Caber dropped nimbly to the deserted concrete street as if he had merely done a skip and a hop from the river across town. He idly rolled the foresleeve of his shirt past his wrists and slid a wave of his dark locks out of his eyes. Before him was a large puddle of sewage within the crack of the broken road on 3rd street. The fae merely took a step and somehow he ended up across it as dry as a log of firewood. That was not strange to the magical being. The range rovers and what he sensed within the [i]Oakenshield[/i] was a bit more concerning. 

Many didn't know about the dive, but it had quickly become one of Caber's most beloved spots to find a drink. Nestled between the bosom of 3rd street, to the right of an office building and left of a store that sold adult toys. [i]Oakenshield[/i] had exquisite lagers, vodka, and mead. Tall stools for any and everyone to use at whichever stilted table they found. Some were small enough for two and others large enough for six or more if the group got creative. At the very back was a stage for dancing or singing. Sometimes a lucky, indie band would be booked to perform. Often on weekday nights, the keeper of the bar would simply turn the radio on. His name was Robert Oats, but most just called him Barley. An oaf, but a good man and a regular fountain of information. He owed the man for a number of things, not least of which was the rumor of a certain black dog roaming 1st street naught a year ago. Caber didn't divulge the significance, but it was one of the last vengeful spirits that still lurked within the city from the wave of London immigrants Caber had sailed over with. The beast would have sniffed him out and attacked him, or killed others and leave behind the residual celtic essence some might stamp upon Caber. He de-summoned the thing in short order and sent it back across the pond. 

As Caber approached the open door of the [i]Oakenshield[/i], he heard the Doobie Brother's blaring their ironically named 'Jesus is Just Alright' over the speakers. The 70's of the last century had been endlessly amusing for the Fae, even with all of the human contradictions and blunders that went with it. He smiled widely and stepped into the bar, though if one looked closely he gave the room a wide sweep with his eyes, far more curious than he was letting on with his expression. The small foyer hall led to the always-open door of the bar. There a few larger tables, lower to the ground, were for larger groups and for people looking for full meals. It was further from the music as well. Posters and pictures of musicians that had visited the bar over the last fifty years plastered the walls next to plaques of wisdom and poems from days of yore. Barley had a liking for older things, which Caber certainly appreciated. 

Barley couldn't compete with more pleasant company, however. To his disappointment, he saw no delectable women within. But he did see many faces he had never seen before. The majority of the patrons were rough, square jawed, and apparently big fans of denim. 

Unfortunately, that wasn't the only thing he noticed about them or the [i]Oakenshield[/i] this night...

[hider=Summary]Caber muses on the bar, on his debt to Barley, and his lack of enthusiasm when he sees these mortals[/hider]