Shōyu What I Got

[Morus]

”Tonight has been all for naught.”

Sitting in The Takeout’s dimly lit dining room, Morus couldn’t help but mindlessly play with the noodles in front of him. Chopsticks in hand, he swirled the nearly crystal-clear broth until bubbling chucks of warm garlic found their way to the surface; the smell of it was present, but disappointingly weak. The first spoonful of it had been a muddled mess of dull flavors. Sandy, tepid, and limp, the ramen had been mediocre enough for the boy to finally push his bowl aside in defeat. Were it the only disappointment of the night, Morus could have forgiven the restaurant. But he had been to three ramen joints before The Takeout and each failed to capture even the slightest glimmer of hope in his dull eyes.

Chateu de la Ramune overlooked a stunning vista of Yanbo Harbor, but the broth had been as salty as those calm waters, with little of the character. Noodletown had the foresight to include a small Radish Spirit cartoon mascot, but forgot to even add that as sustenance for their threadbare soup. In truth, the Ramen Pagoda has been the worst of them all. Situated in some seedy alley, the cart’s owner said it gave them a certain homely charm their competitors lacked; but the competition had one leg up on them, a passing grade from the health inspector.

When Morus had first arrived outside The Takeout’s building, he had hoped his fruitless search was at an end. Six stories tall, the stone façade blazed in the waning light reflected off of The Great Crystal spire. Heading through a thoroughfare of tightly-packed, twisting shops, the boy had finally climbed the last flight of stairs to find himself on the sixth floor’s massive restaurant. As the evening set in with a chill, wisps of steam slithered through paper doors from the closed-off kitchen. The hostess, a shrewish looking thing, eyed the urchin with some disdain as he approached. After convincing her he had enough money to pay, he was seated towards the back of the packed eatery; but full as it was, not a single sound above a quiet murmur could be heard.

And the boy realized why as a server approached to fill his sake glass.

“Everything satisfactory?” His waiter turned to leave without waiting for an answer, forcing Morus to speak.

“Actually, no.” He was louder than he would have liked to be, but the flush in his cheek gave his voice a greater fervor. The waiter raised an eyebrow at that, tugging at the tails of his shirt as he found something to distract from his discomfort.

“What seems to be the problem, sir?” That last word came with such a sneer that Morus assumed it was meant to physically harm him. Though the urchin sat cross-legged on a lowly floor pillow, he never broke eye contact with the server.

“The ramen was terrible. For the price I’m paying, I would have expected something worthwhile.”

“Sir, if our pricing is too much for you, there are other, more affordable noodle houses in the area; Ones that you may find more welcoming.” The waiter turned to leave again, but stopped when he heard the bowl tip over. The low table did little to halt the broth as it began to pour onto the floor. Morus drew his hand, gesturing with a bit of bravado as he did.

“All the ones I came across were terrible. Although, it seems, I saved the worst for last.” There was a fire in the boy that went above liquid courage. He had heard rumors of perfection of ramen in Akashima, and travelled some great length to sample it. He begged, stole, and worked a bit to afford the experience, only to have his hopes dashed like the scallions covering the ground.

Even the murmuring had died down.

[Artifex Felicis]

Leon Timyon liked coming to Akashima, but he could never live in the land.

He wasn't from the land, but was often assumed to be. At first it was a miner trifle, something that just seeped into conversation and body language with the people in the land. Assumptions were made, unspoken promises and agreements with society at whole. Shoes had to be worn. The armored clothing he wore during travel shutting more doors than stopping attacks against his character. Weaponry was barely acknowledged amongst the population, treating those who carried openly with barely concealed disdain. It was calming, but whenever Leon first walked into town nearly bristling it put him on edge.

There were reasons to come though, and The Takeout was Leon latest attempt. He had turned a paw towards the art of cooking, while he was recovering from several years of hard adventuring. It left a lot of time to learn, and to realize just how inadequate he really was at preparing food for himself. Apparently burning a flank cut of bear didn't count as 'cuisine' in most of the world. Leon's awareness of his own mediocrity was made more and more apparent as he tried more and more things. It was then, while he was at his lowest, he found out about the greatest food in the world from a traveling chef from Akashima. The cat boy was brought to tears by the taste, finishing the bowl in moments. The chef was gone the next day, without only Akashima and the word ramen on his lips.

“I need more…”

Of course, things weren't going well in his search. Shoyu-ramen, its window emblazoned with a stained fist striking up to the heavens, was barely more than a pork belly slop. And'Ramenda was similarly disappointing. The chef, a young man with rolled up sleeves and a broth stained hat, was eager, but far from the master he hoped to one day be. The Noodle Galaxy, Ramenoodle and Ramamama all proved similarly disappointing. Passable and filling, but after nearly a week of disappointment, Leon Timyon's patience was nearly a limit.

The Takeout, with its long staircase, at least gave the impression of what Leon so desperately sought, but after such a long week he failed to notice many things about the building. Doors lining the hallways were boarded shut in many places, replaced and reinforced in a few select cases, or in terrible condition. Hallways were always empty, or their occupants scurrying out of them, keeping their head low as if rain were to about to fall inside and they needed to get out. Each floor had a new sign waiting for him.

“The Takeout, top floor!”

“The Takeout, on floor six!”

“The Takeout, only one more!”

He was not impressed by the actual restaurant. The hostess nearly threw him out s soon as she saw him, gold pieces clinking on the counter making her one of Leon’s closest friends. She lead him away and to a smaller table as a young man closed the entrance to the restaurant, the heavy wooden bar laid across it locking it. He took the seat, adjusting for his tails and the small stool that was just a little bit too small for him. The food came quickly enough, The Takeout’s claim to fame was that the single item on their menu was

“At least the atmosphere’s not bad…” He muttered, bringing the small spoon close to his lips as he heard the loud crash. He raised a foot as the hot broth seeped under, snorting under his breath. People were standing up and quickly exiting, leaving coins and money behind to cover their tab. The restaurant was only half full as Leon finally brought the broth to his lips again.

He almost gagged, one of the only sounds in the quiet restaurant. He placed the spoon neatly onto the table again. , standing from his seat and stepping away. His bowl was nearly untouched, steam still rising from the hot broth. The waiter previously accosting the other patron was on him in a moment, his hand on Leon’s chest to stop him.

“Sir, please sit down!” The waiter’s natural disdain forced its way through. The two locked eyes for a moment, the waiter staring with the intensity of a man whose entire station in life was to intimidate and cajole others. “I will see you in a moment, and you can just wai-“

"I don't want any trouble," Leon interrupted, holding up his hands, taking a step back. The waiter stepped forward again, pushing on his chest with an open palm.

"Sir, we'll deal with your immense disrespect," The waiter's mouth nearly spat int he cat boy's face. "After we have thrown out this troublemaker."

"Oh."

Without blinking, Leon’s tails rose as one. They slipped through the air, sending the bowl of grease and greens, scallions and pork belly flying through the air. It arced in the air beautifully, grease catching the light and shining with transient beauty before the bowl shattered against the ground. The ramen within joined with the puddle already on the floor.

Well then," Leon's eyebrows lifted as he watched the waiter.

[Morus]

As the second bowl teetering on the floor slowly stopped, an eerie quiet filled the restaurant. The crowd inside was half as large as it had been before with only the few brave souls sitting and sipping at their soup. Though the customers that remained continued to eat, all eyes were focused on the pair of troublemakers now standing tall. One, a fierce looking nekomata that stared down the waiter who slighted him. The other, a scrawny and ragged boy with fists clenched so tight they had begun redden. There was a moment when the two caught each other’s sight. Though brief, there was a fearsome focus in both their narrow eyes, and Morus could almost make out a slight nod. Through the flush on his face, the boy felt a cold sweat cover him. His heart raced beneath his chest with such a pace that he swore he saw his tunic move. Tight muscles gave way to a nervous twitch every now and then as he darted a look all around.

The pool of broth on the floor had spread and quickly soaked Morus’ feet. He hopped up onto the cushion, grinning as the waiter grimaced at the blackened soles dirtying it up. The urchin stood up as straight as he could, but his body felt a bit heavier from the mix of sake and steam that wafted in from the kitchen.

“I think,” he paused, giving a quick smile to his fellow troublemaker, “we’re entitled to a refund for this poor display of service.” There was a haughtiness to his voice that he had known long ago. Growing up in comfort and wealth had finely honed a sense of entitlement, and the diction to demand it came from a life well-read. The streets never made allowances for his past. Power had been fickle with him, and left much too soon. But there was a vigor in vino and with present company that had lit a fire within him. For the first time in a while, Morus felt gleeful.

“That is out of the question,” hissed the employee. Though his brow was furrowed and his body tense, he cracked such a wicked sneer that even patrons at the far wall stopped eating to witness is awe. “Allow me to fetch our complaints department.”

From his waistcoat, the waiter pulled out a single brass whistle. Unadorned and unassuming, he drew it to his lips with a theatricality that seemed entirely out of place. It’s noise was shrill and came in three short bursts. Morus could hear the murmurs around him as the voices grew louder and frightened. And above them, the drumming, rhythmic sound of hurried footsteps racing up the stairs outside the entrance. There was a brief pause, merciful pause before the doors were thrown open and ten new faces joined them.

They were a grim and savage looking lot. Scraps of well-worn leather armor covered their silken robes, seemingly at random. Their faces were haggard and featured richly detailed evidence of violence. A few were missing eyes or a chunk of nose, one even covered such nasty scar with a metal plate from cheek to neck. Each was armed with a club, staff, or a wooden sword, but all the weapons were tipped in steel that looked heavy enough to crack a skull.

The largest thug, a balding man who let his enough gut stick out from the bottom of his clothes, lumbered over to the waiter. “What’s all this commotion about?” His voice seemed to echo from somewhere deep within him.

The waiter pointed at the pair of troublemakers.