N.B The below takes place a quiet Sunday afternoon in the Red Dragon Inn, where for all the tragedies of late, leaves but their souls to meet. A profile of two very different characters and their friendship.
The Noble Tramp licked his legs into a mild pace; eyes scramming from here to there; looking up a bottle opener. Once located his eyes naer' squirmed nor squealed; exuding not an emotion. Pent up in his own little corner. Things were simpler that way. Cleaner. That youth-struck, blank expression looked down upon the routine materializing between his hands. That twisted, barbed nail split into the cork. Testing it upon its own principal, divided and supported by the bottle, he peeled back both metal wings of the bottle-opener and thus the resignation of the cork was found; that pronounced pop shattering the glass-blown silence that had been installed over the last few minutes. Those aged moss eyes reached over his shoulder to spy up some glasses. A blink as they rolled like juniper slueths to her recessed browns.- "A glass for thee?" -Maybe—-just maybe—-the slightest offers of a smile. Cordial and in honest proposition. But still that cunning heir on the tip of his nose and down the hill of that slicked-back hair.
..And the uncouth lout popped a brow up, followed quicksmart by the other after a moment of brow-tilting quizzical staring:: "Aye!", her gruff voice sung across the room, as she sunk into her chair, spread legged, before crossing her ankles together:: "I don' like wine all tha' much, y'know. But time an' again, tha I loathe ta admit, havin' tha scotch rots my gut somethin' fierce". She gave him a side on for a second as if she randomly cared for what this Royal might assume. She made a sneer, placing her feet up on the bench to her side, and playing with her fingerless gloves, pulling at their edges and seams, whistling a jig.
"Rotting of the abdomen. Chipper, dear." remarked Tramp-Those platinum fangs jested over the toothy grin he played with after her, and his, last remarks. His head laid cocked to one angle as he poured a tress of the thick merlot into his own glass; index finger thrumming along it's misshapen dish and cord; anticipation rolling rhymes in his gut now. The moment the bottle was exposed open that hound's nose of his lavishly abused the red-coated scent like fresh-cut blood on the whip of the wind. He'd, however, set aside his impatient measure to serve her; dipping the eye of the bottle into the mouth of her glass. A generous portion, indeed. He lived in excess—-or at least he did on all matters wine-related.
As his toying tactics were pressed to the table at hand her eyes, as they had that foppish moth, pursued the deft manuevers of his elegant hands, compelled by the flicks of his wrists and his confident air. A threat' She sat herself up at that and browsed with her own pale slender fingers to snap the glass to her leather palm and draw the glasses crystal rim by her nostrils. They flared in satisfaction; murky, provocative hazel eyes finding the Junipers in a up-nod of her chin; she waved her free hand designating the free seat and sliding her lips into a cutting grin. "Ye select well, for Royalty"she practically spat. She sat back against the chair, stiff, and sipped, and said nothing more on his outfit.
"Royalty, huh?" That exposed a smile. Authentic to her and unexpected to him. He quickly corked it with a healthy taste. His thin lips perched on the crown of the glass's lip. Teeth tapping a scale before he devoured about half the glass. Yes, it was well known of course that wine is best enjoyed in moderation. But who in the hell had time for moderation' Rhy'Din was a fast town. Those who danced in the rainbows of moderation got washed away right-quick. He forked two fingers under the head of the glass and proceeded to waltz around the hip of the bar to place himself in the seat she'd planned out for him. And he did so without so much as a rap of those boots against the floorboards; as if he'd stained the ground with a carpet of silent air. Old instincts cutting in, that's all. "Well what-ever would give you the impression that I am of prestigious birth?" Lips danced in flame at the sly query. He knew full well he was mopped up like The Baron of Vampire island or some other strand of fiction. But he was interested in her answer.
She choked on the merlot and slung her fist into her chest repeatedly, coughing loudly as she leant and placed her head between her knees. All of a sudden, raucous laughter sprung from her lips and she leant back into her chair chuckling that course, gravelly voice over peals of amusement. "My fr'end, tha outfit wou' hav' brigan's advancin' ye way soo' nuff I say but a hint!". A slam of her fist onto the table, thin fingers curling about its edge, she gripped onto it as though the laughter might kill her! Drama queen! "..I giv' ya credit. Ye can mix colour well..co ordination is prime in a man!". She tipped her face to the left and made an over dramatic wink, and then picked up the merlot and swigged it back, merriment lurking bright within her eyes; a brown that glistened and swayed as though made of oil. "Ye thin' I pass as a prime woman, eh' I cannot pick up no chicks in this 'ere town!". Her brows, long and fanned, dove into a 'V'; she placed the glass down and chewed her lip, as if clocking over in her mind why's and why nots.
Her astringent if clever rebuttal and sublime splash laughter drew a fine line across his mouth; that which was merrily skewed heaven-bound. But no reprisal of laughter. He'd never fall into such improper tune. Laughter was something unfamiliar to royalty, he thought. Eyes deeply-intent on her action suddenly cut-away to look at his glass in horror upon the discovery of its vacancy. He set it upon the counter and then turned his attention to her once more, just catching her finishing comments and meal on bottom lip.- "Difficulty with women, aye' Ever think perhaps you're persuing the incorrect gender?" -An innocent-little splice of the head toward the left; as if the question was something of defining truth and revelation, not mild sarcasm from a clever tramp.
"Men never parry to my fodder", she muttered more to herself than to him, but in a voice loud enough that he could clearly make out her bitterness. Nails drifted down the curve of the glass to encircle the crystal stem that emboldened the cusp upright, and she focused on it intently for a long moment. "Ye thin' I shou' give men a go, then, Tramp?" She turned her face his way, the crystal sheen burning a frosty grey gleam across her cheek. For a moment, she might appear like a sketch; sullen, brutally beautiful with her high cut cheek bones, thin expressive lips and heart shaped jaw, but then she would look up again and her eyes, those steely reservoirs of merciless, callous trechery would give her face their angry charm, and that portrait of who she could be was gone.
"Well, with selective reasoning in-place, it's the only team left with the female-term subtracted." He puckered his lips to one side for only a moment. To steal a seconds-worth of thought on this woman and this situation. Green-flame swashed behind the stained-glass of his precious irises. A slow blink and the pupils would be thrown in some obscene direction; no reason the only thing sustaining him right then. The few odds, ends, and spits of hair that could lightly be referred to as bangs hung heavy beneath the hefty lantern-light within the tavern. Gluttonous, imposed shadows drew down his thin face like pin-stripes. His pupils shuffled a bit as he thought just a little more."I'll wager a man has crossed you wrong" Or men perhaps."
"Nat at all!", she belted out in protestation; sitting stiff-backed in the chair, fingers clasping the stem so tight as though to crack it. "I don't interest em, or I scare em off!", she slapped her thigh. "But I change for no man!" She paused. "Or woman!"She stood then, poised in her leather ensemble, a departure from her slouchy self, as though in posture she might reassert herself with her displeasure in both sexes. Her long-legged stride slapped across the floor in clomps of steel toed stomp until she was right beside him, leaning into the bar and too, steeped in the nosey shadows that fought with lantern glow to assume their pale visages in streaks of raven. "Ye thin' I'm a pretty one, eh?" Her undertone spoke of good humour, though the sparkle in her eye awaited his answer eagerly.
That long, etched smile. He wasn't quite sure which avenue of her mind that one dove from. Impulse, emotion, or maybe even the filler of alcohol. But it didn't matter so much he over-ruled. He wouldn't look up to her as he gathered an adequate answer.- "Sure." -Eyes up; sprinkled with that scurvy, sleuth-e sarcasm.- "But most women in this town have the faces of angel. As an on-looker I've noted that. But only a remote margin have the beauty in-side to match. And I sure don't know you well enough to judge that.". That smile masked drew greater still, throwing some teeth into the display.
At that, a hard-hand shoved his chest and she faced her shoulders to the bar, bottom squishing into its edge, as she wedged her tongue between both rows of teeth and shoved its tip into her inner cheek:: "Well. I ain't an angel"She groaned, the back of her hand crossing her forehead as though it exhausted her to talk this way. A lazy expression crossed her face and the watercoloured, almond hued eyes returned to his "What you doin' 'ere anyway. Figured I'd be all but the one scum to be 'ere noonday Sun. Wha' with tha town scalloped in murder and arson an'..whatever else keeps people locked up like unloved puppies!".By now her gaze had settled on the door, as the afternoon glow washed inside to tip the toes of their respective boots, like an invitation to the outside".
To Be Continued.
The Noble Tramp licked his legs into a mild pace; eyes scramming from here to there; looking up a bottle opener. Once located his eyes naer' squirmed nor squealed; exuding not an emotion. Pent up in his own little corner. Things were simpler that way. Cleaner. That youth-struck, blank expression looked down upon the routine materializing between his hands. That twisted, barbed nail split into the cork. Testing it upon its own principal, divided and supported by the bottle, he peeled back both metal wings of the bottle-opener and thus the resignation of the cork was found; that pronounced pop shattering the glass-blown silence that had been installed over the last few minutes. Those aged moss eyes reached over his shoulder to spy up some glasses. A blink as they rolled like juniper slueths to her recessed browns.- "A glass for thee?" -Maybe—-just maybe—-the slightest offers of a smile. Cordial and in honest proposition. But still that cunning heir on the tip of his nose and down the hill of that slicked-back hair.
..And the uncouth lout popped a brow up, followed quicksmart by the other after a moment of brow-tilting quizzical staring:: "Aye!", her gruff voice sung across the room, as she sunk into her chair, spread legged, before crossing her ankles together:: "I don' like wine all tha' much, y'know. But time an' again, tha I loathe ta admit, havin' tha scotch rots my gut somethin' fierce". She gave him a side on for a second as if she randomly cared for what this Royal might assume. She made a sneer, placing her feet up on the bench to her side, and playing with her fingerless gloves, pulling at their edges and seams, whistling a jig.
"Rotting of the abdomen. Chipper, dear." remarked Tramp-Those platinum fangs jested over the toothy grin he played with after her, and his, last remarks. His head laid cocked to one angle as he poured a tress of the thick merlot into his own glass; index finger thrumming along it's misshapen dish and cord; anticipation rolling rhymes in his gut now. The moment the bottle was exposed open that hound's nose of his lavishly abused the red-coated scent like fresh-cut blood on the whip of the wind. He'd, however, set aside his impatient measure to serve her; dipping the eye of the bottle into the mouth of her glass. A generous portion, indeed. He lived in excess—-or at least he did on all matters wine-related.
As his toying tactics were pressed to the table at hand her eyes, as they had that foppish moth, pursued the deft manuevers of his elegant hands, compelled by the flicks of his wrists and his confident air. A threat' She sat herself up at that and browsed with her own pale slender fingers to snap the glass to her leather palm and draw the glasses crystal rim by her nostrils. They flared in satisfaction; murky, provocative hazel eyes finding the Junipers in a up-nod of her chin; she waved her free hand designating the free seat and sliding her lips into a cutting grin. "Ye select well, for Royalty"she practically spat. She sat back against the chair, stiff, and sipped, and said nothing more on his outfit.
"Royalty, huh?" That exposed a smile. Authentic to her and unexpected to him. He quickly corked it with a healthy taste. His thin lips perched on the crown of the glass's lip. Teeth tapping a scale before he devoured about half the glass. Yes, it was well known of course that wine is best enjoyed in moderation. But who in the hell had time for moderation' Rhy'Din was a fast town. Those who danced in the rainbows of moderation got washed away right-quick. He forked two fingers under the head of the glass and proceeded to waltz around the hip of the bar to place himself in the seat she'd planned out for him. And he did so without so much as a rap of those boots against the floorboards; as if he'd stained the ground with a carpet of silent air. Old instincts cutting in, that's all. "Well what-ever would give you the impression that I am of prestigious birth?" Lips danced in flame at the sly query. He knew full well he was mopped up like The Baron of Vampire island or some other strand of fiction. But he was interested in her answer.
She choked on the merlot and slung her fist into her chest repeatedly, coughing loudly as she leant and placed her head between her knees. All of a sudden, raucous laughter sprung from her lips and she leant back into her chair chuckling that course, gravelly voice over peals of amusement. "My fr'end, tha outfit wou' hav' brigan's advancin' ye way soo' nuff I say but a hint!". A slam of her fist onto the table, thin fingers curling about its edge, she gripped onto it as though the laughter might kill her! Drama queen! "..I giv' ya credit. Ye can mix colour well..co ordination is prime in a man!". She tipped her face to the left and made an over dramatic wink, and then picked up the merlot and swigged it back, merriment lurking bright within her eyes; a brown that glistened and swayed as though made of oil. "Ye thin' I pass as a prime woman, eh' I cannot pick up no chicks in this 'ere town!". Her brows, long and fanned, dove into a 'V'; she placed the glass down and chewed her lip, as if clocking over in her mind why's and why nots.
Her astringent if clever rebuttal and sublime splash laughter drew a fine line across his mouth; that which was merrily skewed heaven-bound. But no reprisal of laughter. He'd never fall into such improper tune. Laughter was something unfamiliar to royalty, he thought. Eyes deeply-intent on her action suddenly cut-away to look at his glass in horror upon the discovery of its vacancy. He set it upon the counter and then turned his attention to her once more, just catching her finishing comments and meal on bottom lip.- "Difficulty with women, aye' Ever think perhaps you're persuing the incorrect gender?" -An innocent-little splice of the head toward the left; as if the question was something of defining truth and revelation, not mild sarcasm from a clever tramp.
"Men never parry to my fodder", she muttered more to herself than to him, but in a voice loud enough that he could clearly make out her bitterness. Nails drifted down the curve of the glass to encircle the crystal stem that emboldened the cusp upright, and she focused on it intently for a long moment. "Ye thin' I shou' give men a go, then, Tramp?" She turned her face his way, the crystal sheen burning a frosty grey gleam across her cheek. For a moment, she might appear like a sketch; sullen, brutally beautiful with her high cut cheek bones, thin expressive lips and heart shaped jaw, but then she would look up again and her eyes, those steely reservoirs of merciless, callous trechery would give her face their angry charm, and that portrait of who she could be was gone.
"Well, with selective reasoning in-place, it's the only team left with the female-term subtracted." He puckered his lips to one side for only a moment. To steal a seconds-worth of thought on this woman and this situation. Green-flame swashed behind the stained-glass of his precious irises. A slow blink and the pupils would be thrown in some obscene direction; no reason the only thing sustaining him right then. The few odds, ends, and spits of hair that could lightly be referred to as bangs hung heavy beneath the hefty lantern-light within the tavern. Gluttonous, imposed shadows drew down his thin face like pin-stripes. His pupils shuffled a bit as he thought just a little more."I'll wager a man has crossed you wrong" Or men perhaps."
"Nat at all!", she belted out in protestation; sitting stiff-backed in the chair, fingers clasping the stem so tight as though to crack it. "I don't interest em, or I scare em off!", she slapped her thigh. "But I change for no man!" She paused. "Or woman!"She stood then, poised in her leather ensemble, a departure from her slouchy self, as though in posture she might reassert herself with her displeasure in both sexes. Her long-legged stride slapped across the floor in clomps of steel toed stomp until she was right beside him, leaning into the bar and too, steeped in the nosey shadows that fought with lantern glow to assume their pale visages in streaks of raven. "Ye thin' I'm a pretty one, eh?" Her undertone spoke of good humour, though the sparkle in her eye awaited his answer eagerly.
That long, etched smile. He wasn't quite sure which avenue of her mind that one dove from. Impulse, emotion, or maybe even the filler of alcohol. But it didn't matter so much he over-ruled. He wouldn't look up to her as he gathered an adequate answer.- "Sure." -Eyes up; sprinkled with that scurvy, sleuth-e sarcasm.- "But most women in this town have the faces of angel. As an on-looker I've noted that. But only a remote margin have the beauty in-side to match. And I sure don't know you well enough to judge that.". That smile masked drew greater still, throwing some teeth into the display.
At that, a hard-hand shoved his chest and she faced her shoulders to the bar, bottom squishing into its edge, as she wedged her tongue between both rows of teeth and shoved its tip into her inner cheek:: "Well. I ain't an angel"She groaned, the back of her hand crossing her forehead as though it exhausted her to talk this way. A lazy expression crossed her face and the watercoloured, almond hued eyes returned to his "What you doin' 'ere anyway. Figured I'd be all but the one scum to be 'ere noonday Sun. Wha' with tha town scalloped in murder and arson an'..whatever else keeps people locked up like unloved puppies!".By now her gaze had settled on the door, as the afternoon glow washed inside to tip the toes of their respective boots, like an invitation to the outside".
To Be Continued.