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 Posted: Sat Dec 28, 2013 3:19 pm
The ambiance of the crowd coincides with the dim grave lighting of the bar. Slight eye glances are thrown to one another as an acknowledgement of each others existence but rarely are there conversations taken place…
Partially because everyone knows each other.
They know they aren't 'normal.'
They know they're quite lonely...
This is an Alley Bar in England--
-- where the supernatural realm congregates.
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Posted: Sat Dec 28, 2013 3:42 pm
A figure sat motionless at the far left side of the bar, leaning forward over the table on the barstool it sat on. It wore a fedora, a suit jacket with a tie and a well-worn gray dress shirt underneath, slightly faded dress pants, and a pair of scuffed wing-tipped shoes-a handsome choice of attire that had worn down over time. It seemed human, but one could not be sure; every inch of its skin was wrapped in gray cloth bandages, making it appear like a sentient mummy dressed in modern attire, with only the rough shape of its features discernible underneath the bandages. It clasped a tumbler of whiskey with the fingers of its left hand on the table, but made no effort to drink it; its mouth, covered by the wrappings, did not stir, and its gloved hands did not move.
Known simply as 'Bond' by the other inhabitants of the bar, the figure spent almost all of its time in that same corner of the bar, occupied with its own thoughts and musings, whatever they might be. When it wasn't in the bar, few knew where it went, and no one cared to find out. It didn't even bother to share the traditional cursory glance given between patrons with its obscured eyes-even if it could actually see. Instead, it simply remained still in its position, another anomaly among many others within the room of the bar.
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Posted: Sat Dec 28, 2013 5:36 pm
The grim atmosphere in the bar was disrupted by the low chuckles bursting from the middle aisle, watching the struggling bartender lift a barrel of cranberry poison, a high-demand luxury thirst quencher. As she levered the load and poured the acid liquid into their silver rusting mugs, her bob-cut dark hair fell toward her face, covering her scars and dark blue eyes. She is a human. They knew. She is a slave. They knew. She is a property of Monsieur Creek, the laziest demon alive, and everyone knew him too-- a dominant young lad from a prestigious family of power. Who would dare lay a finger on one of his properties with a title like that? So instead, they would pay the extra buck for this kind of small entertainment, watching her struggle on what they consider a minimal task. But, she’s not as delicate as what she appears to be. Against the light, she shows a lean physique accompanied with a sickly pale skin tone due to the lack of sunlight. But, the 500kg barrel she carried on her own would not be a laughing matter to the human world; this kind of strength is only undermined by the supernatural. “Oh, shut up” she hissed at her audience with a slight French accent. She walked over to the left side and saw Bond. “Hello Bond. No need to greet me…” she joked with him in her casual low-pitched raspy voice. "Can I call you 'bondman' today?" She filled his cup full with another round of whiskey. "This one's on me..." She patted his back and moved around him to wipe the counters. "…for being just so darn agreeable." She sighed and continued to wipe the counter, attempting to scrub off the impossible stains left by loyal customers. "You know you're my favorite out of all those scumbags? Never asking for more or any of those elixirs that give my skin a nasty burn…" She stopped scrubbing to give him a look of appreciation. "You know, we're both similar aren't we, 'bondman'? I-- the slave of this lazy bum of an owner, snoozing the prime of his life away, a slave to this bar and these fantastic customers... and you-- a slave to your bandages, your daily routines, and your attire- what people perceive you as. What a heavy load we carry." She sighed once again and continued to wipe the counter from the left side to the right, moving around the sitting customers, always shifting and compromising to serve these visitors on her daily routine.
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Posted: Sat Dec 28, 2013 6:28 pm
Bond's covered face turned towards the bartender, his face still not moving underneath. One could tell he was watching her, even though his eyes could not be seen. He did not speak, however, and merely watched her actions and listened to her words, still not raising his glass when it was refilled. Her compliments and words of appreciation and connection were met with stony silence from Bond. Whatever thoughts he might have had about her words, whether they were thoughts of understanding or of apathy, could not be discerned. Her nickname for him-"bondman"-failed to provoke any response, even though it most likely would have annoyed or amused a more animate being, so to speak. When she ceased talking, Bond merely turned his head back to where it had been before, resuming his normal, motionless position.
He was not known for his skills as a sociable being, and the current evening was no exception. But one might have noticed, if one blinked, that the whiskey in his glass drained a small amount as the bartender wiped the counter.
((Just keep interacting, Bond will respond with something worthwhile if prompted further.))
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Posted: Mon Dec 30, 2013 1:20 am
She continues to serve the right side of the bar, waiting on tables and such before reaching to the left side again--similar to reading a story book, flipping though another page once the last sentence ends on the right. But in her story, with each new fresh page flipped, she meets the same mundane content, the same routines, reiterated in similar ways. Therefore, she moves along the day, expecting nothing of change, barely noticing the little differences dwelling in her days. To her, it’s false hope; therefore she constantly adapts with her surroundings, making the slightest differences appear the same-- for that mere purpose of survival. The constant chain of expectations and disappointments will only drag her from her daily routines. So, she returns to ‘Bondman’ with a refill of whiskey to his cup. “Drinking like this hasn’t loosen you up one bit.” She placed her pale elbow on the tabletop and rested her left cheek in her palms delicately, pondering. Her eyes landed on him, but her mind was somewhere distant. “I feel stuck.” Her eyes shifted to the customer leaving, listening to the bell on the door top ring on his departure. She watched the door swing helplessly back and forth. “Customers… always have places to go. This place… is just a pit stop on their journey. They come and go… and I stay here, wondering where they go afterwards.” She paused, realizing her one-man audience within a foot distance. She gave him a faint smile. Speaking to Bondman didn’t bother her. To her, it was a similar experience in her youth days, those lonely days conversing with her rag dolls. They never spoke back to her or left any feedback; they just sat there and listened without a gesture of sympathy. Silence was her ultimate companion after all. She stared at Mr. Bond intently. “I think our roles are reversed here. Bartenders are the ones who should be listening to a drunken man’s woes. They should be nodding to those customers’ endless rambling without a care in the world because bartenders know they can’t do anything. Their purpose is to supply their customers a temporary source of numbness to their mental reality.” “Liquor.” She swirled the remaining whiskey in the bottle playfully. “-These- screw with the mind, blurring the lines they’ve already crossed.” She looked at him once more. “Crossed any lines lately?”
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Posted: Tue Dec 31, 2013 11:02 am
This time, Bond's head did not move, and he stayed still, not physically acknowledging the bartender's presence. There was no need to-he already knew she was there, and she was only looking for an idle, silent soul to converse with, and Bond fit the bill. He didn't need to shift his position to satisfy her needs, and so he didn't. The bartender, however, was somewhat special; usually, the bandage-covered entity did not even listen to the voices of the beings around him and kept completely to his own musings, ignorant to the scene around him. Perhaps it was because she had addressed him directly, something which very few ever did, or perhaps it was because of how she talked-a reflective, reminiscing, unembarrassed, casual tone which indicated that she was totally fine with a one-sided 'conversation' with Bond. That being said, however, after listening to what she had to say and hearing her question, Bond knew that she deserved some sort of response. She was right that the alcohol did not 'loosen him up'; if Bond could indeed get drunk, it would take far, far more than two glasses of whiskey to do the job, and the end result wouldn't be pretty-not just for Bond himself, but for everyone within the bar as well. Now, however; he was not drunk, and felt perfectly able to answer the bartender.
Bond's head once again turned towards her after a few seconds, and although his mouth remained still,one could suddenly feel emotion radiating off of him, projecting towards there bartender in response to her question. The emotion was one of understanding, empathy, and affirmation towards her words, as if Bond was saying, Yes, I've crossed some lines before. Have you? Do you ever wish you could escape this place, and start your own journey, and create a better mental reality for yourself?
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