Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

1 - The Night is Young (OM)

A swirl of colors and the feeling of a glass in Ophelia's hand was all she needed to hold herself over, to keep away the side of her that said, "All work, no play." Frankly, she hated that side, always had, and would much rather spend her days leaning against a rotted-to-dust counter, twirling a loop of hair around her finger and throwing glances that meant a little more than regard for one's existence. The ground felt as though it shook beneath her, but a part of her knew it was only a result of her clumsy movements - even standing still she couldn't be trusted not to send the foundation of the Sunken Aether falling in on itself.

Still, she paid it no mind, instead scanning the crowd of drunkards; the new grievers were scarce that night, and regulars only rolled their eyes when she winked. What, am I so boring that they wouldn't give me the time of day? Offense broiled in her gut - or maybe it was just gas - but something stirred down there nonetheless. She narrowed her eyes at the crowd assembling in the corner.That's all right. I'll reel one of 'em in. Just you watch.

Her interest peaked, Ophelia abandoned the support a post offered, trailing her hand along the counter to keep from falling, and to maybe catch the attention of a bartender. Surely someone had to see her as what she was: a youthful woman, not a pitiful widow. She'd had just about enough of the latter, of the expressions of contempt that crossed the high-class ladies faces whenever Ophelia passed by. The social class of Port Notales amounted up to two things: wealth and more wealth, both of which she had little of. However, no one was clean in such a place, Ophelia knew that fact like the back of her hand. That was all the wealth she needed.

When she arrived at the back of the crowd she was left pondering how exactly she'd be getting to the center. Why, clear your own path, Lady Morvone! A low chuckle escaped, followed by a squeak of a hiccup. I like the sound of "Lady Morvone." Let's go by that from now on, and anyone that refuses will see the back of my hand.

Her shoulders rammed into anyone that was oblivious to her existence and, with sounds of annoyance, disgust, the usual, they spread apart so that she could meet the front of the crowd and see who had charmed so many people into giving him their sole attention.

There, sat in a chair all too small for his rear, was one of the regulars, Barnabas. His beard stuck out in a frizzy mess and Ophelia briefly thought of the nest atop her own head. Nevermind that, what's so interesting about him? She soon found out, as the old man made her jump with a sudden slur of words. She certainly couldn't decipher a word of it, but there was something about the excitement he expressed about whatever he was talking out that intrigued her. Still, she wasn't surprised. Everyday he came to the tavern and drank, told stories, then drank some more. His enthusiasm was unfailing.

Easy catch. Fluffing out her hair, Ophelia took a few sluggish steps toward him, raising her lips into a plump smile. Barnabas flicked his gaze over to her, only to roll his eyes and return it to some courtesan in the crowd. Briefly disappointed, she picked up her pace, eager to get some action going. The night was young, but it was boring. And boredom was awfully depressing, wasn't it?

Just as she was reaching out to rest a suggestive hand on his shoulder, a voice broke through the cacophony of cheers and chatter, quite obviously furious, and quite obviously belonging to Ophelia's son: Thales.

She retracted her hand in an instant, burying herself in the thickness of the crowd. I'd rather not deal with him tonight. If he doesn't see me, he can't whine to me about how much of a terrible person I am.

As if to laugh at her troubles, the crowd dispersed, snickering at her dumbfounded expression as Thales' eyes landed on her, narrowed. She chuckled nervously, readjusting her dress. Well, this is an undesirable turn of events.

The ground seemed to shake as Thales stomped his way over, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Had Ophelia not known any better, she'd expect steam to come shooting from his ears. He paused a foot away, crossing his arms over his chest as he glared down at his mother.

Ophelia, smirking lightly, raised her arm and gave a slight wave. "Hello, darling."

Thales cut to the chase, his voice gruff, quiet, but full of accusations. "You took the money from under the floorboards."

Ophelia's heart dropped, and she lost complete interest in anything he had to say to her. Ugh, this again. She turned tail, waltzing back to the counter. She rested her elbow on the wood, tilting her head at the creak it made. They should really think about renovating the place.

Thales followed. "You spent it here," he spat, "On this worthless 'hobby' you've got going."

Investigating her nails, Ophelia whistled for the bartender, a young doll by the name of Melania. "Another drink, please," she slurred, sliding a tip across the counter. Melania took it up with thanks, and rushed to fill her cup.

Thales scoffed, disbelief clear in his wide eyes and dropped jaw. Ophelia smirked again, knowing she was winning. Thales shook his head. "You will pay me back, mother. For every penny you've spent."

The rum gliding over her tongue was bliss, and she tuned the brat out. He was gone by her second gulp. Good riddance. Slamming the cup back on the counter, she leaned back. As always, the swirl of colors and a glass in Ophelia's hand was all she needed to hold herself over. The night is still young. Let's make it exciting.

~~~
SCORE: 12