#crescentcityopen

[theronathansios]

Cobwebs || Open

Theron’s lip curled in distaste.

He’d just finished shooing out some woman who’d come into his store with the intent to sell off her moldering brass statuettes to him.  He’d nastily shoved the box back across the counter at them, nearly upending the contents onto the floor as he gave her directions to the nearest pawn shop.  Most people familiar with the Quarter by now knew better than to come to him with such mediocre products, but there was the odd bird here and there who thought that they could outwit him and pawn off their junk to the antique dealer.

Huffing in disgust again after making sure the woman had left the store with only the items she’d brought with her he turned his back to the door to the spread of papers lining the counter.  One of his regular clients had requested he seek out a particularly rare book and it was proving to be a more difficult task than he’d first anticipated - but if it was one thing Theron loved, it was a challenge.  His best lead thus far was waiting on hold, having been put there by the junk-woman’s rude intrusion, and Theron quickly returned his attention to the call, apologizing in flawless Italian to the man on the other line.  

It was proving a fruitful exchange - the elderly gentleman, a bibliophile from Assisi excitedly told him that while he himself did not possess the tome, he knew precisely who to ask for it.  Theron’s joy at the revelation was short-lived however, when he heard his shop door open again and he sighed.

“Scusa, un momento per favore, Signore,” he apologized again.  Thankfully his Italian contact was an amiable sort and was more than happy to wait on hold again until Theron’s business was done.  The former hunter school his face back into a neutral expression as he turned to greet the newcomer.  “Hello.  Is there anything in particular that I can help you with this evening?”

[mathis-savoie]

Thunder | Open

It was a violently stormy night in the French Quarter and as a result, the distillery was rather quiet. Acoustic music played across the sound system, backed by the sound of the driving rain and crashing thunder, and customers sparsely dotted the room. Most servers bemoaned slow nights like these, but the truth of the matter was that Mathis didn’t mind them. On the contrary it was in the minutes between drink orders, often late at night, that he found the time to take inventory, wash glasses, restock bottles, and generally prepare for the day ahead. He might even manage the odd conversation with a patron seated at the bar, though he tended to field vastly more unabashed staring than witty banter.

The Savoie endeavored to be friendly. Truly he did, but he had a way of unnerving people, particularly humans. Perhaps it was his almost unnaturally bright eyes, or the single black glove he always wore. He’d considered both options (plus a dozen more, besides) because hardly anyone he waited on could guess at his true nature. That ignorance was both a blessing and a barrier, but even if no deeper connection was needed to open a tab and pour a round, the witch sometimes couldn’t help but fixate on certain things. Specifically, the fact that he’d once nearly escaped this city, and the legacy he’d inherited along with his name - a legacy that would’ve been better off washed away by the rain. 

It was six years ago that he’d slipped away on a blustery night much like this one, traveling from one coast clear to the other only to end up right back where he started. Some days it felt like he had a heavier heart and shorter chain than ever, and it was with a certain amount of envy that he looked upon a nearby table of college students, mirthful, careless, and apparently oblivious to the raging storm. They were roughly the same age as he was - but that was likely the extent of the similarities between them. Suddenly, the distillery door swung open, amplifying the sound of the pouring rain. Stirred from his musings, Mathis was grateful to redirect his attention to the figure that now stood, dripping wet, in the threshold.

“Nice weather we’re having,” the ironic greeting was offered as the door swung shut behind the new arrival, and already the bartender was reaching for a clean dish towel, “Here. It’s not much but you can dry off a little with this.” 

[laslownovak]

Summer Rain || Open

It was the one thing he could never quite get used to - the damn humidity.  

Louisiana was about as far from Serbia as one could get and despite over a decade of living in bayou country, Laslow always found the summer’s hard to handle with the stifling heat.  Thankfully, the distillery was well equipped with air conditioning and he could escape the afternoon mugginess in the cool oasis of the bar.  It was a slow day, as it often was early in the business week, not that he minded.  It gave him the chance to tidy up the place and bring up the new stock, among the more mundane tasks that came along with running a business.

His attire was simple, a casual gentleman’s outfit.  Straight denim and polished black shoes were paired with a white button down shirt rolled up to his elbows and a black waistcoat.  Still, despite the clean cut of his dress there was a bit of mischief about him.  The rolled up sleeves exposed a tattoo on the inside of his left forearm in the shape of a twin headed eagle bearing a banded shield - the crest of Serbia, and his greying hair was worn long and loose about his shoulders.  All and all an interesting character - but then again in the grand scheme of New Orleans he hardly stood out.

Laslow hummed along to the steel guitar strumming softly over the radio, polishing the shot glasses in preparation for the evening crowd when he heard the door open with a bright chime as it rattled the silver bells over the door frame.  He shot the newcomer a warm smile, draping the bar towel over his shoulder.  “Hello there, enjoying this lovely heat, hm?”

[ofmonstersandmasquerades]

Night Out || open

The club was quieter than it usually was. Probably because it was a weekday, and not everyone could set their own hours the way she could. Poor people with their desks jobs—it must get so boring. She couldn’t fathom it. They didn’t even pay well, and how boring must it be to do that day in and day out. She’d dabbled in those sorts of jobs over the years, but never for more than a month or two when she needed to make a cover more concrete. Which made it more akin to a game, because she’d be immersing herself fully in some new character or another. But having that be life? The thought was horrifying. 

Almost as horrifying as the fact that this man at the bar seemed to actually think that his pick up line would give him a chance with her. Which it did, almost, but not nearly in the way he wanted it to. She put on the bright, bubbly grin, acted far drunker than she was, and let him start buying her drinks. She laughed, leaned in closer, let her hand linger on his waist, and felt a flash of triumph as she confirmed exactly where his wallet was. 

It only took a little longer to subtly suggest a trip to the dance floor, and then five minutes after that to slip his wallet out of his pocket and into her purse. After a few more minutes, she added his watch for good measure after a particularly painful attempt at a transition to his car—an added tax because really, he was boring her to the point that she had to entertain herself somehow. She steered him towards another group on the dance floor, letting them close in around him, and sauntered right back to the bar, nodding to the bartender for another mai tai. A glance back confirmed that he’d already started whispering in some redhead’s ear, so clearly he wasn’t going to notice any time soon. 

[clarawinden]

Bayou Musings || Open

Clara sniffed the air, smiling at the perfume of the bayou as it tickled her nose - mud, Cyprus trees and water lilies mixed with the sweet smell of rot rising up from the swampy water.  Her bare feet dangled above the brackish pool far below the deck of her shack that stood high on stilts to keep it above the waterline.  It was on the furthest outskirts of the Ponchartrain compound, but that was by design.  She wasn’t born into this pack and while they’d welcomed her with open arms and hearts she felt more comfortable keeping to herself rather than living among them in full.  Besides, it was easier to harvest plants being further out into the bayou than the others and she could practice her traditional ways in peace.

A heron called somewhere deeper in the towering groves of Cyprus trees, echoing in the humid summer air.  Clara smiled and leaned back until she was laying down on the sun bleached planks of her little deck, folding her arms behind her head to cushion it as she stared up at the sun dappled leaves.  She grinned again, not bothering to sit herself up when she heard a quiet footfall on the little wooden walkway she’d built to span the open water between her shack and the next solid island of land.

“Tansi,” she called, using the Cree word for welcome as she always did when people came to visit.  “What brings you all the way out here to my little swamp shack?”