To make an ally

A few people came and went in the dark recesses of the dilapidated bar. Several had caught his attention, none more than the smartly dressed male falling in the range of his own age. At first he just observed the handsome man from afar, daydreaming about the most frivolous activities just to pass the boredom, when suddenly the scene became more interesting. Silently, Faelynn sat and watched as the man met up with a bunch of unscrupulous fellows. The sight of the keen gentleman striking a conversation with the ruffians brought a lop-sided smirk to his lips in amusement. Don't they make the oddest group of scallywags?

The men retired to a corner, carrying a curious chest along and for a moment Faelynn feels a slight bit of surprise vibrate through his form. An obvious business man in a dump, catching up with dark wizards in possession of merchandise? Bingo.

As the gruff bartender staggers by, club-footed and half drunk, Faelynn raises a hand to beckon the other. The irate man sways forward and leans on the table eyeing him. With a grin, the young male settles back in his chair, patting his wand holster and flashing the menacing shape of his curved ritual knife. It's effect is instantaneous, the innkeeper steps back, putting distance between them, and nodding with what little respect a fellow deviant can muster another. "Got any rooms available? Maybe something to consume that isn't going to tamper with my health? Hmm?"

The man sways with a grunt. "Ain't got no rooms for no one. We don't sell no food either. No one idles in these parts..."

A frown morphs on Faelynn's face as he considers these words. No safe haven for any dark wizards or witches? No wonder the Ministry is stamping down their so called 'vermin' so easily. There's nowhere for the dark community to thrive if they can't even come together and look out for their own. Even with local patronatage in America, at least they still got loyalty to each other...

It's his worst fears realized. England's underground is all but nonexistent now... yet maybe... maybe the vacuum has been vacant for long enough? What opportunity can Faelynn gain from this?

"Information then?" Faelynn rests a foot on his opposite leg, wobbling his knee up and down in anticipation, "Can you be a doll and tell me who that one is over there?"

Clearly affronted, the man glances quickly over his shoulder not trusting to avert his eyes for long. "You mean the tosser wearin' a suit? That's the Swayer brat, thinks cause his daddy went wicked and done in his mudblood mum -he can come down to these parts to try his hand at dealin'. Shit job he's done so far. Kids got no idea what really goes on in the Corners and Crosses."

"A dealer eh? What's he into?"

"The usual junk I'd say, has a place down on Jinx Corner named Scraps and Scarcities? Or somethin' like that. Don't let the outfit fool ya though, I've been hearin' he's got no luck these days. Probably stretchin' his last few knuts that one."

"Oh? That's too bad." Faelynn drops his leg and raises his hand past the wand at his hip to disappear into the folds of the button-less cloak. The bartender keeps a weary gaze on his roving appendage and grins with relish when Faelynn pulls out a small pouch tinkling with currency. Counting 2 sickles (equivalent to a half-sovereign and 2 groats) for the watered down butterbeer, Faelynn makes up for the 2 extra knuts by placing a single galleon into the wizard's hand for the information given. Stuffing the money in his pocket, the innkeeper ambles away to sort out a few of the downtrodden customers at the bar.

Faelynn lets out a sigh and downs the rest of the tasteless brew, silently wishing there'd be a better place to network then from this shit hole. Maybe I can get Ichor to see if it's worth the effort...

He stands, running a gloved hand over all his hidden weapons and the miniature potion vials on his bandolier. Everything in order, Faelynn takes three steps towards the door before a enraged shout breaks the quiet ambiance of the pub. His head jerks over as a man jumps from his seat to slam both fists on the table, looming over the Sawyer male with a reddened face screaming aloud, "What do ya mean my shit ain't real you punk?!"

"Whoa~! Hey now, no need for the sudden violence fellows." Faelynn shifts forward, hands held up at either side and an easy smile on his face.

One of the cronies grunted at him, sizing him up and down before turning away, "Piss off American."

He lets out a little chuckle and takes another step closer, making the muscle exchange looks. Watching with an amused glint to his eye, Faelynn sees their leader's lips peal back in distaste and a slight nod returned as if the American isn't worth much and can be dealt with like any other riffraff.

Awe, that hurts!

The same beefy male that told him to 'get lost' let go of their human prize and whipped around with a wand drawn. Faelynn had to give the lackey a few points at the almost fluid way they snarled Expelliarmus... his useless wand rolling across the floor, but he isn't worried at all. In fact, he never used that wand anyway. It's just a sort of 'prop' that comes in handy for these exact sticky confrontations.

Shoulders relaxed, Faelynn grins at the wizard whose wand is aiming between his eyes at such a close distance. "Already pointing your stick at me? Haven't you any decency to buy me a drink first?" He jokes aloud.

Confused, the man blinks at him and then his face darkens in a mixture of surprise and embarrassment before taking on an expression of complete rage. "You little poof-"

He attacks without warning; slamming a forearm against the man's wrist and pushing the arm clear out of the way. Setting a foot squarely down, he uses his body to thrust the other shoulder forward. Fingers curled in, the bottom of his palm where hand connects to wrist makes impact with the larger man's nose.

A shriek tears into the shady pub and a second wand is claimed by the floor.

Faelynn isn't done yet. His third move is to switch back to the first hand, like a sequence of order; wrapping it on the inside of his own body and around the bleeding man's neck, he jerks the other down whilst raising a knee to slam it against a diaphragm with all the power he could muster, though you don't need much to crack delicate framework of ribs.

In those few seconds, the wizard goes down hard imitating a sack of potatoes.

The second crony, holding the young male by both arms from behind, stares wide-eyed as Faelynn gives a winning grin and wink. Still standing in front of the dealer, the leader to the rag-tag group hisses in anger and turns the wand to him.

Already, Faelynn is pulling a weapon from his custom cloak and swipes the object diagonally upward, just before a shouted Crucio makes contact. The two different types of magic collide and sizzle in the air, the smell of ozone burning into their nostrils. Faelynn's grin turns wolfish at the shock clearly written across the bulky male's face. In his hand, a slender white club glows hauntingly in the ambient light. The foot and a half humerus bone, topped with a darkened crystal at its end, and feathers tied to the soft black leather at its grip, is eerily menacing to the occupants of the pub.

Several watchers, more interested in events played out, take their cue to scramble from their seats and leave through the front or rear of the establishment. Even the owner retreats, dropping a mug that shatters in the silence and backs into the office before slamming and barrackading the door.

Faelynn holds his Blasting Rod in the air for a couple more seconds to draw out the suspence. With a playful sigh, he bounces the grotesque object on his shoulder, his other hand on a hip. "So... are we going to act like gentlemen? Or do I get to play with you a bit more?"

The last two men glance fervently between themselves and back to their downed man, a silent exchange of communication as they weigh their chances. They step away slowly, the leader snarling, putting up one last attempt at holding onto his wounded pride, "I'm not leaving until I get my share."

A quirked eyebrow, Faelynn digs into the side of his pocket and flings the small bag of coins at the tallest male -who easily catches it and peers inside.

With a snort the man fists it, "This isn't even half of what this other twat offered us!"

"Well, I could add a good beating onto that too if you'd like?"

An awkward pause follows until the leader lets out a controlled, but enraged howl, somewhere between hatred and anguish. Shoulders slumped and fist clenching on the smaller weapon, the man bearing both rows of grimy teeth shuffles around, followed close by the other. Cautiously, they all step around the room, each keeping their backs from view and muscles tensed to spring into action. Nothing more happened though, the coughing lackey on the ground was picked up and hauled out the front door. The last glimmer of dangerous promise passing between them all... then the door slammed closed and Faelynn watched carefully through the windows until the three disappeared farther down the street.

Letting out a laugh, Faelynn whirls away from the window and flops down into the booth being used previously by the same party. He slips his Blasting Rod back into his robe and pats the trunk beside him with glee. Then, remembering he still has an audience of one, Faelynn lifts the forgotten mug from the table and tips his head to the ruffled shop owner, "To your health, babe~." and downs the rest of the watered drink.