audrey horne. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mandatum) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
calling_net2016-08-30 11:21 pm
mandatum) wrote in calling_net2016-08-30 11:21 pm
Entry tags:
one 🌹 audio | un: audacious
--ll I'm saying is, this place is the pits.
[This more or less out of nowhere. A very loud statement bursting through the devices along with a cacophonous burst of Bar Soundsâ„¢. Someone is audibly quaffing. Some other people are banging what are presumably pints, or possibly horns, of ale on the table in rhythm. There is a folk song somewhere in the background about a maid who came a-wandering.]
[Audrey sounds disgusted.]
You can't just drip beer down your beard and never wash it. No, I can tell you never wash your beard, buddy. I can tell it, I can smell it, I can see last week's lunch in it. Don't play games with me. You didn't even skin that lion right. I know all about skinning. I live at a lodge. No, don't--don't start picking bacon out of it! Go home and shower. Go. Get out. And leave me your beer.
[There's relative silence for a moment (the folk song continuing on in the background, because nothing stops a folk song), then a grumble and retreating footsteps. A loud, put-upon sigh.]
There's blood on this floor. Cripes. I thought home was bad--wait, did I turn this--
[. . . which appears to be all.]
[This more or less out of nowhere. A very loud statement bursting through the devices along with a cacophonous burst of Bar Soundsâ„¢. Someone is audibly quaffing. Some other people are banging what are presumably pints, or possibly horns, of ale on the table in rhythm. There is a folk song somewhere in the background about a maid who came a-wandering.]
[Audrey sounds disgusted.]
You can't just drip beer down your beard and never wash it. No, I can tell you never wash your beard, buddy. I can tell it, I can smell it, I can see last week's lunch in it. Don't play games with me. You didn't even skin that lion right. I know all about skinning. I live at a lodge. No, don't--don't start picking bacon out of it! Go home and shower. Go. Get out. And leave me your beer.
[There's relative silence for a moment (the folk song continuing on in the background, because nothing stops a folk song), then a grumble and retreating footsteps. A loud, put-upon sigh.]
There's blood on this floor. Cripes. I thought home was bad--wait, did I turn this--
[. . . which appears to be all.]
un: xx_dEsPa1R_xx
[
Having a username as old and outdated and embarrassing as this... it fills Junko with cringeworthy regret. So good.]The wood beneath you creaks with a decrepit, sodden ache, as though worn down over the years by numerous thugs and bandits treading your steps. The barman looks at you with a wary gaze-- as if to say 'You're on your own here, girly!' The smell is positively horrific, the rotfilth stench of meat, blood, and alcohol mixing together in stains on the floor, making it a dead ringer for an ill-kept mortuary with the poorly-stuffed carcasses on the wall. No matter how you slice it, this place is the pits, and yet people are still drinking and still making merry with the miserable despair in front of them...
What do you do?