Open World Post: Aviario, CT

[dr_feistus]

At first glance, Aviario could be any normal small New England city - it's got its fair share of well-preserved historical buildings, a lovely park, a reasonably happy community, and a decent amount of "townies" who've been around forever and know everyone and everything there is to know about living there.

At second glance, there are strange things that were probably a trick of the mind - a flash of light, an animal looking at you as though it were watching you, someone who just lit their cigarette without a lighter.

At third glance, you start looking closer, and find out at least one thing: magic is real. Depending on how closely you look ... you might find out more than you wanted to know about who uses it, and why, and how.

Just pass through, crash with someone you happen to have met before for a weekend, poke your nose where it doesn't belong ... it's all up to you, the city is an open book. Just ... don't go near that old house on the hill. The owner's really tired of having to turn away everyone who goes up there just to ask about the "ancient curse".

Comments

[westgaterider]

[A One-Percenter. In this terretory, that meant Hells Angel or worse. The Sons and the Angels generally had an amicable relationship with each other, meaning they stayed out of each other's way.

...Still.

He turns to face Crowley, the patches on his front more visible. On the right breast is where the Charter patch usually goes. For SAMCRO it's "Redwood Original," for SAMNEW, it's "Lonnen Magpie." On the left breast is the rank patches... "Sgt. At Arms," "Unholy Ones," "Men of Mayhem." Sgt. At Arms was easily understood, the enforcer of a charter. Not your average grunt, but not top of the food chain, either.

Still, Scott turns, hands visible, because he doesn't want trouble.]

Nah, you're alreet, man. Only passing through, like. Won't be more than an hour.

[not_that_crowley]

[the accent makes him smile, a surprisingly affable expression for an Angel talking to a Son. in truth, it's been decades since Crowley acted for the Angels - his usefulness as one of their rank ran its course, but some of the contacts and opportunities that one little black patch presents have not. plus, it's always good to see another from across the pond.].

No time for a catch up over a pint, even? Could stand to hear the news. [usually he leaves the wool-gathering to the Informers, but like hell Fritz would manage not to trip over himself just at the sight of this one, God save his wholesome squeaky arse.]

[westgaterider]

Not much news to part, mate. New around here, wouldn't know much.

[The little black patch has Scott on his guard. The reason there's history between the Sons and the Angels is because of the Sons, oftentimes blatant, disregard for club boundaries. They don't wear the diamond, but not all "outlaw" gangs do.

It's a healthy rivalry. One that, usually, doesn't involve in violence on first sight.]

But I'd hate to be rude. If there's something I can help with.

[not_that_crowley]

[lucky for him, Crowley loves a man who doesn't know what boundaries are. also, if Scott looks again, some of those other patches and pins are contradictory: a smiley face button, old brass rank bars of some sort, various smart-aleck phrases, and in a prominent place on the collar, a silver and enamel yin-yang with a bolt through the centre. this guy's got his fingers in a lot of pies.

fingers which, for the record, still hold a few flakes of traffic-cone orange nail polish for some reason.]

Doesn't have to be news from here. You really gonna pass down a free cold one, mate?

[westgaterider]

[Of course he's noticing the pins and patches. Anything that might give him the edge should tits suddenly become upwardly inclined.

He decides to risk it.]

It's not the free pint, more the fact it's with a southerner, like.

[A joking tone there, almost hesitant, testing the waters.]

[not_that_crowley]

Oh, so you think it'll sour your cider f'you drink it in my bloody presence, is that it? [he'll just test it right back. that's the best part, after all. pushing and poking and prodding to see where the cracks and the soft bits are. ... not to the extremes he's done in years past, no, not by far. once they even gave him thumbscrews. but this is no time for nostalgia, he's having plenty of fun in the here and now, bear-baiting]

[westgaterider]

More like bloody sweeten it like the southern sugar-plum fairy y'are.

[Given the fact that, with his build, Scott could probably be mistaken for a bear if he was crouched in a dark alley, that's an accurate descriptor of this activity.

Pushing back all the harder, pushing the north/south divide. Southern fairy. Your move, Crowley.]