[Drunken Fish] Behind Bars (Fallon)

Not everyone who walks into a bar is after a drink.

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A lawless town of anarchists, built on the ruins of an ancient mining city. [Lore]

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[Drunken Fish] Behind Bars (Fallon)

Postby Glen Fiddich on January 18th, 2015, 1:21 pm

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8th Winter, 514
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In a lot of places, winter was a time for celebration. Some cultures figured that alcohol and revelry was the best way of scaring away the bad stuff, and coaxing the sun back out of hiding. Others merely figured drinking, dancing, and a good round of rutting was as good a way as any to stay warm, and to help you forget about how dark and deadly and miserable it was outside.

In Sunberth though, apparently winter was a time for violence and murder; or at least, that was how the gangs seemed to have commemorated it so far. The clash at the Seaside Market had been a bloody affair, the Daggerhands and the Sun's Berth had cared little for the poor unfortunates unlucky enough to find themselves caught in between. Some had been smart enough to get the petch out of the way. Some had been stupid enough to try and play the hero, and had a few new wounds that they could be mighty proud of once they healed up all scarred and ugly. Some had waded in eagerly, not interested in the least about the gang politics at play, just eager to break something and too drunk to care about who or what.

Bunch of selfish shykeholes, Glen thought from beneath his scowl. Lucky for the gangs, and the idiot drunks, he hadn't been around yesterday; all the good fights seemed to break out when he wasn't around, maybe because the people involved were smart enough to know not to try anything when he was behind the bar. Best that he wasn't though, he supposed. He would have waded in just the same as anyone else from the Fish, with the exact same disregard for who was on what side. Daggerhand or Sun's Berth, didn't make a petch of difference to him: both were as bad as each other.

Granted, Glen wasn't in much of a place to judge, what with a track record like his. Would've been hypocritical to condemn the violence, the killing, the thieving, and extortion that those types got up to, having done a lot of the same himself. But there were differences: subtle, but important ones. Sure, Glen would kill a guy if the situation presented it; you didn't even always have to pay him to, if they were asking for it enough, though usually it helped to. But it was a job. It was a contact. He was an axe, hacking through whatever he was paid to swing at. These gang types though, they were clubs and hammers, just as likely to smash everything around them as they were to hit what they were meant to. Bunch of krric troos who didn't know better, fighting without thinking because they were too dumb and too useless for anything else.

They'd do it again, too. Was only a matter of time before one lot decided they needed to make the others hurt more than they'd been hurt, and it'd just spiral up and up until one side ran out of clubs, or they'd smashed up the city too bad for it to even be worth fighting over. The latter seemed more likely at this rate; Sunberth weren't exactly worth all that much to start with.

Still, if it happened again, Glen would be ready, and some much deserving skulls would wind up all nice and caved in by the time he was done. The axe bundled in rags beneath the bar would make sure of that.
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[Drunken Fish] Behind Bars (Fallon)

Postby Fallon on January 19th, 2015, 3:43 pm

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If there was ever one trait that Fallon could ever be accused of that she would accept as truth, it was her level of curiosity to current events and local rumour. Inquisitive, a lust to want to know and understand something completely and utterly. By understanding the situation she was in a position to give judgement, to deem within her mind what the best course of action was - to exploit, avoid, defend or leave alone all together. Which, was why she had gone sifting for rumours on this particular day, to build up her own private investigation into the politics of the higher gangs - or more correctly, know if it would lay threat to the Scars and their people. So she lingered, slipping into the various drinking haunts and points of gathering, posing the few idle curious questions here and there, before moving on once more into the chill. Cloak wrapped tightly around her, the sticking of ice and slush to her soles as she waded, moving to her usual and more preferred haunt of late.

The door gave a groan as she stepped in, heat chasing away the cold, a shake out of the flakes in her tied back hair. She had been in here only a few days previously, looking towards leads and a likely suspect in her investigations. How fruitful it had proven to be she was yet to decide, but time would quickly tally up the results. Steel gave a clink as she stepped across the tavern, head low and the crowd raucous as always - by the looks of things they were presently eying up one of the lady bar staff, the testing pokes and jabs at her as she served. Fallon only gave them a narrowed stare, before pushing herself onwards. Sauntering forward she took a lean up against the bar, gauntlet covered hands coming forward to drum upon the surface. She waved her hand in the direction of the keep, fingers gesturing for him to come over so she could get a drink.

"Something strong and burning," she spoke firmly, the forced tone of Bitzer, her eyes looking him up and down. She considered him for a moment, seeing only an unfamiliar face that she did not recognise. Licking her lips she continued, "Got a gutrot down there? Or you just going to slide me water'd ale?" Hooking her foot around a leg, she dragged a stool towards her and hopped up onto it for a clearer and more relaxed view - though her free hand did not drift far from her weapon hilts. Waterhole or not, it was still a den of cut throats and fighters. She gave a sniff, slapping down a few coppers onto the surface, her eyes turning to that of suspicion, "New lad here? Don't think I've seen you before at least," She gave a flicker, firstly to those eyes and then down to the thick stubble before continuing, "Suppose it's a different Bell than when I'd normally slink in here. Different shift maybe?"

Clicking her tongue she raised her brow to him, trying almost to find something to relate him to, "Seem like a sharp one, maybe you can help me. And I could, maybe, help you. I mean, hypothetically of course. Like I could hypothetically make it worth your while. If you have time bar keep. Don't want to keep you from your work." Fallon gave a flick of the wrist, and let her chin rest within her palm. There was no point beating about the bush, "Tell me, did you enjoy yesterday's scrabbling? Some people did it seems."
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[Drunken Fish] Behind Bars (Fallon)

Postby Glen Fiddich on January 20th, 2015, 3:00 pm

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Broadly speaking, there were three kinds of people who made it all the way to Glen's bar. Well, four he supposed, if you took the working girls from upstairs into account; though perhaps shrewdly, Glen's mind didn't even entertain the notion that this new customer might be one of those.

There were plenty of drunkards, who were too plied with ale and liquor to be much harm to anyone, and it was a simple matter of working out whether they were drunk enough or rowdy enough to need cutting off and tossing out on their backside, or if it was safe to toss another drink their way, and let them drink themselves into unconscious submission and the inevitable next-morning agony. Then there were those, young sailors with something to prove, mostly, often labouring under the misconception that some display of manly machismo might earn them for free what most of the women in the establishment were intending to charge for. They were harmless enough, though often deluded that they were otherwise; they shouted big, asserting themselves over the bar staff because apparently that was the epitome of macho heroic behaviour in their mind; a few murderous glares and muted growls from the Svefra were usually enough to drive them away with a fresh patch of damp between their legs.

Then there were the people who were as tough as they acted. It was a delicate line that separated them from the pretenders, and they varied wildly in their mentalities and dispositions. For some, the social flexing of muscles was merely a guard against unwanted irritations from the staff and the patrons; on the other side of the bar, Glen was usually one of those. For others, gruff was just a matter of nature, of the product of a bad day, and diffusing them was a matter of patience and an undisrupted flow of alcohol. Then there were those who bristled with violence, as volatile as a naked flame in a brewery, just waiting for the inadvertent nudge that would spark their fuse. Their were two vital approaches to such people: the utmost care and caution; and a weapon close at hand.

Glen's hand delved beneath the bar, grabbing for a bottle of rye whiskey and setting it down on the counter with a thunk. It wasn't the label that informed him of what it was - his youth and education had been far to misspent for him to understand more than the simplest of words - but the colour, the shape of the bottle, the style of the label, the fact that he'd memorised where each breed of alcohol had been stored with the utmost precision, all conspired together to produce an almost certainty. Besides, even if it wasn't rye whiskey, it hardly mattered at this instant; the woman hadn't been specific, and anything that dark a shade of brown stashed beneath the bar of a tavern was bound to have more than a fair bit of alcohol lurking in it.

He grabbed for a glass, and glugged out a generous double, nudging the drink across the polished surface towards the woman's gloved hands. "Been here since last season," he replied, finally breaking his silence. Glen was not a man of few words by any stretch, but that was a misconception he was more than happy to cultivate; besides, while he was hardly known for his wisdom, he was at least smart enough to know that a silent man could often seem wiser than a verbose one who frequently opens his mouth and proves otherwise. "Normally work the unsociable hours though," he admitted. "Burden of the new recruit, I guess: I get to work the shifts while everyone else is either drinking or hung over."

He fell silent again, letting the woman's curiosity explain itself. She was an inquisitive one, that was for sure; Glen wondered if she was the kind of person who asked questions just because, or if there was some deeper motive or employment that compelled her to. In any other city, his hackles might have raised at the prospect of an enforcer of the law, but there was no such thing here in Sunberth. From what he knew of the local gangs, he didn't exactly credit the Daggerhands or the Sun's Berth with the smarts to dabble much in spies and espionage either.

His brow furrowed. What was all this high pathetically nonsense? Was he being insulted? What did making something pathetically worth his while even mean?

Then the question hit, and Glen's eyebrows descended into a scowl. "Enjoy?" he echoed indignantly, glad that his hands were empty; he doubt his clenching fists would have paid enough attention to save their contents from damage had they not been. "What I would enjoy," he grunted back, "Is burying an axe between the eyes of the next Daggerhand I see. Bunch of petching cowards, waging their gang war in a market full of innocent bystanders like that."

The noise escaped from Glen's throat was some strange hybrid abomination, half sigh, half growl. "No, I did not enjoy yesterday's scrabbling. I wasn't even here. If I had been?" He shook his head, his scowl rapidly approaching a glower. "I would have made sure that they did not enjoy it either."
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[Drunken Fish] Behind Bars (Fallon)

Postby Fallon on January 20th, 2015, 6:01 pm

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There was something rather refreshing about the way he unflinchingly took up the desired drink and placed it down in a brief presentation of the ruler of the bar. She gave a small incline of the head, watching the dark liquid slosh within the bottle, her eyes narrowing down as the glass was summoned and the scent of whisky filled her immediate senses. Sweet, yet bitter, it was pungent with its glugging, the edges catching the tiny flecks of golden flames within its sheen. Her lips gave the smallest of purses, eyes narrowing as it went up past the single, into a double and inevitably into a large one at that. There was a clink as she took it between her fingers, raising it up as she peered over the rim and to him, "Cheers."

Smokey and bitter, it gave a scorch down her palette but she did not flinch to it. She merely pulled it away and let the taste rest in the back of her throat before she gave an inevitable swallow, "Pouring doubles? Generous mood or a man after my own heart?" She took another sip then, slower and more thoughtful this time as she let the burning sensation fill her core and tingle out to the extremities, "Always a tough show for the new guy. Used to be one once. Well, girl. Worked and got myself outside of that position as quickly as possible," there was a lingering taste of aged spice upon her tongue as she watched the man of few words back. The furrowed brow, the fact he was still there hovering gave sign that he was paying some form of attention to what was being said.

She caught the clenching of those fists, that bubbling feeling that seemed to be crawling underneath. It made her wonder if it was anger that writhed beneath and looked to break control, or if it was merely a play of power, the attempt to look powerful, intimidating - much like a Myrian she had spoken to the last winter tried to behave. Brutish, she sipped as she listened to that grunt of a voice escape, the lingering of a growl behind it.

"Just the Daggerhand? What about the others who answered it so happily? And you are not the only one who would like to butt heads with the Dagger's," She gave the smallest of shrugs, and gently swirled the liquid within her glass, "It was a bloody affair by all accounts, messy like most fights would be. A stupid fight." She shook her head, "Unfortunate that. Though, the way Sunberth stands there will always be causalities, innocent or otherwise. It is the nature of war and gangs." And it was a hard bitter truth she had accepted to swallow over the past seasons. She let her glass rest upon the bar surface, watching the moment of control and forced calm take over.

"So you would retaliate with violence then? Solve fighting with fighting?" She traced shapes across the bar surface, her brow creasing with thought as she pondered over his words, "Smash some heads and cut some ties. But how well would that really work?" She posed the question there and let him consider it for a few chimes, "To fight against one symptom would only make the others rise up in its place. No, it is like a disease, writhing and sinking into every nook and clinging hold. A cure is needed to truly take them, or pure eradication and no survivors..." She drifted off then, taking up her glass once more and already feeling the sensation of her jaw slacking and the buzz that came with alcohol, "But that would be a long, solo, uphill struggle. No?"

"Besides, why would you put yourself into such a line of fire? Pride? Justice? Revenge? Or maybe just your own battle lust?"
Her lips curled into a sly smile, "You could just ignore it, turn a blind eye and simply grumble like everyone else does? Or, just leave? New here? Now, is that to the city proper or just here?" her eyes rose to meet his, the smallest of peers in deeper. Least before she quickly with drew the scrutinizing gaze, "Daggerhand, interesting. Same all around then. I do wonder what their game is..."
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Fallon is a Master of Intimidation, "At this level, a Master intimidator often unconsciously intimidates their target unless the intimidator monitors their stance, tone, and actions to prevent this. Master intimidators will nearly always have a reputation that precedes them unless they have taken special care to prevent it."
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[Drunken Fish] Behind Bars (Fallon)

Postby Glen Fiddich on January 20th, 2015, 7:55 pm

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Glen shrugged at her accusation of generosity. "Never known anyone who calls it gutrot to be wanting just a single before," he explained. The logic was simple enough, though there was more to it than that. Call it instinct, or intuition, barman's or otherwise; empathy maybe, or some kind of insight; what the proper name was, Glen didn't know nor care, it was just something he did. Some people had wisdom about books, about magic, about smithing, or crafting, or all manner of useful things. Glen knew booze, and he knew the people that drunk it.

He didn't flinch as he listened. If this woman wanted to talk, then she was welcome to it, so long as the coins kept sliding their way across the bar. A keep was many things, not just a server or a bouncer; there was a strange relationship, an unspoken bond of sorts between the person drowning their sorrows, and the person pouring the drinks to help them do it. There were things you couldn't tell friends or family, and things you couldn't say to strangers; the barkeep was somewhere between, safely familiar and safely distant at the same time.

But then her words turned to questions, and a fidget of discomfort threatened the Svefra; his hands grabbed a glass and a rag, occupying himself with smearing away the streaks and smudges from half-hearted efforts to rinse them out. A stupid fight it was, on that she was right; but Glen had been paid to participate in enough such encounters to know it was never quite so simple. The gangs were as bad as each other, of that there was was no doubt; but in this isolated incident, it was the Daggerhands that brought the fight to the market. The quarrels between the gangs stretched back far beyond his knowledge, and while he would happily wade into a bloodied conflict between the various sides, a debate about such subtleties was beyond his capabilities.

"This is retirement for me," he said at last, choosing his words with the utmost care. "I may not seem old enough for it on the outside, but I feel it on the in. I grew too weary of my life from before, and so I came here for escape. Where better to lose yourself than a city full of the lost?"

His brow furrowed. It was an oversimplification, so much of what had happened skimmed from his story in the interests of brevity and privacy. There was no need to explain that for all his scars and wounds, a broken heart had been the injury that undid him. There was no need to explain that all he had left to his name was the axe hidden beneath the counter, the scruffy white terrier curled sleeping beside the fire, and the second hand ship barely more than a raft that was his home, afloat in the frigid waters of the bay. There was no need to explain that deep down, he was here waiting desperately in hope that his woman would one day arrive to find him; or that he wasn't sure if it was his heartbreaker or Dira that he would rather see.

"Before that I was a mercenary of sorts; part of a band. Our captain was a knight of Sylir; obnoxious, stuck-up bastard at times, but with a good heart, a good soul. Honourable man. All that good stuff." He shrugged, setting the cleaned glass on the counter, and pouring out a drink of his own. If Manowar found out and cared, he could dock it from his pay if he wanted. If he didn't, it'd serve the portly shyke right for getting himself so badly hungover that Glen needed to be here at this hour at all. "He had one of those moral compasses. Steered us towards fighting the good fight. Upholding the law. You know what I learned?"

He held up his glass in a half-way salute before tossing a mouthful down the hatch, a hissed breath pulled past his tongue as he savoured the burning that crept down his throat.

"Deep down, pretty much everyone is an arsehole of some sort or another. Problem is, the arseholes getting hurt are seldom the arseholes who deserve it." The glass spun idly in his fingers as he contemplated drawing it out, savouring his dose of alcohol, stretching it as long as he could. He decided otherwise, another mouthful disappearing in a gulp.

"Now me? I'm the stupid kind of arsehole. I don't know my daggerhand from my daggertit -" He paused for a moment. "Pardon my language," he conceded, with an apologetic nod of his head; not that this seemed like the sort of woman who'd kick up a fuss over a little salty language, mind you - she had voluntarily wandered into the Drunken Fish after all. "Point is, I'd struggle to win a battle of wits against two infants and a barrel of yams. I am not the kind of bastard with any right to pass judgement on anything complex. But I do know when someone is more of an arsehole than I am, and I do know how satisfying it is to put an axe through the face of them that deserve it."

He shrugged again, expression contorting as he considered her points. "Bit of justice. Bit of revenge. Bit of lust. But turning a blind eye is not my style. World's full of too many arseholes doing that already."
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[Drunken Fish] Behind Bars (Fallon)

Postby Fallon on January 23rd, 2015, 10:33 am

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"Retirement, eh? So you came to the sweaty, arse-end of the Sylira region for that?" she chuckled at that, "Many people I know would kill to get out of the city for a clean break, for something better than this supposed mire. A flicker of opportunity and they would grab it with both hands to throttle it for the chance." Draining the rest of the glass she place it down firmly upon the bar surface, palm resting over the top as she considered another, before she peeled it away, "But, everyone has their own reason to be here. Some for gold, some for opportunity, some for revenge, and some for..." her lip gave a curl, "Retirement."

She went no further, no point poking the potential bear with the verbal stick. He was a bear next to her and she figured that if he was trained he could easily dismember her with a swipe of a hand. So, she sat there, rubbing her chin with thought as he gave a squirm to her probing questions. That attempt to ignore, to smother it down and focus only on what was before him. The way he seemed to try to channel all his focus into cleaning however made her wonder how long it would be before he wore a hole through the side. She raised a brow to him, "Trying to clean to glass or turn it into nothing? Still, city of the lost. Suggests that something has been misplaced. Lose your life unto the grind, nothing better in mind. Each to their own."

She gave a low chuckle, listening to him explain the little about himself, the firm movements as he went around tending to his idle duties and poured his own drink out. Whilst there was no words, there was the actions, the story almost painted upon his face, the stance of body language and the way the expression changed into that frown despite the shrugging. The almost attempt to make a story seem little more than unimportant to the casual observer. Her free hand traced the idle shapes upon the bar surface, the expression falling inevitably down into neutrality.

Every person held a story behind them, and none she realised as time went on, was never as simple as they first ever seemed. There was always something that ran deeper, beneath the surface of words and coursed through the body and mind - ever waking and leaving its tell tale signs. The raise of the glass marked respect, thought it was traced with contemplation. She raised only her chin to him in acknowledgement, but otherwise remained silent as he skirted over his thoughts.

"Daggertits," there was a flash of an amused grin, "Like that one. May have to use it." She gave a tilt of the head, eyes narrowing down, "Still, nothing wrong with a moral compass. Or at least, one you define for yourself. Like, don't kill kids. Sure, maybe put one over your knee and give 'em a smack if they steal from you. But, that's different," she waved the thought away, "See, I was always told everyone has a bit of a bastard in them. Arsehole works just as well though. Specially for those who tend to stick their own head up it."

"So, what would you do to the arseholes who deserve it then? Get them hurt for what they deserve?"
She folded her arms then, "If only it was that easy in Sunberth. You'd have half the people dead, and the other half wanting for blood by going that route. Tried it, wouldn't recommend it. Seems to me that being an arse is infectious. Like sickness." Fallon grimaced at that, lip twitching with annoyance as she calculated the next lot of words, "Least, doing it solo is. When you have a group backing you though, it's easier stuff." There was a snort, "Then we think alike. Least, partially. I don't like turning a blind eye on things. But, I know when to strike, letting the impulse get the better of you always ends up bringing you into trouble."

"So, let's say you had the power to bring change, had a right hand, a left hand and an organisation to back you. And you could do whatever you want to Sunberth. What would you do?"
her finger then gave a point into the glass, "And refill me while you're at it. Ta."
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Fallon is a Master of Intimidation, "At this level, a Master intimidator often unconsciously intimidates their target unless the intimidator monitors their stance, tone, and actions to prevent this. Master intimidators will nearly always have a reputation that precedes them unless they have taken special care to prevent it."
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[Drunken Fish] Behind Bars (Fallon)

Postby Glen Fiddich on January 25th, 2015, 10:59 pm

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"All depends on what you're retiring from, Miss," Glen countered with a shrug. He didn't much care for all this speculation and small talk, but this was the first conversation he'd had in days that didn't involve someone dredging their guts up from the deep, and that made it an opportunity worth a little patience and entertaining. "Most people retire in order to get away from it all and, well -" A hint of a smile crept onto his features. "- lets just say that Sunberth is nice and light on the kinds of law abiding and law enforcing shykebags that I'd prefer to be left alone by."

He sighed a little; the scrape of the surface that explanation made on the truth was more shallow than a Ravokian slave trader, but he didn't know this woman from Dira, and even if he were the sort of man who were inclined to sob over his story, it sure as petch wouldn't be her. "In my experience, the only thing the law of the land is good for is getting in the way of what needs doing," he concluded, and left it at that.

He abandoned his polishing glass; truth was he hadn't really been making much headway. There reached a point when the best you could hope for was smearing the grime around the insides into a consistent film so nobody noticed the difference. Wasn't really worth the effort; it'd wind up broken and replaced before too long anyway, given how many evenings in this place devolved into a brawl at some point or another. Might've seemed smarter to serve in something wooden or metal, harder to break and all that; but a man'll pay more for a shot of something if it's served to him in a glass, or so the proprietor's wisdom went. If that's how it was, then that's how it was; Glen was far happier leaving such thinking to people better disposed and more inclined to do so.

He tried to fathom his way through the rest of the woman's hypotheticals, he really did; but when she started talking about curing sicknesses, her caravan of thought left Glen behind in the dust. He almost laughed when she posed her question, a snort escaping beneath his breath as he plucked the cork from the bottle once more, and glugged another serving into the glass.

"If I were in charge of the fate of Sunberth," he chucked, "First thing I'd do is feel sorry for the poor bastards living here. I ain't got the head for politics, or for making the kind of decisions that matter. All this sickness talk of yours? Putting me in charge is like catching herpies to cure a cold."

He shook his head and frowned, trying to give the notion some actual thought. "I'm not much for wasting time on thinking. If I know what needs to be done, I do it. If I don't know, then I do what I can. I'm just a ship on the sea: I find a wind that I like, and I trust it'll take me back to land. I know how to tack against it; I know how to use my rudder to steer myself into port; I know how to drop my sails and grab the oars if things start going really sour; but I'm no Stormwarden, I don't know how to tell the wind which way to blow, and I can't see far enough to know what'll happen if I do."

He shrugged again, and downed the last of his drink, abandoning his glass and not bothering with a refill of his own. "That's why people like me wind up following people like you; people who know what they're talking about."

He offered a quick flash of a smile. "Or at least, people who sound like they do."
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[Drunken Fish] Behind Bars (Fallon)

Postby Fallon on January 28th, 2015, 12:33 pm

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"Touché," she gave a raise of the glass in polite gesture, "To retirement and the freedom it brings." She let her lips curl, scrutinizing as he answered her questions - vague, but it gave her an outline in which to work up off from. And in some regards it was starting to prove quite interesting conversation, least in comparison to the common dirge that belonged in the Sunberth taverns. Still, she could almost see that she was losing him within the verbal battle of wits and so slowed herself down on his behalf. No point in leaving a potential candidate behind due to a quick tongue.

She raised a brow, "So doing what needs to be done, no matter who it upsets? Law or no law, still need to step on people's toes to get to the target. Break eggs to make an...." She scratched her chin then, trying to think of a suitable word, "Omelette? That the right thing? Regardless, always going to upset people. Some buggers are never happy, and nothing can be done about that. Or, keep your head down. Pull the rug out from beneath their feet, catch them unawares. But that requires the dextrous minded I find." Swirling the now refilled contents around in the glass, she pulled forth the next few coppers and placed them upon the bar surface. Buzzing was the sensation she felt now, that grip of warmth and merriment that consumed the light weight - and served as a warning to slow down her drinking. Blinking she pushed through the clouded moment of thought, snorting to his descriptions on what he would do to Sunberth.

It was no different, she mused as she sipped through her drink, to when she started. There was always a course to follow, and the intention to work with what before her - but it did not mean she could dictate the results. Everything had to be carefully planned and executed, every option evaluated, every point of exposure checked and defended, it was a dangerous game and in response it left her having to regularly check and build up a mental map of understanding. Which, lead her back around in full circle to why she was here - gather information about the on goings of the city and its fluidity.

"Herpies eh?" She looked down, lower then before raising her gaze with a sly smile, "I'll keep that in mind." Taking another sip she raised only a brow to him as he made his pointed comment, directed and looking almost for its own point of information to hook onto. Placing down her glass , she rested her chin with her palm, feeling her cheeks already take on a rosy hue and the eyes blinking at him. It was slowly that Fallon offered a gloved hand across the bar top, the rough accent dripping forth as she locked the gaze onto him, "Bitzer, leading lady of the Scars and the Red Wolf. Fancy dusting off that moral compass any time soon..." She paused then, lips pursing as she drunk in his shape, the little information on the persona that was before her. The mind flickered through words, before the lip curl up into a wolfish grin, "... Stag?"

"I mean, if it doesn't interest you being a potential bringer of change and all that, I quite understand,"
she gave a flick of the hand and then turned her attention back down to her glass, "This is, after all, your retirement plan and I would not want to tear you away from it. Be so unfair to do, don't you think?" Taking a sip she spoke again, "Or, do you disagree?"
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FALLON
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Fallon is a Master of Intimidation, "At this level, a Master intimidator often unconsciously intimidates their target unless the intimidator monitors their stance, tone, and actions to prevent this. Master intimidators will nearly always have a reputation that precedes them unless they have taken special care to prevent it."
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Fallon
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[Drunken Fish] Behind Bars (Fallon)

Postby Glen Fiddich on January 28th, 2015, 10:31 pm

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Glen wasn't sure about all this breaking eggs and omelettes business. It sounded like the sort of thing that people said, but then people were inclined to say all manner of stupid things, and Glen didn't rightly see how cooking breakfast had anything to do with anything. At least the variation he was more familiar with - you have to break a few fingers to get a confession - felt more practically useful for a man of his ilk.

"In my experience," Glen offered with a shrug, "Someone is going to take offence or find fault no matter what you do. And if they're already willing to worry about your actions regardless, there doesn't seem much point joining in yourself. Might as well just do what needs to be done, and leave the scrutiny to people who are -" He frowned, pondering which word it was that he was intending. Better? Smarter? Wiser? "- more interested," he decided upon.

Wordlessly, Glen scooped up the coppers that Fallon placed onto the bar, and slid them covertly into a specific pocket on his apron. It was something that he never really considered, standing on the other side of the bar - when you paid your coin to the barmaid or barkeep, where did that coin go? Were there loose bags of coin beneath the bar, within easy reach of an opportunistic larcenist? Was there a lock box somewhere that a shrewd thief could abscond with, the next time a bar fight broke out and caused a distraction? Glen wasn't sure how it was done in other taverns, but here in the Fish, the staff kept just enough coin upon their person to provide change for silver if needed, periodically offloading the excess into a locked cash box in the store room. The box was bolted down, and the only way for coins to enter was through a narrow slot on the top; the only key Glen knew of was with Manowar, and it'd take a hefty hammer to smash one's way in without one. If the staff managed to miss someone sneaking in so armed, they sure as Dira wouldn't miss the ruckus that their attempts at thievery would cause.

Glen allowed a hint of a smile to tug at his features at the woman's attempt at flirtation. It was hardly an unexpected past time for the lady patrons of the Fish - if you were a woman in a place like this, odds were you were either the kind of woman who charges for that sort of thing, or you were out for the exact same endgame as the men were, and the Fish wasn't progressive enough to ladyfolk looking for that kind of companionship; or menfolk of a particular persuasion for that matter, Glen wasn't the type to judge. The slight hint of colour in her features, and her blinking efforts towards clarity added to the effect; Glen half-wondered if perhaps he should have reached for the watered down bottle instead, to let her keep her head a little longer. Too late for that now, of course.

It was that small smile that Glen tried to maintain when she dropped her introduction. Glen's knowledge of the gangs and their activities was not limited so much as reluctant; he didn't care much about the difference between them, so he didn't know much about the difference. The Scars though? It was hard to work day in, day out in this part of the city without catching a whispered word or two about their type. Best Glen could tell, the Scars were about trying to affect the city for the better, and putting branches through the wheels of the other gang's wagons; that tickled him, enough to soften his blanket dislike of gang thugs in general. Something about a connection to wolves stuck in his mind like a sharp splinter, but he couldn't dredge up more than that; Red Wolf, was it then, and this was her? Interesting. Had you told Glen that the leader of the Scars was somewhere in the Drunken Fish, this Bitzer wouldn't have been his first choice; not before he'd spoken to her, at least. More formidable to listen to than to look at seemed like the right way around to have it though, especially in a leader.

"Didn't realise I was drinking with a lady," he quipped back, letting a little more sly and mirth creep into his smile. He delved for his apron and pulled out a few coppers of his own - making a mental note to reimburse the cash box at the end of his shift - and settled them onto the counter. "If that's who you are," he continued, adding a refill to his own glass and hers, idly wondering if he should be taking offence at being addressed as an animal prayed on by wolves and men alike, "Then I will buy you a drink, and you can tell me a little more about where you'll hoping my compass will wind up pointing."
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Glen Fiddich
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[Drunken Fish] Behind Bars (Fallon)

Postby Fallon on January 30th, 2015, 4:20 pm

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"Wise words, always going to have problems with whatever task you do. Only thing you can do is do your best to snuff out those problems," She nodded, lips pursed as she stifled through the gut rot, "Don't ignore them, because only then the problem gets bigger. Worse, uglier. Kill it early." She drained the glass again, placing it down with a resounding clunk and felt the alcohol swish about inside. Blinking her eyes she bore her gaze down onto the bar surface in the hope to maintain some stability. Exhaling she leaned back on the stool and looked at the bartender down the bridge of her nose to keep him in some focus, "Straight forward thinking. Petch. Drunk that too fast I think."

Fallon rested her forehead in her palm after that, logic and reasoning beginning to fail her as she tried to keep some focus. Regardless, the coins were taken back and put away out of sight for the moment, whilst the bartender continued his business. Did he say something, she was not quite sure, she did catch that subtle curl of a smile - amusement, she briefly wondered through haze of drink. Tapping her cheek, she attempted to restore some sober state of mind, "Gut Rot, really knows how to set your insides on fire, am I right? And your skin I bet too."

Shaking the thought away she smile drop away into something else, surprise perhaps, as the introduction seemed to swirl around before his eyes. Her expression fell into seriousness, unmoving and unchanging as he tried to work it out. Her lips peeled back slowly into a wolfish grin, the eyes peering at him from beneath her brow and the subtle lift of the chin as if to challenge him as to who she was. It was not a name to simply throw about lightly.

"Lady is what some of them call me. Others try me with the slanders of bitch and whore, in honesty," a nonchalant shrug, the calling of such names had become fact to her, "I'm indifferent to what people call me. Just don't call me late and we'll be home sailing." She watch him shift, taking out the few coppers and placing them back down upon the surface. Eyeballing them suspiciously she considered them. What were they for? What was his intention? His line of thought? Finger tips massaged at her brow, the spurring triggers to understand what was going on, "I am who I am. What can I say? People expect a muscular man with red locks, whenever they hear Red Wolf it seems. Not some wiry little thing. Surprises them it seems when I appear." She sighed, peeling away her hand then and watched him refill the glass without a second thought, "But yes, that is who I am. And a drink, how generous." Fallon raised an eyebrow at him, "Just don't think about buying anything of me however, it will not work."

Finger tracing around the rim of her glass she pondered for a moment, holding back on the drinking as she weighed up his question, "We like change, not just any random chaotic change. No, that is detrimental and destructive, only making people grumpy and grouchy. No, we like progressive change, stomping down on the troublesome and who look to make slaves of us all, metaphorically or literally." Her gaze slipped along the bar then, her circling pausing for a tick and then continuing, "So, we target those that would cause harm, and those that want safety, we keep safe. Think of them as family of the adoptive kind." Her finger lifted and she hummed, "But right now, we have our compass pointing at some slaver rings, least, ones that like to try and set up and pass through our territory. So maybe..." she lifted the glass up then, looking at the liquid within, "Maybe you, Mister Stag with your strong form and massive antlers, would fancy smashing your moral compass over the heads of some arseholes with us?"
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FALLON
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Fallon is a Master of Intimidation, "At this level, a Master intimidator often unconsciously intimidates their target unless the intimidator monitors their stance, tone, and actions to prevent this. Master intimidators will nearly always have a reputation that precedes them unless they have taken special care to prevent it."
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Fallon
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