Ranix Aurus
Languishing in Progress
- One on One
Charles hated London.
He hated the foul-smelling air. He hated the stream of sludge and dregs that its people called a river. He hated its pompous highborns, its equally haughty middle-class, and most of all, he hated the ignorant working class the most. Those people so entrenched in avoiding death that they had forgotten how to live.
Charles Wilson hated everything that the city could offer. And yet, he had once again returned to that personal hellhole.
The young man glanced at the signage hung above the establishment. An inconspicuous place right at the heart of London. The door creaked slightly when he entered, announcing his arrival to the pitiful amount of guest hanging out at this lazy time of the day. Their gazes fell upon this newcomer for a split second before retracting back, unimpressed by what they had seen. The bartender kept a stoic face, professional in his conduct, as he watched him making his way to the counter.
"May I help you," The bartender prompted. He had concluded that this lad, no matter how clean his clothes looked, was not of the nobility. His gait was too lousy, his arrangement unkempt, and there was an air of rowdiness around him. "Sir?" Nevertheless, a certain level of decorum needed to be kept.
"I would like to speak with someone in charge," Charles cut straight to the point. Vulgar, as the bartender would put it. However, his eyes grew wide when Charles produced a sovereign out of his pocket. The coin shimmered in gold under the ceiling light.
It was a custom-made golden coin unlike the Queen's sovereign. On its edge was an incomprehensible string of symbols, and on the center was drawn a simplistic figure of an eye.
"It's on the house," the bartender poured him a glass of wine before taking the coin and then hurriedly disappeared to the back. Charles tapped the glass with his finger, a slight smile on his lips. It seemed that he had come to the right place.
He hated the foul-smelling air. He hated the stream of sludge and dregs that its people called a river. He hated its pompous highborns, its equally haughty middle-class, and most of all, he hated the ignorant working class the most. Those people so entrenched in avoiding death that they had forgotten how to live.
Charles Wilson hated everything that the city could offer. And yet, he had once again returned to that personal hellhole.
The young man glanced at the signage hung above the establishment. An inconspicuous place right at the heart of London. The door creaked slightly when he entered, announcing his arrival to the pitiful amount of guest hanging out at this lazy time of the day. Their gazes fell upon this newcomer for a split second before retracting back, unimpressed by what they had seen. The bartender kept a stoic face, professional in his conduct, as he watched him making his way to the counter.
"May I help you," The bartender prompted. He had concluded that this lad, no matter how clean his clothes looked, was not of the nobility. His gait was too lousy, his arrangement unkempt, and there was an air of rowdiness around him. "Sir?" Nevertheless, a certain level of decorum needed to be kept.
"I would like to speak with someone in charge," Charles cut straight to the point. Vulgar, as the bartender would put it. However, his eyes grew wide when Charles produced a sovereign out of his pocket. The coin shimmered in gold under the ceiling light.
It was a custom-made golden coin unlike the Queen's sovereign. On its edge was an incomprehensible string of symbols, and on the center was drawn a simplistic figure of an eye.
"It's on the house," the bartender poured him a glass of wine before taking the coin and then hurriedly disappeared to the back. Charles tapped the glass with his finger, a slight smile on his lips. It seemed that he had come to the right place.