by Bocca Tue Feb 28, 2017 4:12 pmNight | Crux
From Furcadia Logs
Kandake -- The air over the desert plain of the Crossroads was thick with sand yet to settle following the retreat of the day-market's wagons, creating an uncomfortable hot bubble that was as difficult to see through as it was to breathe on what may have otherwise been a balmy eve. There was little to see in the grand waste, save for perhaps the nothing the stretched on forever at either point of a compass, the occasional tent or covered puller, a grazing domestic or two (and their shotgun wielding guards) and, of course, Crux. Bodies trailed in and staggered out, heading toward inebriation or whatever numbed joys came after, and while most seemed on a mission to fill themselves with liquor or somethin' like it, a single, lean-bodied creature of the foxy sort seemed intent to offload -- well, something. A short pull-wagon of mixed metal-and-wood build was tugged along tight at his side, its top piled high with what appeared to be two-stacks of crates for their boxy builds; the canvas top draped over them and pinned in at all sides prevented any vision. He was hooded (middle figure), and tastefully exposed against the heat, displaying a physique honed to something enviable by most in an age where time was given in abundance but discipline came at a high cost. Whatever his business, he toted that wagon clear up to the doors and then pushed inside, letting loose a taste of the din within as he made for the raised bar and it's keeper. And he was damned pretty, too.
Bocca had long since passed the expert mark of study when it came to liquor. Being an alcoholic for nearly four centuries would do that to you. He had also passed the expert mark on studying, as it were, women, men, and everything in between and now, in his 379th year on this planet, he had no fucks to give on who was what and why. As the fox creature walked through the door, he had a brief curiosity as to what he was, for he hadn't seen a boy that pretty since the Tether, but dismissed it almost immediately on the grounds that he didn't care. The polecat himself was sitting in the corner booth, as he was wont to do nearly every day and night, draped casually across one side of it, one of his legs cocked up on the seat itself, his arm resting on the top edge to allow him to sip from the glass tumbler in his hand, his other half at full relaxation. His curiosity was piqued by the wagon almost as much as the boy that wheeled it in, and he watched from his position as he approached the bar. Polecat swung to a stand after a semi awkward shimmy out of the booth, garbed in a loose round of fabric that was more or less a shirt and a pair of well tailored denim pants, coupling them with a pair of dusty, steel toed shit kickers, all in varying shades of black. His walk was casual and smooth, for a man so distinctively 'mutated' with large black and white tail and a well groomed curtain of hair of the same tone resting along his shoulders, and a pair of semi triangular ears poking where human ones ought to be. He approached the young man, "What've you got going there kid?" His voice was a deep, chocolate tone, rich and indulgent, sprinkled with a touch of a clingy Italian accent that refused to be shaken. "Don't see too many wagons rolling in the bar in the middle of the night.""
Kandake's strut was that of a boy, calculated but not particularly stylized; it was the sort of walk that would be well suited on someone far less attractive - or someone as attractive and aiming to keep notice from it. The wagon was parked just shy of the ramp-like steps, where a wave was given toward the barkeep rather than any effort made to tote the thing up along its close-notched steps. A mechanical sound like grinding echoed from beneath the wooden platform as the individual steps became a single, wedge-like ramp, each folding forward to bridge against the next in an unending surface. The wagon drifted up along it without a hitch, and the pretty boy made his way around to the underpopulated, tight end of the bar nearest the kitchen door. He'd scarcely leaned against the counter top when the polecat approached, relatively petite frame exaggerated into excessive smallness from the proximity of the wall beside him. The covered cart was given a glance, like he'd never noticed it, though he mindfully maintained that that hood kept a shadow over the majority of those lovely, angular features. "Stock," he answered vaguely in a voice that sounded as if it sat on the cusp of puberty, silken in tone but jagged around the edges, with just a taste of depth. He didn't even trouble himself to look up. Looking up was risky business. "I ain't sellin'." A plausible assumption, considering the markets had closed but a few hours before - surely, a wise business person would aim to offload a little more stock before a long walk home?
From Furcadia Logs
Kandake -- The air over the desert plain of the Crossroads was thick with sand yet to settle following the retreat of the day-market's wagons, creating an uncomfortable hot bubble that was as difficult to see through as it was to breathe on what may have otherwise been a balmy eve. There was little to see in the grand waste, save for perhaps the nothing the stretched on forever at either point of a compass, the occasional tent or covered puller, a grazing domestic or two (and their shotgun wielding guards) and, of course, Crux. Bodies trailed in and staggered out, heading toward inebriation or whatever numbed joys came after, and while most seemed on a mission to fill themselves with liquor or somethin' like it, a single, lean-bodied creature of the foxy sort seemed intent to offload -- well, something. A short pull-wagon of mixed metal-and-wood build was tugged along tight at his side, its top piled high with what appeared to be two-stacks of crates for their boxy builds; the canvas top draped over them and pinned in at all sides prevented any vision. He was hooded (middle figure), and tastefully exposed against the heat, displaying a physique honed to something enviable by most in an age where time was given in abundance but discipline came at a high cost. Whatever his business, he toted that wagon clear up to the doors and then pushed inside, letting loose a taste of the din within as he made for the raised bar and it's keeper. And he was damned pretty, too.
Bocca had long since passed the expert mark of study when it came to liquor. Being an alcoholic for nearly four centuries would do that to you. He had also passed the expert mark on studying, as it were, women, men, and everything in between and now, in his 379th year on this planet, he had no fucks to give on who was what and why. As the fox creature walked through the door, he had a brief curiosity as to what he was, for he hadn't seen a boy that pretty since the Tether, but dismissed it almost immediately on the grounds that he didn't care. The polecat himself was sitting in the corner booth, as he was wont to do nearly every day and night, draped casually across one side of it, one of his legs cocked up on the seat itself, his arm resting on the top edge to allow him to sip from the glass tumbler in his hand, his other half at full relaxation. His curiosity was piqued by the wagon almost as much as the boy that wheeled it in, and he watched from his position as he approached the bar. Polecat swung to a stand after a semi awkward shimmy out of the booth, garbed in a loose round of fabric that was more or less a shirt and a pair of well tailored denim pants, coupling them with a pair of dusty, steel toed shit kickers, all in varying shades of black. His walk was casual and smooth, for a man so distinctively 'mutated' with large black and white tail and a well groomed curtain of hair of the same tone resting along his shoulders, and a pair of semi triangular ears poking where human ones ought to be. He approached the young man, "What've you got going there kid?" His voice was a deep, chocolate tone, rich and indulgent, sprinkled with a touch of a clingy Italian accent that refused to be shaken. "Don't see too many wagons rolling in the bar in the middle of the night.""
Kandake's strut was that of a boy, calculated but not particularly stylized; it was the sort of walk that would be well suited on someone far less attractive - or someone as attractive and aiming to keep notice from it. The wagon was parked just shy of the ramp-like steps, where a wave was given toward the barkeep rather than any effort made to tote the thing up along its close-notched steps. A mechanical sound like grinding echoed from beneath the wooden platform as the individual steps became a single, wedge-like ramp, each folding forward to bridge against the next in an unending surface. The wagon drifted up along it without a hitch, and the pretty boy made his way around to the underpopulated, tight end of the bar nearest the kitchen door. He'd scarcely leaned against the counter top when the polecat approached, relatively petite frame exaggerated into excessive smallness from the proximity of the wall beside him. The covered cart was given a glance, like he'd never noticed it, though he mindfully maintained that that hood kept a shadow over the majority of those lovely, angular features. "Stock," he answered vaguely in a voice that sounded as if it sat on the cusp of puberty, silken in tone but jagged around the edges, with just a taste of depth. He didn't even trouble himself to look up. Looking up was risky business. "I ain't sellin'." A plausible assumption, considering the markets had closed but a few hours before - surely, a wise business person would aim to offload a little more stock before a long walk home?
