Every night, there was always a point where the mood began to shift. Where the tourists and socialites took their leave and their beds. Where his staff entertained the thinned crowd of die-hards, fish thoroughly hooked by their vices. Quinn’s time was very nearly his own; there was little left to do except oversee the opening and closing of the vault.
Or so he had thought.
Until an older gentleman in a rag cloak sat down at the first floor bar and began to throw back cocktails. It was no one Quinn had ever met – yet he found himself preoccupied by the stranger nonetheless. The door guards were not in the habit of letting beggars in. Heading downstairs, Quinn relieved the bartender with a few whispered words and took up making the new customer’s next drink. As he cut the fruit and muddled the herbs, Quinn could see why the man had been let in.
He wore finer clothes beneath his cloak, and the garment itself … It seemed deliberately fashioned. Cut into tatters along the edge, rather than worn threadbare. Conspicuously clean. In fact, Quinn could smell the guest’s expensive, spicy perfume even from here across the counter. A rich man’s idea of how a poor man might dress. Fine; the Eye served the occasional eccentric magister, surely this need not be anything different.
“Welcome to the Blind Eye, messere.” Quinn let his flat, Marcher accent reveal itself. He poured himself a drink as well, two fingers of cognac in a fine tulip-shaped glass. “Is this your first visit?” Quinn’s gaze flickered away briefly, observing the stage. This late into the night, the shows tended to be bawdy or bloody. The next was to be the latter; even now a mage was hard at work setting up a barrier between the audience and the stage.
“Care to lay a wager? House Icarius has sent their slave Vatiusius to fight this evening. He faces a ‘dread beast of Arlathan.’” Personally, Quinn did not favor the slave’s chances – but the spectacle would go some way to paying the noble family’s debts. “Between you, me, and the floorboards, the ‘beast’ is simply a very large spider.”
@Demetrius Arvina
Or so he had thought.
Until an older gentleman in a rag cloak sat down at the first floor bar and began to throw back cocktails. It was no one Quinn had ever met – yet he found himself preoccupied by the stranger nonetheless. The door guards were not in the habit of letting beggars in. Heading downstairs, Quinn relieved the bartender with a few whispered words and took up making the new customer’s next drink. As he cut the fruit and muddled the herbs, Quinn could see why the man had been let in.
He wore finer clothes beneath his cloak, and the garment itself … It seemed deliberately fashioned. Cut into tatters along the edge, rather than worn threadbare. Conspicuously clean. In fact, Quinn could smell the guest’s expensive, spicy perfume even from here across the counter. A rich man’s idea of how a poor man might dress. Fine; the Eye served the occasional eccentric magister, surely this need not be anything different.
“Welcome to the Blind Eye, messere.” Quinn let his flat, Marcher accent reveal itself. He poured himself a drink as well, two fingers of cognac in a fine tulip-shaped glass. “Is this your first visit?” Quinn’s gaze flickered away briefly, observing the stage. This late into the night, the shows tended to be bawdy or bloody. The next was to be the latter; even now a mage was hard at work setting up a barrier between the audience and the stage.
“Care to lay a wager? House Icarius has sent their slave Vatiusius to fight this evening. He faces a ‘dread beast of Arlathan.’” Personally, Quinn did not favor the slave’s chances – but the spectacle would go some way to paying the noble family’s debts. “Between you, me, and the floorboards, the ‘beast’ is simply a very large spider.”
@Demetrius Arvina
10-26-2024, 12:01 PM
