Black Friday Rule [Open]

[Bronx]

Bronx Omalara poked her tongue against the tender feel of where the inside of her lip met her gums. The willowy fingers of her right hand pulling her lip down to see the red and bruised area in the reflection of a half dirty spoon her left hand held close to her strong jawed face. The freckled skin on the girl’s nose crinkled as a low hiss slid between her clenched teeth, her finger have slipped so the nail of her pointer finger jabbed the wounded spot. “Bloody ‘ell, I’ll tell you whot.” came her rusty murmur, spoon being flung from her hand against the sticky bar she stood behind. Last nights scuffle was showing on her wiry frame, though Bronx wore the bruises like a badge of honor. The girl couldn’t tell what the fight was about, not that it mattered. Stakes and reputation ran high on importance on these streets. Hooligans running about at night looking to up their status. An outsider could find the whole logic pointless and barbaric but that was kinda the point. An outsider wouldn’t understand. Last night’s rumble was over nothing more than the chance to prove to oneself exactly how much you could take before you broke. If you gritted your teeth long enough, maybe the other would break before you. Miss Omalara grew up with these standards so they still held true now that her 20 year birthday had come and passed months ago. She was just a rowdy kid in a bad part of town with no money and no future. You had to take what you could get and know bruises will fade. Bones will heal. Blood will dry and the by god, the sun will rise tomorrow and that tight-assed Camille will get more rich with every bat of an eyelash. Logic was logic. Take what you could understand and for everything else, there was a drink to make you think you got it. It was these things that pushed Bronx to fight and sleep and eat and breathe. To live. It was the life philosophy for most of the lower class. Shit happens you gotta deal.

Maybe it was that thought process that crossed through the girl with a swollen jaw and bruised eye as she peered up and found her hazel orbs focused on the unfortunate opponent she faced less than twelve hours ago. A smile cracked over her mouth and Bronx raised the spoon she had dismissed moments before. A ghetto salute from one battered friend to another. She made a mental note to bring the bastard a warm cup of ale when she got the chance.

As for now, however, the Inn was -packed-. Drunken conversations ranging from Camille to the supposive Rebels to wheat to bonnies and barking boats! You wanted a conversation about some ninny-witted over the top nonsense? It was in this room. Shouts of laughter and jeers bounced about the soddy wooding and ratty furniture. Faces she’s known since a little sparrow to people just sailing into the ports for the night. They had fantastic timing. What with the celebrations going on throughout the entire Empire. Rumors had it Camille shipped in foreign animals to entertain her boton tea-sipping git friends and even enemies. Then the whispers about some Cat-King Rebel and his enchanting dancers or what have you. It all sounded like rubbish to Bronx. And even if it WAS all taking place, she’d want nothing more than to be at this inn. Or up in a balloon, but that was a different story entirely.

She stood behind the bar, off near the edge. Traffic was getting heavy as the flow of liquor was close for tapping them out. They had already dipped into backup supplies and soon they’d be asking Dea, Bronx’s mother, for Sailor Omalara’s secret stash. Even the beasties in the sky and sea know that man had enough liquor to intoxicate the entire Empire, Camille included, AND all the looney poppets past our lines.

The other bonnies Bronx worked with would snicker or complain about who exactly had been pinching their bum as they were serving. Some grumbling about Bronx just standing around and taking in a view. The moans of bitching were empty, if anyone worked the skin off her bare bum, it was Bronx. What with having a mother in charge of the bar as it was. You don’t just drop off the charts after being -the- best hooker in town and retire. At least, not for Bronx’s Ma.

“Bronx-pie if you don’t step to, the maggots in the meat are going to go after your rump soon enough!” Her mother hissed, lugging a heavy box full of dried fruits and foods for the crowd. Dropping the crate to the floor with a thud, the woman gave a hop to go out and entertain her patrons but not before pinching her daughter’s rump. A laugh peeked through Bronx’s lips and she gave her bony hips a sway in return.

Hands gathered the pitcher of warm ale and the girl slid from behind the counter to pour another round for those whose glasses were empty or cheeks and nose not rosy enough.

[Blair.]

Blair Lawrence Abendene.

He’s nowhere near what could be considered a perfect man. He had a woman at home - someone he was happy with - and still he was here, drinking to fit his need when he should simply still be home. Lillian was a graceful woman, and someone he didn’t deserve by any means. He didn’t know what she saw in him, to be quite honest.

He was a drinker, quite the lush to be honest, and spent more time at work than he did at home with her. Oh, and he’s a slight mad. Though that seemed to be the theme with most inventors. Most folk who worked with Emery had to be at least half off their rocker, after all. He was his own source of madness, and simply a danger to be around. There were countless times Blair had recommended that Emery write up some sort of waver for his apprentices to sign before joining up with the team.

If it could be considered a team.

They say you have a problem if you drink alone, and Blair wasn’t alone, at least not physically, but he held that mindset. This was one of those nights where he was left to mull over all things; his relationship, the state of Elysia, in general, and not to mention - what appeared to be the most important of all - that tiny motor he’d been crafting for some years now - the one that’d brought to Emery’s doorstep, seeking some sort of finances to fully produce such. There was no way to perfect it with the sort of money he had made. Luckily, however, Sir Raleigh had recognized what Blair believes to be his blatant brilliance, and was eager to take him in.

Emery’s probably regretting that about now. What with Sir Abendene’s way of being; his cocky, and almost arrogant way of being - that way he disregarded almost everything his superior had to offer by way of constructive criticism. Luckily, whatever Blair lacked in the personality department, he made up for in know-how. And, well… Charm. Like it or not Blair knows he’s charming, or at least he has potential to be charming. Males never truly get to see that side of him, however. Truth be told - most women didn’t, either. Lillian did, but only when he was in trouble!

“Maggots aren’t the only ones who’ll be going after her rump, ma’am,” Blair is quick to counter with an almost devious grin. Oh, this was one of those nights where he’d need to lay on that charm when he arrived home - and thick. More often than not Blair believed he’d be better off as a single man. Heaven knew it would be much easier than attempting to explain that booze on his breath, and his constant tardiness.

A rough palm falls downwards to smooth almost tenderly over this young woman’s backside. That shameless smile upon his lips only widens to show an expanse of nigh perfect teeth. “I could use another round once you’re done with those brutes” - as if he wasn’t one himself. The young man tips his glass to indicate a distinct lack of ale, “No rush, Love,” he assures her.

Heaven knew he’d be here most of the night anyway.

[Twylite]

Twylite was tempted to go into the establishment, it looked like an interesting place and she was hungry. She stood in front of it, not caring that people were bumping into her and were telling her to move, she was still debating. Biting her petal pink lip she took a couple steps forward before being shoved aside by someone. She wasn't used to the busy streets, even though she had been going to the crowded lower-class district for over six months.

Everyone who saw her would know she didn't belong, not necessarily because she was dressed nicer than most people around, but because of her posture and overall look, it just didn't mesh well with Tychite. She ignored the looks she was getting, she didn't understand that they were looking at her because of what she was wearing. She hadn't changed out of her 'morning' clothes, which she had 'mutilated' as the maid put it.

She was in a black and red corset dress, with no straps and stopped just above her knees. She had cut the dress finding the length annoying and troublesome, this way she didn't need to deal with holding the skirts and messing up the bottom. She wore arm bands and unfortunately, had forgotten to take off her jewels, so her wrists and neck were adorn with real gems, a tempting steal for a thief.

She didn't notice any of the stares she was getting as she stepped into the crowded bar, nor did she see the person on the other side of the door who was walking-or rather stumbling- out of the bar. She collided with the man knocking him down, she attempted to help him up, but he just sat there dumbly. Sighing the teenager scanned the packed room for a seat. She spotted one at the bar and sped over to it, not caring how many people she ran into, or brushed against.

Twylite frowned as she sat. She didn't know what she was going to get, nor did she know what they had. She shrugged to herself after much debating thinking to herself that she was just going to ask for the best thing they made. Having made up her mind she looked around the bar, noticing that some of the customers were bruised from something. She smiled slightly knowing that Tip was needed. She shook her head at the thought before having to stifle a giggle. If her father found out that she, Twylite Isabella Phantom was not only wandering around Tychite district, but also the healer Tip he would have a heart attack. Turning back to the bar top she stared at the counter, thinking.

“No rush, Love,”

She lifted her head to see a barmaid and a male customer. The barmaid was holding of jug of something, she wasn't sure what, only that it was some sort of drink. Tilting her head, her long messy currently unkempt dirty blond hair fell over shoulder, she watched them for a few minutes before realizing that the female was bruised and looked like she had been part of some sort of brawl. Turning away Twylite returned to her thoughts...and why the bar top was so sticky.

[Bronx]

Bronx was a quick girl. Quick witted and the reflexes that any average bum ragged bloke could be green with jealousy. Maybe even forest green. The girl, like any low class citizen with shit luck and watery ale in her blood system would react the way she did. Pride! Pride was thicker than blood and rested heavily on her shoulders as it did her father and whatever bastard family member her shrub of a family’s branches could stretch out and grasp.

Music makes for a great show. The scratch of a fiddle and raspy voice of some drunken fool on about his love of the sea and the brothel he stumbled upon at one point. Adds to the illusion so many seek out in seedy places such as the inn that Bronx now stood inside. Thick rolls of exhaled smoke polluted the stale air inside the cramped main room. Laughter, some deep and bone shaking and others high and shrill. It all mingled just as all of the citizens of the sums did.

And then there was the one that didn’t seem to quite mesh with the flow of things. Bronx looked up through the thick of her lashes, wrist straining under the pitcher’s weight as she poured a small group their drink. The girl had just stumbled in and looked like a dark on a otherwise bleach piece of paper. Soft, clean hair about her shoulders, though worn messy. A shredded skirt that could belong to any working girl in these parts but -that- girl did not belong. Jewels clung to her body and Bronx was colored with surprise at the fact the girl hadn’t been robbed, raped, and dumped. Dead. Now granted, there may be a handful of mob like men and their wives who could get away with wearing something like that around here. But they had power and a willingness and numbness to kill. Bronx would be her life that this girl didn’t have it in her. She was scrawny and pretty and doe like. Definitely not some lass that belonged.

The Doe pranced in and took a seat at the bar and the corner The corners of Bronx’s lips pulled up into a smirk. Her lips parted to yell out to the girl until she felt the sly hand cup her rump. It was too large to be her Mothers and Copper was off blowing some stupid thing up.

Her neck whipped around and there sad a gruff looking man. Well paid, at least for these parts, and attempting to grab a feel of Bronx. Well, she simply wouldn’t have it. “Oi! ‘ou got some manners in that bum-rag worth of a body?!” And the contents of her pitcher were being tipped over, poured onto the man’s head. She took a step back out of swinging instinct, having lived through a scene like this too many times before. With a clink, Bronx had slammed the empty pitcher, save for the remaining foam of the warm liquid, onto the empty table before her. Now, this betty wasn’t fond of the prissy open palmed slap so many males seemed to get planted to their cheek in these parts by girls. No, she was full knuckle, skin splitting, jaw breaking, decking sort. However, times are tough and this was a patron she’d be charging for that pitcher of ale he just so eloquently ordered.

The skin where her slender digits met her hand stretched as she extended her dirty fingers as far as they could go. The air caressed against the flesh between each finger and the sound that echoed off of the man’s cheek wasn’t enough to stop the music or the laughter or anything, save for a few glances and thrilled laughter after.

Bronx leaned down, lips close to the man’s ear and she gave a pretty smile like a good lass. Her hair, twisted tightly into a series of long dreads played down her back and some tumbled over her shoulders as her hands supported her thin upper body against her legs.

“Now, be a good lad and pay for your drink. If it’s a betty you be looking for, try your own bed or maybe a lass upstairs.”

She stood and was off, walking toward the bar with her empty pitcher, assuring whatever overly muscled friend of hers asked about the soaking other male. “He won’t be a barking rash anymore. And if he does, I call tabs on that bill.” She’d flash a smile before pulling herself behind the bar and taking strides to look the misplaced Doe in the eyes. “And you pet, you’re loss.” It wasn’t a question. Bronx’s rusty voice, horse from the inhale of smog and polluted air for her whole life was low enough for the girl and her business alone. “But have a drink anyways, yeah?”

[Twylite]

Twylite looked incredulously at the female in front of her. She wasn't lost, and she had no idea why anyone would assume-oh wait, the jewels. She cursed to herself before looking back at the barmaid.

"But have a drink anyways, yeah?"

She nodded mutely, too afraid to speak at the moment. She wanted to ask if she could possibly heal the female's bruised face, but was too afraid of what might happen to her if she insulted the bold female. She bit her lip again, knowing that soon enough she would break the skin and it would bleed, if only for a moment, and then she would have to explain herself if anyone saw what she did.

She continued to look at the barmaid, wondering how the female got the bruises, she wasn't one to assume but it was rather odd. Tilting her head to the side she brought her hand up to the jeweled necklace she wore. She wasn't sure how she was ever going to be able to get her name out there if she didn't start socializing, of course she wasn't used to socializing with people.

She never understood why her father kept her in the house her entire childhood, all she knew was that he was keeping her from being social and kept her from being a child. Now when he actually wanted her to talk to others-high class of course- she was too afraid to speak with them. Not that it mattered she didn't enjoy their company anyway, they talked about some of the most unusual things, at least to her.

No she preferred to listen to the cook talk along with the rest of the servants in her household. They were fun, energetic and made the most of their lives. Besides the servants, she had no friends and tried to make some, but had failed because she didn't speak up.

She shook the thoughts away and opened her mouth as she blinked away the memories.

"Excuse me...I mean no 'fense, 'M jus' curious as to how you got the bruises?"

She had started picking up how the cook spoke and had to keep in mind that speaking like a commoner was not something she could do in front of her father and other classy people. She also learned to swear from the servants, accidental yes, but she still learned.

Slouching slightly she became nervous, she knew her voice was completely opposite of the female who was behind the bar. Her voice was sweet, melodic and slightly timid, she had the ability to make it strong and authority, she was just afraid, whereas the barmaids was rough and rusty, but Twylite thought it suited the girl.

[Blair.]

“Mm!” he grunts out. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t see this coming. That pitcher of warm ale upon his brow and within that dark mess of hair of his. He splutters out, as though the drink were filthy, and not something he’d just been drinking heavily from. A single eye pinches close as the heated honey shaded liquid trickles downwards, cross brown and further along the lift of her cheekbones, upon his stubble

But, oh, think not for a moment that that’s where it ends! His shoulders are soaked and pants, too. Within minutes, or perhaps even an hour or so he’d be dry once more, though he’s not looking forward to such a thing. He’d be dry, but more sticky than he ever imagined humanly possible. It was a disgusting thought, though truly it was no more so than any normal day where he may come home with shirt dirtied, and half an eyebrow simply missing from one wayward spark or another.

“Feisty,” he grunts out with a quick shake to his head. He sputters once more, those dark chocolate eyes of his pinching closed yet again.

“I like that in a woman!” he comments thereafter, palm lifting to smooth down and along his features, “Can I get a rag, pretty miss?” he questions with a coaxing sort of grin.

What was there to do in this moment? Well, there wasn’t much to do in that space and time, save for wait. His slick palms settle upon the bartop, pressing upon either side of that once-full mug. But, oh! Seems that the fates were smiling upon him that day! Some of that ale which had been ungraciously dumped over his features seems to have splashed and splattered into his mug, it was nigh half full! What luck, indeed!

Still, he finds himself lifting that mug and tipping it in such a manner so he may sniff at such curiously. The young Sir Abendene wouldn’t consider himself to be a particularly dirty man. At least not in the morning, after a short rinse. But a long day’s work was a long day’s work, after all, and that meant it was all too possible that he maybe, just maybe, have gotten a little mussed sometime throughout the day

The liquid was deemed fine enough to eat, and as such the young man brought such a glass toward his lips. It was sweet on his tongue, and filled all his senses with a giddy sort of numbness. His eyes flutter as he ashes the liquid toward the back of his throat before finally submitting to the inevitable swallow. But, oh, he had to pay for this sweet amber trickling down his chest and pooling around that stool he was situated upon. He grunts upon this sudden realization.

But his displeasure lasted no longer than a passing breath as soon enough he noted that feisty barkeep’s absence. He wouldn’t say he was fond of her, but, well, he did owe her at least a talking to, no? Of course he did. And then he spots her. Near some other woman with an inappropriate amount of jewels about her throat. He scoffs at such. Blair wouldn’t consider himself a particularly devious man. Nor was he innately evil, but even he considered simply robbing her. There was no way she could resist. In fact he’s more shocked she still has such in a place like this!

He grunts out, before fishing any number of coins and thick colored bills from within the confines of his now-soaked breast pocket of that vest bound tight about her form, “Sweet Miss, who’s your friend?!” he calls out, nigh mocking that bruised up lass.

[OOC; From this point on I'd prefer if posts went Bronx, Twylite, Blair, for my own slow ass sake. I don't need this thread being had without me.]

[Bronx]

Out of the corner of her battered eye, Bronx watched the soaked mutt. Her attention, however, was on the mousy looking girl before her. An accent fit for a servant in her own neighborhood or maybe even someone lower than her on the dog-eat-dog system the imperials seemed to have planted upon the land. It was clipped, like Bronx’s, only a bit more flair to it. And the dialect -under- the actual words didn’t fit. Just like the girl didn’t quite fit in with the area around her, despite the torn skirt and messy hair.

Bronx’s eyes squinted at the girl, attempting to look inside her head through her eyes. It was an unsettling look, usually making the victim squirm under the securitization. In all honesty, Bronx never saw anything save for a number of small details she might not have noticed before her. No, her character sleuthing was usually when Bronx herself was talking. You can tell just about everything from a person when you talk. Do they listen? How well are they paying attention? Which side of your face are they staring at? The little details are what made up the picture or person. This look though, it was just fun.

Bronx continued to bore her gaze into the girl before the corner of her upper lip curled up in a sly smirk of sorts. A fine layer of smug satisfaction dusted her features. “’ou think me stupid or somethin?” she hissed at the girl under the tumbling noises of the tavern. It was in no way mean or threatening. Amused more than anything. The girl’s talk was fake. Bronx didn’t like counterfeit things unless she was the one making them.

But alas, the mutt was soon barking. Her head snapped up from the silent bubble between her and the mouse, not giving the girl a chance to answer. “Oi! Get over here and I’ll let you meet the bonnie!” She tossed back, arm lifting to wave him closer. Now, she wouldn’t really let his dirty paws get all over this white lace, but it would create a tumble laughter.

The pads of her fingers tap, tap tapped down upon the bar, only a minor resistance before her digits were able to pull up again before continuing the drumming. She peeked a gaze out at the dove, leg starting to bounce. Bronx -hated- to sit still.

She waited for the mutt to gander over, turning on the heel of her beat up and broken boot to busy her hands with pouring the imposter a drink. On the Mutt’s tab of course. Why on earth would someone want to pretend to be low class when they clearly weren’t? Now, Bronx could completely understand if it were the opposite. Or if the whole thing was about street cred. It was a funny, bloody business down here in the slums. Why, the shiner on Bronx’s face was proof of that. She was a god to her mates and the older lot knew her not only from her parent’s cooling shadow, but the work she could provide. What with being a wench in the best damn inn in the district and her handy work. She was always fixing pipes, fixing this, fixing that. The girl had a way with tools and the basic mechanics life could put before her. Well-rounded her Ma liked to chirp at her. Then it would be up to whatever sleazy patron to take a view of Bronx’s rump and fully agree.

Bastards. They all be bastards!

Bronx placed the semi-clean glass of warm ale before the girl. She slid it painstakingly slow whilst her gaze moved to bore against the girl’s reactions. “Come’n, Dovey.” came her rusty whisper like a purr. A nice fox like wink to top it all off.

[Twylite]

Twylite sighed before muttering a stream of curses under her breath. She didn't understand the barmaid, but since the female had in fact known that she didn't belong in the district she knew she should explain, only what she had to though.

"I'm sorry if I have offended you in anyway. I did not mean to. I just prefer it here than over there. the people here are just so much more alive and I don't know. They work hard for their money I suppose is what I'm trying to say,"

She looked at the cup of ale and took a gulp of it. She had, had the drink a couple times before and preferred it over fine wine or tea. She set the mug down on the table looking over to the man who was now drenched completely in ale. She stifled a giggle as she watched him, only able to keep the laughter down for a moment.

She turned back to the barmaid smiling. "I think he may smell better than before," she whispered before taking another sip of her drink.

She bit her lip for a moment before opening her mouth to speak. "But I am curious to know how you got those bruises, if you'd like to tell me,"

She began fiddling with her necklace her -very- expensive necklace that her father had given her to keep her quiet whilst he had company over. Grinning she quickly undid the necklace and examined it. It was all rubies, and gold, and shiny. She noted that the small stones were set in such a way that they made small flowers around the necklace. Frowning she tossed it on the table, the site of it repulsed her simply because it was her father who had given the trinket to her.

"I'm not giving you that because I have more money than you, it's a horrid piece of jewelry used to silence me. take it an do whatever the hell you want with it. It'll be better than what I could use it for," she muttered before bringing the cup up to her face again to drink out of it.

[Blair.]

The rate at which he recovered was astounding.

Sure, he was still thoroughly soaked, and that ale was only chilling on his form as the time passed - quite uncomfortable in all actuality. And sure, he still practically reeked of that once-warmed amber liquid, but in reality he would probably still smell vaguely of such a thing whether or not it’d been dumped over that handsome head of his. He had been drinking since leaving Emery’s shop. Well, to his credit, not immediately after leaving. He’d at least waited until he was within this questionable establishment to do so.

And questionable it was, especially that barmaid who was beckoning him over. She was a fine piece of trouble, indeed.

Still, Blair finds himself shifting to his feet, taking one final moment to ruffle his fingers through barely drying hair, in hopes of sweeping any dripping liquid from his brow before approaching these two women. It’s not exactly a long walk to them, though the room is damn near packed and he finds himself bumping thumping and nudging into almost everyone within his wake, wetting their own clothing, and in turn receiving some very dirty looks in return.

It’s not as if these folk truly had anything important to ruin! Well, except for that girl, that was. These folk, however, they were dressed in already-dirtied clothing, worn and weathered and held closed at the tattered seams by thick pieces of chord as opposed to proper stitching. Blair wouldn’t doubt if he’d picked up some dirt along the way! Disgusting, really. Not that Blair was really even clean in the first place.

“Missed me, then, sweet?” Blair questions that fiesty young woman, leaning across the bar top simultaneously. His foot kicks one of those stools closer to draw such beneath his rump so he may more appropriately settle into place. An almost ridiculous smile is settled upon his features, warm and teasing, and all too confident despite her earlier denial of his touch. Mister Abendene was confident, to say the least of him!

His hands are quick to sweep up that necklace which that young woman lays down, only to inspect such with an almost critical eye, a single chocolate orb pinched shut as he observes those gems inlaid upon some tacky gold mesh work. It’s then he peeks his eye open to glance toward that surly barmaid with another of those wide grins, “You’re far too pretty for something as horrid as this, Miss,” he coos in her direction, turning over that metallic chain within his fingertips, though it were some sort of rosary and he were going through his prayers.

“I don’t think we had a chance to exchange pleasantries during our prior meeting.” he offers, seeking out the young woman’s name before offering up his own.

“I’ll have you know, Miss,” he coos, turning his attention toward that rich little miss at his side, “I smelled just fine prior, not all can afford those foreign scents, the perfumes and potpourris.” It’s then he dashes that necklace to the bartop before simply leaning back within his place.