Blame it on the alcohol {Arctic}
Jul 28, 2016 15:42:06 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Jul 28, 2016 15:42:06 GMT -5
I am a jewel, gonna shine on you, Gonna shine on the world, gonna make it new
[googlefont="Fondamento:400"]Flint Arch
[googlefont="Bitter:400"]Sixteen - Career - District 1
The repulsive stench of the bar had been clawing his innards for long, allowing his breath to be expelled harshly only. It had turned his stomach into knots and conjured irritable lumps inside his throat. Every time the air inside his lungs swirled, the intoxicating smell was there, smearing the once pure oxygen into something revolting. Strangely, it fitted its own theme of a dilapidated place packed with obnoxious people.
Several girls—roughly in his age—dressed in lacy clothes lingered around a man thrice their ages, forced smiles decorating their petite faces. The men were too sober to notice their features even, he realized. A first glance to this place would capture it as a delightful bar with large windows bouncing off the numerous fairy lights hanged from the fascia of the roof, dots of various colors penetrating the dark and the faint mutter of music. But, behind the raven glass textures of the windows was a grimy room of polluted alcoholics, affairs and such.
Flint swallowed back his rising nausea, compelling his mind to focus on something rather than this. He was seated on a bar stool. The bar counter was a slab of hard wood, the material rough against his hand. Pools of light were at random intervals from the continuous shifting lights, engulfing some areas in pitch and brightening the opposite areas. The orbs of light danced but only a few drunk people did the same—most were sipping from glinting glasses. The luster from the glasses even fooled him because they were indistinguishable from the brilliance of jewels and precious materials.
His digits curled around the glass facing him, a single shot of vodka. It felt arctic under his touch, the cold seeping into his palm. He had no slightest clue of the reason that he led him to order this but it was done and bills had been lost for this mere beverage. He tipped it to his lips. The texture of it was recognizable—soft and delicate when pressed by the lips of the glass. A searing hot wave washed over his throat as he drained his cup. He had not gotten use to the taste of alcoholic beverages, unable to adapt with the bitterness and the dreamy haze it weaves.
His breath instantly reeked the same stench before. And, in a lone second, he was one of the forlorn figures in the bar again although he knew he was peculiar—in his own way. No one had the silky brown hair of his nor had the mushy eyebrows that tend to frown a lot. He also tends to believe that not a single person had the stubbornness and the sarcasm he possesses in his very soul, coursing through his veins and strengthening his tendons.
Flint set the glass back on the counter with a click and scanned the club for another time with his new found, averted vision. But, everything was same except that the inebriated man and two waitresses had climbed the stairs to the second floor and vanished into the dim light. He had enough wits to understand the situation. He dismissed them, turning his head aside. Very few people moved rhythmically to the faint music from the speakers and most were caught up in conversations not audible to him but they seems to be interesting enough to keep the drunkards still and occupied.
He raked his fingers through his hair, tugging streaks of it back into its former place. Even though it was warm outside, an ethereal chillness had crept up his spine. This place was not the correct one for him to spend his times—it was far from it. He had navigated here because a certain person. The thought of her tingles his right calf and flickered images of his sword inside his mind. The places she had sliced aches whenever he muses about her. It had become a habitual thing so much that he had to restraint himself from bandaging his calf.
He expressed an exasperated sigh, digits fishing into the pocket of his suede jacket for a few tips to the bartender. Muscles in his thigh tightened as he prepared to straighten himself. But, someone aside him yanked his waist and stationed him back on the bar stool.
That someone reeked of the semi-familiar stench.
Several girls—roughly in his age—dressed in lacy clothes lingered around a man thrice their ages, forced smiles decorating their petite faces. The men were too sober to notice their features even, he realized. A first glance to this place would capture it as a delightful bar with large windows bouncing off the numerous fairy lights hanged from the fascia of the roof, dots of various colors penetrating the dark and the faint mutter of music. But, behind the raven glass textures of the windows was a grimy room of polluted alcoholics, affairs and such.
Flint swallowed back his rising nausea, compelling his mind to focus on something rather than this. He was seated on a bar stool. The bar counter was a slab of hard wood, the material rough against his hand. Pools of light were at random intervals from the continuous shifting lights, engulfing some areas in pitch and brightening the opposite areas. The orbs of light danced but only a few drunk people did the same—most were sipping from glinting glasses. The luster from the glasses even fooled him because they were indistinguishable from the brilliance of jewels and precious materials.
His digits curled around the glass facing him, a single shot of vodka. It felt arctic under his touch, the cold seeping into his palm. He had no slightest clue of the reason that he led him to order this but it was done and bills had been lost for this mere beverage. He tipped it to his lips. The texture of it was recognizable—soft and delicate when pressed by the lips of the glass. A searing hot wave washed over his throat as he drained his cup. He had not gotten use to the taste of alcoholic beverages, unable to adapt with the bitterness and the dreamy haze it weaves.
His breath instantly reeked the same stench before. And, in a lone second, he was one of the forlorn figures in the bar again although he knew he was peculiar—in his own way. No one had the silky brown hair of his nor had the mushy eyebrows that tend to frown a lot. He also tends to believe that not a single person had the stubbornness and the sarcasm he possesses in his very soul, coursing through his veins and strengthening his tendons.
Flint set the glass back on the counter with a click and scanned the club for another time with his new found, averted vision. But, everything was same except that the inebriated man and two waitresses had climbed the stairs to the second floor and vanished into the dim light. He had enough wits to understand the situation. He dismissed them, turning his head aside. Very few people moved rhythmically to the faint music from the speakers and most were caught up in conversations not audible to him but they seems to be interesting enough to keep the drunkards still and occupied.
He raked his fingers through his hair, tugging streaks of it back into its former place. Even though it was warm outside, an ethereal chillness had crept up his spine. This place was not the correct one for him to spend his times—it was far from it. He had navigated here because a certain person. The thought of her tingles his right calf and flickered images of his sword inside his mind. The places she had sliced aches whenever he muses about her. It had become a habitual thing so much that he had to restraint himself from bandaging his calf.
He expressed an exasperated sigh, digits fishing into the pocket of his suede jacket for a few tips to the bartender. Muscles in his thigh tightened as he prepared to straighten himself. But, someone aside him yanked his waist and stationed him back on the bar stool.
That someone reeked of the semi-familiar stench.
