Brady hadn't touched his drink. He'd ordered an hatcher piss in an old mug and had been staring into it for the better part of an hour. He was sitting by the fire and staring out of the windows. Quiet melancholy was etched on his face. He looked more haggard than usual, and the circles under his eyes seemed more like bruises than shadows tonight. A worn notebook was on the table but it was unopened.

Tonight the words weren't really coming as easily as they usually did. Every time Brady tried to think of something, he came back with a big fat ugly blank. What was he supposed to write?

Julie Owens, loving mother and wife, never did a bad thing in her whole life. Or maybe he could write about the expression on his father's face when he found out.

But all in all, what it came down to wasn't lack of subjects to write about. The desire to write seemed to have fled entirely. He didn't even know why he'd taken his old book out. There was no reason. Brady pushed his drink gently across the table and scratched his prickly chin.

Sometimes people died. He knew this. But it never seemed to get any easier.

The was That Man again; the last one in the place, the Last one to Leave when all the other drinkers had the good sense to get a good nights rest for the next day's trial. There was always That Man, even if his name and face and story always changed. The Lone and Late Drinker. Many times, Gannon hadn't the heart to close the place before He left, even if he was done with all the closing work of cleaning and general tidying up. The fire's occationsal pop was the only sound.

Gannon sighed heavily as he watched the guy in the back. He didn't know him, or why he was staring at that blank page with such blank eyes. The man looked every inch factory worker and something other than the corner of Gannon's mouth gave a small twist.

Slowly, Gannon reached under the bar and pulled out a dusky amber bottle. It was half-empty and dust coated it's shoulders but it had a twin up in his room.

The big barkee's steps were thudding against the wood as he trod to the back. He hardly wanted to sneak up on the man, and he gave him plenty of time to look up and glare him off.

Brady looked up when he heard the steps and smiled tiredly. "Am I keepin' you up? I can go." But it was raining outside, and he really didn't want to get up. The fire was dying down, and there really wasn't another soul in the bar. Brady hardly seemed aware of any of that. He caught sight of the bartender's cup.

"Oh, I've still got some... Er...all of it in fact... didn't really feel like a drinkin' night."

The older man's smile seemed encouraging enough.

Gannon pulled out a chair and plopped himself down heavily. He wiggled down to make himself comfortable on the flat wood and fished out another chair with the toe of his boot to stack his feet on with slow and individual thuds. Gannon sighed. He leaned back languidly and popped his back, letting loose a satisfied hum. Then, quite gently, he uncorked the amber bottle and took a long swig, savoring the taste a moment before it burned pleasingly down his throat.

"Yer fine," Gannon drawled at long last. "I ent doen' nothen' right now, an' they say th' lonesome drinken' ent healthy." The barkeep took another swig.

"Might I ask about th' book?" he inquired carefully, trying to keep his husky baritone light. He hoped the man didn't find him nosey, but conversations start somewhere.

Fion was Tired. Her bones felt heavy. Her eyes were stones. She felt sore and bruised and confused. She slept like stone and morning came all too quickly, she hated it. She didn't want to hasten it. Fion needed a drink, some space from work and home and looking after Ivan. She didn't have the energy to feel anything or think, even to wonder about those shifting personal boundaries about her safety.

Someone could have pulled a knife on her and she might have felt relieved. At least it would have been a decision that was out of her hands entirely.

She contemplated going to the B&B but she didn't want Ginny to see her looking like hell and she didn't want to walk into more Resistance work. She missed Stu. The Clockwork Stag was slightly closer. She didn't know if it was any good and she didn't care.

Even with her coat, she was damp. She took it off once she was inside, letting her hair out from the hood and running her hand through. It was frizzing a little, fitting with her frazzled expression. She looked around, trying to spot someone at the bar.

"Anybody work here?" She asked the room, pressing the heel of her palm into her eyes, one after the other. Her voice was dull like an old knife and about as rusty.

"Guess I woulda been fine since I wasn't doin' much of it. Th'names Brady Owens. Sorry I'm here so late." Brady said with a sigh. Gannon's next question would have usually made his mouth run on endlessly, but today it just made him sad. "Poems. I'm a poet, when I'm not breakin' my back in the factories.... A lousy one, at that. If you can read you can take a look...but I'm not much one for spellin'. Fair warning."

He picked up his glass to take the first sip of the night, but was interrupted as the door opened. Customers? So late? Maybe he wasn't the only one feeling down. The woman looked as tired as he'd ever seen them. She looked a little like he felt...as if she was wearing his emotions on her skin, instead of carrying them inside of her head.

"You look like you could use a drink." He didn't mean it in a mean way. Brady was just a straightforward person. He considered offering her his. He wasn't likely to drink it anyway... That's probably too forward. I don't really know her anyway... Brady sighed.

"The bar looks like it's closed, but you can take mine if you like. It just don't feel like much of a drinkin' night t'me right now." Even though he was smiling benignly, he still looked rather morose. It wasn't uncommon to see humans carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders, but it looked like Owens was feeling its weight more than usual tonight.

"Nice meeten' ya', Owens," Gannon rumbled back, nodding. "I'm Gannon...Oranos." He was no trouble, really, though he didn't say so. Gannon hadn't had a real good dinking session since...day before yesterday. He was well overdue.

At Brady's response to his inquiry, Gannon's brows raised. A writing sort, eh? And a poet, no less. "Can't say as I've run into many of those types 'round here," he admitted with a lopsided grin. And he could, in fact, read. Not well by any stretch, but he was certainly competent. Gannon figured it'd be rude not to read a couple poems, since he offered and all. And though Gannon was no literary connoisseur, he did find the work a bit impressive. Stumbling though a letter to his family back in the Farmlands was a trial enough, much less making words sound good together and occasionally rhyme.

"Looks like good stuff." He laid the book back on the table. "An' I thought you looked like a factory worker--you look it." Gannon took another drink. "I'm damn lucky I got outa' there when I did, thanks t' this--" he gestured to the room about them with a small wave, then holding the hand towards the firelight to show the slatted scars that criss-crossed his palm and fingers.

The sound of the door and Fion's call made Gannon stop mid-swig. Who th' hell..? Another at this late hour? The big barkeep twisted his head around and caught sight of a weary-looking and rain-soaked human woman. Brady's call back made the big man grin slyly up to his eye-patch. "Fancy 'er, eh?" he teased quietly.

"Sure do, Miss," he replied, mustering up a bit of enthusiasm for another worn-out soul. Looking back at Brady, he set his own bottle down and murmured a short, "'Scuse me," and walked back behind the bar. "What'll y' take?" Before she replied he reached into a cabinet behind him and pulled out a must wool blanket and, setting it down, pushed it towards her.

"A beer'd be nice." Fion said, letting her coat hang over the nearest stool. "Whatever's going, I'm not fussy."

Fion observed the blanket for a long moment, thoughts blank and sluggish, before realising it was meant for her. She lifted it up and wrapped it around herself. She would have thought twice but she was cold and feeling complacent.

"Thanks." She coughed, raising her hand to her mouth.

She hated the weather. Always wet and musty. Her house began to smell like damp rot and there would be repairs to be made on the roof and the floor once the weather was done. It would be just another expense and it wasn't like she was earning the same tips in the bad weather. She was forgetting something.

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" Fion asked Brady, shaking her head. He had but she couldn't remember what it was. She felt like the sum of her experience was leaking from her ears and now she didn't know anything.

Gannon nodded at her request and began fishing around for that warming Hessean stuff he knew he had. But that cough brought his attention back to Fion. She was a sopping sight, she was; shivering and saturated to the bone. Her sluggish reactions and shivering form looked like a fever on the rise. He hoped he wouldn't have to call for a doctor. "Miss, why don'tcha' go sit by th' fire an' I'll git this to ya' in a tick." he suggested, jutting his chin towards the blaze. "Yer turnin' blue." Even though it was a jest, Gannon's unyielding features made it come out a deadpanned statement.

He did wonder what she was doing out in such dismal weather so late. It wasn't often he had multiple customers at this hour, even if bar's didn't exactly "close" in Vienda. She didn't look the promiscuous sort, nor did she strike him as a factory worker (though she was practically in the Soots).

Brady chuckled and shook his head at Gannon. "Bit too young for me, I think." He said quietly. Wasn't it bad enough his parents were always trying to set him up? ...Oh. His parents. His mood went down again and he pushed the clay mug on the table idly.

"I said you looked like you could use a drink." Brady repeated kindly. "Care to join me?" The fire's nice and warm and you look tired." He nudged one of the other chair's at his table with his foot. Maybe company would cheer him up.

Fion normally would have had something pithy to say about all the care that was being taken for her. She was cold though and she did feel like she was turning blue. The fire was warm, warm colours and warm heat. She followed the counsel she had been given. Despite wearing a coat, her dress had gotten wet from the rain at the bottom and was sticking to her legs. She wanted to at least dry her coat out a little before trying to get home. Fion needed to switch to her oilskin, it was old but it would be better than what she had.

"Hm." Fion nodded in Gannon's direction and sat down, across from Brady. The fire was to her back, a solid presence despite being incorporeal. It was like being held.

"Yes, I could use a drink." Fion replied, untying her hair and running her hand through it. Easing out the tangles with her fingers. "Several would be better."

She leant back to look at the ceiling, rubbing her neck and wondering if she could break it if she slipped off the chair. Fion remembered that she was a parent. She resolved not to slip off the chair, even if it felt like a very attractive option.

Gannon poured the beer in a New and brought it and the bottle to the table, sitting back down in his chair with a sigh. He pushed the drink in Fion's direction and allowed silence to stretch on for a moment as he took long pull from his own bottle. Bastian whisky, and damn good stuff too. It'd cost him a pretty penny, but it was certainly worth the nostalgic burn through his broad chest. Tonight was certainly a good night for nostalgia.

"You two look a sight," he rumbled quietly, leaning back in his chair. "Damn dreary weather," he continued.

Ah, but wasn't it fitting? Gannon had lived no more than eight years in the city but I already seemed as though the tone was gradually darkening as the temperature dropped and the tensions rose. Between the wick riot, the bans and the tightening of the galdori's fist, conflict was truly coming to a head. And Gannon was certainly one of those who believed that only brutal conflict would come. He snorted. "Damn dreary city."

"I usually do well enough." Brady said meekly, leaning back in his chair with a heavy sigh. "It's been a long week. My friend Larry got laid off , and me dam jest passed away today. It's things like that what put a man in the wrong state o'mind." It was bizarre, to think that he'd return home and that his mother really wouldn't be there. The concept couldn't quite fit inside his head. He almost didn't believe it had happened, except he'd taken the day off at work to go dig her a grave himself, and he still had the dirt from the cemetery on his shoes. Until he could afford a headstone he'd found a nice big rock to mark the place where she lay so that he wouldn't forget.

Brady rubbed his face to bring life back into it. "I feel like I can't go home just yet." Although Owens was usually cheerful, he sounded as old as he looked right now. His father was still around but for how much longer? It was common knowledge that men didn't last too long after their women were gone... And then he'd be alone. Life seemed to have passed him by while he wasn't looking, and he'd wasted it writing silly rhymes.

Fion nodded, her head only managing to tip a little forward and slip a little back. Gannon spoke the truth, her current disposition was much the same. Fion frowned as Brady said his piece, turning her eyes from the window back towards him. The turn was ponderous.

"To your mother." She said, raising her glass with one hand.

She felt as though she was going to drop it, though she didn't. Her hand seemed stuck in the air, then to her relief obliged her by lowering itself slowly. She took a sip of it. It tasted terrible, mainly because she didn't like beer. Sometimes it tasted better when she felt ready to drop. Seemed it wasn't one of those nights.

"May her next life be a good one." Fion added, hoping there was some comfort in the blessing.

Moments like these reminded Gannon of his fortune. He'd never known his own parents, but he'd certainly had plenty of those he called family. Between Floretta and his Aunt Pertha, he'd certainly known a mother. And even if his own family were under harder times these days, they were, too, still fortunate.

It was the Stag. This tavern had been his saving grace and over the past two years it'd sent his family much more money than he ever had working in the mills. And as Fion raised her mug to Brady's passed mother, Gannon easily found himself joining her, murmuring a soft "Aye," before drinking a long swig of the Bastian alcohol. It felt good down in his stomach and was beginning to make him a little fuzzy around the edges.

"Hell," he growled after a moments pause, "ent no secret. Factory's'a cruelest thinga' golly invented. Th' smoke an' fog don't help those already ill none, neither." Slowly, he shook his head as he stared off at the fire. "It'll have t' come someday."

Brady stared at his cup for a lengthy amount of time and finally raised it and took a drink. He hoped there was a next life, even though he didn't give himself the luxury of believing it. The alcohol burned on its way down, and he could have sworn he swallowed a piece of clay.

"Thanks for that." He said to Fion quietly, meeting her eyes with his washed out grey ones. He looked at Gannon as he smoke and let out a slow sigh.

"Well I'm usually not one t'bite the hand that feeds, but the factories en't no picnic." It took a lot out of him to admit that. He usually tried to ignore the situation he was in. Live from day to day.

But where had that gotten him?

"Fuck all, I'm old." Brady said with a low laugh. "I swear I'm ready t'kick the bucket myself some days."

Fion listened as Brady spoke, remembering the last time she had been down to the factories and how the more she saw of them the more she wished she could forget they existed. They were the erse end of the world, consuming the best humanity had to offer and producing cheap textiles in return. Fion was glad she had avoided the maw.

"You're not that old, surely." Fion said, reaching over to pat Brady's arm, hoping that she sounded sincere.

Brady was older for a human but he looked like he had some good years left. Fion wondered how she looked. She hadn't taken a peek at the mirror in a while. It made her sad, to see that the person she remembered herself as had gained lines and black circles under her eyes that seemed to get bigger and bigger. It was far too easy to be critical.

"I've avoided the factories." Fion admitted, not wanting to imply she'd lived the same hardships as other humans. "I work in a golly bar."

Fion took another sip of her beer.

"I used to think everyone had a right to walk the same earth," she said, "but now I think some of those bastards could drop dead right in front of me and I wouldn't give a shit."

Felt good and bad to say it. She was learning to hate in her old age. She wondered how she'd held it off so long before.

"An' another drink t' that, too," Gannon added, his growl a bit too loud for a nigh empty bar. Another long gulp of whisky fired down his throat. "Be a blessin' if they all did," he continued. The barkeep ran a thumb across his neck and bared his teeth. "Ever damn one. "We humans ruled an' lived just fine a'fore they came. T' hell wi' there fine an' fancy sensa' "divine duty"." He spat on the floor. "No golly ever looked out f' me r' mine."

Gannon Oranos was in a treasonous sort of mood tonight, his slightly belligerent nature swilled with the whisky making rebellious thoughts come easy as breath.

"Forty six and countin'. Feels pretty old...Especially when bein' twenty seems like it was yesterday. " He listened to Fion talk with mild surprise. She didn't look like she worked in a golly bar. She looked too tired for that. He thought it wise to keep that unmentioned.

He was also silent while Gannon spoke. He was too tired to be cheerful today. Usually he would have joked, gotten their mind off such dark subjects. You knew it was a dark day when Brady Owens couldn't find it in himself to be positive.

"And there isn't a fuckin' thing on Alioe's green earth we can do about it." He said softly. Suddenly his drink was looking more appetizing. He swallowed more of the liquid. "Seventen're gettin' damn suspicious about everything, too. A day doesn't go by where I hear someone's been dragged off and disappeared. Feels like the amount of decent officers're goin' down..." He used to know a few. They were the only reason he bothered following the law.

A low sound churned from the depths of Gannon's throat—a low growl of withheld and whisky mulled anger. He slapped the flat of his hand dully against the table. "Th' hell there ent," he rumbled, his voice turning oddly hushed as his single eye hardened. "There'll be a time come fer th' rightful rulers a' this land t' rise up. An' when it does—" with a broad hand, Gannon slapped the short-sword scabbard on his thigh with its obvious implications.

Rebellion. Insurrection. Treason and Revolution. Those words had been humming around in the mind of Gannon Oranos while the other factory workers beside him had murmured quiet proverbs of encouragement and survival under the hum of the machines. In his own secret thoughts, Gannon had cursed their wish for survival as he hungered to see his family thrive. Other workers had chided him against such thoughts as they told him to be grateful for the job, telling him that he'd long for survival one day when that belly was empty. But it already was. Gannon knew then, as he knew now, that he could never be truly content while his uncle grew old against his plow.

Laughter echoed in the room. It was Fion's. Richer than it had any right to be, with darkness hiding in the warmth. It seemed she was the only Resistance member in their company.

"An' who would those rightful rulers be, then?" She asked Gannon, her chest still shuddering with humour every few breaths. "You and some other people like you? No gollies in the lot? Like we could get rid of them. We'd be just as bad as they are. All I want is the same crap they get to have. A house I can own, a future for my boch and a law that doesn't exist just to bend me over."

Fion slapped her thigh and took another sip of her beer, then put it down on the table. She wanted spirits.

"I can't drink beer today, you got any gin?" She asked Gannon, knowing she had just stamped all over his speech and being too sapped from the day to apologise. She at least planned to tip well.

Brady winced when Gannon pounded the table, and winced again when Fion started laughing. He shifted on his chair uneasily. "There now. En't no use lettin' our mouths run anyway, only Ill'll come from that. There's naught we can do of any of it." He said this with just a little too much conviction. Inside of himself there was a bubbling fountain of doubt. Of course he'd reasoned out that there was a reason that Seventen were lounging around the Dives like it was the new seasonal sport.

But that was best left to others. Even so... his eyes slid to the woman and he looked her over sharply, quirking his eyebrows for just a moment before washing his face of the expression.

"Mf. I'm spun out..." They were useless words made to fill the silence, and he knew it. He grunted. If any of his friends had been here they might have been shocked at his behavior. Quiet and gruff. He was acting like his father.

Maybe that was fitting.

"You be careful with that mouth of yours, Gannon. I wasn't joking about the seventen jumpin' on whoever seems a pinch off. You're walkin' tall, if you catch my meaning."

Fion's logic lashed against Gannon's pride as sharply as her laughter. His back went taught with righteous anger and his eye narrowed above a squared jaw. Though his mind grappled for a quashing reply, he could not put fluency to those base desires he'd voiced. The naively (if ferociously) hopeful sixteen-year-old—aided by alcohol—had surfaced once again in his words. He thirsted for peace and prosperity as desperately as the next human, but he could only see light down the tunnel of vicious vengeance. How could his family ever gain their ultimate liberty if the a galdori held any shred power? Treaties and truces were too easily broken in Gannon's mind and words were as good as sand grains: numerous and ineffective.

Gannon had always been a man of action. Combined with his own clawing tenacity he'd attained his freedom from the factories. How could that same course serve humans wrong against their oppressors?

And he'd take a human ruler over a golly any month of the year. A galdori could strike you down with their magic as soon as glance at you. A human, and even a wick with their watered talents, were forced to play a human’s field.

Brady's calm words somewhat mollified the riled barkeep, even if his well-meaning warning sparked more rebellious emotions. Gannon sank back in his chair with a long snort; his hands gripped the edge of the table with white knuckled frustration and a tight stomach. Only after a moment did he register Fion's request for gin and seized the opportunity to get up and move--to do something.

Fion's head didn't move. Her eyes tracked Gannon's stride as he walked back to the bar. She pondered becoming tactful then remembered she was among humans.

"I hope he doesn't tick anyone off. I'd have thought he was Resistance for saying that..." She said, voice low. "Shame to die just for speaking."

Much better to die for having done something useful, like breaking a bunch of operatives out of gaol. At least then you could stand at the noose, smile and say, "I regret nothing, you useless golly c... hurk." Yes, that was the way to go, if you were to go at all.

"Be fun to get to run things for a day, though, he's right about that." Fion said, watching Brady carefully.

Brady shrugged, his eyes landing steadily on Fion's after she implied Gannon might be part of the resistance. "I'd have thought quite the opposite, actually. I don't imagine resistance members are so careless." His tone sounded neutral, but he looked a little more alert as he spoke. He wondered if she was a spy for the government. Her clothes looked nice enough that she might be making a chunk of money off the galdori. And she worked at a golly bar.

He let his gaze flick over her face, studying her features. He didn't look like he was trying to memorize what her appearance, but his gaze was certainly very inquisitive. He picked up his cup and took a drink. The cool liquid slid down his throat. It was followed by the comforting burn of alcohol.

Brady didn't reply immediately to her second comment. He wanted to believe she wasn't a golly spy, but caution was a better friend than trust.

"I wouldn't know. Never ran anything in my entire life. 'Sprobably not as fun as it looks."