Nightingale

She was rather pretty, now that he got a look at her. Simple, worn clothes increased Butch’s opinion of the woman right off the bat; if the waiter had plopped a ballgown-wearing perfumed ditz in her seat the man probably would’ve gotten up and left, but maybe this wouldn’t be half bad. He was still definitely going to fuck with this place at work on Monday, but maybe he’d lessen the accusations he sent flying towards them. Maybe.

As she glanced around the room the enforcer laughed at her words, the sound deeply amused and purposefully boisterous, drawing quite a few questioning or dirty looks. “Good luck, he ran off with my whiskey order and came back with you so if we so much as think about food and drink I think they might come back with the gods-damned Palace orchestra to squeeze in at our table.”

A passing waiter winced at Butch’s words, glancing at the duo’s bare table with a inaudible groan. She glared at the back of her retreating coworker before speed walking towards the kitchens. While the enforcer hadn’t missed this display, he resolutely ignored it. While his name did him no favors in this faction, the LEA symbol plainly exposed on his forearm did. Glancing towards the woman’s wrists, he noted the six there with little interest, eyes lingering a fraction of a second longer on her faction marks. A Spade who defected to Clubs, interesting. Her bearing thus far had evidence of both, though, and it wasn’t like defectors from any faction were uncommon.

“Names Butch, by the way.”

The waiter who’d ducked into the kitchens came back with a broad smile, placing two mugs of water onto their table as well as a menu in front of his table partner. “Sorry about that, I’ll be helping you today! My name is Hara.”

Butch’s expression wasn’t exactly kind but it was significantly less confrontational than it’d been when first host had appeared. “Hello Hara, I ordered a drink with your rather useless coworker that I assume was never actually placed, not that I blame you for that. Single malt whiskey, anything that doesn’t have any flowery or fruity infusions in it, please. I’d rather my mouth not taste like a field.”

He looks down at his menu again, eyes skimming over most of the food with a dissatisfied knit to his brows. “And this sandwich, I guess.” Muttering more to himself than either of the women in ear shot he added, “What kind of self respecting bar doesn’t even serve noodles?” He handed the menu back, taking a sip of the iceless water while he waited for the stranger across from him to either order or send the girl away.

“Can’t say I’m all that impressed with this place, though I don’t know what I expected from a place called Swine.”

Fallon didn’t hide the sour face she made at the mention of The Palace orchestra and the mental image of having to share a table with them. Theatrics didn’t suit her, nor did anyone who found themselves so absorbed in any facet of them. Thespians they called themselves. Nuisances was her preferred term- the polite one, in any case. 

Butch, she repeated in her mind. She’d remember it, as she remembered all names given to her. 

Like Butch, it was an instinct on par with muscle memory to glance at the exposed markings. She gave exactly zero fucks about the lot of them, but the one marking him as LEA did surprise her. Though, surprise might have been too strong a word. Fallon found it interesting, combined with his general demeanor so far and the state of what she could only assume was a uniform. While the worn, wrinkled, somehow dusty clothes wouldn’t have turned heads in her faction, she was sure these uppity pricks turned up their noses at it. 

She was about to do the courteous thing and introduce herself, when Hara appeared, resulting in Fallon opening her mouth only to shut it again with a comically straight face. Butch took the lead and Fallon watched their interaction with mild amusement, a smile and barely contained laughter twisting the corners of her lips upward. He may not look a lot like a Diamond, but the attitude was definitely there. Telling someone it’s not their fault while also making them the target of the frustrated lashing. He wasn’t entirely wrong though, so far their collective experience of this place had been more than lacking. 

And judging by his drink order, he clearly had taste. (But not much, if she heard that noodle comment correctly.)

So she decided to let the Diamonds deal with each other. “I’d expect some good pork, at least.” She started, then, looking up at Hara with a tired, but not unkind smile. “I’ll have the same drink, also sans all fields. But make mine a double shot. And um,” She takes a quick, last glance at the menu, finger coming up to highlight the cheapest sandwich she can find. “This pulled pork one. Thank you.”

She handed the menu back to the waitress, who took them both and left, the fake smile dropping as soon as she thought she was out view. The healer turned towards Butch. “As I was about to say, I’m Fallon.” It was unceremonious, but that’s just how she was.

Yes. But mostly because she fully believes that some of the people she sees to heal are lucky that they didn't die due to their idiotic behavior.

The Dark: Did your muse sleep with a mana nightlight as a child?

No, she never needed one. And even if she had, there's some serious doubt that her parents would have wasted the resources on one.

Boogeyman:  Name one thing your muse has lost that they wish they could get back.

Clubs Faction, The Hunter’s Lair Inauguration

@phoenixkadeu​ 

So far, the inauguration had gone fairly well in Fallon’s eyes. The Ace had done the job he’d been expected to do. A few speeches- the Club version of speeches, anyway-, the cutting of the ribbon, and a one-day special event as the faction tried to pretend that it had been life as normal for the past week. Instead of the hell that it actually had been. 

At least the first hour of booze was free.

Fallon, unfortunately, couldn’t permit herself to fully indulge in Mallick’s offerings to his people. Not when she was so well aware of the ever growing anger and discontent amongst the faction’s inhabitants- and how they often expressed that anger and discontent. So while she nursed a pint of ale and exchanged pleasantries with the other members of the council and various attendants, her attention was more focused on keeping an eye on the crowd. 

Almost every person there had been feeling the combined effects of the sweltering heatwave, price hikes for everything from food and water to the drugs that a portion of the faction had gotten themselves reliant on, fees for trying to find ways to purchase and sell product, and of course strong new tensions from the cause of the price hikes and fees, the Spades. Relations with their on again-off again ally had soured once more- and while the average club might not be directly involved or engaged in it, every single Club had been affected. 

Had felt it.

There’d already been a rise in outbursts of rallied frustration that almost always lead to some kind of violence; which in turn lead to a rise in occupied cots at Fallon’s clinic. That had been dangerous in it’s own way, with so many still angry people stuck under the same roof. She was worried about the possibility of the same thing happening here too.

She made her way on the first floor, threading through groups of friends and neighbors chatting- some with growing intensity. Someone she’d regrown a finger for, years ago, made eye contact with her and she gave her customary muted smile and short nod as she moved to pass him- nearly running into the back of someone else. A hand came up and rested on the young man’s shoulder, once she caught sight of the telltale scarring on the side of his face.

Death: What does your muse consider the worst way to die?

For Fallon, death is death. There's no good way to die, so why would there be any real worst way to go either? Though, if pressed, she'd say that dying with unfinished business or without honor would be the most undesirable.

Getting Old: Would your muse rather live 50 years loved, or 200 years alone?

With the recent tensions between the Spade faction and the Clubs, cage fighting had become a great rarity in Club territory as many rich people of the other factions no longer ventured into the Club area. Today’s fight was one of the last scheduled dates, not as lucrative as usual, but still quite good in yield.

Nora has never been good at asking for help. With most of her injuries, there is no need to see a doctor for treatment. Especially not in Diamonds territory, where everything is meticulously documented and, if necessary, investigated. The small community clinic in the Club area was therefore a good place for injuries that she could not treat herself. Relatively anonymous and not too many questions were asked, as there are basically no laws in the Club area and therefore no prosecution.

She waited a moment on the doorstep of the clinic until Fallon saw her and invited her in. Nora holds her left arm, which appears to be dislocated, in position to reduce the pain, even if she would never show her pain. She had already tried to set her arm herself by bumping her shoulder against a wall. Unfortunately it was crowned with no success. She hadn’t been at her best in today’s fight.

Her opponent, a monstrous mountain of meat of a man, could wrestle her to the ground and twist her arm back while his foot pressed her on her shoulder blade to the ground. If a spectator hadn’t thrown a knife into the cage - which happened often to make the fight more interesting - that she could ram into the lower leg of her competitor, the outcome of the fight would certainly have been different.

Nora paid no attention to Fallon’s question and kept a straight face as she heaved herself onto the cot with her good arm. All she did was to take a small black leather sack from her pocket, which she tossed to Fallon as she sat down. "Don’t worry! It’s enough for your payment.“ With a small movement of her head she hinted at her dislocated arm "Could you …” and almost afterwards she added a silent  “Please.”

Fallon doesn’t try to hide the small scoff of a laugh as she waits for the injured woman to sit. She’d learned a long time ago which people to offer help to and which would rather bleed out and struggle than accepted help before it was asked for. So far in their limited acquaintance, Nora fell into the latter category. Though, something in the back of Fallon’s mind told her that if the woman’s situation was more dire, she wouldn’t turn the healer’s assistance away. 

She caught the bag, and closed her fingers around the worn leather. It was warm in her palm- and heavier than she expected. The emitter briefly cocked an eyebrow at the bag, almost positive based on weight alone that it was too much. 

But that can be dealt with after the job was done. 

The bag now set gently- but still with a light twinkling of coins jostling together- on the small table next to her, she turned her attention back to her patient. The silent, near-pleading look that accompanied the subtle motioning to her arm wasn’t lost on Fallon. The corners of her eyes softened and instead of nodding back, she simply turned her attention to Nora’s shoulder. 

Now that she was looking more closely, she could see the obviously wrong way the arm seemed to hang- a clear indication of the dislocated joint. She rounded her way around to the woman’s other side and lifted her hands, the soft white glow of her mana already lighting her finger tips. Fallon placed her hands on the upper arm and top of her shoulder, giving Nora a warning look.

“On the count of three.” She started, giving the woman a moment to brace herself. “One, tw-” Fallon didn’t finish the word before using her strength to pop the arm back into it’s socket. Her mana took care of the majority of the pain involved in the movement, but the feeling of the correction would still be uncomfortably present. 

Failure: Has your muse ever given up on an important dream?

Answered here!

Tight Space: Does your muse ever feel that they’re not living up to their own potential?

Crowds: What does your muse prefer, the action of Downtown Diamonds and the Circle, or the quiet away from it?

Answered here!

Failure: Has your muse ever given up on an important dream?

“Honestly I’d probably let him do it.” The concubus laughed, shaking his head. “I already feel bad about putting Sparrow on his ass while we’re training, he’s gettin’ good though, I don’t think he realizes it since he’s only been practicing against me and Asra, but he’s got spirit, potential. Kid wouldn’t be out of place wearing a club on his wrist instead.” Rook had never made it a secret of how fond he was of the younger man, they’d been friends through the Resistance since Sparrow had joined, and while he’d never say so to his face in order to keep him from getting an ego, he was proud of him. He would at least imply it to Fallon, comfortable in the knowledge she wouldn’t go spilling that fact.

her laughter, and even his easy smile held weight behind them that Rook hated to think about. He hadn’t been foolish with his episodes, as soon as they’d started, as soon as he was a recovering chrono addict and not an active user he’d started seeing doctors, growing herbs and strains of marijuana that could counteract the seething rage that boiled up without his permission, kept himself drugged in some capacity at all times to keep him from bringing harm to the people that were the closest thing to ‘family’ someone who’d never really had one could hope to have- self-serving as he was, he knew better than to take for granted the people who cared for him, even if sometimes he thought they’d made a mistake in doing so.

But he wasn’t here to discuss his misgivings about himself, or the choices of others, and he was more than thankful when Fallon caught on and let the topic of his ‘illness’ fall to the side- He would have plenty of time to beat himself up about it in the privacy of his own home, he didn’t need to do it right in front of her.

He let out a short bark of a laugh, arm covered in leather lifting defensively in front of him as the other moved to pull his joint from grinning lips. “Hey, Hey, if I’ve got the mannerisms of a little boy, then you have the mannerisms of a mother hen, one doesn’t persist without the other, Fal, that’s the rules.” He protested, knowing that in a way, they were probably both right. His hands remained up as she admonished him for doing her a disservice by putting out the fire in the office area that Minnow had started before it could eat up her ‘tab’ for fuel, as if Rook had ever bothered to write down what she owed him and hadn’t long ago decided that her drinks were mostly free- unless she insisted on paying him. It was the least he could do for her tolerating him as a youth.

“Rude of me for stopping a fire that would have made you a dishonest customer? Why, you wound me!” He declared, drawing a hand back dramatically and exhaling a thin trail of smoke from between his lips. “And here I thought I was doing you a favor by keeping you honest.” he tutted playfully, leaning absently against the bar. “Next time Minnow gets a little free and loose with a candle, I’ll make sure to direct her back toward your tab.” He rolled her eyes as she winked, shaking his head and smiling right back at her.

“Was I really that big of a pain as a kid? Sure, I was a frequent flyer at the clinic, but I always apologized for the inconvenience!” He also stuck his nose in her business constantly, and never quite knew when to shut up, but he wasn’t about to bring that up. “I was a darling. An absolute delight. Your life was better for having me in it, actually.” Those were boldfaced lies, and given the way he was trying not to laugh, he knew it.

Her, loud, boisterous laugh- complete with an alcohol induced snort- was her first response to his bold claims. Her free hand, (as the other was still cradling her glass) came up and rubbed at the wetness in her eyes. The laugher soon piddled out, but the smile remained. 

“If you were a darling, then I’m a gods damned fae.” Another weak bought of laughter, stretched her already sore cheeks. The free hand moved to massage the tender skin at her jaw as she continued. “Though,” her voice softer, “I can’t say you weren’t a delight. You’ve always been entertaining, Rook.”

The truth of the matter was that, yes. Her life, insane and difficult as it might be, was made better by having the little punk in it. By having all of her little punks in it. They were messy and rude and dirty and often times downright foul. But they were hers. And though she wasn’t one for sentimentality- not outwardly- she didn’t second guess the warmth and feeling she held inside for each of them. 

She loved them. 

They gave her a sort of purpose, beyond the one she felt in her soul. This was a purpose of the heart. They’d all come to her when they needed an adult’s presence in their lives- and she’d all too readily stepped in. She wouldn’t say she’d set them straight- not with all of them risking their lives every damn day, sometimes on her order. 

But these were sentiments for another day.

Fallon sniffed and took another swig from her glass, glancing at the basket of cookies over the brim. 

Needles: Does your muse have a strong stomach?

Yes. She was a part of the Spade Triage for decades before defecting. She's seen it all when it comes to gore. And smells.

Insects: Name something your muse finds gross or annoying

Clowns: Does your muse prefer comedy? Or horror?

She hates to have the same opinion as the Ace of Hearts, but here- she does. Most horror novels or plays or other forms of 'entertainment', she views from the lenses of her medical background. And to say she finds most depictions of horror and gore laughable would be a severe understatement.

She's been kicked out of a smaller theatre's production of Dracula for what she called grossly misleading inaccuracies. Apparently, the 'talent' did not appreciate being heckled mid-bite. The whiskey on her breath certainly didn't help things.

She's not allowed back.

Crowds: What does your muse prefer, the action of Downtown Diamonds and the Circle, or the quiet away from it?

Neither.

If she had to chose, Fallon would chose to be cold. For her, it's all about the logistics:

She finds it much easier to bundle on clothing and burn things to keep warm, than to only be able to shed enough clothing to stay cool.

Typically, the cost of fire wood is cheaper than water. Drastically so if she goes out to chop up her own. She doesn't even try to spring for ice.

Spiders: Does your muse squish bugs or put them outside?

The Dark: Did your muse sleep with a mana nightlight as a child?

Snakes: Would your muse ever keep an unusual/exotic pet?

Blood: What’s the worst injury your muse has ever had?

Clowns: Does your muse prefer comedy? Or horror?

Mirrors: What is your muse’s least favorite thing about their appearance?

Tight Space: Does your muse ever feel that they’re not living up to their own potential?

Closet Monsters: What is one thing your muse does that identifies them with their species? Their faction?

Crowds: What does your muse prefer, the action of Downtown Diamonds and the Circle, or the quiet away from it?

Death: What does your muse consider the worst way to die?

Ghosts: Has your muse ever seen something they couldn’t explain?

Needles: Does your muse have a strong stomach?

Curses: Does your muse believe in good/bad luck? How about karma?

Heights: Is your muse a risk-taker?

Solitude: Name 3 things your muse couldn’t live without.

Fire: Would your muse rather be very cold, or very hot?

Failure: Has your muse ever given up on an important dream?

Abandonment: How would your muse win back someone who left them?

The Unknown: Does your muse have a deity they believe in?

Boogeyman:  Name one thing your muse has lost that they wish they could get back.

Falling: What does your muse think about falling in love or commitment?

Change: What was a turning point in your muse’s life?

Disease: What does your muse do on a sick day?

Number 13: Does your muse believe any superstitions?

Noise: Name one sound your muse finds absolutely unbearable.

Insects: Name something your muse finds gross or annoying.

Dolls: Has your muse ever collected something?

Getting Old: Would your muse rather live 50 years loved, or 200 years alone?

Club Faction, Fallon’s Clinic

@kadeu-nora​

“We’ll need to get more cots eventually. We don’t have the room for the numbers we’ve been seeing.”

Fallon nodded, agreeing with her assistant- even if there was a heaviness to the movement. “The worry there is close proximity. If we try to fit anymore people in the main room, we risk more than temperatures rising. We’re already stretched thin, Kaia. We can’t afford an escalation to get out of hand.”

Kaia shook her head in frustration- all but slamming her arms down on the table, and Fallon couldn’t blame her. The rise in temperatures had already seen more patients file into the clinic with heat related injuries and illnesses. The latest incident with the Spades and the water supplies had only made things worse. 

A sourness coated her tongue at the thought, the council meeting from the day before flooding to the front her mind. The sentiments expressed to and around her during the meeting didn’t bother her. Much. It was a lazy and ill-informed  argument that she couldn’t separate herself from her former faction. Borne from a place that craved violence and retribution before all the facts had been discovered. Knee-jerk reactions would get them nowhere and she was happy that the majority of the council- and, more importantly, Mallick- agreed. Still, something didn’t sit right with the healer. 

But now wasn’t the time to sort those thoughts out. Now, she has issues that strike much closer to home. 

With a sigh, Fallon leaned against the worn, wooden chair and lifted a hand to rub her eyes. From where she and the younger healer sat in the kitchen, they could hear the front doors creak open. The hand at Fallon’s eyes dropped and she nodded to Kaia, signaling that this conversation was over and it was time to get back to it, apparently. 

“We’ll make do for now. I’ll take stock at the base tomorrow and see what resources can be diverged.” 

Kaia only nodded, clearly not satisfied but understood that there was nothing else to be done. Not right now, at least. Together they rose from the table and walked out from the kitchen to the converted main room of her home to see who had come in. 

Fallon offered a brief smile at the young woman in the doorway, nodding to Kaia to go start her final rounds with the other patients. She motioned towards an empty cot- it’s former occupant only giving it up a few hours ago- and pulled up a stool next to it.