The Pub

I closed my fist over the crystal and placed it in my pocket, then turned towards the couch and sat down on it's stained fabric surface. "Extra sugar and milk." I tell him, "If It's black, I'll toss it back." I warn him.

Seres grinned, "Ok, I'll see if I can find the sugar. I know I kept it around here somewhere...."

Katherine smiled, her hands gripping the small book she'd swiped from the shelf, it read something loosely translated to; Wolf: removal of curse. She wasn't exactly sure but she'd read it and see if hopefully, she could be changed back to her former self.

This looks like a pretty interesting forum. Thought I'd give it a swing. I shall be... Alphonse Harper from my story, Valuable. :3

Upon entering the crowded, dimly lit pub, my nerves were instantly relaxed by the unpretentious and cozy atmosphere. Another long day, another card down. I really needed a drink. I took a seat in a booth in the back, looking around the room at all the...interesting patrons here tonight. I leaned back into the seat, thinking about the day, the news from Vietnam that dripped through the radio and littered the newsstands with bold black print. I couldn't bring myself to listen to or read much more about the subject these days, especially not on a drizzly day such as this...

(Sorry, short post. Still testing the waters on how to go about this. ^^')

Lavern Synder, from The Cave Between Lands

I never thought I'd be in a bar. I never thought I'd bend down so low, so low as to abandon my family to the wrath of the Plague. I was wrong.

I sit. Drunk laughter. The sound of unconscious bodies slumping to the ground. Will these be me? Will I be dead within a week, just like these people? I need to fight back. The Plague is coming. I need to fight back. I need to.

I do not drink. Not a single word finds its way to my lips. I sit contemplatively, until I decide I've had enough. Enough of this stupidity. Unconsciousness sounds too much like death. I slip my legs off the barstool, daintily stepping over the snoring body at my feet. I hear the door click shut as I leave.


Sorry, I just can't picture Lavern being in a bar.

Zeal - Minuit sans Musique (Midnight without music.)

Zeal stepped into the pub, the sounds of drunk laughter reaching his ears as he rubbed his gloved hands together. His shaggy black hair hung into his eyes as he shrugged off his brown duster and tossed it over the back of a chair. He sat at the bar counter, leaning heavily on it as he fought to remember why he'd come here. It was hard nowadays, to remember anything considering it was painful. He had been out hunting just hours before, and his legs ached from the trecherous march he'd had to do whilst climbing the steep hills in the valley nearby.
He turned his head and spotted the girl, she was quiet; seemingly relaxed as the lazy newscaster droned on about the Vietnam war. He himself wasn't interested, but he watched her. Watched Alphonse, a woman whom he had never before met.
He rose from his chair, walked over to her with his heavy boots making loud thuds against the dulled wooden planks.
"Zeal, Victore Roendell Zeal." he introduced himself to her with a polite placement of his hand before him for her to shake.

(Alphonse is actually a male, my frinend. ;] But if you want, Al won't mind being female for a little while, do you? Alphonse: "Uhh, do I have a choice?" Nope!^^ So yeah, just lemme know and I'll play along or add a new character.)

Glancing around the bar, I wondered vaguely where a waitress was. Shrugging to myself, not really caring either way if I was served at this point, I removed a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of my coat, slipping one out and placing it between my lips. I had t spotted any "no smoking" signs anywhere, so I figured I wasn't about to get gunned down or anything. Just as I flicked open my silver lighter, the bar door jingled cheerily, announcing the entrance of a new patron. I glanced up disinterestedly from the stained, nicked surface of the table beneath my elbows to see a man with long black hair and a brown coat walk in from the chill. He glanced about the room as the door creaked to a close behind him before removing his coat and settling down. Sitting as we were, myself in a booth seat facing the door and he at a table facing the back of the bar, I could clearly see his worn expression. I wondered vaguely what might have caused such an odd expression as smoke drifted in lazy tendrils from the tip of my cigarette. Then, just as my gaze began to drift elsewhere, the floating white number cards--the rotten things that tallied off the days a person had left until their death--that I managed to keep blurred and in my peripheral vision became very clear over his head.
I frowned to myself, but just as my weighted mind began to draw conclusions, the man rose from his chair and sauntered over.
"Zeal. Victore Roendell Zeal," he introduced formally, extending a hand out for me to shake. My cigarette lolled between my teeth as I looked back and forth from calloused palm to serious face, knowing the polite way to respond but hesitating.
Ultimately deciding this strange stranger meant no visible harm, I took the proffered hand, shook and introduced myself, "Harper. Er, Alphonse Harper."

(Aha, terribly sorry but I know Zeal's used to being made a fool of. Right Zeal? Zee: mhmm, seems to happen often under your pencil. Well, there you have it. He'll figure it out.)

He lowered himself into the chair, scanning once the dimly lit pub before looking to the "woman". He leaned back his expression still worn, etched with fatigue.
"It's nice to meet you." he flashed a weary smile, rubbing his calloused hands together on the top of the table. He gestured to the ciagrette, "May I?" he asked, before turning to look around the bar.
He hoped the creatures had'nt followed him but they had a tendency to arrive unannounced.
The pub's door creaked, announcing another's arrival and he looked up instinctively to know whom it was. "Roezendell." he bit his lip, unsure whther to make a move and so he didn't. Though tense, he turned to the character before him, waiting for a cigarette.

"Yeah, sure," I replied to his request, holding out the box of smokes. The door then opened, letting a newcomer from the cold.
"Roezendell," the figure spoke, form silhouetted by the bright gray backlighting from outside so I couldn't immediately make out the person's appearance. I noted the sudden tensing in my companion's posture, but he made no move to reply to call. I didn't dwell on this development much; it wasn't really my business, but I instead tried to decipher his motivations for joining me. His crestfallen look upon arriving at my table hadn't gone unnoticed, and as he flashed a slight and awkward smile after taking a cigarette into his fingers, I had the feeling that perhaps I wasn't with whom he was expecting to be sitting now.
"Lighter?" I offered, holding out the silver object as I tucked the pack of cigarettes back into my coat.
"Yes, yes thank you," he said, taking the lighter and igniting the paper cylinder poised between his teeth. We breathed in deadly smoke and oxygen for a few silent moments, and I was beginning to wonder why exactly he had bothered coming over here if he had no intention to start a conversation. I thought about saying something, maybe something so witty or ingenious that he'd be forced to enjoy my company, but the thought died almost as soon as it had been birthed, fizzling off when I remembered that I wasn't any good with talking to strangers. Internalizing a sigh, I blew a smoke ring and waited for Zeal to make the first move...

(Ok, I'm switching to first person.)

I turned my gaze from the man at the door and looked at Alphonse who seemed rather uncomfortable, and I waved a hand before myself with a smile. I let a cautious smile settle onto my face, "I appologize." I told him as I leaned back, my head pounded with a whirlwind of thought and I rubbed my temples. I rolled the cigarette between my teeth, inhaling the toxic smoke and blowing it out as I butted the burnt end into the tray. "So, what is your proffesion?" I asked holding the cigarette in my fingers. I swallowed as the man passed by my table, "Roezendell." I mouthed with a curl of my lip.

Zeal's waving hand caught my attention, and with a small grin, he induced small talk with me. Thank goodness, I thought.
"So, what is your profession?" he inquired politely.
I took a long drag on my cigarette before replying with smoke pouring out from my lips, "I'm currently unemployed. A student."
"Oh," he replied curiously. "What are you studying?"
I had a feeling that Zeal really was just a polite, if somewhat unfortunate, soul and that his questions stemmed purely from that civilized inclination rather than any real interest, but no matter his reasons for intruding upon my seclusion and introducing himself and asking about my personal life, I couldn't help but enjoy the simple oddity of a complete stranger showing interest in me. As I've mentioned before, I don't mix well with others--a character flaw stemmed from being around too many people much older than myself as a child and from witnessing too much death as a child as well.
Still, the number cards hovering over Zeal's head flickered on the borders of my vision, rapidly flipping with a sound like flapping bat wings and unable to rest. Back and forth they flipped, beginning to diminish in number then rapidly regenerating to push his determined date of death further into the future. I wondered what sort of life this man led to cause his existence to be so vicarious and life unstable in length, but I remembered I still hadn't answered his question and pushed those nosey thoughts aside for later.
"Pathology," I replied a beat late.
"Is that so?" Zeal responded, eyebrows lifting. "I must say, I wouldn't have placed you for the medical type."
I chuckled a bit and nodded, not at all surprised by the response. With black hair tied back and unkempt, a perpetually brooding expression, little social skill, and plenty of exasperation, I knew how I appeared to others, toward what professions I seemed inclined.
Zeal continued, "I might have figured you to be a journalist or an artist or something."
"You would not be the first." I tapped the ashes off on the tip of my cigarette into the plastic ash try between us on the table. "So what do you do for a living?"

It took me a moment to process his question, as I was constantly distracted by the fact that this man's eyes strayed to a space above my head. I licked my lips before placing the cigarette between them and taking a long drag, filling my lungs with it's poison. I decided to avoid skipping the lies and went for bluntness instead, "Slave trader."
I gripped in one hand beneath the table to hold onto the leather whip folded neatly in my pocket. I carried it always in my pocket. "A slave trader?" he vaguely heard the man ask him with a tad of incredulity in his voice. I wondered if it was genuine as most would suspect differently, with my clean shaven face, neatly combed blond hair that sometimes dragged in his eyes, straight nose and bright intelligent grey eyes.

"A slave trader?" I repeated, my eyes shifting from his pale features to the cards and back, sizing up his response and what it may have to do with the numbers. "Isnt that, you know, illegal?" I questioned, only slightly daunted by the thought of speaking with someone of such a...profession. I figured that if worse came to worse and he was a slave trader a d decided to make me a part of his next shipment, well, I didn't really have the energy to fight today.

"Of course it is." I answered as I turned to look at him. "I am at the moment being hunted, the court had me sentenced to death for having enslaved their protoge, Miss Vineld. That young'un was supposed to warrant me my next yaer's pay early but the damned hunter caught me."
I drew my duster towards me, picking at some dirt beneath my nails before looking up. "You know..." I pondered a moment, remembering why his darting eyes seemed so familiar, the distant expression he sometimes got. I nodded, "You know when the clocks strikes dead for me, don't you?" I asked, I'd never heard the name they gave people like him. I took another drag, tapping the table slowly, measuring with my heartbeat.

His words, nonchalant in air and without a trace of falsehood, sent a gentle shiver down my spine. So, I was speaking with a criminal, and a wanted slavetrader at that. For some reason, the notion didn't bother me nearly as much as it should have. Then he nodded, a knowing expression relaxing his features. "You know when the clock strikes dead for me, don't you?" he said.
My heart lept to my throat, stomach dropping through the floor. I felt the corners of my mouth twitch in a sudden urge to deny his inquiry, but I stopped myself, taking a quick breath through my nostrils and attempting control my panic.
"What makes you say that?" And despite my efforts, my voice sounded dead yet nervous.