Sidhe Said What

Summary:
March 1, 2013: Stuck in NYC dealing with various matters, Logan drops by the Silveroak again, and gets around to asking Dana about some of the things Thor had brought up on his previous visit.

The Silveroak

The Silveroak Tavern sits nestled off one of those side streets in New York no one ever quite thinks about until they happen to be there. It's like a hidden gem in the city, really. Red brick facade accented by green painted wood in an old English pub style. There's no writing over it to proclaim its name. There's just a wooden sign that hangs on a copper bracket over the street, painted with a silver tree, a tankard inscribed on its trunk.

Pushing inside the red-painted door leads one to the warm, golden tap room. A long bar sits against the far wall, the shelves behind it laden with popularly recognizable through to entirely obscure bottles of alcohol from all around the world. A full sized keg, the sort one might expect to see in a period movie, sits at the far end, an oaktree like the one on the hanging sign burnt into its face. It houses the local house mead, widely rumoured by those in the know to be the best in the city… if not the world. The smell of rich and homey foods can be detected wafting from the kitchen, though getting through to that kitchen is a challenge to any not part of the staff.

The place is owned and operated by a small, silverhaired woman apparently in her 60s with merry eyes and a tacit demeanor. She is at once everyone's kindly mother and fierce landlady, a genuine force of nature. Her name is Wassea and she is not lightly crossed in this place. This is a neutral meeting ground. Dark, light, or wild, it matters not. All that matters is that the peace is kept and food and respite are enjoyed to their fullest.


Characters

NPCs

  • Wassea.

Mood Music:


After his initial visit to the Silveroak (and let's be honest, his first taste of the Fae mead), Logan had decided he rather liked the place. So, still in the city working on this and that, the short old mutant has decided to drop by for another visit the night after.

Pushing open the Silveroak's front door, the canuck steps on inside, cowboy boots carrying him across the wooden floor. There's a brief pause as Logan's blue eyes sweep across the interior, the place a bit more crowded and busy on a Friday than it was the previous night.

Grunting quietly to himself, the jeans and leather jacket-clad feral man continues through the room. Passing the fireplace on his journey to the bar, Logan's eyes check for the familiar feminine face from his last visit. Or whoever else might be tending the bar this evening.

As it turns out, Dana is around — that much evident from the dog snoozing by the hearth in his usual flop. Friday nights are indeed busy, and so the woman's helping out once more, as she often does. Tonight, there's someone else behind the bar itself — a lanky fellow, perhaps in his forties, with red hair, blue eyes, and a roguish charm that probably goes over better with the ladies than the fellows. Thing is, he's mostly harmless in his flirting. Has the air of a con-artist about him, nonetheless, and is likely reasonably good at it, given he really does leave most people laughing rather than scowling as he takes them for a ride. But this is still Wassea's establishment, and the silver-haired matron will brook no nonsense, not even from charming fellows like Paddy Mahon. Long as the guests are satisfied and happy, and he doesn't skim her short, however, she'll let him have his fun.

Thus, while the Irishman entertains the folks along the bar counter itself, Dana busses tables and fetches for those sat farther away. As Logan enters, however, her head turns. She follows the hairy mutant's progress toward the bar and makes a last swipe across the table she's cleaning just before another small group comes to claim it. "Be right with you," she tells them as they settle.

Then, it's back to the bar, herself, to shove Paddy good naturedly out of the way while she fetches an empty tankard or two. "Logan," she greets the Canuck. "Welcome back. Didn't expect to see you quite so soon. What'll it be? Mead? Or Jack's?"

There's a chuckle from the hairy mutant as he claims an empty spot against the bar and watches the Irishman, the old man seemingly enjoying the pleasant atmosphere of the busy place. A nod in greeting is offered to Paddy when the man notices Logan, but the Canadian casts a glances across the room again.

A smile eases the old soldier's features when blue eyes spot Dana on her way back towards the bar. Turning to face the bar when the woman slips behind it, Logan sets his forearms against the bartop, "Evenin', Dana. Busy place, I see. And I didn't really expect to be back so soon, but stuck in the city with some business, thought I might as well enjoy my night."

At the question, the mutant grins as he answers, "Let's see if I survive my second mug of that mead of yours, eh? Impressive stuff. I'm no faerie prince or anything, but it definitely beats anything I've ever had." There's a pause before he wonders dryly, "Do I even want to go and ask what you've got in that stuff?"

Paddy flips Logan a light salute in greeting and an easy smile. It grows wider at the question asked of Dana, who chuckles in response, herself. "I told you last night," she says lightly, taking the mugs to the old keg, now. "Clover honey, spices — apples and maybe pears have a hint in there, too, I think. This batch, anyway. All aged in an oak barrel." She pulls the tap lever and the liquid fills a mug. Then a second. "I think the real trick is in how long it ages. Longer than what most brewers would consider average, I'm sure."

She returns, then, setting one of the mugs down before him, the other slight off to the side. "You've got a helluva tolerance, though. Usually, I have to cut the mead before I serve it. I know I can't afford more than a mug of it over the course of an evening, myself."

Shifting his position to let his attention follow the woman, Logan huh's at her answer before shaking his head in amusement, "So I guess that makes me wonder how long we're talkin' here. I was thinking you were gonna tell me it had faerie dust or something in it." There's another grin on Canuck's face with that last comment.

When the Fae woman returns, Logan reaches for the mug, chuckling at her comment, "I got a hell of a resistance to a lot of things, miss, most of 'em a lot more dangerous than a mug of booze. Alcohol'd probably be the only thing on the list that makes me wish I wasn't, sometimes." Lifting it to take a drink, he grunts quietly with that first taste.

Looking to the second mug, he lowers the one in hand back to the bartop and wonders of the woman with a gruff laugh, "You wanting to see if I can handle two, or you gonna join me for a drink, Dana?"

Dana laughs lightly. "Let me see to that table," she says, gesturing to the people she seated only moments ago, "and I'll take a break and join you." She pushes off the bar and moves across the room to speak with the patrons sitting at the table. A few moments later, she's bearing another tray to them, and putting down drinks — none of them the mead.

Once that's done, she returns to the bar, as promised, and pulls a stool up beside him, swinging the other tankard around to pull it towards herself. "Slainte," she says lightly, raising the mug to him before she takes a sip. Not a great sip, mind. She's not Thor and knows her limits. But, a clear swallow, nonetheless.

Nodding at the Fae woman's answer, the old feral responds, "'course, take care of your people. I won't be going anywhere, and pretty company always brightens a night." As Dana pushes away and wanders, off, Logan turns his head to watch her for a moment before looking back to his mug and the bar while the woman tends her patrons.

Nursing his mug, the mutant drains about half of it, making a bit of small talk with Paddy intermittently when the Irishman isn't busy helping someone else. When the brunette returns, the canuck lifts his mug in a mirror of Dana's gesture while grinning at her, "Cheers." Taking a drink, he watches Dana as if to gauge how she handles a sip of the stuff. "'Slainte'? Is that some faerie translation for 'cheers'? And I guess you must have some tolerance yourself, eh."

Tapping fingers against his tankard, Logan considers the woman before remarking, "You don't mind my asking..What was that business you lot were talking about, with the queen and what have you?"

"It's Gaelic," Dana concedes. "A toast more common in Ireland and Scotland than Wales, or certainly England. It means 'to your health'." She sets her mug down, however, and doesn't immediately take another sip. Tolerance, yes. In moderation. So, she merely smiles at that observation.

At the question, however, her smile pulls faintly to one side and she looks away for a moment or two. When she returns her gaze to him, her eyes squint slightly and she seems to study him for long moments — though her eyes often flick away from his face more to the space around him.

Whatever it is she finds as a result of her study, she speaks slowly, but answers him without evasion. "It's not something of which I usually speak," she admits. "But, it doesn't really do to deny it. It won't change anything." That, and since the Thunderer fairly boomed it out to everyone… yeah. Not much chance to deflect it.

"My father owes allegiance to the queen — and you'll forgive me, I hope, if I don't mention her much more specifically than that; she has a tendency to pay attention to utterances of her name. At least half of Sidhe nobility do. The other half to her royal counterpart," whom she also doesn't name directly. Few fae will. "She was somewhat displeased when my father spirited me away from Brooklyn into the Otherworld in order to present me at court and declare me his heir apparent. I've never understood the whole of it." She shakes her head lightly, a scowl setting briefly on her features. "Sidhe politics — fae politics in general — is dense and intricate and exceptionally subtle. There are layers upon layers to it, and I don't understand most of it. I'm 27 years old, but the eldest of them are several thousand years old." A wry smile. "So, let's just say I'm at a bit of a disadvantage. The only thing I'm really sure about is that they really don't like the fact I'm half-human. It gives me a certain freedom the rest of them lack, particularly for as long as I refuse to swear allegiance to anyone directly. Or so my father says. I can say 'no', and make it stick somehow. It pisses them off."

She reaches for her mug again and takes another swallow. "So, she keeps tabs on me. I suppose, I'm effectively a 'wild card'. I don't know. What she doesn't get, though, is that I don't give a damn about her court or her politics. I'm happy to stay as far away from all of that as I can possibly get."

"To your health," Logan murmurs after the woman, the phrase amusing him on some level, for some reason or another. He doesn't comment further upon her drinking or the speed at which she does it, though he continues to drink from his own tankard fairly steadily.

It's hard to not notice the way the woman is staring, but aside from an arched brow, the canuck doesn't interrupt. When Dana speaks again, the mutant grunts, "I understand not wanting to talk about things." He doesn't stop her from sharing though.

Through the story, Logan remains silent, taking the occasional drink from his tankard, "So, you're a real-life, breathing faerie princess? $#(! me, you're telling the truth unless you got different ticks about lying than us simple folks." The old man grunts, "Damn. The older I get, the stranger the world gets." Shaking his head, Logan lifts a hand to scratch at his cheek briefly.

"You're like faerie Cinderella, except your siblings probably want to kill you and have the power to do it if they can figure out how to get away with it, eh?" Blue eyes study the woman over the rim of the mug as Logan finishes his mead before he inquires, "You actually got folks after you?" At some point during the conversation, the old mutant's voice has lowered, not keen to blab the woman's story to the entire place.

And Dana appreciates the discretion. Indeed, perhaps she was almost expecting it. At the very least… she considers him to be a man of honour and, in her world, that very much means something. Nevertheless, she gives a mild shrug, which a man as perceptive as he will probably realize is a casualness entirely feigned. "Apparently, given how clearly the Thunderer seemed to sense Her mark upon me. I had thought we had a… detente of sorts. Now…?" Her own voice is soft and she reaches for that tankard again.

"There's nothing to truly say it's Her, other than the Thunderer's word." A beat. "Which I probably shouldn't question. But… my father has many enemies. She may or may not be counted among them; I really don't know. My point is simply that there's always someone, somewhere, who thinks harassing me to get to him is a good idea. So, yeah. I probably do."

"This ain't the time to be pretending you ain't concerned, Dana," Logan murmurs in response to the first bit from the brunette woman. "You're half human, not even thirty years old, and you got thousand year old magic faeries that want to mess with you," he mutters while scratching at his cheek, "Ain't the /worst/ I've heard. Creatures and people like that tend to underestimate the folks they mess with." Shaking his head, the old mutant grumbles, "I been around the block a few times."

Blue eyes on the woman's face, Logan places one elbow on the bartop and leans closer to her as they murmur, it's rather clear in the gruff old mutant's demeanor and words that his protective switch has been flipped, even if he just met the woman he's speaking to. "You got a plan for dealing with these folks besides hoping they forget you exist? You need help? Magic ain't my schtick. I do a lot, and I'm good at a lot, but that definitely ain't on my list."

Dana blinks mildly. This wasn't quite what she'd been expecting when she read his aura. Though… to be fair, it does fit what she saw. "There are rules," she says slowly, trying to process some of what he's saying and respond at the same time. "Most of the time, the Sidhe are very, very meticulous about the rules." It's now she grimaces. "But, no. I don't know them all. And if anyone can find a loop hole, it's a faerie with an axe to grind."

Truthfully, she's far more concerned about it than she lets on. Thor's words the night before startled her — in part because he said them aloud and in part because he wouldn't have said them if it wasn't painfully obvious. Which means, yes, something is afoot, even if she doesn't yet know what it is.

"If anyone comes at me directly," she admits, after another swallow, "my options are limited. I may be a witch, but I'm a human witch — a faerie seer, but a human witch. And a middling one, at that." Not strictly true, given her potential. But it does match the level at which she currently wields that potential. "I have two advantages: The first is this place. It is neutral ground. They can't touch me here. When I'm not working, this is generally where I am." Besides, it's the only place in the city where she can eat the food and not worry about iron poisoning. "The second is the fact I can usually see them coming, recognize them if they come head on; and if I don't, he will." She gestures lightly towards the hound snoring contentedly before the fire, one ear cocked despite his slumber."It's my gift — and a rare one, at that, I'm told. But it's not the most reliable, either."

She swallows again and sets the mug down, shaking her head. "The real problem is, the Sidhe almost never make a frontal assault. Seriously, if you see one coming directly at you, your best bet is to duck quick and swing around on your flank, because that's where the real attack is coming from. And even that's too direct for most of them."

"So, faerie lawyers waiting for their opening, eh?" Logan grunts quietly as he listens to the younger woman, frowning as he notes the changes in her body language and voice, "And they respect this neutral ground thing?"

Listening to Dana, the old Canadian looks over at the creature by the fire, nodding. At the last bit from the half-faerie, Logan chuckles and murmurs darkly, "Or just be damned hard to put down."

Scratching at his cheek again, the man grumbles inaudibly for a second before he considers the woman, "Sounding like maybe you need to send a message of some sort. Get one of these folks to come after you, and ruin their day so bad that the others think twice before trying themselves." Another shake of his head and Logan grumbles, "I dunno. I don't know faeries. I know fighting, though. You need protection, I can do that."

Grunting to himself, Logan looks across the tavern, then remarks to Dana, "Maybe we should talk about this again sometime soon, somewhere quieter, eh? Might be useful if I knew more about these Sidhe."

"It's one of the rules," Dana says with a wry, but sharp, smile in answer to the question about neutral ground. "And it benefits them, too. As I said, their politics are dense. Arcane, actually, is a better word — in more ways than one."

As he muses through the situation, though, she blinks at him for the second time, this night. He seems quite sincere about wanting to be her knight-protector, for lack of a better term. That's unusual, to her. "There aren't many of them of sufficient rank I could best well enough to send a message," she tells him. "More than that… that would up my threat level considerably. I don't know if that would help me, or screw me three ways to Sunday."

Even so… she regards him seriously. "Logan, throwing your lot in with me could buy you a whole lot more trouble than you want. You may want to reconsider." A beat. "Either that or start sleeping with a piece of cold iron under your pillow."


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