War Is Hell

Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Laggy Lagiacrus, Jun 8, 2013.

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  1. It was the usual scene at the Laughing Boar tavern – a backwater establishment that was as insignificant as its patrons. A mish-mash of riff-raff and society’s cast-outs, it was the perfect place to go for a drink where nobody would bother you, even if you were more likely to die of typhoid than alcohol poisoning in there. Apart from that, however, there was little to it that was appealing. The tables were slanted and chipped, and though they were clean enough to look at (from a distance), most had some form of mould growing on them. The floor was dirtied from whatever substances had stained it, and that wasn’t even mentioning the pungent stench lingering in the air.

    Aside from the chattering of shady dealers and embittered drinking buddies, the tavern was largely filled with just the clinking and thudding of flagons filled with the cheapest, strongest alcoholic beverages the owner’s meagre income could get. Nobody paid attention to anyone else in there – not just because it was none of their business, but also because it was likely they didn’t want to get involved with any business being done there. It wasn’t a nice little restaurant managed by a husband and wife that had a certain charm to it. This was the sort of place a cutthroat would go to drink, so nobody could bother him.

    And in one of the darker corners, where even the most reclusive of backstabbers hadn’t the motivation to tread, sat a haggard-looking man. He was not an old man, though in some people’s eyes, the age of forty was not one to be scoffed at. Especially since most of the peasant and slum-dweller population died of disease, starvation, or something equally unpleasant before the age of fifteen. Yet, his mannerisms, and the look in his eyes, made him look timeless. And not in the majestic way either – more in the sense that he thought he had lived far too long, and that he had seen far too many things.

    Though it would be normal to see a number of grey hairs on the head of a man his age, the sheer number of them was quite astounding – this, combined with his tired demeanour and the wrinkles forming trenches across his exhausted face, would give the average passer-by the wrong impression of his age. Not that he cared. In fact, all he really seemed to care about was the fact that he had almost reached the bottom of his tarnished flagon, one dented and chipped from years of abuse and poor cleaning. Droplets of his precious elixir fell on the table top, as he brought his bitter fury down on the table, flagon base slamming against shabbily-maintained wood.
    “I need another drink..”
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  2. Such a thing like a heavy flagon hitting the surface of an old table didn't cause the most quiet of sounds. Quite the contrary, it was loud enough to catch the attention of someone even on the opposite side of the tavern. Leaning over the floor panels on her hands and knees, a young woman had been wiping off a spill on the floor when this noise ran into her ears. Flinching in response, her washrag had almost slipped from underneath her grip, which would have caused quite the unwanted fall. However, she was able to keep herself composed and balanced. Finishing off in little circles against the formerly sticky ground, she woman raised to sit back on the heel of her tall knee-high black boots. Who exactly had done that to the table? Of course, she knew what a dump this place had grown to be, since she worked here. But, that gave no reason for someone, even if they were intoxicated beyond belief, to disrespect the property of the owner. Tsk tsk on him.

    Throwing the rag over her shoulder, the figure raised to her feet. Bending for a moment, her palms dusted off the front of her black pants quickly, not the biggest fan of that gray-ish tone that came from crawling along on the floor here. She had been trying her best to keep it clean, and yet it seemed to be a hopeless battle. Stepping forward in long strides, Vivian Tain combed through her hair with pale fingers, letting the raven strands fall into place. Her black shadowed sapphire eyes scanned the room, finding all of the old, drunken bodies to match one another after seeing only a few. They all were the same. They come and get good and tipsy, then go out into the night, barking about their adventures and how wonderful they had been. It was all quite the load of bologna, if you had to ask her.

    Her focus ceased upon the one who had hit the table. Arching one eyebrows in his direction, she cleared her throat, quietly walking over to the bar. Grasping the drink the man had called for, she carried it over with ease and poise. Placing the mug down before the gray-haired being, looking quite worn down and yet.. he had a fighting spirit in his eyes, Vivi nodded to him.
    "Here you are, Sir."
    Placing a hand on her right hip, hiding beneath her attire, her expression changed as she looked back to the owner who was occupied at the moment. Leaning a little downwards, she spoke to the man in a hushed tone.
    "I don't know who you think you are, but no matter where you travel to, it is very rude to just go around hitting property that is not yours. Do you understand, Sir?"
    Her spine straightened as she crossed both arms across her body now. A small smile played on her serious lips, feigning a polite demeanor. She really lost her patience when it came to customers, sometimes.

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  3. Looking to Vivian with his expressionless eyes, the man evidently took a moment to process what he was being told. It was obvious that he wasn’t a normal patron, but by the looks of him, he was probably a regular at the tavern. After all, people had looked at him when he had slammed his flagon down, but they had paid it no mind beyond that – or, at least, it seemed that way. Instinctively, he reached for his flagon upon it being wrought from his grasp – in a manner akin to a baby reaching out for an object it wanted to hold, or a bottle it had yet to finish with.

    As he looked her over, he noted her poise, her demeanour, and how she generally didn’t fit in with the scummy atmosphere of the tavern. Sure, she didn’t look like the most friendly of characters – but it was in a different way than the brutes and thugs that kept the place going. How she spoke to him – it wasn’t the threatening tone of the people who had tried to pick a fight with him, before he had shown them what he truly was. He truly meant what, as well – he could no longer refer to himself as a person, not after all he had done.

    Nodding in somewhat-convincing receptiveness, like a child who was going through a tedious scolding by their mother, he acknowledged her chiding him. That was not to say he did much more, but it was more attention than his perpetually-inebriated mind usually paid. After a swig of his drink, after he managed to process the bitter embrace only alcohol could grant him, he seemed to fish around in his pocket for something. Not that there would be much in his pocket. A man like him would usually carry around money, something for self-defence, and a few miscellaneous items, but that was about it. What fell out when he lost focus, however, was something that not many people would see.

    At first glance, it was a stick of about seven, maybe eight inches. Nothing special, maybe it was a bit dishevelled, but the ebony was in usable condition. However, upon closer inspection, there appeared to be the symbol of the kingdom’s elite mage unit etched into it – a basic depiction of the human eye, in other words. However, it had been crossed out, as if someone had attempted to carve it out, but stopped halfway through, leaving an ugly scar on the wand. Before it could clatter to the floor, its owner made a grab at it, catching it in his palm without so much as blinking. Immediately, he stowed it in his pocket.

    “Sorry for the trouble.”

    His voice was deadpan – it wavered slightly, due to the influence of heavy drinking, but otherwise, he seemed perfectly capable of not showing any emotion. He held out a coin in his hand – likely a tip, maybe an apology. The amount was a little extravagant for a tip, considering the area, but it was still pocket change to anyone above the criminal underbelly of the city. Someone rolled their eyes at him, and what he was doing – the reason was never made clear, but snippets of what was said afterwards hinted at it likely being a regular occurrence.
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