Life's too short

[Quentin Doyle] It's just another pub, stuck on a street that has plenty to offer. The windows have some stained panels, lead work, that will (hopefully) stay in place longer then a week. Given that this was the Mile and not the Green, it's possible that the amount of trash that walks through the door is limited.

Inside the interior is dark wood, stained recently enough that the smell still permeates the air, mingling with that of freshly drawn beers. Earlier in the evening the kitchen aroma's mingle with it, but the kitchen closed at nine-thirty, not long ago from now. Dark wood lines the floor, the bar, makes the stools and the booths. There are hints of mahogany and navy, with gold in some patterned materials for the booth lining, that dark rich burgundy for the stool chairs and there's a few small armchairs with circular tables in the corners up the back. There's a fireplace opposite the bar, but it's not currently in use. Overhead fans have been whirring quietly, above the hanging lanterns that carry the lead and iron effect. The place is coming together, nicely, fully stocked, and running smooth.

There's a few people at booths, at tables, and those sitting at the bar. People have just finished off late dinner, chasing them down with drinks. Music comes through stereo speakers hidden in easily overlooked locations, nothing loud, some typical modern rock and pub music. It's not crowded in here, but the two bar staff keep busy, and in the kitchen staff are cleaning up for the night to disappear out the back and call it a day.

Quentin, wearing a pair of good jeans and shirt is checking some of the stock behind the bar, crouched down as he takes note of what is flying off the shelves. It's a new business, a new town, with different tastes and culture. The notepad resting on his thigh takes scrawled notes for future reference.

[Henri Bean] Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee got the funk! OoooooOooH gotta have the funk!

*Indeed. Henri Bean had the funk. The terrible, ass shaking, narrow hipped gyrating, finger wiggling, bad moonwalking, worse singing funk. All the way down the sidewalk and into a pub that smelled like stout and stain and lingering spiced deliciousness. The broad wooden door is thrown open like the frizz topped menace owned the place. Etherite falling into the pub with the carefree grace of a girl sure the world would catch her, because she, was Henri Bean. Ether Queen. She was what made the Magnificent mile so damn Magnificent right now. Purple goggles bounce over her eyes as she hop-skip-grooves her way to the bar with a disruptive clatter clanking of her overloaded utility belt. Oversized boots clonk on the wooden stools as she hikes her pants up, shoves her goggles up her face, and snags her earbuds out all in one haphazard motion, before beginning to peer about with electric blue eyes in search something resembling like a menu. Underage? Probably. Weird? Most assuredly.*

[Emily Littleton] Cheshire cat smile. The moon hangs (sickle fat and reaping) in the humid night. She's a scythe; She's a smile; she's a gondola sailing silent overhead. Her light is just strong enough to cast three-faced shadows, which were overrun by the bring signs and false light of the Mile store windows. It's hot, humid, and still. The fine curls around Emily's face have broken out of confinement, feathered, and crowned her darkly.

This pub is just another pub. Just another place with dark wood and rich colors, where the sounds of home (of a sort) filtered through the Continental night a bit more clearly. It's likely that they'll stock familiar brews, or possibly have the Seattle and D.C. match on an overhead screen. It's also possible that there's a comfortable chair there, with her name on it; a good place to curl up and study.

Getting carded still catches her by surprise, even though the co-ed is barely old enough to look legal. She's tall, lithe, and that lends an extra touch of youth to already young features. Emily's wearing a light dress, burgundy in color that falls to her knees and leaves the back of her shoulders bare. There is the glint of silver around her neck, and a small silver oval hands at the nadir of that chain.

She does not clatter or clunk, as Henri does, and the Orphan takes up residence a few stool further down the board. Eyes the Etherite curiously (warily) as she peruses the menu of beers on draft.

"Evening, Henri," she says, at last. Emily's voice is mellow, warm, and touched with a muddled accent. It sounds predominantly British, and very Other.

[Wharil Choc] Wharil liked this place. He liked the dark stained wood of the counter, the navy detailing. He liked the din of people, mostly content as they took a moment between mortgages they couldn't afford and jobs that were slowly killing them. He liked the feel of something solid, something so permanent under his fingers, and yet the smell of something new and transient in the air.

He even liked the sudden and once-familiar dissonorous sound of Henri Bean. A smile crept over his face as he sat at the far end of the bar, watching her come in. Watching her joined by Emily Littleton.

"Bartender?" he finally spoke up. How long had he been sitting there? His dark hair and eyes, jacket and slacks, almost blended perfectly into this setting. The only thing that seemed to stand out now was the crisp white dress shirt he wore. And even so, it was almost as if he wanted it to stand out, and it suddenly did.

"I'll have a stout please. And..." A nod of his head indicated to two just entering. Whatever the ladies are having.

[Quentin Doyle] Andy is a tall lean thing, in a short sleeved dress shirt and slacks, a common uniform for bartenders world over. As he's finished serving one, his gaze flicks to Henri as she comes bounding in and makes herself comfortable. Change is offered back to the man already turning back to his conversation. There is a television on, it's mounted up to the side of the bar, easy to watch from few tables and bar stools alike.

Not long after Emily is taking a seat too. There's menus, laminated long cards that have a long list of available local and imports, the other side a dinner menu with typical pub meals, and though the selection of food is far shorter there's a few dessert dishes to go along with it. The prices here are reasonable, not overly priced. Enough to make a small profit after paying taxes, licenses and the stock itself.

Wharil calls out for him first, and Andy heads that way. "Sorry," this apology comes easily, he hadn't seen the guy sitting there. A stout, he nods and moves to get it, eyebrows raising as he glances over to the two ladies waiting for them to order too.

The man crouched behind the counter, going through the refrigerated glass cabinets, moving a few bottles, had just closed one of the doors and reached for the pen tucked behind his ear. He uses it to scrawl another note, short and to the point before he pushes up from the ground. He has a lot of bulk and strength, but his knees are stiff from holding that weight into a crouch. Sighing, he rubbed a leg, and lets the sounds of the pub swarm over him as he comes out of his thoughts, focusing on the two very different ladies at the bar.

Each of them get a smile. Andy, gets a quick glance over, making sure he's handling the crowd. The other bartender, a woman, was collecting glasses from around the pub.

[Henri Bean] Woi!

*That would be woah, combined with OI, in some strange kiwi amalgam of english. Emily can no doubt hear the wrenlike girl blink, before she's swivelling all too happily on her barstool, drawing her knees up like a gremlin perched on a mushroom cap. A manic grin shot Emily's way as the Bean waves, before she's looking over her shoulder to Wharil. Wharil? Or was it still Wharil? She wasn't sure how she felt about that yet, but if this was some kind of "I'm sorry I killed your bestest friend" overture, and it involved free food, she supposed she could give it a try.

One hand comes to scratch at her head, sending frizz dancing as she considers the menu and crows.*

Hey Wharil!
Key Lime Pie mate! It any good? Why's it called "Key" lime? Innit Just lime pie? Is it cheesecake I hope its cheesecake and a redbull? Its Emily Right? From the university n' goop n' all that bloody clusterfuckery?

OI!

*Someone needed to lay off the redbull, questions rapid fire, topic changes happening at breakneck speed with little to no warning. She's asking questions one minute and wolf whisting at the beef-cake behind the bar the next.*

[Emily Littleton] Emily hasn't noticed Wharil just yet, and as such she's all broad smiles and seemingly effortless good will. She can be warm when she wants to, she wears it like a second skin. Lighter. Buoyed up by something intangible. It was summer, and the heat seeped into her skin, turned it away from the pale winter-white to something sun kissed and richer.

There's a network of thin pink lines over her left upper arm, but they're paling and mostly healed. If Andy catches her deeply blue eyes, the almost playful cant to her smile, it will be easy for him to miss the scoring on her arm. She doesn't move like it hurts, doesn't draw attention to them.

"Newcastle," she says, and the word rolls of her tongue comfortably. Like it's a favorite, a familiar thing. "And a water? Cheers."

Her gaze slides past the barkeep now, over to the darker figure at the end of the bar. Emily's posture shifts when she sees him, and one arm lightly braces her weight against the bar.

"Hey, you," she says, and her voice is touched with recognition. She doesn't use his name, here, just yet. Something about the slippery-ness around Wharil made her wary of that, in public places.

Bean has no such compulsions, which turns Emily's smile further toward a wry smirk. They're a fun mishmash of accents and mannerisms tonight. So Emily, rather than addressing the two separately, "It's good to see you, both."

That warmth stays with her, lingers, even though random meetings of Awakened folk rarely stayed cheerful and warm for long. In this city.

[Quentin Doyle] "Sorry," this comes instantly from Andy, the bartender - a native to the city, "the kitchen closed about twenty ago." There will be no pies for Henri. Emily, gets her order with an easy smile and a longer look, not at the arm but at the drawing quality of her eyes. When orders are complete, Henri getting what it is she decides too, Wharil gets his change placed back in front of him.

Her whistle, Henri's, gets a small quirk of Quentin's mouth. He nods to her with a quick look over her odd attire, before he's turning away again.

The woman comes back behind the bar, starts setting glasses into the washer, there's plenty of clinking glasses. Quentin talks to her over it, quietly still, his voice low and having that distinct mingle of Irish that spent the last few generations in Boston to lilt words. He's telling her something about writing in a book, the same note pad he's slipped somewhere under the bar by the register, out of the way. She agrees, he thanks her, and moves out from behind the bar with a good whiskey in glass, poured over a few blocks of ice.

[Assume staff continue their thing from now -- sliding just to Quentin.]

"Is it too hot in 'ere ladies?" He asks them, casting a glance up to the fans that move above, considering whether he needs to turn it up more. There's air conditioning coming through the ducts too, the ceiling fans are just for looks and help to distribute the cool.

[Wharil Choc] There's a pint of stout set before him. Its with this that Wharil returns the greeting offered by the ladies. He doesn't speak. He doesn't move over to join them either. Unsure of how welcome he might be, or perhaps just content to listen from afar just a little bit longer.

[Emily Littleton] The kitchen's closed, but it's clearly not last call just yet. Emily wraps long fingers around her pint glass, pulls it across the dark-grained board toward her. She doesn't drink, just yet. Condensation is already forming on the straight sides of the glass, it dampens her fingerprints, cools them.

Wharil's quiet, Henri's acting like she might be high -- just another night in Chicago (As the Wheel Turns). The smile stays, then. It brightens her eyes. Elevates. It's been a long while since Emily had a good night out, unspoiled by some vein of local drama. There's no need to go looking for trouble (of that sort) tonight.

"It's perfectly pleasant," she assures Quentin, casting him a glance that follows his, trends up to the fans, and then falls back down to rest on his features for a moment. Her eyes are piercing, keenly intelligent and watchful. His accent tugs on hers, pulls it away from the British and toward his brogue just slightly. If he's got a keen enough ear, he'll hear the reflection (it's not mockery [mimicry] it happens naturally).

One hand lifts her brown, she sips at it and then sets it back down on the board. Emily glances at Henri, at Wharil (who has gone quiet again [prelude to sinking back into the shadows?]).

"It's nice to see a bit of home on the Mile. How long have you been here?" she asks. About him. The establishment. It's a leading question, but a light one that invites conversation. Welcomes it.

[Henri Bean] Bugger it all. Redbull then?

*A twist of thin lips into a pout. No pie equalled suck. Sucking a tooth, Henri doesn't wait for her redbull to arrive before she's hopping off her barstool with a clatter and a shake of her head. Goggles drawn back down over her eyes as it seems Emily and the tender have things to discuss.*

S'fine! S'bloody cold. Not optimal! Bad for a dillo!

*Clunking over to the euthanatos in the corner, she does the only thing that seems appropriate. She prods him hard in the chest with a finger and announces conversationally.*

You're a jerk-ass. You know that mate?

[Quentin Doyle] "Just to be sure," he offers a quick flick of his brows up, almost like a wink but not as sleazy. Quentins mood is comfortable, welcoming, even if the broadness of his chest and the hard, tapered slab of him has been intimidating to most young lads that have walked through this place, made to feel inferior because of a hard earned physique. Women don't get so easily intimidated, almost the opposite happens, in fact.

Having no idea what a dillo is, he watches Henri curiously, lifts a questioning brow to Emily -- thinking that she might have a better clue then he. The mirth is there, in the corner of his eyes as he comes to take a seat at the bar. There's a few stools between them, he doesn't crowd her.

The glass is set on the bar, and the thickness of his forearm lays beside it, fingers loosely wrapped around the top rim. His eyes are green-blue, clear and direct as he looks back over to her. "The place has been opened about a week now," he informs her, "but I've been about a bit longer then that." Tilting his head he considers, mentally calculates. "Just under two months."

"Where abouts are you from, lass?"

[Wharil Choc] He sighs, recoiling from the puny etherites prodding digits. Its a form of relenting. Of surrender.

"Yeah. Yeah, Henri, I know. How've you been though?"

[Emily Littleton] Emily isn't intimidated. She's cautious, and watchful of where he seats himself with relation to her. That's a hard-earned wariness, nothing more. It doesn't pull down the warmth in her eyes, or the affableness with which she carries herself tonight. The girl is plain, not overtly pretty. Curious, perhaps; fascinating in a safer way than Bean over there might be...

Quentin looks past her to Henri. Emily's gaze follows. She winces, visibly, when Henri plants a finger in the middle of Wharil's chest and calls him something unpleasant. Then Emily shakes her head, sending the collection of curls bundled into her ponytail into a lazy arc. Like a pendulum. There's an amused undercurrent to wry grin just now. It says that's just Henri without saying anything at all.

No, Emily does not know what a dillo is. But at least it's not Goopy.

Where abouts are you from, lass? He asks her, and the accent and turn of phrase pull something else into her smile. It's a little like nostalgia, of a happy sort. Not homesickness.

"Oh, here, there and everywhere," she says, her voice taking up a light lilt. She's teasingly vague, but it doesn't seem to be entirely in jest. "I moved around a bit. Spent some time in County Wexford," she says, naming the South Eastern county easily. "But that was many, many moons ago. Yourself?"

The question turns around, easily. Effortlessly.

[Henri Bean] Alright, 'spose. When's Gregor comin back mate? D'ja get the cat dr? What kinda place doesn't serve food all night when they've got a damned kitchen? Want a twizzler? Hows that bed holdin up?

*Twizzler offered, adjacent stool claimed as her own, questions popped off with childish insistence they be answered now. right now. A wide beam nearly cracking delicate features open in its enthusiasm. It had been a long time since she'd spoken to Wharil.. and now he seemed mopey . yulch.*

[Quentin Doyle] Its here that he gives an easy grin, it's somewhat lopsided, quirking more at one side then the other. He has laugh lines around his eyes, they crease with the smile found there. "Boston," he tells her, fully aware of how owning an Irish pub when he's never lived in the country itself could be taken. It could be worse. At least he has strong Irish roots, clearly in the way he pronounces words, the way he also picks up certain sayings or mannerisms and ideals of life. But they don't know each other that well, these are just background colours to an otherwise ordinary pub owner.

Raising the glass from the bar, he turns his gaze from her to some of the others in the place, Henri and Wharil included, before he takes a small sip. Ice clinks back to the bottom of the glass as he lowers it down, sets it back on the bar. He looks back over to her. "Friends of yours?" Henri, Wharil, he indicates without looking over there, an open curiousness as he puzzles out what the three of them have in common.

[Wharil Choc] He frowned slightly at the the first question, but the rapid succession and and subject matter of the subsequent questions seemed to reverse all that. Wharil took a twizzler with a smile, biting off an end before answering.

"I don't know. I don't know when he's coming back. I'm honestly just busy holding out hope that he actually does come back.

"As for the Cat Doctor...Last I heard Nathan and Jon were hunting him down. Then there was de--a bunch of other stuff. He's probably long gone by now.

"And kitchens have staff that have homes with families in 'em. You ever work in a kitchen? I did. In high school. The longer you work the more likely you are to dump rat poison in the soup someone sent back for being too salty. Let 'em close. You're better off."

[Emily Littleton] "Of a sort," is Emily's answer. It's mused more than asserted, and she takes this opportunity to sip at her brown once more. She doesn't seem at all surprised that he's not lived in the Isles, and yet owns an Irish Pub. She's seen far too much to be surprised by that. Plus, he claimed Boston as a home and hearth, which was damn near Ireland, as far as the Continentals went.

"We've run into each other a few times," Emily says. It softens the ambiguity of her first reply. "It's a small City, surprisingly enough."

There's a bit of quiet, here. It slips in around her words as she regards him out of the corner of her eye. Sips at her pint once more. Sets it back down, precisely in the small ring it had left behind when she took it in hand. She's careful about her movements, but they're easy too.

[Quentin Doyle] "Funny 'ow that works, isn't it?" he picks up on where her conversation has left off. A small weight of his arms are resting against the bar, where he's comfortable leaning. Long legs have one foot on the floor, the shoes he wears are leather the sort that slip on, better on Italian men then beef cakes, and the other has the ball of his foot resting on the stools sturdy rung.

Still watching her, he continues with the thought: "No matter how big a city is, the same few draw together, always rubbing shoulders." His mouth quirks again, eyes dance. "Even when they maybe don' want to." He's not specifically talking about them though, this is generalizations he offers.

Rising from his perch, he leaves his drink where it is and steps towards her. A hand is offered out, extended long before he gets there, so she knows his intention. "Quentin, lil' Miss." She's younger, shorter, smaller over all. He didn't mean it in a condescending way.

[Henri Bean] Yeah.. I guess.

*The uncertainty as to gregor coming back has dampened her mood considerably in the space of an instant. Twizzler twirling dismally between her fingers as she huffs and gnaws at one end. Goggles adjusted as she looks at Beefcake and Emily a moment. Lips quirked sideways, before she's puddling off her stool.*

You wanna drink my red bull? ... I'ma go... I dunno. Play with my Dilly, r' somethin'.

[Emily Littleton] [Awareness: Reading for resonance. Just curious.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 3, 5, 6, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Emily Littleton] She's been leaning, lightly, on the bar since he joined her. It disguises, in some ways, the height that she carries. Quentin still dwarfs her by far, but again Emily does not seemed phased by it in the slightest. When he stands, she draws herself up to her full sitting height. There's an almost proud cant to her head (confident [sure]) and a slightly squared carry of her shoulders.

It's an Old World sense of properness and propriety coming forward, and the slight girl carries it with ease. It's carved down deep in her marrow, as surely innate and comfortable as her accent. It marks her as Other, even in company such as this.

She takes his hand. Her fingers are slim, cool from where they've held her glass. Her grip is sure, but not too strong. "Emily," she says, her eyes finding his and holding them for a moment. They're a dark blue, riddled through with flecks of grey. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Quentin."

They don't exchange last names, but they're close enough now that it's a very small reach for her to push out with her other senses, to read for any resonance that comes off the other. It's idle curiousity, but Emily's becoming fairly sure that everyone in this City is somehow more than they seem.

[Wharil Choc] "I'll pass, thanks." He says with no little disgust in his face. Seems he'd rather drink that black stuff in his glass than all natural guarana root, quanine and caffeine. Some people...

[Henri Bean] *A clatter clanking as she mopes out. Leaving both twizzlers and a grease smudge on the bar behind her.*

[Quentin Doyle] His hand engulfs hers, it's strong and firm, well worked. He doesn't pull beers for a living nor does he sit behind a desk. The build of him alone speaks of much harder and physical things. But he shakes her hand casually, gentle for the fine bones in her slender hand. He smiles. Nods slight, just the once. "A pleasure, Emily," he tells her - and it was.


"Do you mind if I join you?" Indicating the closer stool now, asking for an invite not just demanding one. Stepping back already, he's heading for his glass, reaching to pick it up, glancing away to find it only at the last moment.

She finds what she's looking for. It's there, under that polite and almost charming demeanor, that larger stature speaks more along the lines of what's beneath. The core of him is something far more primal, intense, potentially, even, more dangerous. Fierce: powerful, masculine, far more untamed then he appears to be.

[Quentin Doyle] [Adds: Sorcerer!]

Also, though, it's not overwhelmingly strong.

[Emily Littleton] "Not at all," she says. The smile broadens. It welcomes. Warms. "Please..." There's a small flourish of her hand to indicate the stool beside her. It's a simple thing, unfeigned, likely learned in a place far away and not here.

While he's collecting his drink, Emily glances in the direction of (clank-stomp) Etherite's exit. Her brows knits, and her mouth purses momentarily. This expression carries as she looks over to Wharil, who is presumably now sitting alone again at the end of the bar.

The Look lingers there for a moment; the younger mage is clearly trying to ascertain what just transpired. But it fades away before she can be mistaken for rude, or inattentive, by her new drinking companion.

There is something different in the way she looks to Quentin, for a moment. As if there is an echo or some other remembrance that his resonance stirs up for her. It is a fond thing; it aches. She sips at her pint, again, and wills it to pass. Emily is still (keeping quiet is easier than keeping still) for a short period of time. Then it lifts, and she pulls herself back to polite conversation.

"So what brings you to Chicago?" she asks. It is the quintessential question for all wanderers. Why here? Why now? It seeks, without closing in on too fine a point. It offers him any out he might need.

[Quentin Doyle] Drink in hand he nudges his own stool closer to the bar, a habitual motion, before he's closing the distance between them. If he noticed Henri leaving, and he did, he doesn't pay it attention. While this may be his pub, this doesn't make him pander for all his customers. He prefers, in fact, to distance himself from that sort of thing. He can strike up conversations easily enough, but he doesn't see them as customers - at least not until there is strife, and only then does he step in. Indeed, if he had heard Henri complain about the kitchen, he hadn't let on then, either.

Settling back down, he lets himself relax now, comfortable in the way he leans into the bar, slightly turned so that his shoulder isn't blocking Emily off. He sits so that she is included. His gaze follows to Wharil, watching him a moment, drawn back only by the question at hand.

"Business opportunities," he answers Emily easily; truthfully. It's only that, but it's hardly a way to keep a conversation flowing. "Since me cousins business was doin' so well back in Boston, I thought I might make it out on me own, make my own profit instead of workin' for someone else's." That wasn't the only business he had, however.

[Emily Littleton] "How very entrepreneurial of you," she comments, and the word takes on a decidedly French inclination. Some things cannot be helped, like the way her accent shifts and muddies with the echoes of places she has been, lived, known. It's personal, though, and not affected. And this word, however foreign it sounds on her lips, may be approving (may be testing).

She shifts, too, opening her body language to him in a similar fashion. Emily echoes his posture, the openness in it, the approachability. She leans one arm on the bar, but always manages to keep the fingers of her hand near her drink -- it's as if she's idly tracking it, keeping sight of it with one sense or another. This, too, is a learned thing. It will not walk away from her to be refilled or augmented while she is talking to a pleasant stranger.

"I wish you all the best of luck," she says, and it's warm, again. Less seeking. "I know a few people who might enjoy your establishment. If you like, I'll spread the word..." This trails upward into a questioning tone, pairs with a raised eyebrow.

She's keeping track of Wharil, to the best of her ability, but not overtly so. The man slips away from memory like water through a sieve on the best of days. Her eyes, now, seem to be only for Quentin; he draws attention, holds it. The Disciple is harder to follow, with the way these two are turned toward one another as they engage in idle (harmless) banter.

[Quentin Doyle] "Big words, lass," he draws in an exaggerated breath through his teeth and shakes his head, "yer gonna confuse the old man." Clearly he's kidding around. It comes easily, harmlessly to him as flirting - a second nature, typically, of most of those with Irish roots. Carefree, careless even, they have a reputation of being.

Laughing then, comes low in his throat and deep in his chest, its a more rumbling sound then his voice can be and spreads lines across his face again, around the way his mouth smiles and his teeth flash - these are not perfect but well looked after, afforded by the some money that runs the place they're sitting in. The glass is lifted to tip towards her, "That I could appreciate. Would be a shame te go under before it begins, I wouldna be able to rub shoulders with the likes of yaself if that happened."

"And that," he adds, "would be a cryin' shame." His mouth still smiles, smaller now, over the rim of his whiskey glass as he sips from it. Wharil slips into the background again, easily. The woman sitting beside him is far more engaging then the quiet stranger keeping to himself.

[Emily Littleton] "Mmmm." She rolls the thoughtful sound across her vocal chords, it's resonant and warm. "I think we'll run into each other more often than you'd think," she adds, leaving her tone somewhat cryptic and light. The corner of her mouth quirk, wryly. It's an expression she wears well, like a favorite, well-worn and comfortable. She lifts her glass, tips it toward him in a toast, and then that smile's hidden, for a moment, when she sips off her pint again.

Flirting. Is that what this is? Harmlessly, easily, a second nature -- something of a shared kinship (she's not Irish, but the fire's there [Unrelenting]). His teeth flash, her eyes dance: brilliance (grace).

She's slight enough that half a pint puts a softness to her eyes, eases that smile into something a little more genuine. And that's the cue that might give him pause, the softening of that warmth to something more solid, sure. It gives the slightest hint that there is something occulted, hidden, by this outgoing and easy demeanor, by the laughter that lingers in her eyes.

[Quentin Doyle] Such words get him to look at her closer. His brows raise, the look is interested, sharper now. "Will we now? Now tha' gets me attention." Probably not how she meant it, but he's not trying to read and pry below the surface of her, not yet anyway. They're sharing a drink, it's nice and comfortable, and she's good company. A little more refined then plenty of girls running around these days, and that posture, the way she holds herself with warmth to go with that elegance, Emily has certainly caught his eye and holds them.

He doesn't linger on that too long. It would be lewd. He got over that part of his life by the time he hit his twenties. At least that what he tells himself. There's still those moments, rarer now, and usually behind closed doors with a drink too many.

"So wha' is it ye do yerself, Emily?" Quentin doesn't try and guess. He thinks, maybe, student. He doesn't know. Won't offend if he keeps from guessing, and this way lets her talk and open more to him. Its an opportunity.

[Emily Littleton] Ah, see, and this is how it goes. It is a dance, conversation is. (With a Diplomat's daughter, every thing is a dance.) She asks polite questions, urbane ones, simple and easy. They banter. It's nice; it's neat: polite. And then someone steps forward, teases, tests just how far the other will go to follow. His interest is sharper; her smile broadens.

He doesn't linger too long, which buys him points in her esteem. She's young, probably younger than he's guessing. Still early on in the decade of bad ideas and good intentions. And yet this dance is a thing missed, a thing practiced. It's good company, comfortable. She doesn't push too far, just yet.

"I am a student, at Northwestern." She gives up the University easily. There are a handful of schools in the city, so it only makes sense to specify. "I'm starting my graduate program in the fall," she adds, which paints her as slightly older than the average co-ed. She leaves off the field, perhaps out of habit (likely by design). "I work with one of the research groups on campus. I freelance some IT jobs when I've the time."

Which she rarely has, these days. One can't tell that from conversation, though, unless he is particularly adept at noticing how that last bit was almost tacked on. An after thought.

[Wharil Choc] ((Sorry folks, I'm fading fast here. Gonna hit the sack. Thanks for playing!))

[Quentin Doyle] She doesn't tell him what she's studying and he was going to ask, but she continues on and tells him that she works in IT, when she can. He figures she's studying the same field and is happy to leave it at that. But his head shakes softly, mouth pressing down at the corners. "Computers?" Another shake of his head, a lift of his brows and an expression of slight (mock) despair, "I aint no good at those. Every time I hit a button? Somethin' wrong happens. The darn things blow up." His hand lifts here as if to ward it off, then lowers back down to where it's been resting on his thigh. The other is around his glass, forearm laying across the bars counter. "I give up on those."

Nodding in the direction of Andy, the bartender that is wiping down the bench were Wharil has just left. "I leave it to those lot. Better to 'ave someone that knows what they're doing to mess around with files." His attention swings back to her again, the expression in there quieter now, considering. "I like to do it old school, books an' pens. With an unorganized filing system that only I can figure out." His last has her winking at him, jovial.

[Emily Littleton] He's telling her he's no good at computers, and Emily just tips her head into her hand easily and watches him. Now her fingers are not so close to the glass, which still holds a third or more of her pint (warding off the unexpected refill by being just full enough to beg questions [create a polite delay]). Her fingertips slide into the dark curls just behind her temple. She is amused, assumes he's overplaying his aversion to technology.

But for her professed occupation, she's shown little sign of ambient techno-clutter. If she carries a cellphone, it's in her purse and likely set to silent. She doesn't wear so much as a watch. She's not pulled out a PDA or asked if he has wifi or shown any other hint of her engrained geek status.

I like to do it old school... with an unorganized filing system that only I can figure out.

"Ahhh," she says, her mouth broadening into a smile again. Not so wry, not so guarded. There's a twinkle to her eye, when she says: "Yes. The classics. Always a good choice, I say."

"I have my old school moments as well," she confides, though it's likely a secret he's already guessed at. Emily's free hand comes up to idly toy with the thin silver chain at her throat. It's an absent gesture, a thing of comfort. She likely doesn't recognize she's doing it.

[Quentin Doyle] Ironically, he's not overplaying it. But it's easy to think so. He runs a business. His clothes are casual but of good quality. Money equates with technology these days. Everything is done electronically. Hardly anyone walks into a bank to take out money these days, just goes to a hole in the wall or swipes a card across a gadget. A whole business is stored in computers, on files, in little sticks that look like they could be part of some boys block set, slotted in to make some part of a Transformer.

She approves of his classic ways, as she put it, and it makes him smile, content with that. He approves of this too, clearly. The way he's nodding slightly to himself and that smile never seems too far from the surface. "Nothing better then a bit of hard work. Something tactile, if you know wha' I mean?" A glance is tossed her way, the angle of his head is curious, seeking like she had earlier.

While she might not recognize the way she grips that silver chain around her throat, he does. For a brief moment his gaze slides there, watching the way her fingers gently touch and probe, seeking out the sort of chain she wears and any charm that might be attached to the end. But his gaze doesn't shift lower, or if they do it's only brief as he takes in the rest of her, and flows easily back up to watch her face. She may think she's plain, he finds her pleasing and attractive.

[Emily Littleton] It is a charm, a small oval locket. It's engraved with a pattern that's partially worn off. It carries a patina, deep, old. An heirloom, perhaps. It's outdated (a classic) and not the sort of thing that is in fashion, just now. He can take from that what he will (that she is sentimental [that is resonant somehow] it is resonant).

She notices when his gaze trails away, and there is a momentary pause. Her fingers still, then fall away from the chain. There's a faint pinkness to her cheeks, but it fades quickly. Demure. Emily sips from her pint again, finds it a little warmer than expected. She can mark the time they've been chatting by the temperature of her drink.

"I like to build things. That's why I study what I do," she tells him, when he presses her about hard work, about tactile things. "Not just computers," here there is a smirk, in case he was about to turn to teasing her studies again. "Tactile things, mmmm, yes. Immanent things."

It's another big word, and it carries with it a sense of importance. It is more than just a shining example of her vocabulary; it calls to something deeper within her.

"Life's too short to wander through it, hardly touching the things and people near to you," she adds. It's thoughtful, perhaps a little too thoughtful for her years. Her eyes meet his once more, hold them for a moment (Seeking? yes [Relentless? not just now]). Then her smile shifts, softer but guarded. She sips from her pint again, straightens away from the almost lazy lean she had adopted.

[Quentin Doyle] Her flush is sweet. It makes him smile, not fully, but in that quieter and gentler way. He'd be more careful about his wandering eyes now, not that he had meant anything by it.

He's surprised by this, that she likes to build things. Quickly he admonishes himself; it wouldn't be in the way he likes to build things. But for a moment he had looked away, glanced over the pub. There's less people now, still a few as the night wears on, but dinner crowds are gone leaving only the drinking sort. Not drunks, but people also like themselves.

When he looks back to her it's almost abrupt. What he was about to say falls short though, it lets the prepared breath slide through his nose smoothly instead, and the glass raises to his mouth to sip from as he considers her last statement. It's then that he plunges ahead, with a steady certainty - not in knowledge of her answer or reaction, but a decision made.

Glass set down, he asks: "Considerin' that," he says of life being too short, "could I interest you in goin' dancing sometime?" Maybe he's calling her out on this little motto she uses between them, maybe he's just interested in taking her dancing. Despite at what she peeked at beneath him, he is without forceful pressures. A simple question, no more. No expectation.

[Emily Littleton] His query catches her by surprise, and she doesn't entirely cover it in time. So he's privy to that momentarily raised eyebrow, the querying look that broadens into something warmer: pleased (delighted). He plays audience, too, to the lingering shyness that flits across her features. For all that she is practiced at this verbal dance, it doesn't seem to have caught up to her too often.

Perhaps there's a sweetness in that. Emily would call it bittersweet, but that shadow is well kept (well hidden) behind the dark hue of her eyes, the careful corners of her mouth. Just a few days before Israel reminded her that there's no sin in taking time, in celebrating or simply rebuilding. Quentin is new, his time and his conversation is not burdened with the whole of June and the beginning of July's events.

"I would quite like that," she says. The words are a little proper, somewhat controlled, but it's softened, again, by the shape of her accent and the warmth in her eyes. There's a gentleness there, for a moment (only glimpses [kept so close to breast]) that passes quickly into the easy banter between them. "Though I should warn you, I've two left feet."

[Quentin Doyle] The delight he catches, right after the surprise. His drink waits in his hand, arm still resting on the counter quite comfortable in waiting for her answer. She couldn't tell, but beneath that confidence and ease his heart had flickered a little quicker - anticipation of acceptance and rejection both. Many times he may have done this, or few, and as much as it is a mans duty to court a woman, to ask her these things, it really doesn't change that baited breath moment.

But she would quite like that and he smiles, inclining his head to her with his eyes brighter now, a little spark of green-blue fire in his strong featured face. Two left feet has him laugh, softly, but he's quick to dispel her fears. "Tha's alright, love, I'll be sure te make sure you don't trip or twist an ankle." This is meant to be gentlemanly, not to tell her that she's a clumsy oaf. "Besides, I'm na all tha' good myself."

"We'll make the most of it." Her two left feet, his limited dancing skills. "When would suit you best, Emily?" Her name is said deliberately, falling from his tongue with a similar delight that shone in her eyes moments ago.

[Emily Littleton] She was better at this part when she was younger; when she hardly stayed in one place; when wanderlust might snatch her away at any moment. It's harder now that she's got a sense of commitment to the city, some ties that bind. It makes something just aside of her stomach flutter. (There's no sorrow to this [a pleasant surprise]).

"I've a meeting," she says, adding in the evening of the upcoming event at the Chantry. A meeting of Emissaries. All very official business. And yet she says it with ease, and doesn't lend it the weight she might if they knew each other better now. If they knew how closely their paths might mirror one another's. "But other than that, I'm quite free."

Her eyes find his again, hold them. Grey-blue to blue-green. Then she looks down for a moment, thoughtfully. "Why don't I leave you my number and when you're free you can give me a call?" she asks. It's not a dodge, and that's evidenced by what she adds next: "It can be a busy thing, capricious, setting up a new place, like this." She glances around the pub, bringing that setting back into their conversation.

She's saying that she understands his schedule might not be set in stone. It's a reasonable thing, respectful even. The both like to build things, and that takes time, investiture. It's more than blood, sweat and tears. She knows.

[Quentin Doyle] Whiskey is forgotten, his hand slides away from the glass. The ice in it has melted now, turning the liquid in it more watery then its meant to be. Its warm, too, but these aren't the reason he neglects it now. His body turns, the bulk of him shifts on the stool, slow and easily, to shift the foot from the rung to the ground.

Facing her now, he's smiling easily. "I'll tell ya what. How about, you give me yer number an' you take mine," he says to her, "I'm not sure on the good places to dance around 'ere, but it can't be too hard for me to find out over the next day or so, an' if all goes well I'll check in with ye and see if Saturday sounds good for the both of us." This Saturday he means, only a few days away. Never keep a lady waiting, he was always told.

Softer then, reigning back some of that fierceness that had bled into his eyes, the eagerness. "How does that sound? Is tha' alright with you?" Adding then, as an afterthought, aware of that consideration and respect she had offered for his business. "Don't worry about this place," a hand dismisses it, his smile is instant and lingering, "the other lads and lasses can handle it just foine."

[Emily Littleton] He was direct. In the space of a few sentences, I'll leave you my number had turned into the far more tangible if Saturday sounds good... The candor, mingled with the resonance he presents, is a striking thing. Sharp enough to catch her attention (just sharp enough to concern), but the pinprick of wariness is tightly controlled, and she shows no edge of it in her smile or the little dip of her head that momentarily shelters his eyes from the fierceness in his.

"That sounds wonderful," she says, as he assures her the pub will be in good hands. Emily finds it curious that he could, so easily, step away from something he has built and only just released to the world at large. She finds many things about him curious, but it is not quite the time to press after any of them.

The girl reaches into her purse, now. Pulls out a pen (not her phone) and a small notebook (properly boud [no spirals, no perforated pages). She's careful about how she folds the page, tears it out with a neat, straight edge. Her handwriting, a clear and controlled script, spells out her first name and her phone number. It carries a Chicago prefix, but he will not find it listed to an address if he goes searching.

She offers it to him, still smiling. Still warm. Though there is a gentle sort of withdrawal to these actions, for they lead naturally into good evenings and be wells.

"Saturday, then?" she asks, waiting for him to take the slip of paper from her.

[Quentin Doyle] While she tears out the page from her little notebook she fetches from her purse, he watches her in a restrained fascinated manner. Its all in his eyes, that awakened sense of - not urgency-, but almost an eagerness. This talk, the promise of dance on Saturday, has stirred him from the routine slumber of working. He enjoys work, quite thoroughly, it's satisfying, but it's not a dancing date with a pretty girl who has grace enough not to be fawning over him, or drunk enough to be slurring words and giving come hither eyes across the bar.

It's a welcomed change; a better chance. Life is too short, she had said, and he agreed. Now he seeks to slide out of routine in just a few days and enjoy some slice of life himself. He doesn't mean for the intensity to overwhelm her, in fact, he doesn't mean to have this at all. But it's a part of him, locked in his core. Tame the beast, but he can't rid of it.

Taking the piece of paper from her, he looks at the way she writes, so neatly arranged and notes that its a number for Chicago. Nodding once, he looked up at her with a smile. Some of that fire has been chased back, sated for the moment with the promise of more later. "Here, take mine, you write it down." If she agrees, he prattles off his cell phone number, watching the way her hand grips the pen as she writes it down. He doesn't tell her his name again, and while he hadn't exchanged surnames, the pub clearly stated outside: Doyle's Irish Pub. It's not rocket science.

Then: "Saturday," he confirms, again meeting her eyes. "I'll call you te come and pick you up. How's seven-thirty sound?" His eyes are searching hers, flicking between them, soaking in her reactions and memorizing the details of her features.

[Emily Littleton] She holds her pen like one well-accustomed to writing things down. It is a stylus, a tool, neither gripped too firmly (aggressive [untempered]) nor wielded inexpertly (laze [apathy]). She is too careful for that, too particular with the shapes of her letters and numbers. Her sevens are crossed, her ones have a long lead -- they're European numbers, when she writes for her own note-keeping. His slip of paper has numbers far more closely kept the American norm.

He's being watchful, so this may catch his notice. (She plays to her audience [She doesn't let the medium get in the way of her message]). So Emily has his name, given and familial, and he has her given name and local number. She's careful, in a quiet way. If he leaves her a voicemail at some point, he won't learn her surname from that answerphone message either.

"I live a little out of the way," she says. It's phrased so simply, seemingly without evasion, that he might not catch on to the gentle redirection in it. It's respect for his time, or a reasonable understanding that he needn't trek across the city and back again just to fetch her.

"I'll come meet you." The safety in assuring her own transportation, her autonomy. She has her reasons, no doubt, but they're so deeply engrained that it's natural, effortless, to sway the plans away from him picking her up at her flat for a first date.

"Seven thirty sounds good. I'll see you then?" she asks, slipping the strap of her purse over her arm. "I'm looking forward to it, Quentin," she says, shaping his name in her odd accent, smiling as her eyes meet his once more before it's time for her to go.

[Quentin Doyle] "If yer sure," he says, on her meeting him. He's fine with it, really. Understands, even. These issues aren't pushed, but he has no problems driving to the middle of anywhere to pick up a woman for a date. It's something about that classic nature, again.

Raising from his chair just after she tells him she will see him then, he nods to her with a small smile. "Saturday at seven thirty," he confirms. "I'll give you a bell to tell you were yer going tomorrow," or today, depending on the time. Friday. He needs time to do some research and find somewhere decent enough to take her, not too fancy though. He wants to keep this casual and without unnecessary pressures or fanfare.

She's leaving now, he steps towards her, gauges her reaction first. Depending on whether she shrinks away, tenses and throws off no touching signals, he's touching the side of her arm gently and leaning down to leave the lightest kisses to her cheek. Stepping back, immediately after, to give her room. "Can I call ya a cab, love? Shouldn't be walkin' around at this hour." An awareness of the night outside, and even though it's not the worst part of the city, it's still a city filled with plenty of ugliness and danger for a lone woman.

[Emily Littleton] Emily usually has a barrier, a well-defined personal space bubble. It's part propriety and part restraint (and equal measures wariness and worry). She keeps herself separate, pricks with anger when someone assumes their way into that space unwelcomed. This stringency has been lighter, for the past week, since they'd turned back something hateful (vengeful [wrong]) and lifted a shadow from the city. That need to be separate was not so fiercely enforced, just now. So she doesn't incidentally step back when he touches the side of her arm, and she lets the Old World grace and poise take over when he kisses her cheek. He'll find her smiling, softly, when he pulls away.

He doesn't linger. He doesn't assume. For all he hasn't been to the Isles, he has learned something of manners that she does not associate with the States. This keeps her from pushing back when he suggest a cab (I'll be fine [Thank you, I'll manage]). She is not willful, just yet, and that's something of a blessing.

"Ah," a remark, a little surprise, perhaps at the hour. "That's likely for the best. I've probably missed the last train by now," she muses. Emily means the El, light rail; she wasn't simply evading when she said she lived a bit away.

The city was dark, filled with danger and ugliness, but Emily had spent plenty of nights wandering. She would spend plenty more doing the same. Tonight, though, she would take his advice and find herself a more sensible way home.

[Quentin Doyle] Without fuss he pulls out his cell phone from his pocket, a small raise of brows as he notes that there's a missed call labeled on the screen. He'll return that later. For now he dials up a cab for her, which would be there in short order considering that they're in the Mile. "Won't be long," he tells her as he's sliding his phone back into his jean pocket.

Its small talk then, a little banter, perhaps about the pub - he doesn't linger on talk about dance or seeing her home or anything of the sort. Their attention is redirected to easy conversation again, which he does as natural as he breathes, having spent years working the other side of the bar and dealing with all manner of people.

When he spots the cab arriving he walks her out, opens the door for her and does the same with the cab. "You take care," he tells her with a smile, "an' I'll call you tomorrow." This time he doesn't say her name, the way he also says he's calling tomorrow is just loud enough, with the door opened, to let the taxi driver know he's going to check up on her. These things come naturally, too. It's part of what drives that fierce intensity underlying his skin, it comes out in the protective manner in which he escorts her to and into the cab.

As she gets settled, he's telling the driver to, "Take the lady where she wants," and before the woman in the back can protest, Quentin is already handing over ample enough money to cover cost of a decent trip and tip. With a last glance through the back window, he taps the roof of the cab twice and watches it pull from the curb before heading back into the pub.