[lion's mane tavern] we'll paint it red to fit right in (eden/harlan)

It was with a heavy “thunk” that Niska’s giant tankard of sailor’s mead landed on the other end of the wooden bar and was carelessly slid down the counter towards him. He released one fingerless-gloved hand from the inside of his jacket and caught the huge mug without even looking up. Most places inland didn’t serve a half-decent mead strong enough to suit his tastes. If the man wanted watered down alcohol, he would go to one of those frilly modern nightclubs where the swill they served wasn’t good enough to wipe the galley of the filthiest ship in the filthiest harbor. No sir. The mead at the Lion’s Mane, a grimy tavern tucked away in the back corner of wizarding London was the only thing tempting enough to get him out of Knockturn Alley.

Niska was among his people here. One look around the bar and he could tell almost every man here (as they were all disappointingly not female) was built like a rock and just itching to get in a fight. The place was dark and grimy, filled to its dusty corners with questionable people and the smell of rotten wood. Niska himself was looking extra suspicious tonight. Faded dark green coat, fingerless gloves, and a beanie that covered nearly half his face. His three-day old beard covered the rest of it. And what wasn’t covered in beard or beanie was covered in cuts and bruises from Niska’s last bout at the fights. Looking like he did, Niska fit right in.

He looked to his left, catching sight of a group of men. Looked to be quidditch players, celebrating a win or a loss, he couldn’t tell at this point. To his right was another group of rather large, darkly dressed men talking quietly and glancing over at him. The man with a diamond for an eye caught Niska’s gaze and made his way over, pulling out his wand. Niska sniffed experimentally, scowling, and turned to face the three men who were coming up on him. 

“Thought I recognized the putrid smell of surströmming and sea urchin ass. Back off Jarl, or you’ll be choking on whatever teeth ain’t rotted away in your mouth yet,” he warned, then took a drink of his mead. Niska didn’t take pride in a lot of things about his life, but he was certainly proud of the fact that he could make three overweight Swedish pirates back off with just one look and a few choice words. Jarl seemed to retreat back to his seat, though Niska could feel the eyes still watching him. They weren’t done yet. Niska had given Jarl a sound beating a few years back, and he knew the man was out for revenge. If a skirmish broke out tonight, Niska knew they’d be coming for him in the confusion. He was just going to have to make sure he didn’t get into any fights tonight or he’d find himself good and stabbed. Jarl was partial to his knives.

Ah well, that was the price of keeping such disreputable company, he thought as he looked around the grimy bar. Just as he did, the rusted bell over the door rang and in walked in the last kind of person anyone expected to see in the Lion’s Mane: a little blonde thing looking all the world like she didn’t belong. Niska wasn’t the only one to notice, as all eyes had now turned to the new arrival. The looks Jarl and his company were giving her were plain enough. It was then that Niska realized he recognized the girl-- Eden. He’d seen her with Tara some months ago, though he didn’t know why. What was a girl like that doing in a place like this? Alone.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jarl make like he was going to stand. Niska shot out of seat first, stomping over to Eden. “C’mere girl,” he growled, grabbing her roughly by the arm, and hustling her over to the bar and into the seat beside him. “Are you some kinda stupid?” he snapped in a low voice, his eyes furtively searching the rest of the bar. Jarl was still looking over, but so was one of the quidditch boys. Niska gave him a rude look that clearly said "Mind your own damn business, pretty boy", and then turned back to Eden. “What in the seven hells possessed you to walk in here?"

He glanced back at Jarl and groaned inwardly. The probability of a fight always increased when there was a woman around. And here Niska was hoping he'd get out of this unstabbed. "You’re stirrin’ up all kinds of trouble for me. Stay good and put, and don't you leave my side tonight, hear me?"

When Eden first announced that she was trying to create ‘memories’ she didn't miss the way her sister almost dropped her mug. Carson didn’t ask questions, and she didn’t explain; they both knew that she was trying to get back into perfuming and working with potions, she just needed somewhere to start. Memories was a touchy subject for the Finley sisters, so Eden just touched on it enough to say that she needed some rare plants with hallucinogenic properties to see how they’d affect smell instead of taste. A couple of days later Carson dropped an address in her lap and said she’d meet her there, and to look for a guy named Roscoe who looked like he was nursing a permanent hangover.

Sometimes Carson’s methods were not the most fool proof. Or legal, in this case. But seeing how she really didn’t want to bother with the extra paperwork, her method was the best bet, and the only bet. Over the course of the past few days Eden tried several times to tell her that it was ok, she could go alone, she’d be fine, she is fine. But she never could. There were blank spaces where her own memories should be, and she knew Carson was trying to make up for things she couldn’t remember, even though she wished it didn’t have to be this way. Nevertheless, when the time came for her to go, she dutifully got bundled up in clothes that would blend like a shadow and apparated to the Lion’s Mane Tavern.

The very first whiff she got of the place smelled like driftwood, alcohol on broken glass, and regret. Unassuming from the exterior, the tavern stuck out like a rusted nail just at the end of the lane, looking like debris washed ashore. Eden was half afraid that the door would come right off the hinges the moment she pushed it open with some difficulty, but the dusty tingle of the bell and the dull clunk it made as it slammed after her said otherwise. And all at once Eden realised that she was actually here in the smarmy bar, out of her element and totally out of place. The atmosphere wasn’t tense, but it wasn’t friendly either; too many pairs of eyes were locked on her, their intentions like pinpricks to her skin.

Self-consciousness turned to wariness as a man as grimy as the tavern thumped his way over to her. He looked like he was on a mission, and pinpricks turned to light scratches of panic when he grabbed her by the arm. For a moment she confused the stout figure with someone much taller, yet equally intrusive, forgetting to protest as he deposited her by the bar. Round green eyes turned glassy for a moment as he whipped around to stare at her, to question her. Immediately Eden’s hand flew to the wand in her pocket, taking a step away from him involuntarily, her breathing shallow and her palms clammy. She blinked hard and forced herself to breathe, cold sweat now pooling on her back. Calm down. Think. Assess your danger. Do not panic.

Now she recognised him to be Niska as soon as the fog in her head cleared. She saw him around Tara once, maybe twice, and she was always thrown off by how he smelled like nothing to her. Everyone had a particular smell, or a particular blend of smell, but he smelled like nothing. Once she was fully confident that he wasn’t a threat her grip on her wand loosened, and immediate panic left her in a huff. “I’m–“ Porcelain cheeks flushed at how hoarse her voice sounded, and once again Eden was forcefully reminded of how of place she was here. She knew it, Niska sure as hell knew it, and she didn’t even want to look around at the other patrons to see if they’d agree with him. “I’m looking for someone. It’s for something. Business.”

Finding Roscoe and her getting her plants was her only mission tonight, and she was going to see it through, with or without Carson. “I’m fine on my own. I don’t want to be a burden. As soon as I get what I’m looking for I’ll be on my way.” Her words were soft but clear, yet she was still trapped by the firm grasp of his hand on her arm. Struggling to get away proved futile, and for the first time this evening she looked up into his sharp brown eyes, a hint of annoyance and mostly desperation in her eyes and voice. “You can let go of me now… please.”

Lion's Mane Tavern was the type of establishment that inevitably set Harlan Bellamy up for failure -- full of wizards looking for any excuse for a fight and trouble in every nook, cranny and piece of driftwood. Despite this, though, he found himself standing at a hightop table in the corner with a handful of fellow Griffins, Rob having led the pack to 'his favorite bar'. It was clear to see why a rough and tumble bloke like the Keeper of the Gravesend team fit in so well.

The pile of glasses and steins scattered across the table in front of the group of Quidditch players were never close to empt, if even for a moment. Like clockwork, they were re-filled before anyone could even raise a hand. Apparently the female bartender had some sort of favorable relationship with the bald man who was currently chugging the remainder of his drink across from Harlan, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. They Gravesend Griffins were coming off a big win, and they were here to celebrate, there was no doubt about that.

Despite every opportunity for mischief surrounding them, the group of men had somehow avoided it all, opting instead to keep to themselves and discuss the match against Puddlemere. The opposing team was far from their historic winning streaks, but the win was still significant for the Griffins. Every win was at this point for them as they rebuilt their legacy. Any excuse for a celebration was good enough for them as evident by the raising decibels of their conversation, falling in line with the cacophony of loud conversations all around them.

Grey eyes, lazy with alcohol, carried from nameless face to face in the small pub around him. It was then that he noticed that they were all looking in the same direction at a young blonde woman who had entered alone. What on Earth was a girl like her doing in a place like this? Harlan's gaze narrowed in on her skeptically before flashing back to assess the varied levels of hunger on each of the strangers' faces around him. This was not going to end well.

Instinct, as it so often did, ruled Harlan's actions, and in a blink of an eye his drink was on the table and he had taken a step toward the bar where an older gentleman had pulled the woman to. The Beater's eyes focused on this dark haired stranger, his pulse picking up in his chest, taking in the peculiar look in his eyes. Something about their interaction did not feel like that of two old friend's or even a date.

Harlan made his way with purpose to the other side of the room despite his teammate's voices calling him back to their table. They knew the man well enough to know that there was no way this would end well. Just as he had approached the other side of the bar, Harlan heard the woman asking to be let go of, annoyance visible in every fiber of her being and tangible in her voice that had carried delicately to his ears. Whether or not they knew each other didn't matter now, he had heard all he needed to in order to justify intervening.

"Mate, she said to let her go," Harlan's voice was eerily calm, his knuckles gripped tightly to the bar in front of him as he leaned toward the pair. There was no point in causing a scene just yet...unless the man decided to make the wrong choice.

Business? The only kind of business that went down at the Lion’s Mane was the type that involved nondescript burlap sacks full of galleons and contraband of the highly illegal sort. He looked Eden over quizzically, thinking that she wasn’t the type to take part in such clandestine trades. Then again, what did he really know about the girl? Very little in fact. She was smaller than him, both in size and personality. She was timid as a mouse, her little voice barely registering over the noise of the tavern. Her magic floated around her in a bouquet of small, pale yellow flowery shapes. No, not quite. Niska squinted at the fuzzy magic, even though she was sitting right next to him and it ought to be crystal clear. Why wasn't it? Her magic seemed muted somehow. It was like little petal-y shapes that flapped in the breeze like butterfly wings.

Niska shook his head. She certainly didn’t belong here. “You think they’re gonna just let you go like that?” he asked, his voice low, though he did loosen his grip on her arm substantially. “They see you walk in here all by your lonesome and it’s like Christmas came early. They might let you walk out of here alone, but you take my word for it, they’ll be ten steps behind you waitin’ for a chance. Can’t trust these types. You’ll be safest sittin’ next to me until your someone shows up.” Niska frowned. What sort of person would set up a meeting in a place like this? The suspicious sort, that’s who. His eyes scanned the crowd once more. “In fact, maybe you best stay where I can see you when you meet them too. I don’t trust any person who chooses to hang out around here, highly suspicious and opportunistic they are.”

Whatever he was about to say next was cut off when another voice entered their conversation, telling him to let go of Eden. It was one of the Quidditch players. The older man rolled his eyes. Kid fancied himself a hero, did he? Niska arched one bushy eyebrow, he stitches over his most recent cut there pulling as he did so. Niska looked the other man up and down, calculating. Kid was impertinent, that was for sure. Taller than Niska too, with a strong build and ink as far as the eye could see.

Weren’t that many punks that would go up against Niska nowadays. He had a reputation in these parts, so anyone that stepped to him knew they were looking for a fight.  Despite his rough exterior, the stranger didn’t look too grimy and Niska wasn’t sure he meant Eden any harm, but dirt-bags came in all sorts of human-shaped cans and he wasn’t about to let his guard down because pretty boy here flipped his shiny blond hair around once or twice.

“Ain’t anyone ever taught you it’s rude to interrupt other people while they're conversin’, boy?” Niska growled, standing up from his seat. Dark brown eyes glared hard beneath his beanie as Niska walked around to stand between Eden and the stranger. Niska wasn’t so good at the looming when it came to people taller than him, so he stood an arms-length away, but his posture and expression making it very clear that he wasn’t about to be pushed around. Niska gestured back to the other Quidditch players. “Your own business is over there, so you best go mind it, yeah? Leave the lady to me. I ain’t looking for a fight but I also ain’t against teaching punks like you some manners if they're askin' for it.”