Who: Lowell and Hawke and a brief appearance by Hawke's uber charming uncle, Gamlen. What: A business proposition When: Recently Where: The Hanged Man Rating/Warning: Low/none. Some brothel talk. Status: Complete
Usually it was the record company that sought out locations for gigs, but Lowell was determined to do this himself. It was supposed to be a secret gig just for their fans, and Lowell wanted to make sure that he had a good location for it. Besides, he was still reeling from his relatively recent break-up, and he really just needed to get out. Going out with Liv had been surprisingly refreshing, but he didn’t want to be that guy. The one who was constantly calling. So, occupying himself with work seemed like a good thing.
The bar itself had a good feel. Kind of… medievally, which was different. It felt like something one might run into in some kind of fantasy world. Very unique. He made his way up to the bar, and leaned against it, one arm on the counter as he continued to scope out the place.
It was home. The Hanged Man was constructed from memory, with sweat and blood and tears poured into every detail - though in some aspects? Sweat and blood was quite literal after the rift that’d been here, demons ripping things apart and creating a couple dents on the aged wooden flooring and walls. Hawke wasn’t bothered by it. Rather, it made things that much more authentic to him. If they were really give this establishment the spirit of the watering hole they loved so much he’d be violating health code violations and, rightfully so, shut down. Different worlds, different eras, and he doubted the modern people of this day and age actually wanted rat droppings in their ale.
The bartop the new stranger leaned on was maple slab, the imperfections kept on purpose, and the chalkboard hanging above listed the specialty cocktail names and ingredients carefully concocted by the mixologist of a wife. There were barrels of house-brewed beer (actually called Rat Droppings, no less), and a selection of domestic and imported ales on draft. Currently it was Hawke slinging drinks, but he was also balancing one specific burden bound by blood.
Gamlen.
“Where the bloody hell do you find a brothel around these parts?” exclaimed the mage, flabbergasted by his uncle’s pathetic tale. “You know what? Forget I asked, but the answer’s no.”
“Garrett--”
“Not a dime,” Garrett sternly retorted, and shooed him away with rag. “Get out, you wanker. Go to the clinic and get yourself checked, otherwise you’re not coming over for dinner with the twins. Git.”
Instead of looking deflated, Gamlen huffed and turned his back to storm out. Hawke let out sigh, running his fingers through the shag of his dark hair because what the fuck. “Sorry about that, mate - anything I can get you? After what you probably heard you deserve a shot on the house.”
Lowell paid attention to the exchange in the same way anyone would. He’d spent most of it staring far too intently at the interestingly named drink menu, his eyes occasionally flicking to the bartender and his… well, if that wasn’t some kind of family, Lowell would be surprised. Then again, he supposed it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility that some incredibly bold customer was attempting to hit up the bartender for some extra money.
Either way, it was the most entertaining exchange between strangers that he’d heard recently. And the best part was, he didn’t have to pretend he hadn’t heard it. “In that case, I’ll take a shot of spiced rum. And a uh… Nug’s Mother?” he said, glancing back at the menu to make sure he had that name right. “Family, I assume?”
Gamlen was surely entertaining, if one was amused by watching the embodiment of a flaming trainwreck irresponsibly hitting the same brick wall over and over, even if they were already (metaphorically) on fire and there was no salvaging of parts. To his credit, he’d gotten a little better since Leandra’s unsightly passing, but he was also an ever-attempting leech now that he knew his nephew had some money.
Money that was invested in this place and the twins for their education.
“Uncle,” he sighed again, guilty as charged. One shot, one Nug Mother, coming up. First came the spiced rum, top-shelf and a favorite of the pirate that helped run this place, and then he began the process of mixing the ingredients of the sweet n’ sour cocktail dedicated to the Spymaster of the same contradicting demeanor. “Bit of a pain in my arse, as you can see. And from the sounds of it, it doesn’t look like you’re originally from around these parts?”
Tourist, maybe? Poor sod. Hopefully no giant spider would crush his rental.
“Not originally,” Lowell said. “Sounds to me like we don’t hail from very different places,” Lowell said. He knocked back the shot quickly. “I came here from Camden about a year ago for work. Whereabouts are you from?”
“Southampton,” Hawke answered with a chuckle, dropping the last bits of ice in the glass before pushing the alcoholic mixture his way. “You know, the last bit of land the Titanic saw before meeting its tragic, icy fate? I’ve been around awhile myself - odd place it is, obnoxious patriotic customs aside. I hope you’re adjusting smoothly. What work brings you here?”
Poor man. Perhaps he’d be an oblivious citizen that turned a blind eye towards the clusterfuck of their reality, or he’d also be an unlucky sop that would end in the basket of unfortunates like he was.
Lowell, so far, had managed to avoid most of the weird stuff that had taken place in the county. Up until he’d been told otherwise, Lowell had always heard that they were publicity stunts and he’d watched them from afar. Very afar. “Ah, Southampton. The Guildhall’s a great venue.” Pocket Dial had played there on a few occasions, and Lowell had always been fond of it. “I’m actually a musician. In fact, that’s what brings me here now. I was thinking what a great pub this might be for a kind of secret gig. There wouldn’t happen to be someone I could talk to about that lurking around here, would there be?”
Ho, ho. An interesting inquiry. Hawke rubbed his bearded chin in thought, surveying the space - they could certainly host something of the sort. He couldn’t see why not, but it was obviously something they hadn’t done before. “You’d speak to me, actually,” he chuckled, holding a hand out. “I’m Hawke, one of the owners. I’ve never had a band play around here though I’m certainly open to the idea.”
It was a business arrangement they’d both benefit from, so why the hell not? “What’s your name, mate?” He thought he looked somewhat familiar - he could have sworn he’d seen his face around, now that he thought of it. “If you’re astoundingly famous and I’ve no idea who you are, please don’t hate me.”
“Honestly, dealing with the droves of screaming fans can get tiresome after a time,” Lowell said, taking Hawke’s hand. While it happened occasionally, at least being a rockstar he wasn’t as immediately as recognizable as he might be if he was, say, a movie star. “Lowell Tracey, of Pocket Dial.” People at least usually recognized the band’s name, if not his own. “It’ll be something exclusively for our fan club members most likely, but I can nearly guarantee a full house.”
Ahhh, now he knew who the fellow was - the realization hit Hawke quickly. “I have twin siblings, they’re a fan of yours. My sister, mainly,” he chuckled. Bethany would be tickled senseless once she found out. “We’d love to have you on board. I don’t know what a ‘secret concert’ exactly entails when it comes to advertising, but we can work on some specialty discounted drinks to draw a crowd. We also have a couple lodging rooms on the second floor if you and your band want some privacy beforehand.”
There was a motion to a set of doors in the back, with a wooden staircase that led up. Obviously no random Joe could stroll in and have a happy romp in the medieval-inspired rooms without some kind of key access, but it might be something Mr. Tracey here may be interested in. “Pleasure to meet you, Lowell.”
“The studio would take care of all the advertising; no need to worry about that at least,” Lowell said. Likely an e-mail would go out to the fan club members before it got announced, and any tickets that didn’t get sold during that time frame would be quickly snatched up by other fans. “Though those rooms would be brilliant.” It would be nice for the band to have a place to get ready before the show and unwind afterward before going to interact with their fans, which they would, of course, be doing. “If you’d like, I’d be happy to add your siblings to the guest list as well.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” Lowell said. He took a gulp of his drink, and then smiled at Hawke. “Though you know, musicians do drink for free.” That wasn’t entirely true, and there was a playful hint in that regards in his voice, but he thought that it was worth a shot.
Ho, ho, wasn’t he cheeky? Hawke had to mull that one over, arms crossed crossed, a crooked grin stretched across his face. “I think we can probably work something out if you’re going to be drawing in a hefty crowd,” he surmised - really, more exposure of The Hanged Man would benefit them in the long-term scheme of things, though it wasn’t as if they were doing poorly in regards to profit. The location, not to mention the outright uniqueness of the tavern had done well for that, but he wouldn’t deny a chance for publicity.
There were business cards he and Bela ordered for this sort of thing, and he pulled one from one of the drawers behind the bar to offer. “Here’s my card with contact information. This is quite literally my home address - we’ve got a flat at the very top floor of this building, so I’m often here if you ever want to chat in person. But send me all the information and we can go back and forth from there.”
Lowell let out a wistful sigh as he took the business card, giving it a look over. “I always thought it would be something to live right above my favourite pub,” he said, glancing up at the ceiling. “I’ll have the studio send over all the information once I get back. Though, I think it’s my duty as the location scout,” unofficial as he may be, “to sample a few more of your drinks before I head on my way. Make sure they’re up to snuff and all that. If I’m lucky, maybe the studio will reimburse me for all my hard work.”
“It’s not as rowdy as one might think,” he said, but he’d also renovated the place with some soundproof luxuries to ensure quietness on the second floor and his living space above - it’s not like music rattled the very structure of The Hanged Man on a nightly basis, so the live entertainment would be different. “But if you want samples to definitely test what you’ll be working with, then I can happily oblige. My wife concocted our signature cocktails on a very personal level.”
Maybe if the dreams ever did nail Lowell straight in the nogin, he’d tell him the story - but not everyone would believe the tales of his band of misfits, with elves and mages and warriors.
Dwarves too, of course, in memory of his best friend.
Hawke began pulling up the ingredients, and the magic of liquor-mixing began. “Don’t worry, mate, I’ll make sure you call you an uber by the time I’m done with you.”