In recent months, a pair of dark-skinned women, one blond and the other with purple hair, had been a regular sight on the second floor of the House of Volkov, or as it was known, the Wolf's Den. The one with purple hair, was always dressed for business, and her hair was always kept and orderly. Yet her face knew only of grief, and her voice, despite thumping with authority and power, was always muted. Whenever she spoke, it was as if she could only mumble. She drank heavily. As if actively trying to drink herself into a coma. Few may think that she had succeeded, but she would return the next night.
Her friend, while also drinking, only drank to pass the time, and rarely left drunk. They spoke in the Praxian language, but it didn't take a genius or an eavesdropper to tell that the blond girl was there to ease the other's pain. In contrast with the first woman, this girl was more rustic, wearing apparel that made her look like she worked at a farm, though one could mistake her for working at a themed love hotel, tending to a different kind of animal.
This was their routine. They come in at 8, drink until midnight, and then the blond would practically have to haul her friend out, arm slung around the neck as the girl in the suit refused to be carried out in an easier bridal position.
Then tonight, things were extremely different. The girl in the suit was there, but her friend wasn't. The last night, the country girl looked exasperated as the girl in the suit finally spoke her longest string of words since going there. The other seemed to be pleading, then became angry, and then started pleading again. Then they left.
Now the girl in the suit was there alone. Drinking at the end of the bar alone. Blankly staring at the ice as it slowly melted, her face always on the verge of tears. One drink after another, they disappeared. As her sight started to blur and her limbs began to feel like wet noodles. Yet strangely, her clothes and hair remained pristine.
She stared at her left hand. She had always worn black fingerless gloves, but her left hand was adorned with a blue one with white twinkling stars.
"Bartender. Another shot."
@EmiRose
Even though Rada's primary role in the House of Volkov was being a chef she still considered the whole establishment her place, both the restaurant and the bar. Which was why after finishing her shift in the kitchens she usually headed upstairs and either spent her time among the customers making sure everyone was enjoying themselves and no one was starting fights, or she stood behind the bar and watched over the place from there, making sure each jolly drunkard got home safe. That was what she was doing tonight. She had came in at 11pm and was cleaning some glasses, and from the corner of her eye Rada observed the purple haired woman who had been a regular in the bar for a while now. She and her blonde friend. But tonight when Rada had come in the blonde woman was nowhere to be seen, it was just the purple haired one. And as always her sadness and despair was so strong that Rada herself felt like the weight of the world was on her shoulders. One of many bad sides to empathy.
The woman didn't even have energy or will to argue or chat, she just...stood up(if what she did could be called standing up) and left. Rada looked after the woman with a frown, the way she was just completely and utterly defeated was somehow...annoying. Rada huffed a bit and proceeded to clean away the glass on the counter, kind of aggressively. The other bartender didn't say anything, but he also looked after the woman as she exited the bar.