Date:?23/09
Time:?Early evening?
Location:?Brea town centre
Characters:?Sebastian, Virgil, open
¡°Be a lad and get me something to drink. Make it Irish, whatever it is.¡±
Virgil flashed the old man a boyish smile and nodded his head. Getting to his feet and carefully leaning his guitar against the stump he had been perched on, he took the writer's empty cup with both his hands... and skipped off with a pack of children at his heels. The raven haired young man knew were the booth was that belonged to the Paradise saloon. Stroud made the best alcohol, and had some kind of drink called Irish coffee.
That had to be Irish, right? It had the word right in the name. Virgil chewed on the little piece of dried mushroom that was jammed into the side of his cheek. Just enough to give him a good buzz, he didn't want to be high as a bird during the celebration. Not so early at least. He had to be careful hanging around Rosalind's grandfather, couldn't be too wild, right? He liked the old guy, he told some vivid stories.
It took him a bit to get the drinks, which in retrospect was probably a good thing. It gave the older man plenty of time to relieve himself before refilling his bladder again. The coffee was still good and warm when Virgil was handing it over to the writer. "You're going to tell another story, yeah?" he asked a little eagerly as he sat on the ground and leaned his shoulders and head against the stump. "Rosalind says you write them too...I write...songs and stuff" Virgil rambled, head in a happy place between the 'sroom and the alcohol in the coffee.
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