Post by Deleted on Jan 13, 2023 23:30:38 GMT -5
[ Late Autumna 827 | For @sebastian ]
Mordha had become more familiar a place to Dresden recently. It wasn't because he hung out, socializing with all of the men and making himself part of the boys club. No, no matter how he might try, he'd never fit in with the nobility. That was okay with him. He was just trying to get the fights underway.
Elliot, the very owner of the club, had only found one fighter for his underground fight night idea, and that fighter was Dresden himself. The man had happily volunteered, but when he'd done so, he'd expected it to be easier to find men who wanted to fight. Men willing to keep their mouths shut for the sake of a little extra money. Dresden couldn't think of a single day in his life that he wouldn't have taken those odds, but maybe people were just a different kind of desperate now.
He didn't dare come into the place in his Legionnaire's uniform. He'd gotten off shift, went home and changed and cleaned up, and then ventured out. He'd had a quick meeting with Elliot, passing off a list of men he thought might be worth Elliot's time in questioning, and had intended to leave immediately after. But Elliot insisted he stay for a drink, and when they were free, Dresden never rejected the offer for a good drink.
Dressed in what could be considered his best - clean, pressed black pants, heavy black boots, a fine white tunic, and a brown jacket that billowed at the back of his knees, Dresden sat down at the bar and had a quick chat with the keep, and received a pristine glass with a dark brown liquid inside. He took a drink from it, sighed, and nodded his thanks. Bruises rested under his eyes and his nose was still a little swollen, gifts from his spar with Castiel Andino, but at least the remainder of his injuries were hidden beneath his clothes.
Turning from the bar (because looking at the old barkeep was not the most fun), he chose to look over the crowd of old noble men instead. He recognized most of them. Some of them might have even recognized him. But they didn't acknowledge him, even when they met his eyes. He rolled his own, and drank from his glass.
Elliot, the very owner of the club, had only found one fighter for his underground fight night idea, and that fighter was Dresden himself. The man had happily volunteered, but when he'd done so, he'd expected it to be easier to find men who wanted to fight. Men willing to keep their mouths shut for the sake of a little extra money. Dresden couldn't think of a single day in his life that he wouldn't have taken those odds, but maybe people were just a different kind of desperate now.
He didn't dare come into the place in his Legionnaire's uniform. He'd gotten off shift, went home and changed and cleaned up, and then ventured out. He'd had a quick meeting with Elliot, passing off a list of men he thought might be worth Elliot's time in questioning, and had intended to leave immediately after. But Elliot insisted he stay for a drink, and when they were free, Dresden never rejected the offer for a good drink.
Dressed in what could be considered his best - clean, pressed black pants, heavy black boots, a fine white tunic, and a brown jacket that billowed at the back of his knees, Dresden sat down at the bar and had a quick chat with the keep, and received a pristine glass with a dark brown liquid inside. He took a drink from it, sighed, and nodded his thanks. Bruises rested under his eyes and his nose was still a little swollen, gifts from his spar with Castiel Andino, but at least the remainder of his injuries were hidden beneath his clothes.
Turning from the bar (because looking at the old barkeep was not the most fun), he chose to look over the crowd of old noble men instead. He recognized most of them. Some of them might have even recognized him. But they didn't acknowledge him, even when they met his eyes. He rolled his own, and drank from his glass.