Brenna Morrow
a sprinter, learning to wait —
The familiar glow within the VlamVloed welcomed Brenna, as it always did, the headache-inducing glow of the already setting sun, and the incredibly loud noise of the streets themselves, blinking out of existence behind her as the door swung shut.
At least, as welcoming as any place in the Hollowed Grounds ever had been. She dusted away some of the dirt from her trousers, and set on her way across the tavern, the sound of music and voices, and the glare of candlelight cascading off of the bronze, somewhat obnoxious and overbearing, as it always was when she first arrived here.
She was grateful she still had enough on her tab to send the waitresses her way as soon as she slumped down into her regular seat, nestled in the back. Though she hadn't checked before she'd stumbled out of bed, and made her way here, she was pretty sure she had nothing left to barter with in her pouches, and hadn't been sure when she'd made her way here that a tab remained at all. That meant that tomorrow, or this evening, if she hadn't drank the reminder away, that she would need to come up with something else to keep the abysmal pattern of her life going.
It wasn't long before the inviting clink-shhhhk of a drink, followed by a regular second, being set down on and slid to her across the table met her ears. She didn't bother looking up at the woman who'd brought it to her, instead mumbling an incoherent sound of thanks, and immediately grasping it in her small hands, setting to work on the first of many she intended to polish off that night.
"Six left," the waitress remarked, before strolling away, the sound of her boot heels not quite fading out of earshot before the glass was upon Brenna's lips.
In a few easy swigs, the spirits were gone, and with it, the numbing, painful drone of her hangover washed away with it. The warmth spread from her throat, to her belly, outwards to her fingertips.
Six.
Not enough for a bottle to take home, glumly thought the young woman to herself, letting her fingers play along the rim of the empty glass, doing her best to feign herself into believing she would be patient, and drink the next slowly. She couldn't remember what had become of the one she'd brought home last night - likely discarded in the busy bustle of the Whisper beyond the sacred doorway of the tavern, or buried in the collateral mess of her house, somewhere.
Her birthday had come and gone a few days prior, not that she'd told anyone, or celebrated in any way, but to do what she always did: sit, dwell in her own head, and drink the day away, until tomorrow came pounding against her temples. Her elbows found themselves resting against the surface of the table, her spine bent, and weary, and her hazel eyes cast themselves onto the drink she battled against immediately tucking away, as she had the first. Her mind tried to stray home, to her siblings, to her mother, whether they had remembered, if her name had been of mention at their table - but she painfully shied away from those thoughts, returning her focus back to the reality of the wood grain of the table, instead.
A few seconds passed, and the glass was in her hand, anyway. Cold, smooth, beckoning to her with its familiarity, and bleak comfort.
Sips, she reminded herself, taking a hearty gulp of the amber liquid, tearing her eyes from the table face, to search the room that was too loud and boisterous (though it was truly not so), filling with others as the evening set down its starry blanket.
At least, as welcoming as any place in the Hollowed Grounds ever had been. She dusted away some of the dirt from her trousers, and set on her way across the tavern, the sound of music and voices, and the glare of candlelight cascading off of the bronze, somewhat obnoxious and overbearing, as it always was when she first arrived here.
She was grateful she still had enough on her tab to send the waitresses her way as soon as she slumped down into her regular seat, nestled in the back. Though she hadn't checked before she'd stumbled out of bed, and made her way here, she was pretty sure she had nothing left to barter with in her pouches, and hadn't been sure when she'd made her way here that a tab remained at all. That meant that tomorrow, or this evening, if she hadn't drank the reminder away, that she would need to come up with something else to keep the abysmal pattern of her life going.
It wasn't long before the inviting clink-shhhhk of a drink, followed by a regular second, being set down on and slid to her across the table met her ears. She didn't bother looking up at the woman who'd brought it to her, instead mumbling an incoherent sound of thanks, and immediately grasping it in her small hands, setting to work on the first of many she intended to polish off that night.
"Six left," the waitress remarked, before strolling away, the sound of her boot heels not quite fading out of earshot before the glass was upon Brenna's lips.
In a few easy swigs, the spirits were gone, and with it, the numbing, painful drone of her hangover washed away with it. The warmth spread from her throat, to her belly, outwards to her fingertips.
Six.
Not enough for a bottle to take home, glumly thought the young woman to herself, letting her fingers play along the rim of the empty glass, doing her best to feign herself into believing she would be patient, and drink the next slowly. She couldn't remember what had become of the one she'd brought home last night - likely discarded in the busy bustle of the Whisper beyond the sacred doorway of the tavern, or buried in the collateral mess of her house, somewhere.
Her birthday had come and gone a few days prior, not that she'd told anyone, or celebrated in any way, but to do what she always did: sit, dwell in her own head, and drink the day away, until tomorrow came pounding against her temples. Her elbows found themselves resting against the surface of the table, her spine bent, and weary, and her hazel eyes cast themselves onto the drink she battled against immediately tucking away, as she had the first. Her mind tried to stray home, to her siblings, to her mother, whether they had remembered, if her name had been of mention at their table - but she painfully shied away from those thoughts, returning her focus back to the reality of the wood grain of the table, instead.
A few seconds passed, and the glass was in her hand, anyway. Cold, smooth, beckoning to her with its familiarity, and bleak comfort.
Sips, she reminded herself, taking a hearty gulp of the amber liquid, tearing her eyes from the table face, to search the room that was too loud and boisterous (though it was truly not so), filling with others as the evening set down its starry blanket.
— a marathon runner, and my ankles are sprained
