It's a cool September night. The rain falling on Tennessee is warm with the last dregs of summer. Autumn is at hand, with the normally green hills awash with vibrant reds, oranges, yellows, and browns. It's a peaceful night.
The calm rain that falls on the bar known as The Moss Rails Bar is steady, showing no signs of ending any time soon. The building is brick with several windows on each side. To the back of the building, a set of train tracks glistens in the orange light of a street light. In the distance, the sound of the evening freight train, coming up from Chattanooga, gently pierces the night rains.
Inside the bar, the warm wood walls are coated with several railroad photographs, as well as track signs and company logo flags. The bar is polished but damaged wood, dark and heavy spruce. Behind it, many bottles of several shapes, sizes, and flavors shine in the moderate light on glass birch wood shelves. Standing at one end of the bar, polishing glasses and looking out at the empty bar, is the bartender.
He is a young man, maybe 28 or 30 years old, with short brown hair, a goatee with mustache of matching chocolate brown, and eyes green as emeralds. His wear is casual but appropriate: blue jeans and plain red shirt cover his lean but mildly muscular frame. His face is quite handsome, but seems to show the signs of seeing many things. His eyes tell the same story: Young, but having been many places with much pain.
The trains whistles again, and the light in the darkness comes into view. The powerful train passes the green signal, and giving another loud whistle to the bar, thunders by with a roar. The clacking noise and screeching of steel wheels on steel rails echos in the bar, but the bartender merely smiles and waves to the engine crew as it passes, then resumes wiping as the freight cars clatter by. The bar shakes lightly, and he is content.
Outside, standing at the door of an open box car, a figure clad in dark robes leaps out in front of the bar. The landing is bad, and the person loses their footing, slamming face down into the ditch of dirty and muddy water with a splash. Something hard is under the water, and the person hits their head on it, causing them to black out face-down in the water. The racket of the train is deafening, and it is unlikely anybody heard the sound of the splash, and the darkness likely concealed the scene....
The calm rain that falls on the bar known as The Moss Rails Bar is steady, showing no signs of ending any time soon. The building is brick with several windows on each side. To the back of the building, a set of train tracks glistens in the orange light of a street light. In the distance, the sound of the evening freight train, coming up from Chattanooga, gently pierces the night rains.
Inside the bar, the warm wood walls are coated with several railroad photographs, as well as track signs and company logo flags. The bar is polished but damaged wood, dark and heavy spruce. Behind it, many bottles of several shapes, sizes, and flavors shine in the moderate light on glass birch wood shelves. Standing at one end of the bar, polishing glasses and looking out at the empty bar, is the bartender.
He is a young man, maybe 28 or 30 years old, with short brown hair, a goatee with mustache of matching chocolate brown, and eyes green as emeralds. His wear is casual but appropriate: blue jeans and plain red shirt cover his lean but mildly muscular frame. His face is quite handsome, but seems to show the signs of seeing many things. His eyes tell the same story: Young, but having been many places with much pain.
The trains whistles again, and the light in the darkness comes into view. The powerful train passes the green signal, and giving another loud whistle to the bar, thunders by with a roar. The clacking noise and screeching of steel wheels on steel rails echos in the bar, but the bartender merely smiles and waves to the engine crew as it passes, then resumes wiping as the freight cars clatter by. The bar shakes lightly, and he is content.
Outside, standing at the door of an open box car, a figure clad in dark robes leaps out in front of the bar. The landing is bad, and the person loses their footing, slamming face down into the ditch of dirty and muddy water with a splash. Something hard is under the water, and the person hits their head on it, causing them to black out face-down in the water. The racket of the train is deafening, and it is unlikely anybody heard the sound of the splash, and the darkness likely concealed the scene....