(no subject)
For the continued necessity to duck when entering an establishment’s door, Ghoure had a frown bristling under his facial hair. Alas, if you’d seen him before the inconvenience struck those many features sour, you probably wouldn’t have noticed an incredible alteration. He thundered in as big men do, wrapped from head to toe in the skins of a heifer, pounded to shapeliness and submission under tailor-hammers several years ago. It kept the rain off his body - which was clad all in black, as though each piece of fabric meant to hide the bulk of him either in shame or in service of surprising the unwary - if not off his hair, but hair would dry quicker than clothing, and was an irritation he could ignore, or pass away with a full glass and some hard-earned peace. Grave-diggers aren’t ushered inside when the rain comes. Grave-diggers aren’t awarded the opportunity to be shy about weather. After all, when a body is deprived its essence it will only rot further as the days wear on, and can’t be told to postpone decomposition while a space is made under ground. Loose coin composed a symphony in his pockets when the black body coat flew aback his chosen chair, though, and if anything made a thankless occupation worth its stresses, money was it. Ghoure’s long, thick throat cleared for the tender’s attention, but they offered each other no word exchange. He’d come most every night for months, and never changed his order. Thus, silent and stalking the dawn, he drank.
With her hair down long and her lashes dejected, Ayresaelian mourned the morning’s decision over something thick and just a bit too sweet. She’d requested straight away that they not water down her selection, and to do so most often results in a different flavor than what might have been expected by the waiting tongue. Poorer establishments rarely assume a guest understands what goes on beyond their vision. Winter whispered the angel’s name across its manipulative fingers just a block away, but was uninvolved entirely with the way her perfect lips performed their melancholy duo over bar, over floor, and over earth. When Ghoure assumed his rigid, less than welcoming position beside her chair, she’d little choice but to take notice, both for the fact of his bulk and his familiarity, or even for her desire to be distracted. Alas, it took several seconds to place the features in memory and give them a day’s name, so simply did the woman observe, quiet, hiding her intrusive stare under a non-committed brow.
He’d been staring straight ahead, slumped sideways in his seat and taking measured draws from an emptying glass every thirty seconds, like clockwork. Four refills would see his retreat. But from the corner of an eye greener than her own, Ghoure spotted the woman, and spotted her fascination with the side of his face. Slow in all movement as life seemed ever to demand, he made a pivot with his neck and poked an offended nose down at her, demanding, “What?” without ceremony.
Ayresaelian reacted to his voice as though she thought he’d been in a coma, brain functioning just enough to admit alcohol to a long-dried throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”
Immediate and cold, accented by a lift of a thick brow toward the sloping forehead - only another piece of him monstrous and looming - he questioned, “Then why were you doing it?”
Her surprise at his demeanor was, to say the least, visibly obvious. An expression tossed itself across her features that mimicked admission of rotten fruit to unsuspecting mouth, and she tried to recall when last a man had spoken to her that way. Ayresaelian did not demand respect, mind. She simply felt so used it by now that to be met with derision was absolutely fascinating. “I’ve seen you before.”
Thirty seconds, like clockwork. The mug made its veteran journey from bar to lip before he answered, wetting the skin there and rolling toward her during speech the foggy scent of cold ale. “And the first look you got wasn’t good enough?”
By the time he’d finished with his final inquiry, Ayresaelian’s face had lost his attention, and once more he faced forward, counting bottles perhaps, or waiting for his second round. The angel made a throat sound between a cough and angry laughter, wondering aloud, “Have I offended in some way?”
Reminded of his companion before awarded the chance to forget, Ghoure turned himself on Ayresae where possible, then leaned his massive face down on a massive knuckle ridge, imitating her former stance and fluttering his eyes down low to do it. He did nothing thereafter but look, only look, just -look- at the woman, and when a moment had gone by, he asked, “Is this offensive to you?”
“You’re mocking me!” Ayresaelian said, leveling a palm with the surface of the bar, but gently enough that it made barely a sound. “Of course that’s offensive, it’s offensive because it’s purposeful.”
Somewhere beneath the scowl and the stubble, a grin at her expense began to stir. “Alright,” he conceded, pulling up from the position he’d assumed and marrying his lips to the glass again. Such a happy occasion. “Alright, you’ve seen me before. Was that more to your liking?”
“Hardly,” she admitted, awkwardly returning to her own alcoholic endeavors. Where does a man come by such manners, she wondered, considering both the parental angle and strength of human will. Was this an attitude he chose when other options were available?
He laughed - a sound easily likened to that of puncturing a full tin can under pressure - and shook his head dismissively. “Some women are never satisfied.”
With her hair down long and her lashes dejected, Ayresaelian mourned the morning’s decision over something thick and just a bit too sweet. She’d requested straight away that they not water down her selection, and to do so most often results in a different flavor than what might have been expected by the waiting tongue. Poorer establishments rarely assume a guest understands what goes on beyond their vision. Winter whispered the angel’s name across its manipulative fingers just a block away, but was uninvolved entirely with the way her perfect lips performed their melancholy duo over bar, over floor, and over earth. When Ghoure assumed his rigid, less than welcoming position beside her chair, she’d little choice but to take notice, both for the fact of his bulk and his familiarity, or even for her desire to be distracted. Alas, it took several seconds to place the features in memory and give them a day’s name, so simply did the woman observe, quiet, hiding her intrusive stare under a non-committed brow.
He’d been staring straight ahead, slumped sideways in his seat and taking measured draws from an emptying glass every thirty seconds, like clockwork. Four refills would see his retreat. But from the corner of an eye greener than her own, Ghoure spotted the woman, and spotted her fascination with the side of his face. Slow in all movement as life seemed ever to demand, he made a pivot with his neck and poked an offended nose down at her, demanding, “What?” without ceremony.
Ayresaelian reacted to his voice as though she thought he’d been in a coma, brain functioning just enough to admit alcohol to a long-dried throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”
Immediate and cold, accented by a lift of a thick brow toward the sloping forehead - only another piece of him monstrous and looming - he questioned, “Then why were you doing it?”
Her surprise at his demeanor was, to say the least, visibly obvious. An expression tossed itself across her features that mimicked admission of rotten fruit to unsuspecting mouth, and she tried to recall when last a man had spoken to her that way. Ayresaelian did not demand respect, mind. She simply felt so used it by now that to be met with derision was absolutely fascinating. “I’ve seen you before.”
Thirty seconds, like clockwork. The mug made its veteran journey from bar to lip before he answered, wetting the skin there and rolling toward her during speech the foggy scent of cold ale. “And the first look you got wasn’t good enough?”
By the time he’d finished with his final inquiry, Ayresaelian’s face had lost his attention, and once more he faced forward, counting bottles perhaps, or waiting for his second round. The angel made a throat sound between a cough and angry laughter, wondering aloud, “Have I offended in some way?”
Reminded of his companion before awarded the chance to forget, Ghoure turned himself on Ayresae where possible, then leaned his massive face down on a massive knuckle ridge, imitating her former stance and fluttering his eyes down low to do it. He did nothing thereafter but look, only look, just -look- at the woman, and when a moment had gone by, he asked, “Is this offensive to you?”
“You’re mocking me!” Ayresaelian said, leveling a palm with the surface of the bar, but gently enough that it made barely a sound. “Of course that’s offensive, it’s offensive because it’s purposeful.”
Somewhere beneath the scowl and the stubble, a grin at her expense began to stir. “Alright,” he conceded, pulling up from the position he’d assumed and marrying his lips to the glass again. Such a happy occasion. “Alright, you’ve seen me before. Was that more to your liking?”
“Hardly,” she admitted, awkwardly returning to her own alcoholic endeavors. Where does a man come by such manners, she wondered, considering both the parental angle and strength of human will. Was this an attitude he chose when other options were available?
He laughed - a sound easily likened to that of puncturing a full tin can under pressure - and shook his head dismissively. “Some women are never satisfied.”