Deash12
Coffee Enthusiast
There was a grunt, a crash, echoed by the metallic clatter of platters and dishware. The patrons sitting below shifted in their seats, silenced their conversations and looked up towards the source of the commotion.
“Ah fuck!”
The sound of broken glass.
A man coughed gently and the tavern slowly worked its way back into its usual bustle. A plump older woman wearing a white cap and apron waved down one of her barmaids and leaned over to whisper in her ear. The barmaid nodded promptly and raised her dress so it would not drag on the ground as she walked, disappearing up the stairs.
He stared back into his reflection on the glass, hands planted on the basin of water that was set in front of it. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy bags creased below them. He traced a finger along the path that the scar made below his right eye, combing his fingers through his beard as the trail ran out. His beard was a little too long and the now mottled grey hairs bent off in whichever direction they pleased. The hair on his head, while still retaining some thickness, curled down over bits of his face, the colours fading into lighter shades of its formerly dark-brown self. He tilted his head down and lifted his dirtied shirt. His body was battered and weathered from the years. Scars were sparse, and mostly small, save for the jagged tear that ran itself up the left side of his body. He turned and lifted the shirt higher, looking over his shoulder at the reflection of the accompanying tear on his back. The exit mark was irritated and was surrounded by skin so white it was almost translucent.
A knock.
He snapped his head towards the door. Another knock. He muttered something beneath his breath, turning away from his reflection and making his way towards the door. He looked over the disarray of bottles and dishware, gave a sigh, and cracked the door open.
“Er… Dayter?” The barmaid stood straight, peeking in through the partially opened door. She spotted the mess and looked at Dayter, then back to the clutter, then Dayter again.
“Yeah,” he sighed, “what?” he coughed.
“Are. . . you alright?” the barmaid ran her hands along her dress, straightening it.
“I’m fine,” Dayter adopted a blunt tone and attempted to close the door, but the door was met with the barmaid’s foot.
“Wait!” she stuck her hand between the door and the frame, “I’ve- I’ve heard of you!”
Dayter exhaled quickly, “I don’t give a shit about what you heard, now go.” He swatted her hands away and nudged her foot from wedging the door open, shut it, and raised the chain to lock it.
“Dayter Arretez! I know you! Y-you were a Ranger once!” She yelled through the door, stomping her foot.
“There’s no such thing anymore, lady!”
The barmaid huffed, crossed her arms, and turned away.
Dayter waited until he could no longer hear footsteps. When the sound dissipated, he let his body slump against the door frame. Coughing again, worse this time. Breathing heavily through his mouth, his shoulders drooped and Dayter looked at the broken glass.
He remained silent for some time, staring at the chaos littered on the floor. The bent platters, shattered glass, strewn out bottles.
Dayter buried his hands in his tired face. He thought it meant something. Symbolised something. But he didn’t know what.
“Ah fuck!”
The sound of broken glass.
A man coughed gently and the tavern slowly worked its way back into its usual bustle. A plump older woman wearing a white cap and apron waved down one of her barmaids and leaned over to whisper in her ear. The barmaid nodded promptly and raised her dress so it would not drag on the ground as she walked, disappearing up the stairs.
He stared back into his reflection on the glass, hands planted on the basin of water that was set in front of it. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy bags creased below them. He traced a finger along the path that the scar made below his right eye, combing his fingers through his beard as the trail ran out. His beard was a little too long and the now mottled grey hairs bent off in whichever direction they pleased. The hair on his head, while still retaining some thickness, curled down over bits of his face, the colours fading into lighter shades of its formerly dark-brown self. He tilted his head down and lifted his dirtied shirt. His body was battered and weathered from the years. Scars were sparse, and mostly small, save for the jagged tear that ran itself up the left side of his body. He turned and lifted the shirt higher, looking over his shoulder at the reflection of the accompanying tear on his back. The exit mark was irritated and was surrounded by skin so white it was almost translucent.
A knock.
He snapped his head towards the door. Another knock. He muttered something beneath his breath, turning away from his reflection and making his way towards the door. He looked over the disarray of bottles and dishware, gave a sigh, and cracked the door open.
“Er… Dayter?” The barmaid stood straight, peeking in through the partially opened door. She spotted the mess and looked at Dayter, then back to the clutter, then Dayter again.
“Yeah,” he sighed, “what?” he coughed.
“Are. . . you alright?” the barmaid ran her hands along her dress, straightening it.
“I’m fine,” Dayter adopted a blunt tone and attempted to close the door, but the door was met with the barmaid’s foot.
“Wait!” she stuck her hand between the door and the frame, “I’ve- I’ve heard of you!”
Dayter exhaled quickly, “I don’t give a shit about what you heard, now go.” He swatted her hands away and nudged her foot from wedging the door open, shut it, and raised the chain to lock it.
“Dayter Arretez! I know you! Y-you were a Ranger once!” She yelled through the door, stomping her foot.
“There’s no such thing anymore, lady!”
The barmaid huffed, crossed her arms, and turned away.
Dayter waited until he could no longer hear footsteps. When the sound dissipated, he let his body slump against the door frame. Coughing again, worse this time. Breathing heavily through his mouth, his shoulders drooped and Dayter looked at the broken glass.
He remained silent for some time, staring at the chaos littered on the floor. The bent platters, shattered glass, strewn out bottles.
Dayter buried his hands in his tired face. He thought it meant something. Symbolised something. But he didn’t know what.
-
Last edited: