Goblin Town -- Logs

Indeed, Mr. Brown is starting into his Sternly Disappointed face and opening his mouth when Candi speaks in the voice that normally gets her parents to try to Make It All Right. Mrs. Brown turns her head and scowls at Shane, who proceeds to ignore it with perfect aplomb. That is not something she's used to, "And just who are you, young man?"

Shane looks up from his taping, but doesn't stop, "Me? I'm Mary's friend. And you are her parents and this is her sister Candace. And from what I can tell, you seem less worried about her welfare and more concerned that you've been inconvenienced. So, you can quit being inconvenienced and go home." He looks at Candace, "And you can just lay off the 'I was so worried' act, too."

Cinnamon blinks in astonishment at Shane! A slow smile crosses her face, and she says almost cheerfully, "Already told you all -- this is James! And he's right: there's nothing to worry about. Also, please feel free to get out of my apartment, okay?"

There's a moment of stunned silence from Mary's family. They've all three been used to being able to cow Mary with their manipulations. Candi looks shocked. She has never had a pretty man react to her like she was irritating. Ever. Especially if she was in her 'helpful and concerned sister' role. She's used it in the past to impress boys that might have had the least interest in her big sister. On occasion she's even realized there were boys hanging around her sister... who were really just interested in getting close to her! So... why isn't this boy acting that way?

Cinnamon calmly keeps setting books aside into neat piles for later packing... and nearly prays internally that her annoying, pushy family will get the hint and go... away! Mr. Brown then does something he really shouldn't do and reaches to yank the tape gun out of Shane's hands in a bid to take control of the situation. Somehow the hand with the tape gun is not where Mr. Brown expected it to be and he's suddenly looking up into this stranger's face, "Yes. Please, feel free to get out. Mary obviously doesn't want you here, and I'm pretty sure that trespassing laws don't make exceptions for families. So, get out. Now would be good." Candi stands up as well and reaches to put a hand on Shane's arm only to have him shrug the arm irritably, "Don't touch me. I don't know you. I don't really want to know you and you are not my friend."

Cinnamon catches sight of that flash of rapid motion as she's turning to put some more books down. She gasps, "Daddy!" then sighs in relief as Shane easily handles the older, larger man. "Oh, Dad... Candi, Mom, will you two please take Dad and -- oh, for Pete's sake, Candi, stop trying to put the moves on James!" She slams down the books in a small burst of anger, adding, "You all can call and talk to me just fine -- we can talk things out then -- but this is my apartment, we've talked about your just breaking in before, and I would really like a little peace and quiet here!" Cinnamon is trembling just the tiniest bit from being upset as she points dramatically at the door, her voice as strong as she can make it, "Please... g-go!" She really, really hopes they go soon -- she'll be mortified if she bursts into frustrated tears in front of Shane!

Shane's face is still calm and he looks relaxed. But he's also doing a remarkably good job of looking like an immovable object. Mr. Brown is starting to argue with his daughter -- he snaps, "You do not speak to your father like- urk!"

Shane has taken the older man by the collar and said, "OK. Here's the deal. She's told you to leave. Multiple times. You've refused to leave multiple times. So, since you're obviously a fucking bully and can't hear through the hubris in your ears, I'll be happy to walk you out." He can see his friend is truly upset and that, in turn, pisses him off. He then proceeds to do just what he said he would. He doesn't injure Mr. Brown, but he guides him firmly to and then out the door before turning around to find Candi looking appalled and confused. This is not how it's supposed to go! "Ladies, please follow Mr. Brown. Mary will call you when she wants to talk to you. If she ever does."

Mrs. Brown looks like she's working up to a full 'I want to speak to your manager!' head of steam, but her survival instincts kick in... perhaps because Shane really doesn't look like being yelled at will upset him. Still, she takes Candi and flounces out the door with the youngest Brown looking back over her shoulder again. This is not how good-looking boys are supposed to treat people like her and her parents. Or how they're supposed to treat her mousy, boring older sister!

Cinnamon is staring with a mix of shock and awe at Shane, her jaw dropped as confused thoughts tumble through her head: how did he do that?! -- and (half-jokingly) can she hire him to handle all her family meetings?! Once all the other three Browns are out the door. Shane closes it, locks it, deadbolts it, and puts on the chain. When he turns around, he's rolling his eyes, "I fucking hate bullies."

Cinnamon manages to wait until the door has been closed, though, before she tries speaking, "Buh... wha-..." Abruptly it hits her: he threw out her family! Her eyes get wide and bright with suppressed laughter as she darts across the room and throws her arms around Shane, burbling delightedly, "Ohmygodhow did you do that can I learn that was awesome do you want to do all the talking with my family for me from now on?!" She's laughing as she leans back and beams up at Shane, "Totally -- you are totally my hero today!" Then she giggles! "Can I buy you lunch? Or -- or would you rather have a rocket and a pony?!" She laughs again, almost dancing around the room, "Wow! So fast -- boom, pow, out he went! Awesome!"

Shane isn't a bit shy about hugging back and he chuckles, "Yes, I did that. It needed doing. Have they always been like that? I bet he was the kind of guy that stole other kids' lunch money." He grins down at her when he's called her hero and lets her go when she goes to start moving around the room again. "Hopefully you won't be ambushed like that again. But if you need backup, I'll do it. I bet Josie would, too. Your family comes from a place where they think pretty-on-the-outside is all that matters. Which is ridiculous. And your sister? Jesus. 'We were so worried!' Usually, I have to listen with some concentration to hear lies..."

Cinnamon is still grinning as she turns and rolls her eyes, "Oh, yeah, that's just being nice in front of whomever is with me -- as long as they're cute or well-connected, of course!" She sighs happily, hugging herself -- she's felt sort of helplessly maneuvered by her family for almost all her life, so this is a tremendously satisfying moment for her!

Shane rolls his eyes, "I don't miss that part of being out here at all. I mean, there are people in our world who try to do the seduction thing, but at least most of them are subtle!"

Cinnamon grins at Shane, "Well, you're pretty, Shane -- she's used to having a little bunch of fascinated boys around her any time she wants, y'know?" She turns back to the books, feeling a small burst of excitement and energy, "All right! Nothing's standing in our way now -- let's get this show on the road!" With that she nearly dives into: first, swiftly dividing up her goods into 'keepers' and 'dumpers,' then packing all the 'keepers.' She's quite ruthless, in a way -- only the things she either needs or cares deeply about get packed, which means her beloved books, most of her simple kitchenwares, about half her clothing and toiletries, a stuffed toy from her childhood, and not much else goes.

Shane blinks at Cinnamon calling him pretty and then says, "Why, thank you!" It does seem to please him, but then he says, "Guys that flock around girls like that mostly see them as accessories. Not worth the trouble."

Cinnamon glances around a few hours later, "Phew! Hmm... Shane, is there some sort of... oh, like Goodwill, maybe, on Coblyn Street?"

Shane packs as if he's helped a lot of people do this in the past; he looks up at the question about Goodwill, "It's not organized, but often word gets around that someone needs something and it just sort of... appears. There was a fire in a house last winter. It got put out before it took out the other buildings and the inhabitants were safe. They never had to sleep out-of-doors and clothes and other things just sort of... appeared. Mostly in baskets at the door of where they were staying. It's gauche to give that kind of thing face-to-face unless it's a close friend."

Cinnamon hmms as she looks around the room... then smiles at Shane, "Well, if that's the case... then I won't worry about it. I'll... oh! I know -- I'll tell the landlord that she can keep all the stuff here and apply it to my last month's rent. That should do it!" With that she happily starts loading boxes into the car... it doesn't occur to her that her father might try to follow her anywhere, after all.

Shane looks around and says, "Let me grab a few things if it's OK?" The things he takes aren't important or remarkable. He does make sure that the trash is completely empty, especially anything that might have hair in it. What he keeps are a couple of towels Mary was going to leave behind along with a little knick-knack that was also going to be left. He doesn't let her make any trips to the rental car by herself because he absolutely wouldn't put it past Cinnamon's parents to be assholes about the situation.

Cinnamon looks puzzled as they drive away a little later, "You're welcome to the thingies you've got, Shane, but, umm... do you mind telling me why those things, please?"

Shane is keeping an eye out in the rear-view mirror; he blinks at Cinnamon, "Because I'm short on towels and because I'm a sucker for little carvings of 'mythical' animals. My mom used to have a whole collection of dragon statues." The knick-knack is a simple little resin carving of a unicorn fawn.

Cinnamon blinks at that... then grins, "Aww! Were any of the dragons cute? I'd love to get one of those!" Wryly she adds, "You're welcome to the unicorn. It was a gift that wasn't really, y'know? So... happy to see it have a better home with someone who's honest!"

Shane chuckles, "Let me guess. Something from your sister to make it look like she cared about what you were interested in to someone else she wanted to impress? It's a pretty little thing, but I can see why you'd want to leave it behind if it was something like that."

Cinnamon nods as she heads for the post office first, where she parks and fills out all the labels for the boxes before going in... but pauses on the return address, "Shane... should I use a fake return address? Just in case?"

Shane helps her carry boxes in, eyes narrowing as he notices a familiar car. "Don't put a fake one. Put this one..." He hands her a business card that says 'Rosie Jones' and has an address in Boston. "I'll be right back, OK?"

Cinnamon glances at the card... then blinks, "Um, okay? If you say it's okay... er, sure?" She pushes her glasses up, wondering what Shane's up to -- then simply smiles and mentally shrugs to herself. She can ask later -- because he's been a real champ for her so far! She chats cheerfully with the clerk behind the counter, filling in the return address on the boxes as the total shipping cost is calculated.

Shane steps outside the door of the post office and watches as the Mercedes sedan pulls in behind the rental car. He settles himself on the trunk and looks impassive and, truth be told, rather forbidding. Mr. Brown scowls as he sees the tall, dark-haired young man and figures they're in public and he's a fine, upstanding citizen... so he gets out of the car and marches over to get into Shane's face.

Before he can actually say anything, Shane speaks quietly, "Mr. Brown, we are in front of a post office. There are security cameras everywhere. If you start getting in my face and looking aggressive, I will be within my rights to defend myself and to defend your daughter. I like Mary. She's my friend and you're a bully that's approximately as deep as a puddle while your daughter has the mind and soul to encompass an ocean. So..." Mary comes out just in time to hear that last sentence, "Shove off. She said she'd call you. Though, honestly, I wouldn't blame her if she never spoke to someone that tried to break an amazing spirit." He stands to his full height again and just... waits.

Mr. Brown tries several times to get a word in edgewise but somehow there doesn't seem to be a place for his blustering to break into Shane's calm words. He starts to shake his finger in Shane's face only to find his wrist taken firmly and the finger moved out of the half-sidhe's personal space and then the wrist released. When Mary's father realizes that Shane is simply not bully-able, he turns and marches to his car with some remark about a private investigator. Shane wiggles his fingers in a goodbye. He is quite aware of just how little juice that's going to have.

Cinnamon blinks, her eyes widening -- then she nearly wails, "Ohmygawd, Daaad! Are you stalking me?! Why are you doing this?! You promised no more trying to get me to do your taxes for free any more... so would you please just leave me alone?!" Having his daughter set up this wailing just sends the man into his car and away faster. From the brick-red color of his face, he's pissed and mortified both. Cinnamon sighs and shakes her head as she unlocks the car, "James, I am so sorry you had to put up with this nonsense. Sometimes Dad is just so embarrassing!"

Shane looks at Cinnamon and says, "Your dad is not embarrassing, he's an embarrassment." He keeps an eye and makes sure Mr. Brown's car is well away, "Didn't want him coming in and even having a chance of seeing the addresses." He smiles a little lopsidedly, "But if he'd stuck his finger in my face one more time, I might have had to demonstrate some of my rusty aikido."

Cinnamon nods gravely, "I'm glad he didn't see the address either." Once she's behind the wheel again she returns the business card to Shane, curiously asking, "So who's Rosie Jones?"

Shane leans back in the seat and smiles, "Lovely Welsh woman. Believes in the piskies and the sidhe and occasionally does the piskies and the sidhe small favors. Like acting as a return address if we're afraid something might go astray."

Cinnamon smiles thoughtfully, "She sounds nice. Is the unicorn fawn for her?"

Shane grins across at Cinnamon, "Nope. It's for me. My mom collects dragons -- and some of them are fucking adorable -- and I collect other creatures. Unicorns. Manticores. Sphinxes. She specialized. I'm a generalist."

Cinnamon giggles at that, "Is it a race between the two of you? Joking!" then happily adds as she heads for the airport again, "We'll probably be exhausted, but we'll be safe back home again by noon tomorrow! I hope Josie doesn't have any trouble with the deliveries -- I gave her my house key so she could let in the folks bringing in the desk and table and sofa and stuff... as well as the nice man that John recommended for the bread oven vault!" She blinks then, as something anomalous finally registers, "Oh my gosh -- Shane, how do you get your sword safely through airport security?!"

Shane smiles and shakes his head, "We're not competing. Sometimes I send her something for the holidays." He glances into the back seat and says, "I put it in a checked bag and it's marked as being a theatrical prop."

"Oh! That's clever." Cinnamon later makes sure to pay for Shane's dinner at the airport -- she quite honestly adds that this is really the very least he deserves, and she'll have to try and find other ways to thank him! She ends up falling tiredly asleep on the flight back... though she finds herself curiously fearless about doing so, with Shane seated at her side. That sleepy thought makes her smile -- she's never had such wonderful friends as Josie and Shane before! She hopes it lasts. Usually her 'friends' leave her for Candi's glitter and charm, after all.

Shane keeps a quiet and protective eye on Cinnamon all through the flight and right up to her door when they get back to Coblyn Street. The last thing he actually says is, "I hope you don't ever call them. They don't understand real value in people."

Cinnamon grins a bit shyly up at Shane, pushing her glasses into place, "Well, umm... actually, I never said I would? I just said they should call me!"

Cinnamon is first delighted and astonished, and then deeply touched, to discover that Josie didn't just have the delivery folks drop the furniture off. Instead the werewolf made sure each piece was placed where she and Cinnamon had discussed placing them -- right down to the beautiful painted Japanese screens! Cinnamon is almost in tears of happiness as she throws her arms around Josie -- who is happy to hug back. She's almost always happy to be hugged by friends! She makes sure everything is where it was meant to be and then she fusses Cinnamon into sleeping. It's going to be a busy day coming up.

Traveling to Boston with Erin was perhaps a little tricky. Despite being a bird, Athala suggested to Martin that flying with her might not be the wisest course of action. The elf's smile was warm and her eyes were twinkling, "I think they get jealous of the planes being larger and flying higher and they start to make a fuss... and if you respond to that, you might get restrained by a sky sheriff." Instead, it's suggested he perhaps drive and he's given an address and the name of a contact: Hans. He's also told not be alarmed at Hans' appearance.

Martin nods, making a note of the address and Hans. "I will do so, my Lady," he says, adding, "And I won't let myself be alarmed by Hans. Is there aught else I should know?" Part of him knows that he's probably already going into this with minimal information, so any more hints or clues as to what to do would be immensely helpful.

Athala's face, ethereal as it is, does carelessly serene quite well, "I would like your untutored take on the situation when we arrive. The place you're going might be a big bewildering, but I trust you'll do well." With that, she leaned in and kissed his forehead, "I know you won't let me down."

Martin closes his eyes, bowing his head with the kiss. "I won't, my Lady," he murmurs. "I promise!"

Athala strokes her fingers along his jaw line, "Odalric and I will be there in a handful of days. Use Erin if you need to reach us urgently."

Martin shivers slightly with the gentle touch, his breath catching. "I... I look forward to it, my Lady."

The trip to Boston is an easy one and the directions he's given are nicely detailed and start at a point that Athala says the GPS will get confused with. The final couple of streets are narrow and cobblestoned, making driving somewhat treacherous by the cars parked rather helter-skelter on either side. Martin finds a parking spot once it starts to get difficult driving through the Boston streets, and he's less than a mile -- he thinks -- from his destination. He's curious as to where the Unseelie Court resides here. He mutters a faint curse as he almost gets hit by a car -- he'll need to get used to the symbols Boston uses for its pedestrian crosswalks, but he would swear that sign looked like 'Go' instead of 'Stop or you'll get mowed down by a grumpy driver.'

The house that fits the description Martin was given is narrow and tall. It looks like three stories, but it seems not much wider than a single wide-ish room in a modern home. It's painted a nondescript mossy brown with white window frames and a door that looks like it's solid oak. The sign to the right of that door says, "I don't buy anything. I don't want to be preached to. Charities are NOT excepted." You have to get quite close to see that the peeling paint around the doorframe is actually hiding some carving across the lintel. Martin's lips quirk into a bit of a smile at the sign, but his smile goes away when he sees the paint hides something. He reaches up to lightly touch it, wondering if he can discern what kind of ward is there... then shrugs and knocks on the door.

The ward seems to go along with the door. People that come to this house wanting money or to proselytize will find themselves quite uneasy coming here. Martin, however, feels no repulsion. There's some shuffling inside and then a twitch of a curtain to one side of the door before the door itself opens. It becomes clear immediately why Martin was warned about Hans' appearance. The... man? ... is close to if not over seven feet tall. His skin is dark and lined like someone that has spent decades in the sun with no sunblock. Small dark eyes are set well back in their sockets and the bushy eyebrows are a bit alarming. The features look carved out of granite, but not in a ruggedly handsome sort of way. It's more a 'not very good with a chisel' kind of way. His hair is a snarl down his back and the beard that reaches near his waist is in the same kind of shape. It doesn't look really all that much like hair, though... almost like hanging tendrils of moss, though the color is hard to make out in the dim light of the foyer. There's no greet. Just an expectant glare.

Martin nods to the man -- giant? Stone giant? It's possible. "Hello; my name is Martin. I've been sent by the Court. Are you Hans?" And if he isn't, which Martin doubts, most people assume he's talking about the mundane Court of Justice.

Hans grunts, "Athala's Spielzeug. I was told you were coming. He steps out of the doorway, "Well, come in. I have to get ready to go outside." His voice has a thicker accent than the lovely Athala's. The thickness might be exacerbated by his teeth. They look too large for anyone's mouth and the canines are frankly alarming.

Martin's jaw works; he's been called that before, and he tries not to let it bother him. He steps inside, letting Hans close the door. "Thank you," he says mildly. He knows the only way to get any respect from this sort of person is to (somehow) earn it.

There's another grunt and Hans stumps into a room on the right side of the foyer. It would have been small for normal sized people, but Hans is not that. He starts pulling on a heavy coat with long sleeves, muttering as he does so. The mossy hair gets stuffed beneath a hat with a brim broad enough that it shadows most of his face. The thick-fingered hands pull the collar of the coat up. In the end, he gives almost the impression of that trenchcoated bad guy in all the 80's Stranger Danger videos and posters. During the whole process he's muttering under his breath in German. Some of the words are almost indecipherable and some of them are calling the lovely Athala some very unlovely names. When he's done he grunts again, "Follow me. Not very far. Verdammtes Sonnenlicht."

Troll, Martin thinks, hearing Hans complain about the damned sunlight. Clearly Hans is feeling put out by Athala's request -- or commands. "Lead on," he says, suppressing any anger; Athala wouldn't have sent him to Hans if the troll wasn't trustworthy. For Martin himself, of course, the sunlight is hardly noticeable. Hans grunts again and moves out into the foyer, waiting for Martin to go out first before closing and locking the sturdy door. He walks with a step possibly best described as a tromp. The large feet come down on the sidewalk with audible thumps and the probably-troll's hands are shoved deep into the pockets of the oversized overcoat.

Hans wasn't lying when he said it wasn't far. Perhaps six blocks later they stop in front of what seems to the human to be a solid wall of blind and boring identical buildings. They look like the kinds of apartments that are unoriginal and sterile. Martin looks around, trying to remember what street they're on. He's not surprised the Court is hidden away, but for them to be in such a drab series of buildings that look no different than the rest of the block? He'd have expected them to be aching to be a little different, at least. Hans turns toward the block of buildings and walks... straight through a brick wall. It's not like the Kool-Aid man -- he doesn't shatter the wall. He simply disappears through it. Martin blinks, jaw dropping a moment. Then he shakes his head -- surely he's seen greater wonders in the trod? -but it's still a bit of a mental hurdle to get through. He touches the wall, then takes in a deep breath and... steps through.

There's no wall there to touch. Martin's hand goes straight through -- and once it does, his eyes can follow it and see that what he took to be a faceless apartment building is the opening onto a narrow street. Like the one Hans lives on, it's cobbled and there's not so much a sidewalk as areas on either side that seem to have been designated for people to walk on and to set up stalls. It looks at first glance like an eclectic street market. Martin's breath catches. [Oh, this will be so much better than just plain Boston!] he thinks, and he steps all the way through before anyone outside the street can notice. He takes a few moments to take in the magic of it all, the differences and wildness and while it's not as bright and colorful and sensation-full as the trod, he feels... somewhat more comfortable here than in the dreary streets of mundane Boston and his home city.

Market stalls are draped with awnings of various colors and of various states of disrepair and disarray. A cursory glance shows jewelry, fruit, vegetables, clothes, and stoneware for sale. And the people! Some of them, Martin is quite sure, could never pass for human on the outside. Hans barely does himself. The troll is still hunched into his coat and somehow managing to telegraph a scowl despite his face being almost invisible. He grunts and motions Martin forward, "Go. Stop gawping like ein Kleinkind! I want to get home!"

"Sorry," Martin says quickly, moving forward to follow Hans. "First time here."

Hans snorts, "I know this. Or I would not have to play tour guide!" People don't seem overly alarmed by Hans... which makes sense as they pass a doorway in which stands someone that looks considerably more human -- aside from the breadth of body and the also-towering height. Another is just as tall and almost unmistakably a werewolf. Said werewolf seems to be having an animated conversation with a vendor that is selling roasted meats. Said werewolf is also wagging their tail hard and fast enough that people are detouring around it.

Martin would really rather not annoy Hans more than necessary. That being said, [You're not very good at pretending to be a tour guide,] Martin thinks. He knows better than to lose his temper against a troll, though. Martin continues to follow the grumpy Hans through the open-air market, trying not to gape and stare at all the sights, sights that he's thirsted for after seeing in the trod, and which are now here. He wonders if he can somehow convince Athala to let him move here... but that would mean moving away from the trod. A meager substitute for the trod at all times, or the trod infrequently and at Athala's whim and fancy? Tough choice. He'll worry about it later. But he does feel more comfortable here than elsewhere in the mundane world.

From one side of the narrow, crooked, cobblestone street comes a lovely scent -- incense, but more spicy than choking clouds. Standing in the way is a little two-wheeled cart, currently loaded with a carefully folded heap of... something. Cloth? Hard to tell, though its paper-wrapped end hangs out longer than the cart's length. There are a few colorful pillows tucked in along the edge... and just as Hans starts stumping past the cart, someone small with a double armload of more pillows comes trotting out of the shop -- and blunders directly into Hans! There's a startled squeak as the person bounces back! Pillows pop out of the person's arms as they stagger backwards, trying not to fall -- and ending up sitting on their rump with an 'oof!'

Martin moves to the small person. "Are you okay?" he asks concernedly, since he's pretty sure Hans won't.

Hans grunts and then scowls down at the small person. This one looks entirely human. A small human with thick glasses and brown hair. The troll glares at the new person as if he's trying to decide whether or not to eat her. As he's doing so, someone else comes out of the shop. This person looks almost like a photo negative of the elfin denizens of the trod. He's tall with long dark hair and seems to be wearing a kilt and ... is that a sword on his hip?! The second person speaks with the sort of casual almost-friendliness of someone that's civil but not warm with the person they're greeting, "Hans. It's been a while."

The glasses peer over the top of the few pillows remaining in their arms... and they gasp startledly, "Oh, dear! Are you okay?" Then, at Martin's query, the person stares up at him, "Er... what? Uh, I'm sorry -- I mean, I'm fine! Fine! D-did you... it wasn't you that I ran into, was it?" She scrambles to her feet, glancing around with dismay as she reflexively pushes her glasses back into place, "Well, drat!" She starts collecting up pillows again, almost gabbling, "Please excuse me -- I'm so sorry! I w-wasn't looking where I was going -- my fault!"

Hans grunts at the tall, dark-haired man. The new arrival's eyes aren't precisely brown. They look amber. Almost yellow but not quite. The troll says, "On business, Shane. And the business is none of yours." The new arrival, Shane, nods and says, "Of course. And if you behave yourself this time, it will continue to be none of my business." He looks past the troll to the man with him, but lets Cinnamon speak to him since she already is.

Martin helps with the pillows if the person lets him. He's paying half attention to what seems to be a rather frosty reunion that Hans is having with the sword-armed sidhe. He isn't surprised Hans has a doesn't-play-well-with-others reputation here. Cinnamon beams at Martin, "Oh, thank you!" She dusts off the pillows that hit the ground, tucks them into the cart, then smiles at the human and the troll, "How do you do? I'm Cinnamon! I know everyone knows Shane, but... who are you guys, please?"

Martin himself is a normal-looking man wearing a normal-looking, plain and slightly worn two-piece suit with a pale blue tie. He looks almost like he dresses himself in a mirror that reflects only desaturated colors. He wears his brown hair short, and is clean-shaven; in stature he is mostly average, without any noteworthy features other than perhaps looking a little soft and pretty. He blinks at the 'I know everyone knows Shane,' line and says, "Cinnamon. My name's Martin. I'm sorry, I'm rather new here myself...."

Shane nods to Martin, looking him over as if memorizing him in case they ever meet again. It's not as friendly as the look-over Mary got, but this man has caused no trouble that the unofficial sheriff knows of, so it's not frosty, either. "Martin. I'm Shane." He gives Mary a smile and says, "This is actually someone I don't know."

Cinnamon blinks at Shane -- then swivels around again to stare with interest at Martin, "Oh! Another new person? Are you moving in too?" She smiles a little uncertainly at Hans, adding, "If it was you that I ran into, I apologize, sir...?"

Martin gets the strong impression that Shane is a local authority figure of some kind, and he smiles, nodding. "Pleased to meet you, Shane." He's not trying to torque off Hans, especially if Shane and Hans have a rather chilly relationship.

Hans scowls down at Cinnamon and grunts. Was that an 'it's OK' kind of grunt or a 'watch yourself' kind of grunt? Hard to tell. He doesn't seem to want to just push by Shane. Since Hans has most of a foot and what looks like a hundred pounds on the sword-armed man, the fact that he's not just pushing past is somewhat remarkable.

Cinnamon's smile at Hans gets a little more uncertain... and then she blinks, "Oh! Excuse me, please -- still gotta finish loading stuff!" She turns and darts back into the store -- with, to be honest, a bit of relief. Hans is... a bit scary!

Shane nods and offers a hand to shake. It's a good, firm shake. Authority figure or not, he's got no desire or need to get into a pissing contest with someone he's just met, "I'll go back to helping my friend. Welcome to Coblyn Street."

"I, ah, don't know that I'm moving here, yet," Martin says. He feels relaxed -- Cinnamon is, literally, the first smiling face he's seen here (though he wonders if the werewolf getting lunch counts as 'smiling'?) -- but also increasingly nervous. He shakes Shane's hand readily. "Coblyn Street," he repeats, nodding. "Thank you!"

Cinnamon peeks cautiously out the door a moment later, a pretty folded screen held a little awkwardly in her arms -- it's as tall as she is, and maybe taller. When she cautiously emerges, she's sidling carefully to the cart so that there's someone between her and Hans the whole time. Shane catches Cinnamon's worry and takes the screen from her, letting her hide from the troll a little more easily. He nods to Marin and Hans, "Have a good day." Hans grunts again -- it seems to be his native language -- and continues stumping down the street.

Cinnamon watches the troll stumping off, her brown eyes wide... then she whispers to Shane, "D-did I, um... like, insult him or something by running into him? Was there something else I should have done to apologize, Shane?"

Shane laughs and shakes his head, "No. There's nothing you could have said or done to apologize. Hans is as perpetually grumpy as Josie is perpetually cheerful. Especially if he's out during the daylight. It hurts him, so whatever errand he's on with that fellow Martin must be urgent."

Cinnamon says, "Ohhh... poor man!" She stares after the troll and the... washed-out man? Martin, that's it. "Well, I hope their errand is over soon then, for Hans' sake."

Martin has come to the conclusion that there's going to be no touring here, at least from Hans. He hopes that whomever Hans foists him off onto -- which is surely how it's going to happen -- will have at least a little more inclination to provide information. Still, one thing he's learned: information is hardly ever given freely. "So," he says, conversationally to Hans, "who was that?"

Hans grunts and looks over his shoulder, "Shane. Busybody."

Martin nods, "Sticks his nose into everything, huh?" He didn't really get that impression. However, he could tell Shane was an authority figure, even if self-assigned, and Hans wasn't going to argue the point. Still, Martin needs more information, especially if he's going to fulfil his lady's mandate. Fortunately he has a few techniques for actually worrying information out of some people. Who knows; Hans might be grumpy enough to not be at all forthcoming even with prodding, but miracles do happen.

Hans snorts and nods, "Everybody's. Whether they want him to or not." He jerks his head, indicating up and down the colorful, noisy, wonderful street, "They call him sheriff, but he's got no real job. Just being a prig." About that time, they've reached a rather lovely house. It looks as if it might just have been built in Colonial times. Then again, most of the street looks like that. Martin nods at Hans's explanation. That was more than the troll had said to him since the very moment they met. He looks up at the house they're heading for, wondering if this too has carvings on the lintel... and also: just how far does this hidden street go, anyway?!

Hans raps on the door -- hammers on it, actually. The lintel and doorframe are both carved. They're mostly simple 'no harm' kinds of wardings, but there's one that seems to spell out something about ambassadors. While Hans knocks, Martin wonders if that bit about ambassadors is going to apply to him... and if so, what that means. He's not an ambassador -- more of an agent -- but what if the definition is broad enough? The door opens to reveal someone that's obviously a butler. But they are also apparently made mostly out of knotty wood with bright coals for eyes. They don't say anything, but Hans says, "Martin. From Athala. To see Marcus." The butler nods and turns, motioning Martin to follow him. Hans, without a word, just turns and stomps back off toward the mouth of the street.

Martin says as he enters the house, "Thanks very much, Hans. Have a good one." He expects Hans to barely acknowledge the farewell, if at all, but he also doesn't believe in burning bridges if he can help it. Besides, Hans got him here to this amazing place! Hans doesn't acknowledge that Martin's spoken. He's just moving down the street back the way they came, hunched into his coat and hat.

The butler motions to Martin to follow him and moves through the beautiful foyer to a sitting room -- then motions the man in ahead of himself. Martin follows the butler/wood-golem into the house, looking around as he does so to try to get a sense of the house's owner, then steps into the sitting room ahead of the butler, as instructed. He looks around, and decides he's clearly meant to wait for Marcus. The room is empty, but it's gorgeously appointed. The furniture is of the sort that looks as if it's built more to be beautiful than to be comfortable. This is not a room for lounging about. There's a fireplace laid for a fire that isn't yet lit and the artwork on the walls looks beautiful and expensive.

Martin is actually a little unsettled here. The beauty of the Trod is... indescribable. This isn't like someone trying to imitate the trod, but they're certainly going for a 'mundane' definition of 'beautiful.' It's a room to impress upon a visitor that the owner is wealthy. For a brief moment Martin wishes he was more in Cinnamon's position -- it was clear she was having the time of her life while moving onto Coblyn Street, and had made quite a great many new friends. Then he (somewhat reluctantly) pushes that mild envy from his mind. He's here at his lady's behest. He has a job to do. And Marcus -- whomever he is -- is the next unlabeled step to that.

There's a sound at the door and when Martin turns that direction, he sees someone that is undeniably of the same race as Athala... and just as lovely. He's dressed in a very mundane type of three-piece suit, but it looks anything but mundane on him. It's obviously tailored to his slim, fit physique. His hair is fair almost to the point of being white and his eyes are a bright, sapphire blue. The smile on his face is welcoming and turns an already lovely countenance into something that would be stunning to anyone given the least bit to being attracted to men, "You must be Martin. Athala sent me word that you would be here soon." He steps across the room and offers his hand, "Marcus."

Martin straightens and bows to Marcus, then shakes his hand. Martin isn't attracted to him, but then again, he's been in a fairy trod; one's perceptions are skewed a bit after such an experience. "Yes, sir," he says politely. "I'm pleased to meet you."

Marcus' handshake is warm and firm and he lays his left hand over the joining of his and Martin's, "Welcome to Coblyn Street and the ambassadorial residence. Please, follow me. The reception room isn't actually my favorite." He motions the man to follow him, "How much information did Athala give you on the situation here?"

"Thank you, sir." So this is the ambassador and one of the representatives on the Council. Martin isn't really surprised that this isn't Marcus' favorite room -- not when he's a sidhe. At his question Martin doesn't laugh. "She wanted me to get an... 'untutored' understanding of the situation, sir," he says. "She... didn't tell me much."

Marcus laughs and nods, "My cousin is very much one to keep her secrets. It can be charming when one wants to tell her something in confidence, and mysterious when she wants to court you... and quite infuriating when one is trying to get information they might need out of her. Ah, here we are..." The sidhe opens a door and motions Martin in before him. Martin steps into the room beyond, quietly curious as to what Marcus considers a room he prefers.

The room is completely and utterly unlike the reception room. In fact, it can barely be said to be a room at all. There's a glass ceiling above their heads, so it's likely an atrium of some sort, but the walls are completely invisible from the door. There aren't any of the ancient trees of the trod, but there's a riot of greens and of different flowers. The trees here are smaller, but seem almost sculpted. The image that might come to mind is overgrown bonsai trees, lovingly clipped and trained into beautiful shapes. In a clearing on a flagstone floor are the sorts of low, comfortable seats Martin has seen in the trod, piled with cushions and draped with fabric. There's a small, round table on which sits a bottle of wine and a few glasses.

Martin silently marvels. It's not the trod exactly, but it's very close! He can even discern colors here! He spends a few moments letting the room suffuse into him, and letting himself relax. Marcus unbuttons his jacket and settles on one of the low seats, "Please, make yourself at home." He smiles at the look on his guest's face, "It's not quite home, but it has been given some of the same ambience. So... the situation. We -- meaning those of us sentient beings inhabiting earth that aren't humans -- have a council. A group of thirteen beings that act something like the United States Congress. We represent our peoples and their interests in making policy that is followed by the spread-out network of our peoples. Thirteen, you understand, so that there is always a deciding vote. Do you follow me so far?"

Martin is briefly unsure what Marcus means by 'home,' but then realizes he wants Martin to sit. Martin sits in one of the seats near but not directly next to Marcus, listening... then nods, "Yes, I follow you." Now one of those votes has been silenced, he realizes. Making it a precarious time. This is the ideal time for someone to push through a policy that was just one vote shy of passing -- something contentious and divisive... if someone didn't silence that council member themselves. Athala did say 'assassination,' after all.

Marcus leans forward and starts pouring the wine, "Our thirteenth member, Liam, was recently assassinated. Or, well, we assume he was assassinated. Dragons have such enormously long lifetimes that one dying of natural causes is almost unheard of. He had no particular faction of his own, which made him a supposedly neutral party. But he did tend to lean toward the other side of the aisle from my people and a handful of others." The elf's smile flashes brilliantly into being, "That handful, I'm sure you'll be unsurprised to hear, adds up to six ambassadors. We are largely of the opinion that we have been in hiding entirely too long. Many of us can walk the world and be seen as only unusual, but others cannot."

Marcus offers Martin one of the glasses of wine, "Elves, ljosaelfar, dokkaelfar, beansidhe, gealsidhe..." He laughs, "Most of us that are considered fairies can go out and about. We look... somewhat human. Even Hans can move about somewhat freely, though he does it mostly at night given that trolls really do suffer from the sunlight. I'll have to send him a token of appreciation for bringing you." Martin accepts the wine, nodding slowly as he processes all of this. It dismays him that 'his side' -- that is, the side with the sidhe that Martin is an agent of -- stands to gain from the assassination of Liam. He hopes that's not the case. The wine is, of course, perfect... probably the most his tastebuds have ever been excited as much outside a trod.

"But the boggans and the werecreatures, the lwa, the spirits that have forms that are obviously not human... they have to stay in the ghettos we have made for ourselves in the world." Marcus sighs, "There has been a lot of debate over revealing ourselves. Liam's vote was the one that kept us hidden. And now... there is an opening. It's rare to have an opening. Seats are either inherited upon the holder's death or passed on by having the holder name their successor. Liam, as far as we know, did not name a successor and did not have descendents."

Martin nods carefully, thinking. "What was his reasoning for his vote?" He doesn't like the fact that so far Marcus has elided what should be the massive, elephant-in-the-room question of Liam's assassination.

Marcus smiles, "Safety. Or that was his public reasoning. What his actual reasoning was, I couldn't say." He leans back with his glass of wine and swirls it slowly in its glass, "I have no idea who killed him and I did respect him, but this is a precarious time and one in which we must strike while the iron is hot, do you see?"

Martin feels a chill run down his spine. "Yes, sir," he says simply, "I understand fully." He really doesn't, because he's gauging how far into the assassination Marcus is set. Is he really just an opportunist? or did he have 'convenient knowledge' of Liam's assassination? or, worse, was he involved? As for the question at stake... he finds himself curiously ambivalent about it. Of course it would be wonderful if the aelfar could walk outside the trods, in full view, and bring their majesty to the world, and that others may see the magic that sits just out of view... but a dragon, legendarily nigh-invincible creatures, a dragon was urging restraint, 'safety' as Marcus so blithely and disinterestedly put it. A dragon wouldn't be fearful of their own life. He thinks of the gleeful werewolf wagging their tail down in the market. Martin knows humans and their fears. Werewolves would be exterminated. He wouldn't want to see the magic of the world revealed just for swathes of it to be cut down. But softly now... this is not the time or place to give voice to his concerns. "What needs to happen next?" he asks Marcus, then takes a sip of the wine. For the first time he wonders if Athala knew his thoughts would go in this direction, and this is why she wanted him to come into this situation cold.

Marcus nods as Martin speaks, "The question will be coming before the council soon. We are all looking for someone we think would fill that thirteenth seat. And the deciding vote no longer belongs to Liam -- may the goddess hold him in the hollow of her hand -- but in the local monarch."

Martin nods, understanding. He'll have to find someone he can ask why the local monarch is casting the deciding vote on a global issue? "And the vote will be coming before council before someone is found to replace Liam?" he asks.

Marcus smiles, still seeming sanguine and relaxed as he sips the wine, "The vote is coming before the council this week. It's been scheduled for months. So, perhaps. Someone may try to table the issue and vote on a replacement for Liam. It's a delicate game."

Martin ahs, and nods. "That makes sense. That it was a scheduled vote, I mean. And I understand by how you mean 'delicate.'" Which also means that someone had plenty of time to plan for Liam's assassination. That just makes it more likely that it was someone on 'his side.' "Your cousin, Athala, asked me to learn what I could of the situation here on her behalf. When is the council meeting scheduled for?"

Marcus smiles, "Athala always wants advance information. She hates to be seen as ignorant of any situation." He chuckles and says, "It's in five days. Between now and then, I'll take you to meet the others. Both those for and against hiding. Don't be too alarmed when you meet some of them. I doubt we'll see Elias before the vote. He rarely leaves his house and I prefer not to go there."

Martin tilts his head. "Who is Elias?"

Marcus smiles, "One of those voting for staying hidden. He's something of a hermit now, though he used to walk the world with confidence. Liam and he were great friends." His face becomes melancholy, "I only hope that the person that killed Liam doesn't set their sights on Elias next."

Martin nods and, as innocently as he can, asks, "Why so?"

Marcus says, "Because I also respect Elias. He's quite old and has seen much. He has no living descendants or family. His people cannot engender life and the only way they can procreate is by changing someone else irrevocably. Elias feels he cannot do that to someone. I don't know if he has named a successor or not." In other words, Elias dying would leave not one but two open seats on the council.

Martin nods soberly. "Does the council have a quorum? A minimum number of members that must be present in order to do business?"

Marcus says, "The bylaws are that every member able to be present must be there for any vote. Debate and discussion can happen with any number. After all, debate and discussion are not decisions."

Martin nods. So there is no quorum. He's a little mollified that Marcus doesn't want what happened to Liam to happen to Elias, but that still doesn't change the fact that Liam's death benefits the 'unhidden' faction. Let's see... what else shall he ask about. "How soon may I meet the others? Well, some of the others."

Marcus smiles, "I am having some of them over for dinner tonight. I had hoped you would join us."

After telling Martin that he hopes the human would join them for dinner -- and that's said in the way of people having their invitations taken as inviolable orders -- Marcus calls for the butler to bring a couple of small sweets for the two of them to sample. "Before the dinner tonight, however, we should talk about your name. Obviously, I already know it, as does Hans. And, of course, Athala." He pops a small, delicate pastry into his mouth and chews, swallowing before he goes on, "Most anyone you meet around here is not going by their actual name. There are ways, I'm sure you know, that it can be used against you."

Martin nods. "'Martin' isn't my True Name, but it's used sufficiently often in regards to myself that it's 'close enough.'" He considers for a moment, then nods. "As an alias, I think I'll use 'Thorn.' It's a little pretentious, I know, but it may be better than giving anything away." Plus, maybe Marcus will think it's that Martin will be a thorn in the 'other side's' side, rather than his own.

Marcus smiles, "Thorn. That will work. Sharp and protective. And I'm sure you're both of those things for Athala... and perhaps a burr under the saddle of those that need it." He stands and buttons his jacket again. For an elf, he's got human manners down pat, "We've made up a room for you, but I'm afraid no clothes. There's a jacket and trouser press in the house, however, if you wish to smarten up."

Martin -- Thorn nods, standing. "Thank you, Sir. I would like to do that. It's been quite the journey."

Marcus calls for the butler, who still hasn't said a word that Thorn can hear, and gives directions for the human to be shown to one of the guest rooms and to have his clothes pressed. He assures his cousin's thrall that there will be an en suite bathroom should he wish to bathe. Thorn thanks Marcus, and follows the butler to the guest room. He first makes sure that there's nobody in the other guest room that the bathroom is shared with, then thanks the butler and gives over his clothing to be pressed. Then he takes a reasonably comfortable bath, going over his conversation with Marcus in his head.

There's some hustle and bustle in the hallways of the residence and there's not much to do in the guest room. It's posh and comfortable and, again, meant to speak of money. Unlike the reception room, however, there are plants here with lovely, understated scents. There is a pot of tea roses on the windowsill that are a brilliant red that seems almost ruby-like. Thorn takes a few moments to close his eyes and center himself. He's never been a rich man, so the display of wealth is slightly distracting to him. Maybe that's why he fell so hard for the fey. He lightly touches the tea roses, wondering what color they are.

The person that brings Martin/Thorn's clothing back is a small, sturdy woman in a maid's uniform. She seems a bit shy, but does say hello and introduce herself as Ingrid before scampering away. The clothes have been cleaned, pressed, and even altered slightly so that when he puts them back on, they actually fit better than when he arrived. There is also a small lapel pin in the shape of an elm leaf. Thorn thanks Ingrid politely. It takes him a few moments to realize the clothing has been tailored for him, which is an unexpected but welcome surprise. The elm leaf must be Athala's symbol, or her family's symbol. Good; it'll mark him as 'owned,' most likely. Which... he still bristles a bit at that, but it's nevertheless true enough.

When Thorn's had time to dress, Ingrid appears again and tells him (in a voice that is awfully rich for such a small person) that dinner is starting and Marcus wants him downstairs. She looks him over carefully and nods at his look before scampering away again. Apparently he's meant to find his own way downstairs. Thorn nods to Ingrid, thanking her -- at least, as much as he can before she scarpers. Bemusedly, he heads downstairs, looking for the dining room. Marcus is... well, Martin/Thorn understands that all Fey are different. For not the first time, he finds himself wondering if giving himself over to them was the smart thing to do. [Oh, but the sights he's seen...!]

It's not hard at all to figure out where to go. The sounds of voices and laughter are coming from the reception room. There's also music, but it's so low as to be really more aural wallpaper than anything else. Thorn braces himself; he's going to be an extremely small fish in a shark-infested ocean, and most of those present will probably view him -- as does Marcus -- as a simple human enthralled to Athala. Let them think that; Thorn is starting to suspect that he has a little more agency than most other fey give him credit for. Or maybe that's an illusion. He shakes his head, [Don't tie your brain into rhetorical knots!] -and heads for the reception room.

The reception room isn't so full as to be uncomfortably crowded, but there are about three-quarters of a dozen people in the room. Five of them are dressed in various sorts of finery, the rest in livery of some sort. Two are circulating with wine and hors d'oeuvres. One is wearing something more like a body servant might wear and one is... probably a bodyguard given the way he stays next to the very slight, very dark-skinned woman that's laughing and talking with Marcus.

Those that are obviously guests are all dressed beautifully, though in different modes. The very small woman with the very large bodyguard is wearing what Thorn is quite sure is an actual flapper dress. It's white and the fringe is bedecked with tiny river pearls and crystals. Her black hair is a wavy cap of curls cut close to her head. Another is wearing something almost like a tuxedo with a jacket that is richly embroidered with snakes and trees. That one has no hair at all and his skin is the rich brown of Latin America. One dark-haired Asian woman is wearing a kimono in scarlet with a stunningly embroidered phoenix wrapping around the whole thing. The obi is cunningly placed so as to seem a perch for the mythical bird. The last new person is a woman that's as tall, slender, pale, and blue-eyed as Athala or Marcus, but she looks like she can't possibly be out of her teens. Marcus himself is dressed in another three-piece suit and turns when he sees Thorn out of the corner of his eye. Of all the obvious guests, only the pale, willowy woman looks bored.

Thorn inclines his head to Marcus. There appear to be no other humans besides himself, at least completely. They're all beautiful, of course; clearly they're fey. Though he wonders why the flapper woman is dressed as a, well, flapper. That would seem glaringly obvious. Then he mentally shrugs, and steps into the room. It's not his business, though it does make telling people apart convenient! Marcus smiles and motions Thorn into the room, "Thorn, come in. Let me do the introductions..." He takes Thorn first to the woman in the flapper dress, "This is Nasteexo. H... uhm... she is a lwa. She represents most of southern Africa, though many of her people are fond of Louisiana and the Caribbean." The very small woman offers a gloved hand to Thorn, but doesn't speak. Marcus does the second half of the introduction, "Nasteexo, this is Thorn. Thorn is one of my cousin Athala's people."

Thorn is immediately cautious and deferential to the lwa. He gently takes her hand, bowing over it. "I am pleased to meet you, ma'am."

Nasteexo inclines her head and when she does speak, it's in a language that Thorn doesn't know. The large man behind her speaks -- it might put Thorn in mind of Michael Clark Duncan, "She says it's a pleasure to meet one of Athala's people." The way there's a little quirk of the lips on the last word says it might not be a strictly literal translation. Marcus rolls his eyes and laughs before guiding Thorn on to the other tall, pale woman, "And this is Hilde. She's..." Hilde rolls her eyes and says, "...perfectly able to speak for myself." She offers her hand to Thorn as well, but definitely in a hand-shake rather than some courtly hint to kiss her hand.

Thorn nods his thanks to the large man -- but then when greeted by Hilde, Thorn has to change mental gears to return the handshake and not bow over her hand like most fey seem to prefer. "Pleased to meet you," he says to her. He actually finds himself warming to her a bit more, though the acid test will be what she's doing with the pro-reveal group. He has to remind himself that it's very likely that someone in this room may have had Liam killed, and that sobers him considerably.

Hilde smiles. It's a bright, warm, and absolutely breath-taking smile, "I think Marcus was going to reveal either my nature or my milieu. I'm the council-member for the Norse countries. He invites me to things like this because his people and mine are similar." Her blue eyes gleam a bit as she says, "They're our younger cousins." That causes Marcus' jaw to set a little and say, "I think when you get into spans of time like millennia, that you can drop the younger cousin bit. We aren't children." A voice comes from behind Thorn, a warm alto with a bare hint of an Asian accent of some sort, "But the pair of you are still quite young." Both Marcus and Hilde turn toward the voice.

Thorn reassesses his position and decides he doesn't want to get between Hilde and Marcus; there's sure to be some thunder and lightning there. Instead he turns to the new voice, anticipating it is the woman with the gorgeous kimono. Marcus stiffens a little at the comment about being young -- apparently he's somewhat self-conscious about his age. It may be noticeable that none of the guests look like they can be out of their early 30's. The voice does indeed belong to the woman in the kimono. Marcus, remembering his manners and that he's the host of this dinner, states, "This is the Lady Aoi. Her demesne is most of Asia." When Aoi offers her hand, it's very much the opposite of how Hilde offered hers. The beautiful, silk-bedecked woman has very dark eyes but there's something odd about her pupils.

Thorn isn't sure who (or what) Lady Aoi is, but he doesn't want to irk her. He does his best courtly bow after taking her hand, not quite touching his lips to it, in the way Athala taught him. Based on what Aoi said, she's likely even more venerable than Marcus and Hilde both. Aoi inclines her head and smiles, but does not show her teeth. When he looks up, Thorn gets another glance at her eyes and realizes that it seems as if there are flames dancing there. Aoi says, "I heard him say you were sent by Athala. How are she and Odalric doing? Still full of mischief?"

Thorn smiles quietly. Oh, good -- someone who knows Athala and Odalric! "They're doing very well," he says. "They are both still... quite interested in mortal affairs." He thinks that's a polite-enough way to phrase 'full of mischief.'

Aoi chuckles warmly and nods, "In other words: curious, full of intrigue and wondering what problems they can cause to amuse themselves." That makes Marcus sigh, which only makes Hilde grin. She's obviously enjoying herself... and she didn't expect to enjoy herself at all! Marcus says, "Ladies, if you'll excuse us, there's still one more guest to introduce Athala's man to."

Thorn smiles a bit shyly, "That quite sums them up well, ma'am," he says. He'd rather spend more time with Hilde and Aoi -- they seem interesting! -and they aren't dismissive of him! -- but protocol is protocol... and, again, Thorn is a very small fish in a very large ocean. He excuses himself, and lets himself be led away by Marcus.

Marcus takes Thorn to the last of the guests, "Killa, this is Thorn. Thorn, this is Killa. He's the representative for most of Latin America." Killa's face doesn't look like it does expressions easily as he nods to Thorn. He has a slight lisp, perhaps like someone who is from Barcelona rather than someone from Peru, "That depends upon who you ask. Sparrow and I have something of a rivalry over what Americans call Mexico. My people and his mixed quite freely there."

Thorn knows not to assume that 'Killa' is just an aggressive alias. He nods in return to Killa. "I'm pleased to meet you," he says. "I'm sorry, I've not met Sparrow yet."

Killa's smile is not at all reassuring. It doesn't sit well on his face, "You likely won't in this house. He and Marcus don't get along very well. He and I have something of a truce. He respects snakes. I respect coyotes. It works well enough." The word 'coyotes' is definitely pronounced more Spanish than American.

Marcus sighs a bit and says, "Sparrow causes me no end of trouble, so no, you won't see him in this house. You may meet him somewhere in our wanderings before the vote."

"Ah, I see," Thorn says. "My apologies." He wonders if Killa is being literal about snakes and coyotes -- as in, the animals -- or if they're metaphors for something else.

Marcus shakes his head, "No need to apologize. Sparrow represents most of the western part of North America and Mexico. Josie, who you also won't be likely to meet in my house, covers the eastern half. She's rather undignified for seven-feet-plus of lycanthrope."

Thorn remembers the werewolf out getting dinner, wonders if that was her, and stifles a smile. "I can only imagine," he says. "Though truth be told, I've yet to meet a werewolf."

Hilde laughs as she wanders over, "Why does she have to be dignified? Life isn't all dour meetings and dire circumstances. Even Elias knows how to laugh!"

Marcus snorts, "Perhaps he does. But it's a frightening smile."

Thorn figures he needs to get as much information as possible, as quickly as possible -- so he asks quickly, "If I may, who is Elias?"

Marcus sighs, "Elias was Liam's closest friend and confidante. We spoke about him briefly earlier."

Killa chuckles, "He is an apex predator that has decided he has empathy with the creatures down the food chain."

Hilde rolls her eyes and laughs. The sound says she's actually fond of the person she's speaking about as she looks at Thorn, "Elias is a vampire. He's on the council. He has quite a nice smile, actually, once you realize that all those teeth aren't going to be used on you."

Martin ohs! "Yes, you had, Marcus; I'm sorry." He realizes Elias was someone Marcus referred to as someone he 'respected.' Thorn looks back to Hilde, "I'll still try not to annoy him, even so!" Killa's reference to 'apex predator' and 'creatures down the food chain' is not lost on Thorn; oh, he's going to have quite a lot to tell Athala when he next meets with her.

Killa tips his head and looks like he is going to speak again, but then the butler arrives. He doesn't say anything that Thorn can hear, but everyone moves as if to follow him. Hilde puts her hand through Thorn's arm and smiles at him, "They're scaring the hell out of you, aren't they?"

Why deny what's so obvious? "That's... actually spot-on, ma'am," Thorn says, walking with her towards the dining room, "I'm feeling very out of my depth."

Hilde smiles and nods, "Well, you're swimming with sharks. Anyone would feel out of their depth." She's keeping her voice low, "Marcus mentioned Athala sent you?"

[Exactly what I was thinking,] Thorn thinks wryly. "Yes, she did. Do you know her?"

Hilde nods, looking serious for a moment, "And probably gave you no idea what you're walking into." She thinks for a moment that she's glad Mary got some warning from Liam's widow. "Well, Thorn, don't let Marcus sequester you. Ask him to let you register a mark... it's sort of a signature here. Or did Athala give you hers?" Hilde seems to have possibly a surprising amount of insight for someone that looks like she's barely out of high school.

Thorn blinks, "A... mark? I'm not sure what that is, so it's probably safe to say that she did not." He keeps his tone light, but considering Hilde has an exact grasp of the situation, he can't help but keep a slightly wry tone from his voice. He finds himself really, really hoping that Hilde is not involved in the assassination of Liam, "I'll definitely ask that of him, thank you."

Hilde nods again... then shakes her head as she realizes Marcus has set it up so that Aoi is on his right and Thorn on his left, with the ljosaelfar at the foot of the table. Marcus is not actually her cousin, but she gets tired of him trying to get her to act more serious and courtly. Thorn has been grateful for Hilde's company, but knows better than to defy protocol -- specifically the host's seating arrangements. He's still in gather-all-information mode, so he tries not to be shy about asking questions -- after all, Marcus (and Hilde) know Thorn's been sent here without any background information at all.

The dinner conversation starts out light. The food is... like nothing Thorn's ever tasted outside the trod. He can even see the colors of the food, despite the nearly monochrome look of the room around him. It's only after there have been a couple of glasses of wine that things take a turn to the political. Hilde stays quiet during most of it with a sort of half-smile on her lips. Marcus and the others, however, seem quite passionate. There are no secret plans, simply discussion of whether or not they think the vote will be postponed. Killa especially seems intent on it taking place at the appointed time, "I don't wish to be kept up here in the cold for weeks more!"

Aoi's voice is warm and even, "Killa, many of us wish to be back in our homes, but this is important. It is life-changing and it is something for which we can accept a little discomfort."

Thorn listens intently. He knows what he would say, but he's very much the outsider here; plus what he would say not only would have no bearing on what others would think, but he suspects it would not be popular. Hilde seems to be watching Thorn and smiles as she realizes that he seems to know when to listen. Athala apparently chose well. The dinner ends with a lovely dessert that seems to defy description. It's something like a mousse, but also sort of like eating the colors of sunset. Thorn could easily lose himself in the dessert alone, let alone the rest of the meal. The tastes, the colors! It's surely a fey confection of some kind, else how would he see the colors in it? How would he otherwise taste the colors? It isn't easy to focus on the conversation, not with this almost overwhelming cacophony of taste. He's certain that he's missed a few things... but were they important?

Marcus smiles at Thorn's enjoyment of the dessert, "My chef is a member of my trod. She is magnificent and brings the flavors and colors of home."

Thorn nods almost rapturously to Marcus. "It's... remarkable!" he enthuses. "I don't think I've eaten anything as brilliant outside of a trod before." The whole table, in fact, seems somewhat enraptured by the dessert... and it's not long after the last spoonful has been eaten that people start to excuse themselves for the night. Aoi is the first to go; Nasteexo and the bodyguard/interpreter go with her. Killa is still deep in conversation with Marcus over something that seems to involve national borders, though the territory names they're using are not ones Thorn recognizes. He decides he'll ask Marcus for a mark on the morrow, since it may be somewhat unfair to ask for it so soon after dinner.

Marcus smiles almost fondly at Thorn, "You'll be staying here. If you need to pick up clothes or anything, let Ingrid know and we can make arrangements. I believe there are pajamas to fit you in the room you were using earlier." By which he means he knows there are because he told his household to make sure they were.

Thorn nods, saying gratefully, "Thank you, sir." Then he pauses... then mentally shrugs. "With your permission, I would like to have a look around Coblyn Street over the next few days to get a better context for when I next speak to my Lady."

Marcus nods seriously, "I'll take you around a bit tomorrow." He motions at the lapel pin, "You'll want to wear that when you go out and about." That makes Hilde roll her eyes as Marcus goes on, "Sort of an ambassadorial badge. Marking you as not to be trifled with." Or as someone that's owned.

Hilde speaks up cheerfully, "I can show you around some as well." That gets her a very polite scowl from Marcus.

[Ah-hah,] Thorn thinks. Nevertheless he nods, "Thank you, sir." He'll work out later how he can get his own mark so as not to be assumed to be 'owned' by Marcus. He may be dearly devoted to Athala, but that doesn't mean he's blind to at least some of the wiles of the fey. [And when they are walking proud and in the open upon the Earth,] Thorn thinks, [will everyone have to wear the marks of a fey? Stop that, stop that. Let's not get all young-adult dystopian-future novels here. At least not yet.] Marcus's displeasure at Hilde's offer seems to suggest that Marcus would dearly prefer to manage and control Thorn's intake of information. "Thank you, ma'am!" Thorn says gratefully, hoping nobody noticed that he noticed Marcus's reaction.

Hilde grins, once again looking like she can't be a day over 18 -- except for the glimmer in her eyes when Marcus looks irritated, "Of course! You've got a lot to do and I'll be a good guide. I promise to even bring him back safe and sound to this house on the same day we go exploring."

Thorn considers that one of the reasons Hilde prefers to appear to be so young is that it seriously screws with people's expectations of her. This makes her a lot more dangerous than Marcus maybe grasps. "I very much appreciate it, ma'am," Thorn says seriously, "thank you!" The next move, though, is in Marcus's hands. [How eager is he to make it seem like I'm not on a leash,] Thorn thinks, [versus keeping that leash as tight as possible?] He finds he rather resents being 'owned' by someone other than Athala. Maybe Marcus believes he's entitled to that because he's Athala's cousin. Thorn sees no reason to disabuse Marcus of that idea just yet. He attempts to put on an air of calm good humor and guileless mien.

Marcus has a very good political face; he smiles, "Of course, Hilde. I do have some negotiations to deal with tomorrow afternoon." He glances at Thorn, considering. Giving his cousin's thrall a long leash will give the human more opportunities to get information.

Killa has watched all of this with his strange flat face, then says, "I shall go. It will be a cold walk back already." That seems to be the cue for everyone to leave. Hilde doesn't hug Thorn, but she shakes his hand again and leaves in it a small card with a street address on it. It's deftly done. Marcus excuses himself and encourages Thorn to get some rest. Somehow it's couched in terms of it not being wise to be out of his room at night.

Thorn is reasonably sure Marcus doesn't want him snooping around... and to be honest, Thorn wasn't planning on it. That time may come, but he's not going to antagonize his host so quickly and so clearly. Even so, if it was dangerous to leave his room, Marcus would have said so. Instead, there were vague intimations. Thorn isn't of a mind -- right now -- to tempt fate, in case there is something dangerous. He doesn't look at the card until he's gotten back to his room, and there he makes sure it's tucked away in his wallet once he memorizes it. Then he puts on the pajamas, as not-so-subtly suggested, and slips into the bed, trying to ease his troubled and confused mind. There'll be time to untangle this mystery before very long.

The night passes quietly. Very quietly. Coblyn is not your normal street in a major city. There are no sounds of motors outside and the house itself only gives the occasional sound of settling. But also unlike most places in major cities, the street starts to come alive around 4:30 a.m. There's sounds of people calling to one another and something that sounds like hooves on the cobbled street outside. It sounds, actually, rather like Boston might have sounded pre-Revolution.

It's not long past 6:00 a.m. by the old fashioned clock on the bedside table when there's a brisk knock at the door. There's no pause to wait for permission before Ingrid shoulders her way into the room. The maid wheels in a cart with a covered tray on it and a steaming pot of coffee. On the cart's handle bar hangs something in a garment bag, "Good morning, Mr. Thorn. Mr. Marcus is already gone for the day, but he wanted us to make sure you ate a good breakfast before Hilde comes to get you."

Thorn is rather glad he doesn't have to face Marcus that morning. He has a feeling it would have been awkward. "Thank you," he says gratefully, "breakfast sounds perfect. If I may ask, why was the street suddenly active last night at about four AM?"

Ingrid smiles as she starts to set the food onto the little writing desk in the room. There's no table other than that and the bedside ones, "Vendors setting up. The folk here are early risers, so the fruit sellers and bakers and all like to have their stalls set up by 5:00. Some of the other vendors won't be set up until around 10:00 because people aren't shopping for cloth or woodcarvings or musical instruments at that time of the morning."

Thorn says, "I see; thank you, that's very helpful." He likes the sound of that. It's a community, and the community adapts to its members. He thanks Ingrid again, and sits down to breakfast before cleaning himself and getting ready for heading out onto Coblyn Street.

Ingrid's comment about early rising continues through to Hilde arriving. Just after 8:00, there's another knock on his door, but this time there's a cheerful voice asking, "Are you naked?"

Thorn blinks at the voice, putting down the newspaper from the day before -- the one bit of reading material that he brought with him. He shakes his head amusedly; he has a feeling he's going to have to get used to Hilde! Could be worse, though... he could have had to get used to Killa. He shivers at that, then calls out, "No, ma'am, I'm decent at the moment!"

The door opens and Hilde steps in. She couldn't be dressed more differently than the night before if she tried. The willowy fey body is wrapped in distressed jeans and a babydoll t-shirt with a picture of Hello Kitty as the grim reaper. She's wearing something that looks like Doc Martens, except the grommets look like they might be brass instead of steel. Her hair is braided into two tails that brush forward over her shoulders and she's wearing what looks like the world's most comfortable cardigan. She's also smiling brightly, "Ready to explore?"

The garment bag Ingrid brought in had proved to contain another suit, this one also tailored but in a sober gray pinstripe with a bright blue tie. Apparently Marcus wants Thorn to 'show' well. Ingrid had -- very quietly -- told him he didn't have to wear it if he didn't want to.

Thorn tries to hide his surprise at Hilde's appearance. This is not a fey member of the council he had expected! He smiles, nodding and having already changed into the other suit-- actually, no, he hadn't. He doesn't trust Marcus to not keep tabs on him. So for today he will wear the suit he came in with the other day. "All set!" he says.

Hilde reaches to take Thorn's hand, "First, we're going to just have a little wander. Let you get used to how the street looks. It's longer than it seems, so we'll only go a couple of miles in either direction... if that much."

Thorn lets Hilde take his hand. He isn't sure why he feels comfortable around Hilde -- maybe just that she�s come off as the most open of This Side's people so far. "A few miles?" he asks curiously. "And all of it is hidden from the rest of Boston? Should, ah... should I ask how, or is it just the way it is?

Hilde guides Thorn out of the residence as if she's quite familiar with it, "It's not just one how, it's several. The entrance is obscured. However you were guided here -- either with a map or someone guiding you -- you most likely would have walked right past it. It's always there, of course, but it's almost impossible to see." She's leading him along the street, a block or so past the ambassadorial residence, "Someone even fiddled with GPS and satellite surveillance, but I've no idea how. It's about ten miles end to end, but it doesn't move in a straight line. It sort of meanders. There are neighborhoods and cliques, of course." The ljosaelfar smiles at him, "And Marcus desperately wants me to be in his clique."

Thorn blinks, glancing around and seeing that they're some distance from Marcus's home. "I admit, I'd thought you already were." Now is when it gets interesting. "Why does he, and why don't you?"

Hilde hasn't let go of Thorn's hand and she's still smiling, strolling along with him as if she's known him all her life. "Because I was at the dinner last night? Makes sense. Mmm... because Marcus believes implicitly in the superiority of the supernatural races over humans. And he's quite certain that if we come out of the closet, so to speak, we'll take what he sees as our rightful place. Which is the place that the fae had in European ancient history. Demigods who did whatever they wanted. And I? Well, I think that he's way overestimating things. Humans have evolved. Technology has evolved. Do you know how hard it is to find clothes without steel or iron in them? I had to have a cobbler fix these..." She kicks one foot out to display the knee-high boot.

Thorn is -- briefly -- distracted by the knee-high Doc Martens. "The cobbler, uh, did a good job," he says a bit dumbly. "I was thinking the same thing -- that the supremacy of the supernatural races was, uh, This Group's goal, either intended or unintended. More likely intended."

Hilde smiles, "Very much intended. And I wanted to let you make your own choice. Hard to do when you're being overwhelmed and charmed and given all the beauty of a trod." She sighs softly, "I need to get home soon, speaking of that." She's led him a good mile and a half away by now and they're standing in front of a bakery when she stops and looks at him, "You're wearing the mark of the Trod of the Elm. That's going to keep you mostly safe. No one wants to mess with a trod that powerful. But I think you also might want to establish yourself as... well... yourself. We don't often get humans here... which makes me want to ask: just why were you sent?"

Erin is flying with them, but she's staying mostly out of sight. Martin can still see her if he glances around, but it's as if she doesn't want Hilde aware of her presence. Thorn nods, "I think you'd suggested that I find my own mark. As for why I'm here...." His lips quirk, "I guess you heard some of the jokes about me being Athala's 'puppet.' The truth is, she didn't give me any context or background to Coblyn Street. I genuinely think she wanted me to come to my own conclusions before reporting to her, and honestly... well, Marcus has left... maybe not the impression he thought he was making." Why is he saying that to her? He's known Hilde for even less time than Marcus! He glances to Erin. He knows the familiar's loyalty is to Athala, so he's not worried about them.

Hilde chuckles quietly, "I did indeed hear that. So you're sort of an emissary... aaaand... you're bound to her? Sort of a sharing thing? It's something Marcus' trod is really good at." She looks Thorn over carefully, "I don't see a leash, though. I guess she trusts you out on your own. Oh! Your mark. Yes. It's something we do here. It sort of registers you as a citizen rather than simply a tourist."

Thorn smiles wryly, "By 'leash' you mean something more than a physical leash? Yes, I'm here as her emissary and fact-finder. I think she wanted me to come here without any context, to see what there was to see and give her my impression. I've a feeling she knows most of what's going on here as it is." He pauses. "Who do you think killed Liam?" he asks quietly.

Hilde nods and looks actually solemn for a moment, "If she just threw you into the river to see if you'd swim, she must really trust you. Maybe she's starting to mistrust Marcus. Or to consider if she could take his place." She takes a deep breath and lets it out,"I don't know who it was, but I've got a handful of ideas of who might be involved. I'll give you three guesses. And I'll say you've already met two of them."

Thorn nods, "That's unfortunately my thought as well." He does pay some attention to their surroundings, letting himself get familiar with Coblyn Street, "So is it a single street? Coblyn, I mean. No tributaries? I think I've seen some alleyways...."

Hilde nods, "There are alleyways, yes. But none of them are more than a block or so deep. There's only one main street." They've stopped in front of a building that looks as if it was built around the time the Constitutional Convention was happening in Philadelphia, "We're going to see Llewellyn. He'll register your mark. You'll need to give him a hair or a drop of blood. You'll also need to think of something you can quick-sketch. It'll be your official signature, and give you some freedom of your own. Just in case."

Thorn looks at the building. "How... how long as Coblyn Street been here?" he asks quietly. Then he shakes his head, "Sorry, it just struck me -- how old the building is. Yes, that shouldn't be a problem."

Hilde looks up at the building, "As long as Boston has been. So..." she tips her head and thinks back, "or almost as long. So at least... 1630? I mean, we literally came over on the boat. Gods, the Puritans would have been so horrified to know who and what they brought along." Her grin flashes again, "This building is called Currier's Hall. It's sort of the town hall of the whole place. C'mon." She tips her head and takes Thorn's hand again, and he lets himself be led into Currier's Hall. A large part of him is actually comfortable here, and would like to live here as a citizen rather than as just a tourist.

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