Brawlin' at the Winchester [Quinn, Howard, Night's Reprieve, Rain]

[Quinn] [Quinn] It's a good thing he doesn't get far. It's good that he's Garou, that he's strong enough to catch a kinswoman falling off a bar-top. Almost before she goes over, he's there, hands moving to her hips, catching her. Turning her head, Quinn barely avoids cracking her nose into the solid muscle of his shoulder, slaps it instead with her cheek. Her arms drape over his shoulder and around his other arm, and for a brief second, she's still half-perched on the bar, one leg having unfolded just a little bit too late to stop this whole thing happening in the first place.

The second passes, and Quinn carefully lowers herself to the floor, one sneaker touching down, then the other. Leaning back so that her hands are on his shoulders, she looks up at him, her face a little flushed, her heart racing from a near-catastrophe.

"Thanks," she says with a shaky laugh. It doesn't even occur to her to blame him for it. She shouldn't have been so hasty, should have simply hopped down from the bar like a normal person.

[Night's Reprieve] All these good things combine to create one very bad thing, Night's Reprieve with his hands on the kinfolk. He caught her, of course he did, but now he won't let go or at least it seems like he may have forgotten how to. Thankfully she turned her head in the fall to avoid breaking her nose, so when she carefully slides her feet down to the floor and looks up at him, there isn't blood dripping down her face. No in fact her face looks quite nice, flushed with colour from her little accident.

When she lowers herself, his hands go with her, fingertips and thumbs wrapped around her hips, and the slightest touch on his shoulders makes him forget himself for a moment. There is that, her hands are still on him also though probably without the same intent. Five seconds ago he was going to walk away, now he's about to do something incredibly stupid.

Thanks she says, and laughs a shaken up sort of laugh to which he growls. Or something of a growl. He lets out a low rumbling mmm and tips his head. Why isn't he letting go? Let go you stupid Fenrir. But he's just staring at her, with that inhuman gaze that only a Garou can give.

"You should be more careful."

[Howard Ivers] OH MY GOD I SAID NO BARE ASSES

[Quinn] He helps her to the floor, and for a moment they just stand there, staring at each other. For Quinn's part, there is no nefarious intent involved in her having her hands on his shoulder. The Godi is a solid figure to steady herself on, a place to remain until her nerves have settled. It doesn't take long at all, but Quinn looks up at Night's Reprieve with a look of dawning comprehension. Smiling a bit awkwardly, she pats him on the shoulder.

She clucks her tongue against her teeth. Moving her hands to his, she pushes them away.

"So! Uh, I think it's break time. Guys?" Stepping away from Night's Reprieve, she looks at the kinfolk, staring back at them with wide eyes. Their looks make her laugh despite herself. Going to her bag, she takes out her wallet and removes a few bills. "Can you guys go get food? Just McDonald's or some pizzas or something." Guys. Both of them are expected to go and leave the kinswoman and the Godi alone after that? They look at each other, though, and shrug. Accepting the money, they take off out the door.

This time, when Quinn perches herself somewhere, she sits on the edge of an unfinished table top. "So." One word, and one word only, but it expresses the awkwardness she feels pretty completely. Wrapping her hands around the table's edge, she kicks her feet.

[Night's Reprieve] That's all it takes. Her hands nudging his and he snaps out of it. Oh and how he feels like a complete idiot when he does. Back to work, back to business. The look fades from the Godi and he makes all sorts of promises to himself to keep it that way. If she feels awkward then it's naught but a shadow compared to the awkwardness of the Fenrir. When she steps away he clears back out into that safety zone of being X amount of distance away from said kinfolk who better Garou could make use of. He bends and picks up the fallen sandpaper from the floor and scrubs at a tabletop almost with his back to Quinn.

He really doesn't want to show his face right now.

And how he scrubs, like he's trying to break the damn piece of furniture, like it's done him some horrible injustice and is now being punished for it.

"So." He repeats and the word sound harsh even in his own ears.

Scrub scrub scrub.

If he thought running away right now would make things better he might do just that. But they would run into each other again, and it would be even more awkward because of it.

[Howard Ivers] The combination of having a fairly distinctive voice and an inability to be quiet when common sense and good judgment would dictate that such a thing is necessary makes mistaking Howard for someone else difficult. Even from blocks away, previous packmates and acquaintances have cited the ease with which they've been able to identify him simply based on the decibel level of whatever happened to be coming out of his mouth at the time.

It's morning, and he's, of course, coming down off of last night's inebriation far too slowly for his brother's liking.

"Oh, piss off, gat!" his voice comes from outside the Winchester as the two inside are trying to regain their footing. Distance and architecture conceal the fact that a thinner body is shoving a larger one. "Maybe you should tell your sister to stop fuckin' ringin' me up, huh?"

[Quinn] With is back almost to her, he can't see the look on her face when she cants her head at an angle, watching what she can see of what he's doing. Mostly she listens.

He can hear her huff of a laugh. "Please don't break the table. I spent every last dime I had on paint and varnish and the risers for the stage. Those kids just took my last twenty, and I hope they come back with food because otherwise I'm screwed until my first tips. I really can't afford to replace a table right now."

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [Son of a... Punch!]
to Howard Ivers

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [Damage + 2 + Volcano]
to Howard Ivers

[Howard Ivers] [Yeah right.]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Night's Reprieve] His head snaps up like she just said something far less polite than she actually did, but his sanding slows in pace to something more relaxed and casual. Finally he drops the sandpaper down and props himself up on the table which causes him to turn to face her. Somewhere outside there is shouting and Night's Reprieve quirks a brow.

"We should just, yeah. Nothing happened." A pause as the shouting continues, the voice is muffled from inside yet it sounds familiar. He looks from the door to Quinn and back again. "You want me to check it out?"

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Howard's voice carries; Patrick's ... not quite as much.

That isn't to say that the very distinct sounds of shoving and -- "Don't talk about sister like that, you dick!" -- THUNK a fist connecting with a face don't carry; nor Patrick's raised voice at that, presently. Outside of the Winchester, there's a fight starting.

Or finishing.

Patrick Llewelyn was shaking out his fist; glowering in he direction of his pack-mate.

[Howard Ivers] Patrick ought to know as well as anyone still living that the Theurge doesn't know when to quit. The Godi inside is starting to get this impression, and this only after only having spent perhaps an hour in his company altogether. It isn't that he's any more strong-willed or convicted than any other Cliath to ever walk the face of the planet; it's that he's stupid, and though he possesses a street smarts that lets him read complete strangers and negotiate with criminals, for some reason he loses this ability when he feels safe.

Which could be flattering, knowing that Howard considers himself safe around Patrick even when the man is capable of beating him into a pulp, but not so much when it enables him to make jokes about Patrick's sister.

They're not screwing around: Howard doesn't yell in mock outrage as he does when Patrick gives him an open-palmed thwap as a warning.

"Oi!" he says, more to get Patrick's attention than to protest the treatment. Of course he thinks this is funny. "Twenty-five is well above the age of consent in all fifty states! At least she isn't fifteen and tryin' to get me to shag her!"

Night's Reprieve and Quinn just hear silence immediately preceding that bit of brilliant logic. They miss the expression on his face, the one that usually comes before he appends a statement with ... again.

[Quinn] Quinn looks up at him, completely serious faced for all of the time it takes her to pantomime locking her lips with a key. Which she then negates with a frown and, "Wait, nothing did happen."

She turns when she hears the sound of people outside fighting, she twists at the waist and looks at the entrance. As if she'd be able to see through the walls to the outside world and see who it is causing such a ruckus out there. Reaching back behind her, she pulls her bag toward her, reaches in and pulls out the Ruger. "Nah, I got this," she says, and rises.

Peering carefully outside, she sees...

Sighing, she sets the safety and holds the gun to her side. Opening the door wider, she stands there, letting the cold air wash over her, and doesn't let it stop her from leaning against the door, arms crossed over her midsection, gun held by muzzle rather than the grip.

"I thought bar fights generally happened inside bars?"

[Night's Reprieve] "That's what I said!" He looks at her incredulously, but she's got this so he just lets out a sigh and goes back to sanding.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [I SAID, don't talk about my sister!]

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Here's the thing about Howard and Patrick.

They're mates. Good mates, over and above the fact that they're linked by Volcano they would likely still be friends even were their totem to abandon them tomorrow. Being packed under such a violent force however, does bring with it some issues. Like the fact that losing your temper seems completely valid when your pack-mate is suggesting your sister, who is the only family member who doesn't spend hours telling you all the ways you haven't succeeded yet should stop calling him for sex.

Or whatever else Howard was implying.

They may not actually mean what they're brawling about; but then again, as Patrick's fist again sails through the air with force behind it; even as it continues past Howard's jaw, he doesn't seem to be holding back as he has when Quinn witnessed them play fighting. But, they were Garou. They didn't care for injuries the same way a human would.

The Galliard grunts when he misses, and swings for his pack-mate again.

Howard is already bleeding from Patrick's first blow; and neither man seemed ready to give up just yet.

"Yeah, well at least other Garou haven't tried to mac on my face."

[Howard Ivers] Quinn comes outside to see what the hell is going on on her property, leads with a joke, and Howard--sunglasses covering his eyes, lip split from where Patrick socked him the first time--barely turns his head as he holds up a finger.

"One sec, love."

Pointing that same finger at Patrick, he acquires a tone of mock indignation.

"You leave that poor, sweet... garbage-scented Rat out of this! Who cares that she had like one tooth left her whole head? All she wanted was love! Is that so wrong?"

He can't keep this up. The thought is too nauseating.

"Your sister, however..."

[Night's Reprieve] While the fighting goes on outside, and Quinn goes to investigate, Night's Reprieve has a little chat with himself while he scrubs at the table.

"She's a lesbian, what did you expect you idiot. Duh. Rain is way hotter than you. You're not even allowed at slumber parties." A pause and he looks up into empty space. "Fuckin' slumber parties."

[Quinn] [perception, diff +2 (distracted and mostly outside)]

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick's eyebrows crawl up to next in his hairline.

He shakes his head slightly from side to side and inches forward like a cage-fighter; Howard gets to "Your sister--" and Prayers to Broken Stone is on him; plowing his full body weight into the other Garou with the force of a freight train. Strapping lad, was Patrick.

"That's it!" He's yelling, as he tackles Howard.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [Nest, not next. Tsh.]

[Quinn] ...at least other Garou haven't tried to mac on my face.

At that, Quinn rolls her eyes skyward, as if asking the clouds overhead to grant her strength. Without another word to the kids brawling in the street, she steps back inside and shivers. Luckily for the Godi, Quinn's attention while he had his little chat to himself goes completely unnoticed. At least by her, anyway, and the walls aren't talking. At least not so that Quinn can hear them. "It's colder than a witch's tit out there."

It's probably the most colorful thing Quinn's said within anyone's hearing in Chicago, except perhaps Rain, who had the benefit of spending the night downing beers with the Fianna woman.

The gun goes back into her bag, and while Night's Reprieve continues sanding away at a table, Quinn once again uses a bar stool as a boost up onto the bar itself, swings her legs over, and hops down onto the other side. Much more gracefully than the last time she came down from it. Picking up her own scraper once more, she begins peeling away the finish. What was on there is yellowish and faded and chipped and worn. The new finish should be significantly classier.

"Ah. I should call the guys and tell them to use the back entrance," she says, fishing her cell phone from her pocket and dialing the number. She flashes Night's Reprieve a lopsided grin and rolls her eyes, shakes her head. When they've been duly warned, she sets to work again.

"So. How'd you get to Chicago from Nawlins?" she asks, her accent on New Orleans laughably exaggerated. She moves forward from that strange moment of...something...easily enough. Quinn's good at moving forward from things that are uncomfortable to talk about.

[Night's Reprieve] He spins around when he hears Quinns voice again. Colder than a witches tit and he almost spits. That's the second time this morning that he hasn't been entirely sure that he heard her correctly. Maybe grandpa fenrir's senses are going in his old age. She doesn't talk about what's going on outside, and Night's Reprieve stares at the door for a few moments after she has closed it. But he doesn't ask, not until she mentions something about using the back door.

She rolls her eyes, shakes her head, grins at him and he grins right back but it's a nervous kind of should I be grinning? I am confused, type of grin.

"Greyhound." He says, thinking that she means literally how did he get here. "What's going on outside?"

[Howard Ivers] [WHAM!]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Howard Ivers] [DAMAGE]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Quinn] "Boys letting off steam right in front of my meal ticket," she says with a forced smile. Then she shrugs. "Patrick and Howard," she continues in a way that says that should explain everything. "Those two always seem to be going on about something."

Putting her elbow into it, she continues grinding away the layer of finish on the bar. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, the hair swinging side to side with each scrape of the counter. She's dressed as she usually is, in a t-shirt layered over a long-sleeved shirt. Today's is an old Poison shirt with a skull and cross-bones. Hidden by her place behind the bar are the words Hardcore Rock 'n' Roll. The tattoo on her right forearm is clearly visible, the birds wrapping up from her wrist and disappearing beneath her rolled up sleeve.

"And I mean, why? Why did you come to Chicago? Seems a bit of a jump, don't you think?"

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [Ack! Soak!]
to Howard Ivers

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [er, add a dice to that. Derp, derp.]
to Howard Ivers

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [BLAMMO! Dex+Brawl]
to Howard Ivers

[Howard Ivers] [THUMP]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Howard Ivers] [DAMAGE]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [OW, YOU DICK THAT HURT.]
to Howard Ivers

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [SOCK!]
to Howard Ivers

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [Daaaamage your face]
to Howard Ivers

[Howard Ivers] [ACK!!]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Howard Ivers]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Howard Ivers] Howard lets out a yelp as Patrick tackles him, the two of them crashing to the frigid, slush-covered sidewalk with a thump of meat and bones, and although Patrick is the one who initiated this rumble on the concrete, he isn't the one who throws the first punch: the Theurge smacks him in the side of the head with a left hook that does little more than further piss off the Galliard, and a second later they're both throwing punches.

The Galliard is bigger and stronger than his brother. Although they tend to be, this fight is short by even their standards: Patrick clocks Howard in the nose, at which point the smaller man realizes he is pretty well and fucked if he keeps fighting.

So he starts making a scene.

"Stop hitting me!" he yells, equal parts terror and amusement in his voice. So Patrick hits him again, the smacking of fist against flesh producing a half-scream, half-sob. "Jesus Christ get off me you big ape you're squishing my organs!"

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick knows his brother's dirty tactics when they're brawling, so he says nothing while Howard starts bellowing about his organs getting squashed and just sits there atop him, effectively pinning the smaller, slighter male beneath him until he gives up the goat and quiets.

Prayers to Broken Stone may well turn into an icicle waiting for the day.

"You gonna talk about Addiena again?" He demands, while they both bleed all over the sidewalk; Quinn was going to kick both their asses.

[Howard Ivers] "Am I gonna talk about Addiena again..."

As if that's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard, as if he would never in his entire life dream of continuing to wheedle Patrick for something that he clearly did not find remotely amusing. Howard lies back, one eyebrow then the other rising as he considers this, and then he does something that might make Patrick wish he had thought to hold down at least his left arm if he was going to sit on top of him.

It's called a nut tap.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick let's out a strangled curse in Welsh when Howard hits him right in the groin and rolls to one side; lying beside his pack-mate and panting something out between grit teeth. "Gonna..." Gasp. "Kill... you." Groan. "For ... that."

He reaches over once he's suitably recovered and wrenches the Theurge's sunglasses down his face.

"Dick."

[Howard Ivers] It's funny for the ten seconds or so that his packmate can neither move nor form coherent sentences; if he was truly thinking, if he had done it to escape and not just to get him off of him, Howard would have thought ahead and would be ready to get to his feet and run as fast as is humanly possible, but he wasn't, and he hadn't, so he doesn't. He crows, once, and then starts to get to his feet. It's slow going, the ground cold and his face throbbing from where he'd been hit two or three times, and he's partway to his feet when Patrick yanks his sunglasses down.

"Augh!!" he yells, for effect, bringing his hand up to his eyes to shield them from the sunlight. That rattles his glasses completely off of his face, and he ends up ducking his head and squeezing his eyes closed as he gropes around for the nearest solid surface. Getting to his feet, he shuffles forward like a drunk, holding onto the side of the building so he doesn't lose his orientation.

What comes out of his mouth next lacks the underlying amusement that tends to tell people he's just screwing around; he sounds legitimately concerned, but muted rather than amplified. It's just as loud as anything else, can still be heard by the kinswoman and the metis inside, but his tone isn't a caricature like it usually is.

"Fuck me, I can't fuckin' see!"

He catches himself. As he continues ranting as he stumbles towards where he remembers there being a door, he's joking.

"Jesus Christ, man, that was fuckin' devious. Think you're so fuckin' smooth. I'm onto you. First fuckin' sunny day we've had, 'Let's go out for a walk, Howard! It'll clear your head, Howard! We need to learn the city, Howard!'"

He finds the door, and tries the handle.

"Wanker!" is his rant's conclusion before he stumbles inside.

[Rain] There's a bus stop not too far from here that connects to a bus stop not too far from the Last Watch's packhouse. Rain spent a good half hour sorting out her route via public transportation, since her car's permanently in limbo. Even if she'd gotten it back, it still wouldn't run right now. She's new enough to town that she reads every passing street sign, and checks it against the notes she'd scribbled down before leaving the Church. They'd been a lot more legible before they'd gotten wet.

She rounds the corner and heads for the Winchester, with her guitar case in town and a small messenger bag besides. Rain's wearing all black under her coat, and her hair's pulled back in a low ponytail, but for now the brown of her coat and striping on her scarf break up the monotony.

Rain's a moment too late to see Howard stumble into the Winchester, but she'll discover his presence soon enough. Hopefully without a spear-toting Godi running him down, this time. If Patrick's still laid out on the front walk, he'll get a worried and wary look before Rain pushes open the door, peeks her head inside, and then heads for wherever Quinn is in the dust and chaos of the mid-process remodel.

[Quinn] For a few seconds, Quinn just smiles up at him, and an understanding passes between the kinswoman and the metis. It's all either of them can do right now, understand that this is as far as Quinn goes when she opens up. There's something there, something that hurts, that lurks beneath that cheerful, upbeat surface. It's in all of them, really. They've all suffered in a world of darkness, the trick is to get to tomorrow. Then the next day, and the next, and the next. It'll get sorted for Quinn, in time, that is.

Things fall into a lull outside. Not true quiet, not peace and silence, but they seem a bit calmer. Howard's loud groans are not followed by the noises of some Wyrm beast, so Quinn at least knows she isn't needed to offer some level of support. At least not of the combative sort.

Wanker! they hear, and then the door is swinging inward, bringing with it a rush of cold air the space heaters are temporarily unable to combat. Quinn looks up from where she stands behind the bar, has to lean to the side and look past Night's Reprieve's shoulder to see if it's Howard or Patrick or some wayward stranger looking for a place to rob. When she sees who it is, she quirks a brow. She lets her lean become a step to the side, and she goes to pull down a pair of pint glasses and begins filling one with the cheapest beer she has on tap.

"Hopefully Tuesday?" The date is posted on the door that opens again to let in a particular songbird, along with the announcement that the tavern is under new management. Without a Godi blocking her view of the entrance, she sees Rain enter, smiles and gives her an upward nod of greeting. Her blue eyes flick to Night's Reprieve briefly. The first beer gets set on the counter and pushed in Howard's direction if he's on his way to the bar, and Quinn begins filling the other.

[Night's Reprieve] Wanker!

That has Night's Reprieve turning around at about the same time as Quinn is peering past his shoulder from the other side of the bar. Oh it's just Howard, being Howard. It looks like he lost the fight. Night's Reprieve isn't exactly surprised, Howard doesn't look like the type to hold his own in a brawl.

Hopefully Tuesday.

He turns again to face Quinn and raises an eyebrow. That is awfully soon, and there is still a lot of work to be done. But if the kinswoman says Tuesday, then Tuesday it is.

"Let me know if you need any more help, I'll try to fit in some hours here around my work at the --" But her eyes flick to someone else, and then back to him and he turns his head to look over his shoulder and he gulps. Rain. He looks from Rain to Quinn and then quickly shuffles further down the bar to give the two of them room.

"Something strong if you please barkeep." He calls down the bar to Quinn.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] The blond haired Galliard isn't laid out on his back by the time Rain comes upon Howard staggering around yelling about how he can't see; he's sitting on his ass on the ground, wiping his bleeding lip with the side of his hand and smirking outright in Howard's direction as he retreats inside. Patrick raises a hand and salutes the Kinswoman and sits there for another minute before wrenching himself to his feet.

There's a wince, and he smacks snow and dirt off his jeans and begins what might best be described as a ginger walk inside the Winchester. Patrick's eyes take a few moments to adjust, and then he's wandering over, raking a hand through his hair and hopping onto a bar-stool next to his beaten up Alpha. "Hey, Quinn. Can I get a beer," he glances sidelong at Howard.

"And a gin and tonic for the lady."

[Prayers to Broken Stone] He sets Howard's sunglasses in front of him wordlessly, and smacks his shoulder.

[Rain] When Patrick salutes her, Rain offers him a warm smile. Bloody lip and all. Brawling Fianna and warring Fenrir are some of the first things in the Nation she learned to avoid.

Rain seems to have found good reason to give Howard wide berth, so she moves around him if needs be on her trajectory into the pub. She spies the table where Quinn's coat rests, and heads over to lean her guitar case against the same and toss her jacket over one chair. Her messenger bag and scarf get piled into the seat of that chair, and she's suddenly so much lighter. It's easier to move around without all that stuff.

She casts an odd look toward Night's Reprieve, somewhere in the process of checking out Quinn's space, and something she finds in either the pub or the Fenrir's countenance sends her to sit nearer to Caldera's packmates than the Godi. Maybe she's had her fill of Godi for the week, and their very odd questions.

"Hey, everyone," she chimes, letting that stand in for proper personal greetings. "'S a lovely place, Miss Quinn. I mean, good bones and all. Looks like you're well on your way to fixing up the rest of it."

[Howard Ivers] Howard picks his way across the considerably less well-lit interior of the bar, slowly, stepping around whatever tables and chairs are in his way to find a stool. His lower lip has stopped bleeding, but his nose still oozes somewhat. Slush and dirt cover his backside, and his clothes are bedraggled from the scuffle that took place just now. His hair is as big a mess as it usually is, and he's squinting as if trying to see what's right in front of him, but hearing Quinn addressing someone else, hearing Night's Reprieve's voice, has his bitching returned to the shelf.

He sits down without comment, green eyes flicking around in observation, and when he realizes the beer is for him his mood brightens considerably. Being as his mood doesn't seem to darken even when it's clear he doesn't want to discuss whatever is being discussed, seeing a difference is difficult.

"Oh, hey, cheers!" he says, and after a beat, reaches into his jacket pocket, the effort producing a crinkling sound, to produce a set of rumpled bills. Howard slaps them in Quinn's general vicinity, then finds the pint and brings it to his lips about the time that Patrick is sitting down next to him.

Sunglasses clatter on the bartop in front of him, and the Theurge scowls before snatching them up.

"Prick," he mutters, and pushes them onto his face without another word.

[Quinn] Quinn is already setting a pint before Patrick as soon as she sees which stool he's aiming for. She looks at him, looks him over, at the way he walks into the bar and across the dusty floor to sit at a space.

She grins over at Night's Reprieve, in that way that spells trouble for the Godi, but she's true to her word. She says not a thing about his drinking choices and even decides not to embarrass him utterly in front of the Fianna. Instead, she finds a bottle of Jack and pours him a shot before walking it down the bar to him. If things were further along, she might slide it to him, but there are patches on the counter that have been sanded down.

"Thanks, Rain, and thank you for bringing up an excellent point," she says, smiling beatifically at the Theurge and the Ragabash. Blue eyes drop to the crumpled bills. Stepping toward them, Quinn pushes them back toward Howard. "Drinks are on the house. If."

She waits until she's sure she has their attention. Then: "If you help out. I've only got the weekend to finish cleaning this place up, and I can't afford contractors, so I need all the help I can get to prettify this place. Work is simple, just sanding and refinishing the wood-work, painting the walls, and seeing what can be done about building a little performing area over there," she tips her head toward a corner that's been cleared of furniture. Large wooden planks litter the floor over there.

"It doesn't have to be perfect, it just needs to be nice enough for customers. Who's interested?"

[Rain] "Anytime, hon." She tosses Quinn a winning smile, before moving on to the topic at hand. As to manual labor, she's quiet, but there's a good chance that Rain will pitch in with anything she's asked to do -- menial, messy or otherwise.

"Building a stage?" she asks, and she leans back so she can look past the Fianna True to the area Quinn had set aside. "I know some people. They're not family or anything, but I bet I could barter favors."

[Night's Reprieve] Quinn comes his way with shot of Jack and Night's Reprieve eyes like a kid on Christmas eve. He takes the shot, but he doesn't down it in one go. That would mean Quinn would have to come back and pour him another. Instead he nurses it slowly, taking a sip or two at a time and savouring the light burn on his lips. Rain gets cast a glance or two along with Howard and Patrick and he waves a hand at them, though with his elbow on the bar it's more of a slight wiggle than a wave.

Dear god have mercy someone needs to put him out of his misery. But for now he sits there and thinks he's going to see Rain and Quinn start making out every time he looks down the bar. It doesn't happen, which he finds strangely disappointing. He isn't sure why but the thought of Rain and Quinn hooking up isn't exactly.. unpleasant..

How odd.

"If that doesn't work out we can sort your stage out for you if you would like Quinn, I have a stack of shipping crates at the Bawn that would do nicely with a few decorative touches."

The fenrir is talking aesthetics.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick raises his beer to his lips, winces, and then takes a sip.

The cut has already clotted, and is more an annoyance than anything right now. The Galliard strips himself of his wet jacket and shrugs it over the back of his stool; glancing around at the interior of the place Quinn has appropriated as her own. He's thoughtful as he considers her offer, his keen eye taking in all that was left to be done, tonguing the inside of his cheek.

"Yeah," then he looks across at her, his demeanor post-tussle with his pack-mate relaxed, bordering on upbeat, for Patrick. He actually offers her a smile, which is somewhat amusing given his cut mouth. "I can help out, I mean, it's not a car but I'm pretty handy with a hammer. If it's basic grunt work."

[Howard Ivers] "Don't tell her we know how to build houses and shit, man," he tells Patrick, as though they're alone. "Next thing you know it'll be 'Oh, the bathroom just needs a little remodeling' or 'Hmm, you know, could use a new roof.'" He takes another swallow as he returns his bills to his pocket. "Be gettin' paid in liquor, though. Not a bad deal." Turning back to the bartender without having given his packmate a chance to chime in, the questionable Alpha of Caldera says, louder, "Quinn, love, we're in."

[Prayers to Broken Stone] "We're Fianna," Patrick says, lazily amused this evening. "The sons of immigrants and thieves, all we're good for is growing potatoes and building houses."

Look everyone, Patrick made a funny.

[Howard Ivers] Even when he's got beer in his trachea and sunglasses covering his eyes, it's obvious when Howard has something to say. His eyebrows rise, he makes a noise low in his throat, and he sets his beer glass down to hasten the repartee process.

"You forgot: makin' little baby immigrants and thieves."

[Quinn] The endearment from the southern lass earns her a look of not-terribly-subtle close scrutiny. Though she doesn't find an answer she's looking for, Quinn still looks at Rain like she's just answered all her Christmas wishes. "That would be fantastic!" Happily, Quinn claps her hands together.

And then there's Night's Reprieve, offering...crates. The blue-eyed kinswoman looks at him and, without any part of her body moving to do so, looks around the tavern. What she sees is what it's going to be, not what it is. And what it's going to be is not a place with crates with "decorative touches." Sucking in a breath, Quinn grits her teeth like she's so sad to be delivery this news, but, "Nooooooo, hon, but thanks. My uncle actually has some neat pictures upstairs that I'll be hanging on the walls."

To Patrick, "Oh, yeah, I'm not looking to make anything fancy. Just...nicer. Less ragged around the edges. It's not really going to be a stage," she says, looking to Rain, "just...a place standing out from the rest of the bar sort of thing."

That settled, she listens to Howard's little rant, her thumbs hooking into the pockets of her jeans. Stepping forward, she leans her stomach into the bar between the Caldera boys.

"And drink beer. Never forget the beer. And guys." She lays her hands on the bar, palms flat. Tipping her chin, she fixes first Howard, then Patrick, with a stern look. "I know you're going to fight. It's in the blood and it comes with the territory. What I'd appreciate, is if when you two get the need to pummel each other's faces in, you do it in the alley out back. Not. Right out the front where my customer base can see and be scared off. Got it?"

[Night's Reprieve] Night's Reprieve looks at his drink.

[Rain] Rain and Quinn exchange looks in some sort of muted feminine equivalent of telepathy. The Gaian's eyes narrow, slightly, and she shakes her head either at whatever Quinn's pointedly not asking her about or whatever is the Fianna just collectively said.

Between the thoughts of furnishing a stage with crates and Fianna only being good for a choice few things, Rain's mostly just biting her tongue right now. Neither topic is particularly safe to touch.

"I've gotta sing for my supper tonight, but I'm in for the weekend," she tells the other woman, completing the full count of offers to help.

[Howard Ivers] "Hey, you know what we could do?"

This ought to be good... and stupid.

"Take those crates Grandpa was talkin' about, build a fuckin' boxing ring in the middle'a the bar, yeah? Gamblin's legal in this country, right? Patrick can beat the shit out of me and you can make a bit of scratch while he's doin' it. Everybody wins!"

[Quinn] Quinn actually laughs. "Have you ever actually won against Patrick before?"

[Night's Reprieve] Night's Reprieve ponders this, of course it's the first time he has been called Grandpa before and it makes him frown. In fact, the frown deepens more the longer he thinks on it.

"I have no grand children." He says, and he narrows a gaze at Howard like the boy has lost his god damn mind and it isn't amusing at all. "And I fail to see how you win in this situation."

[Howard Ivers] "Em..."

He scratches his chin as he thinks, brows disappearing behind his shades with the furrowing that indicates deep thought. Luckily, the Fenrir pipes up and thoroughly distracts the Theurge from actually having to answer the question.

"Well, obviously I win by helpin' Quinn here--" He gestures to her with an open palm. "--keep her bar open."

[Rain] Rain just looks at him like he's a bit crazy. She doesn't even have a beer to sip at as a merry distraction. The look only twists further toward incredulousness when Howard explains how he wins.

Rain opens her mouth to say something. Then shuts it.

[Night's Reprieve] He makes no sense, there are so many flaws with his plan that it's hardly a plan at all.

"If you want them, use them."

And he downs the rest of his Jack.

[Quinn] "Well," Quinn steps away and goes to find another glass, "from what I understand, this neck of the woods is pretty rough." Pulling a glass out, she gestures toward Rain, asking without words if she wants a drink. "So why would anyone pay to see what they can see for free just around the corner?"

[Rain] Rain's smile broadens a bit at the offer of something to help all these stellar moments of Howard brilliance go down. "They're prettier than most of the street brawls I've seen, for one," she concedes, whilst gesturing diffidently with one hand.

"But that may not be the sort of atmosphere you want t' cultivate. "

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Quinn asks if Howard's ever actually won a fight against him before and the Galliard simply raises his eyebrows and maintains a fairly clear silence on the matter; his slight smile behind the pint of beer however, says a great deal. Then he starts in about a boxing ring, and Patrick is shaking his head and scratching a hand through his hair.

Night's Reprieve doesn't understand the Grandpa remark.

Patrick's shoulders convulse a little with silent laughter, then he clears his throat. "In all seriousness, yeah, we'll try and keep our brawling to the alley out back and not turn your doorstep into Fight Club."

[Howard Ivers] Howard drains his beer, then stands up. For a second it appears as though he's going to authoritatively slam down the empty glass, but he stops himself. After a mental reboot, the Theurge gently returns the glass to the bartop, going so far as to slide it towards the well rather than leaving it on the business end of the counter, then tugs on his lapels and steps back.

"Semantics, Grandpa," he tells the Godi, jumping back to a prior point of misunderstanding without warning. All the way to the door, he rants, intermittently waving his hands. "Or... biology. Whatever. So you haven't got any grandkids. You still act like one. You're all wise and shit." The door is hauled open, and as a parting gift, he calls, "Besides, I give people shitty nicknames as a show of affection. Don't take it too fuckin' seriously, you'll just blow a gasket."

And out he goes.

[Night's Reprieve] It's like the bag of dicks sketch. Howard goes and says something completely out of the blue and then walks off whilst NR is left sitting there with so many questions. What does that mean Howard? He'll blow a gasket? Howard has affection for him?

"Wait up." He says and waves a hand to the rest of the bar. "Thanks for the Blowjob Quinn. You should give Rain one, she would love it." And rushes out the door after Howard.

[Rain] "I..."

Rain's brow creases as she watches Night's Reprieve hurry off.

"He means the drink, right?" That's the only likely explanation here.

[Quinn] "Thank you, Patrick," Quinn says, lifting her hands palm up toward the Galliard like finally SOMEONE understands her language. She grins with it, though.

Howard leaves, then Night's Reprieve, but not before thanking Quinn for a blowjob. To which she inclines her head graciously and twirls her hand in a mock bow. And then she laughs. "Ahahahaha I bet she will." Winking to Rain, she says, "Yes, he does."

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick is swallowing the rest of his pint when the Fenrir speaks, and almost chokes to death.

He coughs for a good minute, and then calmly sets the pint glass down on the bar; sliding from the stool almost regretfully, though that might just be because he's been left in the wake of Howard's path of destruction -- yet again. The handsome blond is threading his arms back through his jacket, wincing a little at a sore spot he'd bruised tackling his Alpha and nodding with his chin at the door.

"I better go play chaperon. I'm not sure those two should be anywhere unsupervised."

He's headed for the door when Rain finally regains her senses, and just grins. "Let me know when you want me, Quinn," he calls over his shoulder. Outside, they can hear Patrick calling after his pack-mate: "Hey, you with the 'fro."

[Rain] Let me know when you want me, the Galliard says. Rain scrubs one hand over her face and then looks back at Quinn with a smirk.

"They're all just walking innuendos today, aren't they?" she asks, when the last True had cleared the doorway. There's a measure of amusement to her features, peppered lightly with exasperation.