Don't You Dare Put Me On H.R.S.A (Fawne)

[Silas Rosier]

[atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=background,http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v321/1300666/Characters/Silas/Scripts/sigpostscript_bg.png,true][atrb=valign,top]	[rs=2][bg=ffffff][atrb=background,http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v321/1300666/Characters/Silas/Scripts/sigpostscript_mainbg.png][atrb=style,background-position:top;background-repeat:no-repeat;]   Silas had made a fantastic discovery. You couldn't call it safe - or even medically advisable - but it was a discovery none the less.   More specifically, he’d found out if he lowered his dosage of painkillers and kept walking hard on his broken leg, it would eventually force itself beyond pain and into a surreal kind of numbness. A bit like walking on it while it was asleep. Bizzare, but workable. So mornings were spent pacing up and down for an agonizing half an hour while eating breakfast, then as long as he stayed relatively active for the rest of the day he managed to do alright.   Well, that and staying consistently drunk. That helped.   Stupid? Definitely. He knew full well he was doing himself infinitely more harm than good, but the alternative was to sit there seething in his office waiting rip the head off any poor soul who walked in because the constant pain was making him homicidal. The only light at the end of the tunnel was that it didn’t hurt nearly as much as when he’d first shattered his knee into a million pieces, but that wasn’t saying much.   It was the tingling sensation of pain returning to the joint (and the fact his glass of liqueur was empty) that forced Silas out of his office. He’d been trapped in there for the better part of the day on damage control. Scores had weathered the storm of his absence (read: inglorious kidnapping) rather well, but here and there the confusion and lack of cohesion between the departments showed. All in all it could have been worse; without Jac the whole place may have fallen apart.   Jac. An issue he was going to have to make a decision on sooner or later, but that could wait. He didn’t want to think about her betrayal what she’d done just yet.   It was a relief to finally be out of his office and into the casino again. The high, mirrored ceiling and sounds of live music and idle chatter were a welcome reprieve from the odious silence of his workstation. Blackjack, craps, poker, baccarat, the clatter of chips, the sound of cards being shuffled, the clack of roulette wheels, the tumble of dice. Might as well all be the ringing of dollar signs as far as he was concerned.   The casino was divided into two floors, the top one dedicated to gaming tables which overlooked the casino main. He could spot the bar from where he was standing and he set off towards it, taking the long route downstairs just to be as harsh as possible to his leg.   He was fairly confident the leg brace wasn’t showing under his trousers, but the limp wasn’t as easy to cover up. The opulent staircase was a hassle, and the knee couldn’t seem to support any weight. The task of covering the myriad of knife wounds, bruises and savage burns was easier. A good suit hid a lot.   By the time he drew up to the brightly lit bar his broken knee had been successfully bullied into behaving. The place was only moderately crowded, but Silas’s attention wasn’t on the richly dressed customers. Since returning from hospital he’d gotten good at tuning people out so he wouldn’t have to deal with stares or questions.   His gaze drifted over the mirrored display shelves. He had a craving for some Ridgeback Single Malt that shouldn't be ignored. The bartender didn't even bat an eyelash when Silas slipped behind the bar to help himself; being the owner allowed him to do pretty much whatever the hell he wanted.   Now, if only he could find where they kept the damn bottle he was looking for, he'd be in business.	[atrb=valign,top]
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[Fawne Travers]

Her hands were folded upon her lap, cold eyes staring ahead of her at nothing in particular. She was tired, bored, restless. She was so many things, and sick of being all of them. What she wouldn't give to just unwind and let her hair down, but such a comfortable fate did not seem to be in the cards for her.
The last few months had been spent fulfilling duties to the tune of "higher education." Honestly, now that she had been settled in her post for some time now, she half wished she hadn't decided to waste her time as a teacher. The brats of today were snot-nosed and ungrateful, and Fawne didn't much like the majority of them. True, she found solace with some of the students in her own house, but she hated most of the little brats. Teaching was not an appropriate field for her...but no need to cry over a bad choice now.

Cracking her knuckles in her lap, she looked across the bar to those surrounding her. Idiots, all wasting hard earned money on rigged games. Fawne had no taste for gambling, so why was she even there? When in London, on a brief trip away from the castle, she felt like indulging in a little alcohol, and there was no way in hell she would waste valuable galleons at The Leaky Cauldron. The place, while needed to cross from muggle London to Diagon Alley, was not at all up to Fawne's personal code. As far as Fawne was concerned, any establishment that did not have a brilliant marble fixture or some expensive thing within the room was not a place worth spending excess time, and The Leaky Cauldron was about as well decorated as a rat's nest.

Heaving a deep sigh, she examined a nearby woman, who was pumping knut after knut into a slot machine. Her dowdy figure shook with glee every time a few knuts shot back out as her winnings, but even as Fawne watched, only sparing a few minutes, she could easily see the woman was losing more money than she was winning. The fool would be down about a hundred galleons by the end of the night if she kept up like that, which is essentially what the casino was looking for and why Fawne wasn't fool enough to play. She knew her odds and was much happier keeping her gold balanced.

"Martini here," Fawne said clearly, though not facing the bartender. She felt she was important enough to be noticed straight off, though as minutes passed and she did not have her drink, she began to get sulky.
Making a noise, no different from a cat's angry growl, she glanced up at the first body behind the counter she spotted, rounding on him. "It's bad business for you to just ignore valued patrons you know," she called scathingly, her eyes flashing dangerously as she sat up more erect upon her stool.


[[i'll make this prettier later, and sorry it took so effing long, illu!]]