Post by Solomon Moon on Sept 6, 2019 16:59:11 GMT -5
Solomon
"You're bad for business, boyo." Francis said as he smeared the counter with a rag that was likely to be dirtier than the pockmarked wood by at least a factor of ten, "Scaring away my customers. I might be of a mind to hold it against you."
Sol just grunted, indifferent to the effect of his presence on the bar's economy when he probably raised the property value by a measurable fraction just by occupying one of the stools. The Cutting Edge, had been a smithy at some point in it's existence, and the retrofit into a shady establishment of an alehouse was not thorough enough to disguise that the main counter had once upon a time been a workbench. Further evidence was dotted around like a drunk scavenger hunt. The floor where a few overturned barrels and pallets served as tables and stools, surrounded a firepit that had obviously been the forge, an ancient jukebox moaning out the melancholy notes of classical Mistralan string instruments sat atop an abandoned anvil that was bolted to the floor. The entire west wall of the building was open to the air, with little better than a curtain of cured pelts to seal it during the winter. The floor was packed earth in spots, cobbles in others, and every inch covered by a layer of discarded peanut shells, cigarette butts and plastic wrappers. The bar didn't have a bouncer, it could barely afford the watered down whiskey that Sol was sipping from an aluminum can, but Francis kept a broad headed smith's hammer within view of the bar at all times, and wasn't shy about menacing troublemakers with it. Sol had even seen him use it once or twice. It was a delicious example of decadence, of a fall from a once noble occupation to serving the lowest class of custom. Sol wouldn't say he liked it, but something about it resonated with him, and that more than anything was what kept him coming back.
Besides, Sol knew Frank well enough that if the man were really fed up with him, he would be expressing the point with a hammer, not words.
He sipped another thin mouthful of what passed for whiskey in the dive. Considering the man's point with the philosophical attitude of a drunk on his third or fifth drink. The Cutting Edge was a secret kept by Haven Academy students, and they made up the majority of it's clientele, despite the fact that most of them were below the age of majority. Being this far south of the Cloud District rendered any form of official oversight a rumor at best. Francis paid the right people to stay in business, and as long as he gave lip service to the fact that he didn't knowingly serve any minors, he got to keep doing business like he had for years.
Sol however was an outlier in the fact that he was obviously old enough to be legally visiting the establishment, and did not make any effort to disguise his identity once he was there. The addition of a crest on his back that alluded to a somewhat well known PMC, and the Haven Academy pin on his collar and epaulets, made him a perplexing sight for all the usual patrons. Sometimes it caused trouble, when some drunk got the bright idea to pick on the cyclops, but thus far those issues had been dealt with handily by Frank and his hammer. Sol somewhat thought that the old smith relished the opportunity to make use of the gruesome tool. Students from Haven tended to steer clear of him, rather than risk exposure.
That was the way Sol liked it. Despite his reputation, he didn't particularly enjoy fighting, though he seemed to do plenty of it. He just wanted a place to go and get drunk, away from the clusterfuck that his life had become. Occasionally he had a bit too much, and got a bit sad, or angry, and on those occasions, Frank would gently guide him to the door, and let him find his own way home. It was in that place between bar and the dorms that Sol typically got into scraps, but never at the bar itself. As long as it stayed that way, he wasn't going to be any worse for the bar than any other of the lowlifes who filed through it on any given night. Sol half suspected that Frank said the same thing to half a dozen people every week.
"Another whiskey," Sol replied as he scattered some Lien on the table, and choked down the dregs in his makeshift cup, "You'll put up with me as long as I can pay my tab Frank."
The barkeep grunted an ascent and sloshed another dash of foul spirit into the lordling's cup.
"Why you gotta be coming here anyway?" The bartender continued, as if Sol hadn't spoke, and gestured at the room, "I'm the only one in this place you'll say two words to. Ain't you got any friends? A girl? Christ boy, I seen some sad fella's sitting in that chair, and I don't know how a guy who always pays his tab and dresses in them fancy duds gets to be sadder than all of em."
Sol snorted, and spat onto the filthy floor, face screwing up into an exaggerated expression of disdain, eye wet with drink.
"No." Was all he said, voice a level and dangerous grind, as he took another slug of the disgusting liquor, "No friends, no girl. You sounding like my therapist."
Sol just grunted, indifferent to the effect of his presence on the bar's economy when he probably raised the property value by a measurable fraction just by occupying one of the stools. The Cutting Edge, had been a smithy at some point in it's existence, and the retrofit into a shady establishment of an alehouse was not thorough enough to disguise that the main counter had once upon a time been a workbench. Further evidence was dotted around like a drunk scavenger hunt. The floor where a few overturned barrels and pallets served as tables and stools, surrounded a firepit that had obviously been the forge, an ancient jukebox moaning out the melancholy notes of classical Mistralan string instruments sat atop an abandoned anvil that was bolted to the floor. The entire west wall of the building was open to the air, with little better than a curtain of cured pelts to seal it during the winter. The floor was packed earth in spots, cobbles in others, and every inch covered by a layer of discarded peanut shells, cigarette butts and plastic wrappers. The bar didn't have a bouncer, it could barely afford the watered down whiskey that Sol was sipping from an aluminum can, but Francis kept a broad headed smith's hammer within view of the bar at all times, and wasn't shy about menacing troublemakers with it. Sol had even seen him use it once or twice. It was a delicious example of decadence, of a fall from a once noble occupation to serving the lowest class of custom. Sol wouldn't say he liked it, but something about it resonated with him, and that more than anything was what kept him coming back.
Besides, Sol knew Frank well enough that if the man were really fed up with him, he would be expressing the point with a hammer, not words.
He sipped another thin mouthful of what passed for whiskey in the dive. Considering the man's point with the philosophical attitude of a drunk on his third or fifth drink. The Cutting Edge was a secret kept by Haven Academy students, and they made up the majority of it's clientele, despite the fact that most of them were below the age of majority. Being this far south of the Cloud District rendered any form of official oversight a rumor at best. Francis paid the right people to stay in business, and as long as he gave lip service to the fact that he didn't knowingly serve any minors, he got to keep doing business like he had for years.
Sol however was an outlier in the fact that he was obviously old enough to be legally visiting the establishment, and did not make any effort to disguise his identity once he was there. The addition of a crest on his back that alluded to a somewhat well known PMC, and the Haven Academy pin on his collar and epaulets, made him a perplexing sight for all the usual patrons. Sometimes it caused trouble, when some drunk got the bright idea to pick on the cyclops, but thus far those issues had been dealt with handily by Frank and his hammer. Sol somewhat thought that the old smith relished the opportunity to make use of the gruesome tool. Students from Haven tended to steer clear of him, rather than risk exposure.
That was the way Sol liked it. Despite his reputation, he didn't particularly enjoy fighting, though he seemed to do plenty of it. He just wanted a place to go and get drunk, away from the clusterfuck that his life had become. Occasionally he had a bit too much, and got a bit sad, or angry, and on those occasions, Frank would gently guide him to the door, and let him find his own way home. It was in that place between bar and the dorms that Sol typically got into scraps, but never at the bar itself. As long as it stayed that way, he wasn't going to be any worse for the bar than any other of the lowlifes who filed through it on any given night. Sol half suspected that Frank said the same thing to half a dozen people every week.
"Another whiskey," Sol replied as he scattered some Lien on the table, and choked down the dregs in his makeshift cup, "You'll put up with me as long as I can pay my tab Frank."
The barkeep grunted an ascent and sloshed another dash of foul spirit into the lordling's cup.
"Why you gotta be coming here anyway?" The bartender continued, as if Sol hadn't spoke, and gestured at the room, "I'm the only one in this place you'll say two words to. Ain't you got any friends? A girl? Christ boy, I seen some sad fella's sitting in that chair, and I don't know how a guy who always pays his tab and dresses in them fancy duds gets to be sadder than all of em."
Sol snorted, and spat onto the filthy floor, face screwing up into an exaggerated expression of disdain, eye wet with drink.
"No." Was all he said, voice a level and dangerous grind, as he took another slug of the disgusting liquor, "No friends, no girl. You sounding like my therapist."
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Velvet of WW