The Sword and the Scabbard - Part 1 - The Hearth and Hammer
With a hearty push, the rugged door of the Hearth and Hammer moves aside.
The shivering little fox timidly steps inside, sheltered from the rain and storm at last. He patters towards the crowded bar, fluttering his sleeves up and down and splattering rain water in streaks across the creaky wooden floor. With a tug, he whisks back his shawl, revealing just how little it protected his dripping mane of hair.
Returning from his homeland on a family visit, the wayward fox had gotten himself caught out in the cold at a crossroad. Guided by the faint light of a tavern, he eventually found his way, but not before being thoroughly and completely drenched.
"Excuse me?" the fox mutters, failing to catch the attention of the bartender, or his fellow patrons for that matter. He calls out again, "Excuse me?", but to no avail.
Shaking his muzzle in disappointment, he decides upon scaling an empty, oversized bar-stool, in need of a good drink. His pointed ears reach only the first foothold, but the fox is a fair climber. With some difficulty, the disgruntled (and very wet) fox manages to slip and clamber his way to a seated position, peeking curiously and expectantly across the surface of the bar.
"Excuse me!" he reinstates.
This time he garners the attention of a gruff, rotund, reptilian sitting just beside him. The scaly gent leans in ever-so-slightly, eyeing the comparatively puny fox with a sharp, beady eye.
The fox recoils.
"Not seen you before." he grumbles, tilting his neck and furrowing his brow. A few moments pass as the fellow eyes him up like one does a healthy coin purse. "Soggy." he observes.
The fox follows his gaze closely as it wanders up, down and back up again to meet his own. Suddenly and very evidently, his self-assured confidence drains.
"Ah-yes, well you see," the fox stammers...
"Nasty storm!" the reptilian interrupts, startling the fox with sudden, forceful volume, but sounding rather...excitable. "Get something warm in ye'!". He sinks backward, slacking his tense shoulders and breaking the eagle-eyed stare-down before planting a rough clap on the foxes back. A cheer echoes through the tavern.
The reptilian then eagerly flags down a drink with what amounts to a throaty grunt, adjusting his thick frame as it teeters precariously on a struggling bar-stool. Observing what little he can from his lack of elevation, the fox watches carefully as a scuttering bartender dips below, clatters around, and rises again having procured two grand steins. They're placed before the duo with a ceremonious THUNK.
"Ere', this one's on me..." the reptilian remarks, raising his eyebrows inquisitively.
"Ty." answers the fox, shuffling back to the centre of the seat. "And you?"
"York!" he bellows, almost proudly, flexing as he does. It's clear to the savvy fox that York is not the brightest spark in the fire, but he is certainly thankful that York is the friendliest patron in the bar. "York's been ere' for lots of years, he knows all that comes through ere'!"
Ty nods rather nervously.
The reptilian begins to swivel his nose around, still giving loud, self-praising introductions as he does, (although becoming disjointed and hard to follow) getting a good, hard look at some of the other regulars and not-so-regulars. He points a scaly finger across the room.
"That," he says, pausing, squinting and mumbling quietly under his breath all at once. "Is Marko, the Bart. Bart?" He asks, to himself seemingly. "Bard...Bard!". He corrects himself, triumphantly.
Ty nosily observes, but before he can get a thorough look, York grasps his arm rather tightly. "Apologies little lad, but I've not got the best of eyesight." He takes his shortest claw and dips it beneath his eyelid painlessly, to the foxes' surprise, revealing that his left eye is in fact, fake! A tiny gasp puffs from the mildly disturbed fox (who figures it best not to ask).
For the next short while, York continues to point out almost every patron methodically, listing off their names and chuckling heartily, his toothy grin occasionally buried in his warm mead. The reptilian knows all there is to know about the Hearth and Hammer for sure, but not a whole lot of it makes sense.
Ty revels in the warmth of a full belly, following along with York's rambling as best he can and becoming a little more comfortable in his presence. A stocky equine fellow is introduced as 'Barrels', whilst a scrawny and quite mangy German Shepherd is introduced as "Sticks". It isn't long before Ty has the names (roughly) of every patron in sight.
Even so, it dawns upon Ty that whilst York seems quite well acquainted, he's rather reluctant of formal introductions. "What brings you here then, York?" questions the fox.
"Oh, well," He lifts a hand up to his chin, "I'm off to find me sword.", which takes Ty by surprise.
"Your sword? Was it stolen?" he asks.
"Nah. Lost it." blurts the reptilian, lowering his voice at 'lost' with a slight tone of defeat.
"I was on me way home, not two yards east of ere' when me scabbard slipped me sword, *ahem*, in the dirt. And err...I've been ere' for three hours since." He grimaces, realising how petty his excuse to drink must sound. The little fox laughs to himself.
"So now you're here introducing yourself to a wayward traveller in hopes he'll find it for you?" He remarks with a smirk.
York frowns dramatically, caught clear off guard. "NO!" he affirms. "I've been looking I swear, not once even, but twice since. In fact, I thought to look ten minutes ago, but in comes a dashin' fox...". He stops himself, suddenly becoming flushed with red as he catches himself staring and turns away. Ty shoots the blushing reptilian a quizzical glance, observing as he presses his thighs tightly together, but continues on.
"I'm only joking York, everyone needs a drink every now and then." assures Ty.
"Yeah well, anyway...it's too late now to be lookin'. Err, for the sword that is, the uh, one that I lost." He seems a little preoccupied by something. "So, ere' I am." grumbles York, burying his face in an empty stein in a vain attempt to hide his...embarrassment? Ty feels as though he may be missing something.
Before he has the opportunity to bring York up on it however, a great shadow looms itself over his seat, and responsible for it, a great imposing stallion. Barrels. His expression is very clearly, stern.
"That's my seat." states the bulky equine in a surprisingly stone-faced manner. This only serves to convey his anger more effectively, however.
"Ah, I see." Ty gulps cartoonishly, beginning to drop his toes to the foothold of the stool, but before he can begin his hasty descent, there's a very loud thump to his left.
York is stood tall now, chest-to-chest with the stallion, locking eyes menacingly as he did with Ty only moments ago. One arm is raised in a fist, the other holding his stein against his groin.
"Sit your scaly ass down, Yorkie." says Barrels, almost spitting that last word physically rather than just metaphorically. York continues to observe mockingly with just his dull, glass eye pointed in the stallion's direction, but he doesn't back down.
"No, I won't." Is all he can muster, seeming to be quite intimidated after all.
"Come on now Yorkie, yer' seats getting cold." snarls the equine. "But I guess that's just how it is for you cold-blooded creeps." he says, literally 'barrelling' York back into his seat with his pecs, no less. The reptilian looks to bubble with rage, but for some reason that Ty can't quite put his finger on, he concedes.
With a swooping snatch, Barrels lifts the fox from his perch and tosses him aside. "At least yer' boyfriend kept my seat warm." he chuckles, which prompts York to shoot back up from his seat, this time with a little more confidence to his hunched-over-stance, but before he can protest...
The stallion clutches the foxes' half-drunk mead and chucks it, covering the reptilian from top-to-toe in froth and alcohol. For a moment, the tavern falls completely silent, but Barrels is grinning so furiously it can almost be heard. York stands with his arms raised for some time, stinking of booze.
"Now get outta here." growls the stallion.
York slowly plods his way over to the fox, maintaining eye contact with the smug equine. "C'mon little fella', let's get goin'." he says, grasping Ty gently by the arm and guiding him back out the rugged tavern door and into the rainy night.
They stand in silence for some time, sheltered by a small balcony from the relentless rain. York spends some time patting down his sodden shirt in a futile attempt to dry off, making sure to stand with his glass eye facing the confused fox.
"What was all that about?" Ty asks, discarding his robe and shawl to dry off nude beneath the night sky.
York doesn't reply immediately, eyes averted, instead focusing very intently on wringing the beer froth from his clothing. After a few awkward moments of deliberate silence, he mutters quietly to the fox. "Barrels is a nasty piece a' work, y'know." which yes, Ty had surmised.
"But he ain't the sorta fella' who'd knock yer' teeth out over a bar-stool." he admits rather glumly. "I ain't even cold-blooded, in fact, you might've noticed."
Although it didn't occur to Ty in the heat of the moment, he was right.
"Nah, he's uh, intolerable?" he says, a lilt in his voice indicating he doesn't quite understand that word.
"Intolerant?" corrects Ty.
"Yeah, that." stutters York. "About gays. Intolerant."
And suddenly, a whole lot of things started to make sense to the little fox. He begins to feel intimidated once more, not by the figure of the gruff, rotund reptile beside him, but by the attraction that got him so talkative in the first place. And the now obvious bulge that catches his eye, proving the reptilians point ever further.
"Sorry. Really." says York, utterly defeated.
But Ty isn't sure to accept an apology, or to admit something of his own.
TO BE CONTINUED