[-11 Taler] A Return to the Pigskin Drum

{if A Round at the Pigskin Drum = 1}

The Drum has not quieted on your return. A drunken flatfoot staggers towards you, pawing at your face, grabbing the air and finally finding the door frame. Another snores on the floor, his face buried in sawdust.

The Dicey Inspector waves you over and shoves a half-eaten plate at you. "It’s edible," she claims and finishes her drink. "Change your mind about that drink?"

You have and your companion, smirking, uses her empty mug to bang for the Spirited Waitress.

”Two?” the so-summoned asks. Her short black dress is in disarray and there is a run in her left stocking. Stains and greasy handprints cover her once-white apron and her face is flushed red. She flashes you a **** smile as you enquire about standing for a round. ”How’s about Rum all around? We’d charge a tenner?” Her grin widens as you insist she partake as well and turns into a beautiful smile when you slip her an extra Taler. For your grog and for her trouble.

You have lost 11 Taler

You now have {@69 Talers} Taler

She soon dances over the sawdust, a tray in each hand. The patron’s grasping hands follow her, greedy for drink and greedy for her body. She dodges some and wards off the others by pushing small glasses filled with dark, sticky liquid at them. One earns himself a slap on the back of his hand and withdraws from between her legs. A few only spare her a glance and ignore you, gulping down the Rum without interrupting their chats.

A few others show some gratitude, mostly to her. She receives kind words and allows some tips, small coins slipped inside her garter. And they wait for her to reach your table until they raise their glasses and cheer – for you, but mostly for her.

You raise your glass and drink, the Rum burning your throat and sticking to your lips. The Spirited Waitress licks hers clean and searches under her skirt for scarps, tarnished or glimmering. You catch a glimpse of frilly underwear and the outline of shaven lips. Then her hand touches your chin and forces your eyes to meet hers. She stares you down and, stepping close, kisses your cheek. Her hot lips only stay for a heartbeat, long enough for a whispered ”thanks”, and long enough to jolt your cock to hardness.

"Told ya." The Dicey Inspector’s eyes follow the sway of the Waitress' backside across the room. "Well worth it, innit?" she says. "Keep the drinks coming and... Well, it’s good to have friends – wouldn’t you say, good buddy, good pal?"

You spend a few hours in the company of your new 'pal'

{if The Passage of Time > 95} Your Time in Barenhaven is running out {elseif The Passage of Time > 80} Your Time in Barenhaven is coming to a close {elseif The Passage of Time > 60} You have some Time left in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 50} Your Time in Barenhaven is half-way over {elseif The Passage of Time > 30} You have quite some Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 15} You have a lot of Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 5} Your Time in Barehaven has just begun {else} You are now spending Time in Barenhaven {endif}

You stay for one more grog, paid by placing a coin inside the Spirited Waitress’ garter, and then return to the Grimalkin and Rooster.

{elseif A Round at the Pigskin Drum = 2}

It’s a slow night at the Drum. One singular flatfoot, barely recognisable in his filthy and rumpled uniform, lies sprawling, **** in the sawdust. You step over the snoring form and into the taproom. The familiar smell of cheap booze and Greencoat sweat greets you like a fist to the gut. And in the kitchen in the back, some kind of fry-cock sears fish and liver, the grease sizzling over an open fire.

You spot no one, no waitress, Spirited or other, as you take a seat at the lonely counter. The brass and porous wood are faded and sticky with stale, hoppy grime. An earthen bowl filled with roasted nuts catches your eye and you try one, tasting salt and not much else.

"You’re her friend, aintcha?" The Spirited Waitress emerges from the kitchen, wiping her lips on a dishrag. "Didn’t hear you come in." Her blouse clings to her bust, the thin fabric filmy with greasy stains. "What can I do you for?"

You order a drink and she convinces you to try the fish and mushroom lumps fried in batter. The lone Greencoat patron remains snoring on the floor, too drunk to bribe.

"I’m full," she answers your unasked question, "but I wouldn’t mind a drink to wash away the taste. And our whiskey’s actually decent."

The gooey texture reminds you of corpse tar, but the flavour of the fat-fried food is surprisingly pleasant. You chew and shrug.

She smiles as if you had said ‘yes’. "They are too thick," she says, eyeing the man on the floor. "I don’t know what business you’re in, and they’re useful friends – but they’re too thick. They’ll drink and they’ll forget – on account of the ****. And on account of them being so thick. What you need is someone sharp enough to remember for ‘em."

You ask the obvious question.

"See," she says, whisky bottle in hand, and climbs onto the counter. A thin strip of dark hair flashes underneath her skirt, and her smile widens. "You are a clever one. 11 Taler, all in all, and my company is free."

You have lost 11 Taler

You now have {@69 Talers} Taler

She fills two glasses with amber liquid, clinks hers against yours, and drinks deep. "To friendship!"

You echo her toast and let the sweet taste of summer grain burn the grease from your tongue.

You spend a few hours in pleasant company

{if The Passage of Time > 95} Your Time in Barenhaven is running out {elseif The Passage of Time > 80} Your Time in Barenhaven is coming to a close {elseif The Passage of Time > 60} You have some Time left in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 50} Your Time in Barenhaven is half-way over {elseif The Passage of Time > 30} You have quite some Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 15} You have a lot of Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 5} Your Time in Barehaven has just begun {else} You are now spending Time in Barenhaven {endif}

Later, she has crossed her legs and between sips talks about life and work. You learn that she has an ex-husband and a sister enrolled in cathedral school. The salty Sea has marked your clothes and skin, and your occupation is an easy guess. She has some questions, and she has her suspicions. You laugh and admit to a hold filled with stolen gold and Fey treasures.

"You’re fun." She clambers to her knees to refill your glass. "I..."

A gruff voice calls her back to the kitchen and she – mumbling an apology – at least leaves you the bottle.

{elseif A Round at the Pigskin Drum = 3}

The front door to the Drum is locked, but just as you turn to leave a voice calls out from the darkness of the blind alley to the side. Wisps of rose-scented smoke mix with the garbage stench of rotting fish and beer-stale vomit. The Spirited Waitress has her back against the wall and a white pipe between her lips. She beckons you closer, her face orange in the ember shine.

"By invitation only." She pauses to exhale, then smirks. "But I am bored. And you are hereby invited."

She takes one more drag, then snuffs out her pipe and unlocks the heavy steel door. A single tar lantern lights the dingy hallway to the empty kitchens. She leads you past cold stovetops and unwashed pots to a smaller hallway ending in the darkness behind the bar.

Beyond, the common room is brightly lit. The floor is free from sawdust, with the high ceiling lights reflected on the dark and polished stone. Seven chairs stand in the middle, facing the main entrance. You can see the backs of seven Greencoats, and the flushed faces and bouncing breasts of the three women riding them.

"Shh!" The Spirited Waitress gives one a wink before pushing you back into the shadows. "Somewhat invited."

The whore, her skin a Feyish pale, answers by knitting her fingers behind her flatfoot’s back. She slides back to give you a better view of her lithe body, from her firm breasts down to the sweat pooling to her navel. A moan escapes her lips, the red double bows forming an exaggerated O.

"Switch!" the man beside her demands.

The three women stand, the other two frowning. They all step back, only the pale one smiling, offering you a clear view of their wet slits. And while the others hurry to mount the next Greencoat in line, the last lingers and teases her lips apart to fuck herself with two snow-white fingers.

"Get on my cock, slut," one complains.

"Nah," another groans, "it’s a good show. Keep doin’ what you’re doing and you..."

You can see the two others bounce and bend. They slow their riding and you can guess how they use their hands. Six male voices groan with rough appreciation, but the seventh in the middle leaves his chair. He, cursing, approaches the pale prostitute and interrupts her show. She accepts his rough guidance towards the door but angles her bending body to display her swaying breasts. The flatfoot then grabs her hips and enters her from behind.

"Fuck!" Another stands and claims the spot in front.

"Fuck. Open wide!"

They share her, her willowy body spit-roasted, cocks shoved at her from front and end. Her hands are on the Greencoat’s sides, and he has grasped her hair. Steady thrusts rock her to and fro, the cock in her throat muffling her slurping moans. Spit and precum drool from the corners of her mouth, and your own dick is rock-hard.

"Fuck!" says one of the sitting coppers, their leader maybe. "Time to finish, lads. On your knees, sluts." He stands and the woman bouncing beside him follows him to the middle of the room.

The other joins her on the ground, pressing naked sole to naked foot. They have left a spot for their Feyish third, and they welcome the flatfoots and their five throbbing cocks with open lips.

The pale whore moans, her mouth freed by the man stepping aside to approach the kneeling women. Her legs sag from shivers as the one behind her pulls her hair, then grabs her shoulders, slamming into her faster and faster. She shudders on his cock and he pulls out, spraying his sticky load over her ass and back.

"Come! Hurry!"

She joins the others and receives more, her reward hitting the tip of her nose and running down to her stiff nipples. The men groan, six voices rising as they erupt over the three writhing women. Their hot messes cling to hair and skin, thick ropes dripping to the dark stone floor.

You can hear slurps and cheers as the whores clean each other and the customer’s cocks with licks and kisses. One flatfoot shudders and explodes a second time inside the pale one’s mouth. She laughs and spits him to the floor.

"We should," the Spirited Waitress says and turns to leave.

You are about to follow her when the sound of clinking coin and raised voices makes you pause. The Greencoats are short on cash, and most are apologetic. One offers payment from the Drum’s till or spirit cabinet, causing the Waitress to hiss and curse from the shadows.

"Or we could just not," says another, boot- and shirtless, and pats the grip of his nightstick. "Prostitution’s prohibited by City ordinance, ain’t it?"

Their leader answers him with a fist to the temple but catches the limp form before he can break his face on the rough stone floor. "No." He then beseeches the Waitress for a loan.

She laughs instead, shoving you into the light. You offer your help with a sigh. The flatfoots are only a few Taler short and you planned to stand for a round anyway.

You have lost 11 Taler

You now have {@69 Talers} Taler

The Fey-looking prostitute, cleaner now and dressed in outrageous rags, curtsies as she accepts your money. She is invited, along with the other whores – and, after a moment's hesitation, you – to a drink at the bar.

The Greencoats have seized bottles of whisky and Rum and make sure that your glass is never empty, but you do not see the Spirited Waitress again.

You spend a few hours in dubious company

{if The Passage of Time > 95} Your Time in Barenhaven is running out {elseif The Passage of Time > 80} Your Time in Barenhaven is coming to a close {elseif The Passage of Time > 60} You have some Time left in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 50} Your Time in Barenhaven is half-way over {elseif The Passage of Time > 30} You have quite some Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 15} You have a lot of Time left to spend in Barenhaven {elseif The Passage of Time > 5} Your Time in Barehaven has just begun {else} You are now spending Time in Barenhaven {endif}

You leave hours later, quite drunk and with dark kisses marring your neck, falling asleep immediately on your return to the Grimalkin and Rooster.

{elseif A Round at the Pigskin Drum = 4}

The front door is open and drunken song invites you inside, but strange sounds lure you into the darkness of the blind alley instead. A woman moans and a man groans, their bodies slapping against each other. You enter to see the Spirited Waitress hunched over in the shadows, her legs spread wide and her palms pressed against the brickwork. Her short skirt is hiked up to her hips and a fat fry cook is fucking her from behind.

"Oh." She turns her head towards you. Her flushed face pales and her eyes widen. "Ohhh!" A strand of hair falls past her mouth and sways with his thrusts. "Oh, fuck! Ohhh, fucking fuck."

The man behind her grunts, slapping her ass with his meathook hands. A vein bulges blue on his neck and his thrusts become frenzied. He slams into her again and stays, his whole body shivering, inside. Sweat drips in thick beads from his red forehead and his nostrils flare as he huffs for breath. "Thanks, darlin’, I needed that." He pulls out and pulls up his pants, giving you a nod as he walks past and disappears through the side door.

A used catgut condom slides from her well-used hole and hits the pavement with a wet splat. The Spirited Waitress turns to rest her back against the wall. She is breathing heavily and does not meet your eyes as she slides down her skirt and buttons up her blouse. "First Officer! I’m not – what are you even doing here?"

You admit that their noises raised your curiosity, though you point out that this is a public alley.

"And did we satisfy your curiosity? Enjoy the show?"

You offer a reassuring platitude and apologize with a smile.

"Ain’t your fault, First Officer. I owed a favour and we got careless. Guess he didn’t wanna wait. Til happy hour’s done at least, or until we close." She snorts. "Not like the drunks inside are like to miss us. And I did feel an itch too. You can keep a secret though, cantcha?"

You can.

"Good, good. Cops are terrible gossips, and they get ideas. This was a one-time thing and I didn’t even cum. All that work for a slap and tickle only to leave me hanging here, wet ’n’ waiting. And the Inspector’s..."

She does not owe you an explanation and you tell her as much.

"No, I ‘spose not. But I do owe you." She finally lifts her head and as she looks at you her expression changes. "You’re a handsome devil, you know that, right? And I didn’t even cum..." She pauses, her fingers hovering above her collarbone, the last two buttons on her blouse still undone. "I’m on break, First Officer, and maybe we could help each other out." Her open lips form an inviting smile as she places two fingers on the hem of her skirt.

{else}

It’s a slow night at the Drum. One singular flatfoot, barely recognisable in his filthy and rumpled uniform, lies sprawling, **** in the sawdust. You step over the snoring form and into the taproom. The familiar smell of cheap booze and Greencoat sweat greets you like a fist to the gut. And in the kitchen in the back, some kind of fry-cock sears fish and liver, the grease sizzling over an open fire.

You spot no one, no waitress, Spirited or other, as you take a seat at the lonely counter. The brass and porous wood are faded and sticky with stale, hoppy grime. An earthen bowl filled with roasted nuts catches your eye and you try one, tasting salt and not much else.

"You’re her friend, aintcha?" The Spirited Waitress emerges from the kitchen, wiping her lips on a dishrag. "Didn’t hear you come in." Her blouse clings to her bust, the thin fabric filmy with greasy stains. "What can I do you for?"

You order a drink and she convinces you to try the fish and mushroom lumps fried in batter. The lone Greencoat patron remains snoring on the floor, too drunk to bribe.

"I’m full," she answers your unasked question, "but I wouldn’t mind a drink to wash away the taste. And our whiskey’s actually decent."

The gooey texture reminds you of corpse tar, but the flavour of the fat-fried food is surprisingly pleasant. You chew and shrug.

She smiles as if you had said ‘yes’. "They are too thick," she says, eyeing the man on the floor. "I don’t know what business you’re in, and they’re useful friends – but they’re too thick. They’ll drink and they’ll forget – on account of the ****. And on account of them being so thick. What you need is someone sharp enough to remember for ‘em."

You ask the obvious question.

"See," she says, whisky bottle in hand, and climbs onto the counter. A thin strip of dark hair flashes underneath her skirt, and her smile widens. "You are a clever one. 11 Taler, all in all, and my company is free."

You would have lost 11 Taler

She fills two glasses with amber liquid, clinks hers against yours, and drinks deep. "To friendship!"

You echo her toast and let the sweet taste of summer grain burn the grease from your tongue.

You spend a few hours in pleasant company

You are not playing

Later, she has crossed her legs and between sips talks about life and work. You learn that she has an ex-husband and a sister enrolled in cathedral school. The salty Sea has marked your clothes and skin, and your occupation is an easy guess. She has some questions, and she has her suspicions. You laugh and admit to a hold filled with stolen gold and Fey treasures.

"You’re fun." She clambers to her knees to refill your glass. "I..."

A gruff voice calls her back to the kitchen and she – mumbling an apology – at least leaves you the bottle.

[Note: This story uses a variety of variables. Click 'Start Game' to access otherwise hidden content.]

START GAME

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{endif}