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RebornSerenity
Star
- Joined
- Nov 9, 2014
McKready's was a steady job. It didn't really give her much in terms of pay, but it allowed her to blend in among the locals and seem to merge with the town. Bar-wench by day, wolf by night. Sarence made a good life here. Just another day on the job, men ordering drinks and beds. There were only a few bar-wenches like she, and they had over 20 tables to serve usually occupied by the filthiest and most unkempt men. But this was how she choose to live her life as a human. If she wanted to be one, she needed to act like one. One glass here, another there, pouring the whiskey from barrels and serving up their house specialty called the Kready Dipper. This was the best house ale one could order in the miles of country side of town. Travelers came from sea and horseback seldom just to taste a small swig of Keady's famed drink.
"Oi, Bar-wench." Piped up a man with beady eyes and a sharp nose. His tone was just as sharp. "Bring me th'special an' snap to it, or I won't be paying ye." He drawled in a rough irish accent.
Sarence wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist and her eyes rolled as she pulled out some Kready ale and poured it over some whiskey cubes, sliding it down to the man. The whiskey offset the bitterness of the Kready, making it perfection to the pallet. The man swigged it down in a couple gulps and eyed Sarence. "Oi, lass, yer lookin fine as gold, git on over here give us a wee dance." The man demanded drunkenly.
Sarence drew in a deep breathe through crimson, pursed lips. "Sir... with all due respect..." She spoke in a very soft tone, only a slight British accent could be picked up. "I don't lie with pigs." She turned and strolled off to get drinks for other guests. The conversation no doubt could be heard by her other customers, one man in particular seemed to pick up on it. She walked up to the mans table with her feather pen in hand with a peice of parchment. "Wha' will you be 'aving sir?" She asked softly. Her dark brown, almost black, shoulder length hair curled softly around her ears, her eyes a deep emerald but with enough shine left to show the life she had lived thus far. Her smile, though weary, was sincere and attentive. She didn't necessarily love her job but it wasn't something she despised either. The few customers who were rude or disgusting got treated well enough correctly that it suited her.
A whole pig was roasting on the coals in the fireplace, ale barrels scattered to and fro along the walls. The tables were hand carved, seating about 4 people 6 maximum along it's breadth. The whole place was lighted by a single torch-chandeleir above their heads. Created from elk horns and woven together with straw by Sarences own hands. She had been working here since she was 16 and it was pretty much home for her. The owner, Mr. Kready said he had rescued her from a fire - she didn't remember much about those days. She did remember that she was eight years old. She faded out of awareness until a voice said. "Did you get that?" She glanced over at the men that she was serving. "My 'pollogies sirs. I seem to have lost my thoughts, might'nt you repeat your order please?" She was ready this time to write it down properly.
"Oi, Bar-wench." Piped up a man with beady eyes and a sharp nose. His tone was just as sharp. "Bring me th'special an' snap to it, or I won't be paying ye." He drawled in a rough irish accent.
Sarence wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist and her eyes rolled as she pulled out some Kready ale and poured it over some whiskey cubes, sliding it down to the man. The whiskey offset the bitterness of the Kready, making it perfection to the pallet. The man swigged it down in a couple gulps and eyed Sarence. "Oi, lass, yer lookin fine as gold, git on over here give us a wee dance." The man demanded drunkenly.
Sarence drew in a deep breathe through crimson, pursed lips. "Sir... with all due respect..." She spoke in a very soft tone, only a slight British accent could be picked up. "I don't lie with pigs." She turned and strolled off to get drinks for other guests. The conversation no doubt could be heard by her other customers, one man in particular seemed to pick up on it. She walked up to the mans table with her feather pen in hand with a peice of parchment. "Wha' will you be 'aving sir?" She asked softly. Her dark brown, almost black, shoulder length hair curled softly around her ears, her eyes a deep emerald but with enough shine left to show the life she had lived thus far. Her smile, though weary, was sincere and attentive. She didn't necessarily love her job but it wasn't something she despised either. The few customers who were rude or disgusting got treated well enough correctly that it suited her.
A whole pig was roasting on the coals in the fireplace, ale barrels scattered to and fro along the walls. The tables were hand carved, seating about 4 people 6 maximum along it's breadth. The whole place was lighted by a single torch-chandeleir above their heads. Created from elk horns and woven together with straw by Sarences own hands. She had been working here since she was 16 and it was pretty much home for her. The owner, Mr. Kready said he had rescued her from a fire - she didn't remember much about those days. She did remember that she was eight years old. She faded out of awareness until a voice said. "Did you get that?" She glanced over at the men that she was serving. "My 'pollogies sirs. I seem to have lost my thoughts, might'nt you repeat your order please?" She was ready this time to write it down properly.
