Post by Light on May 2, 2014 19:25:39 GMT -5
"Seeing to believe is like calling a magician god before looking up his sleeves to see what cards he has hidden."
•°•°•°•°•
The closed room was sweaty, and unbearably humid. With all the bodies packed in, to a viewer it would look like a rolled up string of sausages; and oddly enough, it smelled like that too. Tables covered a meager amount of the area, but there were no chairs. All of the men were standing, a wad of cash or mug of beer in hand.
People screaming and splashing the nasty brown liquid around the room were spectators; or people whom had already lost their knickers. This room was underneath an inn, the Prancing Lion, and was for the nightly poker games that were held in a village off of the outskirts of Mercia. By the time of night it was at this point, some had left with what they could before they got drained out by the still-standing entertainer, Odin.
With each set he put down, more roars of laughter or anger filled the air, his tall lithe frame sticking out like a soar thumb amongst the farmers and hard-working folk. He was pale too, the kind of skin toned boy that slavers would pick up and sell on auction. But he had the darkest of hair that fell down to his knees when loosened from its usual cheerful, grayish braid. Fresh picked from the orchard plumb eyes sparkled like bubbling wine as they sweeper across the room, his hand raising into the air what would be the last set for the night...
...
and with a flourish, a bow, and a jovial laugh, he spreaded them out onto the table, the older man howling in anguish as he pushes his pouch of meager earnings across into the raven haired boys eager hands.
"Thank you! Thank you--and good NIGHT--I reckon out guests above are just about done with you lot!" The boy cries, fanning his arms outwards in a shooing fashion. This earns him a few rough, but light hearted knocks on the head and shoulder as the men push up the stairs, their person lighter than when they had entered. Once the inn had cleared, the male sweeper his braid off his shoulder and slipped the bag of copper coins in his green vest pocket with a grin.
If there was one certainty about the Prancing Lion--you were sure to leave with a lighter pocket, and heart than when you entered.
•°•°•°•°•
The closed room was sweaty, and unbearably humid. With all the bodies packed in, to a viewer it would look like a rolled up string of sausages; and oddly enough, it smelled like that too. Tables covered a meager amount of the area, but there were no chairs. All of the men were standing, a wad of cash or mug of beer in hand.
People screaming and splashing the nasty brown liquid around the room were spectators; or people whom had already lost their knickers. This room was underneath an inn, the Prancing Lion, and was for the nightly poker games that were held in a village off of the outskirts of Mercia. By the time of night it was at this point, some had left with what they could before they got drained out by the still-standing entertainer, Odin.
With each set he put down, more roars of laughter or anger filled the air, his tall lithe frame sticking out like a soar thumb amongst the farmers and hard-working folk. He was pale too, the kind of skin toned boy that slavers would pick up and sell on auction. But he had the darkest of hair that fell down to his knees when loosened from its usual cheerful, grayish braid. Fresh picked from the orchard plumb eyes sparkled like bubbling wine as they sweeper across the room, his hand raising into the air what would be the last set for the night...
...
and with a flourish, a bow, and a jovial laugh, he spreaded them out onto the table, the older man howling in anguish as he pushes his pouch of meager earnings across into the raven haired boys eager hands.
"Thank you! Thank you--and good NIGHT--I reckon out guests above are just about done with you lot!" The boy cries, fanning his arms outwards in a shooing fashion. This earns him a few rough, but light hearted knocks on the head and shoulder as the men push up the stairs, their person lighter than when they had entered. Once the inn had cleared, the male sweeper his braid off his shoulder and slipped the bag of copper coins in his green vest pocket with a grin.
If there was one certainty about the Prancing Lion--you were sure to leave with a lighter pocket, and heart than when you entered.
