Post by Dodger on Sept 10, 2019 0:37:21 GMT
(January 26th. Open to all Gilded Wings!)
The inside of the Snuggly Duckling was dim. Mood lighting. Good for bums hiding in shadows and guys who were bad news looking to get lost in ale. Not great for showboating entrances.
The beat of the Gilded Wings was a subtle piano medley. Pretty to hear, but it slipped from one melody to a completely different one without its audience noticing. Fine for working crowds, grabbing loot and dishing it out to the underdogs. But that was out on the streets, in the woods, under the drum of war. Why did the underground network’s pad have to be so...underground?
Keeping a low profile had its time and place. Homecoming wasn’t it for New York’s Coolest Quadruped.
The trapdoor beneath the counter burst upward with a wooden creak. Out of it’s tunneled darkness sailed a dull green sack, which arched gracefully through the smoky bar room and snagged perfectly on a hanging light. The sack’s contents slid from it’s opening, raining quite a few Coronan coins and even what looked to be a belt with a rearing gold lion for the buckle to the tables below.
Into this brass-and-gold shower dropped Dodger. The terrier looked relaxed in every curve of his slouching pose, not at all like an animal standing in the center of the only sorry excuse for a spotlight during dinner time. But however coolly lidded his eyes were, they’d swept the Snuggly Duckling clean before he’d thrown his sack. Only Gilded Wings present—no customers of the war-fighting variety. Hey, he marched to his own beat, but the Dodge knew better than to stir up that kind of trouble. ‘Specially at the end of a successful day.
Satisfied that enough eyes were on him, Dodger’s cocked hears bounced as he inclined his head around the room with an air of nonchalance. “Smells like cold hard cash for dinner,” purred the mustache, grinning slyly.
A link of sausages and two packages from the butcher’s made their thudding landings among the coins. “With a side’a sausage, courtesy of The Dodge.” He swept a benevolent sidewalk-colored foreleg at his haul. With luck, one of his new audience would ask how he’d brought in so much dough.
Maybe their base was in a tavern, but old habits died hard. Fagin’s finest couldn’t see grub and not swipe it. Looking perfectly content whether he got the attention he deserved or not, Dodger scooped a package of meat into the air and caught it again in his broad mouth. He tossed a wink at the first female he saw and settled down, bold as you please, atop the table to chow.
The inside of the Snuggly Duckling was dim. Mood lighting. Good for bums hiding in shadows and guys who were bad news looking to get lost in ale. Not great for showboating entrances.
The beat of the Gilded Wings was a subtle piano medley. Pretty to hear, but it slipped from one melody to a completely different one without its audience noticing. Fine for working crowds, grabbing loot and dishing it out to the underdogs. But that was out on the streets, in the woods, under the drum of war. Why did the underground network’s pad have to be so...underground?
Keeping a low profile had its time and place. Homecoming wasn’t it for New York’s Coolest Quadruped.
The trapdoor beneath the counter burst upward with a wooden creak. Out of it’s tunneled darkness sailed a dull green sack, which arched gracefully through the smoky bar room and snagged perfectly on a hanging light. The sack’s contents slid from it’s opening, raining quite a few Coronan coins and even what looked to be a belt with a rearing gold lion for the buckle to the tables below.
Into this brass-and-gold shower dropped Dodger. The terrier looked relaxed in every curve of his slouching pose, not at all like an animal standing in the center of the only sorry excuse for a spotlight during dinner time. But however coolly lidded his eyes were, they’d swept the Snuggly Duckling clean before he’d thrown his sack. Only Gilded Wings present—no customers of the war-fighting variety. Hey, he marched to his own beat, but the Dodge knew better than to stir up that kind of trouble. ‘Specially at the end of a successful day.
Satisfied that enough eyes were on him, Dodger’s cocked hears bounced as he inclined his head around the room with an air of nonchalance. “Smells like cold hard cash for dinner,” purred the mustache, grinning slyly.
A link of sausages and two packages from the butcher’s made their thudding landings among the coins. “With a side’a sausage, courtesy of The Dodge.” He swept a benevolent sidewalk-colored foreleg at his haul. With luck, one of his new audience would ask how he’d brought in so much dough.
Maybe their base was in a tavern, but old habits died hard. Fagin’s finest couldn’t see grub and not swipe it. Looking perfectly content whether he got the attention he deserved or not, Dodger scooped a package of meat into the air and caught it again in his broad mouth. He tossed a wink at the first female he saw and settled down, bold as you please, atop the table to chow.
