Koda | 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐦 𝐊𝐢𝐧

Some would argue that The Junction’s just a bar, nah, it’s a fucking animal in own right. Breathing and snarling, baring its teeth on a Saturday night like it’s daring the world to step inside and get bitten. The scent of wet leather clinging to the sea of jackets, leather warm from the heat of bodies packed shoulder to shoulder; it danced on the senses alongside the presence of sweat and cigarette smoke permeating the locale.

Even above the relentless thrumming of the music, it was all too easy to hear the beginnings of a scuffle in vicinity. A Soft Tail arguing with some Hangaround loudly, and now physically, about some Club Bunny neither seemed to agree on; the poor woman stood off to the side looking surprised. Always something going fucking awry on Saturdays.

The sound of glass shattering drew more eyes, some amused, others wary at the presence of violence, and of course, the few eager and itching to get in the figurative ring. Koda watched with a sense of indifference as the Hangaround threw the first punch, the man taking it letting out a pained grunt. Fucking idiots, he mused within the confines of his own head, umber eyes drifting as the Vice President stood from his usual hideaway at the corner of the bar. Here we go again.

The Denfather’s umber eyes followed the ruckus while a pair of calloused fingers toyed absent-mindedly with the beads along the tip of his braid, tossed over his shoulders while he counted the wooden pearls one after the other. Soon enough the Hangaround was shoved out the door, courtesy of Skald, and the Junction fell back into usual, raucous revelry, sans Koda’s booth.

People usually kept a wide berth, and usually for good reasons. The lone man nursing a bottled bear at the back of it preferred his solitude, the quiet space where nothing was ever truly quiet. And whether out of respect or not? Well, people left Koda alone unless they needed something specific.

That didn’t mean he was always left to his own devices, however..