Redoubtable Downtown Space Abbey - The Leviathan Club


[takes a moment to register what’s happened]


[peers over glasses]

Ah, indeed, indeed. He’ll be right-side-round in no time.

[looks back at his cards, puffs on his pipe]

Mmmmhmmm. No time at all.


Rumpthwaite, be a good chap and bring me a pint of vinegar and a dozen hard-boiled egg yolks.



[Rumpthwaite produces a porcelain bowl of large, golden, precisely boiled yolks and places it on the table]

“Indeed, sir. Please enjoy these delights from Leviathan’s private duck house. Does Dr. Franksenketchup have a preference for white, apple cider, or malt? Or perhaps something from the balsamic collection would be preferred?”

[Anticipating your next questions, the old moose hands you a vinegar list]

“McClary Brothers is the celebrated choice in drinking vinegars at Leviathan’s, but certainly the good doctor knows what he prefers most.”



McClary will do nicely, Rumpthwaite.

Igor! IGOR!

Yes, Master! Here, Master.

I will be staying at the club tonight. Secure a room for me and have my grip sent up.

Yes, Master. Right away, Master.

And Igor…

Yes, Sir.

You are a mallodorous pile of dung, Igor.

Yes, Master. Thank you, Sir. [limps away quickly]


The door opens and the stately rack of Hieronymoose Farnsworth the Third strides in. He hands his great coat and topper to the doorman and enters the lounge.

A slight dip of the antlers as he catches @Rumpthwaite’s eye, “Port, my good man. Use your discretion”

Hieronymoose surveys the lounge and takes a seat at one of the empty gaming tables as Rumpthwaite appears with his drink.

“Thank you, Rumpthwaite. Might I bother you for a deck of cards and your Whist markers?”

“Of course, sir. I’ll 'ave them right over.”

Leaning back, Hieronymoose pulls a small ivory box from his waist coat and takes a pinch of snuff. Once the cards arrive he begins to shuffle them and plays a hand of solitaire until three others invite themselves over for the game.



Commander Piker !

I’ve detected a significant unscheduled disruption with subspace communication. It’s like we’ve not been able to communicate into or out of the Weatherby system for nearly half of a sol.

Not now, lad. Can’t you see I’m busy drinking and playing cards.


@Rumpthwaite, another Port please and keep a look out for my Ward, Rocco.

I just obtained him a job at the local messenger service and expect he’ll be finishing up his day soon. Teach them the value of a good day’s work early, I always say.

Well, yes, I’ve not needed to perform a good day’s work outside of that stint in the Quartermasters. But the less fortunate need these lessons so they can be productive Members of society.

Forget the port, I’ll have a single-malt.


Oh. I see that side of the the Farnsworth @Hadley line has shown up here in Weatherby as well.

@Rumpthwaite, Make it a double.


St-Patrick-Hartbrooke steps into the room, his eyes roaming the crowd.

A felinoid and a caninoid in matching livery; obviously matter and servant; one showing obvious signs of overindulgence. Two pescinoids; a similar relationship between the two; one radiating confidence. A humanoid, alone; St-Patrick-Hartbrooke feels unease in his presence. Some species of Lumpy Space Person; St-Patrick-Hartbrooke doesn’t know enough about the species to make any judgements. And an alcesinoid, looking rather upset about something.

All-in-all, he thinks he should have waited longer before arriving. No one of importance seems to be present yet. Ah, well, it would be gauche to arrive and depart and arrive again; surely someone worthwhile is here. And one shouldn’t be too surprised even if there isn’t; this seems to be a night solely for new inductees.

Well, one person would know who was in attendance; let’s see how realistically the barkeep has been programmed.

With a lowered voice, he asks:

@Rumpthwaite, a glass of red wine. Something off-dry, from the northwest. And, if you might enlighten me on who else is in attendance…” A coin flashes in the light; for most purposes, digital transfers work well enough, but for sheer ostentation, one cannot beat precious metals, so the St-Patrick-Hartbrooke family, at least, always keep some coin on hand.


[Moving around the room with a silver tray, efficiently providing additional culinary diversions where needed and the removal of glassware only where required, it is clear that this agèd moose has an innate understanding of both discretion and protocol.]

“Certainly, Mr. Farnsworth. A doubled portion of our MacMackey McMichael, aged 18 years. I’m pleased to inform you that young Rocco has arrived and is enjoying his syrup and seltzer with admirable gusto.”

“And for Mr. St-Patrick-Hartbrooke.”

[Rumpthwaite presents a glass of Ruddyrock Estate Reserve '14 and exchanges quiet words with the Space Griffin, recognizing him for his generosity.]



“Is my bustle on straight?”

“Who can tell? Long as they don’t actually see a tail pokin’ out, I don’t think anyone will be sizin’ up your caboose with a critical eye.”

“You don’t have to be hurtful, sir.”

“And you don’t have to obsess over meaningless things, Lieutenant.”

“It’s hardly meaningless, sir. If we don’t pass inspection here, in the high-rollers’ lounge as it were, we’ll never survive this ruse.”

“Quit worrying.”

“I really don’t think we should risk the Leviathan Club yet, sir. The draughtsmaster is a keen-eyed Moose named Rumpthwaite, and while he’s courteous to a fault to those who actually belong there, I’ve heard he’s been known to stitch his own bar towels from the hides of those luckless enough to be caught trying to enter his establishment with falsified credential.”

“Whaddaya worried about? I got our credentials right here, and they’re not even fake. The Bartlebot faxed 'em down an hour ago. As far as any soul on Weatherby can tell at this point, we have just as much right to be here as King Grigori’s sainted mum herself.”

“But sir, the prevarications, thefts, deceptions, outright forgeries, and maybe-justifiable-homicides we’ve needed to get this far… it’s all adding up to… dear me, I’m light-headed… I fear I may swoon!”

“Don’t you dare, Lieutenant, that’s an order! Here, smell this.”


“Pfaugh! Sir, that was wholly unnecessary!”

“I’m not so sure, li’l buddy. Look, I’m sorry I had to drag you into this, your mother will never forgive me, but you know I can’t do this on my own. You have to be the candidate! I wouldn’t stand up to the least scrutiny in that role. I gotta be the elderly spinster retainer, you gotta be the witty eye-candy. I’m countin’ on ya. And believe me: it’ll be worth the effort. Trust me.”

“I do, sir. I will.”

“Good lizard. Now. Hoist up that corset and give 'em a little twinkle. 'Cause here we are.”

“How’s my hair?”

“Convincing. The sashay could use some work, though.”

“Bend over and limp, sir. The doors are opening.”

“Righty-o, young miss. You go on ahead and order something sweet and refreshing from the soda-jerk. I’ll just waddle on over and find us a booth.”


St-Patrick-Hartbrooke takes his glass from the bartender, and passes him a coin that is a reasonable, if slightly excessive, tip for the delivery of a glass of wine. One must, after all, show generosity to those of lower station than oneself. It is that generosity of spirit that displays Christian virtue, and separates one from the riffraff.

He then discreetly and digitally transfers the same amount to the Space Moose, for other services rendered, and makes his way over to a card table where a different alcesinoid sits playing solitaire, passing the drunken felinoid and their caninoid master. Honestly, some nobles just cannot impose proper discipline upon their servants these days. Were he to have a Space Feline servant who behaved so notoriously, St-Patrick-Hartbrooke would have the scoundrel flogged.

Reaching the table, the Space Griffon addresses the Space Moose.

“Good day to you, sir. If you are not too engaged with your current game of solitaire, would you mind accommodating a second player at your table?”


Hieronymoose stands and clicks his heels together then gestures to the seat across from himself.

“St-Patrick-Hartbrooke if I were to wager a guess, yes? I must admit I’ve not had the pleasure of knowing any Taaa’keee. My sincere apologies if I have mispronounced anything. As I said, We’ve not had any “Space Griffins” come calling at Abacus Racks.”

With that Hieronymoose retakes his seat and collects the cards in front of him.

“While we wait for another two for a proper game of Whist, shall we pass the time with Crib? I believe there is a board in the drawer here… Yes, here we are. You shall have the ebony pegs, while I will use the Ivory. {shuffle-shuffle-shuffle} {flit.flit.flit.flit.flit.flit.flit.flit.flit.flit.flit.flit.} Since I dealt, the crib is mine.”

“Excuse me one moment. Rumplewaith? Send my boy in, he has duties to attend to”

As St-Patrick-Hartbrooke, examines his cards, Rocco come to the table. Hieronymoose, pulls a silver case from his breast pocket, opens it and hands a dozen off-white cards to the squirrel.

“Rocco. Be a fine lad and deliver my calling cards to the houses that have arrived.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be quick about it.”

With that Hieronymoose turns back to the game and awaits St-Patrick-Hartbrooke’s cutting the top card.


The Taaa’keee inclines his head in a bow appropriate too their respective stations as equals.

“Indeed, that is I. And, Mr… Farnsworth, is it? Well, for one that does not speak the language natively, you do very well; be careful, though, with the length of your vowels when speaking Keeen’Arrr; there is much subtlety encoded therein.”

As St-Patrick-Hartbrooke’s physiology does not lend itself well to being seated, he does not immediately take the proffered chair… But, ah, Rumpthwaite is at hand, whisking the chair away and replacing it with a cushioned bench, upon which the Taaa’keee can fold his four legs and leave his arms free for cards.

If the social cost weren’t so high, St-Patrick-Hartbrooke would certainly ask where he could acquire such a diligent servant. Alas.

Taking the cards in hand - nice weight, good finish, St-Patrick-Hartbrooke cuts the deck, but leaves his finger so for a moment. There is a question that must be asked which could determine the entire course of the game ahead, and it must be asked now, before the first card is dealt.

“Are the ‘Muggins’ rules in effect?”


“Muggins? Of course they are, good fellow? How would it be sporting if they were not?”


“Some I have played have suggested that they make the game more adversarial than, quote, ‘A friendly game of cards,’ unquote, ought to be.”

St-Patrick-Hartbrooke gives a predatory grin, a reminder that, for someone who knows Taaa’keeen history, he isn’t so far removed, genetically, from creatures who dropped down on unsuspecting animals and carried them off for dinner.

“But, of course, if one cannot be ‘adversarial’ while engaging in competition, when can one? Although one, must, of course, establish such rules before the play begins; it’s terribly poor style to take from someone something that they didn’t know they were risking.”

The Space Griffon removes his finger from the recently-cut deck and waves at it.

“Shall we begin?”


{OOC: Request has been made to remove my GIFs due to epilepsy concerns, sorry to those affected!}

[A metallic taste migrates to the back of your throat; ennui descends]


[coughs once, sighs deeply, stares vacantly into empty glass]

Rumpthwaite, another vinegar, if you please.


A toast !

[hums loudly, raises glass in the direction of @manwich]

To Crown Royalty !



[Rounder pops back up table-side, looking none the worse for wear]


Well, fellows, how many hands did I miss?