Smoking Hut.

[Wikus]

48th-Fall-515

Vin's Smokehouse.

The walls that composed the building had certainly an interesting effect on the populace. At night, when all Akalaks returned home after a day of hard training, when all traders returned their goods to the wagons, and all sunlight was extinguished from the horizon, the smokehouse suddenly awakened. Those who felt lonely laughed, those who lacked family found friendship, and those that lacked training smoked vigorously throughout the night. It was impossible, on most occasions, to fit but another body without these walls collapsing - the ones who come first were the one to claim the seats, and those who came last claimed the floor. Race and gender meant nothing inside this well-advertised establishment, for every night those who glared outside their windows saw the dense smoke crawl around the streets, fueled onward by the laughs that, eventually, ceased once the lock froze the joy felt until the very next night.

But few knew what happened the next morning, for few customers are ever present when the door opens. It's ironic that none wanted to leave for the night, that begged for a few chimes and tossed coins in order to bribe away the rules, yet once the morning came and the joy could resume nobody was there to claim it. The waitresses came with long faces, tired like every day they had to close the establishment late at night only to open it again in the morning. Feet dragged across the floor, hands clumsily arranging the cushions that scattered around the vast venture. It always took a bit of time for them to wake up, to cheer up, and return their wide smiles to the customers that, as the day passes, slowly arrive to apparently never leave.

Wikus arrived on one of these murky mornings. With the dark clouds taking over the skies, the shade bestowed on the city submersed it into a somewhat morose lilt, the voices speaking lower, the laughs lasting less, and the smiles barely shining to the eyes. Wikus had walked the parks under this strange shade, he had washed his feet into one of the fountains, and even brushed his beard with the chill waters - but yet again, once his whims had finished, he found himself once again unoccupied as no objectives nor jobs required for him. The monotony called for him to leave, to pack and leave for the plains outside to once again have the comfort of the known, but today he felt strangely lackadaisical about the known. That is how he arrived to Vin's Smokehouse.

His feet brought him by chance, yet quickly he found comfort in his decision to remain sojourning throughout the somewhat enchanting routes that eventually brought to the Smokehouse. Inside, a few souls sat comfortably in one of the couches, chatting almost in whispers as they gave an occasional drag of their cigars. Another soul, this one surely lost, already drowned in spirits up in the bar's counter, and the rest - well, he was indifferent about any of them. As soon as he realized this place was dedicated to the world of smoking, he took the decision to find himself a spot in which, for once, he gets to do absolutely nothing for the day.

Away from the few patrons that were slowly forming a cloud below the ceiling, the lone man found a seat in one of the corners, in which a short, round table awaited for an user, a pile of cushions awaiting those who wished to sit on the floor. One of the waitresses came to greet him, starting to recite a memorized phrase Wikus didn't want to hear and that, after a few silver coins were tossed on the wooden surface and an also wooden smoking pipe came out from his shirt, quickly left the way she came before bringing a small plate of differently hued tobaccos. The whole day was ahead, so after leaning back against the orange padded wall, Wikus began preparing his first pipe of many.

[Minnim]

The Smokehouse was a place of refuge.

Not just for smokers, but for gamblers, drinkers, and ruffians of all types. It was where the unwanted gathered, and shared their misfortune with each other under the indoor clouds while resting their backs on fine pillows and cushions, some of which were likely worth more than any given patrons' clothes. It was not because of the smoke, or the drinking, or even the gambling that drew Minnim, for he was prone to none of these habits. No, he came to Vin's at the end of a long day for the companionship.

It just so happened that the end of his most recent, long, hard day, fell on the morning of the 48th of Fall.

Minnim walked into the smokehouse, pushing the creaking door open and immediately taking a seat on a cushion in one of the corners, his weary legs almost collapsing under him. He had been out all through the night, trying to find books that would describe what he would need for his newest animated idea. But try as he might, he had found little but what he already knew.

So, exauhsted and frustrated, Minnim had given up early that morning. Of course, Minnim couldn't just go to sleep to recharge; that was a luxury for the living. Instead, he sat himself down in the smokehouse for a nice, long, quiet, alone time.

With his deathly pale skin and sunken eyes, Minnim fit right in with the dark morning's visitors. There would be no suspicion of his worn appearance today, and for that alone, he was grateful. He paid no attention to the visitors who surrounded him- even the one at the table directly next to him- and continued about his business.

Stay out of my business and I'll stay the petch out of yours.

[Wikus]

Smoking a pipe, or smoking in general, was not something usual in Wikus’ routine. While it always felt good, the pipe had been associated with relax ever since he bought it so many years ago. It became a trigger for the calmness, and so whenever the troubles piled up inside his head or in his hands, a pipe would always ease the weight and instead submerse him in a placid lake that cleansed him of negativity. Besides picking and collecting flowers, smoking a good and strong tobacco was slowly becoming usual in him – not only because of the tense situation that was being amidst civilization, but also because he truly found joy in finding the better blend. Unfortunately for him, the one currently in his pipe was not one of those.

The soft tobacco flavor soon became a secondary problem, as he felt his privacy was invaded by one of the few patrons that had somehow cleared their schedule of tasks and jobs to instead sit right next to him. Even two tables apart would have been an issue, as he quite enjoyed the feeling of being alone even when blending amongst the crowd, and the newcomer only broke that notion. Still puffing his pipe in order to cleanse it of the tobacco’s leftovers, he’d glance at the newcomer somewhat discreetly, by no chance meaning to be caught in a conversation he both lacked the words for, and had no interest in.

It was a man, quite aged and almost turned cadaver by the looks of it. He couldn’t quite inspect his features, as stealthy gazes and close observation didn’t quite work for him, but he was definitely certain it was a man. Women of age were more likely to turn rounder instead of thinner, and this individual was barely surpassing the width of a twig. Also, the white beard was a pretty clear incentive for its gender, as so far no women had been brave enough to recognize their own facial hair’s growth. Surely, this man was about to fall dead any day now, for their use was none to those younger, and his hands would surely stop being of use to its own owner. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be here the place the man would fall asleep to never wake again.

Wikus shook his head, yet said motion quickly halted. He thought it was funny, that it was fine to make a jest on account of a man who is about to leave the world, maybe in his sleep where he wouldn’t be aware, or maybe while he was walking, drinking, eating or even visiting his family – which was worse, for he’d get to witness how everything around him disappeared forever, when it was him the one who was leaving. The notion of being laughed at because of one’s age was repulsive, and the fact that he himself made a jest on the account of an old man was obnoxious. Even he wasn’t young – more than thirty winters alive was not the age of a young man, but instead was the image of a man whom deserved a walking stick to move out of the way. Perhaps some even laughed at him, for being a man whom has nothing to do but instead spend the morning smoking a pipe and bitterly making fun of others.

Wishing to correct his mistake, he’d leave the pipe in his mouth as he instead brought his basket of flowers closer. The collection was vast and colorful, having survived through the night as he had yet to collect on this day, which would surely be in the afternoon. Many flowers bloomed in fall, but they were harder to find and harder to pamper. It was a Toad Lily what he chose to gift, a flower born in shadows and dampness, away from the sunlight. But, even if its origin is somewhat morose, it’s bright white color with a black-dot pattern truly opposed to the darkness, instead shining proudly amid the shade to symbolize, perhaps, hope.

He gently loft the flower, and casually dropped it before the newcomer in order to apologize to himself more than to the senior.