Shield-House by Lferion

Shield-House

Maglor rarely joined clubs, secret societies, exclusive groups. The Oath had made (still made, sometimes, though he was not at all sure, after all the time and change and everything else, whether it was truly still in effect, or if it was too-present memory that made it pull and press and burn along his nerves) swearing and promising anything difficult, much less the kind of binding formalities such exclusive groups were wont to devise, and then enforce. But this kind of club — where membership was a legal device achieved with a ticket in exchange for coin, that he would happily be party to. Especially when it meant music, and decent drinkables, pleasant company and no-one who cared if they couldn't quite tell how tall he was, what shape his ears were, what language or accent he spoke. Except for the threat of the prohibition enforcers, speakeasies were a delight. And in San Francisco they were well situated among many other delights. A different kind of West than the one he had been born in, grew up in, but in the spring, the hills were no less golden, and the mists were as lovely as those of the Gap had been.