[He watches it all play out of of the corner of his eye, as still and placid as any other patron nursing their drink. Anna's voice lacks the venom to make her truly frightening, but her presence is like a black wall. Bigby can feel it behind him, looming large as she stands parallel to him, and hear it in the way her hands slam the table with a thud like distant thunder. The hasty, retreating footsteps that follow tell him all he needs to know, as does the way she kicks the chairs in — another louder thud, storm clouds coming in.
The bar goes quiet then. The tables around them go completely silent, watching Anna as she returns to her seat. A few minutes pass before conversation picks up again, quieter now and with a distinct sense of unease. If all eyes weren't on her before, they sure are now.
The same goes for her eyes on him.
Bigby's seen this before. A shitty tavern in the Court of Stars is no different from a shitty bar in the Bronx. While Anna wasn't exactly subtle about it before, now she's outright staring him down, like she's begging him to notice her. She probably is. When you've been told you're not liked by every different kind of person in every different form, for over three hundred years, you learn how to read the writing on the wall real quick. You also learn how not to pick fights when you can.
Hunched over with the bar with his hands folded together, Bigby looks up and makes eye contact... with the bartender, a plump woman with circles under her eyes, and nods her over. He orders a refill on his drink.
All the while, he ignores Anna. Very blatantly, too. Almost defiantly so. It gets easier once the bartender brings his drink back over.
From behind them, the doors to the tavern open as a few new people come staggering in, the wind blowing in after them, and with it, the tavern's scents. Stale sweat, rotting wood, old leather. Cheap mead, wine, rum.
And under that, blood and fur and old magic, cold like the wind moving through the trees in the dead of winter, and twice as primal. Like the hot, stinking breath of an animal in the dark.]
no subject
The bar goes quiet then. The tables around them go completely silent, watching Anna as she returns to her seat. A few minutes pass before conversation picks up again, quieter now and with a distinct sense of unease. If all eyes weren't on her before, they sure are now.
The same goes for her eyes on him.
Bigby's seen this before. A shitty tavern in the Court of Stars is no different from a shitty bar in the Bronx. While Anna wasn't exactly subtle about it before, now she's outright staring him down, like she's begging him to notice her. She probably is. When you've been told you're not liked by every different kind of person in every different form, for over three hundred years, you learn how to read the writing on the wall real quick. You also learn how not to pick fights when you can.
Hunched over with the bar with his hands folded together, Bigby looks up and makes eye contact... with the bartender, a plump woman with circles under her eyes, and nods her over. He orders a refill on his drink.
All the while, he ignores Anna. Very blatantly, too. Almost defiantly so. It gets easier once the bartender brings his drink back over.
From behind them, the doors to the tavern open as a few new people come staggering in, the wind blowing in after them, and with it, the tavern's scents. Stale sweat, rotting wood, old leather. Cheap mead, wine, rum.
And under that, blood and fur and old magic, cold like the wind moving through the trees in the dead of winter, and twice as primal. Like the hot, stinking breath of an animal in the dark.]