needling

“Oh, you’re a fucking saint,” the selkie snorts, eyeing her granddaughter with a light smile. At least they could meet on common ground through sarcasm; maybe that, among a few other things, gives them a bit of an understanding. Marielle has no intention of trying to insert herself into someone’s life when they don’t want her to be there. But well…Ingrid is her granddaughter, and that means something to Mari. At one point in her life it would not have, but now that’s she’s soft, it does. She blames her brother, Maristela, and the pod for that but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. “Let me know if you need any poison darts. I’m sure I have extra.” She’s mostly joking, but she does actually have extra darts in the back. What? If someone does break into the shop and they go off, she needs a way to reload it! It makes perfect sense to have backup poison darts in the back of the shop…but she’s sure either way, Ingrid will find a way to make sure what happened to her shop never happens again. Just from their first interaction, Marielle could tell her granddaughter could hold her own. However, Melissa, her daughter, she knows less about, which is exactly why she came to Ingrid today, for information on this estranged daughter of hers. Good or bad, she wants to hear it.

Not much to say? That can mean a variety of things, and is perhaps as vague as the words that left her lips only moments ago. Are they also estranged? From what she gathered from their previous encounter, her daughter drinks and she, like Marielle, is not the best mother. Listening to Ingrid speak about her relationship with Melissa is hard. It would be much easier to hear they were close, that Melissa is doing well and Ingrid just spoke to her yesterday. But perhaps that is too much to ask for someone who left their family behind. Life is cruel, though, sometimes in the meanest of ways, and that seems to play out today in her conversation with Ingrid. Not only is the relationship between her daughter and granddaughter severed, but the life she gave birth to is no more. Melissa is no more. “She- …she’s dead?” The news feels like a brutal hit to the gut, the force of such grief so great, for a moment, Marielle can’t even speak. Her lips part, eyes going a little wider as the crease in her brow deepens. The corners of her eyes sting, likely turning red from holding back an offset of emotions that desperately want to break free. She lets out a shaky breath of air, looking down as she pushes hair back behind her ears. “No, no it’s…I understand” She nods, still looking down. It’s easier that way. “I eh…I-I’m sorry I don’t know…how to respond,” she breathes out, blinking back what can only be described as a mixture of confusion and grief. Liver failure. It makes sense, probably from all the drinking and the fact that Melissa is only half selkie, not full. Erik isn’t like all of them; he didn’t fully understand…. “Melissa’s father was human. He knew about what I could do, likely knew Melissa could do it too, but it makes sense she…eh…yeah. She was only half.” Marielle clears her throat to keep her voice from breaking, casually wiping a stray tear from her eye. She’s gotten so good at holding them back, maybe too well. “But your dad then, he was a werewolf? And you, you’re like him? You don’t…you wouldn’t really have it. A quarter is something, but not enough to show, I’m sure.”

Look: it’s not like it’s a story she likes to tell. Would anyone? Recounting the story of an estranged mother isn’t exactly a pleasant pastime, even less so when the narrative is being hand-delivered to an oblivious grandmother. Sucks, really. Ironically, vaguely, it occurs to Ingrid that she wouldn’t mind a drink right about now. Marielle probably wouldn’t either, but Ingrid isn’t so uncouth... or maybe she is. Or will be, in a moment. First, the shitty questions. “Yeah.” It’s just breathed out, knowing the question doesn’t really need an answer, but Ingrid feels the need to give one anyway. To break the suffocating silence of a mother coming to terms with the worst. Mari looks down and Ingrid takes the cue, her own blue gaze looking toward trees or sky or concrete. Anything but the potential tears, the shock, that she sort of hates to be the bearer of. Not like she caused it, but she’s not so keen on delivering it, either. Of all things, Ingrid laughs then, shaking her head. “’S fine. Didn’t really know how to tell you, so. Here we are.” She bites her lip, letting the silence settle for a moment, as much as she hates it. The questions, those are easier to answer, and Ingrid does, carefully. “Um, yeah. Didn’t know that ‘til I was nineteen, actually, so. Parents flopped on a few fronts, but, you know. I’m fine. Can’t say anything’s happened to me when it comes to water, so yeah... selkie must not have come through. Don’t know if my mom knew or not. She didn’t mention it.” Her foot drums and she clears her throat, exhaling noisily before finally standing up, wiping her hands on her pants. “You want a drink? Uh, there’s not really booze in the inn, Morgan stays away from the stuff. Maybe in the restaurant, but I’m not about to rob them... anyway, Terrence’s isn’t far. And we could probably both use it, huh?”

“ Out of sight out of mind for them, I guess” Quinn shrugged a moment. He didn’t like that was how people were but he was also used  to how thing’s could be and he wasn’t going to be optimistic about it, he would however offer whatever help he could. “ Yeah, I’m lucky I have a lot saved up, but it’d be nice to get better results” Quinn explained. He relied on himself his entire life he didn’t expect miracles. “ No on expects you to move on Ingrid. If you need time, you deserve to take it. People who’ve been through hell deal with it a long time” He spoke from experience. “ You should. If you believe it will help you should. I’m still worried about Nora” he admitted. It was rare for him to be open about things involving friends but she lost someone so close to her he knew being his usual reclusive self wasn’t helpful. “ I’m not the best company, but you know you can always talk to me. If you don’t feel safe let me know”

“Bullshit. The dead are out of sight, too, doesn’t mean they don’t deserve some fuckin’ justice.” It’s muttered, and Ingrid knows Quinn isn’t the one who needs to hear that, but it doesn’t keep her from saying it. Where to direct this ire when the proper recipient is essentially unresponsive, uncaring? Ingrid nods at the comment on money, not prying. “Good, good.” The werewolf huffs a laugh then, though, less sincere. “Council sure as hell does. Well, maybe not all of ‘em. Whatever. Cops do too. Bigger fish to fry, somehow. Putting all their energy towards some missing fae girl instead of the cases they’re letting run cold.” Bitterness doesn’t suit her, Morgan would say, but it runs rampant, the phantom pain in her side not helping. Her head shakes, her sigh heavy. “Yeah. That girl’s been through a lot. Does she bring up her dad to you? How’s she handling it?” Certainly a pain she’s familiar with, the loss of a father, but a discussion with Nora doesn’t really seem like her place. Quinn is more of a friend, and shows it then. “Thanks, Quinn. Uh... not sure what I can provide, but... same here. A beer, maybe. I’m good for that. Or, you know, a tattoo, if you’re jumping on an impulse.”

Date: December 16th 2020 Time: 10:19 am Location: Ground Up Café

Listen: it’s not like she meant to come storming into the cafe looking like smoke’s about to come out of her ears. Really. Not the intention, not at all. But there’s no avoiding it. Not right now, as she clenches her jaw so tight it feels like it could snap in on itself. The barista is practically shaking in his boots at the sight of her and Ingrid is bound toward ordering anyhow when she spots Morgan. Sitting with an expression that seems to be either alarm or concern (or, knowing Morg, both) and already with two cups of coffee in hand. It’s enough to make Ingrid deflate, or at least check herself, exhaling before muttering a gruff apology to the employee in question. She then settles onto the stool across from Morgan — though settling may be a strong word. A foot taps, hands clench and unclench, and nostrils flare. “Such bullshit, Morg — thank you.” She’s not so uncouth as to not be grateful for the coffee. Even if caffeine may be the last thing she needs right now. All the same, she takes a sip, then runs a hand down her jaw before continuing. “It is such bullshit. Says he doesn’t know a thing. Which, of course, why would he tell the truth? But he’s not even going to save the skin of his own people? I’m not his closest fuckin’ crony, I get that, but he’s gonna let me die for that? Forget me, huh, what about Clark? Says it’s ‘a most unfortunate tragedy,’ and he wishes he knew. If he thinks I believe that fuckin’ garbage—” It’s only then that she realizes that her voice has risen, that eyes are on her again. With a clearing of her throat, Ingrid settles further down in her seat, waiting for eyes to be averted before she continues, softer now. “I don’t wanna feel like I’m bound to go through that shit again. Hell, I don’t wanna put you through that shit again. I just... I can’t fuckin’ take this sitting down. I can’t. But no one’s gonna help me, it seems. Everyone’s forgotten but me. You and me.” Foot still drumming, Ingrid gives her head one last vehement shake before looking to Morgan fully. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to — I’m not trying to yell at you. Sure isn’t your fault. I just...” A shrug, a sip of coffee, and she tries to mind her manners. “How, uh... how’s your morning, anyway? Better than mine?”

She’d fallen out of the rhythm, almost. The greeting, the small talk, the trying to sell. Sell what? Her own art, which is an art in and of itself. A few months off can do a person good, maybe, and especially after an ordeal like hers... but really, she’s feeling rusty. That thought has just made Ingrid frown when the security system (quite thorough and very new) beeps, announcing an incoming customer. The tattoo artist rises to her feet but doesn’t approach, not immediately. Don’t want to seem like a predator, or worse, an eager beaver. So she just wanders forward instead, heavily tattooed arms folded as she nods to the drawings upon the wall that this newcomer gazes at. “That’s mostly the traditional stuff. Got some, uh, art deco over there... minimalist stuff too, if you’re into that sort of thing. Seems to be the trend as of late.” There, that’s small talk enough, right? Ingrid gives a nod, then. Introduction — that’s important, too. “I’m Ingrid. Own the place.” Not sure if he knows the stories, about the arson and the fighting and the, well, unpleasantness. Bullshit, she’d call it, but that’s not the sort of language one uses on the sales floor, right? “You ever had any work done?” A gesture to the art on display again, to specify the sort of work she means. Not that she’s determined to sell here, but it’s nice to know what she’s dealing with.

Brad looks up from drying the glasses, solely out of instinct, not entirely processing what Ingrid says. “Uh, yeah. We’ve met, several times.” He points out with a weak chuckle. Her comment has him blinking. “Why do people keep saying that? It’s not like I can be happy 100% of the time, y’know. I’m not a cartoon character.” He mutters as he resumes the mindless work of bartending. It helps, somehow, focusing on simple work or manual labors. Since Clark’s passing… and then FIona disappearing, he just doesn’t feel cheerful. People keep leaving him– and the fact that he is selfish enough to make this about him, just makes him feel like absolute shit. “Well, my friend died a few months back and another friend of mine just disappeared,” he shrugs, “so I’m kind of pissed and sad.”

The snappish comment makes her raise a brow, but she doesn’t fire back. “Won’t check next time, then.” That’s all he gets, and really, it’s a kindness from her. Blame his glum face. Poor guy looks like something was stolen from him. “Not saying you should be, ‘specially with the shit going on. Guess people are just used to you being perky. Doesn’t mean you have to be. Not like I’m Miss Congeniality over here.” She sighs when he finally comes out with it, her nod a little heavier now. “Ah. Now that makes sense.” A sip of her drink and she leans back, looking at him with less judgment now. More... sympathy, if you could call it that. Empathy, maybe. “Not the kindest few months ‘round here. Sorry about your friends.” One of them was hers, too, but hardly close enough for her to grieve like others have. Still, though... sucks. “They give you any news on your friend? I’ve seen her posters around town. Didn’t exactly know her well, but uh... seemed nice. Seems nice.” A correction, there. The girl — Christ, what the hell was her name — isn’t gone. Not necessarily. Not confirmed. Not yet.

Not really anything social made Quinn comfortable, but he appreciated her giving him the option to choose. He wasn’t going to say either one though, since he at the moment didn’t feel like it was necessary. “ Well the investigation seems to be done or at least if it isn’t they stopped going by the shop. I’m offering to help rebuild it, but I haven’t heard anything beyond that. I tend to stay away from the council or police unless I have to, so I don’t know there either. “ Quinn admitted before nodding his head. “ It is what it is. We can’t go back, we just have to move on and learn to cope. You okay lately?”

“Yours too, huh?” Ingrid shakes her head, jaw working. “Funny how quickly they give up on shit around here.” A cold case didn’t feel too cold when you still remembered the burning feeling of a knife between your ribs each night. But what does she know? She knows Quinn well enough, though, and he admits it then and there: he won’t go to the council. But maybe it’s about time someone does. “You coughing up your own money, then?” Bullshit, too, isn’t it? Insurance had only helped her so much, but she’s got to have a business. His question makes her sigh, and she shrugs. “Okay? Yeah, I’m okay. Should probably move on but, you know... can’t seem to. Not yet.” Hands in pockets, she thinks for a moment, eyes off toward the horizon before she reaches out in a rare way. Advice seeking isn’t like her, but hell, neither is getting stabbed. “Thinkin’ maybe I should say something. To Maksim, or — fuckin’ someone. I just can’t keep watching over my shoulder, you know? And I’m pissed as hell thinking someone’s wandering around with my blood on their damn hands and getting away with it. Clark’s, too. It’s bullshit.”

Mari can’t help the natural creases that form above her brow, the worry. Other than her shop blowing up, what is going on, exactly? Adam resurfaced from the river months ago and she still hasn’t been to visit? Well, that’s none of Marielle’s business, but she is curious. Instead of prodding, she nods, sending Ingrid a light smile. “He told me about that. I came here before he showed up again, he’s… well, he’s my first Riverborn, I guess. I don’t really get it, but he seems to be doing just fine now. He’s quite talented, doesn’t surprise me at all he helped you too.” Makes sense, sounds like something Adam would get involved in. For a moment she thinks about asking Ingrid for an appointment once she opens up again. Marielle doesn’t have many tattoos, but she certainly doesn’t have any enchanted ones. “Right, you eh…you do actually seem like you would do a fine job at it,” she chuckles. Perhaps it’s just another similarity that proves they’re related. It does bring a smile to Mari’s lips, knowing she and her granddaughter have like qualities. Apparently sarcasm is one of those as well. Marielle chuckles, “yeah, that definitely won’t help shit for a fire…maybe a sprinkler system would do some good? I say set up some booby traps as well, can’t be too careful, and you can’t always trust technology.” No, she didn’t have moving walls or swinging knives like something out of Indiana Jones. But she does put trip wires around the shop, ones that will activate a call to Lethe PD and sleeping darts whenever tripped. That’s served her better than any alarm system in the past. 

This granddaughter of hers also seems to be mildly impressed she’s so prepared, especially when she mentions the bit about getting a second gun. Do people not do that? Well…nowadays people do misuse them. What she really wants to ask though, something that’s been on her mind for a while now, is the state of her daughter. Maybe she has no right to ask, especially if the person she’s asking if Ingrid, but well…now that she’s so close, it’s hard not to. Looking it up online is nothing compared to hearing it from family. She needs to know. “No, I don’t need anything just uh…well, maybe I do need something. Information, I suppose,” Marielle begins, averting her gaze from Ingrid momentarily so she can gather her thoughts. “What I mean to ask is, how is your mother? I know…I heard about your father, but Melissa, I…I never knew. I thought maybe I could eh…I could ask you. If that’s…if you’re willing to talk about your mother.” 

“Oh? What gave that away? Here I thought I was being charming.” That’s sarcasm, too, and Ingrid allows a small smile with it, not sure why exactly she’s trying to reassure this woman. Not in the mood for picking a fight, beyond anything else. The suggestions tempt her to roll her eyes. As if she hadn’t thought about sprinklers... but she holds it back, just nodding. “Yeah, the new place is a little more up to date. More fire protection, better security system. But uh, maybe I’ll get some poison darts, too. You know, just for shits and giggles.” There, see? Still easy enough. Almost banter, but still too close to small talk. Never one to handle that well, Ingrid cuts to the chase, crossing her legs and leaning back to look at Marielle full on before she inquires about what brought her here. A brow raises at the vagueness. “Information, huh?” What’s she got that’s worth desiring? Certainly not a Lethe insider... oh, fuck. No, not a Lethe insider at all, but she’s an insider on this. A regular orphan nowadays, too. How is your mother? Cold in the ground, that’s the first retort on her tongue. It’s a good thing Mari keeps on talking, stammering, allowing Ingrid the time to fight it back. There’s malice there, yeah. But with the news she’s bound to deliver, well... seems harsh enough. No need to barb it with quips that her mother might’ve deserved, but Mari probably doesn’t. So Ingrid just sighs, a wearier sound than she expected. And she gets on with it. 

“Uh... yeah. I can talk about her. But there’s not, uh... not much to say nowadays.” Biding her time, avoiding the gaze of this inquisitive grandmother. The loss of a child... talk about being the bearer of bad news. She starts with something gentler — still a hard pill to swallow, but not...well...that. “I left home when I was eighteen. My mom and I weren’t exactly, uh, the best of friends. She had her demons, so you could say. Not that I was an angel child, ‘cause I wasn’t. But, um. I left. Drifted around a while ‘til I found out what exactly I am and my dad told me to come here.” Sounds like a standard enough story, but isn’t it wrought with the ghosts? The dead, so inevitable when she isn’t actively avoiding them. Out with it, then. “I, uh... I didn’t see her after that. Not until, well, uh...” Fuck. “She died when I was twenty-four. Liver failure, they said. Seven years ago, now. Didn’t have a funeral or anything, but I went up, to uh... to settle things.” Why is that worth sharing? To tell her that someone had handled it? Settled it all in the end, interred her quietly, and returned back to Lethe? But there’s something else worth saying, too: “I didn’t know you were out there to tell, or um...I would’ve let you know sooner.”

Blame the drink or two already in her, but she’s got a critical eye. Maybe not critical so much as analytical, reading the faces around her at the bar. She didn’t come with company, after all -- who would she bring here anyway? Wouldn’t drag Morgan here, and who else does she have? Her grandmother? Snorting at that thought, Ingrid polishes off another beer just in time to catch sight of a somewhat familiar member of the staff. Perky, usually. But looking less so today. It’s enough to raise her brow, and the alcohol in her bloodstream convinces her to speak up about it: “Hey. Bradley, right?” The werewolf pauses, waiting to be corrected if necessary. Since she’s not, she goes on. “Hate to say it, but you look, uh... less chipper than usual. Not that I’m giving you customer service advice, ‘cause I’m sure as hell not.” Another beat and Ingrid sighs. Hell, she’s bored. Maybe lonely. Should probably just text Morgan, but instead, she pries. “Penny for your thoughts? Feel like maybe I need some entertainment, or at least a conversation, but you don’t necessarily have to give it.” 

Well, this little impromptu ‘get to know you’ with her granddaughter is going about as well as Marielle expected it to go. Not horrible, just…okay. They’re not fighting, Ingrid doesn’t seem to be mad at her, and she did offer to talk outside, so that’s…something. And of course there’s the bottle of liquor she sent as some sort of shop opening gift, that has to mean something, right? Or perhaps Mari is reading into all of this and coming up with the wrong answers. Mari nods, “yes I use enchanted materials, mostly things that Adam and I come up with. Do you know Adam Mallory? He’s the one who’s been helping me with the magical logistics of it all,” she explains, looking at her granddaughter then. “Your tattoos, the ink you use, it’s enchanted too then? Did you also work with witches? I know a bit about the trail and error part,” she snorts, head shaking. Enchanting things isn’t as easy as it would appear to be, much to Marielle’s dismay. “Well that’s good,” Mari nods, “let me know if you need anything to speed up the process. Even if it’s just yelling at people. I don’t mind doing that,” she says with a shrug. Maybe Ingrid would need nothing from her, and that’s okay, but she feels the need to offer it anyway, hoping her granddaughter will let her into her life little by little. She doesn’t deserve it, but regardless, she remains hopeful.

“Seriously? Shit…maybe I can talk to my brother, he’s in charge of most of the town’s IT. I’m sure he can recommend something, maybe we can boost security on your shop so you’re at least not targeted again.” That’s her main worry, that the arsonist isn’t finished and he’ll come back. Who knows where he’ll go next or if he’ll try to finish the job. Best to take precautions just in case. Mari sighs, “well I’m glad you’re not worried.” Part of her is worries, yes, but that arsonist has another thing coming if he tries to burn down her shop. Because it’s not just her shop she worries for, it’s Alistair, who lives right above. “I’m prepared. I had Andreas- that’s eh, my brother; I had him double security around the shop. Even bought another gun, but he doesn’t know about that bit,” she shrugs. “Trust me when I say the place is well protected.” And with more weapons than just a gun, that’s for sure. Seriously, Mari’s ready for people to fuck with her and she’s sorry for whoever eventually does. “Anyway, I uh…I’m guessing you know that I didn’t just come here to give you the basket.” Best to get to her point now, eh? Not to waste either of their time.

She’s not usually one for giving insider information, on life as well as business, but this grandmother of hers is earnest enough to be almost painful and hardly seems like competition. So Ingrid nods. “Yeah, they’re enchanted. Or they were, or whatever. Adam Mallory actually helped me, too. Way back when, when I first started. Long before his trip into the river. Haven’t really spoken to him since he returned, but... guess I’ve had my own shit going on.” That’s a pang of guilt for another time, though, and instead Ingrid concedes a huff of a laugh. “I’m pretty alright with yelling at people. But, uh, thanks. ‘Preciate the offer.” The use of a plural doesn’t escape her -- we -- but Ingrid clenches her jaw against protesting. This is well-intentioned, and it’s not the sort of thing she should turn her nose up at. Or so Morgan would probably tell her. Besides, Mari’s right. She needs better security, unless she wants another knife between the ribs. So she nods again. “Uh, yeah. That’s the plan. Get some cameras, or something. Had an alarm system, but, you know. Fat load of good that does when shit’s on fire.” She gives an almost rueful sigh, her gaze somewhere out on the horizon instead of looking for this woman that seems to seek so much from her. What’s there to say? Ingrid simply listens instead, though the comment on the gun earns a sidelong glance and a raise of her eyebrow. Color her impressed. Shit, maybe they are related. “Not a bad idea.” That’s all she offers aloud, though, mirroring her shrug after the comment about protection. It’s not that she has some deep-rooted care for this supposed family of hers. Not really. Take it as business owner helping business owner, if you will. Until she can’t. Ingrid sighs once more at the nervous question, looking at the anxious selkie head-on then. “Yeah, figured as much. You need something?” She's in no place to be lending things nowadays -- time, maybe, but most of the money she'd gotten from her father has gone into restoring the shop. But she won't jump to conclusions. Not yet, anyhow.

“You’re welcome…” The basket is awkward, yes…Marielle is not quite sure what she expected. Part of her actually assumed Ingrid would not take it. But they’re trying, she supposes, because family is family. While Ingrid sets the basket down, she takes the opportunity to peak inside the hotel room. Again, Mari’s not really sure what to expect. Maybe she’ll see something that gives her some insight into her granddaughter’s life, maybe she’ll find another person in there with her. Is she dating anyone? How are things with the shop? How is your mother? All questions at the tip of her tongue, but she doesn’t feel it’s the right time to ask them. Not outside a hotel room with a housekeeper coming down the hall and two cats nipping at Ingrid’s heels. They look skeptically at Marielle, who looks back at them with wide eyes. She wonders if they would get along with her cat…Munchie loves other cats, though she mostly just likes to use them as pillows when she sleeps.

“Sure,” Mari nods, stepping back and shoving her hands into her coat pockets. She’s bundled up, hat, scarf, gloves and sweater underneath included. Business talk, huh, that’s how what she expected to start out with but…perhaps it makes sense. It’s something they have in common, something she already knows about and the reason Mari ‘came here’ to begin with. She snorts, “neither did I before I started messing around with them. The whole soap making processes is a little crazy. I can show you sometime, if you want.” The fact that Ingrid even came outside to talk to her is a blessing, quite honestly, so she won’t push too hard on another encounter just yet. Her lips roll back as she thinks of a casual way to bring up the questions she has swimming around in her mind. “How is your business doing? The uh, clean up, I hope it’s going well. I haven’t heard anything about them catching the arsonist yet. Apparently he’s still out there hitting up shops,” she frowns, looking over at her granddaughter. “Are you worried at all?”

There are other things she could be doing right now. Hovering around the shop and critiquing the new wainscoting, for one. Or finally painting the new logo she’s had outlined on the window for weeks. Sleeping, even, or giving another attempt at the cross-stitching she’s been told is so therapeutic. But instead she’s sitting out in the cool autumn air with a pair of blue eyes peering so hard at her that she feels like she could burst into flame. Hell of a time for a family reunion. Ingrid can’t help how her brow raises at the evaluation of soap making -- crazy hardly seems like the word she’d imagine -- but what does she know? Instead, she just nods. “Yeah, uh, I’m sure it’s interesting.” It’s neither a rejection nor an acceptance of the extended offer. “You make enchanted stuff, then? Or just stick to the same old? I had to learn the art of enchanted inks to get any business around here, which was, uh... trial and error.” The talk of the tattoo shop continues then, and really, it’s easier than any probing familial questions. Even if it brings images of blood and ashes to mind. “I mean, business isn’t booming, obviously. But it looks like an actual shop again, so that’s something. Hoping to open doors before the new year.” The next comment earns a sigh, a flare of emotion other than awkwardness. “Yeah. It’s bullshit. This town should actually embrace the twenty-first century and get some decent security measures. My cameras were fried and no one else is any help.” The question earns a raised brow. Maybe she should be touched by the worry. But Ingrid just shrugs. “Nah. Not worried. I’ll be better prepared this time. Any idiot who wants to pick a second fight will have another thing coming. How ‘bout you, though?” Pessimistic, really, but she’s a realist, and levels her gaze with Mari’s to show as much. “Can’t feel great, opening your doors while there’s some jackass out there burning businesses to the ground for shits and giggles.”

Strange as it was to receive a bottle of tequila from her granddaughter as a, ‘shop opening’ gift, it did delight Marielle. She thought of it as an olive branch of sorts, and it is a nice bottle of tequila. Also strange though, how could Ingrid have known she would even like tequila? Lucky guess, she supposes. Margaritas are her favorite drink. Maybe it’s even stranger that Mari looks into where Ingrid is staying, seeing she’s currently listed under some hotel in town. Finding the exact room is a bit harder, but the owner of Oddities Inn didn’t seem likely to hand over such information on her own. No, instead when she isn’t looking, Marielle sneaks in through the back and looks it up. Now she’s standing in front of what’s supposed to be her granddaughter’s hotel room door, right arm holding a basket full of products. Is it excessive? Yes. Is she overcompensating for years and years of regret? Mari clears her throat nervously, knocking on the door. Also a yes.

“Hi,” she breathes out when Ingrid answers the door, her heart beating faster when she sees the look on her face. “I, eh, got your gift. And I guess I sort of just…did this,” Marielle gestures towards the basket of products, handing them over to Ingrid. “They’re for you. Stuff I made for werewolves, scents I thought you might, eh…like, I guess.”

Living in the inn for as long as she has been means that habits have formed. This has become a routine of sorts, rolling her eyes at a knock on the door and shaking her head, beginning her daily dismissal of turndown service. “Gina, seriously. I’ll survive without a made bed--” She opens the door, expecting the housekeeper and is about to give another attempt at dismissal until she realizes who she’s looking at. “Oh. Uh.” Instead of a well-meaning inn employee, her grandmother is staring at her with gifts in arm. Jesus. First and foremost, it’s worth wondering how she even got here. Morgan isn’t really the type to be handing out Ingrid’s personal information, but maybe she wanted to force her hand here. They’ll discuss that later, though. For now: “Um, hi.” She nods at the mention of the received gift. Shit, if she’d known it’d lead to this... but she shouldn’t think that way. Should be grateful for the family she’s got. So Ingrid just nods, accepting the gift basket even if her gut tells her to do the opposite. “Um... thank you. That’s... generous.” Ingrid awkwardly holds the basket in her arms for a moment before setting it aside, facing her grandmother with a weary sigh just in time for the housekeeper to come bustling down the hallway. What’s more, her cats are at her ankles now, staring up at this strange guest with curiosity and vague malice. Apples don’t fall far, or whatever. “Here, uh... let’s walk.” Clearly this grandma of hers didn’t just come to drop off a basket, and Ingrid isn’t going to beat around the bush. So she shoos the cats back into the room, grabs a jacket, and nods down the hall. It’s only after they’ve descended the stairs and wandered outside, exposed to the slight breeze and drifting leaves that Ingrid tries again. “How’s business been? In your shop, I mean. Can't say I know much about, uh... soap selling.”