The Elysium was quiet that afternoon, even for the distant popping of the candles that hung by the chandeliers or that roared softly in their lantern cages. That part of the street was always quiet, save for those who visited the barber or the grocer, but the autumnal rites of memorials and celebrations had brought a different crowd to that end of the street as of late. Bernard had already chased a few ruffians who had arrived at the storefront ready to break in and deface, but instead stare awkwardly at the refreshed face that stared back at them with its standstone-scaled walls and lacquered sign, and windows that were no longer cracked with layers of dust. They disappeared into the southern streets, and that was when the quiet set in. It was a peaceful quiet, a solemn quiet, a napping quiet – Bernard had already nodded off a few times behind the bar, letting the rays of sunlight pass through the south-west facing windows warm him as they reached upwards from the horizon. Erasmus let him rest. They had been restless for months, tiding ceaselessly into preparing the Elysium (and all that rested blow) in all the hours of the day that they could. Particularly the hours of which there were the fewest spectators, as often their workings would generate an audience.
Today, they had only had one customer so far. A drunkard who took to passing tavern to tavern and found it apt to start there, as he said, starting at the cleanest bar and making his way to the filthiest, because by then the cheapest tavern and the awfulest tasting liquor meant nothing to him. He was a pleasant fellow for the time being, though Bernard remarked after the man had left that he had seen him plenty of times dirty and disheveled, sleeping on waste on the edge of the markets. He was clean enough when he was there, though it wasn't far fetched to think that he declined as with the quality of his accommodations. He only drank three pints of mead before he was on his way out the door, catching himself from stumbling once before passing up the road, and tipped well. In his absence the quiet returned, and thus they came to where they were.
The lack of patrons that day did not scare either of them – though the Elysium was newly open, they didn't take measures to broadcast its opening. The autumn rituals of Denocte had taken up precedence over the Markets – the memorials, the corn maze, and the whisperings of a haunt on the lake. They knew the festival would have its fill on its patrons, and then they place the fliers for their opening. Why not do so closer to the thinning of All Hallows Eve anyways, the way the breeze behaved so oddly in the tavern? Indeed, customers, though rare, had noted strange quirks about the place. The soft creaking of moving seats owned to no sitters, candles snuffed without a gust, one said that they felt a rhythmic breathing on their ear, followed by a whisper of something incoherent but frightening enough to rattle the rabbit-hearted fellow. Certainly a grand opening was worthy of a more precarious date, though none would understand its nature.
The catacombs were particularly quiet, that week. There were no guests as of yet, but the preparations were near complete. Despite the season, the haunts, perhaps the spirits had enjoyed the change of arrangements, or perhaps superstitions were best left buried. Either way, Erasmus, Bernard, and the two other grunts were the only ones who came and went, and while when they began making their changes they had fallen into an array of odd, frightening situations (of which scared away one of the original helpers) there were no reports as of late. Another thought was that they had opened the way between, and that the Markets were much more entertaining to haunt than the underground cells of which those spirits had walked for centuries. Regardless, Bernard, who was a man too superstitious for his own sanity, had pleaded with Erasmus to make his business with Elysium only, even if with the threat of a pay cut. A nightmare had stirred volatile feelings when it came to traversing Tartaros, and he no longer cared to partake in any dealings there. Besides, he suggested, The Elysium would need a full time bar manager when its activity rose.
Erasmus could not argue the logic.
It was why, when he met and talked with a certain Polyxena, he found the kinship between their likewise headstrong and severe natures that he could not pass up opportunity. Tartaros could not be expected to be run by one man, especially when it was a coven of cut throats and lechers. And Erasmus enjoyed pulling strings more than participating as a puppet himself. He needed a figurehead, something for the in-betweens that kept him as something a little more intangible. An ambassador, as cut throat as the rest. He invited her to the Elysium for that afternoon, though he did not offer an explanation past an offer to buy her drinks for the evening.
So it was, they waited then. Erasmus, tidying the inventory paperwork and Bernard, nodding off as he leaned against the bar. The dying rays of the sunset passed through the tavern warmly, their shadows cast sharp against the wall. The candles on the chandeliers had pooled about the wick and some threatened to drip against its brass bowl, all but two lanterns lit in the dark corner of the store. The sunlight that passed through the glasses cast prismatic shadows on the bottles of wine, reflecting off the ridges of the stone floors. There, besides the soft, muted crackling of candlelight and the hissing of a quill pen across paper, the quiet swelled sleepily, begging to be unsettled.
Today, they had only had one customer so far. A drunkard who took to passing tavern to tavern and found it apt to start there, as he said, starting at the cleanest bar and making his way to the filthiest, because by then the cheapest tavern and the awfulest tasting liquor meant nothing to him. He was a pleasant fellow for the time being, though Bernard remarked after the man had left that he had seen him plenty of times dirty and disheveled, sleeping on waste on the edge of the markets. He was clean enough when he was there, though it wasn't far fetched to think that he declined as with the quality of his accommodations. He only drank three pints of mead before he was on his way out the door, catching himself from stumbling once before passing up the road, and tipped well. In his absence the quiet returned, and thus they came to where they were.
The lack of patrons that day did not scare either of them – though the Elysium was newly open, they didn't take measures to broadcast its opening. The autumn rituals of Denocte had taken up precedence over the Markets – the memorials, the corn maze, and the whisperings of a haunt on the lake. They knew the festival would have its fill on its patrons, and then they place the fliers for their opening. Why not do so closer to the thinning of All Hallows Eve anyways, the way the breeze behaved so oddly in the tavern? Indeed, customers, though rare, had noted strange quirks about the place. The soft creaking of moving seats owned to no sitters, candles snuffed without a gust, one said that they felt a rhythmic breathing on their ear, followed by a whisper of something incoherent but frightening enough to rattle the rabbit-hearted fellow. Certainly a grand opening was worthy of a more precarious date, though none would understand its nature.
The catacombs were particularly quiet, that week. There were no guests as of yet, but the preparations were near complete. Despite the season, the haunts, perhaps the spirits had enjoyed the change of arrangements, or perhaps superstitions were best left buried. Either way, Erasmus, Bernard, and the two other grunts were the only ones who came and went, and while when they began making their changes they had fallen into an array of odd, frightening situations (of which scared away one of the original helpers) there were no reports as of late. Another thought was that they had opened the way between, and that the Markets were much more entertaining to haunt than the underground cells of which those spirits had walked for centuries. Regardless, Bernard, who was a man too superstitious for his own sanity, had pleaded with Erasmus to make his business with Elysium only, even if with the threat of a pay cut. A nightmare had stirred volatile feelings when it came to traversing Tartaros, and he no longer cared to partake in any dealings there. Besides, he suggested, The Elysium would need a full time bar manager when its activity rose.
Erasmus could not argue the logic.
It was why, when he met and talked with a certain Polyxena, he found the kinship between their likewise headstrong and severe natures that he could not pass up opportunity. Tartaros could not be expected to be run by one man, especially when it was a coven of cut throats and lechers. And Erasmus enjoyed pulling strings more than participating as a puppet himself. He needed a figurehead, something for the in-betweens that kept him as something a little more intangible. An ambassador, as cut throat as the rest. He invited her to the Elysium for that afternoon, though he did not offer an explanation past an offer to buy her drinks for the evening.
So it was, they waited then. Erasmus, tidying the inventory paperwork and Bernard, nodding off as he leaned against the bar. The dying rays of the sunset passed through the tavern warmly, their shadows cast sharp against the wall. The candles on the chandeliers had pooled about the wick and some threatened to drip against its brass bowl, all but two lanterns lit in the dark corner of the store. The sunlight that passed through the glasses cast prismatic shadows on the bottles of wine, reflecting off the ridges of the stone floors. There, besides the soft, muted crackling of candlelight and the hissing of a quill pen across paper, the quiet swelled sleepily, begging to be unsettled.
@Polyxena
