Galleons collapsed upon the beaten wood of the proprietor's desk. The man that disposed of his currency scratched at his stubbly beard, his long brown locks tied into knot behind him, flexed his hand rechecked the prices. Three nights would do, he surmised, shouldering his worn bag. His white shirt, slightly sullied by stray dust and perhaps the sand of a far-flung land, stretched over his form as he removed his robe and cast it down into the bowels of his bag. James Wake had always been a stickler for neatness, but in the past months, his compunction has been weighed down by years away from what he had once considered "civilization." Such was the way of seeking work in alchemy or "violent diplomacy." The former was a dying sector of work- far less glamorous than the buzzing world of potions, and much more specialized. The later a much more lucrative, if dangerous business.
The more world-weary James Wake settled upon a seat, and considered his accounting. The affairs he dealt with were mostly sealed and set aside. The grain of the wood flowed in a more familiar direction. He had a nice, quiet night ahead. Perhaps he could afford to relax...
"Would you like anything to drink sir?" came the call of a server.
"Just water," James waved the individual off. No, he was in no need to be inebriated. He had forgotten the taste of butterbeer throughout his days, and was quite glad to be rid of it. He placed his hands upon the table in front of him. One still had skin and bone, while the other had the same shade of brown the table possessed. If one looked closely enough, perhaps they would find some features in the wooden arm that resembled a nose, or even lips. He curled them up, forming a bridge with his hands. He leaned his forehead against him. He was really back, wasn't he? He did not wish to admit his lingering affection for London and its nice, neat magical society. Sure, any wizard or witch that walked the streets of england would contend such a characterization, but they had not borne witness to the blood magics of Thailand's beastmasters, never held a convulsing cub and end its life before it was forced to serve monsters... no, London's wizards were quite reasonable.
Perhaps inebriation would not be unwelcome tonight... but for now, the man fished a hand into his bag, summoning from its depths a book... its title hardly mattered... it was a pleasant distraction till he figured out which cuisine he could seek to sustain himself for another day on.
by James Wake Wed Jul 06, 2016 12:04 am