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It’s Saturday night. The Cat’s Whisker is packed. Fire crackles in the hearth while bartenders yell orders back to a kitchen barely in sight. Dishes click and the bickering of the cooks in the back barely make it over the roar of laughter and hubbub up front. Saloon style doors slam into the walls over and over as more patrons make their way in. Their voices are heavy with a wharfside drawl, all dropped word-ends and barely kept vowels. Nothing out of the ordinary, the fishermen of this little portyard town are known to stack in here, hoarding all the tables at least once a week or more. But the tavern sure isn’t complaining with the amount of coin it pulls in and neither are the fishermen with how good the grub is.
The other upside is, well, the cats. They’re always rather friendly but that doesn’t originate as much from personality as it does from strategy. They’ve cracked the system: free fish for life as long as they sit still for pets. It’s always free entertainment to see them strut around like they own the place, too.
The biggest table in the middle of the tavern is crowded by a group of men barking jokes at each other, mugs raised in a toast with raucous metal tinking, ale sloshing out over the brims. Tankards pile haphazardly crowd the table, filling the surface so much that their actual plates of food hang over the edge a bit. One man cracks up over his buddy’s joke, doubling over and slamming his fist onto the table again and again, until the stack of cups jostles loose.
Clang. Cla-clang… clang… and a patter.
A few tankards slam onto the floorboards, and one chuck of pewter sends a cat flying up the wall. It scrambles up the side of a banner, its claws digging in between the loose stitches and leaving tears in the cloth as it finds a perch on the high beams, tail dangling over the side, swishing irritably.
One thing this place is missing, though, is some canine presence.
Then the saloon doors swing inward one more time, and something strange pads its way through them. The first thing that hits is the smell: that sickly sweet of rotten flesh and the overwhelming stench of wet dog, all with a twinge of dirt. It’s immediately repulsive and overrides the savory scent of dinner. The obvious source of the stench is a horrifically skinny worg now standing just a foot into the room. It’s black, almost matt black, honestly, even in the light of the fire, and it carries a smile.
Silence. That’s what fills the tavern now as the bards’ instruments die off one by one and most of the chatter settles down. All eyes are on this stinky dog as it trots right up to the bar, seemingly not even noticing the disturbance it’s caused.
“Can I get uh…” The words croak out of this thing’s throat, followed by a cough and the rest of its sentence, “large light roast?”
The Tabaxi barkeep stares at it like he’s just seen a ghost. His slitted eyes trail over the heap of matted, foul fur sitting right on his harshly-polished hardwood floors. It’s just sitting there patiently, staring back. Or, he thinks it’s trying to stare back; it doesn’t have eyes. They’ve been replaced by burrowing insects. That’s definitely a safety violation. He’s stunned out of his mind at the sight of a monster waltzing right into his cozy business, but coin is coin. That, and the barkeep prefers to keep bloodshed to a minimum when possible.
Right when the barkeep opens his mouth to respond, it interrupts him. “Oh! And in a ceramic cup. Very satisfying against the claws.” As if to prove its point, it raises a paw and wiggles its toes. Some mud that was caked in the wedges between falls to the floor with a splat.
The barkeep simply nods and holds out his hand. A couple moments pass by with the creature just slowly tilting its head to the right, confused. After a few more moments pass with no coin presented, the barkeep clears his throat. “Um. Your payment… sir?”
The worg’s face lights up, its eyebrows raising and its smile forming a more “O” shape (though still being a smile). “Ah. Financials. See, I don’t possess any of those. I actually think the system is kind of weird, don’t you? Handing over little chunks of precious metals that won’t even be melted down into anything useful? I mean, be honest with me, half of the coins I would give you if I had any would be destroyed or lost in, give or take, a year. Do they really mean that much to you?” Just as the worg finishes its conversation starter, a large grub clumsily falls from its neck. It makes a wet thud noise when it hits the floor and the worg’s attention snaps down to it. An almost “tsk”ing noise comes from its snout as it shifts a paw over, gently picking up the squirming insect and lifting it back to the solid form of its neck. The grub, very slowly, intertwines its little legs with the matted fur of the worg and starts to climb onto it once again.
The barkeep blinks then raises a singular eyebrow. Surprisingly, no line has formed behind the worg where normally there would be a half dozen customers waiting to open tabs or bring another round of ales to their table. The most direct answer to this absence is the putrid smell still emanating from the beast. Perhaps the two copper is not worth the trouble if it means getting this mound of fur out of the tavern.
So, the barkeep turns around to face the back of the bar. They usually keep around three pots going at once since the demand for coffee is always high, so the stock has to be ready. Ceramic cups, though, are kept in the cupboard. Wooden and metal mugs are the established form of drinking around here. The worg watches patiently as the barkeep rummages around with some clinks and bangs. Its tail swishes behind it, making the same noise as a straw broom brushing against the ground.
Eventually the liquid does pour. That bittersweet, golden-brown goodness flows into the little mug, swirling in on itself as the barkeep works it in circles. Strong, nutty smells cut against the worg’s rottenness and finally something overpowers that awful stench. Undertones of toasted wood and caramel come through, too, and sweeten the earthy scent. A drop of drool literally falls from the side of the worg’s mouth it eagerly stares. The barkeep sets the full mug on the bar, careful not to spill any. The sound of the broom intensifies.
It looks immensely overjoyed, shifting its weight back and forth and doing little tippy taps with its paws. Its claws scrape against the floor as it does so, creating a rather cringeworthy noise. They stare at each other for a moment, the worg’s eyes flicking down to the coffee. Oh, the bartender realizes, the dog can’t reach the mug. He slides it forward a bit more until it rests on the edge of the bar.
Immediately, the worg’s paws are on the counter and its head is dipped forward as it shoves its snout right into the mug. Coffee splashes out in a ring, soaking into the wood of the counter in a way that will definitely leave stains to be scrubbed out later. The worg doesn’t seem to mind that it’s basically drowning itself; it just keeps shoving its face into the mug like it’ll suddenly grow deeper, maybe fill itself back up with coffee. Snotty air bubbles around where its snout disappeared into the coffee until all that’s left is a thin layer of liquid at the bottom of the mug. Wet slaps of the worg’s tongue against the ceramic fills the silence between it and the appalled barkeep.
Finally, it pulls away, face stained with brown and dripping onto the floor with little plit plats. “Now, that was just tiptop. Coffee really is the only human delicacy, in my opinion anyways.” It brings a messy paw up to its even messier snout, tapping it in thought. “Except for maybe tiramisu. Coffee, cake, and cream all mixed together can never go wrong. Oh!” Its face lights up again, “and strawberry cake! Maybe just all cakes, or perhaps I am laden with a terrible sweet tooth.” It cheekily chuckles.
A ceremonious bow replaces a normal spoken goodbye and then the dog is making its exit. Its eyes sweep the floor, maybe checking for fallen passengers, before it swiftly turns around, tail swishing up high into the air. Clack clack clack against the wooden floors and the swoosh of the doors, then no more dog. Its stink is left trailing behind, though, and most of the customers still don’t look too interested in filling up their plates with seconds. The mess left on the counter needs to be cleaned up, then everywhere touched by worg needs to be thoroughly mopped down, and, hell, just for safe measure the barkeep might as well close down the place for the night and just do a deep clean.