story contains depictions of violence, murder and horror themes throughout. Viewer Discretion is advised.

The air of the veranda was crisp, no matter the time of the year. Made refreshing by the grapevines that were trained to hang just overhead, the semi-circle of booths overlooked western flank of the Silver Ladle, and the city beyond. It was one of the best spots in the entire place to view the rippling city. Theodore drew in a deep breath of the semi-sweet air, smiling at nothing in particular. He wasn't in any particular rush to join Whitaker; they were the only two beasts out here. No rush in being the subject to more of the elitist little shit's disapproval.

Whitaker slid into the sun stained booth on the edge of the veranda. His meandering paws searched over the menus that were stationed--each one bringing a fresh twitch of confusion to his features. He didn't even look up as Theodore took up his station in at the table's head. His fingers laced in front of him, and Theodore tilted forward in the slightest of bows to the seated professor. It was more effort than it should have been to ignore the grunt of the beast.

"I do appreciate what you've done for me, I just have to apologize again for my lack of manners and fatigue," Whitaker dismissed Isolde with a nod. Isolde gave a pleasant curtsy as she made her escape from the terrible little bastard, leaving him alone with Theodore and his nipperish antics of using the menu as a barrier between he and his Host. "Though I suppose I should thank you for wearing trousers beneath your sash, Mr. Locke. Other beasts aren't so modest."

"This is a uniform, in case you've not noticed." he forced the scoff to the back of his throat. "Trousers aren't required; only the sashes."

"My wife has cocktail dresses that don't leave so much of a thigh exposed," snorted the Otter as he studied the menu.

"You have a certain way you like things, don't you?" Theodore couldn't catch himself before he sneered. Shrugging, he decided to lean into it. Whitaker would get the same kind of company he offered; Sybil was paying for today, not him. His paw slapped forward to crush the menu down into the table. The satisfying crack of thick paper against the hard wood made Whitaker jump. At least it was a change from the mask of distaste on his face. "Look, if I'm going to be trying to defend your life, the least you could do is try to not be a bastard?"

"I think we should both eat. It's affecting our moods," Whitaker chose his words as carefully as he was able. He flicked at Theodore's paw to move it off the mangled menu and stared daggers into the text. He moved his jaw around like he was tasting the words before speaking. "This appears to be a list of sensations, not a menu," Whitaker forced the words out of his mouth. He opened his fingers to let the page fall naturally. "How precisely does one order from this?"

"It is a list of sensations. Look here," he pointed to the ruined menu. His finger traced the mulched text, mulling his words carefully as he spoke. "Here at the top, you pick what kind of flavors you're after; savory, sweet, spicy... Your ingredients are next. I take the list of what you're looking for back to the kitchen and they make something for your tastes."

"That seems completely unnecessary," the professor deadpanned. "Why not just set a menu, like any other restaurant?"

Theodore fought the urge to punch the apathy off of the beast's muzzle. "Look, our goddess in this Abbey is one of sensory exploration. If you're--"

"Why don't you just surprise me?" the Otter cut in, offering the menu. Theodore inhaled around a series of obscenities he hadn't had cause to use since he sailed. His ears twitched as a memory of one of the many dinner's head eaten with Silas came to mind.

"Stand up and bend over," he barked the order. The look of horror on Whitaker's face made it worth it, but Theodore turned on his toes and shook his head before the beast could otherwise speak. "I'll bring whatever leftovers are in the kitchen."

"That's fair enough," Whitaker grumbled as Theodore stormed off.

There was only one exit from the Veranda--the stairs that acted as the main hub and connection for the entire Ladle, it seemed. Theodore let the door swing closed behind him, and his back pressed against it with a heaving sigh. His fingers rummaged the ridge of his brow, and he pressed the digits into his eyes to try and stave off a headache. Maybe the little spitfuck was right; maybe he was just getting angry for lack of food?

Or maybe Theodore was still fending off more fond memories.

Shaking his head clear of them, the Wolf let his feet pick a direction. Up.

Kitchens were down. He ran his tongue over his teeth, letting his feet follow their own natural movements toward his room. Madame Sybil wanted him to treat himself with more respect; to get rid of his private alcohol bar... Poor lass had so much on her 'to-do' list, this was the least that Theodore could oblige.

He slid upward to his room. Fate tempted him in the form of Madame Sybil's door, which was cracked open. He could see figures moving about inside, but he knew better than to heed such a siren call.

His room was a modest suite; it was little more than a hallway with two separate rooms on his right. Each was a scant four strides deep, and three wide; bathing, clothing and shower in one, and living quarters in the other. There was just enough space for a bed for one against the wall, with a shelf for books above it, and a writer's desk; though if even one object shifted, or was moved out of place the entire room would feel suffocating. He'd opted out of having a fireplace for the sake of a window that gazed out toward the sea, even if it did turn his home into more of a closet than an apartment. He had a private place to drink himself to sleep, and puke up whatever was left in the morning.

It was all he'd wanted.

Taking a knee, Theodore tugged his lockbox out from underneath his bed. Ironbound, and easily the nicest bit of furniture in the entire room, it swung open without so much as a squeak. All of his personal effects were inside; a ledger he'd received from learning to write a ship manifest, a collection of journals he hadn't written anything in, spare needles and thread for cleaning and maintaining his uniforms, as well as four--no... three, now. Three bottles of booze.

Two and a half, Theodore's ears splayed at the leaking bottle that volunteered itself to his plans. He dabbed at the leaking cork of the amber bottle and gave it a sniff. His tastes for alcohol weren't as refined as folk had tried to make them, but he knew a brown ale when he tasted it at least. The half-destroyed label could help him fill in the blanks. His eyes studied the bulging stain in the bottom of the box--only for him to yelp and snatch up the journals.

None of the brew made it to the page edges of his gifts. He could be grateful for that at least. Shaking his head at himself for his slowness, Theodore slid around the corner and snatched a wad of laundry to throw on top of the stain. He rested the other three bottles atop of it to allow the makeshift rags to soak it up; he'd deal with it later.

He ran through his mental checklists, continuing to sniff at the bottle of drink in his paw on his way down to the kitchen. He'd need something savory to balance this, he figured. Something prestigious enough that Whitaker's lofty tastes could be satisfied, but light enough that Theodore could get what he wanted out of the beast.

Theodore needed answers; there wasn't any better social lubricant than booze.

***

Time was kind to him, for once. Theodore had been shuffled out of the kitchen with minimal effort; Rohan sent a half-crate of food with him back to his responsibilities. "I do apologize for how long that took!" he rushed from the bat-wing doors to their table. The professor slipped a small journal back into his vest pocket and said something, but Theodore didn't understand his mumble.

Taking his position once more at the head of the table, the Wolf closed his eyes and squared his shoulders. He was out of practice, but he could do this, he assured himself. Everything around him was built to help him succeed. The crate and the table were made with each other in mind. The food was fresh, brought in a straight line from the kitchen back up to the Otter. There was plenty for Theodore to have his fill as well...

He felt like it was his first day all over again. "What we have here," he said, depositing each item onto the table in front of the professor as he spoke. "Is a two course meal; skipping dessert for the time being," he gave a lopsided grin to the beast.

Whitaker sat in unamused silence, crossing his arms over the top of the edge of the table. He'd rolled up his sleeves, Theodore noticed. More than a few scars covered the beast's forearms, but he knew better than to comment on them. "For the appetizer, rolls, with a few--"

"Mr. Locke, please just set the table and eat with me," the Otter's shoulders fell. "And if you've anything to drink, I would like a meal and company more than a show of devotion to any particular goddess."

Theodore blinked, looking down at the elaborate meal in the crate. Stew still simmered in a vat that was barely cool enough to touch, lumps of bread were artfully stacked on a plate, next to a small salad and the shot glasses he had to scrounge for. His shoulders sank, but he did as he was asked. Everything went onto the center of the table, and Theodore into the opposite end of the booth.

He helped himself to a few lumps of rolls as Whitaker reached for the beer, as if on instinct. Theodore couldn't decipher his expression; whether or not the beast was dead inside or just that tired. The Professor seemed content to serve himself a glass of the ale that was offered to him, saying nothing until he'd drained it twice. "I can only apologize for my frayed nerves, Mr. Locke," his fingers curled and relaxed, his fidgets carrying to every muscle in his body that Theodore could see.

The Otter kept his muzzle tilted low. He inhaled slowly, as if trying to steady himself before he met Theodore's eyes. "I know you have questions. And I want you to listen to what I have to say before you ask them. Alright?"

"That's fair... do you mind if I...?" Theodore gestured toward the stew. Whitaker shook his head, and Theodore didn't need an invitation.

"I would love to start at the beginning of this whole menagerie," the professor lifted his glasses, pressing his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his muzzle. "But the stark reality is that it will only make sense if we start at the end, and work backwards."

"May I--" Theodore forced himself to swallow a lump of pheasant before continuing. "May I make a suggestion? I love cryptic and all, but if I'm trying to save your life I just need you to be clear instead."

Whitaker's fingers laced, and he leaned forward in the most matter-of-fact pose that Theodore had ever seen. His eyes traced Theodore's expression, switching between mild amusement at the spoon hanging out of the corner of the Wolf's maw, and distaste that Theodore finally understood. It was something he knew all too well, and seen in the twitches of his own muzzle.

Whitaker was pissed at himself, and lashing out.

Theodore tugged the spoon free and leaned forward, tutting his tongue carefully. "Professor, take the time that you need. You've had a trying few days, and I... I've been a bastard like I haven't earned the right to be."

He waved a paw at the air around Theodore's words. "It's alright. I've not been the most gracious of your guests, I'm certain," he tried to force a smile, even if he couldn't look up at his host. He swallowed, and shuddered violently enough to make Theodore want to do the same. "We found something, Theodore. We thought it was God, and it wasn't. But by the time we realized our mistake, we'd already made it curious."

Theodore fell silent. There was a punchline to this; there had to be. "And?" he found himself mumbling, his eyes darting up and down Whitaker's expression. This beast actually believed what he'd just said, there was no doubt about it. "How does this tie into somebeast wanting you dead?" he pressed.

"Perhaps, as I said, we should start at the end, and work toward the beginning?"