The Tavern at the Corner of the Mulitverse

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She took a step back, wondering with alarm if Mr. Henderson was whacking it with his walker until she realized she could see light. Calponia stared, her jaw slack as the outline of the door glowed, a moment before her wall swung open.

Calponia realized she was definitely not looking into Mr. Henderson's apartment. She looked out into an old world tavern, the scents of wood wax and a bouquet of alcohol pervading the burnt coffee scent of her home. Calponia swallowed, wondering if the abysmal state of her life finally drove her round the bend when a gravelly male voice called from within the smoky depths of the tavern.

"Are you here to answer the advert or not, girl?"

She jumped, searching for the owner of the voice, but unable to make out much of anything through the haze. "Um, yes?"

"Don't just stand there like a landed carp, get your arse in here. I don't like to leave the door open for long."

She stumbled forward before thinking it through, realizing psychotic break or not, the prospect of a job was too strong a lure. The haze cleared the moment she stepped over the threshold, further revealing an old world tavern motif with a well polished wooden bar and red velvet upholstered stools and chairs. Her eyes finished adjusting to the rather dim lightning, noting a couple of odd looking patrons situated around the room, not sparing her a glance as she bumbled her way towards the bar. There was a slumped over gentleman in the corner, wearing a black leather vest with what looked like a ribcage emblazoned down the front. The bone decoration theme continued down his leather pants. A rifle leaned against his chair, though it was fashioned to look like a human spine. She looked the other way quickly, not wanting to catch his eye. There were two other patrons present at the bar itself.

A rather pale man sat at the far end, dressed in a strange outfit that looked like he stepped out of a historical re-enactment a few bars short of factual, militant in style but resembling no army she heard of. He sipped a glass of dark red liquid and ignored her, casually scratching at a dried piece of food on the bar. His nails were far too long.

The other patron also wore costume, though he looked like a Shakespearean reject, clothes thoroughly rumpled and fake mustache askew. This one also ignored her, leaving Calponia's gaze to fall on the bartender.

His attention was fully on her as he rubbed down a glass with a rag. He was an unassuming gentleman of medium build, blue eyes so dark she thought they were black, brown hair, a few inches taller than her, plain features, not overly handsome, not hideous. Nothing about him stood out at all. He was probably the most utterly forgettable person she'd ever met.

If he gave her a job, Calponia would never forget his face as long as she lived. She nervously extended her hand. "Hullo, I am here for the tavern wench position," she said. Awareness crackled as both the pale man and the Shakespearean reject surreptitiously eyed her around their drinks. Her hand hung in the air for an awkward length of time until the bartender lifted a brow.

"Your hands are sticky," he said.

She dropped her hand, self conscious. "Sorry, I--I didn't expect the door to work." Did he know about the split coffee? How? The bartender snorted, setting the glass down to give her a once over. He pursed his lips, his expression unmistakably unimpressed. "What's your name, girl?"

"Calponia," she said, fidgeting.

He slung the rag over his shoulder, leaning back with his arms folded over his chest. Calponia furtively looked at the high slanted ceiling, feminine awareness pricking up her spine. Plain looking or not, the man was built like a brick house.

She looked back at him when he whistled. "That is one strong bète noir," he said, pulling his lip.

She frowned at him. "Benny who what?"

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⏰ Last updated: Aug 14, 2020 ⏰

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