View source for Log:New England Greetings and Irish Goodbyes

{{ Log
| cast = [[Franklyn_Garreau|Franklyn]], [[Rowan]], & [[November]]. 
| summary = Rainy day brings together a New England newcomer with a long-time local who's struggling to stay positive about small town tricks -- good thing the Trickster herself and their fine feathered friend pops along to brighten the place up a bit.
| gamedate = 2017.10.08
| gamedatename = 
| subtitle = Do you paint? What are you ''in to''? What makes you go '''''wild'''''?
| location = [[Cat-22_Collective|Cat-22 Collective]]
| categories = Changeling, Mortal
| log = Cat-22 -- it's a bustling little collective cafe set into the industrial side of town. Outside the weather is tempestuous - a chance of thunderstorms and a whole lot of rain. Inside? It's cozy and warm and smells of coffee and fresh baked goods. A worker's utopia, in other words; or at least as close as anyone's gonna find in rural Vermont...

Inside, sitting at the piano over yonder, is a young woman. She is dressed like... Well like some kind of bohemian: a long white maxi dress of of gauzy linen and crochet, with a pair of platform clogs on her feet and a flouncy silky flowery shawl-kimono-shrug thing in black-and-red-and-green with a whooole bunch of tassels. They sway and shake, along with an abundance of bangles and bracelets, as the woman idly plays a few notes. No real song, just scales - although she is looking at some scraps of crumpled sheet music in front of her, annotated in red.

That woman is Franklyn -- and Franklyn? Looks glum. So glum. The melancholy practically wafts off of her -- in fact, for Lost senses? It /does/ waft off of her, a thick emotional fug of thoughtful longing and discontent. Oh the pathos! With a sigh, Franky goes to reach for something behind her ear and... Oh. There's nothing there. She looks left, she looks right, she does not find what she is looking for. Cue another siiiiigh.


Rowan enters and orders herself a coffee and a muffin, watching the melancholy woman with curious interest as she waits. Seeing an opportunity, she grabs an unattended pen from the counter and strides over, holding it out and giving the woman a bright, cheerful smile. "Hiya," she greets in a thick Irish accent, "You looking for one of these, by chance?"


Franklyn blinks -- at first she was alone with her forlorn piano playing and gloomy bohemian misery, but now she's turning and staring up at the Earthy Beauty of... Oh, oh well Franky is -mortal-, right? Yeah. As mortal as mortal could possibly be -- maybe she's shocked to see Rowan because of some kind of, uh, social disorder or something.

The Mortal girl blinks twice, and then tilts her head to the side -- slooowly reaching out to accept the pen, although she's not looking away. Her voice, when she speaks? Posh New England, all the way. She must be local. "You must've read my mind." The Fairest is getting a full head-to-toe once over. Franky must've not got the memo that staring is rude -- although when she looks back at Rowan's face? Franklyn is suddenly smiling: bright and beaming and maybe a touch manic. "Is that... Cork? It's so beautiful! Where are you from?" A beat. "=Why= are you /here/?!"

Such an accusation! It's like Franky can't imagine why anyone would want to visit rural Vermont...


Rowan chuckles and wrinkles her nose a bit, watching Franky curiously as she goes from shock to staring to smiling, but the sudden changes don't seem to bother her much. She's prone to quick shifts in emotional weather herself. "Ah no, pet, that's Dublin. Cork folks sound like this." The last offered up in a slightly, almost imperceptibly different accent to anyone who isn't from Ireland. "'Tis a pretty country, sure, useless for work like. There's a reason we lot have a tendency to emmigrate en masse every few generations." She considers the latter question and shrugs, giving a little laugh, "Ah well, not many festivals left for the year, and this seemed a convenient place to be as any. What about you, are you from around here?" She takes a seat, crossing a leg over one knee, leaning back and splaying her arm out across the back of a second chair, definitely owning the space around her. "


"Dublin!" Franklyn says this like it is, very possibly, the most exciting and lovely thing she's ever heard EVER in the existence of the universe. Really. She does. Sure, it's immensely over the top - but then again? So is Franky. The Mortal girl -- for all her recent melancholy - is... Strikingly expressive. It's her tone, her posturing, the way her hands flutter through the air as she speaks, the bend of her head as she leans towards Rowan, and the depth of earnestness in those big, green eyes of hers.

Franky is totally extra.

She is also /leaning/ in on the accent differentiation, suddenly an apt pupil as Rowan mimics the subtle differences. Franklyn's brow knots, and she spins on the piano stool so she can be -even closer- to the Fairest, skirts a flutter and hair wild as she chimes, "'Well if its work yer after, you're gonna be a mite disappointed, pet. They closed the mines here a long time ago, and there tis nothin' left but dairy farming, beer brewing, and tappin' sugar from the old maples."

DAMN GIRL. Who sounds like she's from County Clare? Franklyn does.

Laughter, and the ruse is dropped -- back comes the posh New England accent, and a hint of The Morbs. "Oh... Yeah." Glum. Sooo glum. "I'm a Garreau -- our family's been here for like, forever." Suuuch sadness. "I used to live in the City." The City? New Englander speak for NYC. "But I came back..." Dramatic pause. "...To run the Green Door Theatre."

It's like Franky's saying she has an incurable disease. Then? Sudden brightness sparks! "What kind of festivals are you into, huh? Music? Art? Comedy? Food? I want to know =everything=." See? So extra.


Rowan seems rather enamoured of the strikingly expressive Franklyn, grinning a bit at her enthusiasm for the old country. The accent gets a genuine laugh and a clap of delight, "Oh, that's fabulous. You're quite good at that. I'd have thought you'd come straight off the boat." She leans in at the return of the glumness though, peering at Franklyn and wondering, "Why does being from here make you so unhappy? Seems like as good a place as any to be. Perhaps not...well, /definitely/ not as high energy as the city, but it seems a pretty active town. And running a theater sounds like a good bit of craic." She chuckles as the winds shift and Franky is back to enthusiasm town. "Oh well, I'm not really particular. I was rolling with a group for a while ran the circuit, music and art mostly, some food festivals. We did roadie work and that sort of thing. Good fun, really, but I figured I should actually stop for a few months and see what sort of world America is when you're stationary for more than a week at a time."


"Thank you luvvie, it's just something I picked up..." Oh listen to that, Franky is so -modest-. Well, she's /acting/ like she is, but the little wiggle of her shoulders may suggest that she knows exactly how good she can be when impersonating someone else. Does it make her seem happy? Er, no. Clue another roll of melancholy at Rowan's question, and Franklyn leans backwards -- resting an elbow on the edge of the piano, without quite pressing down on any of those keys. 

Such a forlorn sigh as she considers her response. "...Oh, you know how it is... It's not even really the city, or the town, or the theatre -- it's like, an inexorable ''something'', but I'll be damned if I can get to the ''essence'' of the thing, you know? It's just a =vibe=? Sure, there's the occasional ''craic'' to be had, but... Maybe it's the weather..." Franky seems so weary when she says this - like the skinny waif of a girl hasn't eaten properly or slept in, oh, about two months.

Time for a subject change. Franklyn leans forward again, her elbows on her knees and clasped hands under her chin as she stares up at Rowan, suddenly keen and inquisitive. "Music and art. That sounds amazing. Do you play?" The piano is motioned too, but Franky won't look away. "Do you paint? What are you =into=? What makes you go //wild//? I'm talking like, shoes off, arms in the air, whirling Dirvish, spin towards the future, =SCREAM= at the top of your lungs---"

A beat. Franklyn tilts her head to the side and blinks; suddenly going quiet: 

"Oh. What's your name again?"


Rowan gives Franky a look of sympathy as she expresses her general state of ennui. "Ah, well, I'm sure there's something that can help lift a funk like that, my friend." She gets a glint in her eye and a hint of mischief that seeems to almost rise off her as she says this, though for the moment, she simply focuses on the ever-shifting tides of Franky's emotions. "Ah, well, I play a little and do a bit of this and that, artistically, but I'm not that good a hand at it, truth be told." She considers the question of what she's into and laughs with a shrug, "Ah, well, adventure, new experience, a bit of fun, good drink and good company. That's what I like, really." The request for proper introduction has Rowan smacking her forehead in an exagerated way, "Oh! Forgive me, I'm Rowan. New arrival to town, as you probably gathered. It's a real pleasure to meet you."


November is not Bohemian today; she is androgynous and, in five-inch heels, a good 6'5" tall, but no, definitely not Bohemian and definitely not melancholy. Possibly a joke about salt water taffy waiting to happen, given the vertical stripes of white and caramel on opaque tights, but not melancholy. The weather may be gloomy and grey -- and wet -- but she is dry, dry, dry, and...well, it's a subtle thing, but she just seems a teensy smidge more -real- than everything around her. More vibrant. More saturated, and with hair like that, there's plenty to saturate.

Strands catching the light when she walks in, that wet-look fall of pin-straight, heavy hair is easily a hundred different shades, if not more, and scarcely seems real. How many hours did it take for her hair artist to do that many narrow scalp-to-tip streaks on hair THAT long? If it weren't for the poofy petticoat under her chiffon skirt, it would easily reach close to the backs of her knees. Also, it's 85% humidity out there, for crepes' sake. How can someone NOT be frizzling like a crazy person? 

Long story short, it's tough to miss the totally-not-a-faerie-really Fairest on her way in, even though all she does IS walk into the room. Granted, she could make that easier by, you know, not walking in with a white crow perched on her wrist, but. Striding toward the bakery counter as though she were a regular, she takes her place in line with an air of Anything Could Happen and effortless authority, arm crooked at the elbow, and murmurs to the bird, "You are -not- getting pumpkin."

Franklyn and Rowan get a sidelong glance, amused, from one slanted amber eye.


Franky just goes 'mmmm', and gives Rowan a mysterious (and guarded...) smile at the solution to her funk: ambiguous mischief. Is the dramatic Mortal going to share more? Newp. Bangles jingle as she lifts a hand to swoop her hair out of her face, watching the Fairest carefully. "All one needs is -focus-." She says, after Rowan mentions artistic talents. "You know what they say? One must cultivate their garden." 

Oh Franklyn... Yeah, causal Voltaire quote there. /Somebody/ spent too much time at fancy liberal arts college, eh? 

"Rowan! Ooh, that's a... Type of mountain ash, right? A witch wiggin!" Franklyn laughs - so cheery! - and she opens her mouth to say something else, only... Only she gets distracted. Distracted by November's entrance. 

How could Franky ''not' be?! The Mortal girl stares and...

...and then she shoots up a hand, and wave-wave-waves in November's direction. Ah yes. The Franky special might just be 'rapid cycling manic/depressive episode', and right now? Manic. "YOU." That is not her name, Franky - try and remember... Franklyn's mouth opens to say something - but, but, but... Nothing comes. She just gawks.

Then Franklyn leans back and... Plays a few bars on the piano -- eyes darting between Rowan and November, back and forth, back and forth.


Rowan can't help but look over at the arrival of November, taking in the whole rainbowy package for a long moment before focusing suspiciously on the crow. Eyes narrowed over the rim of her mug as she takes a sip of her coffee, she finally breaks eye contact with the bird and returns her attention to Frankly. "Oh yes, Rowan is indeed an ash tree. Old fair folk tree of protection." She shrugs and wrinkles her nose, then suggests abruptly, but with a gleeful sort of enthusiasm. "You know, some friends of mine and I are in a bit of a competition. Perhaps you could help. Should be a bit of fun, really. We've decided to see who can be the worst sort of sinner over the next couple months. Points for creativity and all that, as you might expect. I've been considering the options. Figure I'll go for a 'bingo' with the seven deadlies, you know? Proper piss up will take care of the gluttony, I'd say, but the others...It gets a bit harder with some. You game for helping me win?" She seems rather skilled, and well practiced, at trying to entice others into trouble. She glances over, when Franky waves to November, including her in the offer to join in the troublemaking.


The crow does, indeed, get pumpkin.

Not because he begs, no, clearly not, even if the sidelong walk up toward her upper arm does precede a bout of shameless fluff-snuggling and little sounds he SHOULD, by rights, be embarrassed to be making in public.

The hungry have no shame!

Clearly, petticoats conceal myriad things, including pockets, because the tall, pale woman reaches in, pulls out a slim wallet and pays with exact change before taking her pair of muffins across the room toward the small performance space. Her own is blueberry, naturally. Colours must eat colours.

Smiling down at the duo upon arrival, she introduces herself as, "November an Nua, and this would be Yrrh, who refused to be a decent fellow and wait outside in the rain." Yes, keeping crows as pets is illegal. Does she appear to care? Nnnoooope. Her own accent is Massachusetts-meets-Ireland, where the lilt is Irish but pronunciation tends not to be. Irish parents? Lived there for a while? Tough to say. Regardless, the prospect of sins prompts a thoughtful, amber-eyed appraisal of Franklyn, then Rowan -- and, after a nip at her arm, the crow. He and his white plumage do accessorise her outfit quite nicely. Bird and pumpkin muffin are deposited upon the floor beside the piano, much to his gluttonous glee. "There's one sinner for you."


"So you're a protector?" Franky chimes at Rowan, although she herself is having a hard time tearing her attention away from November and her amazing albino Crow-Friend Yrrh. "Or do--..." Franky fades, and turns and looks at Rowan with a strangely blank expression after she's mentioned the 'sinning competition'. 

Huh. That's odd. The absence of Franklyn expressiveness is, in some paradoxical way, very expressive.

Doesn't last long though; there's a creeping sense of uncertainty, beneath that facade of blank curiosity. "Am I game..." For a long moment Franklyn is quiet. Totally quiet. Don't answer the question, don't, don't, don't -- don't /agree/ to anything Franky, just... Jesus. Is she sweating? A little bit of perspiration has broken out on Franky's brow.

"NOVEMBER." Instead of answering, Franklyn's attention just snaps back to the totally-not-a-Fairest-wink-nudge, and she gestures in greeting to the woman she vaguely-vaguely knows and is vaguely-vaguely scared of and-- oh she's talking about sin too. Franky turns to look at Yrrh gobble up that muffin, leaning back to tap out a few more bars on the piano. S'like she expects the bird to -dance- or something. Foolish Mortal.


Rowan's brow furrows at Franky's sudden evasiveness and lack of enthusiasm, sighing and pouting just a touch as it seems she's unlikely to get the mortal girl to join in her fun. "Ah well," she murmurs to herself, then focuses on November, "Hello." The bird is given another suspicious look, but as it seems to come with the colorful new arrival, she tries to shrug it off. "Oh, we're all sinners really, just depends on how...enthusiastic you want to be about it. Myself, I tend to be a cut and dry debaucher, but I'm willing to explore the other possibilities for a bit of fun." She ponders, suggesting almost to herself, "Maybe I'll go pick a bar fight tonight or something." Focusing on the conversation at hand once more, she grins and remembers, this time at least, to introduce herself properly, "I'm Rowan. New to town, so I don't imagine we've met. Though I think I'd remember you, if we had. You two are friends, I take it?"


For her part, November is as unruffled and mildly amused as ever. It's not a specific amusement, nothing quite as targeted as 'I know something you don't know'...buuuuut at the same time, it does share similar notes, amber eyes inviting any and all mischief to come her way. Or hang out a while, spread itself around. You know. Make friends. SOMEthing has her very pleased. The crow, leucistic technically (he has black eyes and, since they can see his mien, iridescent pearly scales on his legs), ignores all of this, greedily stuffing his beak.

"Mmmm." Considering Rowan, then glancing around Cat-22, the rainbow suggests a half-laughed, "Best not start a riot -here-... The owner is an Alexander, for one thing, and for another, he...ah, may or may not have thrown a molotov cocktail into a police station, and got off on a technicality. You'll always find a cop within a quick jog of these doors." And my, is she pleased about THAT one. Pity she isn't human. 

Sidestepping to drop down near Franklyn with muffin in hand after a moment of studying the manic Garreau, she adds, "Not friends yet," with the implication that she's not closing that door, "but we've met before. Do you like birds?" Ah, yes. She DID notice the look the stranger gave her crow. 

To Franklyn, ignoring the fact that her hair is now puddling on the floor, she wonders aloud, "Would you happen to know John Denver's 'Calypso'?"
 

Franklyn most certainly does not look back up at Rowan as the Fairest talks about enthusiastic sinners -- which would be odd, because it is entirely uncharacteristic of the Mortal girl; just nobody's around who'd know that. Franky is free to seem melancholy, brooding over the piano - fingers tapping out some scales, before she lets a note echo through, and recites in a clear, low tone: "''Though such capricious endeavours are not without peril, and one must often pay dearly for them, what does an eternity of damnation compare with an infinity of pleasure in a single second?''"

Such delivery! Shouldn't she be on stage? 
Don't remind Franklyn - she'll only get more depressed.

This said... When November talks about C.B., the Mortal girl has an ever-ever-ever-EVER so faint smirk on her face - chin lifted so she can side-eye her. Is she making fun of C.B.? Is that fondness? "Police brutality is no laughing matter." Yet she is -smirking-. Oh Franky.. Look how tired she is. Soo tired.

Tired enough that the friend question gets nothing more than a vaguely queasy smile, then Franky is staring at Yrrh, "...Theyarebeautiful." Mumble, mumble, hunch - such a reluctantly given compliment! Then Franklyn turn and blinks, looking between Rowan and November with confusion. "...Calypso?"

No. Franky is a Millennial. She does not know John Denver songs. Her head is shook accordingly.

She does know esoteric indie-pop though. Turning back to the piano, Franky hesitates and starts playing something else entirely. Is Franky a pianist? Not a great one - but hey, performing arts school teaches a lot of subjects. Her style is eerily simple, but so is the tune: crystalline, morose, delicate. A waltz for a funeral. Extra, remember? Franky is -extra-. 


Rowan laughs as November tells of CB, eyes glinting as she jokes, "Sounds like /he's/ the one I need to talk to about finding a partner in crime. It sounds like quite the character." On the bird question, she nods and shrugs a bit, "Oh sure, birds are nice enough. Crows are interesting characters, though. Never quite know what to think of them." She pauses as Franky starts playing the glum tune, brow furrowing even as her mouth quirks up into a little half smile, "Oh my, this does seem serious. Tell me, my dear new friend, what on /earth/ could we do to bring you joy? What makes /you/ jump up dance around, all that fun stuff you were going on about earlier?"


Much sadness. All the disappointment. ...okay, not ALL of it. Maybe a teaspoon of it in amber eyes and a subtle settling of weight from ball to heel where she crouches beside the pianist. In five-inch heels, mind. This should be torture, but she shows no sign of it. Just what DO Keepers put their Fairests through? Tsk.

"Making me feel old," she sighs, rising, and touches the backs of her knuckles -- ice cold even through her Mask -- to Franklyn's shoulder in casual caress, brief, moving down toward the mortal's elbow. That's totally comforting, isn't it? "I'll find you a songbook. He had a beautiful spirit." 

Leaving that, seeing as Franklyn is playing again, she flashes a swift smile Rowan's way and suggests, "I'd look for Count as well, though he's been scarce of late. If you're of a mind to find a friendly pub, you'll be wanting Desrochers. Family fun. If you're more interested in a good old fashioned blue-collar brawl, you'll want The Union. Avoid Gisa. She's entirely too virtuous." Virtue, it seems, is not always a good thing.


"...He's something special, alright." Franklyn murmur-replies to Rowan -- wait, was that aloud? Inexpert pianist that she is, Franky ups the tempo, as if louder notes will draw less attention to her words. Don't mind her! Pay attention to the music! A quick glance to Yrrh, like she expects that bird to start cawing and cackling in her direction or something. Odd Mortal. 

Take the way Franklyn goes all jerky and shuddery when November touches her back -- it's like ice-cubes have been put down her top, or something! It has Franky laughing in this odd, manic way -- complete with a little high-pitched note of 'aaaaah' which she tries to work into the song; 

{{tab}}"Aaaah-and you, you look like heaven,"

{{tab}}"An angel who stepped from a dream..."

{{tab}}"Seven hundred and seventy-seven times lovelier than,"

{{tab}}"Anything I've ever seen."

{{tab}}"The rest of life pales, in significance..."

Then an abrupt stop, and Franklyn takes her hands away from the keyboard like she's afraid they're going to burn her, and she turns to look at the two Faires-- one Fairest and the Totally Normal Person with a Crow. "...Count is more, ah, laid back - more relaxed, if you want debauched tom-follery." A pause, then Franky peers at Rowan. "Do you shoot?"

Stare, stare, stare. Then Franklyn swallows, tries to look less worried, and puts on a Happy Face(tm) as she belatedly answers her question. "...I like stories. Stories are nearly my favourite thing -- I care about what makes people passionate, what gets their blood pumping, what they'd protect and how far they'd go for it... Those kind of stories." A pause, then Franky turns and slooowly looks at November. "Say... What happened the last time you were in a bar fight?"

Nothing like a leading question.


Rowan watches the exchange between November and Franky with curiousity, frowning a bit and considering, then looking to Franky, giving her a little smile. "Mmm, well, there's plenty of stories in the world. What sort of stories do /you/ make for yourself?" Novembers suggestions on people and places to get to know is taken in, filed away for later, Franky's question about shooting gets a raised eyebrow and a laugh, "I shoot...arrows? I shoot, uh, hoops? But if you mean guns, no, I've never really been much good with them, truth be told. They're so loud like." She turns to November, now curious to hear the tale of the woman's last bar fight, seeming surprised that there is an implication that there's been more than one such event.


Yes. Totally Normal Person whose touch is like ice and who has a permanent Photoshop filter set to Make Me Look Better. Regarding Count, the rainbow's addition is, "He is hot," with the dour dissatisfaction of one to whom that is Not A Good Thing. Still, Franklyn's happyfaced response about stories prompts a pleased little half-smile -- whiiiich freezes where it is, when she's asked about HER last bar fight.

Expressive features shift, speculation and self-probing of memory, flickers of this emotion and that, before settling on a wry laugh and a mild, "The -last- time I was in a bar fight, I believe a vampire was involved, though I've no proof of it, of course, but I think the most entertaining was the time a stranger whipped out a battle axe. Why on earth she had one of those with her, and how on earth she managed to -conceal- it, I will never know..." 

Blinking her way out of reminiscences, she adds, "I lost, as an aside. Terribly. I don't scar, so I've no proof of it, but it was delightfully messy."


"...That is a very elegant way of dodging my question." Franklyn says to Rowan -- but it's the darnedest thing, she looks happy? Amused? Her lips twist, and she looks the Fairest up and down again. Suspicious? Maybe. But also appreciative... Lords, what erratic mood-swingy waif this Mortal be -- because as swift as the smile twisted into existence? It unravels - back into a morose contemplation, as Franky leans and starts gathering up her sheepskin coat and oversized black purse.

Can't forget her baggage now, can we.

"What kind of stories... Oh. Huh. Shame about the guns... You know what? So long as you're not here to..." Rowan is =squinted= at, all suspicious like, "...Compromise my agency." What?! "You should swing by the Green Door Theatre, and I'll talk to you about stories -- if you're sure to bring your own." A beat. "Also a bottle of Lagavulin."

Franky! That's /Scottish/ whiskey, not Irish.

Who cares about -that- though, because November is starting to explain her story, and Franklyn freezes; paused halfway through putting on her jacket. She is -enthralled-. LOOK AT HER. Those eyes have lit up, her mouth is open in a slack, stunned smile: she is /eating this story up/. It's over all too quick for Franky, and she's left with this hazy eyed, dreamy expression that totally suggests Franklyn is already writing some internal fanfic about November and the Battle Axe Vampire Bar Brawl.

Then? With zero warning? Franky is swooping up her bag and just high-tailing it out of there with a clop-clop-clop of her platform clogs and a flouncy swoosh of those skirts. Scared? Curious? Not wanting to ruin a perfect moment? Who knows -- maybe she's just trying to be hospitable, in giving the Erie accented Fairest's an Irish Goodbye.
}}