Friday at the Fool and Flagon (Trixie) Oct 30, 2015 22:40:55 GMT -6
Post by octavia on Oct 30, 2015 22:40:55 GMT -6
Octavia had fallen back into her chair, the top of Alicia resting in the tidy fluff of her winter-coated chest, and she let the cello's bow down gently on the floor and let out a groan throughout the apartment that echoed into the wood stove and out through the chimney of the building. "This is so hellishly ... grrrr! Swear, one would be right to assume that I just learned how to play you ten minutes ago or that I've otherwise gone quite simple in my young age!" She sat up with a total slouch, the neck of the instrument on her shoulder. "Right ... no need to sand myself over this and persist for the night, surely time out would be wiser." She sighed to herself and sat up properly. "This calls for relaxing dynamism or such ... somehow ..."
About an hour later, her mint-laden breath fogging up in the freezing Canterlot night, Octavia approached an establishment she had seen many times in passing along the Royal Boulevard in Oldtown: an especially old, wide pub, full-timbered and on a foot-high cobblestone foundation, the windows all lumpy amber panes in diamond-pattern iron framing. From a swinging sign was a painted carving of a pony slipping on a slick of spilled ale and the letting: "Fool and Flagon." Smoke emerged from both chimneys smelling of the usual pine and cedar Canterlot burned year-round, but also the slight crispy scent of cooked foods, nuts and onions and carrots. And at the sight of the place, she cringed a little, head tilting side-to-side as she thought about what must be inside.
Upon entering, she looked down and unwrapped her scarf, just in case some offense to her senses made her need to disguise a grimace necessary. When she looked up at the pub around, her expression ... relaxed rather quickly. The bar was incredibly vast and old, but exquisitely carved, two hearths at either side of the pub full of warm fires, a fiddler playing by improvisation, clearly, but in a suitable pianissimo delivery, easygoing she supposed. Perhaps, she thought, the location would prove to be anything but foul, with not even a single drooling brute fresh off the train to be concerned over! But where to relax ... where to try and collect some sort of musical composure ... She scanned the pub with a casual polish.