TBTE

Broken Beer Bottles

Despite the attempt at a subtle entrance it was the bitter wind reeking of despair and ice that followed the nefariously handsome man through the

weathered door of the unmarked establishment known as the Devil Head's Tavern. The general clatter and dissonance of the horde in the main room resumed

as the hearth fire leveled out the temperature disturbance, allowing the stranger to approach the bar under reduced surveillance. The tavern owner by the

rather neutral name of Burel, no last name, faltered in his attempt at a smile. "Welcome, what can I get for you?" The dregs of that frigid breath of nature

clung to his brow and beaded sweat there as anxiety stirred from its slumber, the over used question rolling off his tongue without a hitch by rote only. The

newcomer made no move to divest himself of his damp outer layers, eyes focused in their perusal of the various untouched glass bottles displayed behind the

bar. Snow chapped lips offered two words in gravel, "Whiskey. Straight." At the nod of agreement from Burel the undeclared man found an empty table for

two against a wall, out of the way in an alcove, with only his black trench coat of sinister cut for company.

Within minutes of the order being placed the door that led to the poor excuse for a kitchen revealed one of the bar's employees. The slave of Burel was

armed with only a full tray balanced upon a single hand the other tucked at her side to slip through the rambunctious patrons, avoiding disaster with natural

grace. No words were spared for the drunkards who attempted to block her route, handing out offerings of drink and food, side stepping would be tormentors

and continuing on her way. Lengthy dark verdant hair was secured in a hasty bun with long bangs framing her elegantly pale features atop a slim frame clad

in a sleeveless charcoal shirt and faded jean mini skirt, sporting saftey pins and a few deliberate tears, along with a pair of simple sandals to guard her soles

against the old and new shards of liquor bottles. The thing about this woman that was more eye-catching than deliberately green hair was the iron wrought

collar around her neck, heavy and durable, covered in a pattern of swirls, waves, and trees framing a blurred depiction of a wolf. An empty exhalation of air

slipped from dry lips and exhausted green glass bottle eyes, as sore feet shuffled in the direction of her last delivery.

She had dealt with men like him before, disdain rose from collected experience in the face of the arrogance and entitlement displayed by those above the

station of slave. Burel didn't complain if his three expectations were met, that his customers were happy and she was not killed or crippled. Upon a glimpse of

the not-regular from her new vantage point the collared woman tried to determine the difference from the rest of the patrons; hues of inked black, warm

burgundy, and the subtle splashes of a deep blue set his aura apart from a differently colored crowd. Approaching him slowly in trepidation it was a finely

trembling hand that set about the task of placing three shots of whiskey on the table in front of the man that had altered her routine. Moving to leave the

weight of a cold stare boring into her shoulders sent her turning back around to watch the man with sapphire eyes, wary but silent in her apprehension. A

ghost of what once might have been a smile drifted across his lips. She was twitching inside, if that were possible. Fear threatening to rise her eyes focused at

the beginnings an adrenaline rush, he was truly no older than she was, maybe one or two years over twenty three. He motioned her into the seat across from

him, her expectation of something the only thing that smothered the urge to flinch. Leaning her empty tray against the wall she sat obediently. As his intense

eyes roamed her person from top to bottom she found herself trying not to blush for some odd reason, this had been part of her life, why did it bother her so

much that this total stranger looked at her. She studied his eyes in return, again there was the niggling of a difference. She almost arched an eyebrow at him,

she had seen only searching, not lust.

"So, as a slave do you have a name?" The husky voice of the man trying to obscure himself in shadows asked, sending a chill down her spine, yet she

suppressed a shiver. "Yes...it's Clarice." She replied quietly, eyes darting towards the bar, and then back to the stranger who was not only scaring her, but

was causing her mind to circle into a frenzy. Burel was talking to a regular, so for now she was okay. The man across from collared woman nodded, his

lengthy black hair hanging around his darkly almost chiseled features like the shadows he sought in the alcove. The attention with lack of malicious intent

made her skin tingle with the weight of his gaze. A person in a similar black trench coat slipped into the tavern without being noticed, a black brimmed hat

with an intricate silver design around its base shadowed the features of this new player. Clarice glanced at the stranger who had suddenly seated themselves

on her other side before returning her focus back to the stranger across from her and his inquisitive gaze. "Would you find out what the universe holds, or

would you remain?" The question was low and captivating in more than voice, the intent akin to the water dripping just out of her reach when Burel chose to

punish her.

Clarice grinned mischievously. "Why not? At least you have a chance of pulling it off." She answered with a wink at the slightly surprised yet expecting

expression of the man across from her. He nodded and downed a shot of whiskey, the person who had joined them took the other, she noticed that oddly

both of them had manicured nails, no polish, simply well kept. Gotta stop being so freaky. She thought to herself blinking and glancing towards the bar but

the stranger's friend blocked her view. The man who had offered her potential stood up while maintaining eye contact. Until I say otherwise, you say nothing

from now on. A skeptical expression flickered across the face of slave at the intrusive thought. As Clarice nodded in response a small part of her was grateful

that this mind speaking skill wasn't one of her jailer's. She was starting to wonder what she was getting pulled into; surely telepathic men were far better

than being one of Burel's slaves.

The faceless accomplice stood, blocking view of her from the rest of the tavern, and in return her view of it. The strange man nodded, and within seconds

Clarice was on her feet quickly realizing that she was being wrapped inside of the black trench coat of the hat wearer. Heat from warm flesh against her own,

causing a blush, she silently appreciated the darkness. The green haired woman kept her instructed silence, never uttering a sound as she was marched out of

the inn right under Burel's nose. Unaware that one of his prized slaves was being taken from his employ the tavern owner continued to entertain customers.

This is the first revised chapter of this story. Considering it has been some time, it might take a few weeks for me to wrap myself back in the plan of this story and pick up the threads that I have long since let fall victim to time and shoddy memory. Please be patient and feel free to critique.

Ja mata, Chocolate-san