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[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 18, 2720 - Evening
Somewhere Cheap

Charlie had been more or less prepared to ignore further requests to continue on the story he had implied. In fact, he had thought of several avenues he could go down to do it, and was ready to use every last one. He wouldn't have let it drop in their position, especially not with such a flat refusal. Charlie was fully willing to blame the gin for that mistake; there was no way he hadn't made it more appealing saying it like that. Gin was lovely, but it often led him to make poor decisions. Terrible, lovely gin.

He felt a brief flare of irritation with himself. There were a thousand more charming deflections, and he should have used one of those. Not that one, just saying "no" like it bothered him.

It didn't bother him. He wasn't bothered, he just didn't want to talk about it. Because it was boring, and no other reason. Charlton Almond had only boring stories to tell. Charlie Ewing's stories were much better.

"Quite right! Nostalgia is, as they say, the most toxic impulse." He was smiling when they agreed to hear the other story; he resisted the urge to frown. To try and find the clocking pity in their faces that he knew was there. Pity would have been worse than teasing and trying to get him to tell the other story (even though it was, absolutely, just no fun to hear). Charlie didn't need pity and he didn't want it. He avoided looking at both of them just in case. That would have put a damper on his ability to tell this story, and it was a good one. He just had to fill in the gaps when he got towards the end. Easy.

"The boardwalk was wet," he started brightly, sitting up a little straighter. His foot was still tapping, but that was under the table and didn't count. "And please, what do you take me for? I was plenty drunk. And I'd had something else too. What was it...?" He paused, looking up to the ceiling in consideration. There was a spot above their table. It looked like water damage, somehow.

"I don't think I knew at the time. Which is a shame, I had fun. Anyway. I was new to the Rose, you understand, and I'd never really been in the canalworks. A serial killer kept me from falling in," he raised his eyebrows and grinned, bright and wide.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, Bethas 18, 2720
Somewhere Cheap

Chrysanthe was very pleased to note that Baz was still every bit as sweet as he’d been when they were in fifth form. Early difficulties aside – stemming, Chrysanthe felt in hindsight, largely from the differences between their upbringings and experiences – he had been a patient and supportive friend, and, above all else, kind.

She was, therefore, not in the least surprised when he picked up on her cue, and immediately changed tack, settling in to the story Charlie had offered with a chuckle and his own enthusiasm. She was, however, relieved; they had written for a little while, but it really had been some time since she’d so much as heard from Baz. She could imagine life after school was rather different for him than Brunnhold had been – it certainly was for her, although that had been as good as it had been bad. She hadn’t realized she’d worried it might have leeched away some of that kindness.

Charlie wasn’t quite looking at her; usually, Chrysanthe reflected, when he told this sort of story, he watched her intently, as if he should be sorry to miss even a moment of her scandalized amusement. She reflected further that it was rather a pity that she already had heard enough stories of the sort she knew this one would be to think of a “usually” pertaining to them, but that was Charlie. She had not in the least idea what had caused Charlie Ewing, whether temperament or circumstance, but he was as he was.

“The most!” Chrysanthe put in. I would have thought self-destruction, she thought to say, fingers curled around her beer bottle. She thought better of it instead, and laughed as well, as if the incredulous comment had been meant to stand on its own.

Charlie glanced at them again as he came to the first of what Chrysanthe was sure would be many such punchlines. She grinned, settling in, shooting a quick amused glance at Baz, who she was beginning to feel rather sorry for; she knew something of how Charlie’s stories tended to end. “Are you quite sure?” Chrysanthe asked, a little laugh half-suppressed in her throat. “That is – it scarcely seems like a serial killer sort of thing to do, to save you. How did you know he was one?”

The waitress came back, swept a sort of judgmental look over the three of them, and set a chicken sandwich down in the center of the table. She went off before Chrysanthe could even think to order another beer, leaving her simultaneously relieved and disappointed. It was for the best, she told herself; she’d have another beer when her food showed up. Perhaps after her food had showed up, when she had actually eaten something.

Chrysanthe glanced down at it, then looked over to Baz, and grinned. “Circle blessed,” she told him, cheerfully, shoving the plate over towards him with her fingertips on the side of the rim. It looked and smelled surprisingly good, and the presence of it at the table did absolutely nothing to assuage her hunger.

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 18, 2720

Somewhere Cheap, evening.

Charlie’s story started off about how Baz expected, with plenty of alcohol and dubious substances. He had a feeling that, maybe, most of Charlie’s stories began the same way. The one that had brought him here to this table with his best friend from school and a man he’d slept with certainly had, though they had both been somewhat drunk at the time. He didn’t think his own level of intoxication would have mattered, in the grand scheme of things, though. Charlie still would have been a pretty, eager stranger chatting him up in a bar. He did still have a nice face, even if it was actually, occasionally, somewhat insufferable.

The part with the serial killer got his attention, though. Chrysanthe asked the question he was thinking, and he waited for the answer. How did Charlie know it was a serial killer that had saved him from falling in the canals? As if summoned by his thoughts, the waitress returned long enough to drop Baz’s sandwich dead in the center of the table before disappearing again.

“I both love and hate this place,” he said, pulling the plate the rest of the way towards himself.

The sandwich was accompanied by some rather sad-looking carrot sticks and celery, but no dip or dressing, which he supposed was unsurprising. The sandwich itself looked fine, though, and smelled rather good. He wondered why the girl didn’t just bring everything at once to save herself the trips back and forth, but he supposed there were three of them and she only had two hands. One of them seemed permanently fixed to her hip in a gesture accompanying the utterly bored and dismissive look on her face, and left only one available for doing her actual job. Still, he would have liked another beer. Next time, maybe, she would stay longer than ten seconds.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 18, 2720 - Evening
Somewhere Cheap

When he did look at Chrysanthe and Baz, to see if his punchline had found the right target, he didn't see pity on their faces. It might have been there if he'd looked earlier; the joke was likely to have wiped it off. But the little line about serial killers had wiped clean what he might have seen--clocking right, too.

Charlie didn't spare a thought for pity for anyone else, of course. This was a good story, and he liked telling it. Each and every variation. There were people who didn't appreciate the kinds of anecdotes Charlie liked to share, and this was an especially sordid one. But those people were dull and tragic, and Charlie didn't care at all for dull, tragic people.

"Ah, you see--" Charlie arched his eyebrows and leaned in to his story, pleased Chrysanthe had asked. He was interrupted by the rather abrupt reappearance of their charming little waitress, who dropped a chicken sandwich on the table in front of nobody in particular. Baz remarked on it as he pulled the plate towards himself. Charlie looked at him with a grin. "It does have a rather specific appeal."

Charlie was a little impatient for his own meal, but he knew better than to expect it with any swiftness. Next time she came over, he thought, he would ask her about it. If that wasn't what she brought with her. He took another sip of his gin, feeling pleasantly warm. The tapping of his foot slowed, though it didn't stop.

"Now, where was I? Ah yes. Serial killers. Well, how else would I know? I asked, of course. No, it's true! Actually, I guessed--I didn't know I was right, but he did assure me he wasn't on the clock at the time. I try not to judge a man by his occupation. In most ways." There were a few key metrics that Charlie thought were relevant, and it was good information to know, of course. It just rarely stopped him, no matter the answer.

"I didn't know until after we left the bar, mind you. I think I would know now," he wouldn't, not so clearly, but he thought he had a better sense for the King's men now than he'd had even six months ago, "but then? I had only been here a few months. How was I to know that I should ask about how largely violence figured into the man's occupation before agreeing to do a little sightseeing?"

Charlie shrugged his narrow shoulders airily, waving his free hand. The other held his gin, which he took another small sip of. The blonde waitress was there just at the edge of his sight. As she came closer, he could see that she was carrying another plate--but only one. Was it his, or Chrysanthe's? He supposed they wouldn't know until she arrived. He did rather hope it was his, given the pace with which he was going through his gin.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, Bethas 18, 2720
Somewhere Cheap

Chrysanthe’s eyebrows shot up once more. “You guessed!” She grinned. She half wondered if he was making it up, although she had the feeling that he wasn’t. She had the feeling that Charlie Ewing did not really need to embellish his stories – at least not those, she thought wryly, which he remembered. Even if there were only a sort of kernel of truth at the heart of them, she had a rather unfortunate feeling that this might be the kernel.

“How did that even occur to you?” Chrysanthe shook her head; a laugh bubbled up goldshift and bastly in her field and she didn’t bother to suppress it. “On the clock! Goodness, as if he’s taking shifts at murder,” she grinned. Poor Baz, Chrysanthe thought, more than a little amused by it. Unless she missed her guess, things were going to get worse before they got better.

She dove in, cheerfully; it was, as usual, good entertainment, and even if it was perhaps wiser to discourage him, it was also entirely too late. “So you left a bar with a serial killer and nearly fell into the canals. Seeing as you are sitting here with us – and as, ah, he wasn’t, as you say, on the clock – may I assume nothing too grisly happened?”

The waitress came back, and plopped down another plate halfway between Charlie and Chrysanthe. It was, Chrysanthe was quite pleased to see, her cold cuts. She pulled it over; the ham looked rather nice, curling and fresh, and the bread was sturdy but warm. The vegetables were mostly picked, a good deal better looking than Baz’s dreadful heap of carrots. There was even an unexpected bit of rather sharp looking cheese.

The waitress waited a moment, this time, her hand on her hip. After the others had ordered, Chrysanthe raised her eyebrows. “Ah, another Kenser, please,” Chrysanthe added, smiling.

The waitress huffed, noisily, as if the sheer volume of their orders were a personal affront, shot Charlie a particularly insouciant smirk, and wandered back off. She stopped on her way to the kitchen to chat at another table, clearly in no rush at all.

“I think she likes you,” Chrysanthe said at Charlie, cheerfully. “Let’s see – where were you?” She took up her knife and fork, enthusiastically – if they were a bit spotted, fortunately the light was not terribly good and it was easy to ignore – and tucked into the meal with an appreciative sort of appetite. It did not occur to her in the last to wait for Charlie’s food to arrive, even though naturally the cold cuts would not get colder; it simply wasn’t that sort of place.

It was, Chrysanthe was pleased to note, quite excellent; it rather made up for the service. She was considerably hungrier than she’d realized, and some of the lightness in her head seemed to settle a bit as she set into the meal.

Only, of course, some.

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 18, 2720

Somewhere Cheap, evening.

Baz had also not waited for the rest of the food to arrive before tucking in to his sandwich. As Charlie continued to tell his story, it occurred to Baz that he was not, in fact, the worst person to pick up in a bar. He knew very well that the Rose was a hive of criminals and other ne’er-do-wells. His mother had been quite apprehensive about him taking a job here, but his father had assured her that he would be fine. And he had been, really, but that was likely because he mostly stuck to the better parts of town and didn’t go poking his freckled nose where it didn’t belong. Compared to a self-confessed serial killer, Charlie Ewing was rather benign. So far, at least. He had a sinking suspicion that following him around would end up getting him in trouble one way or another.

“How do you know he was telling you the truth?” Baz asked, “I could tell you I’m the queen, but that doesn’t make it true.”

He picked up one of the carrot sticks that had accompanied his sandwich, and found it to be strangely limp, and so put it back down. Best to avoid that. The waitress appeared once again, amazingly, and dropped off Chrysanthe’s cold cuts. She stuck around long enough to take their drink order as well, which was another surprise. Baz wondered if they would ever see her again after she dropped off the last of their food and their drinks.

“A Neverbetter for me, please,” he said, then watched as she walked off in a huff once more.

“Yes, where were you?” he repeated, looking to Charlie again.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 18, 2720 - Evening
Somewhere Cheap

He was going to starve to death. That was all there was to it. Of all the ways to go, he mourned, starving to death at Somewhere Cheap was not the one he would have chosen. There were so many options that had a little more pizazz to them, a little more flash—he would have vastly preferred one of those.

"Another gin, if you would be so darling," Charlie added, not bothering to point out that his own dinner had yet to arrive. She would hardly materialize it any faster by his asking. She huffed in a way that made her seem every one of her few years, and not a single more. Charlie of course gave her what he thought was a rather handsome smile. He could tell she agreed, because she smirked at him as if she couldn't possibly care less about his high levels of handsomeness.

"Of course she likes me." Charlie waggled his eyebrows rather ridiculously at Chrysanthe. "I am a very charming and likable man."

At least he would die telling a good story. That was somewhat mollifying. Chrysanthe seemed to have given up pretending not to like his stories, which delighted him rather more than he felt it should. He would ignore that for the time being. The gin was likely to blame for making him so pleased at that golden tone to her field and grin both. He would have more of it as soon as possible.

Baz looked slightly perturbed, and that was also rewarding. Something about the clean cut of his square jaw and his persistent good nature made Charlie want to lean more into the seedier parts of this particular story. There were quite a lot of them to lean into. In fact, if he were asked, he could not have said that there any which might not be faintly alarming. You had to be there, he supposed.

"Voedale," he said in an off-handed sort of way. It took him a minute to realize they meant in his story, not... in his story. Ah, well. He had left that part out, and it did add a certain sparkle to the thing. He raised his eyebrows, as if that were the joke he had intended all along.

"As for how I knew, well..." Charlie put a slender finger against his mouth and rolled the bright blue of his eyes up towards the ceiling as if he needed to ponder this answer. His foot had stopped tapping for the most part. "Something about his manner? He had one of those faces? I suppose he could have been lying," Charlie allowed in a tone that made it clear he thought no such thing. He couldn't blame Baz for his doubt. Charlie was, after all, sitting before them to tell them of the event. He had never claimed to be a very good serial killer. Privately, Charlie thought Tom must have been, to have made it long enough to be involved in the story Charlie was telling now.

Grisly, was it? Charlie had somewhat lost the thread of his narrative, between the waitress' interruptions and drowning it in the bottom of his second gin. That was all right; he would find it again. It was still a very good story, even disjointedly told. "That depends on one's definition of 'grisly', I suppose. But he was a perfect gentleman, really. He even let me wear his coat. I hadn't dressed for a night in dark alleys in the Cat's Paw." He also took several of Charlie's cigarettes, but he hadn't minded that much either. They weren't good, possibly worse than what he smoked now. Or at least as terrible, and Charlie did buy the cheap stuff rather often.

"He only threatened me the one time," Charlie added thoughtfully.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, Bethas 18, 2720
Somewhere Cheap

Chrysanthe glanced over at Baz when he asked how Charlie had known, really, that the man was a serial killer. Her mouth was full of food, but she nodded, appreciatively, covering it with a napkin as she finished the bite. “Quite true,” Chrysanthe agreed.

They had both asked Charlie where he was; Chrysanthe had meant in the story, although she realized only when Charlie answered that it might have been taken either way, whether by him or by Baz. Her eyebrows went straight up. “Voedale!” She said. In truth, she hadn’t the least idea where in the Rose there were canals; she had imagined there might be some sort of all around, or at least in various places.

Chrysanthe had been in the Rose rather a short while still, of course, and there were a number of areas she might not have recognized. She wasn’t entirely sure where they were at the moment, for example, although she had sorted that the larger piece was called the Waterfront. What she knew about the bridge at the Castle Hill end of the Waterfront was that it led to a little island, and then on to a number of places she had strongly been advised not to visit.

Basin Court itself isn’t half-bad, one of the other visitors at the guest house had told her, but it’s best not to be caught there at all. Don’t stay in Redwine if you’ve any other choice; never set foot in Voedale or the Cat’s Paw.

“Isn’t that rather a dangerous area?” Chrysanthe asked. There was – perhaps – just a faint sort of censure to her voice, mingled with curiosity. Naturally, Charlie had made it through unscathed – or, well, with nothing he hadn’t recovered from – but it seemed rather a strange place to be visiting bars, in Chrysanthe’s estimation. It wasn’t as if there weren’t plenty to be found in the rest of the Rose.

Chrysanthe speared a pickle with her fork, nibbling at it; it was a pleasant mix of sweet and sour vinegar, and quite well done, if simple. Something about his manner, or his face, Charlie had said, thoughtfully, when he explained how he’d known the man was a serial killer. She raised her eyebrows at him.

“A gentleman!” Chrysanthe found she was laughing, now, softly. She turned to Baz and raised her eyebrows. “Oh, yes, a gentleman always threatens a man who's wearing his coat. I’m sure I learned that in etiquette class.” She had swung back around to thinking Charlie was joking; surely he must have been. This story was starting to be too outrageous, at least for the way he had started telling it – as if it were no more than a joke! Threatened in the alleyways of Cat’s Paw by a purported serial killer while wearing the man’s coat, after leaving a Voedale bar with him. Frankly, it was absurd.

[Sebastian Morgenstern]

Bethas 18, 2720

Somewhere Cheap, evening.

Hearing Voedale was largely unsurprising. Even his father had cautioned him away from wandering around that part of the Rose. The Cat’s Paw as well. He hadn’t really had any desire to go into either place in the time he had been in the harbour. Not that he had really been here long in the grand scheme of things, really. He had done some wandering, mostly on his days off when he got tired of sitting in his flat and fiddling with whatever bit of something he had been toying with. There were also times when someone he worked with talked him into tagging along for a drink, or when he was dragged out to celebrate like he had been the night he met Charlie.

Charlie continued telling his story, claiming that there had just been something about the man’s face that had made him believe him when he was told of his dubious profession. Baz supposed he could understand that. Certainly certain people did have a sort of look about them that made them seem dangerous or untrustworthy, or even murderous. They often were not, at least not all of them, and the same was true in reverse. Often the friendly sorts were the ones you had to be on your guard around.

Baz couldn’t help but crack a little smile as Chrysanthe commented on the bit where Charlie said, almost wistfully, that the “perfect gentleman” had only threatened him once. He nodded. “Oh yes, of course,” he said, joining in her joke, “A gentleman always threatens murder when lending out his coat.”

He wasn’t sure he really believed any of the story Charlie was telling, but he had a feeling at least part of it had to be true. Figuring out which part would be the difficult thing. Baz didn’t bother to do that now, mostly content to just listen and eat his sandwich and enjoy their company. The waitress returned once more, finally delivering Charlie his food and, miraculously, their drinks at the same time. The girl using both hands was almost more shocking than the idea that Charlie had actually met a real serial killer in Voedale. She didn’t say a word as she turned on her heel and stalked away. Baz got the feeling she wouldn’t be back unless she absolutely had to be the one to deliver the cheque, so they had better enjoy what they had before them.

“Go on then, Charlie,” he said, “why did you follow an apparent serial killer through the canals anyways?”

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 18, 2720 - Evening
Somewhere Cheap

Dangerous. Charlie waved his hand dismissively, though he was secretly rather pleased with the vague tone of both disapproval and curiosity in the question. It was, actually, and not all of his nights had gone quite as well as this one. Sometimes even his field proved enough to be a deterrent; usually, it invited trouble that was less fun than what he liked to talk about. He always managed to get out of it, in the end. He also generally stuck to more well-lit areas.

Interesting stories rarely came from safe encounters, after all. It was the price to be paid, in the end. He thought it was fair enough.

His dinner companions did seem rather in doubt of Tom’s gentlemanly qualities. And they hadn’t even met him! Charlie supposed that was fair; he didn’t bother, as it was neither interesting nor relevant, to point out that a great many people had said worse things to Charlie with much less reason. And had been less fun later, to boot. ”Well, they may have changed the curriculum after your time,” he said quite primly. Actually, Charlie wasn’t quite sure how old either of them were—older than he was, at least. He was fairly certain. Oh well. It didn’t matter.

Charlie took another sip of his gin, finishing the second one. He set the empty glass down just in time for, miracle of all miracles, their waitress to reappear. With not one, but both hands occupied. He could hardly believe his eyes. He also told her so, although he made sure to add a smile on the end that he thought was handsome enough to take most of the sting out of it. He could tell he had succeeded, because she rolled her eyes at him before she turned away.

Before he continued, Charlie put some work into starting on his pot pie. It was only a little soggy, which was better than many he’d eaten happily before in the last few years. Not just here, but at various establishments throughout the Rose. He dug into it, taking a few bites and washing it down with his third drink. By now, he was pleasantly drunk, which made telling this story even more fun than it might have been.

”Excellent question!” he crowed, pointing at Baz with a forkful of chicken, pastry and what appeared to be a green bean (for some reason). A drop of sauce splattered onto the table, which Charlie ignored. It really was an excellent question. He had vague memory of being asked the same thing by the man in question at the time, in fact. Charlie couldn’t remember what answer he provided, but he knew what answer was true. That was hopefully not what he’d said, but it also didn’t matter. He was in no hurry to recreate events.

”Why does one do anything?” Charlie shrugged, all slightly crooked teeth and that parody of Vienda that was in his accent. ”For the experience, of course. Also,” he added, directing this mostly to Baz, who he judged would be most impacted by the statement, ”he had big hands. I had rather high hopes.”

Charlie put his fork in his mouth, feeling rather pleased with himself.