It did take a little while to update this…but here I am! I feel like writing a little…it doesn't take me long to write anymore. So let's see…what can I do to make this ficcy a little but more complicated??
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"This pub's not like a noble's pub," Slick explained dully. "New people get mugged, every night. Takes a little time to get used to."
It took the lanky man a while to catch Rey's wary glare. They stopped in front of twin doors, the words 'Blood of the Grape' engraved in a copper plate hanging above its frame. The red-haired man raised a brow with amusement. "That aint' a nice look. Get a grip, no one makes a fool out of Slick's friends if Slick has something to say about it."
"Slick can't say somethin' about it if Slick got no tongue," a man barked humorously as he shoved by. His comrades snickered, disappearing into the dreary building behind him. Slick scowled.
"We're getting' nowhere standin' outside in the dark," he grumbled. "Yer gonna stand there like that all night?"
Puzzled, the prince hastily shook his head.
"Good, now get in," The taller man seized Rey by the shoulders, spun him, and shoved him through the dingy doors of the pub.
Rey was immediately struck with an array of haughty voices, half of them drunk and joyous, the others bitter and ugly. The room was only lit by a few covered torches, though it's temperature was warmer and more pleasant than it had been outside. Sour ale an week-old vomit was the smell of the place, nothing less than typical for a middle-class bar that served certain poison in the majority of their drinks. Behind the prince, Slick entered with a proud head. He too, was greeted with angry, and welcoming roars.
"Slick, my man, ye did it!" A broad-shouldered, gray bearded man of his fifties approached the pair from the darkest corner of the room. He slung an arm around the frailer man's shoulders, giving him a brief squeeze. "Told ye -- ye could do it all right."
"Yeah, he did it all right," sneered a sunken-faced farmer from the middle table. "Mad 'enough to take the kid from his crib I'll wager!"
A wave of laughter and applause met his boast. Rey felt his cheeks begin to redden.
"Oh, stop it!" A petite, feminine voice cut through the bass-like rumble. A pretty-face female around the age twenty-five or so smirked through the grim light. She stood behind the bar, brushing a long, pale blue stand of hair from her eyes. She fluttered those same eyes in Slick's direction, leaning over the bar. "Slick, darlin', I've been waiting for hours…"
The hook-nosed thief bared his sharp teeth in a triumphant grin. He took three long strides to reach the stained counter, clearing his throat consciously. "Filly, babe, you're lookin' pretty."
The girl leaned away again, turning her face away on him. Loud guffaws were heard throughout the room, and Slick felt his face begin to flush. To the prince's horror, he lifted a single hand in front of her face and proceeded to give her a gesture that Rey had only seen his father give court officials behind their backs. The remaining drunks fell silent as all attention was drawn to that one hand.
However, instead of spitting, or slapping the man whom had been so wrongfully spiteful to her, the blue-haired woman returned the gesture with two hands, waving them in front of his eyes like a lady should never do.
Even before Slick revealed his next comeback, several throaty voices began to utter a low chorus. These men were the few who knew the lanky thief personally, and were getting ready for what they knew was next. Rey blinked, taking in Slick's next action with tongue-swallowing shock.
Two more arms, unfolding out from around the gaunt man's waist, offered yet two more hands to the girl's vision, extending those fingers that made the pretty woman's face flush crimson. Four arms, attached to a crazy-faced Slick, hovered there with four fingers split among four hands, there to show the wide-eyed damsel how he had beaten her – no question. He watched her stomp her foot and charge into the back room, slamming the latch down behind her. The room then erupted into cheers and cat yowling, while Rey stared on in silent protest.
"That's Jack's boy all right!"
"Slick, my man, that's the first time I've seen 'er run off like somethin' ate 'er!!" The thickset, middle-aged man from their previous encounter walloped the younger thief on the back. Slick squeaked, stumbling forward slightly. His hands clasped the edge of the bar, the man himself gasping for blessed air. The others around him chortled, while the cause of Slick's lack of ventilation stood solidly. "Ah, yer fine," he grumbled humorously, half-flopping onto a vacant bar stool.
Rey could only stare between the gaping four-armed man and his mentor. He barely felt himself move when one man grabbed him by the shoulders and sat him roughly onto a stool next to gray-beard. Feeling able to breath on his own, Slick slumped onto the stool he'd been using as his only support. The prince stil gazed on, the question blurting out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "Why do you have four arms?"
Slick grunted out of the side of his mouth. "Alcohol. Lots of it."
Rey raised a brow. "What-"
"I was talkin' to her," said the winded thief, gesturing at the shy-faced girl whom had crept her way back into the room. She didn't look in their direction, but began to prepare Slick's order anyway. His voice was clearer when he spoke next. "Was born that way. Why else? Thought ye noticed by now…"
"Not exactly," replied the prince, slowly. "Wow. I mean…wow."
Gray-beard chuckled through the mug he was currently drinking from. He set the booze down on the bar, planting an elbow on his lap and leaning forward to keep his voice low. "Damn me if it don't have its advantages, kid. Best fist-fighter I ever met. Knife-thrower, swordsman…you name it, and he's the best."
"Liar," mumbled Slick, crossing all of his arms. "Ye know I'm good only because of what I got and you don't."
"He's th' only modest thief I've met, so that serves him th' title." Gray-beard coughed, stroking the uneven whiskers on his chin.
Rey blinked. "What title?"
Slick groaned. "Oh no…"
"Ye hear that?" Gray-beard immediately bellowed, lifting his ale into the air. "The kid want's te know who my man Slick is!"
After a brief busrt of laughter and a loud 'thump' as Slick met the flat of the table with his head, every man in the room began a tune in perfect unison.
"Well Silly Slick's got lots of time, he'll never tell a lie!
These eighteen years he's gotten by,
'Lo, listen! You'll know why!"
"Holy crap…" Slick covered his ears with all four hands.
"Girls got picky feelings,
They don't wanna hear his name!
Lucky fool he used te be!
For none te play his game!"
"Those arms he's got, there's not a trick,
That he don't know too well.
Ask 'im who he listens to,
This's what he'll tell-"
"A'right!" snapped Slick, pounding the table with three fists. With the fourth, he pointed directly at gray-beard, who had already formed the first word of the next verse on his lips. Breaking down into uncontrollable burst of laughter, the drunken man sat back onto his stool. Slick scowled. "Ye proved your point, are ye happy?"
Rey was confused. He understood the song, however, it
was wrong. "I don't understand. You say he take orders from some superior, and
he's a virgin."
The room exploded with
howling voices. Slicks glared at Rey as if he desired greatly to end his life.
"But," continued the prince. The men settled again, simply aching to hear more of the favorable embarrassment. "That's not very nice. I am the same way."
Gray-beard choked on his ale, most of it spurting from his nose. Coughing, he seemed to shake off the drunken effect he had taken, and stared at the prince as if he were insane. Many of the men did the same. "What? Boy, are you madder than flies? Wit' all them girls you court, that's the last ye'd think te say!"
"Nay," chuckled Rey. "Those are noble ladies you speak of. They don't believe in that thing before marriage, my friend."
Gray-beard stopped gagging, wiping the foam from his bristly moustache. "Yer one sorry kid, prince."
"Yes…" Rey's cheeks flushed angrily. "I know. I know that very well."
"Well, Slicky here," Gray-beard jerked a thumb towards the glowering thief. "'E never had a girlfriend in 'is life. Say four arms creeps them out, they do."
"Women don't like four-armed men," echoed Slick, sourly. "It's a rule."
"'Sides Belle, o'course." Gray-beard grunted, and took another swig of his brew.
Slick caught Rey's inquiring side-glance and shrugged. "My dam," he explained.
"Who is he?" Rey finally found the right moment to ask that question. He nodded toward Gray-beard, again drowning himself with more booze.
"That'd be Gil. If ye think he's named after fish lungs, think again." Slick carelessly seized the handles of two bar mugs from a passing tray. They were full to the brim and foaming over with fresh alcohol. Passing one to a revolted Rey, he quickly downed a quarter of his own with a single swig.
"That's me name," admitted gray-beard. He tapped the bottom of his glass against the table a few times. "Damn, this is borin'. If ol' Baku were here, thing'd be different. Or mebbe Blank, but I 'ear he's on some special assignment."
"Ye know who I miss at these gigs," slurred a man a couple of seats away. He was probably the drunkest of them all, with barely enough strength to form distinguishable words. "Mr. Coral, folks…he'd give us somethin' te do, naw question!"
"Pete, shut it," growled Gil, jarring the man's barstool with a foot. "Ye know none of us 'ere like to talk about that man."
"Is…" Rey glanced between Gil and Slick. Slick looked away. "…Coral…isn't that Ama-"
"Boy, I gotta knife and it hates that name," Gil warned hastily. Through his mumbled words, he managed another swig of ale before continuing his deathly stare at the young prince.
"I apologize…it's just that he's my father's-"
"There aint a man here that don't know it," Slick interrupted. "Drunk or not."
"But the fool's right…" Gil went on, referring to Pete. "If that half-assed sissy were 'ere he'd give us somethin' to do. Cinna don't trust the lot of us, that's jus' it." Then, very unexpectedly, the middle-aged man's eyes rolled back into his head. Gurgling, he slumped against the bar, out cold like a rock.
Rey looked up, and blinked into the face Grabs, whom was holding a wooden club the size of his forearm. The shorter thief grimaced, tossing the makeshift weapon onto the floor. "That's my best friend's father yer talkin' about, Gil," he informed the unconscious man. "He's no sissy, and the only half-ass he's got will be the one he tears from your sorry end."
Slick sighed, scratching the back of his head with one of his right hands. "Mornin' Grabs. Have a seat."
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So? Comments? Feedback, people…feedback! Can't…*gasp*…live…*choke* without it! ^__^
