↠ a bit misunderstood // c.s.
IT’S A NICE sized town. Rowdy, excitable. There are a few taverns, two inns. It’s the type of place that August is able to slip into the crowd without too many stares, newcomers hardly spared a glance. It also usually means work, which is what keeps him from tucking his medallion away, the cat’s head sitting easily on his chest, the gleam of it and the gold of his eyes the only identifiers for what, exactly, he is.
THE CITY HE’S come from had a bruxa problem; he’s spent much of his journey recuperating, but his purse is heavy and full, and he’s looking forward to indulging himself a bit tonight. Some good food, a good bed–good company, if there is anyone willing.
TWO OF THOSE desires are taken care of quickly once he stables his horse and heads inside the inn. The innkeeper is quick to lose his fear of him once he sets down enough coin for what he wants; he steps away from the bar and to the tables with a room key in his pocket and a hefty plate of hot food in his hand.
AS HE EATS, he observes. The bar here at the bottom of the inn is crowded. There are people of all sorts pressed in together–fishers and farmers, tailors and seamstresses. There are a few ladies from the brothel down the street, but August’s eyes slide over them; he’s never been interested in women. It makes nights like these a little difficult, and he doesn’t put his whole faith into finding a partner, but it’s easy enough to let himself look. So look he does, assessing the men, experience lending him a fine chance at knowing who might be willing to have another man–and who might not.
LADY LUCK IS on his side, tonight. There, on the other side of the floor, his eyes catch on a young man. He’s strangely soft in the middle of the rough crowd; his sky blue silks make his eyes sparkle, the warm brown of his hair curling sweetly over his ears. August can’t help but note the distance between him and what must surely be his fellow workers–but he supposes that he might find customers easier by being away from the women, where eyes don’t wander quite as frequently. He laughs and August wonders, briefly, how that voice would sound in a moan or a gasp.
MIND MADE UP, the witcher is quick to finish the rest of his meal. He nods for the barmaid to clean his place and leaves a few coins for her; making his way through the crowd to the man is easy, uncertain glances cast his way until he settles into the seat beside that soft silk, just close enough to brush but far enough to refrain from being oppressive. “Hi,” he hums, tilting his head to the side, rather much like the feline mascot of his practice. “Care to share some time?”
IS IT THE smoothest way of asking? Certainly not. But he prefers to get to the point anyway, unwilling to waste either of their time with soft words and metaphors. If he’s willing, August has a room. If not, he doesn’t need to be told twice to fuck off.
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