05-11-2015, 11:46 AM
The Prancing Pony bustled with activity. Mickey’s small stature let him go virtually unnoticed, and so far, that was the way he liked it. He had not been in the Omniverse for very long, but to say the least, it was not the ideal spot for his and Minnie’s next royal vacation.
The humans towered above him at the bar, all loudly singing some sort of strange drinking tune. Mickey tried his best not to listen; all the foul language and talk of fornication riddling the lyrics made him sick to his stomach. His gut told him to just head toward one of the pub’s darker corners and avoid all of these messy people, but he had a goal. While hiding from these gross humans may have been preferable, he needed to rent a room.
A twinge of caution crept up his spine as he approached the bar. He clambered up an empty stool till he could see over it, then called out, “’Scuse me!” He waved one of his gloved hands at the bartender. The old, fat man looked over his shoulder, his jubilant expression quickly dropping at the sight of a mouse at his bar. Well, at least Mickey had already resigned himself to not exactly receiving the warmest of welcomes in this place.
The bartender mumbled something to the patrons he had been talking with and then turned—obviously annoyed—and came to where Mickey was sitting. “What do ye want?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at the mouse.
“Um… I, um…”
“Speak fast, rodent,” the bartender said, and the contingent of drunkards he had left laughed heartily at the mouse’s expense. Mickey frowned.
“That was…,” he started, and then he thought twice about it. Just let it go, he told himself. And then: no. He had to let these people know that they could not just make fun of him. He would not start trouble, but he would not let them call him names. “Um, that was unnecessary,” he said, and the innkeeper scoffed.
“Yer in my establishment, I’ll call ye what I like,” he chortled, placing a hand on his jiggling stomach as he joined the others in laughing at him. The mouse gulped nervously—he didn’t like getting angry, but these people were making it rather difficult.
No. No, he would keep himself calm. “I just want a room, please,” he looked back up at the man, trying his best to keep this whole conversation civil. The barkeep’s eyes grew wide and he only laughed harder at Mickey’s request.
“Ha—ha, listen, mouse-boy,” the man laughed, “We don’t rent to yer kind here. But there’s a nice hole in the wall over there if ye really need a place to sleep—ha!” He doubled over, this time, overcome by the hilarity of his own joke. The others, too, let out a hearty whoop. Obviously, this man thought himself very funny.
Mickey did not agree.
Keep your head, Mick, he told himself, taking a deep breath. He tried and failed to muster a (very fake) smile, and without another word, he slid off the bar stool and started marching back toward the door. He would have given anything to be at home, cuddling with Minnie right now, but instead he was stuck here, having to deal with these ridiculous, inhospitable people. They gave humans a bad name.
“Hey, mouse-boy!”
“Oh brother.”
The King spun around, the scowl on his face deepening. You know, he missed smiling—when was this gosh-forsaken place going to give him something to smile about?
The group of no-goodniks from the bar clumped up a few yards away, trying their best to look intimidating. At the front stood the man that called out to him, his arms crossed and his chin held high. “Y’know, we don’t take kindly to your type just waltzing in, thinking they can just do whatever the fuck they want”—Mickey winced at the language—“so who the hell, exactly, do you think you are, just comin’ up in here like you belong here?”
Stay quiet, Mickey told himself, Don’t say anything. He stood, for a second, in silence, his hand itching to grab his keyblade. He didn’t need a fight, but these guys had peeved him off so much that he would not think twice about defending himself.
“Hey! I’m talking to you, Ears!” the man shouted, placing his hands on either side of his head in a vain attempt to mock Mickey’s large ears.
“I just wanted a room,” Mickey raised his hands, trying to calm the drunken rage of this guy and his goons. “I don’t want any trouble, mister.”
“You should’ve thought of that… before,” the man hiccupped, lunging toward Mickey. The mouse slid between the big brute’s legs, letting him stumble toward the door. The King drew his keyblade, pointing it at the guy’s big friends.
“Before what, exactly?” Mickey asked, looking over at the big guy, sprawled across the wooden floor. He glanced back at the group. “I don’t want any trouble,” he repeated, slower, “please.” The leader of the gang picked himself up off the floor—slowly—and looked at his comrades. For a second, the tension in the air was palpable as the crew contemplated whether or not they wanted to try their hand at squashing this mouse. Mickey knew he could take them, but he could see why they thought they might be able to put up a fight. They did have their size in their favor, if nothing else.
Suddenly, though, a voice broke the tension. “You heard the Prime. No trouble, boys.” Mickey looked over at the entrance to see the hulking, female guard from before leaning in the doorway. He sighed with relief, lowering his keyblade.
“A P-Prime? Uh, uh, y-yeah,” the big man in charge fumbled for a second, “Sorry, Cap’n.”
He skulked off, gesturing for the other brutes to join him, and the guard—captain, Mickey supposed?—took a few steps into the pub, squatting down to be a little closer to the mouse’s eye level. Mostly a vain effort, as it happened; she was so tall that even squatting down she towered a foot or so above the mouse’s head. “I thought I told you to stay out of trouble, tourist,” she smirked, and Mickey let out a frustrated huff.
“I tried, missus,” the keyblade master shrugged, glancing over at the drunk men. “I didn’t wanna fight ‘em, but they kept comin’ for me. I just wanted a place to stay.”
“I know, little buddy,” the captain nodded, “and since this place isn’t looking very neighborly today”—she shot a look at the bartender, who refused to make eye contact—“I suppose you can come stay with me and my boy tonight.” Mickey’s mood brightened at the suggestion, and he nodded vigorously. She led the way out of the Prancing Pony and back into the dark, rundown streets of Bree. “I’m Berthe,” she said when they had left the inn, “Guard-Captain of the Town of Bree. What’ll I call you, little man?”
“I’m—” Mickey started, and then second thoughts began creeping in again. He glanced back up at the Prancing Pony, slowly disappearing in the distance. Berthe seemed nice, and more trustworthy than anyone else he had yet met, but perhaps it would be better to play it safe. For now, anyway. “You can call me Ears,” he decided, and Berthe nodded. And for the first time since he had been in this gosh-forsaken town, Mickey smiled.
The humans towered above him at the bar, all loudly singing some sort of strange drinking tune. Mickey tried his best not to listen; all the foul language and talk of fornication riddling the lyrics made him sick to his stomach. His gut told him to just head toward one of the pub’s darker corners and avoid all of these messy people, but he had a goal. While hiding from these gross humans may have been preferable, he needed to rent a room.
A twinge of caution crept up his spine as he approached the bar. He clambered up an empty stool till he could see over it, then called out, “’Scuse me!” He waved one of his gloved hands at the bartender. The old, fat man looked over his shoulder, his jubilant expression quickly dropping at the sight of a mouse at his bar. Well, at least Mickey had already resigned himself to not exactly receiving the warmest of welcomes in this place.
The bartender mumbled something to the patrons he had been talking with and then turned—obviously annoyed—and came to where Mickey was sitting. “What do ye want?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at the mouse.
“Um… I, um…”
“Speak fast, rodent,” the bartender said, and the contingent of drunkards he had left laughed heartily at the mouse’s expense. Mickey frowned.
“That was…,” he started, and then he thought twice about it. Just let it go, he told himself. And then: no. He had to let these people know that they could not just make fun of him. He would not start trouble, but he would not let them call him names. “Um, that was unnecessary,” he said, and the innkeeper scoffed.
“Yer in my establishment, I’ll call ye what I like,” he chortled, placing a hand on his jiggling stomach as he joined the others in laughing at him. The mouse gulped nervously—he didn’t like getting angry, but these people were making it rather difficult.
No. No, he would keep himself calm. “I just want a room, please,” he looked back up at the man, trying his best to keep this whole conversation civil. The barkeep’s eyes grew wide and he only laughed harder at Mickey’s request.
“Ha—ha, listen, mouse-boy,” the man laughed, “We don’t rent to yer kind here. But there’s a nice hole in the wall over there if ye really need a place to sleep—ha!” He doubled over, this time, overcome by the hilarity of his own joke. The others, too, let out a hearty whoop. Obviously, this man thought himself very funny.
Mickey did not agree.
Keep your head, Mick, he told himself, taking a deep breath. He tried and failed to muster a (very fake) smile, and without another word, he slid off the bar stool and started marching back toward the door. He would have given anything to be at home, cuddling with Minnie right now, but instead he was stuck here, having to deal with these ridiculous, inhospitable people. They gave humans a bad name.
“Hey, mouse-boy!”
“Oh brother.”
The King spun around, the scowl on his face deepening. You know, he missed smiling—when was this gosh-forsaken place going to give him something to smile about?
The group of no-goodniks from the bar clumped up a few yards away, trying their best to look intimidating. At the front stood the man that called out to him, his arms crossed and his chin held high. “Y’know, we don’t take kindly to your type just waltzing in, thinking they can just do whatever the fuck they want”—Mickey winced at the language—“so who the hell, exactly, do you think you are, just comin’ up in here like you belong here?”
Stay quiet, Mickey told himself, Don’t say anything. He stood, for a second, in silence, his hand itching to grab his keyblade. He didn’t need a fight, but these guys had peeved him off so much that he would not think twice about defending himself.
“Hey! I’m talking to you, Ears!” the man shouted, placing his hands on either side of his head in a vain attempt to mock Mickey’s large ears.
“I just wanted a room,” Mickey raised his hands, trying to calm the drunken rage of this guy and his goons. “I don’t want any trouble, mister.”
“You should’ve thought of that… before,” the man hiccupped, lunging toward Mickey. The mouse slid between the big brute’s legs, letting him stumble toward the door. The King drew his keyblade, pointing it at the guy’s big friends.
“Before what, exactly?” Mickey asked, looking over at the big guy, sprawled across the wooden floor. He glanced back at the group. “I don’t want any trouble,” he repeated, slower, “please.” The leader of the gang picked himself up off the floor—slowly—and looked at his comrades. For a second, the tension in the air was palpable as the crew contemplated whether or not they wanted to try their hand at squashing this mouse. Mickey knew he could take them, but he could see why they thought they might be able to put up a fight. They did have their size in their favor, if nothing else.
Suddenly, though, a voice broke the tension. “You heard the Prime. No trouble, boys.” Mickey looked over at the entrance to see the hulking, female guard from before leaning in the doorway. He sighed with relief, lowering his keyblade.
“A P-Prime? Uh, uh, y-yeah,” the big man in charge fumbled for a second, “Sorry, Cap’n.”
He skulked off, gesturing for the other brutes to join him, and the guard—captain, Mickey supposed?—took a few steps into the pub, squatting down to be a little closer to the mouse’s eye level. Mostly a vain effort, as it happened; she was so tall that even squatting down she towered a foot or so above the mouse’s head. “I thought I told you to stay out of trouble, tourist,” she smirked, and Mickey let out a frustrated huff.
“I tried, missus,” the keyblade master shrugged, glancing over at the drunk men. “I didn’t wanna fight ‘em, but they kept comin’ for me. I just wanted a place to stay.”
“I know, little buddy,” the captain nodded, “and since this place isn’t looking very neighborly today”—she shot a look at the bartender, who refused to make eye contact—“I suppose you can come stay with me and my boy tonight.” Mickey’s mood brightened at the suggestion, and he nodded vigorously. She led the way out of the Prancing Pony and back into the dark, rundown streets of Bree. “I’m Berthe,” she said when they had left the inn, “Guard-Captain of the Town of Bree. What’ll I call you, little man?”
“I’m—” Mickey started, and then second thoughts began creeping in again. He glanced back up at the Prancing Pony, slowly disappearing in the distance. Berthe seemed nice, and more trustworthy than anyone else he had yet met, but perhaps it would be better to play it safe. For now, anyway. “You can call me Ears,” he decided, and Berthe nodded. And for the first time since he had been in this gosh-forsaken town, Mickey smiled.
![[Image: 2agonyw.png]](http://i68.tinypic.com/2agonyw.png)