Act 1, Scene 2: Divers Alarums [Another Kind of Poetry]

Cahaill Ward


Cahaill sips his drink greatfully. Rum, of course. It's always rum. The music changes, a bluesy slide-guitar coming up, and the crowd roars appreciation; it's something of a Sin-Eater anthem. Cahaill grimaces slightly as he swallows the rum, and smiles. He does enjoy good party from time to time....


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UkvlRQ3Ce_U
 
Jack introduced himself, taking an unconscious step backwards as he did so. "Mahieu. Jack Mahieu." He rested his hand onto Theo's shoulder, and waited his own introduction, giving a slight nod as he did so.


Obviously, Theo's name would carry them!
 
To Theo and Jack


The muscular bouncer (and what else could he be? He's practically the personification of his profession) will consult his clipboard briefly before nodding ever so slightly. "Everything seems in order." Is that a slightly disappointed tone? "Welcome to Revelry," he'll finally add before drawing back the curtain and revealing...


...an underground nightclub, naked exposed brickwork and stone illuminated sharply with green neon light, the beat-beat-beating of the music and the thrill of the dance. There's a spot open at the bar, too.
 
Jack gave a sharp whistle, since he had already started to slip away, back towards Theo.


"Promised Grieves a drink."


He slid across the room to the bar, tossing a quick smile to those around him, and leaned over it to wave down the barkeep. "Whiskey. Uh..." He raised an eyebrow. --maybe whiskey was an American drink. Didn't Brits always drink scotch on TV? And the Irish...that's always beer and stuff, right? "Like, Tennessee Whiskey?"
 
To Jack


The barman's dark skin will catch the neon light with a glimmering shine that seems to climb his face, losing itself in the short, tight curls of his hair. A Sin-Eater, unsurprisingly. "Not sure about Tennessee, but we've got Power's, Bushmills, Black Bush, Tullamore Dew, Jameson, Paddy's and Midleton is any of those take your fancy."
 
Jack ran a hand through his hair as he listened to Grieves' disappointment at the selection. Even if the ghost was made up of several people or something, his tastes remained relatively American--Jack wondered if being the host had anything to do that. "Jameson, if you please. A little ice--"


He held up his finger, signifying just how little. "He ain't gonna like it, straight. Gotta match?" He pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket and tucked it in his lips, grinning at the man as he awaited his light.


"I just pulled into town. Looking forward to doin' some hunting of my own when I set up shop."
 
To Jack


With surprising dexterity, he'll pour a glass with his right hand and striking a single long match with his left. "Thankfully, the smoking ban doesn't apply down here, it's unlikely the gardaí are going to take a midnight jaunt into the city's flood drains."
 
"I figured." He nodded his thanks and took a careful portion of whiskey, closing his eyes as he did so. Wasn't entirely a fan of the stuff. "So, what's goin' on down here? Just a buncha Bound?"
 
To Jack


The barman will shrug and, apparently for the look of the thing, begins to polish a glass with a particularly clean cloth. "The Adhocracy of Prophets likes to throw this sort of thing every so often, helps keeps the community... "together"." He'll make exclamation marks in the air with his fingers. "And, of course, Marty's managed to nail down a couple of alliances just recently that he's a bit proud of. Can't say I complain, means we get to keep the flood drain without things crawling in... so, actually, no, it's not just a bunch of Bound tonight."


He'll pull a pint for some pushy customer and a coke for a meek girl at the corner before continuing. "These Teaparty guys are more of an emphasis on the party and less on the tea, thankfully - unless it's Long Island."
 
"Mmm," Jack nodded in agreement, although he wasn't really sure what he was nodding his head for, sipping his drink again. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back to usher it down his throat, then peeked at the barman again, a bit embarrassed.


"Ah, so...this Prophets thing. Anything I should know about?"
 
To Jack


"Ah, thought you were a new face." He thrusts out a large hand. "Greg Black-Maynard, Revelry's best barman. Revelry's only barman, as a matter of fact."
 
Liam


"Yes, thank you, sir," he replies, adding the latter on a little belatedly. This man, this "Marty" despite all appearances of having just this second managed to find his way back from Woodstock, has an air of...doom about him. It's almost an authoritative air, someone comfortable in their power, and yet that self-same feeling was uncomfortable to be in the presence of.


And he sat there and grinned in his bandanna and lilac t-shirt, and you knew he was high, and just as quickly Liam was shaking himself and pushing any ill-feeling aside.
 
To Liam and Cahaill


The man (presumably a waiter of some sort, perhaps?) who named himself Christopher returns to the table, leading an elegantly dressed young lady to the table with a dignified air more suited to some Victorian dramatisation than an underground and undoubtedly illegal bar.


On the other hand, she has dressed as if expecting exactly this sort of treatment. She's a striking figure, dressed in a very stern and modestly-cut brown dress which nevertheless cannot help but flatter her figure, clinging to her frame tightly from the way she is buttoned right up the chin, to the hint of lace at her wrists, to the sensible and extremely well-polished boots with just a hint of a high heel, nothing too unseemly. Her red hair is tied back in a sharp bun, but some stray curls have been left to escape in a pleasing cascade.


Marty will unfold himself from his seat, rising awkwardly but Christopher has already pulled her seat out before she daintily sits herself down. "Thank you, Christopher," she'll say with a warm smile; her voice is soft and rich, like honey.


"Yeah, thanks Chris," Marty adds snidely as the waiter bows - actually bows - and walks away to attend another table. Remembering the two of you, he collects himself with barely a social tumble. "My friends, this is Beatrice."


"-Ms. Beatrice Shine, Martin, please, we've been over this."


"Uh, right. This is Cahaill, and this is Liam."


"Charmed, I'm sure." She'll extend a small, gloved hand outwards.
 
To Jack


"O-ho?" His tone is still chummy, but his eyes narrow perceptibly, shrewdly - and the glass gets an extra vigorous polish all of a sudden. "What are you investigating, if I may be so bold as to ask?"
 
"Oh, hahah..." He gave a quick grin, and tapped his forehead in a mock salute. "Car Insurance. After fatal crashes. It's gotten easier, since...well. Yeah, hahah."


He drummed his fingers against the bar to try and lighten the suddenly tight mood. "So, how'd you die?"
 
To Jack


He'll shrug. "Car accident," he'll say as if that says it all, and in a way it sort of does. "Not a nice way to go but I got over it."


"As per the Adhocracy, to answer your earlier question - we're a secret organisation devoted solely to taking over the world one miserable soul at the time by utilising dark forces best left untouched. But shhh...don't tell anyone..."
 
To Jack


"Nahh, I'm just kidding ya. The Adhocracy is simply dedicated to having a good time, it's hard enough to come by these days! So we do our utmost to change that." He shrugs again, seeming fond of the simple gesture.
 
"W--works for me!" He neatly polished off the glass, forgetting all pretenses of how much he disliked the drink, then tossed his butt into it. The sizzle was satisfying, in an odd way.


He fidgeted about with the sleeve of his jacket for a few seconds while he seemed to compose himself, and perhaps an obvious struggle with his Geist as he resisted the urge to suddenly attack someone for being so caught off-guard by a simple joke. Simple little emotions flaring to incredible heights, the result of his little piggy-back friend. He calmed himself down after just a heartbeat or two, and grinned up at the barman.


"So, anything you wanna tell me about the nightlife up top?" He gestured upwards, but it stood to reason he meant in the city around them. "I feel horrible not doin' my duties."
 
To Jack


Greg the barman will shrug, yet again. For just a fraction of a second, it seems there are tiny little silver stripes draped across his shoulders.


"If you're talking about what I think you're talking about, there's not much I can say. I don't get involved with a lot of the goody-two-shoes, you know? Limerick's fairly blood-soaked, though, if that's your thing you shouldn't have any trouble finding stuff. I know one or two spots have been showing a little more activity of late but things have been quiet. Lately," and for just a sec his face will show distaste, "we've had to worry about other things. Like feeding times."
 
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