they laughing at the top like they can't see the bottom

Mateo

Champagne, cocaine, gasoline
and most things in between

Rain hammers against the glass window-wall of The Last Word, creating quiet music and blurring the world outside into something grey and smudged and uninteresting to most. But Mateo finds himself gazing at it for longer than he intends - there's something about the quiet misery of the weather today that reminds him of Stormbreak, and he's still unsure whether that's a good or a bad thing for him. Tearing his eyes away at last, he settles back in the booth he's taken up residence within, sipping at his drink (an obnoxious margarita with a pink salt rim) and then setting it aside to get back to work.

Well. 'Work' is a generous term for what he's doing. Before him sit a few seedlings on the table that he's transplanting into larger pots that he'll use to decorate his sister's new bar; The Hanged Man had contained a wide variety of specimens he'd grown, from the gorgeous to the innocuous to the downright dangerous, and this place deserves a slice of that. Besides, it isn't as though he has anything better to do.

It's just past midday though you wouldn't know it from the world outside, and around him a few regulars have been drinking since well before he'd arrived. It's quiet though, currently, without the bump and grind of whatever chaos will likely spill over as the sun starts to set, though perhaps the rain will keep people home today. Mateo rather hopes not - he quite enjoys a bit of bumping and grinding himself.

I roam the city in a shopping cart
a pack of Camels and a smoke alarm

Through the blurred windows the bar, the rain slicking through his hair and into his eyes, Finch can just make out the edges of the figure he's been trying to track down. The grapevine in Torchline is a long and elaborate one, winding and knotted and deliberately hard to track, but many thieving hands had pointed to Mateo as the one to go to for this particular task, and Finch had followed the winding path to The Last Word. Thankfully here, and not some damp portion of Rae's Fingers or somewhere else equally slick and miserable, because Finch could really use a drink to warm him out. 

He pushes against the door with a wet shoulder, exhaling a relieved gasp as the warmth of the bar hits his skin. A lithe hand wipes the water from his eyes, flicking it onto the floor and he rolls his shoulders back like an acrobat preparing for a performance. In a way, he felt like he was. He stalks up to the bar, taking a strategic seat a stool away from his target and orders the cheapest thing the bartender would call drinkable; it turns out to be some murky-colored thing of ambiguous liquor that tastes vaguely like ale and of sad yeast. It warms him up, though, and after sipping for a calculatedly normal amount of time, he turns his head towards Mateo, letting a roguish grin spread up his face that hopefully looks more 'dashing and devilish youth' rather than 'feral and mysterious criminal.' 

"You're Mateo, right?" He says, lacing the words with trepidatious familiarity. "Sorry. Don't mean to ambush you. Some friends pointed me in your direction. I've been looking for a gardener. My old one recently retired" -- read, pissed off the wrong person and disappeared, "and I'm looking for someone to help me get some interesting new plants for my garden." He keeps his words light and friendly, expecting and demanding nothing, and with just enough casual friendliness that if Mateo turns him away, he could feign like this whole thing was a misunderstanding.

Mateo

Champagne, cocaine, gasoline
and most things in between

The door to The Last Word briefly opens, bringing with it a brief gust of cold air and the smell of salt and rainfall, but Mateo doesn't look up from his repotting. His fingers are careful as they press and adjust the seedling into its new home with a variety of other plants he's certain will get along with one another, and only when he's satisfied does he set the pot aside. Wiping his hands off on a damp cloth and reaching again for his margarita, as it hits his lips, a voice draws his attention from across the bar.

"I certainly was the last time I checked," he says with a lopsided smile, his accent hugging each word in a way that makes it sound vaguely whimsical. Setting his drink back onto the bar, he turns just enough to face the bedraggled stranger, handsome in that hungry sort of way that crooked people often are. "Well, I do not have nearly as many plants to offer as I once did, but depending on what you are after I can do my best to help."

He arches an eyebrow, knowing better than to think this is about perennials or rose vines; men with scars and deep pockets don't tend to come to a bar to ask about that sort of gardening.

I roam the city in a shopping cart
a pack of Camels and a smoke alarm

The eyebrow arches and Finch knows he's been understood, nodding slightly. His eyes wander to where Mateo's fingers had pushed into the dirt, studying the pot of dirt with open curiosity. It doesn't look familiar to him, but he's only been acquainted with a few kinds of plants -- some, unfortunately, on the receiving end -- and the one he knows would be very unlikely to be out at a bar like this. Even if they have not yet sprouted. 

The thief takes another careful sip of the swill, matching Mateo's body language and trying not to grimace as the sludge burns his upper lip. His cards are still tucked into his pocket after that singular beginning flash he gave the man and he's reticent to pull them all out all at once. A new contact, after all, is still a new contact, and Finch lingers on the wrong side of the law. Though Mateo does as well, who knows what he does with the information he accrues? Finch tilts his head sideways slightly, taking in the head of dark curls and sharp jawline. His voice lilts musically and light as it glides through his words, and though Finch wants to lean in and start trying to figure him out, he holds himself back. For now.

"I'm looking for plants that can help get rid of weeds and predators," He says, still casual, still deniable if needed, half-ready to run. "Do you still have those in your collections?"

Shell fragments click against one another within its body. Splintered sticks jut out at uneven angles, some polished smooth by salt or wind, others hooked and sharp. The bones woven through its centre are similarly weathered, though not all of them look as though they belonged to small creatures. Beneath the shifting sand, its limbs remain tightly coiled. A sudden roll sends shells and bone fragments skittering in its wake; when its branches open, they move like a living trap made from every hard, sharp thing the shore or desert has discarded.

---

You've encountered a Tangleweed Variant

---

Tangleweed Areas Found: Hollowed Grounds, King's End, Hak Etme — Common Appearing like nothing more than an amalgamation of sticks, the Tangleweed is actually an arguably sentient creature. For the most part it appears spherical in nature, keeping its many limbs tightly pulled against itself to form a round shape. It moves as if blown by the wind, suddenly rolling forward on the hard packed earth and then stopping just as suddenly. Having almost no natural predators, these creatures are found in great numbers especially along large, flat areas. It is often impossible to tell if a Tangleweed is dead or alive unless they are touched. If interacted with, the branch-like limbs will lash out and close quickly on whatever they can grasp, at which point a poison is released which causes the skin to numb. Then, quite like other species of carnivorous plants, the Tangleweed slowly begins to digest its prey. Challenge Rating: Easy HP: 30 | To Hit: 2 | Dmg: 14 Movement: Roll 20 ft.; Lurch 10 ft. (limb-propelled); Creep 5 ft. (against wind) SPECIAL SKILLS Lash & Latch: branch-like limbs whip out and close quickly and effectively on anything they can grasp; Numbing Poison: contact venom causes skin to go numb where seized; Slow Digestion: like other carnivorous plants, it digests prey over time once secured; Grip Net: multiple limbs interlace into a living snare that tightens with struggle

TRAITS Stick Camouflage: looks like an ordinary tumble of twigs and branches; Spherical Compact: limbs tuck tight to form a rolling, round body; Wind-Feign Locomotion: advances in sudden windlike rolls, then freezes; Dormant Deception: impossible to tell alive from dead until touched; Field Congregation: commonly accumulates in large, flat areas; Few Predators: little in the wild bothers a tangleweed’s dry, woody mass ACTIONS Sudden Roll: bursts forward in a short, windlike tumble to collide with a target; Limb Lash: snaps out hooked twigs to seize wrists, ankles, or gear; Numbing Seep: exudes the numbing toxin along gripping limbs to deaden sensation and resistance; Enfold & Digest: wraps prey into its core and begins a slow digestive process

Mateo

Champagne, cocaine, gasoline
and most things in between

"Weed is such a strong word," Mateo says, clicking his tongue with a dimpled smirk, but not holding the term against Finch. All plants are worthy of cultivation in the botanist's eyes, even those seen as pests or weeds, but he well understands the need to keep some things (be they greenery, predator or person) from overstaying their welcome. "But yes, I believe I do still have a few of those in my possession. Some are even ready to harvest. Are you looking for the specimens as a whole, or just to take advantage of their effects? For your garden, I mean."

Smiling behind another sip of his drink, they are interrupted by a sudden and unceremonious bonk! of a tangle of sticks, shell and bone against glass. Mateo glances over to the wall of windows to see a curious variant of tangleweed having blown into the panes, either harried by the sharp breeze or merely blinded by the rain. Scoffing, he gestures to it with a shrug. "I do not have any of those, alas," he says - though he might consider it in future. 

"What are you drinking?" he adds, "and can I interest you in something that looks less like dirty dishwater?"

I roam the city in a shopping cart
a pack of Camels and a smoke alarm

“Just a few specimens,” Finch clarifies as the writhing mass of plant bonked itself determinedly against the window of the bar. He had no particular enemies he needed the gardener to shear at this moment — well, except for one particular untouchable man who held a firm grip on the end of a leash tethered around his neck, but that likely wasn’t a problem that could be solved with a few strategically-placed herbal teas. He’s not much of an assassin, anyway, nor someone who would take that route to solve his problems. His necessity and current shopping list were more to adequacy have all the tools of his trade in his possession, both insurance and expectation wrapped into one. Just as he keeps a dagger hidden in his boots and strapped subtly up his sleeve, ready to be flicked out at a moment’s threat.

He smiles into his drink, feigning absolute and utter offense at his choice of beverage, as if his were an expensive delicacy he was enjoying immensely. “I’ll have you know, this is the finest dishwater this establishment can offer,” He smiles, settling the mug does on the counter and pushing it towards Mateo. “If this isn’t the finest swill you’ve ever tasted, I’ll know you’re a liar.”

Finch leans his body in a little closer, shoulders curved in a slight hint of interest and spindly fingers tapping a mesmerizing pattern on the wood of the counter. “But, I’ll never say no to a handsome man offering to buy me a drink.”

Mateo

Champagne, cocaine, gasoline
and most things in between

"Specimens it is," Mateo trills, pushing aside the seedlings he's just finished repotting and setting down his margarita to retrieve a flask of Torchline's healing water, using it to drench the soil and offer thirsty roots the best start in their new home. "I have a skyboat where most of them are kept these days - you can see it moored just above The Wildering House. The schooner covered in lavender," he explains, in case Finch ever feels the need to go poking about a little closer to his current lodgings. "You can come with me there or I can meet you back here in a few hours - whatever suits you best."

As for the swill, the botanist lets out a musical laugh and reaches across to willingly accept a sip of Torchline's finest dishwater. "I am a liar," he tells him earnestly (and ironically, he supposes), taking a generous mouthful and wincing it down whilst raising the cup in a cheers. "But this is my sister's bar, so I do consider it the best swill on offer," he adds, voice roughened by the liquor.

When it comes to handsome men offering to buy drinks, though, Mateo glances around as if looking for the man in question, before flashing Finch a dimpled grin. "It is only me, alas," he croons, gesturing behind the bar. "Pick your poison though, if you like. It will only cost your name."

I roam the city in a shopping cart
a pack of Camels and a smoke alarm

Uh oh. Finch likes this guy. He likes the way the easy, humble charm falls from his lips, taking a big swig of the offered swill with a muted wince and still defended his sister’s honor even after tasting the brackish mud-liquor. He’s seen the purple-covered skyboat and is equal parts impressed and suspicious Mateo offered knowledge of his ownership to the crooked-nosed thief; he either saw something trustworthy in Finch that was buried so deep in the sand and slime that seemed to stick to him from the backwater of the Fingers that even he didn’t see it; or, he was powerful enough not to fear a spindly little bastard trying to slip into his house. 

Either way, Finch was intrigued, perhaps against his better instincts. He had planned this meeting to go curt and anonymously, a simple exchange of favor for deadly substance and then he’d be on his merry way, significantly deadlier than he had been before and his identity still intact. Dark eyes narrow at the request for his name just slightly and he tries to parse the tone, look for the hidden motives. He can't detect any malice or suspicion in his light voice, nor in the dimples settled into Mateo's cheeks. And to invite the thief into his house...? He was either cocky, stupid, or for some reason, didn't mind Finch going into his home. 

He could work with that. 

"Sparrow," He offers, the fake name leaving his tongue light and easy and only a shade away from truth. Even with the offered trust and drink, they were still dealing in instruments of death, and Finch wasn't quite sure how many others were involved in Mateo's business. "And I'll take whatever you recommend. Perhaps slightly better swill than what I had been drinking."

Mateo

Champagne, cocaine, gasoline
and most things in between

The answer, unfortunately - as Finch may end up finding is the case with most Taliesins - isn't so much being powerful enough not to worry, but the expectation of such power being there to clean up any of his messes. Mateo is one of Caido's nepo babies, and whilst sooner or later that might come back to bite him, here in his sister-queen's bar with his demigod fathers living nearby, biting is a kink and trouble is a career choice.

Laughing again at the suspicion involved at the low low price of a name, Mateo spreads his hands and shrugs. "You knew mine when you walked in," he points out in his defence. "Besides, Sparrow, it is always nice to know who I am buying drinks for, no?" Slightly better swill he can manage well enough, waving the bartender down and ordering a scotch ale that his companion will hopefully find much more to his taste; rich, malty and with caramel notes, it's still absolutely not what Mateo would order, but he's trying to upscale what's already in Finch's glass.

"I take by your lack of an answer that I will be taking you home after this?" he adds, arching an eyebrow over his margarita as he lifts it back to his lips.

I roam the city in a shopping cart
a pack of Camels and a smoke alarm

Finch lifts the glass to his lips when it arrives, breathing in the sultry smell of the ordered scotch. It's certainly much nicer than the swill he was swigging and he takes an appreciative sip, letting the rich liquor linger on his tongue before swallowing it down. It's not often he drinks anything this nice, or with such dashing company, and he forces himself to truly savor it. Even if it happens to be poisoned, it's not a bad way to go. 

Setting the glass gently down on the counter, Finch gives a sly look out of the corner of his eye. "Of course you're taking me home," He smiles, eyes glimmering with mischief. Even if this ended only with a pocket full of poisons and no other gain, he at least got a interesting conversation with a handsome conversation partner. "I'm easily bought," He toasts Mateo with the scotch, taking another long sip. 

He allows his mind reluctantly to wander back to business, eying the pot of soil and seeds that sits in front of Mateo. A man with that extravagant of a home and little to no fear of the wandering fingers of their customers is one of two things; one, fabulously wealthy and therefore not one to care about prices; or, fabulously wealthy and therefore very likely to care about prices. Finch was planning on bartering some sort of thiefly services in exchange for a poison, pilfering something of an enemy or a friend or even doing it for entertainment if he wanted. He could do one thing rather well, and it was the height of what he could offer (or, if requested, he could do a backflip). 

"Once you're done buying me drinks and taking me home -- which, no take backs, by the way--" He took a jovial swing of the drink and leaned forward a touch, "How much for those plants for my garden? I'm a little low on material assets, but I'd be happy to lend you a favor."

Mateo

Champagne, cocaine, gasoline
and most things in between

"So say we all," Mateo trills of being easily bought, grinning and raising his cocktail in a toast; he might be taking the other man home with him today, but past experience has seen the botanist fumble in backrooms and store cupboards and even out behind a colourful boulder along the Rainbow Road. This, in comparison, is a vast improvement already, even assuming it leans in that direction. 

Setting his glass down in time to spot the way the other man eyes his seedlings, Mateo gestures to the pot as if to put the matter to bed. "A gift," he explains of them, and nods around the bar. "This is my sister's place - she had to rebuild it after a fire. I decorated her last bar with plants I had cultivated, so it only feels right to do the same here." Granted, The Hanged Man had been fashioned with specimens equal parts deadly and beautiful (exactly the sort of thing Finch might be looking for in fact), but these new ones only fit the latter requirement for now.

"I would never," he purrs of taking back his offer, leaning in as well as if there is more to be discussed than mere payment. "Favours are always preferred," he says, easily accepting the offer. "You never know when you are going to need a particular set of skills."

I roam the city in a shopping cart
a pack of Camels and a smoke alarm

The explanation of the dirt-filled pot being a gift was not necessarily what Finch had expected, but it fills his chest with warmth and fondness as Mateo elucidates. Oh, Gods, this was bad. Why did the man have to make Finch truly, genuinely like him? With his calm presence and easy sense of humor and hints of generosity and family, it would make it so much harder to keep that professional attachment between thief and poison supplier. Why couldn't he be an asshole, like Jack, and drive Finch more towards the discreetness that was so necessary in his profession? 

He takes another sip of drink to hide the fond smile that threatens the curve of his mouth, careful to keep his sips low and measured. He's still on the job here, even with this tantalizing offer for Mateo to take him home, and he can't let the liquor and the company loosen his head. (And, on that note, taking him home seemed to have started as code for a professional home office, but the more Mateo spoke -- the more he leaned in and matched Finch's easy charm barb for barb -- the less Finch knew what to expect in that lavender-covered boat). 

"You got it. My skills are yours," He says, reaching out his thin, lithe hand to shake. He has not elaborated on what those skills are, but Mateo seems to understand him well enough. He likely wouldn't be calling upon Finch to water his plants or babysit or fetch him something from the store. Someone like Finch projected a curved sense of business, from the jagged scar decorating his cheeks from the flash of lockpicks hidden up his sleeve. Whatever dirty deed Mateo called upon him to do, it would likely be well within his skillset. 

Finch finishes his drink, setting it on the counter and tapped it appreciatively. "Much better than the dishwater, I have to say."

Mateo

Champagne, cocaine, gasoline
and most things in between

"Then I look forward to using them," Mateo says with a lopsided smile that shows one dimple, reaching out to shake Finch's hand in a grip that's surprisingly warm and gentle - or perhaps not, given his work with delicate petals and fragile root systems. "You will have to let me know how best to reach you after this, unless you intend for me to find you here again when I have need of your skills?" His eyebrows raise in amusement; he wouldn't be adverse to combing The Last Word for the thief when he's got a favour that needs cashing in, but he's liable to get distracted or in other sorts of tomfoolery while he's at it.

Finch's empty glass hits the counter with a gentle clack, and Mateo's soon follows suit as if taking the lead from the other man on the pace of their drinking. "My sister will be thrilled to hear it," he croons, smoothly rising to his feet. "Shall we, then?" He spends a few moments arranging the newly repotted seedlings in spaces where they will get adequate light without being roasted by the (eventual) Torchline sun before gesturing for the door and leading the way out. 

They emerge into the downpour, Mateo eyeing it like it's the first time he's seeing it, and he scoffs out a laugh. "You don't mind getting wet, right?"

I roam the city in a shopping cart
a pack of Camels and a smoke alarm