People of Pisces
The river flowed in a zigzag direction of an orderless flow.
Sunup and a clear-skied lid.
Towering windmills populated the hilly green mounds. The four-bladed turbines rotating counterclockwise to the clockwise wind.
One pebble-filled path to follow. The surrounding meadow filled with orange tiger lilies and black-eyed geranium. Pretty.
Manus Neco looks up at the zeppelin-styled skycrafts humming departures and landings. Grubbergelt is branded on the side of one departing. Gold-plated gondola.
Manus Neco had a slim build. Muscularly lean and of an average crest, attired in black. Sleek silvery dark hair tied in a chonmage bun. High rosy cheekbones hidden under a scruffy mask. An inviting charisma.
Strapped diagonally across his torso, and hanging over his left shoulder, the Cuatrorelaxed inverted on his back. He had found this ten-stringed ancient lute guitar drifting a rare Caribbean tide.
He ambled the crunchy road towards the People of Pisces.
People of Pisces; a seven-story ale joint made of ancient kauri wood. Puzzling runes gilded the woodcraft, invocating protection of a worthless threat. Their origins ignored.
The People of Pisces was a musician's nest. A sanctum for the wandering artiste looking for gigs. No memory has forgotten a day the People of Pisces did not exist. A haven as immune and esteemed as the Pearly Gates and Lake of Fire.
Arriving at the bottom of the flowery hill, Manus Neco enters the People of Pisces. Welcomed by muffling melodies of hundreds of instruments playing tuned notes in incongruity.
Crowded patrons seated around ligneous tables, with colorful psychedelic tabletops. Full bar.
Instruments and artwork decorated the walls.
A delightful hostess greets Manus Neco. Under an intense stare, he pleasantly asks to see The Exhumerator. The hostess' mask turns bleak, as she escorts him to a cloverleaf table enclosed in drooping darkness.
Manus Neco, lingering, finger-scribbling on the psychedelic tabletop. Kaleidoscopic greens and pink merging with blues and yellows. Trippy.
He had drank three tap-brewed firewaters and gobbled an alcapurria.
An instinctive nudge of paranoia prods Manus Neco to unsheathe the found Cuatro's hidden blade. Within a moment, Manus Neco is surrounded by armed red-haired Shield Maidens.
Red rice-hats covered their eyes. Nose and mouth concealed in scarfmasks. Long red hair brimming waist-length. They wore cup-shaped Flor de Maga hibiscuses on their erubescent conical hats. Coordinated with their red cloaks.
The People of Pisces' element of incongruent melodies riddled silent. Manus Neco and the Shield Maidens in a tense quiet stand-off.
The Exhumerator looked on from the seventh floor balcony. She was leggy and tall. A woman with sensuous glamor. Uncombed red hair wrapped around her delectable neck. Tight red leather.
Dearly discerning the unique Quadblade Manus Neco carried.
The soundless taut ambience is queerly interrupted by a piano note. An oboe precedes a scraping guido, followed by a plucking harp, accompanied by flute and classical guitar.
In contempo unanimity, the persistent patrons at the People of Pisces perform Damn love by composer Juan Morel Campos.
Appreciating that at the People of Pisces, all art is never forgotten.