Melancholy Dreams

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: The Imaginarium
Just a starting post I did for a thread I have going on for a roleplaying forum.

The scene depicts Gavin, a captain of a re-purposed war ship with a troubled past who returns home to tend to the wounds he's received after a long night out in a troubled city.

For curiosity sake, if anyone is interested, the forum can be located at https://chroniclesrp.net/

Awesome admins and a wonderful group of people who are friendly, encouraging, and wonderful story tellers.

Submitted: February 08, 2019

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Submitted: February 08, 2019

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She was little more then a husk, a shadow of her former glory. In her hay day, patrons traveled from afar to pay tribute to the many experts who resided there. At one time, this proud three story building was a temple of pleasure, causing many to blush at the mere mention of the famed Captain's Quarters. Calling it a brothel would have been a disservice to the many men and woman who employed their craft there as trained courtesans. 

One above all shined brightly in her chosen profession. There were no words to describe her beauty in the common tongue. Her appearance was ever changing as well. One day a fiery red head, the next, a golden blonde. Her skills were unmatched, able to knead out the tightest knot or squeeze the trading secretes from even the most tight lip merchant. She was charming and funny and truth be told, what ever the occasions called for. Above all, she was caring, and that was not a facade. She did care for her clients but above all, she cared for the people of Alliria no matter their past.

This, was a house of pleasure however, where the wealthy sort out the comforts and delights one could only dream of. In one time, this section of the docks had been known for it's wealth, drawing in local merchants, artisans, and foreign nobility from afar to fill it's streets. The less fortunate also showed up here, hoping for the aid of the master courtesan with a warm heart. That was a decade ago, before the flames reshaped the district.

Proven to be to costly a venture to rebuild, a lackluster effort was given to restore the area to make it habitable for lower income families. Not truly part of the Outer City, the small area was more akin to being like the Areck slums in terms of appearance. It was simply a section that both person and time forgot, playing refuge to some of the city's less desirables in terms of people and practices.

Like many of the buildings that have been left standing after the mysterious blaze took hold some ten years ago, gone was the once beautiful gilded facade of the Captain's Quarters, a proud building which shun brightly in the sun thanks to a reflective pearl paint that cost more then some spent on their house holds in a year. Though years had passed, the outside walls were still covered in blacken soot, giving the building a very warn down appearance. The inside fared better at least, it's current owner seeing to it's upkeep. It's grandiose rooms had been converted to small apartments and saw to the housing of those who once worked there or their surviving families. It was his meager attempt at penance for his past crimes that saw the rebirth of this den of pleasure and parties. It was also a stark reminder of his failure and unwillingness to let go. The Captain's Quarters was his anchor to a past he both hated and adored and would forever be his moral compass. No matter how far he strayed, he would always return it seemed.

This night was no different regarding his return... And much like past nights, he would return bloodied. His steps up to his apartment door on the third floor were heavy and labored, the ship captain favoring his right side as he was sure his knee was bruised and perhaps swelling at that very moment. That was the least of his worries, being that the drops of blood that fell from his fingertips left a trail of crimson in his wake and needed his immediate attention thanks to the gash on his left arm just below his shoulder. Gavin had had a night it seemed.

Fumbling with his keys, he swore in a low voice as he finally fished the correct one from his ring and opened the door. Three steps into the darkness and he would pause, taking stock of the room before him. His apartment had always been simple as the quarters in ship, the Roci, where were he stored his creature comforts. That was his personal space. This was simply a dwelling for when he was land locked. The apartment's layout was simple, opening up to a small living space where a couch and table were kept, on the off chance he had company. Beyond that was a desk that sat beside the large window that over looked the docks below. To the left was a tiny kitchen to fix meals and beside that his privy. To the right was his small bedroom. 

The apartment itself was kept neat but looked barren. No pictures adorned the walls and there was a strong absence of personal effects, save for the two chests in his room which housed clothing and arms. At most, the desk in the corner beside the window had the privilege of serving as the throne for a ink pot and quill, parchment, and his decanter of whiskey. There was a smaller chest that sat there as well, but that was locked with it's contents kept from view.

Gavin looked about slowly, swaying slightly, from exhaustion or perhaps blood loss, before returning his keys to his pocket and closing the door behind him. The bolt behind him locked the door, a brilliant design from a dwarven smith that ensured he didn't have to worry about doing it himself. His string of swears continued as he took notice on his hand and moved to produce a kerchief from another pocket. He then used the piece of dark fabric to clean his hand as best as he could to at least stop the drops of blood from falling. Mumbling to himself as he ventured into the kitchen, he was there for a moment before returning to the living space with three glasses and a rag.

Tired steps were taken to the desk where the glasses were set down along side the rag he simply dropped in a unceremonious fashion. He then removed the top from the decanter and poured three glasses, two fingers each of the amber colored whiskey. With a sigh, he would slowly reach up, his right hand posed in a fashion to hint that he intended on picking up something that required care between his index finger and thumb. It was a practiced motion as he had performed this numerous times, plucking his false eye from cavity in his face with quick yet tender precision. He then dropped the eye into one of the glasses of whiskey.

He stood there for a moment, staring down with his one good eye at the remaining two glasses as if he was contemplating what to do next. Such a odd sight he should have presented in the darkness. His back to the near empty room, a silhouette against the pale moonlight that showered in from the window, fighting to stand still and failing against his current injuries. In better light one could see his dark over coat was stained with grit, mud, and blood. Some his own, most not. He smelled of sweat and the coppery tinge of blood, an alarming perfume. His long hair framed his face in a slick wavy fashion, supporting the truth he had been worked out enough to perspire.

"I have come to rely on my sense of smell a great deal... In my younger days I was trained to appreciate the skill a well honed nose could serve. If you paid close attention you could smell horse sweat down wind way before the song of their hooves filled your ears... Hell, surrounded in pine forest, you can smell the musk of man as they hunted you.... Here by the docks... That is a different scent all together... The smell of this brackish water coupled with shit...Fish and horse dung... Takes someone with a strong stomach to live here I guess.. Least that's what I first thought... What I'm getting at... Is despite such pleasant fragrant staining the air.... There is one note I couldn't help but ignore... Your leather...."

He was aware that in his sparse apartment, he was not alone. Sighing as he undid his sword belt, he allowed the two short scimitars he used that night to fall to the wooden floor in a loud thump that echoed against the bare walls. He then retrieved his eye patch from his pocket and wrestled with it to get it into place over his right eye. With that done, he slumped into his chair and reached for his glass.

"If you came for a fight... I'm afraid I'm spent for the night.. Allow me this moment of respite and I promise to be a better show tomorrow... Otherwise leave me in peace... Or drink... Your choice..." Gavin motioned to the extra drink he had poured, the thick glass standing there waiting to be claimed.


© Copyright 2019 Bren Velazquez. All rights reserved.

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