edge(lord) play + MARR
May 16, 2018 0:25:54 GMT -5
Post by Death on May 16, 2018 0:25:54 GMT -5
[googlefont="Reenie Beanie:400"]
a reaper grimme
Fingers aching from grabbing too many neck scruffs, Reaper dusted off his hands for the fourth time that evening.
"And stay out," he said, trying to decide if spitting in his general direction would be worth the potential face-clock he'd be promised should the ex-patron manage to get his ass off the rough dirt road fast enough.
The fighting barn was moved between a variety of rusting, dilapidated storehouses whose concrete platforms stood empty the majority of the year. Currently, it was between a public brothel and a row of empty equipment warehouses.
Scrambling up to save what little face wasn't going to be covered in a lovely shiner or blood from a nose bleed, the scrawny man leered at him, only managing to point a finger and glare menacingly at him before turning and traipsing away dejectedly. Reaper almost felt bad for the guy, if he hadn't groped a betty-- the girls in charge of coaxing your money out of your wallet through betting--, punched another patron and then been unable to pay his tab.
He got off lucky. People with larger tabs often got thrown into the ring for the night, and if there's anything Reaper had learned about the ring, it was that you weren't guaranteed to come out and that the house had incentive for you not making it out: patron excitement, and a higher attendance rate during the next fight night.
Reaper took his place back at the door on lookout, his arms crossed as his eyes swept the street. A few cats crept along the sides of the warehouse across the way, eyeing each other warily for fear of a stray paw lashing out, claws unsheathed.
Next door, the whore house was... not necessarily quiet, but at the very least not as loud as usual. Punctuated groans and cries could be heard over the noise of patrons doing business, having business done to them or being convinced that they would never regret paying for my business.
He shuffled through his jacket pocket for a small baggie of smokes and the ancient silver lighter he'd picked off one of... ahem... Rye's enemies.
Pulling one from the bag, he set it between his lips, applying enough pressure to hold without crushing the wrapper around the tobacco. He quickly dragged the pad of his thumb across the flint wheel and managed to get it to light on the fourth try.
He held the flame to the end of the cigarette for a brief moment before closing the lid, the scuffed metal glinting from the light of a single industrial bulb perched ten feet above his head. Looking up at he takes the first drag, his watches the monocrome moths worship the glow of that light before exhaling and watching the curl of the smoke disappear with the late-spring breeze.
Reaper looks back at the streets. He wasn't a habitual smoker, but it was something nice to do with his hands while he was waiting for his shift to be over. The final fight had begun just two minutes before, and judging by the roar of the crowd, it was going to be a longer one. He'd just have to sneak past the hoards of adrenaline-surrogate-junkies to find out the location and schedule for the next fight night would be and he'd be free.
Taking another pull, making the end of the cigarette glow faintly orange in the werelight, he looks back up at the sky, this time for the waxing moon overhead.
"And stay out," he said, trying to decide if spitting in his general direction would be worth the potential face-clock he'd be promised should the ex-patron manage to get his ass off the rough dirt road fast enough.
The fighting barn was moved between a variety of rusting, dilapidated storehouses whose concrete platforms stood empty the majority of the year. Currently, it was between a public brothel and a row of empty equipment warehouses.
Scrambling up to save what little face wasn't going to be covered in a lovely shiner or blood from a nose bleed, the scrawny man leered at him, only managing to point a finger and glare menacingly at him before turning and traipsing away dejectedly. Reaper almost felt bad for the guy, if he hadn't groped a betty-- the girls in charge of coaxing your money out of your wallet through betting--, punched another patron and then been unable to pay his tab.
He got off lucky. People with larger tabs often got thrown into the ring for the night, and if there's anything Reaper had learned about the ring, it was that you weren't guaranteed to come out and that the house had incentive for you not making it out: patron excitement, and a higher attendance rate during the next fight night.
Reaper took his place back at the door on lookout, his arms crossed as his eyes swept the street. A few cats crept along the sides of the warehouse across the way, eyeing each other warily for fear of a stray paw lashing out, claws unsheathed.
Next door, the whore house was... not necessarily quiet, but at the very least not as loud as usual. Punctuated groans and cries could be heard over the noise of patrons doing business, having business done to them or being convinced that they would never regret paying for my business.
He shuffled through his jacket pocket for a small baggie of smokes and the ancient silver lighter he'd picked off one of... ahem... Rye's enemies.
Pulling one from the bag, he set it between his lips, applying enough pressure to hold without crushing the wrapper around the tobacco. He quickly dragged the pad of his thumb across the flint wheel and managed to get it to light on the fourth try.
He held the flame to the end of the cigarette for a brief moment before closing the lid, the scuffed metal glinting from the light of a single industrial bulb perched ten feet above his head. Looking up at he takes the first drag, his watches the monocrome moths worship the glow of that light before exhaling and watching the curl of the smoke disappear with the late-spring breeze.
Reaper looks back at the streets. He wasn't a habitual smoker, but it was something nice to do with his hands while he was waiting for his shift to be over. The final fight had begun just two minutes before, and judging by the roar of the crowd, it was going to be a longer one. He'd just have to sneak past the hoards of adrenaline-surrogate-junkies to find out the location and schedule for the next fight night would be and he'd be free.
Taking another pull, making the end of the cigarette glow faintly orange in the werelight, he looks back up at the sky, this time for the waxing moon overhead.
