Post by ALARIC BISMARCK on May 31, 2014 20:04:19 GMT
| just 'cause you feel it, doesn't mean it's there. |  The tavern was rather quiet at this time at night; only dedicated patrons or lonely souls found themselves here at this hour. It was in a terrible state of disrepair; the planks of the floor rolled back and squeaked with every step. Half of the stalls in the men’s bathroom were “out of order” and essentially soiled. The bar itself was poorly made, splinters poking out among the what-should-have-been a smooth texture. A thirty-or-so year-old man sat by himself at the bar, seemingly in his own little world. He leaned forward in his chair, fascinated by the scattered heap of half-empty shots. His pale gray eyes meticulously followed the curve of the liquids' meniscuses in the glasses. Setting his back straight with a disgruntled grumble, he stroked his thick, meaty fingers along the width of the table, playing with the splinters tugging at his grimy flesh. The sensation he felt in his stomach was sort of a nauseous childlike curiosity, and even the expression painted across his face resembled that of a toddler. His bloodshot eyes opened wide and a goofy grin manifested as if he was watching a circus performer do tricks. An excruciating headache blossoming in his cranium, Alaric rested his head in his calloused hands. Another drink was not what he needed, but drunken men don’t always make the wisest of decisions. He cried out, “B-bartender!” The words came out in an unintelligible slur, “G-g-get me another drink, w-would ya?” A younger man dressed up in a fancy black apron tied back in a neat knot was half-heartedly scrubbing the wooden bar, purposefully brushing the same spot with every movement. He covered his mouth to yawn, his puffy red eyes evident of many consecutive late nights. The bartender turned around to engage the cabinet behind him, reaching for another shot in the process. He topped off the glass with the strongest vodka in the bar and set it in front of the lonely patron. Downing the drink in one fell swoop, Alaric wiped his mouth with his hand and let out a hiccup. He raised his head and focused his eyes at the weary bartender. Stopping the younger man with his hand as he started on his walk, “Th-thanks bud, let me give you a-uh tip for...services rendered.” That goofy smirk made another appearance; the noble Marshal was showing his face among the crippling inebriation. He fumbled with his pocket, forgetting about the chip in his wrist. “D-dammit. Do you have one of th-those stupid wrist-scanning things here?” The bartender nodded contemptuously and physically took the older man’s wrist to the scanner on the bar. Marshal Bismarck didn’t see the younger man rolling his eyes, “You know what, I’ve got hope for the world if there’s more young men like you out there.” Maybe he was losing it, speaking like he was decades older. The younger man sauntered off, and Alaric’s inflamed eyes wandered to the ramshackle door hanging by the fringes. March 5th - 2:00 A.M. - Alex/Icarus |
MADE BY ★MEULK OF THQ
