The African trinkets

Because you're mine

*Another picture of Lance because he's sexyyyyyyy*

Lance was practically counting the seconds until the famous Saturday brunch that his family hosted every second week was over. He hated the formality of it all: the greeting, introductions, and formations of boring acquaintances, meaningless small talk and a lower than average array of food. Lance enjoyed the end of these get togethers when the older people retreated to wherever old people retreat to do whatever old people did and the girls, Victoria and Lillian, aimlessly strolled about in the garden while the men, Marcus, Phillip and himself retired to his father’s bar room which was unoccupied for the foreseeable future because his father was manning some colony or other in a far away land that Lance didn’t care about.

For the time being he exploited his father’s collection of expensive cigars and liquor all the while getting his friends to help him. The bar room was comfortable and dully decorated which is what made the room so appealing to his senses. Here there was no fill and everything had a distinct purpose or at least anything that wasn’t fogged by smoke had a purpose. Phillip was hung over and extremely light sensitive so he ordered Pen to draw the curtains and to concoct a drink that consisted of mild liquors accompanied with a glass of milk for good measure. Unfortunately Pen wasn’t used to serving the men in the bar room or mixing beverages because it was usually Nolia’s responsibility but seeing as Nolia was nowhere to be found she decided to step in for her friend.

“Yes, master Phillip, but I must apologize in advance if the refreshment is not of standard. You see I am not accustomed to-” Pen tried to explain but Phillip cut her off.

“Shut up and fetch me my bloody drink!” He exploded and then held his head because his own voice made his head throb with ache. Pen ran to the bar and with shaking hands did as she was told, “Honestly, Lance, you give them too much leash; they’re not adequately trained.”

“They’re not dogs you know.” Marcus interjected but never put his pencil down or let his eyes leave his drawing pad.

“Marcus is right.” Lance said as he took his drink from the tray that Pen offered to him, “We must not offend dogs.” He laughed at his own silly joke. Marcus merely sighed.

“I’m being serious though, this one,” Phillip pointed at Pen who stood in the corner shaking, “is full of bullshit; talking back to someone like me- the nerve.” He eyed Pen and spat in her direction.

“Was that really necessary, Phillip?” Marcus glowered at him. Pen timidly emerged from her corner to wipe the saliva but Marcus stopped her with a wave of the hand and a small smile. He stood up from where he sat, walked over to Phillip, snatched his silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the floor, “There, I hope your fancy silk handkerchief is irreversibly stained by your liquor poisoned saliva.”

“Relax, Marcus, he was just exercising his inherent right as a man to spit where he pleases.” Lance said and in their childish humor Phillip and Lance erupted with laughter.

“I don’t know why I befriended either of you.” Marcus attempted a half hearted laugh.

“I know why.” Phillip said and he reclined in his chair as if what he was about to say would exhaust him, “He fancies your wench, Lance, the least ugly one that is smart enough to mix a drink without flapping her big lips about.”

Lance shot Marcus a displeased look over his glass for half a second before taking a swig. He felt a strong sense of possession of Nolia; she belonged to him and him alone and he wasn’t prepared to share her with anyone. . .ever.

“Discard his statement, Lance, it holds no truth.” Marcus reassured his steaming friend.

“Yeah? Well then why did you let her ride in your carriage and then when she walked back, to wherever Lance keeps them, why did you watch her leave?” Phillip closed his eyes, massaged his temples and smiled from the hole he was digging for Marcus.