Post by Mercy Cruz on Feb 13, 2011 1:59:14 GMT -5
Fangtasia. Even the name was gaudy. Mercy's dark eyes inspected the outside of the bar with an expression nothing short of unimpressed. Well, there was no accounting for taste, she supposed.
She stepped forward across the parking lot, her long cotton skirt flowing around her shapely legs. Far from the dark, overplayed clothing on the fangbangers, she wore a simple, earthy green tank top in silk, a long chain of gold, flat sandals, and a large wooden bangle. Her wavy hair was as untamed as ever, flowing down her back like a waterfall. If there was a dress code, she didn't fit it – not that she cared. It was bad enough she had to make this trip, much less play dress up for it.
She scanned the inside of the bar perfunctorily as if the King would jump out and announce himself at her beckoning gaze. He didn't, and she approached the bar carefully. “Whaddya want?” the keep asked, “We've got every flavor, you want the real thing find a fangbanger.” She lifted an eyebrow. So much for Southern hospitality.
“I'm looking for the King,” she replied, a touch of her accent still coloring her words.
The bartender shrugged. “I'm a bartender. It's only my business if he's looking for you.”
She rolled her eyes when he turned away, and cursed under her breath in Spanish. She turned her eyes to the ceiling, praying to Maria for patience. Mother Maria, please give me the patience to keep from killing this hijo de puta. Your devoted child, Mercy. Irony ran rampant even in her prayers.
Well. She wasn't standing around like a bump on a log until someone told her where to go. She spotted a hallway, figured if the King's office was in this stupid bar it had to be somewhere away from heavy beats and loud guests, and so she moved for the hallway. She would simply peek into room after room until she found who she was looking for. Pretty simple, really.
The first one looked like the sound equipment closet. Well. That was underwhelming. On to the next.
She stepped forward across the parking lot, her long cotton skirt flowing around her shapely legs. Far from the dark, overplayed clothing on the fangbangers, she wore a simple, earthy green tank top in silk, a long chain of gold, flat sandals, and a large wooden bangle. Her wavy hair was as untamed as ever, flowing down her back like a waterfall. If there was a dress code, she didn't fit it – not that she cared. It was bad enough she had to make this trip, much less play dress up for it.
She scanned the inside of the bar perfunctorily as if the King would jump out and announce himself at her beckoning gaze. He didn't, and she approached the bar carefully. “Whaddya want?” the keep asked, “We've got every flavor, you want the real thing find a fangbanger.” She lifted an eyebrow. So much for Southern hospitality.
“I'm looking for the King,” she replied, a touch of her accent still coloring her words.
The bartender shrugged. “I'm a bartender. It's only my business if he's looking for you.”
She rolled her eyes when he turned away, and cursed under her breath in Spanish. She turned her eyes to the ceiling, praying to Maria for patience. Mother Maria, please give me the patience to keep from killing this hijo de puta. Your devoted child, Mercy. Irony ran rampant even in her prayers.
Well. She wasn't standing around like a bump on a log until someone told her where to go. She spotted a hallway, figured if the King's office was in this stupid bar it had to be somewhere away from heavy beats and loud guests, and so she moved for the hallway. She would simply peek into room after room until she found who she was looking for. Pretty simple, really.
The first one looked like the sound equipment closet. Well. That was underwhelming. On to the next.
