Dust lifted in puffs unnoticed in the air.
Dun cloth limped from the tabletops. Dancing swirls of light filtered across the space of a several dozen strides from door to wall.
All things turn.
Man shuffled off his elbows, now caked sweet bar-top mush. Cranking his head, a fearsome creaking sounded into the quiet, standing sharp contrast to the quiet, shuffling thumps of the stranger.
Turning was a slow shifting of feet. Light in mote, mote in light splayed. Figures converged; shadows played upon the wall. Dun streaked red.
Tis the season of silence.
Dust settles to the wooden floor.