Subtle Hues-Pt. 1

From the outside, the meeting house was about as rickety a building as it could get; old, glass windows glazed over in yellow, paint faded through centuries of corrosion, both by time and conflict, and a lawn stained with dark spots. Some speculated that a car had been left here and there, and that dripping oil was the culprit behind the circular patterns, but only those that had grown weary of watching the hourglass knew the real reasons.

The massive buildings only entrance or points of exit were the two behemoth oak doors that had intricate floral designs running along the borders, and a forgotten language etched down the inner edges. Though of little use -as anyone that was there need not announce themselves-there was a great lions head fashioned to either door, with a a big brass ring firmly grasped in its teeth. Once through the archway, one left the inconspicuous, degraded, hollowed out facade, and entered a place infused with an immeasurable class; portraits of the venerable dead hung on the black walls of the dimly lit foyer, and a single candelabrum upon a round, wooden table was as close as one got to a warm welcome. From there, illuminated by candles that sat on gilded marble tables, a red carpet that covered the hardwood floor led into the main room; a spacious and elegantly decorated holding area that held three separate bars. Situated high up on the vaulted ceilings in each of the cardinal directions, were four chandeliers, each illuminating a quarter of the room.

With my back to the door, I could make out one relatively empty bar to the far left at the opposite end of the room, with only my father, another man and the bartender. Directly in front of me was the main bar. A much bigger deck that required three bartenders, where the others only needed one to operate efficiently, in the background were rows of only the finest spirits. Nearly every seat at this bar was taken, but few stood around it. The most crowded bar, was the one to the far East of my father. Though the main points of interest were the bars, there were factions everywhere; small little pods of the most prestige, each eying each other, like cannibal predators waiting for one another to make the first move so as to strike in a matter befitting all the great wars. Circular tables were scattered throughout the room, and those that had no interest in either cards or idle conversation, languidly paced the room, pretending to understand the high rise roof above their heads. I cautiously made my way to the other side of the room, toward the seat my father had at the small bar situated just left of the main watering hole. Occupying the stool next to him was my Uncle Rick, taking straight shots of tequila and chasing them with large swigs of Shiner Bock. To be honest, I don’t think I can remember a time I’d ever seen him drink water.

Having themselves a merry little time at the bar to the right of the room were the Strongs. Those that weren’t nose deep in a glass gave me a cheerful smile. I did not recognize all of them, but I could make out two members, Isaac and Mathew. The Strongs were well known for their impetuous, albeit just, manners; though quick to a passion, they were fast at analyzing whether or not the anger was deserved, which probably served a a reason for why they were one of the oldest families. The family next to them however, merely looked me up and down.

The Marquis were a notoriously stoic lot, always looking down their noses at any family that was not descendant of the Elder Triad; and even such bloodline did not keep them from looking down from necks that were stretched farther than they should have been allowed. I could feel the gaze of Marcus, lieutenant to the head of the main branch of Marquis, fall upon me as I walked across the room. Instinctively, I returned the favor, but he merely smirked as he took a sip of his drink, more than likely recalling how he had made a fool of me in my own home. As his lips parted from the glass, I thought I had seen him form a silent word, but I was probably just hoping for something that wasn’t there; a reason, or an excuse rather- anything that would turn my thoughts and make me sympathize with the already seething herd mentality.

Though the Marquis were part of the Elder Triad, the Strongs had earned their place in the Great Council, and were considered to be at least on par in terms of strength. Now, in the midst of something threatening to engulf their very way of life, fire and ice find themselves sitting shoulder to shoulder at the same bar. Slumbering giants, to be sure, but giants nonetheless.

My feet tracked the middle of the floor, and I could almost smell the whiskey in my fathers glass, when, from my starboard, I heard a cry of declaration. The Strongs had been singing their family’s drinking song for quite some time at the main bar, and already the other families had become slightly annoyed, but it was not until Isaac, one of the younger heads of the Strongs family, had accidentally spilled a bit of his Guinness on Marcus that the flames were truly fanned. Turning to the inconsiderate head, Marcus wore a very grave look of disdain.

“I’d appreciate it if you watched what you were doing, you gallivanting baboon.” Isaac didn’t appreciate the tone, and made it known. “Why not pull out the stick, Marcus? This is a meeting, not a funeral.”

Clearly unamused and disgusted that such a lowly entity would address him as an equal, the Marquis member was quick with his tongue, and even faster with his hand. In a fluid motion that would leave even the fastest gunslinger in awe, Marcus called forth a Desert Eagle and was quickly at Isaac’s neck. “How about we make it one then?”

”I’ll be sure to give your eulogy.” Isaac retorted coldly. Being no simpleton himself, the Strongs head had summoned a knife that was now positioned at the Marquis’ side, ready to strike a vital point.