All Hallows' Eve had always presented an undeniably mouth-watering opportunity for the clan of Red on the Water to peel back the veneer of the traditional Irish pub and to unleash, instead, the deliciously wicked soul that lay beneath the polished wood and rustic charm. The holiday itself proffered up a unique and fabled chance for the veil betwixt one existence and the next to be lifted just enough so that all manner of ghouls and beasties might rub shoulders and entwine themselves in the ethereal spirit of the Eve. The eccentric staff of Red on the Water sought to curl a beckoning finger to all of the wicked little creatures of Sacrosanct on this night, as they had done for years and would continue to do well into the future.
But this year they had outdone themselves...
The lively Irish watering hole had transformed, blossoming into a dark and alluring marriage of classic Halloween decor blended ever so splendidly with the supernatural essence that comprised everything about the city. Jack-o-lanterns bobbed about overhead, suspended in the air, spewing forth the yellowed haze of their candlelight from a dozen or more eerily-jagged grins. Skulls, their jaws clenched in eternal sneers, bore silent witness from their various purches to the festivities unfolding before them as disembodied hands supported trays of every delectable treat one could possibly desire. Of course, they would have been remiss had they not stocked the sprawling curve of the bar with a menagerie of mortals' brews, both domestic and imported. This night, however, Red on the Water's vast collection of alcoholic libations was joined by several ornately-designed glass casks, each boasting a different delicacy: absinthe casts a spooky green glow from its carafe whilst a thick, crimson substance swirled in a velvety vortex in another, a brew intended for the more... bloodthirsty amongst them.
Indeed does every corner boast some tantalizing treat, some duplicitous trick, all intended to invite the unencumbered and reckless abandon of Sacrosanct's citizenry. It had all been planned to absolute and undeniable perfection, a truth that brings the brims of blood-red lips pitching into an impish simper as the pub's proprietor gives a last cursory look to the mirror before her, tucking a few stray ribbons of auburn hair into the fashionably disheveled twist at the nape of her neck before perching the pinstriped fedora atop her head and heading for the winding staircase that would bring her to the festivities below. She, too, had undergone a transformation for the occasion, straying from the tame choices of costume that she had selected in years past and opting instead for a far more edgy guise in the 1920s-style gangster outfit that she wore, complete with an impressively-realistic firearm holstered to the curve of her hip and a vest that offered a display of cleavage that was very nearly gravity defying. Nothing, though, was quite as titillating as the promise of the evening that lay ahead as she descends into the crowd.
isolt griffin