Ava Telling Tales (tittle_tattle) wrote in theunboundic, @ 2020-05-31 12:12:00 |
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Ava was very, very far from home. Well, perhaps not very, very, in the grand scheme. One very, at least. Though, in retrospect, she was the farthest from home she'd ever been in her life, in a very, very strange land (which did, absolutely, require two verys), after taking her very first (and very long) train ride to get there, standing in the doorway of an establishment that billed itself as a 'palace' -- all of which did seem to constitute two. Perhaps even three. Yes, Ava was very, very, very far from home. And the proprietor of Antoine's Blues Palace -- a Mr. Antoine, she had to assume -- should be swiftly fined for such false advertising. Before her sprawled a decidedly Aurellian twist on what she'd hoped would be a familiar sight (despite having only been in the country for, oh, an hour). She was, in a word. Mistaken. Sadly so. At first blush, it looked Clovennian enough, but the longer she peered in past the clusters of customers, and to the stage (on which the band was, at least, playing blues as advertised), the more it seemed a poor facsimile. Of course, it was the closest she'd seen in Glynn so far, and one of the staff at the Rosier Manor had so helpfully suggested she give it a try, so she supposed beggars couldn't be choo-- "In or out, sugar." A voice from behind her. Ava startled, realizing how rudely she was blocking the door, glanced over her shoulder in alarm, hurried forward, and clutched her small purse tighter to her person as she profusely apologized to the couple who moved past her like she hadn't just been in their way. Well, she was in now, wasn't she? She scanned the room again, from the sparse dance floor to the gathered... Aurellians? Cloves with poor taste? (Though, did that mean she had poor taste?) It seemed all of the upholstered chairs and couches were grouped such that one would either need to be in a, well, group, or otherwise end up hogging the space that a group could otherwise occupy. Which meant... she turned her mildly scandalized attention to the bar, with open stools here and there. The bar. Ava did not often go out, back home. She had certainly never sat at a bar. First of all, there was a stool involved. Secondly, the way the patrons were seated, she would be forced to sit next to at least one person, or, worst case, two persons. Goodness. Putting on a (poor facsimile of a) brave face, the painfully-obvious Clove, in her long-sleeved black frock that left everything to the imagination, and matching black cloche hat, tried to very casually take a seat at the bar. She chose a space that put her next to an older woman, empty on the other side, and told herself very firmly in her head not to make this harder than it needed to be, because really, Ava, it was sitting in a chair, for Clove's sake, it shouldn't be an ordeal. Ava made it an ordeal. A slight ordeal. After realizing there was either a small hop involved or the leveraging of her hands on the (sticky!) bar top, she made it onto the bar stool and proceeded to act as if nothing at all out of place had just happened. She sat up a bit straighter, brushed some hair out of her face, and tried very hard to appear as if she visited places like this, and sat at bars, regularly. On the bartop in front of her, a bowl of questionable-looking... snacks... were exposed to the open air. To just! Anyone who wanted to put their fingers in there! Who knew where those hands have been?! She was, however, just about hungry enough after that nine hour train ride to consider the slightest possibility of entertaining the thought of the mere hint of the concept she might take a risk. The distrustful look she fixed it with, though, said otherwise. She wasn't at all sure if one could even order food at the bar, if this so-called Palace even served food, and that was assuming the food looked even remotely palatable. Could she have eaten on the train? Yes. Were there plenty of opportunities to do so? Yes. Was she motion sick half the trip? Also yes. As she warily eyed said snack bowl, something seemed to... move. Inside the bowl. Inside the bowl filled with things that should decidedly not move. Incredulous, she leaned in closer, hyper-focused, staring, and sure enough, some sort of tiny insect crawled out from under a shelled nut, as if to say, hello, world. An insect! Ava gasped, sharply and loudly, and jumped back in alarm. Luckily, the bar stool had a back, but she'd jumped backward with such force as to tip the entire onto it's two back legs, and if she hadn't panicked and given a small flail forward, the whole stool (with her on it) would've taken a tumble. By some minor miracle, it landed back on all four legs, hard, with a loud thud. Louder, barely, than Ava's heartbeat in her ears after what felt like a near-death experience, to the admittedly lovely tune the band was playing in the background. |