gold on the ceiling | open
This late at night, the streetlamps guttered, hollow orange and yellow sputtering haphazard luminescence throughout a cold, tight side alley of magical London. Rabastan’s back pressed against the hard brick wall of an unassuming building. He exhaled, long, powerful, and the flames of the lamps danced in loyal worship. Beside him, a windowless and locked door waited to be opened, but strangely, no door knob was there to open it. If one pressed their ear against the surface, they’d hear the faintest thump of a rhythmic bass or the muffled howls of licentious activity occurring beyond the door. He was playing bouncer for some shady, member’s only club for the night – seventy-five galleons for a few hours of his time, letting those who knew the password inside the door (and collecting a bit of a profit of his own by making those who didn’t and whose curiosity burdened enough to pay a price for him to sneak them in.) Rabastan lazily grinned to himself as he played with a galleon between his fingers, his head tilted back on his spine, the line of his throat stretched and exposed like the scrag of a snake perched in wait.
Foot steps snapped his head forward. An eyebrow raised, the coin gamboling over his knuckles, glistening caught gold in the moonlight as his chin tipped up in warning at the approaching person, languid hyena grin still stretched across his face. He tossed the coin in the air and quickly snatched it back into his palm. “Pay up if you want in.”
