Somewhere over along the slue of warehouses just off the edge of the bars that signaled the tail end of the marketplace, there were two men climbing up the long trail of a fire escape stairwell. They could be seen from the streets below through the mesh of the stairs, one tall, lean, with a puff of hair and an easy stroll about him. The other man was squat, porkish, the kind you'd expect to see plopped behind the pat counter at a warf check in.
It was fun to watch the portly man gasp and waddle up the stairs, but the gentlemen ahead of him offered his small companion a hand, opening the big steel door at the top of the stairs, one could see the mild rust drip from the off kilter of rain that no doubt spilt down over the roof during a heavy rain storm.
They'd emerged into a vast, open sprawl of the warehouse's loft. Concrete floors, pale off gray walls, and a few of those thick, metal support poles with flecks of peeling red paint. Thick brows lifted on the taller man, and a slow, easy smile spread out in a glitter of pearly teeth. The smaller man however was still a little out of breath, but couldn't resist breaking the silence.
"So, Mr. Fitch. As you can see....It's a bit of a eh, fixer-upper, but you know how these places are. Now if you'd just sign here-" But he was interjected by a long, smooth hiss.
"Shhhh...." A nut brown hand raised then to shoosh the overeager sales pitch the warehouse owner was rattling off. Acute ears picked up the soft acoustics of the room, the pleasant bounce of sound off smooth concrete. Mr. Fitch, as the portly building owner had called him, meandered off towards the far end of the room.
Worn boots with a rubbed off snake skin pattern echoed until the man found the center of the room. Large hands found a purchase in the pockets of his jeans, and cocoa skin roiled beneath the thin veil of a beaten tee, shoulders creaking as his neck did that cracking loll back and forth.
It was the sound....Perfect.
Spinning on a booted heel, Mr. Fitch whirled smoothly around to the bemused, silent, squat salesman, a hand raising as if to trace invisible nodes of music in the air. "You hear that, man?....That sweet, sweet echo." An appreciative whistle came then as the dark man walked back over to the portly one, whisking up the clipboard his pudgy hands clasped.
"Nothing better than good acoustics, the name's Leo, by the way. You don't need to keep up with that Mr. stuff." The devil himself would pay half his eternity's worth of souls for that smile, make no doubt.
The portly squash of a man could only nod, his brow a little askew, obviously confused by the rather chilled buyer's vague responses. No matter, the papers were signed, and the little meaty claw of a hand dropped off a couple keys into Leo's awaiting fingers. They wouldn't remain their long, because a quick flick of dark wrist and Leo had those keys spinning on the end of one finger.
"Sold, Leo...Enjoy!" Handshakes were exchanged, and the man made their goodbyes. As the door closed behind the waggling business man, it left a click so loud that the sound was almost deafening in the vast emptiness of the room.
Echoes, sweet sonorous reverberations. That Devil may care smile came back, a sultry stretch of teeth behind the welcoming sight of full lips. Both hands rose then, mimicking the poise of a guitar, fingers twanging as if the instrument lay there in his mits right that second. Leo just bobbed his head slowly, chin lifting, shoulders lying back, lost in some intangible music.
The eccentric guitarist was moving in; ladies of Rhydin beware.
It was fun to watch the portly man gasp and waddle up the stairs, but the gentlemen ahead of him offered his small companion a hand, opening the big steel door at the top of the stairs, one could see the mild rust drip from the off kilter of rain that no doubt spilt down over the roof during a heavy rain storm.
They'd emerged into a vast, open sprawl of the warehouse's loft. Concrete floors, pale off gray walls, and a few of those thick, metal support poles with flecks of peeling red paint. Thick brows lifted on the taller man, and a slow, easy smile spread out in a glitter of pearly teeth. The smaller man however was still a little out of breath, but couldn't resist breaking the silence.
"So, Mr. Fitch. As you can see....It's a bit of a eh, fixer-upper, but you know how these places are. Now if you'd just sign here-" But he was interjected by a long, smooth hiss.
"Shhhh...." A nut brown hand raised then to shoosh the overeager sales pitch the warehouse owner was rattling off. Acute ears picked up the soft acoustics of the room, the pleasant bounce of sound off smooth concrete. Mr. Fitch, as the portly building owner had called him, meandered off towards the far end of the room.
Worn boots with a rubbed off snake skin pattern echoed until the man found the center of the room. Large hands found a purchase in the pockets of his jeans, and cocoa skin roiled beneath the thin veil of a beaten tee, shoulders creaking as his neck did that cracking loll back and forth.
It was the sound....Perfect.
Spinning on a booted heel, Mr. Fitch whirled smoothly around to the bemused, silent, squat salesman, a hand raising as if to trace invisible nodes of music in the air. "You hear that, man?....That sweet, sweet echo." An appreciative whistle came then as the dark man walked back over to the portly one, whisking up the clipboard his pudgy hands clasped.
"Nothing better than good acoustics, the name's Leo, by the way. You don't need to keep up with that Mr. stuff." The devil himself would pay half his eternity's worth of souls for that smile, make no doubt.
The portly squash of a man could only nod, his brow a little askew, obviously confused by the rather chilled buyer's vague responses. No matter, the papers were signed, and the little meaty claw of a hand dropped off a couple keys into Leo's awaiting fingers. They wouldn't remain their long, because a quick flick of dark wrist and Leo had those keys spinning on the end of one finger.
"Sold, Leo...Enjoy!" Handshakes were exchanged, and the man made their goodbyes. As the door closed behind the waggling business man, it left a click so loud that the sound was almost deafening in the vast emptiness of the room.
Echoes, sweet sonorous reverberations. That Devil may care smile came back, a sultry stretch of teeth behind the welcoming sight of full lips. Both hands rose then, mimicking the poise of a guitar, fingers twanging as if the instrument lay there in his mits right that second. Leo just bobbed his head slowly, chin lifting, shoulders lying back, lost in some intangible music.
The eccentric guitarist was moving in; ladies of Rhydin beware.