2024.05.21: Introduction of Caity, Sam and Toliver

Lizzy is back at her post at the bar, shaking a concoction vigorously in a cocktail shaker. Some tasteless rube is sitting at the bar, watching a little too intently. She scowls, pours him his drink and shoos him off, but not before he pays. She's not lacking energy, but perhaps... cheer?

And then there is her boss, manifesting at the end of the bar like some sort of vaguely unsettling nightmare, as if summoned by the presence of tasteless rubes. She is wearing what might be considered a sundress, if sundresses came in silk. "Who am I murdering on your behalf today, O Best Among Bartenders?"

"No one yet." Lizzy smirks. "Most folks know when to gee tee eff oh."

Blackett who is standing near to Doris at the end of the bar, smiles sadly. His slightly too intense eyes watch the offending patron leave "That is too bad, I do enjoy a bit of blood shed here or there, especially when she” - he indicates Doris- “is involved"

"Yet." A solemn nod. Her lanky shadow-slash-partner is glared at, not entirely in jest. "Those who start shit in my bar soon regret their poor life decisions. You are gloomy of mind and grim of visage, my dear Elizabeth. What vexes thee?"

"Life in general, to be honest. Just all of the other crap going on that you know about it. It's left a particularly dark and gloomy cloud all over everything. Not quite enough to make me start listening to Morrissey and shopping at Hot Topic again or anything, but happiness is pretty far out of reach at the moment."

"Justice is slow, due to the blindness, but she shall have her day. When is the funeral? Have they released him?" There is sympathy in Doris' voice and also a hint of a promise. Somehow. "You know you have the day and as many after as you need without notice."

"The funeral was about a month ago, actually." She smiles softly. "They released him when they had decided it was a suicide. Even sent him directly to the crematorium for me. I at least got a chance to see him before he got cremated, though. It was..." She makes a face. "I still have nightmares."

"Not the way you want to remember someone. Empty shells of any sort give me chills. Did he have a favorite song?" Gentle.

"He had a few, but most of it was dubstep and EDM, which is not exactly conducive to singing." She winces a bit at the idea of someone even trying.

"Something more in my wheelhouse? Perhaps from your younger years?"

She makes a face. "He really liked Taylor Swift."

"Do you know... William Shatner? He was in some Science Fiction films? Well known for his... particular brand of acting?" He Asks Lizzy

"Everyone has a flaw." There is a smirk twisting the corner of her mouth. "I usually do not sing pop music of that caliber, but for you? An exception."

A pause. "What are you getting at, darling?"

Lizzy looks over at Blackett. "Yeah, I've heard of him. A little before my time, mind."

"He is still alive. I think." There is a wary expression on Doris' face, that universal look of "my man is up to something and I am not certain I approve" that women get when a disturbance in the Force suggests shenanigans are afoot.

Blackett stands up. his posture changes, and when he speaks again his voice has changed to an approximation of an American accent. Well, what a British person’s idea of an American accent.

"Why am I waiting in line with all these losers? I am a grown man... With a job... I don't even live in my parents’ basement. Yet here I am... Waiting in line to meet William Shatner. I even got here early. I have a sleeping bag... Snacks... I am not even going to explain about the bathroom situation. Why do we put ourselves through this? I have dignity... I have a life... I don't need this. I should walk on out of here and leave this insanity behind me. Shatner once told us to get a life. It's time I got one."

All of a sudden, Blackett is staring off into the distance. He starts jumping up and down, with a cartoony look of excitement on his face. He turns to an invisible person beside him and squeals

"There he is! OH!!! There He is!!!"

He turns to the invisible person on the other side, miming slapping the person on the shoulder

"He's coming over here! William FUCKING Shatner is coming over here to meet me."

Blackett is now staring at the invisible Mr. Shatner.

"Oh, wow, Mr. Shatner. This is such an honor... Yes sir... First in line to see you. You're my favorite celebrity. Well, my favorite person in the whole world actually. I love everything you've done. Everything is better when you're in it. I love Star Trek, T.J. Hooker, 3rd Rock from the Sun, Miss Congeniality, Boson Legal... even the Priceline commercials... I love you... Meeting you is the most magical moment in my life so far... Thank you, Mr. Shatner... Call you Bill? Oh wow... Bill. Bye bye... Live long and stay awesome! Mr... uhhh! BILL!

Blackett watches the invisible Shatner walk away, he gets embarrassed, even blushes. gets a sad look on his face and is frustrated with himself.

"Oh my God! What is wrong with me?! What am I? A fan girl? I need my head checked... Oh, no... I have a man crush, don't I? I have a William Shatner man crush. I want to die now. Crawl under a rock with the other creepy fans... And.... "

All of a sudden, his complete demeanor changes again to childlike excitement

"They're opening the doors! I am so getting my chest autographed."

Mr. Blackett’s voice is once again, Mr. Blackett... "Now then, if one cannot laugh at a stuffy British man making an ass of himself, what can one laugh at?"

The little singer, mistress of this tiny domain, quirks an eyebrow. "I feel challenged. Showoff."

As Blackett breaks into his Shatner impersonation, the door to the bar opens, but does not close. Marcus is watching in the doorway, jaw agape at his friend. As the performance concludes, he smiles broadly, starts to clap, and steps to the bar. "A performance like that deserves a drink, I think. Ms. McCrory, may I have two double Laphroaigs, please?"

"Please. Sit him down where he cannot get into any more trouble, then help me think of a Taylor Swift song worth singing."

Lizzy just stares, looking just as agape as Marcus. She still looks a little stunned as she pours Marcus his whiskey, adding a drop or two of water to them both to open up the flavors. "I'm... not entirely sure what to think about that."

"Theater kids." There are several layers of derisive scorn and affection in the two words, as if there is some subtext of rivalry present that would be lost on the dirty mortal.

"Neither am I, but I AM sure it deserves a drink."

“A drink is 90% of a professional actor salary. The remaining 10% is the producers promises of fame.”

"Well, I'm hardly a producer, but I hope you'll take a whisky from this poor hacker."

“Gladly sir.”

Lizzy looks over at Doris with a silent look of 'did that just happen?' on her face. Silly vampires need Auspex. Women don't.

"Boys..." There is still affection and a touch of amusement in her voice, but it is quite a bit more of the "sit down before you hurt yourself, children" tolerant scorn.  "Shall I show him how things are done around here?"

Lizzy gestures to Doris in a grand manner, much like an emcee would welcome a star performer to the stage.

With a flirt of her shoulders and a snap-turn on her heel, Doris flounces off to the stage. Her skirt is alarmingly short. Tables close to the stage might get more of a show than they bargained for, but sometimes the gods smile upon the undeserving. She pokes at the electronic piano, swearing quietly in Gaelic.

To nobody's actual surprise, the electronic player piano is far more advanced than it appears. Doris has four measures to make it from the control panel to her mark, which she does with just enough time to twist towards the bar, flash a grin at her bartender, and then "...I stay out too late..."

The choreography is more reminiscent of Lip Sync Battle than the original artist, but the five-foot-two ginger mimicking the wrestler-turned-actor just adds to the moment. As does the eloquent addition of the Imperial version of "fuck you" directed at the men drinking scotch.

The performance is far, far better than the one Doris and Blackett were subjected to all those years ago in Battle Creek. Mercifully so.

Lizzy's eyes go wide as saucers, and she appears appropriately shocked, even more so than by the display Blackett put on. "...oh god... it's like high school all over again."

Another grin and a wink just add to the surreal horror. This is, after all, her boss channeling Dwayne Johnson lip syncing to Taylor Swift while singing Taylor Swift *better than the original artist can*. Tonight might be a night to drink on the job.

Lizzy pours herself a shot of blanco and preps a lime and a salt shaker.

After a sketched bow, she returns to the control panel for the piano and proceeds to tap at it again. After a few moments, she walks away from it, pacing in increasingly smaller circles and humming to herself. Listening for something? Perhaps. Having worked with a master architect to design the space, however, this is undoubtedly less of a sound check and more of a ritualized warm up.

Marcus goes silent as Doris' performance begins, entranced by the voice of the siren. When she finishes, he bursts into applause, and raises his glass towards the stage, before turning to Blackett with a grin. "I've learned a few things since karaoke night. I'll have to see if I can make half the splash she can."

A pause in the pacing and humming. "Well? Now would be an excellent chance."

Lizzy hasn't actually taken that shot yet. At the idea of Marcus singing as well, she pours herself a double.

A mocking smile. "I barely cleared my throat that night over Christmas all those years ago, Marcus Antoninus."

Marcus gets up and starts to walk towards the piano. Gone is the soaring impression of Rob Halford in his prime. Replacing it is a smooth, rich baritone and he walks towards the piano, he begins singing acapella, note perfect,

"And now, the end is near, and so I've faced my final curtain/my friend, I'll say it clear. I'l state my case, of which I'm certain."

A bit more power as he approaches the piano.

"I've live, a life that's full. I've travelled each and every by way/but more, much more than this, I did it my way."

As he finishes the first verse, he takes his seat at the piano and begins to improvise for a few bars around the end of the verse.

He looks up, flashes Doris a grin, and turns back to the piano, settling in to the song, letting the piano dance softly around his voice until the very end. His voice soars and the piano slowly falls silent as he sings "for what is a man, what has he got/if not himself then he has not..." as he finishes the close nearly acapella until he adds a few bars of a Chopin sonata - transposed into key - before standing as he closes "Yes, it was my way."

He flashes a smile towards Doris first, then Blackett, and takes a sip from his glass as he steps down from the piano.

"The little spreadsheet wrangler is good with more than one set of keys..." Amusement. "But I did not say you were done playing, did I?"

Lizzy just kind of... stares while Marcus is playing, and with a heavy sigh, knocks back that shot. "I'm gonna have to learn to sing or be musical or something if I'm gonna keep working here, aren't I."

Marcus looks at her from his spot by the piano "Ms. McCrory, your artistry behind the bar puts the talent of myself, Mr. Blackett, and Ms. Ashview to shame." Hyperbolic, the compliment is still sincere.

Doris pads over and stretches up to whisper in Marcus' ear.  She waves vaguely in Blackett's direction, then indicates the queued songs in the song bank. This is followed by a head tilt.

Marcus grins widely as Doris whispers her call in the room and leans in to say a few words back before sitting down at the keyboard.

The singer flits back to center stage, drawing herself up and waiting, composed, for the first chord of the initial song of her set. Her gaze is nowhere in particular, directed mostly at her feet. After the initial chord, her delivery is soft, intimate at first, but intensifies by the end of the first verse into self-directed anger and frustration. This sounds…personal on some level, as if she is pouring more of her own inner thoughts and feelings into the specific song than the ones before.

“Regrets collect like old friends/Here to relive your darkest moments/I can see no way, I can see no way/And all of the ghouls come out to play/And every demon wants his pound of flesh/But I like to keep some things to myself/I like to keep my issues drawn/It's always darkest before the dawn.”

Marcus is on the piano, and chooses simplicity over virtuosity for this piece, simple chords, with a few embellishments around the line changes.

“And I've been a fool and I've been blind/I can never leave the past behind/I can see no way, I can see no way/I'm always dragging that horse around/All of his questions, such a mournful sound/Tonight I'm gonna bury that horse in the ground/So I like to keep my issues drawn/But it's always darkest before the dawn.”

The accompaniment swells to sweep her away in the chorus, her voice threading lightly through the improvisation. Then, she cuts back in, delivery sharp-edged in declaration or challenge. Her body language suggests an inner conflict, as if she is arguing with herself. Her gaze is not directed any one place, still interacting with an invisible second party, singing for or to that individual in specific.

“And I am done with my graceless heart/So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart
'Cause I like to keep my issues drawn/It's always darkest before the dawn~.”

Her voice lingers on the last syllable as her pianist flows into the chords of the chorus. She picks up and improvises through and around his flourishes, wordless singing that simply fills the space with sound. Then, “And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back/And given half the chance would I take any of it back/It's a fine romance, but it's left me so undone/It's always darkest before the dawn

Oh whoa, oh whoa...

And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't/So here's to drinks in the dark at the end of my road/And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope/It's a shot in the dark aimed right at my throat/'Cause looking for heaven, found the devil in me/Looking for heaven, found the devil in me

Well what the hell I'm gonna let it happen to me, yeah.”

As she begins to sing "Cause looking for heaven," he slowly brings the volume down, until she is singing the last line virtually acapella, and looks to catch her eye as she sings.

"Shake it out, shake it out..." A third round of the chorus, quickly leaving the chord progression behind to improvise again, letting Marcus keep track of where the song is supposed to end.  Her voice shifts between lyrical and rough, smooth and raw, seemingly without effort. Whatever the song requires. She is still standing in the spotlight at center stage, still not placing her gaze anywhere in particular. Her attention is inward, on what she is doing rather than her audience.

He lets her do one more round of "shake it out, shake it out" - the piano getting louder, and rawer with every turn through the chorus until at last, he brings the instrument to a crescendo at the close of the fourth and simply... stops for one bar - before slowly inverting the melody of the song onto itself once again and leading the siren to close the piece.

Softly, the last notes fade away into silence. She drops her head, hands clasped in front of her.

He takes a sip from his whisky and looks around the bar at the friends and strangers gathered around.

Lizzy is thankful the audience is mostly rapt, because normally the voice of the Siren doesn't touch her this deeply. She's gotten used to it. But this time, this song... it hits her like a freight train. She leans on the bar to watch, because it's unlikely her legs can hold her. Not from the drink, but from whatever's going on in her head right now.

After a few minutes, Doris resumes singing without warning. There is a hint of shyness as she starts, a sense of a secret being offered. She sways slightly back and forth, adding to the sense of confession being dragged from her.

“My lover's got humor/He's the giggle at a funeral/Knows everybody's disapproval/I should've worshipped him sooner/If the heavens ever did speak/He's the last true mouthpiece/Every Sunday's getting more bleak/A fresh poison each week/"We were born sick"/You heard them say it/My church offers no absolutes/He tells me "worship in the bedroom"

The only heaven I'll be sent to/Is when I'm alone with you/I was born sick, but I love it/Command me to be well./Amen, Amen, Amen”

As the siren begins to sing, the piano evolves slowly, softly - entwining the rippling introduction of the Moonlight Sonata between the throbbing chords of her chosen song before fading to near silence as she begins to sing "Amen."

He runs his fingers slowly up the keyboard in a simple, soft progression of legato triplets, transposing the song from a minor key into its major as he plays. He softly reaches the top of the keyboard in time to fall silent for her final "Amen" and pauses for a moment before a cascade erupts from his fingers down the keys, bringing the song back into her preferred key and climaxing on the double-beat that signals her to begin the chorus.

After the almost reverent, hymn-like quality of the verse, her plunge into the chorus is raw, nothing but emotion and bittersweet torment. A sudden explosion into movement punctuates her tonal shift, pacing in tight circles, visibly emotional in a way she has not been thus far. She seems to be feeding off Marcus' accompaniment even as she inspires it.

“Take me to church/I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies/I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife/Offer me that deathless death/Good God, let me give you my life…”

Lizzy is glad to have the bar propping her up. On any other night, she'd be okay handling things. But tonight, everything is raw, exposed nerve. She doesn't pour herself another drink, and if someone does come up to the bar to order, she phones it in. Then again, Lizzy's phoning it in is run-of-the-mill bartending at any other place in the city.

After the gentle opening of the song, the chorus is raw, simple, full of emotion. Double-chords with little embellishment in between, Marcus leaning into every stroke of the keyboard. If his piano was a melodic instrument before, now, it is pure percussion.

The second verse has her cease her caged-animal prowling, now swaying in a slightly jerky manner as if she is held in place by some unseen force. Her features sharpen slightly, an echo of the lyrics and of the effort she is putting into the performance. She is again completely at the mercy of her blood, swept up and along with the music in an almost sacred fit, transported.

“If I'm a pagan of the good times/My lover's the sunlight/To keep the goddess on my side/He demands a sacrifice/Drain the whole sea/Get something shiny/Something meaty for the main course/That's a fine looking high horse/What you got in the stable?/We've a lot of starving faithful
That looks tasty
That looks plenty
This is hungry work”

He waits. For lack of a better term, he waits. He plays almost pensively, building pressure in the room through music - perhaps indicative of the feeling pulsing through him, or perhaps simply preparing for what he knows comes next. The melody and chords surrounding stay the same, but the volume - the pressure - of his playing is continually building, rising to a crescendo before a sudden stop, allowing Doris to sing "This is hungry work" acapella.

She pauses before the chorus, and again, the piano crashes into the double-kick sound that starts the chorus.

Another descent into the pure emotion of the chorus. She crouches, curling in on herself momentarily as she sings, then she is pacing again, the uncoiling to standing reminiscent of a striking serpent. The words are an appeal to heaven, to whatever entity is willing to listen to her almost anguished plea. Or perhaps to a specific one.

Marcus glances at Doris, trying to catch her eye, and flashing a smile in her direction as the chorus concludes. His hands rush up the keyboard as she finishes her lines, running a pattern of triplets around the key before a series of upwards cascades reminiscent of a heavy metal guitar solo before slowing the flow of notes and bringing the pitch back down to where the Siren has been singing.

“No masters or kings when the ritual begins/There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin/In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene/Only then I am human/Only then I am clean
Amen, Amen, Amen”

There is an odd inflection on the word “human,” as if in the context it is being used to mean something besides its dictionary definition. The ache in the softly repeated “amen” throbs in the back of her throat.

Finally, Lizzy is at the end of her resolve. She manages to calmly walk out from behind the bar and head to the restroom, but her steps are urgent. For the unobservant, she may just need to pee.

While the key of the song has returned to normal, Marcus keeps riffing around Doris' words, the pace even more frenetic, if such a thing is possible, the volume building until the first Amen, when the double-kick that defines the song is repeated. Once. And silence. Once again, quietly. A final time, prefacing the third "Amen" - almost silent.

A final plunge into the chorus: she drops to her knees with an audible thump at the first word, face tilted to the ceiling and hands lifted briefly, before grasping at nothing and being drawn to her chest. The sense of tormented communion fills the space, a vivid appeal to something ineffable but cruel. She is panting as silence reigns after the last desperate, breathless syllable, cheeks visibly flushed and eyes bright and wide with…something. Divine madness? Perhaps.

He has had his moment to shine this song, and gives Doris the finale - the piano pulsates at first, growing quieter as the chorus proceeds until all that can be heard is her voice drawing the song to its close.

There is hardly time for her audience to collect themselves and react or engage in conversation before she is singing again, the unraveled edges of her voice giving the lyrics that sigh between her lips the sense they are being dragged from her. Wherever she is at that moment, it is not entirely in this room. Not anymore. Nor is she singing, rather she is a conduit for the complex emotions around her, filtering and refracting them through something familiar to two of the occupants of the room.

“Now I've heard there was a secret chord/That David played, and it pleased the Lord,/But you don't really care for music, do you?/It goes like this: The fourth, the fifth/The minor fall, the major lift/The baffled king composing hallelujah”

Marcus sits away from the keyboard - perhaps in reverie of the music, or the siren, or perhaps simply taking a rest for a moment. Her voice fills the room with the chosen first verse of the classic. His head is bowed a moment, considering how to do justice to this piece.

Each musical notation is given its own space, the chord and key progression melting into one another effortlessly. One hand cues each shift softly, conducting herself. She is still on her knees, almost singing half under her breath. Her upper body sways softly side to side, keeping time. Her roots as someone who learned to sing in church bleed into the lyric, that sense of liturgical space infusing the word as only someone who once sang Hallelujah and believed it could.

“Hallelujah, Hallelujah/Hallelujah, Hallelujah~”

The sacred word is given a fragile quality, as if she is offering it up against some crushing internal darkness. A faint vibrato shoots through the lyric, making her seem weak, defeated. Her face again tips towards the ceiling, her entire posture that of someone crying out in the wilderness to the ineffable. However, within the frayed edges of her voice is a purity of pitch and tone that has never faltered, no matter the song’s content. Whispers of hope.

“Your faith was strong, but you needed proof/You saw her bathing on the roof/Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew her/She tied you to a kitchen chair/She broke your throne, and she cut your hair/And from your lips she drew the hallelujah”

Pity and compassion thread through the second verse and her voice stabilizes, soaring softly through the stillness. This chorus is an offering of solace, of understanding. There is a noticeable shift as she slips into the third verse, the words plucked from some alternate version of the song that perhaps never fully existed in this reality.

“Baby I've been here before/I've seen this room and I've walked this floor /I used to live alone before I knew you/And I've seen your flag on the marble arch/And love is not a victory march/It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah”

Her voice audibly fractures in mimicry of the lyrics as she croons. Now it is the murmured self-soothing of a woman in anguish or denial. The hallelujahs seem torn from her, a wail of pain. Mourning lost love, raging against a cruel world that smashes everything sacred, anything precious and delicate. The emotion might be *slightly* more sharp-edged than intended.

As she comes to her third verse, the man at the piano pulls away from the keys a moment, his face a mix of emotions that he is struggling to keep under control, under wraps - under cover. He sips his drink and takes a moment to regain his composure.

“I did my best, it wasn't much/I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch/I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you/And even though it all went wrong/I'll stand before the lord of song/With nothing on my tongue but hallelujah…”

The final verse is almost spoken, a deadpan half-murmur. The flatness makes her final, soaring rendition of the chorus almost seem like weeping. Valkyries do not cry, but there was the hint that she was so caught up in the emotion of her performance that she could. The melody draws her to her feet as if the chord progression is generating lift. There is an expression of benediction on her face, of some unheard absolution contained in the simple melody.  This, coupled with the previous song, have the touch of sacred ritual, as if she is offering more than simply entertainment to the gathered individuals in the bar.

Because it is the sort of song that people sing the chorus to, because she is subconsciously drawing everyone into the moment, the bar picks up a second run through the chorus. Then a third. That strange phenomenon wherein a room full of people are somehow on key without prompting and whether or not they can sing gives her a foundation to improvise around, weaving the disparate voices into a tapestry of unity. Or at least a momentary attempt at it. This is, perhaps, why she was sent here.

He is quiet as he gets up from the piano, not wanting to disturb the moment. He walks to the bar and looks at Lizzy -not wanting to make a sound during the song, but signaling that he could use a drink, and trying to convey some kind of concern for her wellbeing at the same time without words.

As much as she doesn't want to, Lizzy finds herself singing along, even as she pours Marcus another Laphroaig. With the silent look of him checking in on her, she can only manage to shake her head and the tears look like they're about to start anew.

He nods and indicates that she should pour herself one as well - whatever is wrong, the scotch will help.

Her voice hushes, the chorus dies away. Doris sways on her feet, visibly wrung out. After a few heartbeats of time that feel far too long, she turns on her heel and disappears offstage. The silent, somewhat abrupt withdrawal leaves the room in silence for an awkward moment, the patrons not entirely certain what to do.

Eventually, conversation falters back into existence and fills the space with a sense of brittle normalcy.

She shakes her head, but then puts her hands to her lips and extends outward, the ASL sign for 'thank you.'

He nods, silently - acknowledging her thanks - before uncharacteristically downing his whisky in one gulp and signaling for another. When she returns he gives her a smile - sad, sympathetic, who can say, before nodding his thanks for the drink, straightening his shoulders, and turning to the bar again.

And when things settle down, Lizzy takes a deep, shuddering breath. It was as if she was holding her breath through all of this, or that the atmosphere was too thick to provide the oxygen she needed. She pours him another, with a slight furrow of her brow. That's three... or was it four now? Marcus has probably seen this look before from other bartenders; silently counting to make sure she doesn't overserve him. He looks at her sympathetically, and nods in thanks before turning away.

Eventually, Doris reappears, a light cardigan thrown on over her sundress. She still seems hollowed out somehow.  She slips behind the bar to gently bump her shoulder against Lizzy's in a gesture of apology and comfort. Marcus is favored with a small, sad smile and a repetition of the sign for "thank you." Blackett, however, is studied for several minutes.

Blackett remains rather quiet, without the attachment to this human that the other have, he cannot add much to the situation. But he does attempt a warm smile to the three, especially Lizzy.

"Did the performance meet with the gentleman's approval?" Doris sounds tired and, under the makeup, looks like she needs a coffee and a long cry.

"It reminded me of a moment a long time ago." He continues his smile, and stiff upper lip. There is a is a red smear from his right eye, and a red smudge on his corner pocket handkerchief. "Many years"

Doris picks up a bar rag, dampens it in the sink, and proceeds to dab at the smudge until it is gone. Then she rearranges his pocket square to hide the stain. Small, automatic gestures. Some of it seems misplaced or misdirected, as if she wants to fuss over Lizzy but there is that on the clock relationship thing to consider.

Marcus signals for a second whisky, next to his own - still untouched - and brings it to Blackett. "All right?" He sounds equal parts quiet and concerned.

Blackett says quietly, "I am fine. Don't let me distract." He tilts his head slightly in Lizzy's direction. "We have all the time in the world, but time can still be lost" he smiles sadly in Doris' direction. "And let us face it, my... family is not known for being able to contain our emotions..." he takes the whiskey and takes a sip "But again, don't let me interrupt."

Lizzy looks a little startled from the smear of RED from Blackett's eye, but she pushes it aside to pour that second whiskey. She doesn't say anything, though. Nope. Not a thing.

Doris gently hip-checks Lizzy, suggesting she should sit and have a drink and be moody with the others. She's got this. To that end, she even sets up another shot for the human and one for herself. There is a subtle nod, granting permission.

He nods at Blackett's words. Not believing him, but not prepared to contradict. He smiles, though "And I couldn't have asked for a finer interruption than to have you visit." He speaks sincerely.

Lizzy scoots to the other side of the bar, but sits on the other side of Marcus, putting him between her and Blackett.

Marcus raises his glass towards the newcomer, offers her a quiet smile, and quips "Welcome. We've been expecting you."

And then suddenly, trash panda, right behind Lizzy. Her voice filtered in shortly, but cheery. "Lizzy-friend!" The question remained, when had she come in?

Lizzy jumps, grabbing the glass near her and whirling around, ready to brain whoever it was with the heavy bottom of the glass, because Doris doesn't skimp. She may have to duck flying booze, though. Lizzy takes a deep breath and stops herself when she sees it's Cerriphan. "Jesus, Cerriphan... please don't surprise me like that anymore."

Cerriphan took booze to the face and didn't even so much as *flinch*. Or blink, for that matter. A frozen smile unerringly etched onto her expression. "Oh-- I will remembering this. Sorry, sorry, Lizzy-friend."

She scooted back vaguely. Like one step.

Doris' shot mysteriously vanishes in the interim. Not even a thump from the glass returning to the lovingly polished bar top. Fastidious tidying up ensues.

Lizzy takes another deep breath. "Thank you." She tries to take a few more to calm herself down. Weird fucking night.

The bundle of clothing wiggled in place for a moment, remaining nearby. And now chewing her lip. "It is speaking of tensions and soothing music as of recent. Things are having happening."

There is more alcohol. There is always more alcohol. But not for Doris. Or Cerriphan. Lizzy needs a drink and a drink she shall have. "I sang a bit. Mister Blackett challenged me in my own domain with a rather terrifying monologue. I could not let that stand unaddressed."

"Your friendly lion sang as well and played beautifully for me."

"So I am hearing. Always enjoying listening to the old and new, each one is to being special." Though how her nose crinkled at the mention of Mister Blackett! She did not speak of him, instead moving directly on about the Lion. "He is being a very good Lion, yes."

"Slightly more tame than Mister Gordon...may I introduce Mister Giles Blackett? A dear friend." Doris remembers her manners eventually.

"A Mister Blackett? A face I am seeing, yes, but always fleeting and missing, interesting; never seeing in person." Cerriphan's head slooowly turned toward the other face.

The observation causes Doris to visibly flinch, as if the tiny babushka trash panda had slapped her. The knotted speech apparently had razors in it this once.

“And it is nice to meet you. But, I must confess where my name has been spoken, yours has yet to reach my ears.” Mr. Blackett stretches out a hand, palm up towards Cerriphan “Miss....” leaving the word dangling in space like his hand.

"Cerriphan d'Galdis." Shit. Bad hostess.

She drew her sleeves upwards, as if uncertain she had exactly wanted to take his hand and shake it. And yet she did, eventually, finally. A careful touch, grasping quickly and vigorously. "A curious face to speaking gentle but biting words, distant and recluse and coming into dim lights of their very homes."

When she finally does grasp his hand, he begins to lean forward in an antiquated gesture, then as his hand finds itself shook he snaps out of it, realizing that a kiss on the back of the hand is now a shake, he firmly shakes her hand back. “No bite intended to any party present. And I apologize if I accidentally suggested otherwise. I am glad to make you acquaintance Miss d’Galdis”

Marcus leans towards Cerri "Ms. d'Galdis, he's a good friend from Montreal" By way of an introduction

Lizzy is nursing her drink.

Doris is keeping at least one eye on the Kindred at the bar. There is staff to mind the humans and potential Kindred in the venue.

The bundle trembled and shuddered, wrapping itself up rather snugly in response. "A friend! Of course, a friend, what else could it be? What are we, if not all friends?" The suggestion was paltry at best, and she lurked to another spot, away from poor Lizzy.

"Cerriphan?" The inquiry is inflected partly as a concerned somewhat friend and partly as Keeper Ashview seeking to put out a fire before it starts. Her gaze flicks between the bundle of shawls and her fastidiously turned out lover with the faint suggestion of a frown around her eyes.

"I am alright, my dear. A wasp in mine ear is nothing to being concerning about." A hand wave and settle onto a chair.

"What is your wasp buzzing about?"

"It is having no exact voice, grating, charming, whispering but ever-so-strange. Ah-- do not liking to speaking of it."

Doris wrinkles her nose and tips her head to one side. Suspicious. She does not press the issue however...at least, not out loud. A study of Cerriphan turns into a study of Blackett, that same considering, suspicious expression in her eyes. Marcus looks between the three Kindred, concerned now. Doris' expression softens slightly. But only slightly.

Cerriphan looked away, hand moving from her face and settling into her lap. The oddly serious look faded, and she slid to slump in her own seat. Time to vanish into the bundle.

"I must apologize for upsetting you, Lizzy." Gently, taking ownership of her share of the wasps.

He places a hand softly on Cerri's shoulder and whispers, quietly "What's wrong, Cerri?"

The lion's arrival surprised her! Her shoulders jumped, and she shook her head. "Sometimes it is merely being a spell of spook, to saying the least of unsettling Echoes. I am... okay. Your askance is kindness, however."

Lizzy sighs and smiles. "You had no idea what you were gonna sing was gonna have that effect. I can't lay that entirely at your feet. But honestly, at this point, I feel like I'm gonna need voice lessons myself if I'm gonna keep working here. I mean, I've done karaoke, and I'm not the worst one in the room, but I'm not great."

Marcus nods at Cerri thoughtfully. "Okay. I wanted to be sure."

"I sound like a frog being boiled if set against David Bowie and Freddy Mercury." This is probably a lie, but the two gentlemen are thoroughly dead and unavailable for comment. "I hired you for your excellence in mixing drinks and managing people. Anything else you bring is simply a pleasant surprise."

"I am appreciating you for it." A gentle pat to his hand, and a little smile. Cerriphan almost looked normal for a fleeting moment in the exchange, a sigh at the end there punctuating it.

He smiles at Cerri, and makes a mental note to retread this later, before stifling a laugh at Doris' self-effacing comparison to a boiled frog.

Lizzy gives Doris the 'are-you-shitting-me' look. "Gurl." Uh oh. " Do not even start. You're fucking amazing."

"I had good teachers." She shrugs. "I could show you a few things in your spare time."

"I... I think I'd like that, if only to have more distractions and not end up crying and drunk at my own damn bar."

Marcus glances at Lizzy and is struck with an idea. "Come on." He offers quietly "Your turn to shine." And gestures towards the stage.

"No time like the present..." Promptingly.

"Wait, what?" Cue Lizzy panic!

"Come on, Elizabeth. Sing with me." The hint of command in her voice does not have the weight of power behind it someone like Marcus Gordon would add.  It is simply the frank, no-nonsense tone of a woman used to being obeyed. "Show me what you can do."

"Uh..." She has a deer in the headlights look, but then looks over at Marcus. "Will you play, then?"

He grins. "Quietly, now - don't want to spoil the surprise for everyone else - what am I playing?"

She takes a deep breath... then leans in and whispers in his ear. Doris pads off to the stage as moral support and backup singer. Has she been barefoot the whole time? Lizzy purses her lips and shuffles on up to the stage, doing her best to not mutter "I hate you all" within pickup range of a microphone.

There is a hand extended to help her up. Friendly. Even encouraging. "Find your voice," Doris murmurs softly.

Marcus sits down at the piano, flashes again, and mouths "No you don't." And he begins to softly play a few notes in her song's key - keeping his left hand still, for now, and giving Lizzy a feel for the time of the song.

Lizzy tenses up at first when she hears the notes, but she takes a deep breath to steady herself. The words that come out sound like a classic torch song, the kind that Doris herself probably has sung a whole bunch of in her time. There may be a couple chuckles in the audience from those who recognize that the song comes from a cartoon. But the words themselves could fit anywhere. "I was fine with the men/ Who came into her life now and again/ I was fine, cuz I knew/ That they didn't really matter until you..."

Her phrasing is solid, not quite a perfect match to the original, but close enough that it was clear she'd heard it many times before. She's doing her best to keep in time with Marcus' playing, but with slow songs like this, it's easy to come in too early. Still, she's smart enough to hold the note until she's supposed to in order to make it look like less of a fuck-up. Her tone is unpolished, but she's on key, at least. There's a decent amount of talent there, but it has clearly never been truly leveraged. "I was fine when you came/ And we fought like it was all some silly game/ Over her, who she'd choose/ After all those years, I never thought I'd lose..."

He picks up on the imperfections in her timing and gives the piano a hint of a raggy feel. The imperfections when the song is clean are covered up by the modified time-keeping. He does nothing elaborate - letting his fingers keep time and carry the melody with Lizzy - to whom he flashes a smile and an encouraging nod, as if to say "You're doing great. Keep going."

Doris, meanwhile, is shaping her own inhumanly good, relentlessly honed talent around Lizzy's more unpolished one. She is soft, background noise meant to lift and showcase the best and hide the flaws.

She gains a bit more confidence with the chorus. Or maybe the booze is kicking in. Either way, her voice is stronger, and she's even tapping into a little bit of vibrato in appropriate places! "It's over, isn't it? /Isn't it?/ Isn't it over? It's over, isn't it? /Isn't it?/ Isn't it over?/ You won, and she chose you/ And she loved you/ And she's gone/ It's over, isn't it?/ Why can't I move on?"

She has yet to figure out where to make eye contact with the audience to better connect, but those are things that can be taught.

A soft touch on the back of her arm. More encouragement.

This is where she starts to struggle. The jumps are brutal and quick, and she's not an alto. Nope. Not at all. "War and glory, reinvention/ Fusion, freedom, her attention/ Out in daylight, my potential/ Bold, precise, experimental..."

A quick breath, though, and she recovers, as it's more firmly in her range. "Who am I now in this world without her?/ Petty and dull, with the nerve to doubt her/ What does it matter? It's already done/ Now I've got to be there for her son..." And this is where she finally picks up on the subconscious reason she is singing this song. It's definitely not for her, no. It's what fits what she's seen so far in the strange little soap opera she's only seen glimpses of.

The piano gains a bit of volume as Lizzy gains confidence. Marcus begins to take a few liberties with the chords on the lower half of the keyboard, inverting the rise of the melody - but still softly. Doris is singing in harmony, keeping the worst of the moments of struggle hidden. She gently prompts Lizzy to turn and sing to her instead of the room at large. Make the moment about their relationship, mentor and student.

This prompts her to start the final chorus a bit softer. "It's over, isn't it? /Isn't it?/ Isn't it over?" And then she realizes she should probably be heard a bit better, so she gives it a bit more volume. "It's over, isn't it? /Isn't it?/ Isn't it over?"

The pain she pulls from here is not her own, which makes it easier for her to sing through it. "You won, and she chose you/ And she loved you/ And she's gone..."

There's a slight crack on "gone," like someone belting without the training to do it properly, but she hits it all the same. The diminuendo, as a result, is a little rough, and she needs to take a bit more more time with it to get it where it needs to be.  That extra moment, though, is a stab to the heart. That soft, sad place is where she stays for the next phrase. "It's over, isn't it?/ Why can't I move on?"

She looks around for a moment, not really believing that this is her doing this, and perhaps a bit more in shock that the song is, in fact, almost over. "It's over, isn't it?/ Why can't I move on?"

Marcus allows the piano to trail off quietly, letting Lizzy bring the song to a close for the crowd

Poor Lizzy. As she puts the microphone back, she's shaking like a leaf.  She at least has the wherewithal to curtsy a little before fleeing the stage, regardless of how much applause there is. Her boss is there to shepherd her offstage in the direction of backstage and somewhere she can pull herself together without being stared at.

Backstage, Lizzy is taking big, deep breaths, and still looking a little measure of terrified. Yes, this should totally make her forget seeing tinges of red on Blackett's face from crying. Good job.

"Hush now, hush..." Doris has relapsed into her father's country Irish accent. "That was well done."

"Thank you?" she murmurs. "I'm usually about four more drinks in before I try that."

"When I am done with you, you will not need any."

Lizzy blinks rapidly. "Um... sure."

"If you still wish to learn."

"I mean, it would be nice. I hadn't really thought about trying to develop it further. But, like, if you think it's worth developing, I'm up for it." She blushes and smiles sheepishly.

"I do not offer my time to the unworthy." Firmly. "Now. Shall we sing another or see if the suits are moping into my good scotch?"

"I'm not ready to sing another just yet." She looks a little terrified.

"Let me buy you another drink, then."

"Then I'm probably not gonna be driving myself home, but sure." She smiles, though it's still a little uneasy. Rollercoaster Lizzy is rollercoaster-y.

"I can see you safely home. You know this. We even have a gallant escort." Dry amusement.

"Which one?" She glances back toward the main space.

"Both, bless them. And while they dispute over who has the honor of which of us is on whose arm, you and I shall be on our way." She is amused and affectionate and exasperated all at once. "Like burrs on a sheep, the pair of them."

She snickers a bit. "Hey, sheep have to be shorn for their health or it causes major problems, so burrs are a temporary problem."

"I could be a nun and still..." An eloquent shrug. "Regardless. Let us be about our business."

"Yeah." She chuckles, then makes her way back to the bar. Doris pads after, a flame-and-ivory shadow.

Marcus is still at the piano as the two women go backstage and begins to play. Quietly, almost mournfully, a variation of Pachelbel's Canon - transposed into a minor key, and ever-shifting time signatures, before running back-to-back ascending scales up the keyboard and transitioning to something that would almost remind one of Grieg's "Solveig's Song" - except not quite

Doris sends more scotch to Marcus, ensures Blackett's drink is refreshed, and proceeds to mix Lizzy's favorite with economical grace. When the mortal is not looking, she manages to make a drink for herself, adding a dash of...something to the mix from an unlabeled bottle that was stuffed in the back of the fridge.

Uncharacteristically for Marcus, he ignores the refreshed drink - pouring whatever remains of his heart and soul into the instrument at his fingertips. The piece he has chosen is full of cascading scales up and down the keyboard, dancing around the melody wherever it can be found.

Lizzy raises her glass to Doris in gratitude and turns her attention to Marcus. Blackett gets a small, warm smile in greeting.

Marcus' fingers are dancing a dervish over the keys, building to a momentary crash, before he bows his head to the keys and closes - a few chords, and a simple melody concluding with a final cascade up the keys. He takes a breath and takes a sip of his whisky, finally.

Soft applause. Doris sips her drink briefly. She mutters something softly to Lizzy, then smirks. Marcus stands, presses one hand to his chest and returns to the others.

Now that all the complicated emotions are concentrated in one place, Doris resumes her overly-fastidious attention on the bar, nervous energy making it impossible for her to be still. The only difference between this moment and others witnessed by Blackett and Marcus is that she is organizing things rather than nearly knocking them over. She flits back and forth from patron to patron, chasing away the staff to go mind the floor and collect empty glasses. Lizzy is officially off the clock, whether her shift is over or not.

Doris gets a stern look from Lizzy, but Lizzy makes no real move to argue the point. There is a tiny smirk in response to the stern look.

A small skirmish with front door security would alert just about anyone in the immediate area that something loud and potentially threatening (obnoxious) just walked in. A tall over slender young wo.an sporting a leather jacket, and ripped jeans, stomps a combat booted foot in protest as a doorman offers to take her weapon. A steel ball bat, strapped to her back. The girl is pale, and dirty like she's been sleeping in those same clothes for weeks. The jeans have an obvious bullet hole entrance wound on the upper left thigh, and the jacket has a few similar, though the woman doesn't appear to be limping or even injured. Reluctantly handing off the ball bat, silvery-blue eyes quickly and anxious dart around the room, assessing possible further need for an implement to smash and bash with. Suddenly self-conscious, the girl smooths her platinum hair, which immediately springs back up into its once intended mohawk.

Doris snaps out of bartender mode and into Director of Human Resources mode. The auburn-haired woman, in her short-skirted sundress and cardigan is about as nonthreatening as an entity could possibly be. The two suits looming behind her, however, are undoubtedly more of a concern. There is an overall rustle of staffers in the background, a few muttered words. The atmosphere goes from relaxed to tense in the space of a heartbeat.

"Welcome to the Blue Devil, friend. If you would give Mister Buchanan -that is the gentleman with the elegant ceramic mask by the door- your baseball bat, I will be happy to pour you a drink." Smooth. Welcoming. Almost charming. There is, under the polished tone and customer service smile, the implication that to not accept the offer on the table is to run afoul of a situation in which one woman and a bat is unlikely to come out on top.

With a tilt of her head and a narrowing of her eyes, the ball bat is passed off and Caity takes a few tentative steps toward the woman addressing her. Forcing a smile, it's clear she doesn't do it often. When she finally speaks, her accent is far more attractive than she, and indicative of her Irish heritage. "A drink? Could use one or twelve o' those."

"A drop of barley juice never did us harm, eh?" The little barefoot ginger discards her Southern Ohio accent in an instant in favor of the country-Irish accent she had grown up with. "What sort?" She pads back to the bar, an odd little flex of her hand and flick of her fingers accompanying her turning away from the tall, rangy newcomer.

Nodding once in quick agreement, she looks a bit surprised by the sudden shift in accent, though not unpleasantly so. Lowering her voice, she speaks quietly under her breath to the woman who looks her opposite in almost every way. "Was eh' lookin' far someone in charge. That you then? If ye' get my meaning."

"For a given value of 'in charge' you are correct. I am the director of human resources for Gordon Industries, and I believe you are looking for work, yes?" Subtle emphasis in odd places.

She sees a tall man at the bar with a scotch drop his right hand from his jacket as the disturbance seems to have dissipated.

Arching a pale brow, the woman smirks, pale lips curling over a flash of white gently smiling jaws. "Riiiight. Sure. Looking for work...as it were. I'm with a friend. He sends me on ahead usually. Call me his right hand." Offering a rough palm for the woman to shake, she waits for her to take it. "The name is Caity. Most call me Kid." Pale silvery eyes snap once in the direction of the gent with the itchy finger and she smirks again, the expression wolfish in nature. "Is it safe to talk here? I could do with some more straightforward conversation."

"Lizzy? Could you go get my handbag from my dressing room? You remember where that is, yes?" Doris issues questions at the woman in question while shaking Caity's hand. There are callouses and rough spots that belie the tidy manicure. "Doris. My right and left hands can introduce themselves, I think." She smirks and tips her head at the jumpy gentleman who is clearly no longer reaching for some sort of strong argument and the dark haired, fastidiously dressed man leaning negligently at the corner of the bar looking foppish.

Giving a quick nod to the aforementioned companions, the kid examines the glass of drink set before her, sniffing at it curiously. "Know anybody by the name Victoria? My friend was informed that she might be here now, in this city. We've been on the move. Came across some ugliness along the way too, but that's far behind us. I took care o' business." She winks playfully.

"Miss Marsden?" Doris leans on the bar. The glass smells like whiskey rather than scotch or bourbon, so at least she is perhaps in the right region. It also does not smell cheap. "Or someone else? Victoria is a common name. There are several about, you will need to be more precise."

"His Vicki is a doctor. English." Shrugging, the woman tosses back the whiskey and effects a grimace of satisfaction.

Doris refills the glass slowly. "That narrows it somewhat. May I forward a name to her?"

"She don't know me. Tell her that Sam from Columbus is looking for her. She'll know."

"He has come a long way from the City of Arches...but he is not the only one to make that journey lately. How interesting." The Cincinnati accent snaps back into place. "I shall let her know. Do you and Sam-From-Columbus require lodging?"

Thinking a moment, Caity shrugs. "Don't need but might like. Camping is necessary at times, but I could do with some creature comforts. Sam likes to find his own way."

"I have some space for visitors. Until we can get a camping permit sorted out." Careful conversation.

Lizzy scoots to go get said handbag.

The moment the human is out of earshot, Doris drops the doubletalk. "Until we can get you and Sam introduced to your Primogens and to Prince Gordon, it might be wise if you accept my hospitality. Some of the citizens are jumpy right now and I would hate for visitors to get blamed for things they are not at fault for. Fair?"

"Aye. Agreed." Caity leans in, whispering. "Sam will want to meet with the Nosferatu Primogen as soon as is possible. He's old school. You have any Gangrel around? I'd like to find some kin of my own."

"Out in the national park. Hackett is in charge, Crickett is the brains, keeps an eye on the boss. John Crowley runs your friend Sam's crew. He will find Sam, he always finds the new bloods. They manage security for the city. I keep Elysium, one of which is here, so you are safe from fucking Kenna Baird, Gordon's lapdog." Doris has to go up on tiptoes to lean in for the quick conversation, but she manages. Short people problems.

"Lap dog? Sounds frightening." Tossing back the second whiskey, Caity sets the glass aside. "National park hm? That could work I guess. If you can get us in touch with this Crowley person we'd both be obliged."

"He likely already knows, but I shall gently nudge him. Kenna Baird is, as they say, a complete and utter bitch, and that is a disservice to both dogs and your family. Bite first, bark after? That sort." She shrugs.

That smile again, like hyena. "Ye' don't say." Canting her head again, she motions toward the quiet fellow at the end of the bar. "He smells like us. He safe?"

"Yes. One of mine. Uncharacteristically quiet, but safe so long as you mind your manners and do not try to bite me." The return smile is equally canid, but more of a fox's slyness than a hyena. There is little warmth.

The man who had been reaching for his jacket with the disturbance steps towards the newcomer with a quiet smile, hand stretched out. "I'm sorry about earlier. Marcus Antoninus."

The mention of biting causes the smile to turn into something both overly interested and almost comical, if not also a bit off-putting. Caity looks as though she'd like to respond to the statement as though it were an invitation, but her lack of judgement train is interrupted by Marcus. Her gaze slides up for a fuller view of his features, and Caity takes his hand, shaking it. "Mister Antoninus, tis' a fine pleasure. The name's Caity Black."

"Ms. Black." His voice is rich and deep, sounding vaguely of the Carolinas. "Welcome to Albion. If I overheard you correctly, friends of Ms. Marsden?"

Doris fiddles with her phone for a few minutes. Probably texting Crickett. Probably. It eventually vanishes into some sort of thigh holster under the hem of her skirt. She pads over to stand next to the surprisingly broody Blackett, reaching out to lightly touch the back of his hand.

Lizzy then returns with a purse in hand and a couple bottles of red wine. Her steps are a little wobbly, but not stumbling drunk. The wine bottles are unopened. She sets them down on the far end of the bar. "I think... I should probably get home."

"Are you sure you want to try walking right now?" Doris scoots away from Blackett and proceeds to fill a glass with water and push it at Lizzy.

"Let me call you a cab, at least, Ms. McCrory."

"I promised I would see her home safely..." Doris eyes the girl with the platinum hair and the two gentlemen in suits...then the clearly intoxicated human. She is clearly trying to decide something...

Mr. Blackett, a tall gentleman in a black suit, watches this all.  His British accent ringing out across the room: "Great, two Irish in a bar... I feel like this is the start of a good story, or a bad joke." He looks towards Doris, "You recognized my... roles... need a hand love?"

"It's not so far as to need a cab," Lizzy mumbles.

"You and Marcus keep an eye on things. Let me see my girl home and then we can all have a bit of a chat, yes?" More calculated studying of the two gentlemen in suits.

"Absolutely!" he smiles at the new addition, "Ms. Black? What are you drinking? I'll have two and get you another."

Doris selects the correct bottle, another glass, and puts both in front of her beloved. Then she saunters around the bar to slip an arm around Lizzy's waist. There is a gentle, soothing murmur in the human's ear. "Come along, sweetheart...let your Aunt Dee show you to bed, hmm?"

"Mmkay..." She accepts the help, though it's only in the occasional shuffling step where it shows she needs it.

"Drink your water." The glass has come along for the journey. The ginger is cool to the touch, despite the cardigan. Must be because it is cold in the bar and she is not wearing any shoes.

Marcus nods to Doris and turns to the newcomer. "Ms. Black, allow me to introduce my friend, Giles Blackett."

Lizzy takes the glass, sipping tentatively as they head for the door.

"Nice to meet you Ms. Black, you have half of a fantastic name I must say" with a bit of a wink.

Eventually, Doris coaxes the intoxicated human out of the bar and into the night. There is soft conversation with the staff as she goes, the Kindred obviously soothing and reassuring them that all shall be well and that she would not be gone long.

Marcus chuckles at Blackett, before leaning in and, with a grin - and a wink to Blackett to indicate he's kidding, deadpans "He even thinks his funny."

"Sir, I in fact have copies of articles suggesting I am quite funny.  Sure, they were from when people last thought puns were the heart of witticism.  But I say, it still counts"

His face cracks into a broad smile, and he shakes his head - still chuckling - "It's good to have you back, old friend."

Blackett looks about the bar, and sniffs the drink, noting the touch of blood in them, and hands one to Ms. Black. He notes that the Bartender is gone and only the Kindred, or ghouled security "My Friend, is everyone... not in the know gone then?"

"The rest of us work for Gordon," one of the waitresses offers. "Crazy broad has this hangup about ghouls."

"I suppose there's your answer." He looks about the bar.

There are, indeed, only Kindred and ghouls left...and not many of either. The emotional content of the evening's opening set had not been to the liking of several of the patrons.

He looks towards Blackett, and adopts a more serious tone "Yes, Mr. Blackett - it's just us now."

"Oh, thank God."

"You're welcome." Deadpan

"So, what has been going on? From my side, not much changes, we still fight little Sabbat Cells, the IA get a bit too uppity for their britches, I am still Keeper." Blackett acts like he ignores the deadpan joke, but there is a twinkle suggesting it was appreciated.

Marcus takes a sip of his whisky "What's the song - nothing changes on New Year’s Day? Sabbat incursions here as well, and I'm running digital security jobs, making friends as always. It's been good seeing our mutual friend again as well."

Looking a bit distracted by the ghoul, and her leaving, Caity perks up with some interest. "Blackett, right. I'm supposed to introduce myself." Thrusting her hand out to him, the neo-punk waits for his response.

Blackett heartily Shakes it. "Nice to meet you Ms. Black. How do you fit in around here?" He then looks at the bat she brought in, "Also... this is an Elysium, right? what are her rules?"

The bat is now in the custody of the gentleman seated unobtrusively in the corner. Half of his face is almost model perfect. The other half is covered in a white ceramic mask. There is scarring around the edges of the mask that suggests the affectation is for the comfort of others. There is a stylized G and I pin on his lapel and he is dressed in blue and black, the combination looking far less like a bruise than it has any right to.

Blackett waits, patiently. Realization that people thought he was asking a rhetorical question dawns on him.  He stands up and walks towards the gentleman in the half mask, "I am sorry to be a bother, but these things are actually very important to me. I presume the standard rules? I have a suspicion you may know them better than most.

"I use the following:

1. Elysium is considered neutral, sanctified ground separate from sect or politics. This means, Independent, Unaligned, Camarilla, Anarch or even Sabbat will fall under the protection of Elysium so long as the rules are respected.

2. Violence of any kind is strictly forbidden upon Elysium grounds. This rule includes forcefully using disciplines, even gentle ones such as Dominate or Presence, upon other guests.

3. The presence of Moon-beasts (werewolves), Wild Ones (fae), or those who have drunk the heart’s blood (diablerists) are forbidden, in other words, they are not considered under the protection of Elysium.

4. None may destroy art located within Elysium. This includes the fixtures of the Elysium building. The Elysium and its contents are sacrosanct and shall not be damaged.

5. All hunting is prohibited in the area surrounding an Elysium to extend 500m from the Elysium.

6. The Masquerade is to be observed as best as possible, in and around the Elysium location.

7. As the Keeper of Elysium, my final word is law on these grounds, and I have the right to traditionally punish or execute anyone who violates Elyisum."

He lists them out as a matter of perfect memorization, like he has likely done this 1000 times before. "I presume the rules are similar? are there any variations a guest should be aware of? Of course, "my" is... replaced with "her word is final."

Marcus looks from Blackett to the man and wanders over "I should probably verify this as well - I'm used to his list." He grins somewhat sheepishly.

Suddenly, she is there, standing in the doorway from the foyer. The sundress, short skirted though it might be, and the casual "mom" cardigan somehow do not diminish the dignity of the woman who is now fully in her official role. "No weapons. All wars stop at my doorway and all who cross my threshold accept my hospitality. As my guests, all are welcome. If any within these walls takes offense to the presence of another, they are welcome to leave: Ill manners will not be tolerated. Those who choose to start a fight will find it ended. This is sacred ground and our ancient traditions will be respected."

There is a formality and gravity in her voice and posture that her old comrades had not seen in her time among them. The intervening years have changed her, perhaps more than her overall demeanor thus far has suggested. "Does that answer your question, my love?"

Blackett smiles to know the borders: "And Enforcer, Guardian... and whatever else means I can carry this?" Blackett taps the breast of his coat. "Should anything cause an issue should I be expected to intervene, or step aside?"

"You are not formally on the staff. We can manage ourselves." A gentle smile. "But I could not stop you from defending me any more than I could stop Marcus Antoninus from almost shooting poor Mister Malachai for a moment's misunderstanding. He said that Raphael sent greetings by way of Gabriel when he arrived."

"Raphael..." there is a coldness to the way he said that.  "Okay, thank you Miss Ashview, I did not want to breach any rules. And should you or your staff require it, I would be happy to hand over my friend although my status does not require I do so. Out of respect you understand."

"The angel, love. Not the idiot." Equally gentle. "Out of respect for your position, I do not request you surrender your arms, but you are still my guest and under my protection."

"Apologies for the bat. Didn't know we were on Elysium. I had a bit of a run in the other night with some thugs, ye' might say. But that was far outside o' this domain."

Marcus blushes a moment, and blandly pulls a small submachine gun from under his jacket, and hands it over to the bouncer. "Keeper Ashview," he says, formally, "please accept my apologies. It won't happen again."

Blackett smiles, "Mr. Antoninus, do you remember when... who was it... oh! The Brujah Primogen, Mydol, brought that sword into my Elysium.... I made her deputy so fast!"

"All is forgiven...even you, Marcus Antoninus. If it happens a third time, I shall be rather put out." Doris pads back over to the bar, setting herself between the space where Blackett is standing and where Marcus had been sitting...which is companionably close enough she does not need to shout at Caity. "How far beyond our borders did trouble find you?"

Marcus chuckles "I certainly do, Mr. Blackett. How is Ms. Mydol, anyways. Give her my best when you return." Turning to Doris, he responds, blandly "Bless me, mother, for I've been naughty?" With a chuckle.

"The line is 'Punish me' not 'Bless me'..." The deadpanned correction is a bit more saucy than usual. "I do not hit nearly as hard as others in the room...but I can make you terribly sorry if I must..."

Blackett sits up extra straight, "Mr. Antoninus, I adore you, you know that... but Elysium is one of our most ancient and sacrosanct institutions, I would strongly not suggest making light of its rules no matter how flexible they may be."

He nods to Blackett "You are correct, Mr. Blackett. I should not make light of the rules." He nods politely to his friend, accepting correction. "Apologies, Keeper Ashview. You know my sense of humour."

Doris twists to reach up and press her hand against Blackett's cheek, a gesture meant to soothe the other Kindred's ruffled sense of propriety as well as distract. She then turns back to Marcus, letting her fingertips trail off the plane of Blackett's cheek and jaw. "I do, and that is why I am not yet offended."

Blackett notably falters, overcome by some sort of unseen force as her fingertips trail off his jaw, "I... sorry... impropriety... I cannot, any longer..." and he holds Doris by the waist pulling her into him and kisses her deeply and passionately. He immediately flushes with a blush -odd to see in such an old kindred- "I... public...  Just..."  and immediately looks like a bird caught in cage and needing to escape.

Marcus looks up, and quickly, softly, takes a sip "I… I'm sorry - I shouldn't keep you both."

There is a muffled squeak as Doris is dragged into a kiss she was not expecting. She does not particularly resist being grabbed, however. Nor does she seem to hear Marcus, her attention on helping Blackett find his way out of this set of conflicting operating parameters before he gets worse. Her thumbs smooth across his cheeks, soothingly, the way someone would brush away tears.  "Hush, love...They understand what you are and that some things cannot be helped. Look at me...focus here."

Marcus sips his whisky - a little bit more quickly than normal - and turns towards the newcomer "I'm sorry about that, Ms. Black. This doesn't usually happen - they haven't seen each other in years." Is he talking to her, or to himself?

Blackett smiles, and holds Doris hand, "Umm yes if you will excuse me, I seem to have forgotten something in the car. Please excuse me, No, I will be fine. Umm... just a moment? Yes, I think my friend is calling me... I..." He literally stands up bolt upright and immediately starts walking to the door. A hand he does not even notice, is already scratching his left forearm with his right hand.

Doris shoots a look of "Please excuse us, must reboot the Toreador" at Marcus and Caity, and, because she does not have full possession of both her hands, does the hop-skip of a shorter person suddenly in need of keeping up with a tall one.

He nods understandingly at her, and signals to "go and take care of him." before sipping his drink quietly.

One of the staff slides in to ensure that Caity and Marcus are not at a loss for drinks.

Entertained by the company, Caity watches, and sips, and odd expression passing over her features. It had been a long time since she'd been around a gathering of Kindred.

The sounds of shuffling feet announce the approach of someone moving slowly.  He gives the doorman his name.  Speaking in a lowly, gravelly voice, "My name is Sam.  I believe that I am expected.  Katie was to announce my arrival."  The doorman nods and Sam continues into the room.

The bartender, one of several ghouls in the place, pipes up. "The lady of the house is out for a moment but should be back shortly... In the meantime, can we pour you a drink?"

"Not at the moment.  I do not drink without permission when I'm in a new place."

"You've asked about trouble nearby. T'was far and away from here, but still within the state. Nothing but some rovin' hunters I'm guessing. Sam and I, we taught them the error of their ways. Took a few ounces o' lead, but we're otherwise fine. The lads...not so much. Sam knew about Victoria possibly being nearby, so we..." Her head snapping toward the door, Caity bounds with childlike enthusiasm toward Sam, giving him a playful elbow to his ribs. "Dinnae' expect you so quick!" Turning to Marcus, she pulls Sam forward. "Sam, this is Mister Antoninus. Er…Marcus, this is Sam. He's my...friend."

Sam appears to be a man in his 70s.  He wears a dark pea coat over his faded jeans and a dark red denim work shirt.  His shoes show the dust of the road.  His wispy white hair peaks out from under the brim of his broad brimmed hat.  "Good evening.  How should I address you?"

Sam looks at Caity.  "I think he may be indisposed, Dear One.  Come.  Let us go over here and sit for a while.  Tell me what you have learned so far."

Taking Sam's arm, she guides him along toward some empty bar stools. "They've exceptional drink, for a start." Offering Sam her whiskey, she takes a seat next to him and begins speaking quietly to him. "Looks like you'll not be alone. You're to find a gent what calls himself Crowley. John Crowley. He runs your...crew."

Ignoring the whiskey, Sam asks, "What have I told you about accepting drinks from people you don't know?  It is how you lose your freedom."  He pauses for a moment.  "And have you met Crowley's boss yet?  Do we have permission yet to drink here or not?"

Caity grimaces. "Well no. Not exactly. Not yet. But they offered us hospitality. Miss Ashview actually."

"Miss Ashview?  What office does she hold that she can do that?"

Speak of the horrible harpy and she appears. The door she enters from is an "Employees Only" door and not the way she left. Doris very carefully smooths down the skirt of her sundress. Minidress? It's short. And flame orange. Flattering.  She closes the distance between herself and the oddly-matched pair of Kindred. "Keeper Ashview, at your service. You must be Sam."

Sam rises and then bows slightly to her.  "Good evening, Keeper.  Indeed, I am.  Caity and I have been travelling for a while and looking for a place to call home."

"This city is looking for people willing to call her home, so that is a happy coincidence. I understand you know Mister Malachai and Miss Marsden?" More smoothing down of her skirt, then she sketches a tidy curtsey in response to his bow.

A gentleman all in black, wearing a three-piece suit, speaking in a perfect British accent soon follows the more brightly-attired woman. "I apologize for monopolizing your Keeper's time, I am..." he pauses, "Technically Keeper Blackett, visiting from Montreal. Although I shan't say, I am not on official business per se."

"Giles Blackett, this is Sam...?" The leading pause is for the supplying of a last name. Doris sounds like she is from Cincinnati, because she is and because people from Ohio can tell the difference between river, center, and lake.

"Pleasure to meet both of you and thank you, Keeper Ashview, for the welcome.  As for the first question, I have known Mr. Malachai and Miss Marsden for a long time when we all lived in Columbus.  As for the second, I was acknowledged under the name Sam."

Doris nods briefly. "Did I overhear that you were concerned you were not welcome to drink in my establishment?"

"Yes.  The Traditions we hold are quite clear.  I was using drinking as a euphemism for what we do to survive. And I would not want to start my time here by breaking one of our core tenets."

"Ahh... Understood. Do you require sustenance? I keep a supply on hand." Doris is already padding over to the bar for the brandy-warming apparatus.

Caity watches Doris with much curiosity, her gaze moving back to Sam with a shrug. "Seems ok..."

Sam nods to Doris.  "Will we be able to spend the day here or shall we rest somewhere else?"

"There is space here, yes." She nods in affirmation. "Either up here in the bar or...elsewhere."

"Somewhere else would be better.  I have to make sure my livestock is kept safe instead of running amok."

"I will contact Mr. Crowley and ask for space in my family's more natural habitat."

The man introduced as Marcus Antoninus steps towards the newcomer with an outstretched hand "I would be the aforementioned Marcus. It's good to meet you, Sam."

"I am certain we can accommodate your needs," Doris asserts. She withdraws her cell phone from its thigh holster and proceeds to fuss with it. She is quite possibly arranging things with Primogen Crowley.

Sam slowly takes Marcus' hand and says, "Nice to meet you as well, Marcus. "

There is a chirp. She fusses further with her phone. Then: "If you do not mind a walk, my friends, I have accommodations arranged close enough to be covered by my aegis. Additionally, what sort of livestock are we housing?"

"Large beasts.  Carnivores."

"That is not livestock..." More typing. She seems amused. "This is Texas, my dear. Livestock is..." She makes a gesture that indicates "longhorn cow" in Texan sign language.

Caity takes a look around the bar, her pale eyes curious and darting this way and that. She looks impatient, like a child attempting to wait on their parent to stop socializing after church.

"Somewhere to be, child?" The phone is tucked away. There is amusement underneath the somewhat maternal chiding.

"Huh? Oh. Nope. I mean no." The jackal's grin, though off putting, was somehow endearing. "Just eager to get settled."

"Come along, then, if your companion is amenable." Doris turns her attention to Marcus Antoninus and Blackett. "You will excuse me, gentlemen?"

Not entirely a question.

Caity looks to collect her ball bat and waits for Doris to lead on. There is some patient waiting for Sam to say the word on whether or not he is joining them. Sam nods his head and is prepared to follow the Keeper.

"Will your...carnivores be joining us?" Doris hesitates before the "Employees Only" door. "I ask because it matters how we get to where we are going."

Marcus nods at the Keeper's request. "Of course." With a grin at Blackett, "How about a drink?"

Caity pipes in on Sam's behalf. "I uh...think they'd be cozier below the streets, if they can be accommodated that is?"

"Below the streets was my intended goal. I just need to choose an access point and there are health code laws I need to respect."

The door opens, and a woman dressed in a long black skirt and a high-necked, black ruffled top enters the bar.  As usual, her brown hair is pulled back in a twist.   Victoria pauses in the doorway and her gaze sweeps over the room before settling on the newcomers.   "Ah.  Enoch mentioned we might be seeing some old friends soon."

"...your sense of timing is uncanny, Miss Marsden." There is the tiniest, most fleeting of smiles. "I was just about to show them to their lodgings."

"Enoch's sense of timing is usually uncanny, but I've learned to trust it."  An amused half-smile graces her features.  "I trust our friends have not been any trouble?"

"Not in the least."

Enoch arrives not long after Victoria does, and while his face is generally carefully crafted like he is hiding at least half the truth when he sees Sam he seems genuinely happy. He takes off his hat as he enters the bar and seems to ignore almost everyone else. "Thanks be to the truth that the messengers bring on swift wings. Sam, it really is you!"

Caity Black takes a long look at the twnew Kindred who have entered. Glancing at Sam, her smile grows to heyena like proportions. "Uncanny indeed. Sam said you'd be 'round. Don't know that you remember me though."

Victoria frowns.  "Somewhat vaguely.  Your face is familiar.  I feel I have seen you with Sam on occasion, although we have not spoken.  What name should I call you?"

"Most called me Caity. Some call me Kid. You choose."

"Then I shall call you Caity."  Victoria makes her way to one of the tables in the corner and takes a seat.

Doris veers away from her intended course to the bar. "Your usual, Miss Marsden?"

Victoria smiles and nods at the woman.  "It is appreciated."

The wine Lizzy had so thoughtfully brought out of storage before being escorted home is fetched, along with a glass. Doris opens the bottle tableside with an economy of motion that is rather elegant, then fills the glass. The bottle is left.

A motorcycle can be heard from outside. Slowing down and shutting off. Followed shortly by a bearded man entering the bar after handing off his leather jacket to the coat check room. He gazes at the assembled in the joint and sees Doris and gives her a winning smile. "Still have that old bottle of Scotch I like, love?" His British accent just showing a little.

"Not that particular one, Reverend, but something similar. I shall pour you a glass in exchange for a blessing?" There is a momentary flash of who Doris might have been in the late 1700s, but it is gone swiftly. "Unless I have to make confession first."

"As long as it isn't Gentleman Jack, or one of those artisanal fake modern bourbons. As for a blessing, dearie, you haven't needed my by our leave since you put that one prudish Teetotalers in his place. What was that, like 1878 or so in Iowa?"

"Might have been..." She selects a bottle that is almost out of reach, setting it on the bar and carefully dusting it off. "I would never serve you lesser goods as better, you know that. What brings you to this outpost of sorrow?"

"Work and debt, Doris. You know how it goes. Keep the peace and fight the pieces of shit. Heard there we issues here in the area and was talking with a few others and low and behold someone called a favor on me to stick my nose in. No rest for the Wicked as they say. Saw this place and it reminded me of the place you had in Vegas. So, I stop in and low and behold my dear old friend is here." If she is close to him he will pull her into a warm and gentle hug of dear friends.

Doris permits herself to be hugged, which is surprising. Normally she does not let anyone touch her at all. "Oh, bah... You would be amazed at what you can do with someone else's money if you have a mind. May I introduce some of the other lost lambs who have drifted here?" She proceeds to introduce @Enoch Malachai , @Victoria Marsden , @Marcus Antoninus , @Mr. Blackett , @Sam , and @Caity Black ...pointing out each individual in turn.

He nods after he releases Doris and offer his hand to each one. "Hi, you can call me Toliver. Pleased to meet you."

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Reverend Johnathan Tolliver." She sketches a bit of a bow.

"I haven't used that name since the Gold Rush. Godless heathens the mess of them."

"You'll have angels and oracles here, so that should be a nice change." She slides the glass over to him.

"Speaking on the subject, Reverend, what are your opinions of the agents of The Most High?" The man in the long black pinstripe coat, with a top hat in one hand and a small box in the other regains his composure as he turns from his old friend to face the new guest.

"Please, just Toliver. I came to terms serving God and paid my personal penance long ago. Understand I do not question any one's believes, but I have seen what Europeans, and those descended from said Europeans have done in the name of God. As for The Most High... I know they work in the most mysterious ways, and that no one should be in absolute charge of such a endeavor of leading organizations of Faith in The Most Holy's name, be they Christian, Catholic, Jewish or Islamic. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Add Kindred to the mix and corruptions is guaranteed on all levels. So be a temple of self in the Almighty's name and worship privately and follow the Golden Rule."

Enoch smiles as he returns his hat to his head and smiles like there is more left unsaid. "You, I and my childe will have wonderful chats in future nights."

Doris' face registers something halfway between horror and amusement. "Reverend Tolliver has always delivered a good sermon."

Toliver laughs as he knows how this endeavor will go. "Very well, Enoch. I will keep you to that."

Caity sizes up the Reverend and smiles wryly, shaking his hand a bit harder than necessary. "Me mother made me go to mass. Every Sunday until I was ten and she stopped. Said I was a lost cause." Her smile grows, exposing her canines. "She was probably right. The name's Caity Black. Pleasure."

He smiles as he returns the harder shake. "There is no such things as lost causes. Just people not understanding how to read the signs of what could help focus another. Some people find Faith and others find other ways to occupy their time. Not my place to cast judgement. Another reason I stopped being a Reverend, Caity. I hated the Hypocrisy."

The man indicated as Marcus looks up from his phone - he seems to have been working on something - but he gets up to shake the newcomer's hand. "Reverend Tolliver. Marcus Antoninus, it's good to meet you."

He shakes Marcus' hand and smiles, as his eyes shows a growing discomfort "Please to meet you Marcus, but for everyone it is just Toliver. The good Reverend died in a mountain pass in the Rockies at the end of the 19th Century."

He smiles "Toliver, then."

Victoria takes the Reverend's hand when offered.  There is a slight British lilt to her voice.  "A pleasure.  Victoria Marsden.  I feel there is room for science and religion to coexist.  Do you?"

He takes her hand in turn and nods. "Without science, ideas, and questioning one’s world in the the name of discovery, we wouldn't be here in the Western Hemisphere. Nor would we have things like car, bikes and planes. Let alone modern medical procedure as well. Even Pope Francis was a huge fan of Science and argued that Science is but another way for the Faithful to understand the Almighty and our world that was created for us. Mind you I am paraphrasing here."

Doris eyes Blackett, then Sam and Caity. Then she studies Tolliver a moment. "I apologize for earlier...you know how we Ishtari can get. I got a bit competitive and my darling paid the price."

"It is alright Doris, we haven't seen each other in a century or two. All is forgiven." He picks up his tumbler glass and rises it in toast. "To new endeavors and friends, both old and new."  He sips his drink and sighs in content due to its flavor and burn. "Wonderful, Doris, simply wonderful. By the by how would one find His Grace? I have a couple presents for him."

"The big building with his name on it." As jerks a thumb in the vague direction of Gordon Tower.

"Oh, he is one of those types. People read and see Batman movies, and all want to be Bruce Wayne." He goes back to sipping his drink watching the others reactions to his statement.

Blackett, standing in a bespoke 3 piece suite, and... seeming to be in similar company notably speaking with a proper British RP Accent. "Nice to meet you Mr. Toliver." he extends a hand to Toliver, with a broad smile.  "Your accent, a bit hard to pick up, London?"

"Giles is a very dear friend."

"Oh no. I have taken to Received Pronunciation, over the years as the language has changed. As for my original accent, well let's just say if one hears it they should know they are in trouble. Think an older form of Geordie."

Blackett smiles, and attempts an odd mix of North Englander and Old English, "Hîe stîð ûs of pro ic hwyrft ðætte sifeða sê wafungstede, yfel myntan sê hnot fullunga ðrêapian."

Doris eyes her partner suspiciously. "When did you learn that?"

"Don't worry love, I have not been holding back, we mostly spoke by wrote. They cared more about... what some very young academics felt was proper pronunciation. Having met some people from that time, well, those Academics were not quite right. But it is what the stage expects"

"Perhaps we should use the resources we have and improve."

"Perhaps"

He smiles and take another sip of his drink. "Sorry, Anglo -Saxon is a little too old for my tastes. Hell, even the Gaelic stuff is mind boggling by region, and I have a hard enough time following a Welshman when they get all torqued up as well."

"Well, well met" Blackett raises his glass, "and well met to the rest of you. Please give my good wishes to Ms. McCory. But I need to pack, as first thing tomorrow evening I will be headed back to the grand metropolis of Montreal. Then to Doris specifically, "See you tonight when you retire?"

"Get along off my island, the lot of you..." And then, softly. "Be along soon as I have settled my guests."

He raises his eyebrow slightly at the exchange, and then goes back to drinking.

"Do not be looking at me with that face, John Tolliver. You are not my vicar, nor my dad."

"Just getting a lay of the land, and the Kindred who live in it. I haven't seen you in a long time, so forgive me for being curious."

"Please us Ishtari will be Ishtari" he says with a sideways glance and grin at Doris. "But on that note, good bye all, who knows when I will return to your fair city, but I am sure I will see you all again soon." he gives a theatrical flourish and exits stage left... aka the door.

Doris watches him go. "Such an ass..." she observes with tolerant exasperation. "Another round?"

He finishes his drink and sets it down. "Never had to twist my arm on the matter."(edited)

As Blackett rises, Marcus stands as well, offering a smile, and a handshake. "It was good to see you, my friend. You'll be missed."

The glass is refilled. She watches the exchange between Marcus and Blackett carefully. Once the funerially-dressed Brit is gone, she relaxes slightly.

Marcus pats Blackett on the back as he leaves and waits for the figure to depart before returning to the group.

Toliver takes his drink, now refilled, and sips it quietly as he watches things.

He returns to the bar and says, to no one in particular "I'm glad he came." Thoughtful