Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Satanic Goldfish, Jan 4, 2013.

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  1. [​IMG] Saige Copel

    With the slow rain that pattered against the pane in the murky bar, the smell of pungent booze, blood and vomit evident in the air as it laced into a weave of foul stink that seemed to lull most worries into nothing. It was hardly a comfort but in consideration to what the rest of the world was like, it was soothing.

    The war was hammering hard, so many lives were being obliterated on each side; blood caked into the soil forever staining it into the gruesome hue of life and death. It showed no end in sight making the human mind dribble into nothing but the lifeless husk that would go to war and parish.

    Fingers tapped against the short glass the thick coloured liquid inside rippled with the vibrations, eyes moved quickly along the yellowed page of the book, her free hand was absently keep a careful stroke to the concealed weapon under the red wine penny coat she wore. Blond tresses tumbled against the curve of her cheeks framing her young features in the pale bar light, allowing the curious gazes of many other drunken patrons to linger over her unusual appearance.

    Lips drug against one another allowing the saliva to moisten them, the paged turned in her book. She may have seemed to be deeply involved with the book, she was hardly. Rather she was keeping a firm eye out amongst the drivel of men and women that filtered in and out of this stagnant wallow, waiting for the next big assignment.
  2. Francis Jones was a true Chicagoan. He had dark hair, dark eyes and a penchant for trouble. But for him, what made things of the world melt away was his blues and rhythm. On the mean streets you either got tough, got smart or got dead. And dead was anything but for Fracis. Then came the day his number came up. He was in the swinger's club tuning up before a set when the MPs arrived. They said he was called to duty for uncle sam. But all he ever wanted was to blow his cares away with the blues. But in 43 there was no recourse. He picked up his trumpet and case and that night went off to boot camp, a poor young black musician. That was a month ago. He was the rvelie caller now.
  3. Private Jones walked into the tavern in his uniform. He rarely had opportunity. to take it off. That day he had an appointment for a chance to earn some scratch. He sat near Saige an lay his trumpet case down. "Knee high grape soda." He said in a drawl.
  4. Proverbial ears rose as the voice requested such a rather odd thing in a bar and then again it wasn't; a Nehi Grape. It might have brought a smirk to her face if she was going to portray her emotions that is. Rather she remained still, flicking a page in the book and letting a slow hum of a sigh escape from the inner reaches of her bosom. The glass shuttered with the shuffling vibration of her moving her ankles to cross over one another, the flat of her palm smoothed along the old textured cover to shut it against the dark atmosphere of the bar seeming not only to close the chapter of the book but of the place as well.

    Vibrant jewels of blue that had been gifted to be her sight, glanced sideways over her shoulder seeming to take full note of the man who made a little beverage request. Rather she took note of the trumpet case he had placed. It made her mind wonder with a million questions but none would pass her lips for the time being rather; fingers tips curled around the spine of the book to tuck it under her arm while she rose from her chair with a swan like grace, never actually pushing the chair back to escape it's confines.

    Gazes and stares were tossed yet again her way, heels of her shoes clicked and clacked on the wooden polished floor towards that of the bar. Some would lean against the bar hoping to gather the attention of the tender himself but she was not. She stood comfortably at the rolling lip, hands daring to grasp but did not act. She knew with a little subtlety and more class she could get the attention she wanted without a simple over the top gesture. It just took a bit of time, and patience.

    Brushing aside the curled tresses of her hair from her cheek, she smiled sweetly to the man who had taken up post there. Idle conversation to be had was thick in the air and she was more than curious to grab it.

    "Pardon," her voice was smooth lull that of a dove, it held no malicious under tone, rather it was genuinely sweet and compassionate as eyes held the same adoration as her voice. "I could not help but be intrigued by your musician's case," lips remained pressed in a closed smile, "Do you play, I do not mean to assume but I could not stray myself from at least inquiring while the bartender busies himself with your drink." gentle nimble hands clasped together keeping that of her penny coat closed around her dress and tights, it looked natural but she was being overly careful not to let anyone see what she kept with her.

  5. Private Jones did not at first pay any attention the woman dressed in red. In fact, as he recalled, his mother warned him against 'the vodoo womens' and their devil ways. But then again he never really liked his mama. So he just sat there silently waiting for his Nehi until the bartender serviced it.
    "Five franks." He said gruffly. Jones tendered the cash and drank the grape soda down feverishly. Then, with the empty can he turned to look at the woman next to him. She was very tall. A little plain, but tall. That was how he described her to people later on.
    "Do I play?" he said in a Chicago accent. And while he thought about the question as a child might consider a play thing he drummed his fingers on the case and whistled a tune. "You know maam, this aint no piece. So, I spose I do play. Why dya ask?" He sat back chirlishly and kept drumming on the case.
  6. Curling her fingers around the loose curls that crested around her ivory features, she shied her gaze away as he spoke, listening with the utmost intent until he returned the question back to her.

    Looking through her peripheral to him, her mouth formed into another tight lipped smile; "It's not often a man carries around an instrument in a war zone, it might be strange not to ask about it." she kept her answer short and sweet, silently wondering about this one. He was literally a sore thumb sticking out in a place like this, as his accent just seemed to ring through the air to other's ears which saved wondering glances from herself to him.

    Slipping out a couple crinkled bills from her pocket of the pennycoat, she thanked the bartender for all that she had. Tipping her head some towards that of the man she chatted up for a moment; heels swung with her momentum right around as she could hear the rain pattering in full swing against the pane of the window.
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