closed.

[luaithre]

WHO: Marcus Rowntree, Cosima Niehaus, Yseult
WHAT: Work-related goat race betting
WHEN: Somewhat backdated
WHERE: Downtown Lowtown
NOTES: n/a

The sun has gone down, and the warehouse is lit with lanterns and braziers. Open fire and the press of bodies makes an already warm evening all the warmer. They've thrown open the larger rear doors, however, and the scent of the ocean carried on cooler breezes forgives some sins, including the smell of goat and goat shit.

You could imagine that Kirkwall is carrying on just fine. Right now, the air is full of conversation as folk place their bets, collect their drinks, chatter and speculate, and probably only half the conversation is about the goats currently being rotated out of their cages, their hindquarters painted with an identifying letter, and paraded about by the owners for the upcoming race.

Marcus' bet is on the grey one who had done little jumps without prompting. For the jumps, and the colouration resembling that of his favourite horse. It was not a very confident amount of money.

But he buys a round, returning now to the table with cups, a large pitcher of ale. He is, perhaps, a little overdressed for the venue, but his coat has been abandoned and slung over the chair back and his sleeves are now properly rolled away from his wrists, so maybe touches of embroidery can be overlooked.