Stand and Deliver
Jan 6, 2007 1:12:41 GMT
Post by Deleted on Jan 6, 2007 1:12:41 GMT
The darkness could almost be seen dripping from the ceiling. It’s funny how one sentence can almost summarise an entire area, even one as diverse and bizarre as the Flint Lock Pistols, possibly one of the oldest bars in the whole of Capital City. Situated on the outskirts of the chief city of Generica, the Flint Lock Pistols lies neatly between two more modernized buildings, it’s decaying, muddy bricks hanging loosely between a pair of opposite walls. And this one sentence is how it all begins;
The darkness could almost be seen dripping from the ceiling. It seemed to coat everything it covered with it’s eerie stillness, which at the same time shuffles and shivers with hidden movement. Rodent’s yellow eyes could be seen peering from far corners before they scuttled back to the safety of their homes. The woodwork was slowly splintering from the bar and it’s stools, the golden trim edges having long since lost their sparkle. The usual grand mirror that runs along behind any bar was coated with cobwebs as the Spiders made their daily business between the ageing bottles of liquor. And for every rundown lowlife in the city, it was a home away from home.
Each one of the moulding tables scattered hap-hazardly around the pub seemed to be populated by a different breed of lowlife. On one table perched a grossly oversized band of thugs, the veins popping out from their forearms causing the red and black tattoos to distort. The next table held a ring of petty thieves, the sort who steal small pieces of jewellery but nothing of any real value. Similar bands of fiends and villains were plotted around the bar, in groups of varying number. But one figure sat alone from the rest, secluded beneath the wide brim of his maroon hat, his fingers rapping slowly on the wooden bar top.
His clothes all had a routine similarity; the same silky material that lay softly on the skin, the same dark maroon complexion and the same dark tone in the shadows. The only differences were the leather gloves on his hands; same in colour but the rough material was much different to the rest of his guise. The one true difference, however, came from the light shimmering dimly beneath the brim, a pair of twinkling stars in the eternal abyss. The shadows cast a plain view of his lips, however, as they twitched slowly two and fro in a sign of distain.
”Anythin’ I can get for ya, sir?” came a voice from across the bar. A swift change of view showed the barman, the humble sort, with a smutty apron, dishcloth in hand wiping the foamy water from a recently used pint mug. A satisfied grin flickered for a moment beneath the collar of the cloak.
”Whiskey, no rocks,” came the gruff, gravely reply. In a moment, the pop of the cork was followed by the soft glug of a liquid being poured from a bottle, and a glass of the orangey-yellow drink was sent skidding across the bar top.
The man caught the glass in his right hand, before rolling his finger gently around the rim. The glass was stylish, the patterns carved to resemble newly cut diamond. A glint in the figures eyes flickered and then dimmed, as he raised the glass to his lips, and let the liquor flow down his throat, a scolding sensation following promptly after it. A quick breathless gasp escaped the man’s lips as the feeling caught up with his system, the alcohol hitting his brain like a bullet. Good preparation for the worst, he mentally chuckled.
Pushing himself up from the seat, the figure turned to swiftly leave, the whiskey barely left his breath.
”Hey buddy, you’re gonna have to pay for that!” came the snappy voice of the barman. Barely even thinking about it, the figure turned, a befuddled look on his face.
”What?” he said, the obvious tone of confusion on his voice, ”I’ve already paid you once! Are you trying to rob me?”
The effect was immediate, and plain, the barman’s face suddenly contorting in shock. ”Oh, I do apologise sir! Must’ve been someone else…”
Turning again to leave, the same satisfied grin slid into existence on his lips, as the ornate whiskey glass slid into his pocket, and the bar door swung open.
The darkness could almost be seen dripping from the ceiling. It seemed to coat everything it covered with it’s eerie stillness, which at the same time shuffles and shivers with hidden movement. Rodent’s yellow eyes could be seen peering from far corners before they scuttled back to the safety of their homes. The woodwork was slowly splintering from the bar and it’s stools, the golden trim edges having long since lost their sparkle. The usual grand mirror that runs along behind any bar was coated with cobwebs as the Spiders made their daily business between the ageing bottles of liquor. And for every rundown lowlife in the city, it was a home away from home.
Each one of the moulding tables scattered hap-hazardly around the pub seemed to be populated by a different breed of lowlife. On one table perched a grossly oversized band of thugs, the veins popping out from their forearms causing the red and black tattoos to distort. The next table held a ring of petty thieves, the sort who steal small pieces of jewellery but nothing of any real value. Similar bands of fiends and villains were plotted around the bar, in groups of varying number. But one figure sat alone from the rest, secluded beneath the wide brim of his maroon hat, his fingers rapping slowly on the wooden bar top.
His clothes all had a routine similarity; the same silky material that lay softly on the skin, the same dark maroon complexion and the same dark tone in the shadows. The only differences were the leather gloves on his hands; same in colour but the rough material was much different to the rest of his guise. The one true difference, however, came from the light shimmering dimly beneath the brim, a pair of twinkling stars in the eternal abyss. The shadows cast a plain view of his lips, however, as they twitched slowly two and fro in a sign of distain.
”Anythin’ I can get for ya, sir?” came a voice from across the bar. A swift change of view showed the barman, the humble sort, with a smutty apron, dishcloth in hand wiping the foamy water from a recently used pint mug. A satisfied grin flickered for a moment beneath the collar of the cloak.
”Whiskey, no rocks,” came the gruff, gravely reply. In a moment, the pop of the cork was followed by the soft glug of a liquid being poured from a bottle, and a glass of the orangey-yellow drink was sent skidding across the bar top.
The man caught the glass in his right hand, before rolling his finger gently around the rim. The glass was stylish, the patterns carved to resemble newly cut diamond. A glint in the figures eyes flickered and then dimmed, as he raised the glass to his lips, and let the liquor flow down his throat, a scolding sensation following promptly after it. A quick breathless gasp escaped the man’s lips as the feeling caught up with his system, the alcohol hitting his brain like a bullet. Good preparation for the worst, he mentally chuckled.
Pushing himself up from the seat, the figure turned to swiftly leave, the whiskey barely left his breath.
”Hey buddy, you’re gonna have to pay for that!” came the snappy voice of the barman. Barely even thinking about it, the figure turned, a befuddled look on his face.
”What?” he said, the obvious tone of confusion on his voice, ”I’ve already paid you once! Are you trying to rob me?”
The effect was immediate, and plain, the barman’s face suddenly contorting in shock. ”Oh, I do apologise sir! Must’ve been someone else…”
Turning again to leave, the same satisfied grin slid into existence on his lips, as the ornate whiskey glass slid into his pocket, and the bar door swung open.