The rain does not let up.
It follows them through the streets in a steady curtain, pooling in the uneven stone and turning every lantern into a blurred halo of light. By the time they reach the bar, they are all mildly drenched and shivering despite their best efforts.
They all get under the awning and shake the rain off their umbrellas.
"When do we think this one will let up? I think it's worse than the one last week" Augustus says while patting off his hat
"I am thinking twoish days" Richard says while putting up to fingers
"3" Pierre says while gathering up the umbrellas
"What about you?" Augustus says while looking at Quinn and putting his hat back on
Quinns head rumbles for a moment as his mind swiftly sifts through memories so he doesn't seem suspicious, he focuses on the week before he arrived and gets blocked off before he can find anything beyond the storm. "Judging by last week's storm, I also think 3."
Richard nods and chuckles. "So, two for 3 one for 2 and what about you Augie?"
Augustus rubs his chin and nods. "I think 3 as well."
Pierre adjusts his hat and makes his way towards the door. "Let's go inside, its cold out here."
They nod and follow, Augustus and Richard chatting as they head inside.
The door opens with a dull creak, and they are blasted with warmth.
Soon after they also get hit by the smell of alcohol mixed with grease and damp wood. It's somehow louder in here than in the rain filled streets, but not loud enough to drown anything out. Conversations sit low some are overwhelmed by laughter, and the sounds of boots shifting against the floor can be barely heard over the rain and commotion.
This place is safe or something really close to it, Quinn doesn't really know he just hopes it is.
Quinn hesitates just a fraction kind weighing his options for a moment before hobbling behind the three. Richard notices this and discreetly hands off his cane to Quinn and hands the umbrella he had to Pierre in one fluid movement.
This is very similar to places in my world, he thinks to himself. Maybe I can integrate here easier than I thought.
The door clicks shut behind them, muting the rain into a dull, constant hush.
The bartender glances up from behind the counter, wiping down a mug with a cloth that has clearly seen better days.
"Back again?" he says with a grin, eyes flicking between them, pausing briefly on Quinn—taking in the unfamiliar face, the state of him—before his face returns to a smile. "You lot look like hell."
"Evening to you too, Skip" Augustus replies with a snicker, already peeling away toward the counter. "Food still hot or are we gambling tonight?"
"Depends how brave you're feeling."
"I'll take my chances."
Pierre steps up beside him with the umbrellas under his arm, he rests a hand on the counter and thinks for a moment before speaking.
"Chicken," he says. "Do you have any left?
The bartender snorts. "Of course, you want the whole bird?"
Pierre nods and pulls out his worn wallet. "Yessir"
Augustus leans in slightly. "And something that passes for bread please. If its stale, don't tell me."
The bartender puts his hand up to Pierre pulling out his wallet and shakes his head as he chuckles to Augustus. "You'll know. I wouldn't even need to tell you"
Behind them, Richard keeps moving.
He moves deeper into the room, not even looking back as he expects Quinn to follow. Quinn does, after a brief glance toward Augustus and Pierre.
Seems they come here often, I mean every group has their favorite spot.
He thinks to himself as he slowly follows behind Richard.
The bar stretches longer than it first appeared, tables scattered unevenly, most occupied. Toward the back, a single hand lifts and waves towards Richard.
It's a stern looking bearded man who is clearly exhausted from the day.
He sits alone, a heavy mug in one hand, posture relaxed but not careless. Even seated, there's a sense of weight to him, like something anchored too firmly to be moved by accident.
Richard reaches the table first.
"Didn't expect to see you out," The man says before anything else, voice low but carrying easily. His eyes flick to Quinn immediately after. He stares at him for a moment before sipping his drink.
Richard pulls out a chair and sits without asking. Quinn follows a beat later.
"We could say the same, Johann" Richard replies.
Johann grunts faintly, taking another drink before setting the mug down with a soft thud.
"What are you doing out here?" he asks. "And who's this?"
Richard opens his mouth before pausing.
For just a second, something shifts across his expression—He is now realizing he never asked Quinn's name.
He glances sideways at Quinn and chuckles.
"…Right. We kinda forgot to ask."
Johann hums in disapproval and looks at Quinn, waiting for him to introduce himself.
"Quinn," he says. His voice comes out steadier than he expects. "Quinn Hatchlock."
Johann's eyes narrow just slightly before taking a slow drink from his mug.
"Hm."
Richard exhales faintly through his nose, then leans back just enough to settle into the chair.
"We ran into a situation," he says. "Near the mill in the interstice, well that's based on the work in progress map, so we don't really know."
Johann's brow lifts a fraction. "Which mill, this is Dunmire remember."
"The one inside the northern district," Richard adds.
"Hmm," Johann rubs his chin while thinking.
Quinn just awkwardly sits there twiddling his thumbs, he has no clue what they are talking about.
Richard continues, but he doesn't go into much detail.
"It was a drifter, at least that's what we think," he says instead. "It was a really bad one."
Johann's fingers tap once against the side of his mug.
"That's troublesome"
"Yep."
A pause.
Johann leans back slightly, chair creaking under him.
"…And he's still alive," he says, gesturing toward Quinn.
"Barely," Richard replies. "He was on the edge of death when we found him, his guts were hanging out, and he was covered in blood, he is only here thanks to Gwilym"
Quinn nods along as they talk.
They're talking about it like it's just an everyday thing, what is a drifter? what about the interstice?
Johann studies him for another second, then looks back to Richard.
"You bring him in yet?"
Richard shakes his head slightly. "Nope, still thinking about it."
Johann exhales through his nose and rubs the back of his neck.
"Is the registry involved?"
"Not yet, I don't think."
Another pause.
The sounds of the bar press in around them again—distant laughter, a chair scraping, the low murmur of voices—but it all feels slightly removed, like it's happening somewhere just out of reach.
Johann reaches for his mug again, turning it slightly in his hand before taking another drink.
"…Alright," he says finally.
That's it.
Just that.
But something in the weight of it settles the conversation.
Richard nods once, subtle.
"I figured you'd say that."
Johann looks back to Quinn, expression unreadable.
"You're a problem now," he says plainly. "Not your fault but still a problem."
Quinn meets his gaze and nods.
"I gathered."
A faint twitch at the corner of Johann's mouth—almost a smile, gone as quickly as it appears.
"Good, you are quick to catch on" he says.
"We are here to somewhat mask his state by making it look like he is drunk" Richard says suddenly.
Johann nods and slides his mug to Quinn.
"I can help; it would make it a bit more believable I think"
Richard nods with a chuckle. "Thanks, that's why I asked"
"Start drinking and act like you belong here," Johann says. "You are way too stiff and its suspicious."
Quinn looks down at the mug.
The liquid in it is darker than beer he is used to, it is clearly stronger and less refined.
I think this is beer; I can't really tell with the way it looks.
He wraps a hand around the mug and sniffs it cautiously as the warmth of it seeps into his hand.
"Are you a hound dog? Just drink up, you ain't ever have beer before?" Johann asks as he shifts in his seat
"…I have."
Before Quinn can do anything else, a heavy shape drops into the space beside them.
Pierre.
He sets a roasted chicken down in the center of the table with a dull, solid thud, already pulling pieces apart. Steam curls faintly upward, carrying the scent of grease and salt.
Augustus follows a step behind, balancing his own plate and enough mugs of beer for the 5 of them.
"Thought we'd upgrade the seating arrangement," he says, sliding into a chair. "Figured you wouldn't mind sharing."
Johann huffs quietly. "You were going to sit here anyway."
"Correct." Augustus says with a chuckle as he hands out the beer
Pierre doesn't wait.
He tears into the chicken with efficient movements, separating portions and pushing them across the table without asking who wants what.
One piece lands near Quinn.
Another near Richard.
Another near Johann.
It's automatic like it's been done many times before.
No one really says anything about it, and they begin chatting as Pierre dissects the bird.
For a moment Quinn simply watches the group, he is almost astonished by how normal this feels compared to the rest of the day.
Today has just been a whole roller-coaster, this seems like the best way to end it off.
Quinn lifts the mug slightly and takes a small sip, almost coughing by how much it burns his throat, it's more like vodka then beer.
He exhales slowly and sets the mug down, staring at it filled with suspicion.
"…That's a lot worse than I expected."
Augustus grins. "You get used to it. Or you don't. Either way, it won't matter eventually."
Richard chuckles and starts to eat.
Johann leans back again and sips his newfound mug as he watches the table rather than any one person.
Pierre continues dividing the rest of the chicken until there's nothing left to portion, then finally takes his own share.
"I should have asked for vegetables." Pierre says to himself as he starts eating.
The conversation that follows is… normal, no longer about things Quinn doesn't know of just simple small things that still matter.
Work, weather, and complaints that don't matter and somehow matter more because of it.
No one mentions the creature again.
No one mentions the study.
But it sits there anyway, just beneath the surface, like its waiting for the moment the room goes quiet again.
Quinn listens more than he speaks.
This is nice.
The storm outside grows louder.
A low roll of thunder drifts across the sky, distant at first—then closer.
No one reacts.
It's just weather.
Just another night.
Then the door opens.
This time, the sound cuts through the room.
A sharp crack of wood against wood as it hits the frame.
Wind pushes in with it, carrying rain and cold along with something that doesn't belong to either.
The conversations falter.
Not stop—just… shift slightly.
Heads turn.
The figure in the doorway stands still for a moment, backlit by the storm.
Water drips from their silhouette onto the floor.
No one speaks.
The thunder follows a second later.
Closer now.
Louder.
And for the first time since they sat down—
the room doesn't feel welcoming anymore.