As Caspar walks, he rubs his hands together, blowing into them to somehow try to ward off the thaw settling into the tips of his fingers. Although he’s dressed warm enough, he doesn’t like to wear gloves. In near-OCD fashion (wait, no, let’s not lie—Caspar may as well be diagnosed Obsessive Compulsive) he does not like his fingers to be hindered. Gloves are bulky. They tend to get in the way when trying to retrieve money, for example, or when—like Caspar has been doing for the past week or two—trying to reach into one’s bag to retrieve a CV.
Tonight, however, Caspar isn’t handing CVs in anywhere. No, he doesn’t have to. Why? Because he’s finally been hired. The stress had started to get to him. Not only was he failing at finding the person he’d come here to find, he’d also bought himself an apartment in the most inconvenient part of town. On top of that, no one was hiring. Each night his mood got worse. Where he always was (and probably always will be) a temperamental asshole, the past week he had been near unbearable. It burdened him, like a weight behind the eyes, like a rope around one’s soul—that anchor that always must drag one down, that need for money in order to survive.
Through the grapevine (pun intended) Caspar had heard of Arbor Vitae. It hadn’t crossed his mind to apply for a job. What good could he possibly do at a winery? Pick grapes? Go stamping around barefoot in large wooden tubs to squash the juices out of said picked grapes? Sure, that could be a lot of fun, but he was no backpacker wanting a summer job. He wanted something permanent, and somewhere where his talents would be appreciated. Arbor Vitae, however, apparently did not just make and sell wine. On the side, there is a kitchen, and a restaurant. A rather nice set up; one that definitely meets Caspar’s standards (of which he has quite a few).
Job now secured, Caspar feels the need to celebrate. It is the first good thing to have happened to him since moving to this bloody city. It’s not such a bad city, but he had started to equate it to some kind of purgatory—especially with the demonic things literally circling his doorstep. Forgetting about the Quarantine Zone and the fact that he has to keep a permanent locker at the Wickbridge train station with clean clothes should he happen to get himself dirty coming through the sewers, he does quite like Harper Rock.
And now, finally, he feels as if he can properly enjoy the city rather than constantly curse its very existence—or ask why anyone should ever want to live here. He wants to celebrate. He has the number of but one person, and has yet to meet anyone else who he could call ‘friend’. Of course, he hasn’t exactly been approachable lately. There’s a good reason why no one would really want to stick around to befriend him. Now that he’s sure he’s not going to go absolutely, homeless broke, he feels like he ought to celebrate.
But where to go? And what to do? Christmas looms and shops are open late. Revelry is evident in many corners of the city. Caspar finally gravitates toward a kind-of street party—the kind where German Sausages are sold, and there’s a band playing carols on a stage. There’s wine tasting, and beer tasting, and all kinds of wonderful things. Of course, he only thinks they’re wonderful because he’s got a win. He meanders into the thriving crowd, numb fingers shoved into jacket pockets, an indulgent smile upon his chapped lips.
[Attire]
