Lost Scullion

(Babry) The least significant of shadows, lurked hunched under dust, soot, and smoke, mutely skirting the ooze stained walls of an ill lit brothel. As the mite thief scavenged to find luck bequeathed flints of silver, she hounded for a stone's glitter, drowned in the upset spirits puddled about the room. Though a pinch of what'll not be missed ain't real stealing, it's a regal peon's day when this mud cloaked chit sleeps with no fresh teachings bruising her. She'll not hark them that acquit her peculating ways, since they'll all cry again when next they catch her thieving. With copper's tinkling lustre palmed muck deep and sticky, her ripening, crispy, rind gnawing maw burgeoned peckish munching lips into a blooming rosebud grin. "Thievin' li'l rat!" As the height of parent neglect loomed towards her refuge, she wiped tobacco slaver off her sputum mitts, onto the hem of shabby skirts, and ate her saccharine lucre. Catching sights of her mam's persistent ire, erupting across the unruly crowd, she bolted, scrambling under the fiddler's stage, and espied out towards the exit's dingy stairs. "Where is she?" Wrath summoned her from the hall's decrepit entry. "Quit y'er shoutin', I tells 'ya," a brawny russet head jeered down at her vexing squabble. "Fuck off, Cillian!" Erin cursed with eyes of flint, as she rummaged for her kid, hidden in the crowd's fitful shifting, "that little rat stole my tips!" "I tol' you..." he menaced. The rancorous solace of beggared girls, coerced to swindle love's corruption in the squalid fetor of a candela whorehouse, is subject to the passing whims of lecherous patrons, and the enduring violence of their bacchic masters. The erstwhile ruckus that had excited earlier quarrel, flit off her when the lanky brawn of this rust headed, cuny chattel wrangler, held a dogged grip of her scar riddled arm. "Don't call me that," his rage coerced. "No...no, wait," Erin’s skeletal frame cooed, stifling her own prior colic. As the inn-keep's uproar were cause to alarm the cups of mug companions, tale weaving bibbers hushed their wine imagined fables as the silenced assembly muted their fiddler's prancing squall. A cat, stricken by the inn's unsettling disquiet, ran panicked towards the girl's feral shelter and, frightened by the abrupt hiatus in the crowd's unending rude gaggle, collided with the sludge mired locks of an anxious puss. Penned in fur to cheek, and chin to whiskers, the startled grimalkin threw a horrid claw swipe at the cornered sedge hen. "Ahhh," she cried, scrambling to wriggle out. "Sing your damned song!" the russet hustler chief decreed. Their daft and buoyant fiddle artist, crashed an anxious bow athwart his own beer swill shelf with drunken confrairy and, as the inept suds accident threw pint, pitcher and tips across the creaking stage, it showered a tepid froth of foaming suds onto puss, and tom assailant, both. When the affrighted tabby wailed in outrage, its viola mewl screeched a fifth below the Saxon Shilling fiddled atop them, and brought the rabble audience to a merry riot.