Epilogue

Apr. 6th, 2008 10:44 pm
taras_oleksei: (Default)
Taras was hunched over the bar again, staring at the untouched glass of vodka in front of him.

Somehow he wasn't quite in the mood to get completely smashed, at least, not alone.

He glanced over his shoulder, looking around the room. Several guests were nearly staggering, leaning on each other and laughing, while others had broken up to smaller groups for quiet conversation.

Taras caught sight of the woman in black from earlier, though only briefly before she disappeared into the thinning crowd.

The party had definitely died off for the night. Even if Isaev hadn't had the confrontation with Liadov, Taras was sure he'd want to leave anyway.

Taras knew he was ready to go, and leave this place and what had happened here behind him.
taras_oleksei: (Default)
"Another," Taras said.

He leaned on the bar, not looking up, forehead pressed against his hand.

Taras stared at the glass that stood empty in front of him, but nothing was happening. After a few moments, he looked up.

The bartender held the bottle of vodka in one hand, hesitating.

"Sir, are you - "

"Another," Taras snapped.

Vaguely, Taras wondered how many shots he'd had in rapid succession. Maybe three. Maybe more. But Taras thought thought the bartender should know how to serve a Russian.

Often, and without protest.

The bartender poured.

"Good," Taras muttered, and picked up his drink, pushing away from the bar. He could still walk in a straight line, more or less, so the rest didn't matter.

As he walked, his hand went to the pocket of his matador jacket, and found the hard shape within. He fingered it for a few moments, then pulled it out to look at it.

A dark trophy from earlier in the evening: a broken-off piece of a half-arrow shaft, painted artful metallic gold. He'd found it on the ground, damning evidence near the site of his misdeed.

Taras fingered the sharp end.

He wasn't sure why he'd kept it.

After a few seconds, he jammed it back into his pocket and looked around the hall, which had thinned somewhat while he'd been drinking.

Where the hell was Ilarion?

Probably still prancing about his merry way with that whip of his, hitting women on the ass and smirking about it.

Taras blamed Ilarion for getting him worked up earlier. If Isaev hadn't been poking him with the crop, Taras never would have had to go out for fresh air.

Bastard.

He didn't see Isaev on the dance floor. Not that Ilarion would be bothered to dance, but it was just another place Isaev wasn't.

Taras frowned and slipped into the next room. He would keep hunting until he found him.

August 2010

S M T W T F S
1 234567
891011121314
15161718192021
22232425262728
293031    

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jul. 26th, 2017 02:35 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios