There was plenty that Lancaster d'Artois could do with his nights. There was plenty that he tried to do, and sometimes failed. What could be ascertained, since he'd last come back from the Shadow Realm, was that in between drunken escapades, the musician had become a workaholic. He couldn't even really be called a musician, though. The worst kind of writer's block had settled over him, a dark, thick blanket through which no inspiration or motivation could penetrate.
But that didn't mean he couldn't still repair instruments, even if he wasn't in the mood to play them. Every order that came through Curlew, he dealt with himself; for hours on end he could be found ensconced in the back room, fiddling away with the instrument handed over by customers to be tweaked and fixed. He barely looked up. Sometimes he slept there, because he didn’t know the time of night, or that sunrise was on its way.
Most often, however, he was at Lancaster’s; he worked ordinary shifts, keeping busy. In the quiet hours before dawn, after the pub had closed, he cleaned. He did repairs and maintenance. He re-ordered stock, and trawled the internet for possible new suppliers. He had the floor re-varnished. He bought new furnishings for the backpackers upstairs. Sometimes, after all the work was done, he sat around with the travellers. This was when he felt most at home; when he felt most like his old self. There were some travellers who’d stay up all night; some who’d still be there, awake, as he crawled up the stairs to his attic, where he now lived. Sometimes he talked one on one, sometimes there were a group of them. He talked to them about the places they’d been, or the places they planned to go. He got ideas for future travel, and advised the younger, inexperienced ones on where they should go and what they should avoid.
To Lancaster’s detriment, he had discovered that he could not only consume alcohol, but that it also caused inebriation if consumed in excess. Some of the staff had started to notice; they took great care to keep him from trying to work if they noticed he was even slightly tipsy. Lancaster himself was mostly good at keeping himself to his attic, or fleeing to some other pub in some other part of the city.
That was how he found himself at some pub on the other side of the river; he couldn’t recall its name. The words were a blur. Although he’d stepped over the threshold mostly sober, he was slowly beginning to drink himself under the table. He might have suggested to Skylar that she join him; this was her kind of scene, wasn’t it? Drinking in excess. They could have some fun! Except his last communication with Skylar had gone unanswered. It had been days. Nearly a week? Although every now and again he felt Pi’s influence from across the ocean – that unhindered certainty that she was thinking about him, even if she didn’t contact him – he had not felt a similar sensation from Skylar in about as long as he had been waiting for her reply. Although he disapproved of being nosey, a quick appraisal of his childe’s health and her memories assured Lancaster that she was okay – that nothing had happened to her, that she was alive and well. There were visions of her husband biting her, which Lancaster quickly swept aside. Other than that, there was nothing to tell him why he had not heard from her. He had a feeling that he had beat the last nail into the coffin of their relationship with their last meeting. Had he actually cried? Was that something he had done? There was no wonder…
And so he sat, alone. He sat at the bar, like one of those lonely men who had nowhere else to go. He had started by ordering singular tumblers of whiskey, until he’d told the barkeep to leave the bottle behind.
It wouldn’t be long, now. Wouldn’t be long until he accost the closest person with rambled, incoherent rhetoric. If he couldn’t find company at home, he could certainly find it in strangers.
But that didn't mean he couldn't still repair instruments, even if he wasn't in the mood to play them. Every order that came through Curlew, he dealt with himself; for hours on end he could be found ensconced in the back room, fiddling away with the instrument handed over by customers to be tweaked and fixed. He barely looked up. Sometimes he slept there, because he didn’t know the time of night, or that sunrise was on its way.
Most often, however, he was at Lancaster’s; he worked ordinary shifts, keeping busy. In the quiet hours before dawn, after the pub had closed, he cleaned. He did repairs and maintenance. He re-ordered stock, and trawled the internet for possible new suppliers. He had the floor re-varnished. He bought new furnishings for the backpackers upstairs. Sometimes, after all the work was done, he sat around with the travellers. This was when he felt most at home; when he felt most like his old self. There were some travellers who’d stay up all night; some who’d still be there, awake, as he crawled up the stairs to his attic, where he now lived. Sometimes he talked one on one, sometimes there were a group of them. He talked to them about the places they’d been, or the places they planned to go. He got ideas for future travel, and advised the younger, inexperienced ones on where they should go and what they should avoid.
To Lancaster’s detriment, he had discovered that he could not only consume alcohol, but that it also caused inebriation if consumed in excess. Some of the staff had started to notice; they took great care to keep him from trying to work if they noticed he was even slightly tipsy. Lancaster himself was mostly good at keeping himself to his attic, or fleeing to some other pub in some other part of the city.
That was how he found himself at some pub on the other side of the river; he couldn’t recall its name. The words were a blur. Although he’d stepped over the threshold mostly sober, he was slowly beginning to drink himself under the table. He might have suggested to Skylar that she join him; this was her kind of scene, wasn’t it? Drinking in excess. They could have some fun! Except his last communication with Skylar had gone unanswered. It had been days. Nearly a week? Although every now and again he felt Pi’s influence from across the ocean – that unhindered certainty that she was thinking about him, even if she didn’t contact him – he had not felt a similar sensation from Skylar in about as long as he had been waiting for her reply. Although he disapproved of being nosey, a quick appraisal of his childe’s health and her memories assured Lancaster that she was okay – that nothing had happened to her, that she was alive and well. There were visions of her husband biting her, which Lancaster quickly swept aside. Other than that, there was nothing to tell him why he had not heard from her. He had a feeling that he had beat the last nail into the coffin of their relationship with their last meeting. Had he actually cried? Was that something he had done? There was no wonder…
And so he sat, alone. He sat at the bar, like one of those lonely men who had nowhere else to go. He had started by ordering singular tumblers of whiskey, until he’d told the barkeep to leave the bottle behind.
It wouldn’t be long, now. Wouldn’t be long until he accost the closest person with rambled, incoherent rhetoric. If he couldn’t find company at home, he could certainly find it in strangers.
