For this particular red-haired fellow, history was a tool like any other. Sometimes it’d be a scalpel-and-sewing-kit for barbers; other times, a thick bagful of bricks. When he wrote, history was inside his bones. It escaped in every breath and he made no effort to retain it. The thing he did pursue, always, was a continuing education. For the larger portion of the past one-and-a-half years, he’d avoided the province. Circumstances both within and beyond his control had caused him to make that conscious choice. He paused, now, taking a long swallow of whisky, which was essentially history itself, and burned just the same. He summoned forth a particular afternoon and the evening that followed it and sought to learn what he could, having traveled the necessary distance, chronologically speaking.
—
The red-haired fellow milled through the crowds with some deftness. Despite that, his dress announced him a foreigner to the grand city. He made no show of adopting the latest fashions, which moved at a cannonball’s pace down a very steep grade; instead he favored a styling of shortcoat, vest, shirt, and trousers that perhaps had occupied a week or two of handsome fame, then receded into history.
As he moved, the disparity in wealth showed itself in what occupied the space beneath his boots. Dirt gave way to rough stone, then to cobbled stone and paved walkways. He pressed himself against the side of a building to avoid a crush of tittering young women and men — taking careful note of their physical attributes with measured glances — then pushed open the doors and maneuvered inside. The establishment was impeccably kept, and played host to tables, benches, chairs, and counter-tops arranged in strange patterns which were in fact extraordinarily, geometrically precise. Most of these aforementioned tables, benches, chairs, and counter-tops were occupied by persons of some degree of status; their costuming was fine and their speech was not coarse.
Nearly everything inside was carved from a sturdy, dark wood. Behind the main bar, which extended almost the entire length of the building, a girl — probably not older than sixteen or seventeen — seemed to dance back and forth, managing various cups and glasses with surprising dexterity; her brown hair danced in a ponytail; she wore an apron. A middle-aged man with thin streaks of gray in his brown hair and beard spoke quietly in the local tongue, but the weight of his presence commandeered attention; he also wore an apron. They were the only two employees. They served coffee in what was likely the most popular coffee-house in the entire city. Well, for this week, at least.
The red-haired fellow took a corner table, one of the few not already occupied, and immediately presumed an obtusely-angled slouch upon his chair. The table had very little share of the waning afternoon light from the windows. He gestured at the girl with two fingers; though she did not make eye contact with him, she nodded while balancing full trays on both of her palms. A few moments later there appeared two cups of coffee in front of him. In the span of time it took for him to look down at the cups of coffee then up, the girl was already back behind the bar. He hypothesized that she could be a fine actress, and made a mental note to find her should he ever receive rumors that this particular coffee shop had fallen into ruin.
He was still watching her, sidelong, when another fellow seated himself at the table. This fellow had a tremendous black beard, the sort that was both wild and cultivated all at the same time. He wore appropriate attire, given the environment, but it did not exactly fit him in an complimentary fashion. His black hair was cropped short — likely because if it weren’t, it would rampage over his scalp and out into the world like kudzu.
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