Highest ranking
#1 in utopia
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"It's about how your hips move," the hand that sits on my waist finds my hip, his fingertips trailing lightly along the fabric of my skirt. "When you arch your spine," he continues on, letting that same hand migrate...
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In this room, one not too dissimilar to that of the room before, just far better kept and harbouring a sense of cleanliness, there are about a dozen or so people scattered, seated in small groups, engaging in light conversation.
They sit about rounded wooden tables on small stools cushioned a dark emerald green and beaded with gold studs, ones having tarnished over time. Of two of the four walls, there is seating flush against them – the same cushioning, it's colour faded with aged stains to decorate, the fabric dipping irregularly from which I can tell people have sat for considerable lengths of time. The uppermost of these same walls I can hardly see. Perhaps behind the odd decorations, there is a pattern, but it's indistinguishable.
Never before have I been witness to these things that embellish the walls. Their organisation is unusual, but I can see the thought behind their placement; carefully judged so that they fit almost like a jigsaw. Large, circular black discs that are ribbed finely, pictures of colour, places I have never seen. Smaller, reflective discs too, and wall lights (electric much to my surprise) from which hang banners and bunting.
Similar to the furniture, the carpet has been trodden thread bare and is stained so severely it'd be quite easily to misconstrue the damage to be design. The same gold beading that adorns the stools runs along the length of flooring, about a metre away from the bar, transforming to a wooden panelling that has been scratched beyond repair.
Quite like the one in the room previous, the bar is furbelowed with matts of varying colours and sizes, with those very same pumps clamped to its innermost side. Behind it, a plethora of liquors, all different colours in bottles of difference sizes and shapes. Above in narrow racks, dozens of wine glasses hang upside down, held by their stands by the thin metal rods, nearly all of them hazed with a thin layer of dust that has taken respite on their exterior. Contrary to the larger glasses that fill the shelves behind though; those are exceptionally clean and I'd doubt it to be a far stretch to assume they are used on a far more daily occurrence.
The same balding man joins us, slipping straight behind the bar to join the far younger man that already occupies it. Him, dressed in a button down shirt with the collar casually undone, and tailored pants that hang low on his waist.
"Alright Yonda?" Kian greets, slamming his hands on the bar in the same fashion as before. Yonda looks up, tossing back the long strand of straw hair that's fallen free of the tie holding the rest away from his face. He grins exceptionally wide, then his eyes settle on me.
"You're a new face." He points out, looking me once up and down. I see though, there is no judgement in his eyes, more curiosity.
"This is Allora." Kian introduce, patting me lightly on my lower back to encourage me forward. I do so, lacing my hands before placing them on the bar, teetering awkwardly on the heels of my feet.
"Ah, 'my dream'. Seems fitting. I'm sure you're in plenty." He grins, tilting his head off to the side. I frown in confusion.
"Your name," Kian explains poorly. I take it upon myself to assume it may simply be the meaning behind it. "Yonda has quite the extensive vocabulary. Even knows some of the old languages, not that any of us understand a lick of what he says." My brows furrow further. Old languages? "Come on princess," he says, leading me off towards the seating.
