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1899 - The Hidden Hands of the Aether
LuckyDee:
While you were out, Barbara regained admittance to the kitchen and is recounting her dreadful rendez-vous to Ron. She's a good girl, really, just a little too soft to your tastes. Well, a lot.
Ron is soothing her half-heartedly - she's not the type to really listen anyway, especially when she's talking - but in his eyes you can see he's mentally lining up all the juicy details to entertain others with, possibly before the night is over. At least he has the sense not to start tossing these tales around so close to his kitchen.
Neither of them seems to wonder or care how this could have happened.
As you are pondering the situation, letting your hands go through the all too familiar routine of scrubbing the plates and cutlery, Mellie leans through the door from out of the common room. She overhears the running conversation and casts an annoyed glance at Barbara, then says "Josie, over here, love, we have a new guest."
LuckyDee:
The Lock and Feather Inn, ground floor:
LuckyDee:
Meanwhile in the common room, there's no sign of anyone having caught wind of the slight disturbance in the kitchen. It's going on 7 o'clock and the first regulars - the thirsty ones like Father Connolly and Cross-Eyed Joe - have already reported for duty. Besides them, there's plenty of people in the middle of their meal, including the nervous guy, who doesn't appear to be very hungry. He's had some of his soup, but half the bowl and half the bun on the side remain untouched. He's fiddling around with the spoon absentmindedly, and keeps looking about - throwing Hugo a glance every other minute, as if he just can't believe what he's seeing.
Klear:
Hugo notices the nervous guest is eyeing him. After a while, he gets the feeling it might be more than just intimidation and comes over to him.
"Mind if I join you for a while?"
LuckyDee:
The guy looks you up and down once, then seems to decide he has nothing to fear from you and visibly relaxes. A little. "Sure, have a seat," he says. Taking a good look at him, you notice his face seems like a paradox: he's still pretty young, somehwere in his twenties, but looks tired enough to seem nearly twice his age. His straw blonde hair, sticking every which way, adds to the impression that he's been through a lot before he came here, like being dragged behind a horse. His eyes contradict everything, though: they're bright blue, and seem to pierce you with an intensity unfitting for an otherwise helpless and frail - he's about 5'8" tall, and none too muscular - young man.
Looking for something to break the ice, he finds his unfinished bowl of soup. "Soup?" he asks, kind of hopefully, looking to please.
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