2017-03-07: The Saint of Last Resort
- Cutscene: The 'Saint' of Last Resort
- Cast:Cassidy Cain
- Where: Hilton, Ignis
- Date: 07 March 2017
- Summary: In a rare moment of philanthropy, Cassidy Cain takes it upon herself to reclaim an item of sentimental value for a friend, which of course ends with her escaping a mansion in nothing but a bedsheet, and menacing said friend in his infamous watering hole with her appearance. In other words, it's just another Tuesday.
"Hey. Hey you."
The hand on her bare shoulder was insistent, fingers curling over the curve to give it a hard shake and drawing her back to the land of the living, despite every desire to go back to sleep. But there was more shaking and more words, muffled by the cloud of cotton stuffed into her skull. The vaulted ceilings above her head swam in a dizzying loop as she rolled on her back, black tresses spilling across her pillowcase. All the telltale signs were present, the most obvious of these being the alcoholic traces of the evening's revels lingering on the back of her tongue and the fact that she couldn't quite understand what her current bedmate was saying.
Green eyes flecked with gold squinted slowly at the blurry face looming over her own. Dark, graying hair. Dark eyes. What was his name again?
"Wha?" she mumbled, sitting up on the mattress and stifling a yawn. "It isn't mornin' yet, is it? Why don't I stay and make breakfast? Eggs, bacon, sausage, all perfect little islands in a sea of grease..."
"My wife's going to be home in any minute," Dark Hair said, the gray in his temples crawling further up, though this could simply be her imagination, reflective of the panic in his baritone as he hiked up his trousers and frantically dug for his belt. "You need to go."
"Oh." Pause. "Well, darlin', I don't remember you tellin' me you were married."
"Yes I did."
Double oh. Slender shoulders lifted in a shrug, an easy, lazy smile curling over her lips. "I'll set a third place on the table then."
He stared at her incredulously as she rolled back over on the bed, drawing the covers over her head. "Anyway, I won't keep you." Drowsiness was returning in short order. "Bath's down the hall, just lock the front door when you're out."
"Er..."
"Hm?"
To his credit, the adulterer shifted uneasily on his feet, callused fingers scratching the back of his neck.
"Well," he began. "...this is my house."
"....it is?"
"Yes. Villa just outside of Hilton."
Oh times three.
"Huh. Well....nice place, I'm glad I got to see it."
Well, that was awkward.
The next few minutes found her swinging down the third floor balcony using the boughs of decadent ivy climbing over white trellis that dominated the eastern wing of the sprawling house, bedsheet precariously knotted over her slender frame in a careless bid to keep her mostly modest. "Glad to know isnae just men who do the great midnight escapes in this kind of situation," she muttered, dangling a few feet in the air and looking down, gauging her height and determining swiftly that she was close enough to the ground to land safely, and did. Bare toes found cool grass, just in time to hear the dim sound of something breakable, and undoubtedly expensive, shattering in the darkness, followed by outraged feminine shrieking - all indications that Mrs. Forrester did, in fact, receive her anonymous note.
Tipping a faint salute towards the balcony doors above her head, Cassidy turned to slip through the gates, to make her way back to Hilton.
Somehow.
~*~
She was still wearing the bedsheet when she arrived at her destination, pressing a palm flat on the double doors and letting them swing inward and taking the first steps over the threshold of The Last Resort. A favorite haunt (and she would tell anyone that the name spoke to her), the tavern's familiar interior was wreathed with its ever-present miasma of tabac smoke, which filled her lungs in short order and triggered cravings that she tried to ignore until it was time to wash the dye off her hair and return to being Cassidy Cain. Not that the disguise was any good, and while certainly passable, it was a far cry from her usual works of art, unwilling to levy more effort into what she had done than absolutely necessary. Besides, disguises, as experience taught her, were really only forty percent appearances.
The bartender, and owner, certainly recognized her, his stare meeting her own above the tops of various patrons' head. Disapproval was on the grizzled face immediately, what she supposed was a new record even for her. Eyes like cut stones slashed over her dyed hair, her lazy smile...the /bedsheet/.
A meaty hand clapped thunderously over his forehead, slowly dragging it over his bearded face. Turning to the rest, he took the deep breath and unleashed a mighty bellow:
"ALRIGH', IDJITS. I'M CLOSIN' UP. PACK UP YER SHITE AND GET THE HELL OUT."
"B-but Jinty," someone whined from the back. "What about last ca-- "
"I'll last call /yer face/ if ya don' get the hell out righ' now!"
The Last Resort was often open late, well into the wee hours of the morning and may very well have been the inspiration that drew the name. But it also meant that the proprietor, Jinty McGuintie, called the proverbial shots on closing hours. As disgruntled and disappointed customers filed past, Cassidy reclaimed her breezy stride, unmindful of her state of dress (or undress, as it were). If she noticed the stares cast her way, she paid them no heed, a long-fingered hand pressing on the counter and planting her other hand on her hip.
"Ach, Jinty." She felt free enough to release the traps around her suppressed brogue. "I dinnae know you cared."
"Where the bloody hell are your clothes?!"
"Lost 'em?"
"/Cass/!"
A pale hand waved dismissively as the burly bartender slammed the door shut and flipped his 'BUGGER OFF, WE'RE CLOSED' sign. Cassidy moved behind the bar to get to the sink, deft fingers rolling over the knobs to activate the jets, and plugged in the stopper to start filling it with water. She reached for the soap perched on the dish to the right.
"Carry on like that and you willnae see your forty-fifth birthday." She angled an emerald-and-gold eye over her shoulder. "Never understood how you could be surrounded by so many bottles and be as high strung as you are. Is it a blood thing? A fatherhood thing? Sommat?"
She dunked her head in the water, and started scrubbing out her hair. Somewhere behind her, she heard Jinty sigh, followed by the unmistakeable scrape of a barstool being adjusted to support his side. The creak of worn bolts assailed her ears.
"I'm only ill-tempered 'cause I care," the big man grunted, leaning forward on the counter and giving her an expectant look. "Well? Whaddaya got?"
Dye sloughed off her tresses like ink, its usual golden color returning to its characteristic lustre. Cassidy kept her back to Jinty, fingers pulling over the tangles as she engrossed herself in the very serious business of returning her appearance to its usual state. Spots of it sprinkle over her voluminous, pristine covering like dust, but as usual, she was uncaring of the mess. "Well," she began, voice half-lost in the rush of water. "You were right. He does have your wife's brooch, he dinnae pawn it off."
Jinty's tense shoulders relaxed. His disgruntled expression returns, snorting through his beard. "Forrester never forgave me for takin' over the space," he muttered. "Resisted sellin' it to 'im fer years. Finally found a chance to humiliate me in the weekly game, I guess."
Cassidy turned off the faucets, twisting her hair back and pinning it. Turning to the bartender, a slender brow arched upwards. "Your fault you were goaded," she pointed out, leaning over the space across the bar from him, the palm of her hand cupping her jaw, elbow braced on stone. "Shouldnae have played if the thing was so precious to you. S'your temper, luv." Mischief filled her eyes. "You know, there are plants you can smoke for that. Never met me an angry ganja enthusiast, just saying."
The big man snorted, though after a pause, he looked down at his hands. "Was angry, Cass," he said at last. "Don' tell me y'never are."
"Never." The word prompted images of a ravine and blood on the sand. The young woman's lips tilted up in a mild grin, eyes twinkling to hide the lie. "S'the wrinkles, you see. Nothing causes it more effectively than shrieking, hollering, blistering nonsense. You're gonna look sixty 'afore you're forty and I'm still gonna look fookin amazing."
Jinty snorted again, but amusement flared in the depths of his eyes. Easing his bulk off the stool, he reached for bottle and a pair of shot glasses.
"So how do we get it back?" he wondered, setting the items in front of her, pulling the cork out with his teeth and doling out portions of fiery amber liquid. "Was thinking might be best to pull an Aguy Prisoner then follow that up with a classic Pigeon Drop and if something goes wrong, we can always Follow the lady."
Cassidy reached for her shot glass. "Lester's nae in town," she mused, knocking back the liquor and feeling it burn. "Willnae trust nobody else to be the Prisoner. Pigeon Drop's dicey unless we manage to bribe a couple of household help, and we dinnae have enough chickens for Follow the lady."
"Chickens? I thought it was goats."
"Nae. Chickens. If nae chickens to be got, one big, fat turkey."
"How fat?"
"Fat. As in, /gloriously/ fat. As fat as the day is long."
"...well, shite, better call it off with Cousin Balkie, then. He's /only/ fifty stone."
Mirth ripples over the fine bones of her pale mien. Cassidy inclined her head, fingers lifting to touch the pin holding her hair in place, fondling the much-loved silver setting. "No one said it has to be that complicated, anyway," she said. "Sometimes a different accent and a change of hairstyle works just as well."
"What are you--" Jinty fell silent, staring at the pin in her hair, the large emerald refracting light from the tavern's golden lamps. His lips parted in astonishment. It was all he could do, reaching out with his palm cupped upwards, watching the woman as she disengaged it from her wet tresses and deposited it in his fingers. The resulting withdrawal was a jealous one, the precious object held delicately, as if it were made of blown glass. As affection for a beloved wife lost to the ravages of disease flitted over the man's expression, the blonde poured herself another shot, her eyes turned away.
"....yeh, well, ya coulda just bloody said ya got it already!" And just like that, Jinty was back to his regular self.
"And miss that embarrassing attempt at planning a heist?" Cassidy laughed. "You were born for honest living, Jinty, oughtae leave that kind of work for reprobates like myself. Had to get /something/ out of this. Dinnae worry about it, though, luv...as I said, it wasnae hard." Potent bemusement returns, more implied by the line of her mouth. "May have ruined Forrester's life in the process, but that's what he gets, obsessing over things. If he learned to take a breath and just let go, this wouldnae happened to him."
"Heh. Well, it's not as i-- " His head sudddenly snapped up to look at her, squinting once. "...whaddaya mean ruined his life? What did you do?"
She smiled in lieu of a reply, lifting her shotglass to him in a toast before taking a hearty swallow. It did nothing to dispell the suspicious look on Jinty's face. Setting it down, she pushed away from the counter, and stifled another yawn. "Now, if you wouldnae mind, I think I'll take the back room and go back to sleep."
"You do that."
Another pause.
"And put some bloody clothes on! This is a bar, not a god damn bordello!"