Log:Spontaneous Session at the Wayhouse

Spontaneous Session at the Wayhouse
Participants Tryptych, Weaver Utridge, Maggie Locklear, Dielle Henner	24 April, 2018 Changelings gather at the wayhouse, and the Harvestmen gain a new recruit.
Location The The Wayhouse
Tryp can be found in the dining room, a laptop set out on the table and a series of cords running from the wall to the laptop and from the laptop to various other pieces of equipment on the table. She is furiously typing something, growling mostly to herself, then deleting everything. "Stupid middle of no where." she rants to herself. "Stupid lack of proper infrastructure. Stupid mobile tower internet. stupid stupid stupid!" she looks like she is about to punch the laptop, then pauses, shaking her head. She reaches out to gently pat the edge of it. "It's okay." She murmers to herself, mostly. Weaver's arrival is silent, although when he stands at the threshold of the dining room it's hard to miss him. He clears his throat, and calls out, "It might help if you don't call everything stupid. Some short fucker told me that it all goes better when you treat the shit that can't talk back like they're family, but I'll admit that he was a weird little bastard. All goblin and no fun." The last is noted with a lazy shrug. The man's wearing a white hoodie bearing the crest of FB high school, cargo shorts, and a pair of loafers that look to be fresh out of the box. Beyond his intteruption of Tryptarch's ire he's currently messing around with his own phone, tapping away while occasionalyl stealing a glance up. A short sharp bark of a laugh escapes Trip. "Yeah. They say that, but the bitch spirit in this one probably is stupid." She sighs then shakes her head. "Haven't had time to infuse it with a proper AI and it doesn't help that there isn't technology to speak of in this podunk town." She pushes the laptop away somewhat annoyed (rather than angrily) and then leans back in her chair throwing booted feet up onto the table. It's now that she finally really looks at Weaver. "Well fuck me sideways," she says, in a low voice not intended for others ears but is probably loud enough. "Fuuuuck." Weaver chuckles in response, and lifts a hand in request for a moment. Then the phone is set inside the pockets of his hoodie. "While I appreciate the offer, I'm not so easy a man. I'd like a dinner and a nice walk on teh beach first. Maybe a few bottles of wine, too, but I may just be old-fashioned." A brow quirks as he looks over the other Lost and he asks, "Or is this one of those things involving your computer losing signal in the middle of some game?" Tryp blushes hard enough to match her pink hair. Which, to say the least for the punk anarchist Dusk, that is quite a thing given that she usually doesn't feel any shame for being who she is. "No that's .. Nah. You're not so bad looking, but... You're a ... /Dragon/." The word is said with an emphasis that really more matches a little bit of fear than awe. "Just didn't expect one here. Not sure why, but you know. Wasn't thinking it I guess." She sighs and shakes her head again, trying to lean back in her chair with her feet up on the table and look calm, while doing it. She fails, looking quite the bit nervous. Maggie wonders in, but there's no mantle that accompanies her. Or any weird animals. She's completely normal looking. Which is probably a red flag in the Changeling society. She is dressed in jeans, long sleeved shirt and boots. She's carrying a few bags of groceries and she's whistling as she heads past where Weaver and Tryptych are having their conversation. "Good evening." the Native American woman offers with a smile as she heads for the kitchen. Weaver looks down to his clawed fingers and then starts rolling up his sleevs. He runs his hands over each of his revealed forearms, and then nods. "I do suppose I am a dragon," he responds as pillars of smoke escape the sides of his fanged maw. "If it happens to make you feel better I wasn't expecting the terminator in faerie form, either. Well, I guess I was expecting that eventually, but not especially tonight. Maybe if-" His voice trails off as the greeting fron the entering Maggie takes his mind off the notion of dragons. "Um, hello to you too?" Tryp grins widely "You think I look like Summer Glau? That sarah connor chroniles show should have gone on for more than a few years. But she's good and sexy hot so I'll take that compliment." Maggie is given a slow nod as she enters, then Tryp rolls her shoulders, before sitting a bit straighter. "I'm Tryptych, but everyone calls me Tryp. NIce ta meetcha. Both of ya, whomever you all are." Maggie just drops the bag on the table and there's the sound of someone else in the kitchen. Then there's a "Damn it, Maggie!" and a laugh that follows but nothing else. The woman returns and leans against the doorframe and waves. "Sorry, someone was hangry." she tells them. "Nice to meet you, Tryp. I'm Maggie. I'm a Waykeeper here. Do you guys need anything?" she asks them as she looks to both of them with a smile. Weaver tips his head in greeting, and announces himself last. "Weaver, Moon, yadda yadda yadda." He then turns his crimson gaze to Tryptych once more. "And not whoever that lady is. I meant Arnie. All shotgun, leather jacket, and 'I'll be back,'" he says the last with his best impression of the actor. Read: nowhere near close, and it sounds more Dutch than anything else. "Also, what's hangry? Is that like some kinda hangerthing?" Beat. "Do you nead a hanger? If so there's an outlet place not too far from here that probably sells them in batches." Tryp lets a snort fly and shakes her head. "Best Terminator ever. Fem term is almost as good as femshep, but I'll take it like you don't mean it." She puts her hands behind her head and her feet cross on the ankles on top of the table. "I bet those hangers are plastic shit anyways." Clearly, she knows the slang term, but is having fun poking at the dragon anyways. As the Dragon and the no mantle no strange woman talk, Tryp fishes out a pair of business cards. Purple, with a three headed cartoonish cat on them, and an email address. "If you guys are in need of computer work, my fee's are reasonable." She offers up the cards. Always be networking. Maggie for her part is quiet for the meantime. She just gives a smile to them though and there's a nod, "Nice to meet you as well, Weaver." she offers to him. Then she accepts the card that Tryp offers. "Thank you, I'll call you if I need computer work." she states with a nod to that. "Reasonable fees are always nice." she adds. There's a click-click-click as Weaver taps a claw against his scaled jaw, and hums. "That depends. What's your opinion on identity theft and fraud?" he asks with a quick glance to the door. "Are you for or against such things when it comes to, as my uncle put it, increasing your personal wealth." Tryp shrugs slightly at the question. "It depends on the target. I've got no problem taking advantage of those who can afford to loose it. Those who can't... " she shakes her head. "Well those, I don't touch. People don't deserve to be put into more misery than where they already are. But if they have the way to deal with the loss... eh. Fuck em." Dielle walks into the Wayhouse, wearing a plain black t-shirt, jeans, and her usual cowboy hat and boots. She's carrying a box of something that can't be seen because it's an opaque box, but given the scent that's going with her, it's something edible and sweet. Maggie gives a look between Weaver and Tryptych and she doesn't have any input there. So the woman gives a bit of a smile and a nod to them, "If you need a Waykeeper just yell for one of us. Or something." she muses. "I'm going to head out. Got animals to tend to. Have a good night." she states. Then she's heading to leave and there's a smile to Dielle, "Evening." she states on her way out. "Will do," Weaver calls back to Maggie. "Fuck 'em, eh? I mean you could, but I hope you have the sensabilities to charge them first. Never, ever turn down a good chance to make some extra money," says the dragon. "Anyway, everybody looks miserable anyway so what's wrong with adding some more to it, hmm? It might push them to try even harder with everything they do. Maybe. This may be why I failed psych 101, but I was told it was some kinda narse sissy thing." He shrugs then, giving the new face a brief wave. "Are you the one with the hangers she was talking about?" "Dragon-man, you are far to litteral," Tryp says, with a shake of her head. "You gotta chill and let loose. Maybe drop down a few notches on the ring of seriousness, eh?" Tryp then blinks at the entrance of Dielle, then grins slightly, popping up out of her chair. "Ah! You must be the lady I'm to meet! I'm Tryp, I'm the one who left the message, about joining the Harvestmen? Bah at that, we're women Harvest people." She grins broadly, perhaps slightly more excited than she should be as she bobs her head near Dielle. "I'm ready cap'n! Whatever you need, I'm willing to help with!" "Evenin'!" Dielle says to the departing Maggie. She turns back to Tryptych and Weaver and says, cheerfully, "That's me! Although, I gotta ask, first question: are you sworn to the freehold already? If not, there might be a slight glitch in the works, since it's a freehold thing, not a Court thing. By the way, I'm Dielle Henner, nice to meet you." Her accent is a very strong Southern accent, sounding more Texan than anywhere else. "Good evening to you, Dielle, and I am not serious." Weaver huffs, sending smoke from his nostrils as he harumps at Tryptych's reply. "I don't think I've ever been so insulted except by that guy that said I smelled like corn chips and alcoholism, but that may have also been slightly true." After that bit of an admission he straightens a bit, brow quirked as his attentions turn to Dielle. "Harvestmen? Or women. Whichever. Do you all farm up fruits and the like, or..." Tryp bobs her head. "Yep, did that the other day. Even read a stack of papers a scary rainbow haired lady gave me out of a time space pocket she had in her side. Or somewhere, I donno. No where on that outfit she was wearing could have held that stack of papers." She shakes her head with a bit of annoyance and none to amount of distrust. "I don't know if I trust people who are that Wyrd." She pauses in her spilling of statments to Dielle, and turns toward the Dragon for a moment, looking at Weaver. "You know though. You sound like you have a hint of these things that I deal in. If thats the case, well maybe we can work together. No deals though, sorry. But we might be able to at least work side by side." She sticks out her tongue and makes a bleh sound. "Gah. Dragon. I'm sorry Weaver. You seem like a nice guy, but... Dragon. That is something thats hard to get by. Like a bit of chip stuck in your throat, you know right on the side where your tongue can't reach it..." Dielle puts down the box and opens it. There's a dozen cupcakes inside, although she takes one that's very clearly /hers/, since it's all rainbow-colored. "Nice t'meet you both. I got no freaking clue what idiot decided to call the freehold militia the "harvestmen", but if we harvest anything, it tends to be somethin' a little more gory than fruits. It's pretty easy to join us, just poke me or Czcibor Kowal," and she pronounces that "chee-bor koval". "He's my Second. You get to join us for about a month, train with us to make sure you don't accidentally kill your fellow militia, and then poke us again to get made a full-time person. Easiest group in the freehold to join, but that's prob'ly because if you betray us, there's a lot of high Wyrd folks that're gonna come down on you like a ton of bricks." "Militia? That sounds like fighting without pay, and even worse that you'd have to fund your own weapons." A shiver goes down Weaver's spine, and it looks as if the ogre might retch at the thought. "But! I will make sure to keep you all in mind the next time I piss off a nest of fire ants. And I've almost never fucked over anyone I've made a deal with." He stops to flash a wide, toothy, maniacal smile. "Scout's honor and all of that shit." He then lifts up a hand, and holds up three fingers. Tryp gives a very bad, very sloppy salute. Its not at all professional. "Well, I can shoot straight, and I'm OK with melee. I prefer to be shooting though." She chuckles slightly, then gives that off-kilter grin. "So sign me up. I did some listening bout the other groups, and I am no healer, librarian, and I can't do crap in dreams so this is the best place for me." She laughs again, then offers a hand toward Dielle. "Im a rootin'tootin roarin' ready to go boss!" Her glance toward Weaver after all this indicates that she does not quite believe him, and will not be making any deals with him anytime soon. Dragons. A mild shudder goes through her. Dielle takes Tryp's hand in a hearty shake. "Welcome to the Harvestmen," she says. "It's a pleasure to have you! I prefer to shoot, too. I'm pretty fond of my gun, and I figured out archery since joining, so that's a goodness, too." She glances at Weaver and says, "No worries, I ain't askin' you to join. I prefer volunteers, they tend to know what they're doing or be willin' to learn." Weaver nods along slowly, but still appears to disbelieve. "I'm just gonna take your word on that shit. If I'm gonna take a stab at dying for somebody they better be paying me pretty goddamned well, if not my fucking weight in gold. Also, those also sound like very boring jobs, Tryp. Unless they pay. Then that might be a bit different. And better. I forgot to add better to that." Tryp gives another sloppy salute, then throws herself backward into the nearest chair, flopping her feet up on the table with a large sigh. "Well. That was tough. I don't like going through interviews," She says, mostly it seems to herself. "Thank you Cap'n commander ma'am!" She throws out there after putting her hands back behind her head again. "Look'in forward to meeting others and doing training stuffs. Dielle shrugs at Weaver, and looks as entirely unimpressed as it's possible to look. She bites into her cupcake, chews and swallows. "My pleasure, Tryptych. Always a pleasure to bring someone into the fold, as it were. Got a lot of heavy hitters as it is, and there's always upward mobility, if you're interested in leading." "But, you're a milita," Weaver muses while dragging his claws agianst his cheek for a few beats. "How does upward mobility work? Somebody above you dies, and then you get another bar on your uniform? Or is it a chevron? I know it's one of them, but whatever." He shrugs then, and admits, "Nobody likes interviews. It'd be easier if they just did it like Cap'n Crunch here did. To the point, exact, and not asking you stupid shit like 'How do you think you can help us.'" Dielle says, "People come, people go. For some reason, a lot of people don't really stick around all /that/ long. Also, we don't do uniforms. I don't even demand anyone call me 'sir', so long as they do what I tell them when it's down to the wire." She nods at Tryptych as she leaves, and says, "I just want to know if someone can fight. IF not, we can teach them." "That sounds too complicated for my tastes. It's always better to pay for it when you need something or someone bloodied. Now the killing is a different matter, and that usually means paying for somebody that costs a lot more." Weaver nods sagaciously to that, and moves to take a seat in a chair for the moment. "It also helps when they got a few dozen scars and what not. It lets you know that they've been through some real shit, and that they can really go. It also might mean an accident at the glass factory, but those guys seem kinda rare." Dielle says, "Dunno. Scars seem to me to mean that they weren't real good at getting out of the way. And if you pay someone and they ain't loyal to you, there's nothin' there to keep your enemy from hiring them as soon as the job's done. That don't much interest me, either." She nods towards the cupcakes. "But you can have a cupcake, if you want one." "While you do have a certain kind of point," Weaver begrudgingly admits while reaching out for a cupcake, "it's not just about a few fighters. If movies have taught me anything it's that you hire a lot of them. Get yourself like ten or so for muscle for every one you have to deal with. If you really wanna make sure maybe twenty instead. You can never be too sure some times, and there's no price on safety. Or is it security? I always get those two mixed up." Dielle looks around at the room, then grins. "It's not a bad sound strategy. It just means having that many fighters to hire that ain't already signed on. That's actually a lot harder 'round here." She doesn't actually give numbers, she's not that dumb. That first cupcake is gone almost as quickly as Weaver took it. He's licking his fingers as Dielle speaks, idly nodding until he thinks his finger tips are clean enough. "Paying people to fight for me has worked out all the time. Just that it falls through half the time, with two of them doing exactly what you said. The fucker actually offered them double, and I got to learn that titty twisters aren't as funny when you're on the receiving end of it." Dielle says, "Well, loyalty is hard to earn. Harder when it's bought. Part of why there's a volunteer militia. Easier to trust someone who's fighting by your side for the same reasons you are. I'd rather not find out about the titty twisters, though." Weaver nods as he lifts up the wrapper to his mouth, but drops it down again before doing anything else. "I've found it best not to trust anybody, Lost or otherwise. Means you're ready to cut shit loose when you need to, or, you know, in case their loyalty falters it won't sting when you gotta run like hell. That last one also isn't too bad if you got good cardio." Dielle tilts her head. "Never heard of pledges? Ain't no one around here too trusting, it's why we swear oaths and make sure our word is our bond." She still doesn't sound very impressed. She's probably trying not to seem terribly condescending, but it's badly concealed. "Yeah, I've heard of 'em. I try not to make 'em if I can do so. Kinda hard to cut and run when things are wierd, shitty, or bad when you got something like the fist of an angry god that'll crush you like an ant." Weaver shakes his head then, and leans back in his seat. "Can't trust the word or Wyrd too much anyway. The Wyrd is good, dandy, and strong as fuck; it still doesn't mean a fucker won't stab you in the back."