Opening Title
09-18-07, 11:47 AM
Closed.
The Black Bottle Cellar was small and reputable, if lacking cleanliness. But one can't expect a dock-side joint catering to Scara Brae's generous fishing population and the occasional foul-smelling, fouler-looking overseas trader to achieve high marks in that respect. Not that anyone ever gave half a rat's ass upon noticing the grime and the fish entrails swept in on grubby boot soles. The food was hot, the grog was spiced and there was cheap wine and cheaper board available. Yes, the Cellar was indeed popular among the working folk this side of town. As was typical on most weeknights, a fierce vibration filled the air about the place, spilling through the open door along with smoke, light, and various displaced patrons who would crowd outside, huddling together whilst chattering over their tobacco. A fiddler played, his notes accompanying distant clanging bells from the vessels moored across the road. Hearing him, several of these customers gave a whoop and fell in and out of drunken dance, stirring dust that lifted along with the bar smoke into the starless heavens lurking above.
There came a loud crash, followed by resounding cheers. Those lenient enough to have been pushed onto the street from the sheer volume of the room inside rushed for the entrance, straining to catch a glimpse of the exciting fight surely taking place within. Old Woman McMurray's guttural croaking of displeasure could be heard as well, if the listeners were truly perceptive. She did not appreciate having her precious tavern torn apart.
The entertainment was destined to be short-lived tonight, and the bodies swarming against the entryway hastily parted to allow the passing of the offending party sent careening into a bystander. The tossed man pushed himself roughly away from the contact, simultaneously stumbling backward onto the road where his knees buckled. A bold figure reared silhouetted against the lantern light within, arms slung across her heavy chest. "I'll not have idle sparring in my bar," she growled, raising her hoarse contralto against the laughter. "Come back when you have some sense in ye." With a last, threatening glare directed toward the man lying prostrate on the street, the intimidating mistress spun on her heel and disappeared back inside with what sounded suspiciously like an exasperated and grumbled "Foreigners!"
The crowd dispersed, their attention returned to their own sorry affairs as the lingering patrons outside continued their conversations heedless of the stranger who remained sprawled directly in the path of an approaching cab. Just when the horse's hooves seemed about to run him over, the man quickly gathered himself and rolled out of harm's way, then finding the wooden signpost opposite the tavern's side of the street and propping his darkly-clothed form against it. Sharp bits of stone bit through the material of his pants, but the man did little to make himself more comfortable. Instead he sat alone in the shadows, chuckling dryly.
The Black Bottle Cellar was small and reputable, if lacking cleanliness. But one can't expect a dock-side joint catering to Scara Brae's generous fishing population and the occasional foul-smelling, fouler-looking overseas trader to achieve high marks in that respect. Not that anyone ever gave half a rat's ass upon noticing the grime and the fish entrails swept in on grubby boot soles. The food was hot, the grog was spiced and there was cheap wine and cheaper board available. Yes, the Cellar was indeed popular among the working folk this side of town. As was typical on most weeknights, a fierce vibration filled the air about the place, spilling through the open door along with smoke, light, and various displaced patrons who would crowd outside, huddling together whilst chattering over their tobacco. A fiddler played, his notes accompanying distant clanging bells from the vessels moored across the road. Hearing him, several of these customers gave a whoop and fell in and out of drunken dance, stirring dust that lifted along with the bar smoke into the starless heavens lurking above.
There came a loud crash, followed by resounding cheers. Those lenient enough to have been pushed onto the street from the sheer volume of the room inside rushed for the entrance, straining to catch a glimpse of the exciting fight surely taking place within. Old Woman McMurray's guttural croaking of displeasure could be heard as well, if the listeners were truly perceptive. She did not appreciate having her precious tavern torn apart.
The entertainment was destined to be short-lived tonight, and the bodies swarming against the entryway hastily parted to allow the passing of the offending party sent careening into a bystander. The tossed man pushed himself roughly away from the contact, simultaneously stumbling backward onto the road where his knees buckled. A bold figure reared silhouetted against the lantern light within, arms slung across her heavy chest. "I'll not have idle sparring in my bar," she growled, raising her hoarse contralto against the laughter. "Come back when you have some sense in ye." With a last, threatening glare directed toward the man lying prostrate on the street, the intimidating mistress spun on her heel and disappeared back inside with what sounded suspiciously like an exasperated and grumbled "Foreigners!"
The crowd dispersed, their attention returned to their own sorry affairs as the lingering patrons outside continued their conversations heedless of the stranger who remained sprawled directly in the path of an approaching cab. Just when the horse's hooves seemed about to run him over, the man quickly gathered himself and rolled out of harm's way, then finding the wooden signpost opposite the tavern's side of the street and propping his darkly-clothed form against it. Sharp bits of stone bit through the material of his pants, but the man did little to make himself more comfortable. Instead he sat alone in the shadows, chuckling dryly.