21St Fall 513AV
Late O’Bell
The Stallion was as it always was at this time of the day. The mumble of voices, patrons coming and going. The low lights of the lanterns was greeted by the distinct crackles of flames from the fire place. There was the distinct scent of burning wood and of some strange concoction being made in the kitchen beyond the bar. Some strange ‘mystery stew’ most probably. Not that it was of her concern tonight, she was here for one thing and one thing only. To drink. The fact that she would end up being merry with it was just an added bonus.
Fallon was in full swing of climbing into the bottom of her tankard. Metaphorically of course. Ale had been poured, drained and refilled on numerous occasions. Lips became loose; the mind turning into a blur as it gradually grew more inebriated by the passing tick. Enough so to the point that she managed to work her way through the fog of her mind and decide it was perhaps for the better to remain seated and to call out on the occasion that she required more.
Sitting alone at her table near the fire, the squire had a fixed, dopey grin upon her face. Her chin was nestled comfortably in her palm, rosy cheeked and wrapped within her own alcohol driven glee. The other hand was wrapped tightly around the handle of her drink. Another ale of some kind, she was not exactly sure what. It had all begun to taste the same now. Eyes turned around, loosely focusing on the barmaid as she served the other patrons. She watched the beer flow, the gentle tease from other older men, before she continued on her way.
The gaze turned round once more to a group of men in the corner, drinking and relaxing with a lively conversation on their lips. What they were talking about however was none of her concern, she did not care. She had more important priorities. Draining the tankard from its frothy liquid, she placed it down with a solid thunk next to the others that she had accumulated over the course of the evening. Looking down at her light work, she felt the bubbling sense of being pleased with herself and promptly gestured to the bar maid so she could continue.
“Oanthert.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh-anth-ert. Pleaset,” Fallon tried to annunciate herself the best she could.
“Oh, another,” There was a pause as the Barmaid gave a frown, “You’re drunk, you sure about that?”
Giving a nod and a flick of the hand, Fallon continued her drunken smile, “Yea, um’m sure. Makes ilt un als.”
With a slight look of concern the barmaid gathered the empty tankards and went on her way, with a low mutter of displeasure under her breath. Not that the squire seemed to quiet register what had been said.
Fallon was in full swing of climbing into the bottom of her tankard. Metaphorically of course. Ale had been poured, drained and refilled on numerous occasions. Lips became loose; the mind turning into a blur as it gradually grew more inebriated by the passing tick. Enough so to the point that she managed to work her way through the fog of her mind and decide it was perhaps for the better to remain seated and to call out on the occasion that she required more.
Sitting alone at her table near the fire, the squire had a fixed, dopey grin upon her face. Her chin was nestled comfortably in her palm, rosy cheeked and wrapped within her own alcohol driven glee. The other hand was wrapped tightly around the handle of her drink. Another ale of some kind, she was not exactly sure what. It had all begun to taste the same now. Eyes turned around, loosely focusing on the barmaid as she served the other patrons. She watched the beer flow, the gentle tease from other older men, before she continued on her way.
The gaze turned round once more to a group of men in the corner, drinking and relaxing with a lively conversation on their lips. What they were talking about however was none of her concern, she did not care. She had more important priorities. Draining the tankard from its frothy liquid, she placed it down with a solid thunk next to the others that she had accumulated over the course of the evening. Looking down at her light work, she felt the bubbling sense of being pleased with herself and promptly gestured to the bar maid so she could continue.
“Oanthert.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh-anth-ert. Pleaset,” Fallon tried to annunciate herself the best she could.
“Oh, another,” There was a pause as the Barmaid gave a frown, “You’re drunk, you sure about that?”
Giving a nod and a flick of the hand, Fallon continued her drunken smile, “Yea, um’m sure. Makes ilt un als.”
With a slight look of concern the barmaid gathered the empty tankards and went on her way, with a low mutter of displeasure under her breath. Not that the squire seemed to quiet register what had been said.
