this was the life mingling between regular folk;Ā Ā Ā bandits and brutes with itching knuckles,Ā Ā empty pockets and bottomless throats sat at the same table too,Ā Ā they drank the mead and ate food together before unhinging their jaws for more.Ā Ā Ā the kingfisherās inn has been a place for artists and supporters alike,Ā Ā yet now it stands ransacked,Ā Ā regular clientele ā scared off āā hurt.Ā Ā Ā words didnāt matter,Ā Ā reasoning ignored.Ā
worse than that āā neither the split at his cheek,Ā Ā stinging despite the gentle touch,Ā Ā nor alastorās words are the reason for his sudden stillness.Ā Ā Ā his gaze,Ā Ā usually lively in emotion and color,Ā Ā dulls once it sets upon a damaged instrument;Ā Ā Ā his beloved,Ā Ā torn beyond repair.Ā Ā Ā he speaks nothing of it,Ā Ā instead pulls his hand away from the wound, before moving towards a shelf where he kept a ā73 vintage pomino.Ā Ā Ā āĀ itās just a bruise.Ā āĀ Ā Ā a smile meant for the other,Ā Ā to reassure,Ā Ā and fades as soon as he turns away.Ā Ā Ā fingers dance through the shelf,Ā Ā linger on the bottleās neck.Ā Ā Ā this brought up memories heād rather not dwell on.Ā Ā Ā after a minute,Ā Ā he picks it up.Ā Ā Ā āĀ i am sure itāll heal just fine.Ā āĀ