Tavern at the End of the World


ff_asi_icon.gif elliot2_icon.gif ff_erin_icon.gif ff_glory_icon.gif ff_gracie_icon.gif ff_huruma_icon.gif

ff_leroux2_icon.gif ff_marlowe_icon.gif ff_molly_icon.gif ff_nova_icon.gif richard5_icon.gif

robyn7_icon.gif ff_ryans_icon.gif ff_silas2_icon.gif ff_veronica_icon.gif

Scene Title Tavern at the End of the World
Synopsis In the beginning of all great quests, the party finds the local tavern and meets the locals — familiar faces aren't usually a part of the story, but then, this isn't a usual quest.
Date June 12, 2021

“Quiet here this morning.”

It’s the changing of the guards — or, rather the bartenders — at the little tavern that takes up a corner of the office building at sea level. It was once a brokerage firm, but time and weather have stripped away anything that hints of its former life. Now, it’s dim, lit by strings of Christmas lights and candles. Mismatched bar stools, tables and chairs give the little bar an eclectic feeling, quite like a dive bar back in the old days, and given the power of the building’s owner, this is probably by design rather than necessity.

Behind the bar, the offerings are not as diverse — beer, whiskey, gin, vodka and even wine, but only Pelago-brewed varieties of most of these, made with the help of the agrokinetics. A top shelf holds the holy grail, the bottles of pre-flood alcohol found and traded.

Few can afford those.

“The usual. Some of the boats’ll be coming in soon, and want a spot of something before they sleep,” the older man tells the newcomer. “But quiet’s a good thing. So is boring. It usually means no one’s trying to kill you,” he says over his shoulder with a smile as he steps out from behind the bar, leaving the other man to his shift.

The Salty B

The Pelago

June 12th
7:00 am

It isn’t long before the tide shifts, and despite the ass o’clock hour of the morning, more of the seafarers come through the door, hoping for a bit of something to get them through the day or to put them to sleep. For some it’s coffee; for others it’s whiskey. Neither of them taste as good as they did before the flood. Only some really remember anymore.

One regular is the slim form of the pirate Sawyer, sitting in her usual spot on the far end of the bar, where she can keep one shoulder to the wall, and one eye on the door. With a sip from her mug — which holds coffee rather than whiskey — she finds herself in agreement that quiet and boring are preferable to excitement.

Asi is seated at one of the tables, stifling a deep yawn. The coffee served here is a desperate need this morning, combined with a plate of food made and served from a nearby food stand. She picks at it slowly, each thought of another bite combined with another eye-watering consideration at yawning.

She promised herself to be up earlier today to swing by and see Stef, and seeing the sun rise up over the waves on the way down always brings with it a certain sense of peace. If only she could shake this damnable grogginess. The last time she drank was two days ago, but the aches and bruises from that evening have carried on and given her a slower start. Consolation comes immediately from the bite of fresh egg in her breakfast.

The winnings netted between her victory and Silas' bet would just have to make up for those fading ails.

Nathalie LeRoux is a relatively new face in the Pelago, but in this bar, she's become a familiar staple. She has a favorite stool at the bar— where she currently sits— and a tendency to chain drinks one after another from the moment she walks in. She's a couple in now, despite the hour. No coffee for this one, only something that claims to be whiskey cut with water and ice. One hand wraps around her drink, while her face rests in the other. Her posture gives off the impression that she would be face down on the surface if not for the prop of her own arm holding her up. However, those familiar with Lowe's know that when her shift starts, she'll be on it and alert. Off shift, she's usually right here.

She glances up when the voices cut in, and she looks over at Veronica and the new bartender, lifting her glass in a gesture that's probably meant as a greeting. And probably meant to be friendly.

It doesn't quite hit the mark, but it's the thought that counts.

Ignoring everyone but the bottle of whiskey set in front of her, Poppy Norwood guzzles down the dark liquor and frowns while staring into the wall. Whatever has brought her to the tavern tonight has less to do with me wanting company and more to do with drowning herself. Another long sip and the young woman places her head on her arms, sniffing softly.

At the entrance of the establishment slips in a woman wearing a long hooded coat. Strawberry blonde hair peeks out and bright blue eyes take in the scene. Repairs would take a while for her skiff so drinking was the next best thing, it had been a while since Molly had visited with the natives of the Pelago.

Throwing her hood back while making a beeline for the bar, the young woman's gaze wanders from face to face as she moves, cataloging. She's found five faces by the time she's made her way to the bar. Five more after ordering a shot of tequila and a beer. The last three she clocks before slamming the shot back and sliding the glass back towards the bartender. It was the exact vibe she was looking for. Now to get piss drunk and sleep until the mechanics are done.

Elliot is exhausted, carried here by the press of morning foot traffic more than intent. The combination of stormy seas and existential terror have kept him awake all night, and tonight and all others moving forward don’t look hopeful either. It was easy enough to find the place, and it seems as good a place as any to find faces, rumors, and income in this world.

He keeps his hood up, unable to shake the worry that somebody, anybody, might recognise him. That people here might know. But it has to happen, he can’t be invisible here despite his greatest wish. He doesn’t have to do the curious any favors though. He makes his way to the bar and takes a seat, drums his fingers on the bartop softly. Wonders what the hell he has to offer in lieu of barter with all his worldly possessions having fallen into a black hole.

Falling close behind Elliot, Robyn Roux also has the hood of her Oasis hoodie up, causing long black hair to more acutely frame a tired face marked with her long scar and lines under her eyes. She's kept her head down most of the walk here, wary of any one who may recognise her as her otherworldly self - the knowledge that "Roux" is still alive weighs heavy on her, but not enough to yet keep her from venturing out into the storm and the towns.

Plus it's more interesting than spending her first day in a new world at the Yeah Buoy!.

A hand runs down her face as she sighs and finds herself a spot next to Elliot. "You think we could offer our hoodies for whiskey with the rain out? Cause that sounds rather nice right now," she offers to him. She's only half serious. Half.

"I don't drink," is Elliot's terse response to Robyn. With his hood up it seems like it would be hard to start cataloging faces, but he's been doing this for years. Incidental looks in the right direction, in the neighborhood of whoever he's gathering details on.

Boring or dead. Neither of those properties are present when who else but Marlowe Terrell walks through the door to the Salty B. A large brimmed, black musketeer styled hat with a plume of waterfowl feathers decorating the band on one side swings this way and that as she scans the bar occupants and steps through the threshold unaccompanied.

"Oi, Masutaa," she calls over the heads of every patron to the younger bartender, "it's real quiet in here for three hours after the fish market opened already. Did the captains come back with a bad catch or what?" With the bar as occupied as it is now, Marlowe doesn't find herself a stool but leans between the centermost patrons, Elliot with Robyn to her left and Nathalie, Poppy, and Molly to her right. While the weary (and wary) travelers get a long up-and-down, up-close inspection from the Syndicate leader, it's to their fortune that the woman spots other familiar faces too, seated at a bit more distance away. Veronica and Asi both get a short smile and up-nod of greetings before Marlowe's attention circles back around to the bartender.

"Next round's on me, yeah?" Someone's in a good mood, apparently, or purposefully ignoring the atmosphere and occupying the space in spite of it.

The unfamiliar, skulking figures who enter the tavern give Asi cause to pause in eating her breakfast, eyes drifting to follow them over to the bar. She slowly reaches for her coffee and likewise takes a prolonged sip of it.

By then, royalty has entered the building.

"Ohayou 'zaimasu," Asi greets lazily. She turns her head halfway to the door in an indicative motion. "Saying storms today, 'Lowe. Think a lot of folks are planning to stay in." Her voice, to those that know another Asi, sound… wrong. Informal, with inflections distinctly American in her tone and vocabulary. Well, not wrong, just different, but—

"Sounds like it's going to be a slow one," she sighs, tines of the fork scraping against her teeth with her next bite.

The click of hard heeled boots on hard floors heralds the arrival of the next patron to the bar to trickle in with the flow of sailors, passengers, early risers, and night owls. A lean woman enters the bar, wearing a pair of sunglasses with dark green lenses and a light wash, fraying and buttoned-up denim jacket that hangs low, leaving about six inches between its hem and the tops of her faux leather over-the-knee boots. It’s worn over… Well, something more than the torn and laddering black nylons, probably. She’d be unremarkable, if not for the fact that she carries a bottle of warm amber colored liquid by its neck, holding it up over her head while giving it a shake and crowing, “From the still in the Sill, bitches!”

The bottle is thunked down on the bar heavily and a cheeky grin is given to the bartender. “That should settle my current tab and give me credit to spare now!” But she’s not here to cut in line, she can wait her turn. Besides, she seems indecisive as she squints at the line-up behind the bar, as if assessing what’s available. Either she’s not a regular, or she’s been in another port of late. Given the proclamation of liquor brought in from elsewhere, that seems probable. Looking around, the woman, tall and redheaded, finds what she’s looking for: Victims. “Hoods!” she calls out, pointing a finger in Robyn and Elliot’s direction. “What am I drinking?” she calls ahead of her approach, perching her sunglasses atop her head.

Well. Elliot was looking for a Rumor.

Weather like this made it a time where the Pelagos’ defenders could relax. Just a little. So it is no surprise as sailors, wearing the familiar necklaces of the Cerberus crew, start trickling into the bar. Most give Sawyer a wide berth, eyeing her with distrust and some with malice. No doubt having lost friends during skirmishes with the infamous pirates ships.

One starts to open his mouth to offer the woman a snarky comment, only to be nudged by his crew mate. A nod of the head to the door alerts him to the arrival of the Captain of the Cerberus, Benjamin Ryans. Looking far older than his prime counterpart, he looks his part with his long coat beaded with rain and a beanie pulled down over thinning gray hair.

He gives his men a smile as he passes with a confident stride. His ability allowed him to show no weakness before not only his former(?) nemesis, but Lowe as well.

“Captain Sawyer,” Ben offers a polite - if a bit tense - greeting. The owner of the establishment gets a warmer greeting, “Miss Marlowe,” before leaning on the bar and calling for coffee.

When a woman who registers as either extremely ostentatious, extremely in charge, or both rolls into the pub, Robyn can't help but let her gaze follow the woman's path for a few moments. She only knows the Marlowe Terrell of her world by reputation, through bits gleaned from friends who work at or have work dealings with Yamagato. Still, the announcement of the next round being on her perks Robyn up noticeably. "Oh, thank bloody God," she murmurs as she sits up a bit straighter.

It's a strange sensation, looking around the room and seeing Ben Ryans talking to someone she knows as a co-worker in Veronica Sawyer is surreal enough, but then a new voice joins the cacophony, and Robyn once more lowers her head and sighs. "Oh my god," she whispers. "What did I do to deserve this? Is she obnoxious in every timeline?"

This, not knowing that the Rue she knows and Elliot are dating. Oops. She means it with more affection than she lets on, but it's not easy to pick up.

But she can't ignore that they've been called out. That'll just bring more attention to them and she's not ready for that yet. "Chartreuse," she offers without looking over at Rue, in the most Irish accent she can manage.

Poppy isn't paying attention and her bottle is soon spilling over on herself and it starts to spread on the bar and she's crying and trying to wipe all the liquid up with a balled up hoodie in her lap. "Fuck." She hisses through the tears and looks to the barkeep with wide eyes before a towel is passed to her. "I'll trade for another bottle. You know Mad Eve's good for it." At the mention of her captain the young blonde bows her head and shakes it, tears falling into her lap.

The other young woman leaning against the bar but further down takes a bigger sip of her beer. This place was a shitshow. Exactly the sort of energy Molly could get lost in. Names.

Names with faces were power and the patrons of this tavern were throwing out names and matching them to faces like pin the tail on the donkey. Molly takes note of each one she can. The trio of captains to her side draw her gaze though and she tilts her head.

"Seems like an emotional start to the day." She frowns slightly in Poppy's direction.

Erin Gordon has also appeared, layers of mismatched flannel pulled tightly against the wind, a bluish one’s collar pulled up underneath the top one, a classic red that you’d see on any huntsman, woodsman, or lesbian. In her pocket, she’s got new spices to try and distribute - a rare but welcome respite in this world where things no longer grow so easily.

She finds Silas and plunks down a small vial, glass and old, perhaps once a kind of organic supermarket vanilla extract from the before times, repurposed over and over until the dark-tinted glass has chipped in places to reveal dried, leafy innards.

“Here you go. Oregano. I don’t know if you need it or not, but I saw this one was ready this morning so I took some off of the rafters for you.”

A brunette woman seated by one of the fogged-up windows overlooking the storm-lashed Pelago rises from her seat and zips up the neckline of her jumpsuit. She’d been here since before the influx of travelers arrived, but the increased noise and patronage seems to be enough to drive her out like a wild animal around too much noise. She grabs a fur-trimmed leather jacket off of the back of her chair and throws it on over her jumpsuit, then picks up her heavy backpack and hangs it over one shoulder. The regulars know her as “Glory,” a mainland salvager primarily dealing in untainted soil deliveries for the Pelago gardens.

Glory briskly walks to the bar, reaching into her pack as she does, and retrieves a burlap-cloth bound bundle of soil with a tall shoot of green growing out of it. A plastic zip tie keeping the bundle closed has “Green Onion” written on it in faded marker. She sets it down as payment for her earlier meal, giving a purposeful look to the staff, before sliding around Robyn to get to the door, gently touching her shoulder to indicate her proximity as she does.

Glory pauses on moving past Robyn, looking back over her shoulder to look at Elliot. There’s a moment of brow-furrowed inspection, then she looks away and shakes her head to dismiss whatever notion was there. Instead, Glory quietly makes her way to the exit.

The clack of footsteps is his first clue that this world's Rue is here, known by Elliot’s comfortable familiarity with the sounds that are uniquely hers. The voice is next, and though he's expecting it he still can't help but feel a pang of regret. That this isn't somebody he loves, regardless of his Rue's joke about what counts as infidelity when accounting for interdimensional doppelgangers.

He plays up the fact that he's exhausted, and doesn't look her way or appear to have heard her. Robyn's disparaging comment is logged away for later. Eyes otherwise continue their lazy stroll around the periphery. He catches the leaving woman’s curiosity, but doesn’t react to it, he’ll need to keep an eye out for her going forward.

The suggestion of chartreuse has the redhead giving a big, exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Okay, first of all, fuck you.” One finger points at the hooded figure of Robyn that she’s not really looking at all that hard, because she clearly doesn’t give a shit who she’s asking for drink suggestions. She’s just asking. Demanding, really. That index then moves on to Elliot. “What you got, Hood Number Two?”

If the swearing and the impromptu nicknames don’t just continue to ring all the right (wrong?) bells with Elliot, well… No one said this mission was going to be easy.

If Ben’s look to the sailor isn’t enough to cut off the comment, the lift of Sawyer’s brow and the RBF were probably enough on their own merit. She turns at the greeting, and gives a curt nod to the older man. “Lots of new faces,” she tells the other captain. “Think it’s that Alaskan kid’s new crew.”

Never let it be said that Nova Van Dalen doesn’t have superb timing, because ‘that Alaskan kid’ steps through the door next, with an armful of something large and heavy wrapped in old newspaper. Wide blue eyes scan the crowd as she makes her way toward the bar, but it’s Marlowe she turns to address rather than the bartender. She’s new around these parts, but she’s well aware that this is Queen Lowe’s domain.

“Twenty pounds of salmon to cover the visitors’ expenses,” she tells the woman; her words are accented in fading Dutch. “The Yeah, Buoy! Group,” she tells the bartender in softer tones, lest everyone in the bar decides to claim to be under the auspice of ‘visitor.’ The bundle thuds lightly when set down — it’s been in cold storage on the boat that traveled from what may as well be the other end of the world. That deposited, she leans against the bar, happy to be rid of the cold and heavy burden she’s lugged from her little yacht.

A rough laugh escapes Robyn at Rue, smirking as she looks down at the bar. "Yeah, that sounds about right." She's more amused than anything else. "She gives good as she gets here too." At least in terms of barbs. The touch on her shoulder earns a turn of her head and a glare that seems harsher than it's meant to be - she's a bit jumpy, and maybe she really shouldn't be.

But then Nova comes in and announces that she has twenty god damn pounds of fish to barter for them. She sits up straight, looking over at Elliot, and then to Nova. "I knew there was more than fuckin' mac an' cheese on that boat." Keeping up the Irish accent after her barb feels weird, but here we are. She leans forward a bit, looking over towards Marlowe. "An' how far does that cover in terms a' expenses, anyway?"

For Not Rue’s benefit Elliot merely pulls up the sleeve of his hoodie to check the hour on a watch that isn’t there, and suggests only loud enough for her to hear, “Coffee?” He turns his head back to the bar, looking at all the various boot-legger adjacent options available on the sill. Since apparently he’s had his expenses covered, he requests a coffee for himself from the bartender. He has an eye on the food as well, but doesn’t trust his stomach yet.

“Well, you also suck and are approximately zero fun,” Gracie proclaims with a finger in the air, followed by a tap to Elliot’s shoulder. Then she turns away from him to meander into the crowd. Thank you, next.

Pulling his mug of coffee to him, Ryans shifts a look towards the arriving Nova and finally notices other familiar faces with a grunt of acknowledgement. He sips at the bitter brew while watching the exchange between Nova and Marlowe. A heavy sigh leaves his nose as he faces forward on his chair, a hand rubbing at his knee which aches with the dreary weather.

“The older I get, the younger these new captains look,” Ben grouses under his breath. “She looks no older than my boy.” Much like the petite Destiny.

The crew that files in after their captain are tailed by a shadow, Huruma's presence an apparent constant; she is impossible to mistake, of course, to any that know her- - in this world or the next. Huruma brushes past the retreat of Glory on her way inside, a brief look given to the other woman in passing. Inside, the empath's gaze is quick to travel to unfamiliar sights and sounds, some more silent than the rest, sensed only by her sixth.

"Terribly long way to drag some fish, too." Huruma mutters to herself with significant amusement as she joins Ryans at the bar. A smile flashes, more tooth than anything. "That is usually how aging works. Besides… I don't know that we have the room to fuss."

Leaning against the bar brings her arm along the countertop; the weight of a hand has been replaced by the heavier sound of metal and wood. The First Mate's coat sleeves are pinned at the elbows, her off-hand ending in the curve of slender, sharp-tipped metal fingers.

Before the oregano placed before Silas can be snatched up by its intended owner, Asi whisks the dark bottle up to look at it. "Maji?" she wonders to herself quietly, peering through the chip in the dark-wrapped bottle before gently placing it back down on the table. "Wow," she voices, impressed. "You guys are working on some amazing things out there. Really."

The pronouncement across the room regarding the large procurement of salmon likewise draws a note of curiosity. "Maji?" Asi mutters to herself again, this time in disbelief with a furrowed brow.

“No, not a wise man,” Erin says, completely transposing Asi’s comment for the word magi, “just a plant scientist. What can I say? Someone’s got to grow the leafy greens around here or we’re all going to die of scurvy. Not,” she adds after a beat, “that dried herbs count as greens.”

A yawn as punctuation to the tiredness of her form, in this bustling but somehow sleepy room, but not before the pronouncement of salmon fills the air. “Oi, I probably have some dill for that somewhere on my boat.”

Elliot can't help but translate Local Asi's Japanese using Home Asi's Japanese, and chuckles quietly at Erin's misunderstanding. He meets Asi's eyes for a moment before turning toward Erin. "You grow vegetables?" he asks, "Anything interesting? I was led to believe there'd be nothing to eat here but watery boxed mac and cheese, were they pulling my leg?"

"Oh, did you miss all the fish?" Looking over at Elliot - and perhaps for the first time in view of Asi - Robyn can't help but muster an amused smile. "Twenty pounds of salmon! Plenty more where that came from t'boot." Shaking her head but trying not to let her somewhat forced grin fade, Robyn turns back to the bartender and leans forward. "Whiskey, if y'got it. Maybe a coffee t'mix it with." This is certainly one way to start her day, but after yesterday a stiff drink is the least of her needs.

A man sits, still and silent, across from Asi. He's wearing a well-worn Panama hat and an equally well-worn duster, and is slumped over in the fashion of one who's lived a very long night; he seems content to ignore just about everything in favor of staring at a bowl of some sort of bland porridge in front of him, very occasionally eating a bite of it before going back to staring (or perhaps catnapping; the brim of that hat does a fine job of hiding his eyes). He starts to move when Erin places her bottle of oregano on the table, but Asi intercepts like the true companion she is, sparing Silas the need to human just yet; nevertheless, his head rises a bit to study the bottle of spice, nodding and making an appreciative noise low in his throat. Slowly his hand reaches out to his glass, taking a sip of water —

— and then that. Watery mac and cheese? WATERY?

Slowly Silas straightens, fixing the stranger with a gray-eyed regard. "Watery mac and cheese?" he echoes slowly. "And what misbegotten vagrant leechspawn might've told you such a vile lie as that?" he asks evenly.

"Snickers," Asi balks, long and slow as she regards him out of the corner of her eye. "You can't disparage strangers their lack of knowledge regarding the local cuisine." Her eyes are half-lidded in an attempt to disguise her mirth with him, her arms folding across her chest as she leans toward him.

Never mind that if he weren't here she'd be just as mad in his defense.

Reports of stormy weather cause Marlowe's initial optimism to dampen in a brief and thoughtful frown and a glance toward the windows of the Salty B where the gloomy skies of morning bear no sign of clearing. She makes many mental notes for later, then masks it over with a few hummed bars of a 1933 classic as she pushes up off the bar to make room. Really, though, it's an excuse to roam. A double tap of the bar top beside Nathalie's glass is for the bartender to send one more drink for the Syndicate security guard. Marlowe appears unworried about the sobriety of the younger woman, indeed, any of the women currently present at the bar.

Whether or not it's the weather bringing in more occupants to the tavern, Marlowe gauges newcomers with a casual pause, lean, and sharpish look at each face. "Captain," Marlowe's reply back to the head of the Cerberus is short and amiable, one of respect for a compatriot. "You just missed the round call," her next words tease the older seaman. The tab that the Syndicate leader runs up has its limits, even.

Speaking of missed rounds, the spill of liquor and Poppy's scramble to sop up the mess gets Marlowe's attention. She watches, then her eyes flash a golden color as she reaches for Poppy's liquor-logged towel, grasping the end of it with her fingers. Sparks of blue-white energy fly and crackle, popping around the brown liquid lifts away from the towel's fibers and pour in a wobbly arc right back into Poppy's glass. "No crying over spilled whiskey," she tells the weepy woman as her eyes darken back to their normal brown. "After all, what would Eve think?" Those same fingers, however, push the glass closer to Poppy. The Syndicate leader gives her expectant look. Drink up.

The look breaks away to the trade materials hauled in by the young captain of the Yeah, Buoy! boat. Near instantly, Marlowe's mood shifts to a brighter smile and interest turns to Nova and the fishy haul. "Is that Pacific salmon? You've got yourself a week's dock with that ration. Might've fetched something more had your new crew hawked it earlier this morning at market, though. Or maybe more if you want to get that together with the green thumbs, make a nice ready to cook kit." She didn't miss Erin's remarks, either. But ah, Elliot mentions a more tantalizing offering, especially with Silas' focus on it. "Now, really, where have you all gone and found somewhere that's still got pasta and dairy? That's some luxury eats."

“You all ate well enough before climbing aboard my boat,” Nova says with a smirk in Robyn and Elliot’s direction. “I needed to save the good stuff for this,” she explains, gesturing to Marlowe, who makes it clear the King salmon will be rewarded.

“Don’t be too excited. It was just the blue box — Kraft Dinner?” she says, nose wrinkling a little in distaste. “It wasn’t watery, but it wasn’t good, either. We’ll do some fishing and get some fresh fish while we’re here, but there are other things to manage. If you want some of the Kraft Dinner, we can surely arrange something.”

It’s hard to tell if Nova thinks that’s a possibility or if she’s being ironic.

The young boat captain’s blue-eyed gaze alights on Ryans and Sawyer, then over to Asi and Silas. A small flicker of something like recognition passes over her features, but she returns her attention to the bar. “Coffee, please,” she tells the young man there, who nods and turns to pour her a cup. Once that’s done, she moves to the nearest bar stool, setting her beside Nathalie LeRoux.

“Morning,” she tells the other young woman, flashing a cheerful smile as she lifts the mug of coffee to her lips.

The flash of light, the floating of whiskey through the air, growling about mac and cheese, talk of luxury feasts - things that attract the eye and the ear. Just the moment for a shadow to slip into the room without drawing too much notice, even if Richard's not a literal shadow at the moment.

All around me are familiar faces… worn out places, worn out faces…

The song's haunting beginnings echo around in the man's head as he steps to one side of the door and leans back there against the wall to take the place in; arms folding over his chest, drawing the battered old bomber jacket more fully around himself for warmth, sunglasses worn even indoors speckled with raindrops from the outdoors. He doesn't immediately move over to those he knows and arrived with, his attention instead drawn to others that he knows so well— even if the faces don't belong to the same people he knew. Taking in possible allies, or enemies one at a time and trying to remember snippets that Elisabeth may have told him. That's Marlowe. Vee. Ryans. Huruma— with Ryans, of course. Si—

Bright and early for the daily races… going nowhere, going nowhere…

"Silas?" The ejection of the name escaping Richard's lips before he even thinks of it, eyes widening behind darks lenses and expression one of complete shock.

"No one said anythin' about dairy," Robyn notes as she turns in her chair to look towards the growing Kraft conversation. Asi and Silas don't register recognition for her, but as her eyes follow Nova, she lands on Nathalie LeRoux and feels her heart leap up into her throat. Eyes widen momentarily, and she's quick to turn back so she faces towards the bar, hands placed flat on the table.

There's a risk of a spiral - despite knowing, academically, that this Nat has no idea who she is nor should Robyn care - but it's the sound of Richard's voice that pulls her to something more concrete. "Richard?" Well, there's only one of him, so she knows it's the one that came with her. Curious, she turns to face him and whoever Silas is. Her hood slips back as she rises from her stool, sliding up next to him as she places a hand on his shoulder. "Richard," she whispers in her normal accent. "You okay?"

Her eyes follow his to Silas, revealing to him a familiar face save for her dark hair and the long scar down her face.

"I wasn't disparagin' him, just whoever told him such awful things about the food," Silas says, eyes flickering back to Asi, and it's not hard to see the smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. "We gotta make this place sound good, after all, and they come bearing fuckin' watery mac and cheese is more likely to make people close ports than want to trade. A pinch of oregano, on the other hand, could go a long way," he says, giving Erin a grin that's only slightly bleary.

From there, though, his gaze roams around the room a bit. Queen Lowe's here; that's good. He'd been meaning to catch up with her. Her help had gone a long way in setting up the first trip to Japan for success; if he wants to make more trips, then her backing will be key.

Then he hears a voice call his name.

The voice of someone who isn't from here.

He looks up, and the expression on his face is one of shock, the blood draining from his face. He pushes back his chair and stands without being aware of it, his gaze still locked on the familiar face of Richard Cardinal.

The woman at his side catches his gaze, and Silas's expression resolves into something heavy, because he knows that face, though not the woman wearing it. "Richard," he says, his voice carefully controlled. "First off. How's your sister and the rest of the crew? Secondly… what are you doing here," he asks flatly, eyes focused unblinkingly on Richard. "Is Lis with you? Aurora?" he asks… but his control of his voice doesn't quite extend to his hands — they're clenched into fists, hard enough that the knuckles are white.

Elliot glances at Robyn as though he doesn't understand why she would have taken his comment seriously. His eyes widen in bemused alarm when Silas begins coming undone at the seams over the question to Erin. He's prevented from replying when the captains get involved, eyes widening further, then mouth opening wordlessly. With Richard's surprise reunion, the moment for clarification is past.

"That was a joke," he says quietly. Apparently too tired to read the room, he turns back to the bar to find the cup of coffee he requested. He returns one hand to his hoodie pocket and keeps the other on the coffee, tasting nothing.

In the midst of trading well-meaning teases, Asi's well-aware of the moment Silas' mood shifts. Her head turns, eyes flecked with green glinting in the string lighting of the tavern. Silas pales where Asi hardens, coming to her feet with a foot slid forward in a more aggressive posture, even if it's meant in someone else's defense.

Richard is a cipher, but the woman wearing Robyn's face isn't. She gets the feeling something is out of place right until Silas starts naming the travelers who came before— Travelers with a capital T. Oh. Oh no. That out of placeness clicks now.

"Not again," Asi laughs suddenly, her head tilting back in disbelief at the scene. "Not…"

She trails off, looking back to Silas at her side. Her voice hardens as she advises him, "Just walk away, Silas," forgoing nicknames entirely. She holds his look for only a moment before she turns and takes her own advice in the hopes he'll see sense and follow, heading straight for the door with no mind paid to the food and drink she's leaving behind.

With all the new faces coming in, Nathalie sinks further and further into her drink. Usually the bar isn't so… much this early and she's starting to regret not just drinking alone in her room. No one goes there, which is perfect for her. She's just contemplating leaving when Nova takes up the spot next to her.

"Morning? Is it?" She looks to her glass, then over to Nova again. "Too early for this, then." And yet, she's still drinking it. "You bring all these people in?" She glances over her shoulder, looking at the group with a raised eyebrow. Two years into her life on the surface and she's still not quite used to new faces. Not quite trusting of new faces.

New faces mean trouble.

Marlowe’s denial of a round doesn't upset the old man, it only serves to deepen the creases at the corners of Captain Ryans’ mouth in a smile. “Booze I have plenty, but this…” he holds up the mug, “This is a luxury I will happily pay for. Though you might buy poor Shepard a drink.” The poor pilot was having to ration fuel which meant the amount of time he was grounded was getting longer.

Huruma gets a smile as well, but before Ryans can say anything else, he hears names mentioned that he’d not heard in sometime. If he heard them alone, it wouldn't have caught his attention.

When Asi speaks up and confirms suspicion, his foot comes off the rung of his barstool so that Ben can lean out enough to get a good look at this 'Richard.’ Michelle’s lost boy.

“…maybe better’n I thought,” is Richard’s muttered commentary back to Robyn before stepping forward, shaking his head, “They’re— fine, they’re all fine, and fuck no, I wouldn’t let them leave home, not like this. I— it’s complicated, but— “

His hands wave vaguely to indicate the man. “How are you alive, my sister said that Eve got you killed on that fucking boat?! I mean— I’m glad to see you, I’m glad you’re alive, but what the fuck happened?”

The one-two of Silas's question and Asi's reaction results in a narrowing of Robyn's eyes. Her gaze follows Asi as she starts towards the door, but is brought back to the situation in front of her by Richard's comment. "Well, I guess the cat's out of the bag. Impressed we made it a whole two hours." Or however long since they'd woken up this morning. The mention of Eve earns a predictable scoff from her, shaking her head.

"So wait," she offers, a hand moving to her hip. "You're from… uh. I don't have a word for this. I should've studied up better." Her lips thin, eyes shifting over to Richard, and then back to Elliot. "I need more whiskey for this."

The young blonde nods weakly at Marlowe's greeting and attempts to cheer her up, Poppy puts on a fake smile that doesn't quite reach her brown eyes and dips her head. "She'd said I was wasting some good spirits and would inherit bad karma." Now that the whiskey is back where it belongs, Poppy sends it where it truly belongs, in her belly.

Silas is there and Poppy tries to catch his eye, a meaningful look there. When she misses him the short haired woman grabs the bottle and slogs over with a slight uneven gait. "Silas-"

He's busy with friends. Not faces she's familiar with but one of them is saying something truly awful, "She would never do that! Silas is like her son you sick fuck!" Poppy looks from Silas to Richard and then to Robyn, eyes still red with tears, clutching the neck of that bottle like it's her lifeline. "What is wrong with people? As if she's not… not…"

Molly Walker watches from afar with a slight eyebrow raised.

Nova leans away from the bar to address Asi when the woman makes her way past the bar. “私たちは友達です,” she says softly, knowing the use of the other language will make her words cut through the other noises of the bar. For her efforts, all she receives is a glance back and a scoff. She turns back to Nathalie and lifts her shoulders in a nonjudgmental sort of shrug for whether it’s too early or not to have a whiskey at dawn.

“If you’re ending your night, rather than beginning your day, who’s to say?” she asks, lifting her coffee for another sip. “Those three, and three others,” she tells Nathalie, with a nod toward Elliot, Richard, and Robyn. Her gaze moves from one barfly to the next, creasing at the obvious tension in some places, grief in others. She seems content to stay quiet at that, though she does look back to Nathalie, maybe for her reaction to the exchanges occurring around them.

Sawyer’s whiskey-brown gaze finds Richard as Ryans says his name, and she watches him speak to Silas. She turns to quirk a brow at Ben, as if inviting him to explain — she doesn’t know everyone in the Pelago, as many give her a wide berth and she has her own aloof tendencies. “Welcome or not?” she asks in a quiet voice meant for Ryans and Huruma.

Erin, having left her fresh oregano on the table in front of Silas, senses there is some history happening between people who have a beef (or a fish, ba-dum tssssh) and heads straight to the bar wherein she orders coffee, cream and sugar, please and thank you.

Silas sees Asi's departure, and a part of him wants very much to take her advice… but he doesn't. Instead, he listens to Richard's questions, standing silent and studying him; Poppy's arrival sees his head turn, but he frowns at her interjection, trying to figure out what to say. "It's… not our Eve he's talking about, Poppy," he says quietly, mustering a tired smile for his old shipmate before turning his gaze back to Richard. "She did, after a fashion; as far as everyone on your side of things knew, I set out to sea with her and never returned. But I've died before. Didn't stick that time, either, though this trip was a nearer thing than Sunspot," he says with a grimace.

Silas falls silent for a moment. "You said your sister told you, though. That's good. I looked for signs or traces of the others; never found any on this side. I'd hoped they made it back home, but…"

He exhales. "But what are you doing here, Richard?" He sighs, rubbing at his head. "You fell out of the fuckin' sky, didn't you. Jesus Christ," he mutters under his breath.

Richard brings one shoulder up in a shrug, giving Robyn an apologetic look. “Sunspot,” he tells her, as if that explains everything. Which it should, to those who know about it. To everyone else, it’s probably gibberish.

The interjection by Poppy is left to be handled by Silas, and then he’s giving the man a rueful look, one hand coming up to rub against his jawline. “Believe it or not, we’re here on purpose this time,” he admits, “Just passing through on our way to the mainland. We got somewhere to go, and someone to talk to. Work’s never finished, after all, and we can only rest when we’re done.”

It only takes Asi's adverse reaction for Huruma to take solid notice of events; Ryans' interest and the speaking of names that most of them have put aside do the rest, and from there the empath is fixed on Silas and Richard, briefly toward Asi as she slips away.

The situation that arises with Poppy isn't something she wants to remedy after the fact, and regardless of the details Huruma's ability reaches out to silently corral the young woman's mood to avoid the potential for an outburst.

"Welcome. I think." Huruma's gaze narrows before her head tips towards Sawyer with a hushed amendment. "I've nothing on context though."

"Plenty of fish in the sea. Spaghetti and meatballs, not so much," Marlowe says with a mild shrug, casting a renewed glance over Robyn and Elliot because of what Nova tells them. Alright then. Keep your secrets, the Syndicate leader's expression implies. And speaking of secrets. As Richard arrives and sparks further reactions, she motions for a drink of her own (coffee and a splash of whiskey), watching the awkwardly unfolding reunion happening around the mystery man. Sip. "So, friends. How long are you looking to be staying?" Her question aims to the Yeah, Buoy's captain, Nova, holding the young woman responsible for her claimed crewmates. "Storms get pretty strong around this time."

The young captain when Marlowe addresses her and flashes a bright smile at their hostess. “Not so long, I don’t think. We need to gather some supplies, and meet with a few folk before we go, but we’re headed west to the mainland. What is the John Wayne movie — Westward Ho? Is that a thing that Americans say?” Nova asks, looking around to see if anyone wants to own up to saying the phrase.

“If there are those of you who want to head that way to resettle in Anchor, we could arrange to travel together. Safety in numbers, diversity of abilities, better selections for road-trip soundtracks,” she chatters. “I’ve listened to the same eleven CDs you don’t want to know how many times coming over from Alaska, and one of them is the Disney Princess Ultimate Song Collection.

With Richard having inadvertently diffused any tension brought on by his poorly-received joke, Elliot stays only long enough to finish drinking his coffee. He then thanks the bartender quietly and stands, letting his hood fall low before slipping between the distracted clientele and heading for the exit. There’s somebody he needs to accidentally run into somewhere in these halls.

Silas regards Richard impassively. "'Business'," he echoes, staring hard at the other man; it's the blandest, most generically vague non-answer possible. Silas stares for a moment longer, then shakes his head. "You came here for business."

When Marlowe steps into the conversation, though, Silas glances her way… then sighs, seeming to deflate. His shock at seeing someone from what might as well have been a previous life is starting to wear off, a whole complicated mess of emotions bubbling up to take its place. "I just… dammit. Lis walked through the circles of Hell to get back to you; I was only here for the last one, and that was bad enough! A lot of people died, opening the way," he says, his voice heavy and pained.

Then he sighs, looking away. "But you already know all that," he sighs quietly. "Look at me, preachin' to the damn choir," he says tiredly, giving Richard a rueful grin. "Well. Hope your business is important… and I sure as hell hope you've got a way back up your sleeve, because the only one I know of got blown to smithereens last time."

Abruptly, it gets to be too much. "I need some fresh air," he mutters. He scoops up the bottle of oregano, offering nods to Erin and Poppy before stepping away and heading for the exit, leaving his own (admittedly much less expensive) breakfast abandoned beside Asi's…

…and pauses, looking back. Not at Richard, but at Robyn. "You'd not have made it much longer in any case — Quinn, is it?" Silas asks — how can he not remember the name that had started Magnes's asinine rant? "Your… counterpart, I guess… lives around these parts. The Siren of the Empire Sea, they used to call her. Nadira can probably point you in her direction. Or Else, if you can find her," he says off-handedly, then takes his leave.

"I know." It's a flat toned response from Robyn as she watches Silas with a mixture of curiosity and frustration. Her nose bunches when he calls her Quinn unprompted - she certainly doesn't know Silas, but he seems to be familiar with her, and with that name of all things. "Not—" she's about to correct him when he drops two familiar names. One that would rise a chuckle out of her, and another that stops that chuckle dead in her throat.

Instead she stares wide eyed at him as he walks away. Any complaint, any commentary, drains from her as a hand shakes at her side, the slightest hint of light rising under her skin ever so subtly brightening the air around her. Her mouth feels dry, the rest of the room ceasing to exist around her as she silently turns back to the bar and sit down. "Two whiskies," she corrects, though she holds up three fingers. "Richard…" her voice is low as she turns back to him, trying to hide a well of emotion. "Sit down. Let's not… you know."

She certainly doesn't.

Captain Ben remains quiet a bit longer, just sipping his coffee and watching the room, before answering Sawyer. “Welcome or not is irrelevant,” he glances aside at both women, last of which is Huruma. He snaps fingers and one of his Hounds shows up at his elbow.

“Captain?” She asks, glancing a touch nervously at Sawyer out of the corner of her eye, while trying not to look the former pirate in the eye. Huruma can feel fear radiating off the Hound.

“Hey,” Ben rumbles softly, to ensure the woman is looking at him. “Go back and let Jac and Ben know to post extra watches. Keep an eye out for anything unusual. Then I want Jac to keep ears open for the same when she goes wandering.” The small Hound nods and takes off on her task, while Ryans goes back to quietly watching these new folks. The last time travellers showed up people died, including his wife. He wasn’t going to take any chances.

Nathalie looks back over the faces, listening to the back and forth when it looks like things might get heated. She watches Silas for a long moment and finds herself not drunk enough to miss putting two and two together. She pulls some cash out of her pocket to drop it on the bar. Paid by Marlowe, paid back to Marlowe. If in a roundabout way.

"Should be careful with these ones," she says to Nova. "Last time their people came through, they didn't leave anything behind them. Nothing but destruction." She gives the captain a nod, then makes her own way out of the bar. She's got a bottle she can drink somewhere quieter. Somewhere alone.

Veronica’s stoic expression changes little as she watches the goings on, but she nods at Ben’s words. “I’ll have some of ours do the same. That one’s fixing to go back to Alaska, sounds like she’s selling the mainland as a viable option for those wanting to dry out a bit.”

There’s the slightest edge of wistfulness in her tone, but nothing shows on her face as she lifts her mug for another swallow of black coffee.

On the other end of the bar, Nova smiles at Nathalie’s warning, and lifts her shoulders. “I’m just the tour guide. We’re not here long, though, and hopefully we’ll leave your Pelago as we found it. We’re not here to make trouble.” She turns to look at her charges, such as they are, and her smirk tips sideways. That they’re all already in plenty of trouble goes unsaid. It’s not her message to give.

Richard draws in a slow breath at Silas’s flicker of anger that he came here, but he doesn’t refute it; a nod, grimacing slightly as he does so. “I know,” he says simply, “I know, and… it really is that important. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t that serious, Silas, you know that—”

Then the correction from Robyn cuts him off, and with a rueful glance he says, “— we’ll talk later in private.” But the other man’s leaving already.

The accusations of destruction have him turning towards the source, but the sight of Nathalie - even as she’s stepping out - leaves him struck dumb in the moment, eyes widening behind his darkened glasses as he stares after her.

Robyn is silent for a long moment as she stares down at the bar in front of her, not thinking to comment back in response to Nathalie or… much of anything else around her. "Fuck," she suddenly breathes out, and in a burst of movement she's up off her stool, leaving behind the alcohol she had asked for without a second thought.

Instead she rushes to the door, practically throwing it open as she yells out into the outside. "Hey!" she yells, the last thing heard from her as the door closes behind her.

Marlowe looks genuinely surprised by Nova's cheery offer to add to the caravan of travelers on a trip to Alaska. "All the way to Anchor, huh? I don't doubt you'd find a few more willing hands. But, it's a lot of mouths to keep fed," considers the Syndicate leader. Her smile twists with a wryness. "Question is, how many are going to want to be part of your world." Yes, she went right there with the light jab.

Silas little rant with Richard earns a longer look - particularly Richard, who Marlowe lingers upon appreciatively - then the dance ends and she leans back against the bar. "Two rounds. For the Princess, Sawyer, and the Hounds. Send me the bill tonight," she tells the bartender as she reaches to adjust her hat. The Syndicate leader tips the brim to the ship captains, an acknowledgment and farewell as she makes her way out on the way to further morning activities.

Now that it seems the show’s over, Gracie drains the last of the small cup of coffee she’d been drinking (don’t tell Elliot) and sets it on the bar. Curious, her gaze roams over the two captains nearest her. Arguably, they have some of the most power on the council, given the size of their commands. That look lingers on Sawyer a little longer than it did with Ryans, but surely the redhead isn’t the first to be captivated by those eyes. One more quick sweep has her turning to the tables and the cheese that stands alone.

Pushing off from the bar, Gracie saunters over and rests a hand on Richard’s arm, gentle as a feather. “Don’t worry yourself too much, stranger,” she offers in soft assurance. “We lost a lot with the destruction of the…” That’s left to trail off. The Ark. The fleets. There’s a lot that they lost. “Don’t let it get to you.”

Fingertips trail down and she offers up a guileless smile, small, but undiminished for it. “If you need an ear… Ask for Gracie.” She doesn’t wait for a response before turning and heading for the exit. Humming to herself, one hand lifts in as close to a farewell as Richard’s going to get. If he wants more from her, well, she’s essentially left her calling card.

Nova grins as Marlowe makes her pun and buys her next round, quite pleased at the turn of events, it seems.

"Just let your heart decide," she says back, lifting her coffee cup in a toast. "Proost."

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