π»β’ The flashing, fluorescent neon signs, differing from colours of yellow to pink to green and blue lit up the dirty and crowded streets of the undercityβ the ones that didnβt work creating dark shadows that loomed over alleys and small openings that people didnβt bother to go in to preserve their own life.
Feet lightly pattered along the jagged cobblestone of the lane, barely audible, a cloaked figure strolling past others nearly leisurely yet at the same time, rushed.
The Last Drop
Was lit in a dim yellow lighting. It didnβt stand out like the other bars, but the closer you got, the more it did stand out.
It was made of tin and wood, rusty orange material and draped of cloth here and there. It looked like it was straight from a steampunk city, which, honestly, it technically was from a steampunk environment.
The cloaked figure pushed the dingy, tiny door open, pattering of its feet growing louder and making heads turn.
The bartender was a big, burly man, his square yet smooth face missing something you couldnβt quite place, and big hands that looked like they could easily strangle you. His eyes narrowed and then gleamed at the sight of the figure, straightening his back up and tossing a red cloth over his broad shoulder.
βMmm. Seems for once you arenβt late, Felicia.β His voice was deeper than it should be, and held a heavy Australian accent as his thin lips quirked into a smirk.
The cloaked figure removed the hood, revealing a head of purple braided hair, a pair of grey eyes and milky white skin, her cheeks lightly hollow as she made herself at home by sliding onto a rounded burgundy barstool next to a man who leaned in over the counter and grinned at the bartender, then the women.
βItβs your anniversary opening. Wouldnβt miss it for anything, Vander. You know how these kind of things are.β The woman shrugged, a mischievous look to her coiled smirk.