ArchivedLogs:Two Mutants Walk into a Bar

Two Mutants Walk into a Bar
...and have a lovely chat over some beers.
Dramatis Personae Isra, Mallory
In Absentia	2013-07-08 No joke, it happened just like that.
Location Harry's Hideaway
A cozy nook of a bar, Harry's has been run by the same grizzled proprietor for decades. The fare they serve is plain and typical bar food, but solid and well-prepared, and what the alcohol lacks in variety it makes up for in quality. Close proximity and long-developed relationships with the staff at Xavier's means they turn a blind eye to the mutants who frequent the bar. When the door opens, very little evening sunlight shines in past the individual who steps through it. Isra must fold her massive wings down over her shoulders to make it across the threshold without turning sideways. She wears a summery white linen dress with no sleeves or back, and a wide ripply hem that leaves her tail plenty of room to move without compromising her modesty /too/ much. Her taloned feet are wrapped in white athletic tape, and even standing casually, she towers over most of the other patrons--her horns nearly grazing the top of the doorframe when she stepped inside. Only a few heads turn, however, and these quickly go back to their conversations and drinks. She holds the door open and glances back at her companion with placid green eyes and one arched eyebrow ridge. Being new around here, this is likely the first time that Mallory has wandered into Salem Center, let alone the local watering hole, and as she follows Isra into the bar, the reddish skinned mutant gets a slightly longer look from the patrons, but thankfully, no challenges. The young woman is wearing a black sleeveless wrap dress, creatively arranged to expose just enough of her lower back to accommodate her tail, but not enough to make the dress show an unseemly amount of skin. A toothy smile spreads on her wine colored lips as she glances around the bar, her Oxford accented voice raised just enough for Isra to hear over the chatter, “To the bar, I suppose? Charming little place, it is. At least the bar stools should be comfortable enough to sit upon.” She offers a little bit of a bow and a gesture towards the open seats at the bar. “Conventional chairs are rarely made to accommodate tails and digitigrade legs,” Isra agrees, leading Mallory to the stretch of empty seats at the very end of the bar. She looks as though she might still prefer to stand, but arranges herself delicately on the barstool all the same. Her legs are so long that she has little need of the footrest that runs along the base of the bar; the toes she walk on rest comfortably on the ground. While she is still studying the selection of bottles and taps, the balding barkeep makes his way over, drying his hands with a black towel. “Evening, ladies,” Harry says with the barest tip of his head. He does not even hesitate on the word ‘ladies’. “Will you be needing the menu?” “Good evening.” Isra nods, her ivory horns gleaming in the yellowish lights above the bar. “I would like a large plate of fries and defer to my compatriot in terms of choosing our libations.” Mallory sinks onto the bar stool, sighing slightly, “Pardon my need to sit - I have balance issues on occasion if I stand still for too long. And from what I’ve seen, alcohol does little to help with them. Fine while moving - rubbish at standing still.” She gently reaches behind her to move her tail out of the way of traffic flow, bringing the appendage along to wrap slightly around the base of her ankle. She offers a brilliant smile to the barkeep when he addresses them, apparently rather surprised at his actually being polite. “Actually, yes, I would like to see the menu, please,” Mallory says with another smile, leaning gently against the bar to get a glance at the taps and bottles available, “And, hm, two Hefeweizen, please, to get us started.” She glances sideways at Isra, offering a bit of a grin, the overhead light of the bar catching on her polished black horns, “It’s nice and light - good to have with food. And, if nothing else, it’s good for washing the bitter taste of academic bigotry away. Temporarily, anyway.” The barkeep hands Mallory a laminated menu. “Only Hefeweizen I got on tap is Hoegaarden,” he says, fetching two glasses. “That okay?” Isra sighs heavily and leans one long forearm on the bar. “I really thought I would be okay with it, Mallory. I have been expecting a letter for weeks, and when I finally get it...” She shakes her head. “Ah, I really need to grow thicker skin.” “That sounds fantastic. Thank you,” Mallory says, accepting the menu and scanning it quickly, “Mm - an order of loaded potato skins, and jalapeno poppers, please.” She grins, and slides the menu back towards the barman, “Thank you.” As the bartender brings the two beers by, Mallory takes the frosty mug, holding it in both hands, the frost on the outside of the mug melting and actually curling in little tendrils of steam before the librarian realizes what she did and sighs. “I thought I would feel the same way about my family’s reaction. I really did. It was something I had just been expecting it for years, but it still caught me off guard when it happened.” She smiles slightly, shaking her head, “Thicker skin is relative. You seem to be handling this relatively well, all things considered. You haven’t set anything on fire, at least.” She smirks and takes a sip of her beer, testing it, before raising it to Isra in a salute. “Thank you.” Nodding at the bartender, Isra lifts the beer and studies the light amber liquid as though it were a particularly curious chemical reagent. “I suppose being intellectually forewarned is not the same as being emotionally prepared. Still, I am not giving up. The stakes are higher than just some letters to tack onto my name.” She smiles at Mallory. “To not setting things on fire, then! Cheers.” Downing at least a quarter of the beer in one long pull, Isra sets it down on the paper coaster in front of her and looks thoughtful. “That is...quite excellent. I have never been a beer drinker, but this is not bitter like the few others I have tried.” Mallory watchs Isra drink for a moment, then takes a long pull from her own beer, before setting it down with a contented sigh. "Agreed. Don't give up - just because your situation has changed doesn't mean you shouldn't follow your dream through to completion," Mallory says, idly running a finger through the condensation on the bar, "If anything, take a break, compose yourself, and come back ready to present an even stronger argument than before. Make yourself so academically desirable that they just can't ignore you." Nodding towards the two mugs of beer, Mallory smiles, "It's a good one to start with - there's actually flavor to it, instead of the "light" beers that are so popular right now in this country. Reduced calories and all that." She pulls a face at the thought of the stereotypical light beers, wrinkling her nose and furrowing her brow, before taking another sip of her beer as though to make sure it really was that good. “Oh, I expect to have plenty of time while waiting for the ponderous bureaucratic machinery to chew my appeal up and spit it back out at me.” Isra chuckles mirthlessly. “Alas, I doubt very much if my /academic/ desirability will even enter into this. They threw me out for being ‘disruptive’--the theory, I suppose, being that other students will not be able to concentrate on studies with a gargoyle walking about on campus.” A younger man emerges from the kitchen to deliver their french fries, potato skins, and jalapeno poppers. Unlike his employer, he /does/ stare at the two women, even stuttering a little over the mumbled word “Enjoy” as he sets down the plates. Isra hides her amusement behind the beer until he has fled back to the kitchen. “Perhaps the Dean has a point, after all,” she adds, but there is no bitterness in her voice now. “I suppose the problem is, no matter how many of us come out, there are still others who look radically different. We are not just new and scary--we are /perpetually/ new and scary.” “Discover some as of yet unknown astronomical anomaly or something,” Mallory offers, as though it were the easiest thing in the world, “I’m sure there are resources the school can get you in touch with. Hell, I can see if I can get access to the public astronomy archives as part of a library initiative - my understanding is that they are encouraging “citizens” to mine the data they pull from the telescopes.” She grins toothily and sips her beer, “And at least thus far, mutants are still citizens. Well, you are. I’m just here on a work visa. Until I actually consider applying for citizenship, anyway.” A bit of a grim laugh escapes her lips as she sets the beer down again, the glass having considerably more condensation on it than others, “Wouldn’t that just set the family off even more. Their daughter, becoming a Yankee.” The young kitchen help gets a brilliant smile from Mallory, and although it is likely intended to be friendly and warm, the unfortunate presence of fangs makes it look more sinister. “It’s a matter of time. There was a point in academic history when the thought of a woman walking campus was thought distracting. Or a person of color. Or any number of groups which have since gained academic credibility,” Mallory says, snagging a potato skin and adding a dollop of sour cream to it, “Maybe I should apply. Just to be a prat. A doctoral seeking demoness may take some pressure of a stargazing gargoyle, aye?” Isra perks up a bit at the suggestion of /discovering/ something. “You are quite right. Citizen science--which is sort of a ridiculous turn of phrase, but I like it better than ‘amateur astronomy’--has become an ever more important part of optical astronomy, especially in terms of discovering new objects in our own solar system.” She snags several french fries together and devours them as daintily as she can, though she is quite obviously hungry, and washes them down with a sip of beer. “This /is/ excellent with food, by the way. Perhaps I’ll bring some /beer/ to Thanksgiving dinner. Father will have some words about that.” Her ears prick up, then flatten back. “Speaking of Yankees, I suppose you’ve never experienced that fine American tradition of devouring an oversized bird. It has always seemed excessive to me, but now I feel like I can eat an entire turkey myself and still have room for pie.” She punctuates this by eating another handful of fries two at a time. “Columbia? Honestly, you might well be accepted if you apply. They will only be looking at your transcripts and such, so unless your documentation gives away your somewhat unusual appearance, they would be none the wiser until it was too late.” She echoes Mallory’s fangy grin. “I wonder how long it would take them to catch on...” Mallory grins brightly, “See - all’s not lost. Just let me know which libraries and archives to contact, and I can start getting access for you. Well, you, and the school. Knowledge is power, and I just like seeing how much stuff I can access with a librarian’s credentials backing me.” She finishes the potato skin in one fangy bite, her facial expression quite gleeful at the flavor of the food before she washes it down with another swig of beer, “It really does. Manages to be flavorful without being food on its own. Guinness is a lovely beer, but sometimes I just don’t want to have to chew my beverage as much as I have to chew food.” She snorts and grins, “I would have gotten in so much trouble if I brought beer to dinner. We were allowed wine, but it was always perfectly matched and chosen by the cook. Which usually meant it tasted horrible, even if it complimented the food.” She wrinkles her nose at the memory, taking another sip of beer to clear the imagined taste. She tilts her head curiously at the question, but then shakes a negative, looking curious, “I can’t say I have. Sounds delicious, though. I’ve had quail, and chicken, and goose. But never turkey, oddly enough. I suppose Christmas dinner would be close - that was always a feast, but, well, I got a plate delivered to my room - never was actually allowed to /go/ to the big dinner parties.” Mallory snorts, and pops a jalapeno into her her mouth, chewing thoughtfully, “Oh, that really does make me want to apply. See how many people I can convince that it’s a costume from a book, for a class I’m teaching. It helps the students get interested in the literature, really.” She laughs out loud, grinning, “I really should stop making decisions over beer. That’s what got me in trouble the last time.” “Wine at holiday dinners was the /only/ alcohol I drank for the longest time,” Isra says, sipping her beer appreciatively. “I actually liked most of it, but now wine seems like a family dinner sort of thing to me, and I can never motivate myself to drink it out of context. Perhaps...” Her green eyes stray wistfully to a group laughing and cajoling from one of the booths. “Perhaps you and Thomas could come to our Thanksgiving dinner. There will be one on campus too, I am certain, but I guess you might say I have an ulterior motive. My parents have never met any other mutants--obvious ones, anyway. When my mutation began manifesting, they wanted so badly to cure me; they have given up on that, but still...they look upon it as an illness, a misfortune. ‘She’s still our child, make her as comfortable as we can’, and all that. I should be thankful they are as accepting as they are, but their way of looking at it colored mine for the longest time. If meeting other mutants living full lives changed my mind...maybe it could change theirs.” She shrugs, wings threatening to unfold themselves from her shoulders. “A costume?” Isra echoes. She ruminates on this thought over a mouthful of french fries. “One of the students keeps trying to convince me to make a Halloween costume--was rather fixated on making me /Batwoman/ for a while, which I just cannot see happening. But I am seriously contemplating /some/ kind of a costume...one that isn’t all robes and veils. You could certainly pull off something like...Mephistopheles? Not sure I’ve a lot of options from literature, but there /was/ this cartoon show I rather liked...” “I didn’t really drink until grad school. I had friends who finally drew me out of my shell, so to speak, and got me looking into actually living, not just studying,” Mallory explains with a rueful grin, shaking her head, “Leaving them is the only real regret I have for coming stateside, really. Well, and until I discovered he was working at the same school as I, leaving my brother was the other worry.” She shrugs slightly and looks curious at the thought of attending a family dinner, raising an eyebrow and looking at Isra, “I... huh. Your family wouldn’t freak out at the idea of having a pair of ‘demons’ at dinner? I, well, I’m just surprised, I guess. I’m used to being hidden and not acknowledged, /especially/ at family events.” She muses for a moment, chewing on a potato skin as she ponders. “Thomas might be interested, for the sake of being able to go to a dinner event /without/ having to wear full stage makeup and gloves,” she finally adds, her voice thoughtful, “Thank you for the invitation, though.” “A costume, yes,” Mallory says after taking a long pull of her beer, finishing it off, “I can pass for a pretty kickass Tiefling from D&D, or just about any iteration of a demon or devil.” She grins brightly, offering a shrug, “And yeah, wearing veils and skirts gets old after a while. Only time I like doing that anymore is for practicing belly dance. Randomest hobby ever, but it helped with the balance issues, at least.” Grinning, Mallory takes another bite of her potato skin, waving to get the attention of the bartender for another round. “They /definitely/ would not freak out, though that’s no guarantee they would be completely comfortable either,” Isra muses, draining her beer. “The thing is, they would /deal/ with being uncomfortable to stay involved with my life, and if my friends and co-workers look strange...that’s something they can get used to. They are /very/ liberal,” she lifts both eyebrow ridges when speaking the word ‘very’, “but not immune to fearing the unknown. My doctor, Khalida--she is a family member, a kind of adoptive aunt, I guess--would not even be uncomfortable. I am sure she would love to meet you.” “I have never played D&D, although I had many classmates who did.” There is only a hint of regret in Isra’s admission. “But I would hazard a guess that Tieflings are some manner of monstrous antagonist in that game? Gargoyles, too, I would be willing to bet.” She grins. “Ah, hobbies are meant to be kind of random, no? I only started building PCs because I had trouble running telescopy software on the /supposedly/ high-end machine I had. I guess stargazing is a hobby, too, but it /is/ relevant to my field. There is /flying/, though!” Harry sweeps by the collect the empty cups. “The same?” “Yes please, I’ll have another,” Mallory answers Harry with a smile, glancing at Isra, “Did you want another, or want to try something else?” Once Harry is away with the drinks, Mallory shrugs slightly, “Uncomfortable I can deal with. I was kept hidden my entire life, and Thomas was paraded around like a puppet, even after he changed.” She wrinkles her nose before offering a bit of a toothy smile, “Meeting a family who is even uncomfortably accepting of physical mutations would be a refreshing breath of air, so to speak.” Talk of the good doctor gets an interested head tilt, and Mallory hmms for a moment, “A doctor who isn’t going to try to “cure”? Also refreshing. I admit, I haven’t been to a doctor since I left for college. Had enough prodding and poking after this happened,” she gestures at herself, vaguely indicating her mutations. “No, actually. They’re a playable race as a character. Sure, the dungeon master can make NPCs that are evil Tieflings, but they don’t have to be. It’s one of the reasons I enjoyed playing,” Mallory says with a grin, “I got to pretend to be a hero for a bit, instead of being typecast as a villain so often. Perhaps, some time, I’ll see if we can get a group together. I don’t think Thomas has played, either, or if he has, he never mentioned it.” She takes another potato skin and munches happily on it, while waiting for her next beer. “Hobbies are whatever you want them to be. Useful hobbies are always a good thing. Stargazing is a bit more applicable to astronomy than kickboxing, dance, and tabletop gaming are to literature,” Mallory says with a cheery shrug, finishing off the potato skin she’d started on. “Oh, yes, another of the same would be wonderful, thank you,” Isra replies. “My parents are pretty familiar with bigotry themselves. He is Muslim--if indifferently--and she a Jew; while they were not /reviled/ for being in a relationship back in rural Lebanon, they did not exactly find acceptance, either. They came to the States only to find a different brand of discrimination. As for Khalida...” Isra frowns, but it is not a troubled look so much as a thoughtful one. “She is pretty skeptical about the whole idea of pushing ‘cures’ on people to suit society’s ideas, but I cannot say for sure she didn’t ever /want/ to cure me--especially in the early years, when the changes caused constant agony. Regardless, she never encouraged me to amputate anything, though she made it clear she would support me if that is what I chose.” Her fingers touches the interlocking thumb talons that kept her wings folded close to her body like a living cloak. “I am glad I did not.” The beers arrive with fresh coasters to replace the soaked ones--drinks, like drinkers, sweat a lot in this kind of weather. Isra nods her thanks and wraps a hand around the cool beverage. “Khalida does not actually have a regular practice--an office, yes, but for the most part she is on retainer to my family. Half researcher and half private physician.” She snickers. “I am sure she would be willing to take on a few other patients, but you should also consider dropping by the infirmary to see Hank--Doctor McCoy, I mean--sometime, if you have not run into him already.” “My parents are fairly familiar with bigotry as well, but it’s from the other side,” Mallory says with a snarl, the expression bearing her pointed teeth, “British upper crust. They tolerated us only because Thomas could pass as human.” She shudders slightly at the mention of amputations, closing her dark eyes for a moment and running a hand over her horns, “They initially tried, consenting or not. It’s a bit of a miracle I made it home from the hospital with my tail intact as a newborn, truth be told. I’m guessing there was a sympathetic nurse who talked them out of going through with it. I can’t walk without it as a counterbalance, and I would have been wheelchair bound had they done that.” Her tail twitches in agitation, then curls tighter around her ankle as she continues talking, “At puberty, they tried to find a way to remove my horns, and tried again for a run at the tail. I broke enough shins and threatened to set enough things on fire that they left it alone.” There’s a little bit of a wicked grin at this part, lending to the idea that she might just be able to pull off a convincing Adversary costume without much effort. She nods at the idea of seeing a doctor, looking sheepish and taking a long pull of her fresh beer, “I’m supposed to stop by to see Hank at some point. Need to provide medical records and documents and such forth.” There’s a dismissive wave, and a rueful grin, “Can’t say I’m exactly chomping at the proverbial bit to go see a doctor, mutant friendly or otherwise. I may be stalling for time, admittedly.” She snags another jalapeno, popping the whole thing into her mouth with a childish grin. Eyes wide and ears pressed back and almost flat against her skull, Isra looks genuinely horrified in her own muted way. As she listens to Mallory’s harrowing description of her experiences, her lips compress and her eyes narrow just a fraction, tail lashing the air behind her. At length she lifts her beer and sips from it, then shakes her head slowly. “Unconscionable,” she concludes, though her biting tone suggests she would consider stronger language entirely appropriate. “I can see why you are not eager to have further contact with the medical profession. However, Hank is...pretty disarming.” She laughs suddenly. “Try shooting him an email and asking to see him in a non-clinical context first, perhaps. He has many patients with learned aversion to medical attention, unfortunately.” Mallory takes a long pull of her beer, composing her thoughts a bit as she does, “Sorry for the random background dump, Isra. Just, well,” she raises her beer, as though the single drink could have had an effect on her large frame, “Ok. That’s not really an excuse, to be honest. I’m not even tipsy. I could probably have another four of five and be barely feeling it.” This comes with a slightly accusing glare at the beer, as though wondering why it was so ineffective. There’s a laugh, and she shrugs again, “I’ll likely make an effort to talk to him this week. If I don’t accidentally run into him trying to extricate my brother from his shiny new lab and new toys.” She rolls her eyes and glances at her phone, as though expecting to have seen a text of message from him, growling slightly, “I’m going to need a crowbar to get Thomas out of the mansion at this point.” Lightening the mood, or at least attempting to, Mallory nods to the glass, “Second beer as good as the first? Or want to try something else?” “I can sympathize with your brother,” Isra says with a crooked smile, “I often forgo sleeping for particularly interesting celestial phenomena, and even moreso for fresh data from observatories. To be honest, that is what I will miss most--access to Columbia’s observatory timeshares all over the world. I will have to start leveraging my own connections to request observations now--and that may get harder soon enough, too. If I had access to a brain new observatory...I probably would not want to leave it, either. Then again...” She raises her beer to salute Mallory. “Here you are, away from your new library. And I am quite satisfied with this...what did you call it, hefvisen? Unless you want to introduce me to other brews--I am open to new experiences. Like jumping off the roof...” “I can’t count the number of times I went without sleep for far longer than I should have because I was caught up in a good book, or in the middle of tracking down the lead on some piece of research I was working on,” Mallory muses, swishing her beer around in the glass idly, “I don’t blame him, I just worry about him.” She smiles slightly, “I suppose the difference is that books are, for the most part, going to be right there in the library when I get back. Your stars move.” Another pull from her beer, “Eh - maybe next time I’ll introduce you to cider. This seems to fit the mood and the food pretty well. It’s a Hefeweizen - type of wheat beer.” She turns her attention back to her food, although an eyebrow is arched in Isra’s direction, Mallory’s dark eyes glancing over to her colleague, “You jumped off the roof? Judging by the lack of casts and bandages, I’m going to guess it went halfway decently?” “Timing is /tremendously/ important in astronomy, yes.” Isra looks up, as if she somehow expects to see the first of those stars through the ceiling of the building. “Some events only occur once in a lifetime--or a hundred lifetimes. The politics around getting observation time must make an interesting study in itself!” She pauses to decimate her fries and wash them down with beer. “Hefeweizen,” she repeats the word. “I will keep it in mind so that I sound less foolish the next time I go to a bar--which is admittedly a pretty rare occurrence.” Despite having polished off most of her second drink, Isra does not seem any more affected by the alcohol than her companion. “Ah, the flying lesson went...not /well/, but nobody died! My instructor was obliged to rescue me on more than one occasion, and did not come out of it unscathed.” Isra looks at her nails, which, though not all that long, are thick and sharp. “I have a lot more practicing to do before I start showing off to the squeamish! Maybe,” she adds idly, “/I/ should take up belly dancing--or some kind of physical activity that does not tend to produce so many injuries.” “I’ve heard that, about the observation timing. Sounds a bit on the cut throat side,” Mallory says, finishing off the last of her potato skins, “I admit - for the most part, librarians and literary scholars don’t get that wound up. If anything, it’s an occasional accusation of plagiarism or sabotaging a paper... but that’s why you keep all sorts of backups and detailed notes.” She shrugs slightly, grinning at the ‘successes’ of the flying lesson, “Well, no fatalities is a good thing, when roof jumping is involved. I’ll give you that.” A chuckle escapes her smiling lips as she tilts her head a bit, thinking about the belly dance lessons, “You only start running the risk of injuries when you add blades and fire into the dances. But if you ever want to learn, I can teach you - I had to modify some of the steps, due to leg differences, but they should work pretty well for you, if you wanted to try.” She grins and shrugs, finishing off her beer, “It’s an amusing form of exercise, if nothing else. And the balance improvements were a /huge/ help.” Isra raises both bald eyebrow ridges. “You use /blades and fire/ in your dance? To be perfectly honest with you, I have not seen a belly dance performance since I was quite young and found such things boring--I always had a book with me when my parents dragged me out to expose me to The Arts. I was a little philistine,” she admits with a chuckle. “Now I am a /big/ philistine who would not be allowed in most of those venues, and probably would not fit in the seats anyhow. But yes, the exercise aspect of it was what I was considering, for the most part. The gym routine is a bit dull.” “I don’t use blades, no, but I experimented with fire poi and dancing. Once. I, uh, wasn’t that good at it, admittedly. Since I sort of just, well, tried with on-fire poi the first time,” Mallory admits sheepishly into her empty beer glass. “That was, well, another slightly heartier alcohol fueled experiment in grad school. Not recommended,” she says with a bit of a cough, grinning, “And blades can be used to do some absolutely amazing dances, but require absolutely astounding balance and coordination. I’m no where near that good. And likely won’t be, even with practice, anyway. But I can teach you some time - in the gym, because I really don’t do outside in this heat.” She wrinkles her nose with an accusatory glare out the door, “I am a creature of air conditioning and climate controlled libraries.” Mallory glances at the clock on her cell phone, letting out a bit of a sigh, “Speaking of which, we should likely be heading back to the school soon. Not that we have a curfew, but, well, nighttime, visible mutants, not safe, blah, blah, blah.” She waves a hand dismissively, as though rather certain they can take care of themselves well enough. “It has been a summer for the heat,” Isra agrees, draining her beer. “Temperature extremes do not seem to bother me very much, except to make me hungrier--and I don’t mean extremes like being on fire! But you are quite right, we ought to be getting back, lest we frighten some poor night traveler at the crossroads at midnight or somesuch.” She polishes off the last of her fries and wipes her fingers off on a napkin. “I really appreciate it though--the drink, and the talk. It had been...weighing on me. I vow now to move forward with it, do some good with this if I can. And if not...we can still start a club.” This last she says with a wry smile as she waves the bartender over. “Being on fire hurts, pretty much no matter what,” Mallory says in a matter of fact voice, all but swallowing the last jalapeno popper whole, “I don’t deal well with the heat and humidity.” She waggles her fingers, “I run really hot already, and the humidity makes me feel trapped. It’s just kinda, not pleasant.” She pulls out her wallet, fishing out a few bills to cover the meal and drinks, nodding to Isra with a smile, “Any time. A good conversation over a pint does a lot to fix many problems in the world. Or at least distract from them momentarily. “And I’ll start putting my doctoral application together in my spare time. Because I’ve started taking a twisted delight in poking at the establishment,” she offers with a grin, handing over the bills when the bartender comes by. “And yes. Certainly we don’t want to start any local legends about demons at cross roads or such things,” Mallory snorts, rising to stand and stretching as she does. Isra puts down a hefty tip and gets up. “I suppose you are used to somewhat cooler weather. So are we! This has been an unusually fierce summer--in more than one way.” She starts to unfold her wings, but looking around at how crowded the bar has grown as they talked, thinks better of it and pulls them back in again. “Well, then! Back to Camelot with us.”