#sylvie disco elysium | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

palestaticexchange · 1 year ago

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THE QUAINTEST PUB IN NOWHERE

You stand with your hands on your hips in awe of your own prowess. Every pane is smearless, every surface spotless, every wall stainless, and every corner free from dust. The air is tinged with the smell of caustic lemon bleach and faint traces of the morning's burnt coffee.

You pride yourself on generating a pleasant atmosphere within your cafeterias. Little pockets of warmth and calm away from the general hubbub of Revachol... Whilst still being accessible to the average Revacholian wallet, of course. That was important.

When you took on your third cafeteria you were granted a rare opportunity. You *bought* the building - not rented - for a steal using the float from your first two locations. A risky move, but one that paid off.

The RCM had auctioned the little wooden lounge after it's previous owner had been sentenced to Reunion. A one-story wood beam hostel, 25 minutes out from Boogie Street, that carried a *bad* reputation after being outed as the location for a gruesome triple homicide. A tragedy, but not the building's fault.

Two years later it carried the reputation of an 'old man pub'. Not exactly the cozy Ubi Sant-style walkers cottage you had envisioned as you redecorated, but better than what the average Jamie Jamrock had previously referred to as the 'Death House'. Besides, keeping the ale cheap rather than leaning into the creation of a gastrotavern (bolstered by a subsequent hike in pricing for meaty little nibbles) meant you kept a near-daily rotation of regular clientele.

Old, ugly, smelly, alcoholics who - having avoided the barrel of a gun during the Revolution - resigned themselves to drink away the profits and memories of those friends and family members less fortunate. Rude, grizzled men; with fingers stained yellow from decades of smoking; and wet, bloodshot eyes. They *more* than kept the doors open however; so you'd keep your judgements to yourself.

A regular that, for some reason, your bar staff refer to as 'Salt Beef' (you don't care) grunts at you to communicate that you're blocking his path to the bathroom. You sigh and squish against the bar so the man can waddle past.

"You're welcome," you say.

The man grunts again.

Dragged from memory lane by the smell of imminent piss, you head behind the bar and heft a cardboard box on top of it. Your task for the day.

You're not a big believer in the supranatural but this box does carry an element of magic to you. You don't remember buying a *single* item within it, yet every year the amount of tat within seems to have doubled.

Glass stars, snowflakes, and arches. Woven wooden animals, gaudy little dolls in warm-looking clothes, dried lilacs, lavender, and snowdrops. Orbs containing water, glitter, and barren landscapes. Streamers in the silvery blue shade of cold. Potpourri heavy on the orange and shedding a constant dust that makes you sneeze as you unpack everything.

It is time to decorate for the Winter Solstice.

You both love and hate this errand. On the one hand; it's a change of pace, and signals the end of year windfall that accompanies alternative clientele. Portly women looking for somewhere with a wood burning stove to enjoy a seasonal brandy and laugh with friends at an ear-splitting decibel. Middle-class men forced to spend at least one weekend a year with their families in the morning, buying coffees for themselves and lemonades for the kids, then returning in the evening with their mistresses to share a bottle of 'your cheapest wine at the highest percentage please, mate'. The chintzy tat lures these people to your establishment like flies to honey.

On the other hand, you've been doing this job long enough to know that no matter how pleasant the task starts out - placing the globes on the mantelpiece just so, sneezing into the crook of your arm as the coffee table receives a vase of Potpourri - at some point you are going to lose your fucking mind.

It might be the 17th time a gooey stars peel itself from the window, or when you spend 10 minutes struggling with the end of the tape only to lose it immediately upon ripping off one, pitiful, piece. However, you are more than aware that at some point you are going to - calmly - walk into the cellar and proceed to scream for a good minute.

Thankfully neither your clientele, or staff, give you much thought. You recently hired a young man named Pascal; he's polite and does as he's told, however he seems to be powered by marijuana alone: which has a tendency to make him lax. Whatever. This is Jamrock: as long as he does his job (and smokes AWAY from your building) you're inclined to leave him to it.

The regulars you know full well would watch you have a heart attack in silence and step over your corpse to pull themselves another bitter.

You're reminded of this fact as Salt Beef grunts at you again as you attach a streamer to the front of the bar.

"Sir, with all due respect I am *not* in your way."

It's true: there's a wide birth between where you kneel on the floor and the nearest table. Salt Beef remains unmoving, staring at you in silence with arms limp by his sides, like the last apple on a tree long-since out of fruiting season. He has ample space to walk around you but he wants the space *you* occupy.

You sigh again. Working in the hospitality industry often means bending over backwards for the tiniest of requests from the biggest dickheads born this side of 00.

You flatten yourself against the bar, knees reminding you that although you're in your 20s you're on the wrong side of that decade, and thank yourself for cleaning the front of the bar as well as its surface. The smell of *new* piss as opposed to the stale passes behind you, then you're free to resume pinning the streamer in its rightful place.

It's then the brass tinkle of the door bell rings out signifying that somebody has entered your establishment. Your crusty Wednesday regulars are accounted for. All six of them. So you grip the countertop and rise from your position on the slate, ready to greet whichever seasonal bother has decided to grace you with their presence, with a smile of course.

That is one element of Winter Solstice decoration you'd always deemed too cliché: the angel. Swathed in white from heel to hair, eyes kind, and skin so pale that rosy cheeks came as standard. A beautiful, patient, adored symbol of femininity and power; something to be revered whilst still retaining a form that could be sold as *fuckable* to any lonely man for a pittance in the store.

Most modern angels are based off the countenance of one Dolores Dei. It made sense after all. Blonde, pretty, fragile in appearance while still boasting of absolute power. Who better to render onto cheap cards and cookies, post-death?

For you the angel never resembled Her Innocence however.

For you the angel was local and endlessly patient, kind to a fault, eyes open - not as an Innocence - but possessing an observance beyond her years.

For you the angel would pick up a shift when your assistant manager called in sick because he couldn't handle his gin.

Through the door walks your most favoured member of staff: Sylvie Malaìika. Not adorned with woven twigs, nor brandishing the silver cups of year end. She wears a simple warm jumper and carries paper bags full of shopping.

You're on your feet in an instant, already making your way towards her as she blows away hair caught in her face as the door swings shut on her. "Sylvie!" You cry in surprise. "To what do I owe the pleasur- here, let me help with your bags." As you reach her you hook your arm under the paper straps adorning her right side.

She uses the free hand to move remaining strands stuck to her lips, and *you* try not to pay attention to how glossed they are. "Oh! It's *warm* in here, thank God!" With a deft roll of her shoulder she lets the three bags held on her arm slide down it and into your hands, supporting the remaining bag in her right against her body. "Thank you, Garte!" She beams, knocking the wind out of you.

"O- of course!" You reply, splitting three bags between two hands and already leading her towards the best seat in the house; a plush armchair right by the stove.

"Oh it smells *lovely* in here! You're putting the decorations up, then?" As she sinks into the chair you hear the familiar clunk of glass hitting the ground. Her remaining bag must contain bottles of heavy alcohol, explaining the 3-1 split. "I've just been shopping for my family, thought I'd take a little break and get out from that dreadful wind."

The weather had been terrible today, the single-pane windows rattling in their frames as wind howled down the chimney. Days like these were unpredictable; the weather either filled your pub with people looking for a cozy place to escape the cold, or rendered it dead as folks cowered away in their homes. It made it hard to staff appropriately.

As you place her bags to the side of the chair, she routes through them as if to remind herself of their contents. "I've been sent out on a mission," she grumbles. "Grandmother gave me money and a list and expects me to return with everything on it." She sighs. "I didn't know how *hard* that would be when I agreed. For such a large city there's an awful lot of shops selling the same things," she smiles sadly. "And for a much higher price than Gran is used to at her age."

"Looks like you've made good progress at least," you say, nudging the closet bag gently with your shoe.

"Hardly," she sighs again, propping her perfect chin against her hand. "I could get everything she wanted for half the price and she'd still find something to complain about."

You'd heard variations on this tale before. As far as you could gather, Sylvie's grandmother was an esteemed battleaxe. Feared within their local community for her sharp tongue and cunning eye, but also revered for a *sharper* wit and thumb so green she could allegedly grow food from cigarette butts discarded in a gutter. You were both eager and *terrified* to meet her one day... Maybe... If you were *VERY* lucky.

"Ah," you hum. "But you've done your best! She surely can't ask for more than that." You give what you *hope* is a reassuring smile. "Would you like a drink, Sylvie?"

She smirks, "Only if you're offering."

"Of course!" The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. A solid 45% of you screaming in horror about *profits* and *financial goals* and the rest of you giddy with *holiday spirit*. You pound a closed fist against your chest. That might be heartburn actually.

Sylvie's eyes go wide however. "Oh! Lawrence, I was just joking!" She leans forwards and pulls a little blue purse from the bottom of one bag. "I'll get my own drink of course."

"Nonsense!" You wave her off, already smothering whatever arguing needed to take place within you. "Lets call it a... Holiday bonus if you will?" You shimmy forward conspiratorially in the practised technique of somebody trying to make a customer feel *special*... No... Not a customer... A *friend*. "Besides," you whisper lowly. "I can always write it off as wastage." You feel dirty all of a sudden. Very few in this city would shame you for taking the occasional perk from business work, especially when it's to *their* benefit, but all of a sudden you feel cheap. You want to buy this woman a drink from your own pocket...

However, the lowness of your voice doesn't seem to stop your bartender from picking up on the statement. "Solstice bonus, boss?" Pascal says grinning. "Don't mind if I do!"

"Well," Sylvie says, rising from her armchair and tucking her white mittens into one pocket of her coat. "If we're *all* having a drink then it would be rude to refuse." Fine. All *three* of you will have a drink. It's not like you were trying to buy her, specifically, a drink. Why would you be trying to do that?

Pascal lines three glasses on the bar as the two of you approach. Sylvie's attention is drawn as a white star suddenly peels itself from the window and lands on the floor with a sticky slap.

"Doing my head in..." You mutter. "The only consolation is this gives me a reason to finally throw them away at the year's end!"

"Have you washed them?" Sylvie says, cocking her head.

"What do you mean?"

The corners of her mouth flick up in a smile and she peels the star gently from the floor. Then, she walks behind the bar and rinses it under the tap. "It's covered in dust, see?" She holds the star out briefly to you before swilling it under the running water again. "It must be from that potpourri I can smell." Both you and Pascal watch her in silence as she returns to the window and presses the star against it.

The gooey cut-out holds with barely any resistance. When you were attaching them you'd ground your knuckles against the pane and they'd still fallen within the minute.

"It takes a gentle touch sometimes." She says with a smile, as if reading your mind.

Your breath catches in your lungs. She really is an *angel*.

"Cheers to that," Pascal says with a wink. You huff and take the glass from his hand as he raises it in her direction.

"Give me that," you mutter, lining it up with the others and pulling a bottle from under the bar. Firebrand Whiskey. Not the most *upmarket* liquor available but nicer than the swill to generally grace your pallet. As you begin to pour Sylvie crosses her arms on the bar in front of you and Pascal peers over your shoulder.

"Good thing I'm getting the tram back!" Sylvie says heartily.

"I don't think *any* of us drive..." You say, re-corking the bottle and passing a glass to each member of staff.

You raise your glass in a toast and Sylvie and Pascal follow suit, glasses clinking. "Happy Winter Solstice."

"To a bright new year!"

"Thanks for the free booze!"

You swig in turn. It's been a while since you've drank, you realise. The heat of the alcohol warms your tonsils as it slips past them. Then you're setting the short glass on the bar and staring directly at Sylvie's rosy cheeks. That heartburn returns. Probably the whiskey.

"Oh!" She says suddenly. "That reminds me!" She reaches into her bag - handbag, not paper one full of shopping - and brings out a little parcel wrapped with rough string. "For you, Lawrence," she says with a smile.

Man that whiskey really *is* giving you terrible heartburn. No wonder you don't drink that often. Probably *not* heartburn though... Is it?

Gingerly, you take the parcel from her and remove the string. By the time you spot the Spenny Pennies logo you're baffled.

She catches the awestruck expression on your face and raises her hands. "Discounted of course!" She admits.

Spenny Pennies is a six story department store on the promenade of Grand Couron. A verifiable gold mine of everything your little heart could desire. Toys, clothes, sweets, the newest technology shipped in from Seol, rare fruit grown on the other side of the Occident and encased in marzipan. Spenny Pennies products are WELL outside the boundaries of an ordinary Revacholian wallet. Except that sometimes fancy tins of biscuits are *dropped* and their contents broken, and if the contents aren't *perfect* then 'Callie Couron' won't be buying it. As such, these less-than-perfect items are sold for sometimes 80% off.

THAT is the only way these items end up in the hands of 'Jamie Jamrocks' like you lot.

None the less, the gesture is immeasurably kind and you take the box of broken biscuits with an unpractised timidness. "T- Thank you..." You say looking down at them. "There was no need, really-"

"Oh, be quiet," she says smiling. She takes another small swig of her whiskey and looks out of the window.

"Ne'er had one of these!" Pascal says, ruining the moment as he peers down at the brandy snaps.

"Hinting much are we?" You say dryly, already popping the lid of the tin.

"No, Sir, not me!" He raises his hands, eyelids fluttering, and still *very much* hinting how much he'd like a biscuit.

You offer a brandy snap to Sylvie first - of course - then Pascal, then take one for yourself. "Erm... Do we cheers with these?" You say, turning the little tube over between your fingers.

"Why not!" Sylvie laughs. "Happy Winter Solstice!" She says, mimicking the cadence you'd taken as *you* said that last time.

"To a bright new year!" You says in return, eyes sparkling as you toss her greeting right back at her.

"Thanks for the free biscuit!" Pascal chimes in.

And for an hour - in what used to be referred to as the 'old Death House' - three people share companionship, whiskey, and brandy snaps. Their good mood rings so true, that nobody even notices three more gooey stars peel themselves from the window.

#i wanted this out yesterday for actual winter solstice but unfortunately work got in the way *shakes fist* CAPITALISM!!#garte disco elysium #lawrence garte #Sylvie Malaìika #sylvie disco elysium #PALE STATIC LORE

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