'The Stack of Timber' Public House.
City of Oswester, Dominion of Flavisia.
"Halitt, passes to Dvorov, beautiful play, he makes his run, back to Halitt, he's really moving now! The Stormers have no response...ten meters, five, Try! Three more points to the Citizens' tally with that beautiful try by the younger Halitt brother. That's twenty eight to nine in these closing minutes of this crucial game."
A roar of cheers and hollering errupted along the bar as a tidal wave of wayward ale and crashing stools, launching off-white paraphalia skywards. Rafe could do little more than cover his own pint, the day's fifth, as the dozens of patrons wearing the ivory livery of the Oswester Citzens began another round of boisterous chanting over islands of excited chatter and back slapping. He sighed, he'd little investment in the game, a distinct lack of interest in rugby aside, he wasn't a native of Osweter, he'd moved to the second city from his hometown of Hoxhall four years ago, full of self assurance and the niave dream that a record deal was just a few performances away.
The Hoxhall Greyhounds had been decisively knocked out by the Citizens in the tournament's first round, sent soundly packing to their coastal homeground a fortnight prior. He chuckled a melancholy half laugh, an omen of sorts, he supposed, casting his mind to his own meager apartment, furniture pushed to the walls, possessions boxed up, blinds drawn. He too, would be heading back North , this city had beaten him too.
The gigs had finally dried up, and with them, his savings, Luce' had walked shortly after. He was unsure what part his liver had played in the breakup, if any, but it was certainly taking the lion's share of the punishment. He cleared his throat, his eyes stung as he hurridly dabbed them with his sleeve, the tears and come unbidden, her half hearted reassurances of friendship still a very much open wound. He pulled his composure back with another swig, finishing the pint with a second.
He caught his reflection in the mirror, his long face and dark eyes cast with sullen shadows under the bar's green neon. Loose tumbles of blonde curls fell down to his side burns where they were met by an emerging beard that had grown more out of apathy than intent.
"Miss", he called out to beleaguered looking young barmaid, waving to get her attention over the din of the supporters. He motioned to his empty glass, "Same again."
***
"Rafe? Rafe Pietritt? That you?" a booming voice saved Rafe's beermat from further mutilation.
The day had grown older around him, the Timber Stack slowly emptying as its horde of jubilent supporters thinned out into the various bars and clubs towards central Oswester, determined to keep up celebrations well into the small hours.
Rafe turned, the room was emptier now, a group of twentysomething girls giggled amongst themselves, crowded round the white blue light of a smart phone in a shadowed corner. On a broad bay table, an arm wrestling competition was underway amongst half a dozen men in gaudily coloured floral shirts, petty cash rapidly changing hands as new competitors took their places, the nearby windowsill a skyline of stacked glasses and bottles. Across the bar, two older men played a game with a set of dog eared cards.
Rafe shook the inertia from his thoughts and straightened on his stool as the man who'd called his name made his way towards him. The newcomer was stocky in a way few Flavisians were, wearing his sable hair slicked tight to his scalp, the heavy set features of his swarthy face were broken by a wide, infectious smile framed by a thick bush of moustache. Arms covered in tattoos filled the short sleeves of a garish shirt of shocking pink and electric blue.
"Teddy?" Rafe responded, with genuine incredulity, his world dragging itself back into focus.
He'd not seen Edward Huwitt since college. Son a of local crepeire owner back in Hoxhall, card carrying, borderline devotee of the rock group Three Walls and all around comedian. He shook his head, last he'd seen Teddy his arms were decidedly less covered in ink, and it was his gut that proceeded him, not a barrel chest.
Embarrassment shot through Rafe like sobering blade. He laughed nervously, and hastily palmed the hair from his face, aware of just how downtrodden he must look. Teddy put him at ease with a raised hand and a chuckle. Drawing up a stool next to him, he signalled with two fingers to the barstaff.
"Long time no see." Managed Rafe, nodding his thanks as he accepted the ale.
"It's been, what? Four, five years?"
"Yeah, must be." Another nervous chuckle. "I'd no idea you were in Oswester?"
"Only just been posted here" smiled Teddy, a quiet pride writ large across his broad face "It's Lance Corporal Huwitt now, 8th Horse Artillery, thats my mob over there." He laughed, pointing a thumb at the jostling group of young men across the room. 'Sh*t shirt night.' He added knowingly.
As the hours passed and their empty glasses began to line the bar, the pair filled in their respective halves of the past four years, Teddy staying even as his comrades moved on, despite the light hearted jeering. Teddy had tried his hand in the construction trade before enlisting in the New Model Army following his father's death. Rafe's more off than on career in music, and his recent string of misfortune took them up to midnight, with the clanging bell of last call ringing through the room.
"...So I'll likely be moving back in with them until I can find my own place in Hox', honsestly...I can't stand the thought, literally cannot bloody stand it." slurred Rafe, his father's disapproval and his mother's inevitable faux sympathy filling him with dread.
"I mean" hiccuped Teddy, his face contorted with the heavy considerations of the great thinking men of old '"Army's recruiting..."
