((Absolutely no need to mirror-post~ =) And yes, anyone is welcome to join, no need to ask. ^.^))
The foolish and unwary would claim that there was silence and tranquility to be found within the dead, dark hours after midnight; when the only people still roaming the streets were on their way to or from covert meetings or torrid affairs. Poets even claimed that the wind ceased to blow after midnight, when even most animals and birds had long since sought solace against the encroaching chill that such an hour was oftentimes burdened with. There was something about the tattered, ink-dark blanket that spilled across the sky, strewn with glittering, cheap and tawdry, counterfeit diamonds that encourages most individuals, be they animals or of the humanoid persuasion, to become trapped by the spiderweb of sleep; so that they could wander through the spiraling corridors of their own collective subconsciousness. However, as was often the case, poets and fools were mistaken. For the wind still howled through the decrepit buildings; the wardrums of thunder rolling and pealing overhead. Though it had yet to strike, a thunderstorm was eminent; the ponderously heavy stormclouds slowly, lazily gathering overhead.
The wanderer was neither a poet, nor a fool. Instead, she saw the night as the most opportune time to take a break from everything, just to relax a little. Business had been pathetically poor over the past few days -she couldn't fault the town's inhabitants for that, exactly; for she had only opened shop a few weeks ago, after all. And it wasn't as though she'd have many patrons until she made a name for herself, was given the opportunity to prove herself to the townspeople; for whatever that may have been worth- and she was in dire need of a chance to unwind.
Not that the woman had been given the chance to ply her trade more than once or twice so far, but she had been growing quite annoyed with just how many people had visited her business, so that they could pose countless inquiries about what she did. In fact, during more than one occasion, she had been asked if she sold herbs, was a fence for stolen goods, if she dealt in potions, was hiring mercenaries, or was opening a brothel. It wasn't as though she had advertised any of those things, but people could be desperate and driven when they were looking for certain goods or services. A low, long-suffering sigh escaped her lips as she paused in her wanderings to peer around; wondering if she had really made the right decision by arriving in this town. Certainly, it seemed to be the right kind of town for a torturer to open shop in, but people were far too curious for their own good at times.
The carrion crow tilted her head as she peered around, attempting to get her bearings; one new to the town of Zantaric could easily become lost. Had it been daylight and had a storm not been brewing, she would have done the easy thing and took to the sky. However, that was just one of life's many inconveniences, she supposed. Turning left at one of the many intersections, she fluffed her wings before folding them, cloak-like, once more. Another left, then four blocks down a filth-strewn street led her to the destination she had in mind. One of the dingy taverns she'd heard about.
--
Within, the lighting was pathetically dim; quite possibly to hide the filth that coated the floor. The establishment itself stunk of vomit, smoke, the burnt remains of last night's dinner and cheap booze. The walls were grimy and stained; the winged woman didn't want to contemplate with what sort of fluids. The tables and bar were filthy, scarred and covered with layers of grease. Smoke hung heavily on the air; creating a peculiar sort of haze that was at once, comfortable and annoying. However, it was already rather full and bustling with activity. The patrons seated at the bar and their own tables, well on their way to becoming quite inebriated. A few others lay, sprawled across the floor and snoring away as they languished in drunken squalor. The din of voices was quite loud and boisterous; laughter, stories, bawdy songs and slurred conversation riding the air. The quiet few lurked in the more secluded corners of the tavern, watching and listening to the rest of the riffraff. Like a tyrant queen, the lady bartender stood behind the scarred and filthy counter, sneering at a few of the patrons while she shoved drinks at the others. She sighed and clucked her tongue as one of the many drunks at her counter shifted forward to make a pass at her.
And yet, none of that phased the winged woman, whose eyes were fixed on something in particular. At the center of the establishment stood four large, round tables, surrounded by people. Two of those tables occupied by individuals playing dice games, the other two populated by a few individuals preparing for games of cards. Talons clicking against the wooden planks of the floor, Veneficia strode toward the gambling tables; head held high and proud, shoulders squared, her typical confident swagger drawing several leers and whistles that she flat-out ignored. She figured that, if nothing else, a few rounds of cheep ale and a couple games of cards would be a good way to end the night.
Shoving her way through the remainder of the teeming, filthy masses, she finally managed to plant her ass on a stool at one of the poker tables, situating herself between a leather-clad blonde thief who was far too young to drink and a tired-looking, hard-eyed, red-haired female mercenary who could have passed as being beautiful at one time. Offering a nod to them, as well as the three people who sat on the opposite side of the table, Veneficia motioned for the exhausted barmaid so that she could buy everyone at her table a round of the establishment's most expensive liquor. Which, as it was called "Ogre Piss," didn't sound too promising.
Finally, she would reach into the pouch fastened to her turquoise blue scarf-belt and retrieve a few gleaming coins, tossing them into the center of the table and calling out: "I'm in!"
...Unfortunately, it looked as though the others she would be playing with were going to be all too easy to defeat; for they all appeared to already be rather intoxicated, or perhaps hopped up on one narcotic substance or another.
What a pity- she was hoping for a challenge. Something interesting.
