Bright, early morning rays streamed in as Vicka opened the door to the Clockwork Stag. It was empty of patrons, staff, anything. Vicka tucked a strand of natural-colored hair under her ragged head kerchief and scowled.

Unlocked, she thought to herself, pursing her lips. Bad practice.

"Hello!" she called out. "'EY, anybody home? I want to talk to the proprietor, here, hello!"

Vicka was on a minor mission, seeking out a venue for her sister-in-law's fortieth birthday, a venerable age for a human woman. Somehow, between the lady's husband, three grown sons and their wives and all her other close friends, Vicka had pulled up the short straw and had to find a good bar for the party and then warn them about how raucous it was going to be. In the old days, Cal would open up the bar in the Little Bell and let them have at it.

They'd heard some good things about the Stag, but also that the owner was a bad-tempered natt who was a little rough and wasn't our Vi so good at smoothing things over? Everyone likes Vi.

Vicka found what looked like the staff door and started thumping it. "Hello! C'mon, now! It's good money you're wasting!"

In his upstairs room, the voice buzzed at Gannon's ears like an unwanted fly. The big human even swatted about his head with a lazy hand, as though a real fly had wriggled its way into the room. He groaned and dug his head deeper into the folds of the blankets. It was too damn early and his throat felt clogged with phlegm. Wet coughing had plagued him all nigh. Some form of illness was wedged in his chest. It would probably just pass in a while, but in the mean time, sleep would probably elude him.



That voice, combined with the beating on what was probably the kitchen door made the fly sound a lot more like Floretta. Gannon groaned again. He could just imagine the lecture he was in for. Though it would be better to have it done with now rather than in a few days when she'd work herself into all kinds of righteous fury. He was sure she'd discover his cough and launch into her speech on "why men don't do well living alone". Gannon had no wish to hear, yet again, why he needed a wife (especially at your age, Gannon! When what's left of you gets around to what’s left to be gotten, whatever it is you've got left won't be worth getting!). It wasn't even beginning to be light outside. Clocks. Darn insistent woman.

The barkeep heaved himself out of bed and started stomping to the door after snatching his eye patch from his bedside table. He didn't bother with a shirt. As one who was practically his mother, Floretta had accidently seen him in much less than loose pants and an eye patch.

Walking down the short hall to the landing, Gannon stretched his arms and yawned. His shoulder still bit in two when he did that, and stretching those muscles made him wince in the middle of his yawn. The arm returned hastily to his side as his opposite hand rubbed the spots the saber had pierced.

Gannon came to the top of the stairs and peered down into the rest of the establishment. Surprise slapped him awake like a bucket of water to the face. Standing down there was certainly not Floretta Hatter. Far too good looking and significantly younger. Possibly even a different race of woman entirely. He still could not make out her exact features for the dim room and was fairly sure he'd never clapped eyes on this woman.

"Uh...hullo. Hi down there. Who're you? What cn'--" another soggy cough hit him and he turned it into his shoulder as he leaned against the banister. "Uah...herm...we're not open yet..." he called out, voice still a bit bleary with sleep and phlegm.

How many humans were there in the world, hulking humans with one eye patch? The healer in Vicka clucked at the obvious mangling of the body and at the phlegmy cough--she had a dose that would clear that up in a quarter hour for a respectable two tallies. But if her suspicions were right, she'd already pulled wool over this man's eyes--eye. His shoulder was patching up nicely, though.

Warn off the Spindles, she thought to herself.

"I know you ent open, I know, but I thought it would congenial to pop in ahead of time and ask about setting up a little party," Vicka said, carefully. "I'm a dear friend of Mrs. Mary-Anna Liggums, d'you know her, she's the laundress just two streets over, does the most beautiful white sheets--she's just met her fortieth year and we thought it would be lovely to let a place to enjoy ourselves for the night. It's just a little party, no more than fifty or sixty of our closest friends and relations."

She coughed and cast her eyes to the side.

"That being alright with you, we could hammer out the particulars," Vicka said. "I can give you a moment to make yourself a bit more presentable, if you like."

Only fifty or sixty. Good Lady. This one had to be a wick. Human families were rarely that extensive. Of course, one had to factor in friends and friends of friends. Still, Gannon was never the sort to turn down customers. Especially customers who were in the mood to celebrate. He supposed that hitting the 40 mark was a good enough reason to throw a party, even if it probably meant you didn't have too much time left on Vita. Depending on the way one viewed it, that could be perfect cause for celebration.

"Yeah, sure, fine. I don't see why not," he shrugged as he walked down the rest of the stairs. "So long as yer friends ent the type t' smash chairs when they get some liquor in 'em. I see no reason why not," he shrugged.



Gannon, rather oblivious to the fact that his indecency was hardly respectable, merely rubbed the sore spot against his back and grumbled when it twinged. Still he seemed not to recognize Vicka while the witch was certainly gaining better insight into the barkeep's scruffy nature.

"Oh sure, sure," he went on, waving a dismissive hand and seeming rather occupied by his smarting injury. Gannon turned to the fire, where coals from the previous night burned low. He took up the metal poker and roused the embers with a few prods and a couple more small logs. Another nasty cough emerged and Gannon shivered a moment. "So," he continued, his back still turned to Vicka as he worked with the flames, "when d' you expect this little get'tgetther comin' 'round, eh?"

"Tomorrow night, looks like," Vicka said immediately. "Sorry if that's a little too soon, her son just told me today. I ran a bar myself, once upon a time when the mister was alive, bless him, I know what heartache a surprise lot can be."

She paused, regarding the cough and his shoulder; it certainly seemed to give him pain. Vicka fought to keep her mouth shut about it, but found she couldn't.

"Y'know, I make a good rub for aches and pains of all sorts," Vicka commented nonchalantly. "Anyway, they're the tamest set of folks you'll ever meet. Never seen Mary-Anna hold with violence, never once."

Gannon grunted in response. Not a bad night to pick, truly. And it was always a bit of a blessing to deal with someone who knew that tending a bar wasn't just filling orders and sweeping. In this case, a widow who knew the trials of barkeeping. He glanced over his shoulder at her. Funny, she seemed rather young to be a widow. Gannon straightened back up from proding the fire and winced at his shoulder again. If he ever got his hands on that stringy dark wick's neck.... Alioe only knew....



The big human turned back to Vicka and he smiled on the inside. Leave it to a wick to switch subjects that quickly and with that ammount of finesse. Had he not been raised by a spoke, he might not have caught the extended help. "Well..." he sighed, actually grining a bit this time, "so long as her family don't find it in themselves to make sport of 'who can throw their mug th' highest'--" which always seemed a popular sport in taverns for some reason, that and 'who can make the loudest smashing sound', "--I don't think we'll have any manner of violence." It's questionable weather Gannon meant violence from them, or violence from himself.

"My shoulder's arrite," he added, "thanks. Just achs a bit in th' mornin an' when it comes on th' rain." He paused to squint at her a moment, realizing that she looked a bit familiar. Gannon mentaly shook off the notion.

Vicka kept herself from commenting, your shoulder ent "arrite" it got run through with a sword. She pressed her lips together and looked around for some other thing to say. She played idly with the ring around her neck.

"You have other help? Or is it jus' you who runs this place?" she asked, rather innocently. She realized that, tame or not, there might be a shortage of hands for what was a small--or small as was defined by Vicka--party, if there was only one set of them. "I mean, they are a calm bunch, mostly old ladies and their flocks. But they're a touch . . ."

There was no good word.

". . . they don't have long in this world, it makes them a touch anxious, you know?"

Gannon had walked around the other side of the bar (suppressing coughs) to check that things were in their proper order as Vicka spoke, and he paused to pull a face, its expression merging somewhere between confusion, surprise, and bewilderment. Anxious about what? He had no clue. Probably just old woman fears of...well...whatever plagued the imaginations of old women. In the back of his mind, Gannon thought it was odd that the Clockwork Stag, which didn't see many female's under its roof, much less elderly females, was soon to be awash with them in one fell swoop. In the front of his mind, he was answering Vicka's question.

"Jest me, really. There's Ted--" here Gannon pulled an expression much more akin to annoyance and exasperation"--but when you add Ted that still mostly just comes out to be me.... No-one else. Had a scrawny boy ask for a job just yesterday, in fact, but the regulars would devour the little runt, probably. I turned him down, though it don't mean I ent hirin'."

Gannon raised an eyebrow at that last statement, wondering if she knew someone who was interested. She didn't look to him like the bar-working type, she looked more like.... His eye narrowed once more as he carefully studied her. This woman did look familiar, and before he lost the sense of familiarity, he asked: "Do I know you from somewhere, Miss?"

"You might," Vicka said breezily. "I've never been here particularly, but I'm a popular girl, lot of family. Esketts and Vanmoors, mostly, but some Liggumses, obviously and a few of the Patches, though I can't say which there's actual blood between us. And my profession, it takes me door to door. When there's work."

Vicka decided to let him figure it out, if he figured it out. There was no point in hiding it. She shrugged. "Jobs is thinning out, these days; dunno if it's people getting less hurt or just not wanting to spend the coin on it. It'd be nice to pick up the slack. My rent's not been getting anything but steeper."

(( Oh my goodness, I didn't realize that you'd posted. Sorry for the lateness of this thing. ))

Esketts, Vanmoors, Liggumses, Patches; Gannon knew none of these names. That didn't much surprise him, though. Eight years living in this corner of the world didn't give a man half enough time to know all the families in Vienda.

Getting hurt less.... It suddenly occurred to Gannon to squint with his one eye as he inspected Vicka. His eyebrows rose slowly--she was far more recognizable as a foggy blur. After all, it was how he'd seen her last. However, a named escaped him. He carefully pointed to jog his memory. "You, you're...you're that wick healer woman that..."



A long pause continued on before he grinned ruefully. It appeared as though he were a horrible liar. "Well...rum job you done on my shoulder. It's healin' better than alotta' stab wounds have for me." Even if your price was clocken' steep. Still...his hand unconsciously trailed to a long laceration scar along his side. Healers had certainly done worse by him.

"But, I don't believe I recall your name, Miss."

Vicka grinned. "Missus," she said with a wink. "Mrs. Vanmoor, 'that wick healer woman.' Aren't many left in Vienda, though, not since the writs. Just barely got mine, which is good for you, ent it?"

She shrugged with a modesty that wasn't really all that modest. She'd been a healer since she was a child, she knew how to patch up a shoulder. It seemed to her like the magic was being forced out of the wicks, especially the tsats--if her da hadn't been at least a little spokey, she might not have learned a thing.

Gannon's spine stiffened. He did hope that she wouldn't make quite a habit of winking at him and a light frown touched his features. Women...women were odd little creatures. It probably was just nothing. He was probably still just asleep. Asleep on his feet. He did that often, really. It was typically how he got most of his sleep that he would surely loose the next night.

"Missus, then," he replied, which was followed by another cough he tucked to the side. "Eugh...mm.... Yeah...I suppose I am....But...um...." Gannon stared off out the window. Light seemed to be returning to the world rather swiftly. A lot faster than he thought it would have. True morning would be upon them shortly. "Is...s' there anythin' else I cn' do ya' for, Mz--Missus? Or’ve we discussed everthin’?" He blinked carefully back at her, his eye was still a bit owlish with sleep.

(( sfsp ))

Vicka paused. There was something in the back of her brain that was tumbling about, something that she knew inside she wanted to say. She didn't know what it was.

She was here for Mary-Anna's birthday celebration; she wanted to warn the barkeep about the ladies and their particularities and their quantities. Vicka knew keenly about large groups and their tendencies. She remembered managing them, keeping them placated and merry. Working a bar, it reminded her of the good times, the better times, with Cal at her side and letters from da and the promise of a good solid future.

Vicka pursed her lips. "We-ell . . . you ent got an opening for a barmaid, now do you?"

Gannon's eyebrows raised and he cleared his throat of phlegm. "Uh, barmaid?" he repeated, questioning if even he'd heard right. Well, he had said he was hiring, hadn't he?

"Well..." Gannon rubbed the back of his neck and he blinked. "Tocks, I don't know, I could always use a pair'a' hands what would actually turn up t' work on time..."

Hiring, hmm.... Tricky business at times, even though Vicka had already well proven herself to be a useful sort. Well, in healing. He wasn't looking for healers for hire, especially at her prices.... Gannon carefully studied her as he considered. It probably seemed as though he were staring, even if his mind where elsewhere.

"Tell ya' what," he rumbled, tapping the bar with a knuckle. "I'll take y' on fer a couple days...an' we'll see how much you remember 'bout a place like this. When can y' start?"

Vicka nearly laughed outright. As it was she chuckled and tilted her head to the side. "Well, tonight, perhaps. I'm gonna need Mary-Anna's birthday off, of course, but that shouldn't be a burden."

She hadn't worked a proper job in a year. Caiaphas mightn't be pleased, but he knew her to be a grown woman, capable of handling a situation to its fullest. "Mr. Oranos, right? Would you be averse to a little healing out the back door? How much ging should I be expecting a week? I'd like to get a few of those terms settled."

Tonight, eh? Would that do? He didn't see why not, really. Evening was usually when things started getting hot and busy after the typical lull he had in the afternoon. There was something he needed to do today, too, he recalled. This early in the morning, he had a bit of trouble recalling what it was. Gannon's mind slowly began hitting on all the points he needed to cover today. Wake up, maybe eat, start business, keep drunks from breaking things, have lunch with the Resistance, go back to work--

Gannon's eye immediately snapped wide. He realized he had places to go, checkered table-cloths to buy and other such things. "UuuhhhhhhMizzus Vicka!" he fired off, a touch of urgency tinting his voice. "Uh...one minute, please." Gannon began walking back from behind the bar, coughing as he did so. He never paused as he strode towards the stairs and then hustled up them, his feet making dull thuds against the wood steps.

A minute later found a fully dressed Gannon pounding back down the stairs from his room, coat on his back and hat on his head. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his entire mannerism speaking of urgency. It was still morning, but the sooner he started the better. "Missus Vicka," Gannon coughed again. "Would you mind starting this afternoon instead? Or, uh. Would you mind starting, now, that is?"

"If you don't mind paying me tonight, then," Vicka said, shucking her heavy coat and tossing it on her arm. She raised an eyebrow at her new boss and shrugged. This place would need to be cleaned up a bit anyway.

"We can discuss particulars when you've finished runnin' your errands. You said there was a hired boy . . . ? I'm sure he'll help a witch with the details."