Asta
She'd been one of those brats mingling in the masquerade, up until the point she had reached the time agreed upon by her parents. To think, her life had come to this - a balancing act of give and take to see who had the power - she, or her parents. Unfortunately, when your parents are also the monetary support for your business, you have to give in . . . and she no longer had anyone in her corner like she once did. But she'd survived the stupid ball, and as she walked into her shop, she felt the relief leave her with a sigh. Her hair, still styled in soft, bouncy curls; shined against the pale magenta of her neck, the soft clinging of the gold jewelry heard with each movement - around her ankles, her neck, done up inher curls. The long shawl for the event was draped over one of the seats at the bar, already replaced with the simpler one she preferred.
But what should she do, now wasn't that the question? Would anyone show up, if she did open shop? Just in case, the sign had been turned, and it didn't take long until the regulars were crowding in, a few wolf-whistling at her fancier-than-normal get up, If ya'll want me to serve ya, you best shut up. It's like you ain't never seen a gal dressed up. She complained from behind the bar, sliding a jug of a vile concoction down the bar top to some rugged stallion. These people were real though, not like the dressed-up pompous girly-boys she'd been forced to interact with at the ball. Faces with painted-on smiles, pretending to be something they weren't. These ones are true. . . different though.
They were sincere in themselves. Shady, downtrodden at times; those who preferred to rumbled and throw hands, those who have her counting her till when they leave. These were the people that make crowds rough - and her days were fun with the interactions she has and the people she meets. SO much better than the god-forsaken masquerade. As the bar settled down into the normal behavior, rowdy in the corner where the big guns and big talkers hung out at.
The door opens, and Asta turns to watch the mare walk in, and instantly, her eyes narrow faintly. Something about the way she walks tells her that it was an interesting story that just turned the first page. And so Asta wove through the crowd, around the bar, and ignored the newcomer for a moment - putting bottles back, empty cups going in a sink to wash, her steps practiced, casual, but the corner of her eye watched, judged to see how this new mare would handle being ignored for a moment. She clearly had come from the bar, would she be a prissy princess demanding to be served?
Finally, Asta turned towards the creature who smelled of sand and spice, Evenin', what's yer poison? She asked, her head tilted to the side, watching, judging this stranger who had come into her sacred zone . . . if she didn't fit in, if she turned out to be a princess; Asta would make sure the mare didn't return again. But, if she turned out to be even a little like herself . . . well, the testosterone in the joint had been getting intense; and some estrogen would do a world a good.
“Talk.”
(Alternate color for thoughts).
But what should she do, now wasn't that the question? Would anyone show up, if she did open shop? Just in case, the sign had been turned, and it didn't take long until the regulars were crowding in, a few wolf-whistling at her fancier-than-normal get up, If ya'll want me to serve ya, you best shut up. It's like you ain't never seen a gal dressed up. She complained from behind the bar, sliding a jug of a vile concoction down the bar top to some rugged stallion. These people were real though, not like the dressed-up pompous girly-boys she'd been forced to interact with at the ball. Faces with painted-on smiles, pretending to be something they weren't. These ones are true. . . different though.
They were sincere in themselves. Shady, downtrodden at times; those who preferred to rumbled and throw hands, those who have her counting her till when they leave. These were the people that make crowds rough - and her days were fun with the interactions she has and the people she meets. SO much better than the god-forsaken masquerade. As the bar settled down into the normal behavior, rowdy in the corner where the big guns and big talkers hung out at.
The door opens, and Asta turns to watch the mare walk in, and instantly, her eyes narrow faintly. Something about the way she walks tells her that it was an interesting story that just turned the first page. And so Asta wove through the crowd, around the bar, and ignored the newcomer for a moment - putting bottles back, empty cups going in a sink to wash, her steps practiced, casual, but the corner of her eye watched, judged to see how this new mare would handle being ignored for a moment. She clearly had come from the bar, would she be a prissy princess demanding to be served?
Finally, Asta turned towards the creature who smelled of sand and spice, Evenin', what's yer poison? She asked, her head tilted to the side, watching, judging this stranger who had come into her sacred zone . . . if she didn't fit in, if she turned out to be a princess; Asta would make sure the mare didn't return again. But, if she turned out to be even a little like herself . . . well, the testosterone in the joint had been getting intense; and some estrogen would do a world a good.
“Talk.”
(Alternate color for thoughts).
do you believe in reincarnation?
'cause i thought i saw your soul
'cause i thought i saw your soul
