2020.02.13 - Chatty
Port-Au-Feu - The Den
The first two buildings that catch the eye of any visitor are an old tavern, bearing a heavy wooden sign with "MOONSTRUCK" carved into it in worn, smoothed letters. The place has a friendly air, although even in the daytime the windows are darkened. Only the faint shapes of the patrons inside can be seen, sitting at at booths near the windows. There's a small downward step into the tavern, where a pair of double doors, heavy wood adorned with brass handles worn to a dull shine through years of use, lead onward.
On the opposite side of the street is a small grocery store. Faded green letters read "Faolan Bro's" over the door. Large plate-glass windows show aged tile, an older style deli counter with a pair of young men working behind it, and aisle after aisle of goods. A few patrons mill about inside -- the place is never empty. Next to it sits a small hostel-style building, the two-story construction standing out some among the other buildings. The vines have almost completely covered the building, practically hiding it among the trees of the street.
There's a dull, omnipresent buzz of conversation wafting through the air, accompanied by a similarly omnipresent aroma of someone cooking -- the smell carried through the neighborhood by light breezes.
The Den is one of those neighborhoods that Otis really likes. The vibe is fairly mellow, the people are cool, and best of all, it has a hardware store tucked away that sells exactly the type of nail he prefers to use. And today, he splurged and bought TWO boxes! Of course, they're pretty big boxes. Heavy enough to make the paper shopping bag they're in bow dangerously. The one he's currently got hooked on one finger. Miraculously, it seems to be holding. He even stops to regard a newspaper headline in a machine. It's remarkably unremarkable, for a were-bear. notable only in that people seem unbothered by Otis or his size. Maybe they know him, here.
Today, Derek has made his way to the Den for further adventures in familiarizing himself with the place and meeting new people. Sometimes, he meets the talkative and expressive, who make it easier by taking the burden of conversation off him. Sometimes, he takes Stiles along to handle exactly that, but today, Stiles is occupied at Rowanwood. And Derek didn't want to just sit around the house being idle, so he finds himself on the street of the Den.
The especially large man, tall and powerful, gets a glance of interest and a half-nod of acknowledgement, as Derek walks in the direction of Moonstruck.
Otis stops as the dark man passes him, his nostrils flaring as he picks up his scent even as he lifts his chin in greeting. It's one he's smelled around before, in passing. Memorable in what it tells him. Ordinarily, he's not one to 'check into' things, but this scent has him curious, and a curious bear is hard to deny. He shifts his trajectory, then, to follow the other man in the direction of Moonstruck. He doesn't try to be discreet about it because...well, look at him. No, not the dark man. Otis. He sticks out like a giant thumb.
The scent of the bear is not lost on Derek, though he doesn't acknowledge it just yet. But when he reaches the door of Moonstruck and opens it, he doesn't even turn around to speak. "We can talk inside," he rumbles, quietly, before heading into the tavern. His usual scent, which is authoritative and yet nuanced, has not only the lupine quality of an alpha of the pack, but is also tinged with magic of various kinds. He's around it so often, and part of it lies in his bloodline. He is no ordinary werewolf, or shifter at all. At this point, he is something of a big deal. Not that he lets on.
Otis' response to the quiet statement is grunt of acknowledgment, and he follows the other man into the bar. He seems pretty familiar with the interior, only pausing momentarily to let his eyes adjust before moving into the tavern proper. He moves around the now-identified werewolf with confidence, his own scent the musky scent of bear and his own ancient blood, tinted with the sweet sappy scent of fresh sawdust. Handing his bag to the big man behind the bar, Otis moves towards a table with sturdy-looking chairs, motioning for the other shifter to join him there as he sits, dwarfing the table a bit.
Port-Au-Feu - Moonstruck
It takes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness inside the tavern. But once eyes have adjusted, the place reveals the look of antiquity. The floor is the kind of dark, worn wood that can only come from years of feet treading over it. Looking to the right is a visitor would see smaller booths arranged by the large plate windows, each one adorned with a single candle in a small glass holder. To the left, there's a handful of tables arranged in a semicircular shape around a dimly lit stage. A single, battered acoustic guitar sits alongside a large bass and a worn drum set, currently awaiting a musician. Straight through from the door is a large, long, heavy wooden bar with several stools arranged around it. There's several bottles arranged around a shelf structure behind it, labels bearing the signs of age; some of the bottles could easily be older than most the patrons. A tall man leans behind the bar. His hair's turned silver with age, although his frame still bears the muscles of one who was once a very talented athlete. He can often be found leaning against the bar, talking with a customer and smiling pleasantly, or cleaning the bar with a worn towel.
So Derek, who had been looking around to decide on a place to sit, accepts the invitation. He seats himself in the chair across from Otis and glances around the place again, perhaps to see who else is around. The storm that has blown up is easy to hear on the windows and against the walls and roof, but it's nice in here. Cozy and pleasant.
So Derek looks to the man who invited him to the table and waits, clearly expectant of some explanation here.
Otis doesn't seem inclined to speak right away as the other man joins him, instead looking to motion to the bartender with a couple of fingers before returning his attention to his companion. He gives the man a better look, here inside where it's warm and dry. His black eyes take in all of it, narrowing in appreciation as his gaze lingers a bit. Finally, he grunts, and extends a hand. "Otis."
Derek eases back in his seat, relaxing somewhat -- though not entirely -- since this nigh-stranger hasn't shown aggression yet, and anyway they're in a place of peace and security. Moonstruck is a good tavern. Derek's enjoyed it only a handful of times so far, but he did enjoy it, and that's the most important thing to him.
"Derek Hale." The answer comes, and Derek reaches out to take the hand. He squeezes it once, then lets it go again. His grip is obviously quite strong, but he's also obviously holding back from his full strength. He has nothing to prove.
Otis' grip is likewise quite strong, and his hand envelops Derek's when he closes it. He grunts amiably in greeting, and releases just as quickly as Derek. When the barman comes to the table, he lifts his eyebrows questioningly at Derek, even as he holds up a finger to place his silent order. When the other order is (if) given, he bobs his head, and waits until the bartender is gone again before he...stares at the Alpha for a long moment. Then he fishes out a card from his shirt pocket and slides it across the table. The card is vellum, with a bit of antiquing. In the center is a stylized bear paw print, with the words 'Forest People Designs' across it. Under that, it reads 'Woodwork & Furniture restoration and design, Otis Munro, Craftsman.' He taps it twice, and motions at himself.
"Good beer." Derek gives his order directly, looking up to the barkeep. "Please." He has a tone that isn't hostile, but it also isn't brimming over with warmth or affection. Still, there's something kind of warm about him, fuzzy even, but it's on the periphery of detection if it's really there.
The alpha takes up the card and looks it over, nodding slowly before he places it in his pocket. This takes some adjustment of how he's seated, but it's smooth and swift enough. Once it's been put away, he glances back to the bar, then turns his head to settle his eyes on the man across from him. "So," he rumbles. "Did you have a reason for this meeting, or were you just curious?"
Otis can appreciate a man of few words. Clearly. He watches in silence as Derek studies and puts away the card. The question gets a roll of massive shoulders, and the big man holds up two fingers, and points. The second thing. Then he leans forward, his posture open and friendly even as he frowns at the other man, and hike his eyebrows. "Trouble?" is a word that requires vocalization and carries at least three different questions within it -- looking for, bringing, or being in general? Otis is clearly not a fan of any of those ideas, and his wide, friendly smile masks it pretty well.
Derek raises an eyebrow. The first one, sure, he can understand that. He was just curious. That's understandable. The rest, he's not entirely sure. So unlike usual, he's actually going to have to engage in further conversation with more words. That's not his forte. That's more Stiles's thing. He has a proliferation of verbiage that Derek simply does not share the ability in. So he breathes in, very deeply and visibly, and slowly breathes it out again.
"I don't look for trouble, if that's what you're asking." Derek tilts his head slightly up.
Otis can feel Derek's pain, or could, if he were expressing it. Oh, the silent bonding they could share. But instead, the bear nods at the answer, his expression lightening a bit as he leans back. He motions at Derek, another question on his face. He takes a deep breath of his own, considering. Then, he points at Derek, quirking an eyebrow. "Pack, too?" Because there's no way someone like Derek is operating alone.
Derek nods, once. He falls completely silent, then it occurs to him that he is the one supporting this conversation, so he's going to need to remember to say things. Words. "I'm the alpha," he explains, though he is at least mostly sure that this man could at least tell that much. "We're from the West Coast. Beacon Hills."
Otis nods at the confirmation that Derek is the alpha, so if he's not looking for trouble, the pack isn't either. Which lets him relax even more -- just in time for the beers to arrive. His mug is large...the kind of mug that is generally sold as a gag gift because it's too large for any sane person to drink from. It looks fairly normal in his hand. Derek's, thankfully, is human-sized. Otis raises his mug in toast, holding up two fingers of his other hand in a V of peace. After mugs have been clinked and swigged from, he rubs a thumb over his upper lip, and indicates himself. "Bear," he explains, just in case the Alpha was having trouble making that identification.
It doesn't really matter. Derek could drink the larger man's mug. It's not like it would probably do anything to him. He enjoys drinks for their taste, because it takes much more than that to get him intoxicated at all. Wolf healing and everything. He takes his drink from the man who brings it with a dip of his head, a respectful thanks, and then lifts it to his newfound and very much laconic friend. "Wolf," he replies, before tipping the cup to his lips.
Otis grunts acknowledgment, taking another healthy drink before setting his mug down on the table. He leans forward, then, furrowing his brow with a question, and motions to Derek, then the area around them. He exaggerates the expression when it comes back to the alpha and spreads his hands palms-up, bouncing them in query.
Derek casts another glance around the place. Warm, welcoming...old, but not ancient. It's been here for some time, seen people come and go, seen plenty of things happen and probably holds plenty of secrets that it will never tell. It has things written all over it, over every surface, and he can detect so many things with his keen smell and sight alone that casual visitors may never notice. He sets his drink down. "I like it fine."
While it may not be the answer that Otis was looking for, he accepts it readily enough, and nods, leaning back in his chair. Another gesture, and Otis adds to his already prodigious word count. "Passing through?" Because it's always good to keep track of the various supernaturals in town. Even if there are a lot of them. And there are a -lot- of them.
"Staying for a while." Derek replies. He gives sort of a look, but it's not anything withering or judgmental. Just assessing, from the way his eyes travel over the man's form, and then return to his face. "We're friends of the witches," he explains, figuring that might be relevant. "Here to do our best to help and make sure nothing bad happens." And they've seen futures happen that definitely shouldn't.
He may not know the witches personally, but he's lived in the area his entire life. He knows who Derek's talking about. Otis has his own assessing look for Derek, his return gaze lingering before he lifts his eyes to the Alpha's and offers a tipped smile and an approving nod. "Good."
He drains his beer, then, and stands, drying his hands on his sturdy thighs. He offers Derek a wide smile, and slides his chair back under the table. Coming around the table to stand by the alpha, he reaches down and pats the shirt pocket with his card firmly, and winks. Call me. Then he's turning and moving to the bar to collect his bag and heading for the door.