[ it is not of his own volition, that he occupies the royale. though his station within the company is moderately high, there are some duties that fall universally. duties that are less than desirable, and leave him to supervise the special breed of drunks that make themselves known only on harvest week. normally the patrons of old town are quick to comply when faced with a company officer, some are rowdy, resentful surely but most eventually bow down to the greater power. there is something different in the air during harvest week, the hok flows more freely, and those prone to dissent are spurred to action. it makes the bold, bolder.
the lights of the club flicker and pulse with the music playing, and it is only broken by the sound of glass shattering, voices raising, two telltale signs that there is a fight going to break out. some new to westerly pause to stare at the spectacle, while others who have inhabited old town long enough do not do so much as bat an eyelash even when the verbal fight escalates to physical blows.
it is tempting to leave the situation be, as much as the company are rumored to enjoy asserting their own power, he is loathe to do so for something as trivial as a bar brawl. but it appears intervention may be a necessity given how the situation escalates.
it takes him only a minute to push through the throng of people, to grasp one offender by the scruff of his neck, and pull him away from the other. as he had thought, this one reeks of drink, as if he had been doused in his. his own expression twists into one of distaste as he protests he didn’t start this— ] I do not care who started it, only that it ends.
[ he releases the man, pushes with his prosthetic arm, sending him tumbling towards the entrance to the club. ] Take your leave, now.
[ the brawl circumvented leaves himself the new spectacle of the club, and as much as he may wish it, he can no longer return to the corner he occupied. instead he sinks down onto a barstool, slides his attention to the barkeep. ]
iggy.
the lights of the club flicker and pulse with the music playing, and it is only broken by the sound of glass shattering, voices raising, two telltale signs that there is a fight going to break out. some new to westerly pause to stare at the spectacle, while others who have inhabited old town long enough do not do so much as bat an eyelash even when the verbal fight escalates to physical blows.
it is tempting to leave the situation be, as much as the company are rumored to enjoy asserting their own power, he is loathe to do so for something as trivial as a bar brawl. but it appears intervention may be a necessity given how the situation escalates.
it takes him only a minute to push through the throng of people, to grasp one offender by the scruff of his neck, and pull him away from the other. as he had thought, this one reeks of drink, as if he had been doused in his. his own expression twists into one of distaste as he protests he didn’t start this— ] I do not care who started it, only that it ends.
[ he releases the man, pushes with his prosthetic arm, sending him tumbling towards the entrance to the club. ] Take your leave, now.
[ the brawl circumvented leaves himself the new spectacle of the club, and as much as he may wish it, he can no longer return to the corner he occupied. instead he sinks down onto a barstool, slides his attention to the barkeep. ]
A drink, something strong.