Sun-down, the hustle and bustle of Bree-town so prominent in the day of craftsmen, labourers. Market traders and the steady sound of hooves upon the cobbles as well as wagon wheels turning has faded. Lamplighters attend their duties in order to provide the faint glow needed for those coming out of the Inn of the Prancing Pony in the early-hours. Shadows creep softly over the cobbled streets and a flaxen haired young man walks them and he looks upwards, looming ahead of him the Trader's Gate which comes closer into view. Feet propel him forwards as he moves to creep beyond it though his head turning to the right, He notices a guardsman middling in age assuming first-patrol for the night on duty. A broad man with a rather large moustache who regards him without any sense that something would be dearly amiss.
"Evenin' Mister." He gruffly greets the man. "And a good evening to you, sir." Comes the amicable reply. Smoothly from the lips of handsome features. "Off t' the Pony?." "Aye, that I am." Comes the hasty reply. "Well, eh... behave yerself aye?."
"Of course, of course." The flaxen haired young man answers, with a smile that doesn't quite reach the deadness of his piercing blue eyes. Having no intention of doing so. He wanders on by then, heading into the Market Square which the great Boar Fountain sits astride. With a tip back of his head and a burning throat which he would long ago have grown desensitised to. He takes a leftward turn, passing beneath the archway of the Low Gate. It is not the denizens of the Inn or it's walls which hold interest for him this night. The last of the merchants in the Stone Quarter packing up their stalls for the day, and he pays them no heed. As he approaches another archway close to the Lowbanks Estate, he pauses. Hesitant, if he passed beyond that gate. If he knocked upon the door. If he asked for that woman by name there. A few silver coins in her palm and she would make it all better for him, wouldn't she? Take it all away. Bring him to his senses. The women of this world are plenty. Why give them all up for just one? He could already feel eyes upon him. The residents of the Alley were not fools. A viper's nest of beggars and thieves and prostitutes. The stench of poverty all around him. They were always on the look-out for the Watch, an advanced warning system developed by tight-knit groups who had affiliated for survival so that when the sporadic patrols passed through the locals can act accordingly. Such was the bond of community among Bree's down-trodden that there is nothing they loathe worse than a rat, thus investigations were oft stalled, or halted. Or hit a brick wall before they ever got off the ground.
It was these eyes upon him from the shadows that urged him to move. And move swiftly. He was a man upon a mission and committed now for better or for worse. A young woman steps out, leaning from a doorway. Bosom free from her bodice with a wide grin. "'Ello, darlin'." The words which followed her greeting far more crude than be described but nevertheless he stepped onwards, in spite of the woman coo'ing after him. Promising him a far better time than where he was heading. He took a deep breath inwards and persisted toward his destination. He was known here, he had no fear of being assailed. Why would they do so when he would part with his coin willingly? Even in a place such as this of seeming disorder and filth. There were strong-men behind the scenes, men who dictate who it is acceptable to rob, and who not to. And few step out of line. No, he feared not for himself or his purse as other men might not in the company of the known whores when crossing beyond the Mud Gate. Often in service to such men. He had been here enough times, mind.
Standing at journey's end. A seedy looking dwelling run-down and with a broken glass window pane. The sound of drunken debauchery and vice within and a rough voice greets him from a grim looking man at the door, "'Ey. Takin' it yer met Ruth then." The young man looks toward him, Glancing over his shoulder. "It seems so." Seaver replies. "Aye well I'm jus' warnin' yer, she ain' in miss Nora's good books y'know? Good job yer didn' give 'er the time o' day. Iffin she carries on she's goin' to get what's comin' to 'er I'm tellin' yer. She's been told once. Not twice. To scram." Seaver frowned then as he looked between the the man and where he had just come from. "Ah, right." He opened the door then to the brothel and dissappeared within. Lifeless and unenthusiastic. He had thought it strange that the girl had approached him so forwardly before he had even got to the door. He was not interested in this Ruth, or what she had done to earn the displeasure of the brothel.
There was only one woman he wanted to see that night. She would take it all away. He trudged inside.
The remainder of the night was to be but a succession of hazy memories, unclear. Unfocused.
Laid beneath the sheets of a strange bed within a room that was clearly not his own, he awoke then with a pounding head. On a bed-side table not just the bottle of liquor that he had brought with him, but a whole score. Slowly realising consciousness, He blinked. Wondering for but a few moments where he was, what had he done? What had he said? A sinking feeling within his abdomen. Shit. He thought, nauseous guilt overcoming the man as he sat upwards in the bed. Groaning.
It was a rare privilege to be allowed within the quarters of the brothel-keeper.
Seaver had been a steady enough client over the years and he and Nora Strawley had built up a rapport. Of course, he still had to pay much the same as anyone else. She never gave anyone anything for free. Vividly he recalled the contours of her feminine form, as well as vaguely the touch of her hands. Shit. He thought again as he sat upwards with his back against the head-board. He recalled speaking with her, he recalled words spoken vague as they were. Had he mentioned Neyaa? The night's events felt disembodied but slowly and surely bits and pieces came back to him. Just enough to give him cause to grimace.
He remembered them going up the stairs. He recalled the words she had spoken to him, the light-hearted banter in which they participated in. But not what came next. He recalled. What was this? Floods of tears, Nora's soothing common Bree-land tones, her soft embrace. Though not what she said. Try as hard as he might, he could not remember what it is that she spoke. The words, they eluded him as do the details of what it is that they did. Shame. Shame was what he felt in that moment.
But why should he be ashamed? He thought. He was not alone in his indiscretions. The absurd thing was they were not even committed. Why should he feel this way, why? Every time he had met with Neyaa Sunngifu of late it had been Dagramir this, Dagramir that. Well fuck Dagramir and whoever else. He sat and thought of Calilla Yishai, of the pact he had made with her the last they spoke that he would face his fears with regards to their respective loves as long as she would too with the man she'd met. He thought of the times he had begun to avoid Calilla's presence, simply because it did not feel right and he breathed out through his nose. He had agreed with Neyaa that they would not put a label on what it is they were experiencing after he thought he had lost her forever. Upon confessing his love to her, and she him. And things seem to have been going swimmingly ever since. He had enjoyed her company and she his. The love that they felt for one another unspoken, but pure. So oft had he tried to tell her that there was no other woman, only her.
And yet, he could not. A potent and deadly cocktail of anxieties simmering within. The thought of loving her, the thought of committing to her. Simultaneously the thought of losing her, fuelled by the tragedies of his past. Yet more ingredients to the concoction. If he does not commit to her will this remain enough, what they have? Is he enough for her, never mind? Is she losing patience with him? Does she feel what he is feeling with regards to him with another lover. He has not seen fit to correct her when she has alluded to the fact that she still believes him to lie with others after all. That would imply commitment were he explicitly to do so. Something he fears. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't.
Bleary-eyed, thirsting for water. He slowly rose like the living-dead, a pitcher of water left thoughtfully nearby by Nora which he gulped from, who was likely downstairs hosting patrons by now. The ambience of his current surroundings with thin walls and a multitude of clientele by now enjoying the services of the girls the establishment has to offer did not do much for his aching head.
Opening the door to stagger down the stairwell, immediately drawing looks from the girls and men soliciting their services. He frowns heavily in his walk of shame before a slender curvaceous beauty in her early thirties stops what she is doing as she notices the flaxen haired young man atop the stairs. Being mid-way through reprimanding two of the younger girls. Her soft brown eyes taking in the sight of Seaver, so dishevelled. So clumsily dressed. "Bleedin' 'eck. Seaver..." Her jaw dropped slightly. The young man so usually cool and composed, so well-put-together looking a sorry sight indeed. She waves her hand toward the younger girls, "Shoo, shoo. I'll deal with yer both later." Despite the warmth of her voice which could be quite captivating a sternness to her voice. She was an accomplished woman. And ran a tight ship.
She sauntered toward him then. At the foot of the stairs he forced a smile aimed at being convincing. Though she did not look convinced. Ushering him into a side room to take him into her arms then she looks up at him whether he wills it or no, lowering her voice. "Listen to me darlin'." He looked back at her, piercing blue eyes gazing at hers. Painfully embarrassed, she had likely never seen him in such a state, "I don' know wha's goin' on wi' yer, yer never call anymore. I've been missin' yer. 'Eck, the girls 'ave been asking after yer..." He swallowed then, "I tried las' night." She continued, "I did. But... I ain' never seen yer like that. Nay in all the years yer been comin' to me." He answered then quietly, breathing a sigh. "Nora, I uh... did we?." She shook her head, "No, Seaver we didn'. Look I don' know who she is 'n all. I'd 'ave never thought yer 'ad it in yer. Seaver 'ead over 'eels fer a bit of totty I'd 'ave said pull the other 'un." He dared not make eye-contact with her in that moment. Whether he could remember exactly what happened or no. He knew then in that moment, that he had said too much in his drunken stupour. "One minute yer were laughin' and jokin' and the next minute...' A deep voice called then from within the main room. "Nora, where yer bleedin' at woman I ain' go' all ruddy day." She prised herself from him and Seaver grimaced at the sound, "In a minute, Ned!" The young man frowning then as he looked to the source of the noise. The name it belongs to sounding familiar. He looks at her then dumbly. "Oh, look at yer, yer silly sod... look I've got ter go but chin up aye? She dunt deserve you, she doesn't, doin' that to yer. Listen darlin', if you ever need anythin' you know where I am."
"Nora, what did I..." She cuts him off, "I've got ter go!" She kissed his forehead, ruffled his already dishevelled mop of blond hair and skipped off to attend the man she called Ned. Wincing at the rays of sunlight pouring in from the window as he dragged his carcass out into the main room. He paid little attention to the man she spoke with as he dragged his feet out of the building onto the cobbles, making slow progress as he would out of the Alley. Ignoring jibes from some of the residents.
The question lingering within as he groaned and grunted lethargically all the way home. What did he say?
