order up ;; simon

[leila]

A grin curved on Aiden Quinn's thin lips as a round-faced blonde girl with a scandalously low-cut gown dashed pass him, gigging like a loon. He knew there was a reason he liked this place.

The tavern smelled of hay, blood and ale, the way mother nature intended social hotspots to smell. He practically strutted through the doorway and into the building with all charm utter carelessness that made him look as if he owned the place. It Was like a second home to him. A refuge, a getaway, a hiding spot from the unforgiving chaos that greeted him at the castle. This was heaven.

He turned his head to allow his gaze to follow the werabouts of the blonde. A frown creased his pale features as he saw that she was now very firmly placed on the lap of a bloke at least twice his size and, by the looks of it, attempting to suck his face off. That should be ME, a petty voice in his head crowed, but he shook it off and dashed over to the bar, taking an empty seat. The barman grinned as he recognized one of his best customers, and within seconds a pint saw shoved in front of him, sloshing ale over the edges into the worn counter top.

An idiotic smile made its way very quickly onto his face as other frequenters to this establishment laughed and waved giddily at him, most of them very obviously drunk as he hoped to be sooner rather then later. These were his kind of people.

Within a minute, less then half of his drink was downed as he whistled and issued cat calls to all the beaming women around him. Heaven, indeed.



{blech, sorry for the shortness}

[wellsy]

Simon skulked into the tavern, hands thrust deep into the pockets of a pair of doeskin breeches he'd stolen from a linen basket somewhere in Knighton earlier that day. It probably hadn't been the best of ideas - a peasant in a pair of expensive looking breeches were bound to attract attention, but the tavern was busy, and he'd already dirtied the breeches up a fair amount.

He wasn’t sure why he'd returned to the place. Frequenting a pub that used to be his local was a sure fire way to get him swinging from the sheriff's battlements, but some how his feet kept bringing him back there. There’d been no argument this time, surprising though it was, no reason for him to go storming off. He’d gotten in a fight with a disgruntled farmer that afternoon, but that sort of thing happened all the time. Today, he’d just wandered away from camp and ended up at the tavern. It wasn’t as if anyone would care that he’d gone, if they even noticed. The Greensleeves didn’t work like that.

When he reached the bar, Simon slammed a few coins down on the bar “Ale.” He muttered, not really paying attention to the people around him, excluding the innkeeper. He was dimly aware of the man he’d ended up standing next to, but anyone further away from him just blurred into the haze of the place. It wasn’t like Simon to be so sullen - he was often angry, of course, but he was almost always alert. In his trade you needed to be, or you’d end up dead. But ever since his chance encounter with Alice a few days before he’d been somewhat out of sorts, punctuated with massive spikes of anger. Not that he’d ever admit that bitch had had any effect on him.