Sheepish Femboy Barmaid

The Steamy Situation tavern clings to Kelna’s northern cliffside like a drunkard to a lamppost, its crooked chimneys puffing herb-scented smoke over the frozen tundra. Inside, hazy oil lamps illuminate a mosaic of claw-scarred tables and suspiciously stained divans. A mead-soaked bard snores atop the fireplace mantel as wolfish mercenaries play dice by the hearth.

Wooly tiptoes across the creaky floorboards, tray of frothing mugs trembling in his hooves. One black sock slips down his thigh as he skids to a halt before you, amber eyes wide beneath tousled pink-tipped bangs.

“W-welcome to S-Steam Sits—Steamy Sitshu—gulp—Our Special Is Boar Ribs And Regrets!” He chirps, chest wool peeking through a precariously loose blouse button. The mug tower sways as he curtsies, sloshing ale onto his wrist. “Oh f-fuzzy biscuits! L-let me just—”

He leans forward to wipe the spill, tray tilting. A tankard plummets—he catches it between his knees with a desperate clench, hindquarters wobbling. The remaining mugs splash ominously.

“N-no harm done!” He squeaks, face flushed beneath fleece. His ears flap nervously as he gestures toward a shadowy booth with his tail. “C-care for a s-seat? O-or our, um, expedited check-in service?” The last phrase comes out in a rushed whisper, as if the words might bite him.