| Subject: Re: The Pigeon |
Author:
Cricket
|
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
Date Posted: 09:11:48 05/27/06 Sat
In reply to:
Captain Morley
's message, "Re: The Pigeon" on 09:46:25 05/26/06 Fri
There was no real need for subterfuge any longer, and certainly no real intent to involve herself in any market or business. There was no greed for gold nor desire to hold power in her hands, yet there were still many habits that died hard. Still at times, she would adopt a costume or conceal her identity for the mere sake of doing so, and while she did not believe that any price on her head was remembered, she was content enough in her anonymity these days not to want to borrow trouble, and so when out in the old neighborhoods of streets she had once dominated, it was often under the guise of a washer-woman or old mother. The latter was her mask this day. A cloak of tattered, rough, brown cloth had replaced hers of smoothe black. Rough clogs clomped and dragged beneath the frayed hem of a stained skirt, and it appeared to anyone that might take notice of her, that the back was hunched and gnarled, and the hair that peeked out from under the deep hood was graying and wirey. The sweet smell of pipe smoke clung to the old woman, as did the underlying smells of garlic and something more telling, urine. It was enough to have most wrinkling their noses and turning the other way in disgust, and avoiding the old woman as quickly as possible. Exactly the way she preferred it. Even the hands that poked out from the heavy sleeves appeared aged, albeit half covered with woolen gloves, the fingers cut away to show what appeared to be yellowing nails. She took great pains to mask even the tiniest things, though these days it was for no more than for her own twisted enjoyment.
The old clay pipe was held in her teeth, smoke clinging and curling to the shadows about the hood masked face, and had been as she had neared the sound of the shot. Might have known it was close to the Salty Dog. Despite the cowled hood, glimpses of her face could still be stolen, and that might have been the one tell had she not taken as great a pain to smudge the skin with coal dust in just the right places to make even a shadowed glance appear to be just the face of a gaunt old woman.
She had no intention of visiting the Salty Dog, nor any of the taverns along the wharf except the Dockside, but she did find a certain bitter enjoyment in traversing these old alleyways and the rutted streets she had so often lived in during her life, and in pinpointing the sound of the lone shot. It was this, in the guise of the day, that she would bear witness to a most intriguing sight. In the narrow alleys behind the Salty Dog, she caught sight of tavern wench, chuckling in her hearty way with two others. Crickets brow arched slightly to catch a stain of crimson on the wenches blouse, while no injury seemed to be apparent. The sight of this did not last long, for the threesome were only in the back alley a moment or two, as if enjoying some joke amongst themselves away from the eyes of others. Once again, alone in the alley, she drew back to the shadows once more, contemplating what she had just seen. The tavern wench had been here for a long time..long enough that most knew the buxom woman if they had ever been here. Cricket herself knew the employer, if not the name of the woman herself, and it was enough, to kindle a little curiousity in the old roguess. What was old Bob up to now? She wondered. Perhaps it was simply boredom that allowed the curiousity to take hold, but unfortunately, there would be little more that she would witness.
She felt a certain edge as in the guise of the old mother, she shuffled inside of the tavern, and sought a table closest the door. It wasnt Mary that would eventually bring her a cup, but another, younger wench, quite lovely was she, and with the glow that said she had recently been upstairs. The voice that gave a gruff word of appreciation at the service was one that sounded as gravelled and as aged as the old mother appeared, a dry and wheezing cackle only completing the masquerade, as the old woman seemed happy with her pipe and her cup. No sign of old Bob..no sign of Mary, but still, the place seemed as though it was calming down after an uproar. Enough time passed that the old woman became just another common face in the Salty Dog, and she could enjoy an hour or so in simply watching.
One could learn a great deal in that way.
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
| |
Feedback: 