Chapter 234 - Horses, Goats, and Basements VII

“I’m starting to think I should follow through on what I told my father.”

Claire’s form turned humanoid as she transformed her cloak into a blouse and fell face first into the couch. Hardly a minute had passed since she had asked Sylvia to censor the goats. Of course, no harm was done to the creatures in question; the change in their body structure was a simple illusion. And while it had measures against all the usual senses, its effects would naturally fade over the course of a few days without active reapplication.

The pair opted for an emergency escape as soon as the spell was cast, warping straight back to the hotel with Boris and Marcelle in tow. Even with the ending cut short, it had been an incredibly long and exhausting outing—at least for the qiligon. Her companions were in a much better mood; the fox was cackling her heart out, the manatee was already napping next to the fireplace, and the lizard was munching on a plate. Their lack of concern, of course, was to be expected. None of them had experienced the displeasure of dealing with the psychopath she called her father.

“How much longer until dinner?” She very well could have checked the ever-ticking clock on the wall, but the walking chair couldn’t be bothered to turn her head so far.

“Uhmmm… we should still have another thirty minutes,” said Sylvia.

The party had made no explicit arrangement for dinner, but it had become something of a habit for them to regroup at the usual place each evening. Attendance was not mandatory by any means—Matthias in particular would often skip to attend to some business or other—but it had become standard practice to announce when one planned to be nonpresent, and no one had said anything during their midday meal.

“Then we should go,” said Claire. The countless packed eateries in the pet store’s vicinity flashed through her mind as she slowly pushed herself off the face-hugging sofa. It was almost too soft to relinquish its grip, but she eventually managed to beat the accursed thing down. “Half an hour might not be enough time to get a table.”

Gulfweed Reef was certainly lacking when it came to selling points, but that was not to say the overly average establishment was unpopular. Its central location, only a few blocks away from the city square, ensured that it saw an impressive number of visitors. It was not uncommon for all its seating to fill, even without a storm keeping everyone indoors.

“Ohh… good point.” Sylvia leapt off the other girl’s head and landed atop the coffee table. “Do you wanna walk or do you wanna gate?”

Claire fought back a yawn. “Gate. I’m too tired to walk.”

“Mmmk! One super awesome fox portal coming right up!”

The hat clapped her paws and ripped a small hole in spacetime. There were only a few feet between the gate and the store, but it was barely visible, obscured by the blizzard that whooshed its way into the room. Claire idly glanced at the freezing cold slop as it soaked its way into the carpet, but took her time either way. She slowly lumbered towards the door, checking her attire only as she passed through it. She couldn’t be bothered righting her posture until moments before she raised a hand to the shop’s entrance, not when it was too dark and stormy for her figure to be seen.

Twisting the knob, she found her premonition confirmed. The whole place was packed. There wasn’t a line or queue, but she could hardly see any open seats, and many of the tables meant for four had six or eight occupying the benches. Drunk, half-conscious men and women could be seen collapsed on the tables and sprawled out all over the aisles. Normally, it was the servers’ job to clean them up, but there were so many bodies that they couldn’t be bothered. The waitresses walked right over them instead, sometimes even kicking them out of the way as they went about the rest of their duties. It was no way to treat their guests, but the inebriated patrons were hardly conscious enough to complain.

One particularly annoyed looking staff member turned towards the entrance when she saw the bell ring and waved Claire into the establishment with a jet black flipper. She handed out all the drinks on her tray before throwing the platter into a cart and beginning her journey back to the front desk. Though her face wore a perpetual scowl, the orcaped was not neglectful. She scribbled down the various orders she heard as she moved through the restaurant, and even passed a few slips of paper off to the other waitresses. It was a task made possible largely in part thanks to her biology. Each of her thirty two tentacles had something of a mind of its own and could handle simple tasks without her paying them much mind.

“Hey,” she said, with a curt nod. The only thing she couldn’t do was act polite, but if the rumours were to be believed, her brusque nature was hardly a critical weakness. There was an entire clique of customers that visited the store just to be made the subjects of her ire. “Lia’s doing the usual right now, but we can clear some space for you, and the witch too if she comes.”

Not particularly feeling the urge to speak, Claire responded with a silent nod and looked down at the fox trailing behind her.

“I think Ciel’s gonna get here soon…” said Sylvia, as she stared out the door. Her eyes changed colours each time she blinked, shifting between shades of blue, red, green, and purple before finally returning to their usual orange. “She’s having a bit of trouble wading through the snow. I bet it’d take her like a whole hour if she kept just walking and stuff, but she’s probably gonna give up and start magicing her way over eventually.”

“Alright, we’ll make space for her too then.” Windia, the orcaped, began walking towards the back of the restaurant after lazily gesturing for the pair to follow. “Having the usual for drinks? Or are you feeling the special? It’s basil lemon whiskey today. The old hag finally caved and opened up the barrel.”

“The usual’s fine,” said Claire.

“Mmmmnnn… I think I’m gonna try the special,” said Sylvia. “But just give me a sip.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice. Last time we let you get drunk, you nearly destroyed the whole damn restaurant,” said the waitress. “It’s a wonder you aren’t banned.”

“Hey! That wasn’t even my fault!” the fox puffed up her cheeks. “I told you guys I couldn’t handle the whole drink!”

The waitress smirked as she stopped in front of a booth with far too many people gathered around it. Men and women of all species watched the table with their eyes laser focused, oohing and aahing as the contestants declared their moves. Lia was facing off against a scruffy-looking huskar with a tophat and a large droopy moustache, her wits against his, atop a magically constructed field.

The game was called Quash, and it was a fresh import that the marquis had brought with him when he arrived in his massive floating castle. In Cadria, the game was known not only as a pastime, but also a method by which a prospective commander could demonstrate their ability. The turn structure was somewhat bizarre; each player would have a phase to expand on their infrastructure and gather resources undisturbed before the two parties simultaneously declared three consecutive military actions. Once locked in, each would play out and resolve in time with the opponent’s. The artifact sitting on the table ensured that both parties committed their sequential maneuvers ahead of time, but the more traditional and popular approach involved chronicling one’s decisions in writing and presenting them to the other party.

Though certainly not an inexpensive item, the restaurant-owned artifact was not particularly costly either. As one of the cheaper varieties, it contained only a few maps on which the game could be played. The well-off preferred not to indulge in entertaining themselves with such fictional domains, and used maps of real world locations instead. The aforementioned topographical diagrams, of course, were not cheap commodities that one could simply purchase. Many lords would use highly detailed diagrams of their own lands and leverage the game to simulate attacks on their strongholds so that they could learn to better defend them.

Claire had never quite been the game’s biggest fan, but Alice, her closest friend in her birdcage days, had forced her to play it at least twice a week. She often defaulted to the very same strategy, and would throw a fit when denied the opportunity to use the calvary to its fullest. And as such, Claire had often given in and let her win. The game playing out in the restaurant, however, was nowhere near as childish. Both armies had highly varied compositions, and it was clear from a glance that the players were at least trying to leverage the whole ruleset.

“Come on, move. Out of the way.” The waitress grumbled as she pushed the spectators aside and grabbed a pair of unconscious drunks off the table. She threw them over the crowd with surprising strength, piling them atop a heap of groaning bodies whilst picking up their silverware with one tentacle and wiping the table down with another. “There you go.”

Nodding, Claire sat down beside the cat—who was too busy staring at the board to notice her—and lightly prodded her in the side. When that failed to grab her attention, she covered her finger in bee venom and prepared a slightly more noticeable assault.

“Ok, so I’ll just have to move myeow!” Natalya flew out of the seat as the nail dug into her skin, leaping so far that she attached herself to the ceiling. Her face reddened when she realised that everyone in the restaurant was staring in silence, so she dropped back down and shrank into her seat, making herself as small as possible whilst shooting the perpetrator a glare.

“What the heck, Claire!” Her bright green eyes shone right through her glasses, only emphasized by the blush that stained her face.

“Your fault for ignoring me,” said the lyrkress.

“As you can see, I was busy,” huffed the cat, as she pointed at the board. “That reminds me, where have you been all day anyway? You weren’t in your room when I stopped by.”

“I was being annoyed,” said the lyrkress, “by horses, goats, and basements.”

“Right… I’m not really sure what that’s supposed to mean, bu—”

A fake cough cut her rant short and drew her attention back towards her opponent. The grumpy dog-man tapped the artifact and pushed it towards her. “Your turn’s about to end.”

“Oh, right, sorry,” said Lia, with an awkward smile. “We can talk when I finish.” She quickly moved her pieces around before pushing it back towards her opponent. The back and forth continued, with Natalya’s face growing more troubled over the course of the game.

Fourteen turns later, the back and forth finally came to an end. “It’s my victory,” said the dog. Surely enough, the battle phase that played out on the magical display showed the troops in red completely decimating their blue counterparts. “I’ll be taking the deed to my villa back, if you don’t mind.” The shop’s patrons clapped and cheered, with some ordering drinks in celebration of the man’s victory, and others booing and jeering as they handed their debtors their dues. The canine himself wore a look of relief.

“I guess it is,” Natalya adjusted her glasses with her quill and scribbled a few notes into her book before looking back at him. “Would you like to go another round?”

“I’ve had enough for today, thanks,” he said, with a chuckle. “Maybe some other time.” He grabbed the two papers off the desk, rose from the table, and strode through the crowd while calling for a drink.

Lia pursed her lips. “This is all your fault, Claire.” She turned back to the lyrkress with a resentful glare. “I would’ve been able to take a lot more than a cheap warehouse if you didn’t distract me.”

“What is this I am hearing about warehouses and villas?”

Arciel appeared in the man’s place. The moon witch grew out of the table’s shadow in a way that was equal parts elegant and disturbing. She was like a moth emerging from her pupa, albeit without any of the wings.

Knowing that the other girls’ arrival signalled an end to Natalya’s gambling, the bulk of the observers withdrew from the table and crammed themselves in the few open seats. Those less informed didn’t immediately follow the cue, but they were dragged away by their friends, sometimes by force. Hushed explanations were given to those who asked, warning them that nothing good awaited those too curious to restrain themselves. Countless eyes began falling on Claire as the discussions finished, but she failed to see their reasoning. It wasn’t her fault that violence worked so well on perverts.

“I was about to get my hands on some of that guy’s property, but Claire distracted me and made me lose my train of thought, and he managed to win back the villa I snagged from him.”

“Don’t blame me. You’re the one that lost.”

“Oh, shush.” Natalya leaned forward in her seat and rested her cheeks in her hands. “I still managed to win some property from him. I don’t know how much it’s worth, exactly, but we can probably give it a look and find out.”

“And whereabouts is this property?” asked Arciel.

“Northern wharf, not too far from the docks.”

The squid produced a fan from her sleeve and pressed it against her chin. “Perhaps it may be worth more than you are suspecting. What did you wager against it?”

“That…” the cat hesitantly averted her eyes, “is going to have to be a secret.” This, of course, earned her a series of suspicious gazes, but she brought out a series of items and distributed them in lieu of elaborating.

“What’s this for?” asked Claire. She tilted her head as she eyed the winter hats handed out around the table. They were sewn using a thick fluffy wool dyed in a whole variety of colours. It was difficult to say that they were particularly fashionable, but they did at least look thick enough to do their job. The stitching was a little uneven in places, clearly not the work of a professional.

“I made myself a sweater and had a little extra wool,” said the cat. “I wanted to get your input on the patterning, but you weren’t home, so I just did whatever came to mind,” she added, as she caught the look in Claire’s eye.

“Thank you, Lia. I believe I speak for us all when I say that we do appreciate the gift,” said the resident bloodsucker, “but we are not quite sure what we are meant to do with them.”

Arciel had a large, pointy witch hat already, and Claire had Sylvia. Being a hat herself, the fox had no reason to wear one.

The cat put on a strained smile. “I didn’t really have enough material for anything else. It was either this, or one scarf between the three of you.”

“Mmmnnnn… maybe we could turn them into a pair of mittens?” said Sylvia.

“No. No mittens,” said Claire. “No mittens ever.”

“How curious.” Arciel’s lips twisted into a teasing smile. “Why is it that you are so put off by the thought of mittens?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Do tell.”

Claire met the squid’s curious stare with one of disgust. “I’d rather not.”

“Oh, oh, I’ve got this!” Sylvia stood up on her hind legs and began to sing. The vixen danced to and fro atop the tiny table, weaving together a beautiful scene on a dark, snowy mountain. A spotlight shone upon a familiar figure, hiding on an icy ridge, and looking over a pond with a squirrel standing center stage.

Despite Claire’s silent protests, the retelling soon began, a tale about a critter that had been drowned in a pool of dead frogs, the encounters with which had undeniably skewed a certain individual’s readiness to kill.