They came to town in the late autumn, riding in on Harleys, a rumble so loud that it could be heard through the whole city.
They took up residence in Tom Morgan’s, a bar on the west side of town that catered to the rough, the poor, the wild. They simply strode in, looked around, and took over the best corner of the place.
Nobody stopped them. Nothing short of a full-grown troll had a chance, and the city, while it had plenty of the fae blood, did not lend itself to trolls and other Large Creatures.
Tom Morgan himself took one look at them and sent his wife out to deal with them. In his defense, this was not so much out of cowardice as out of prudence: the pride had far more women than it had men, and the men that were not the clear leaders were jittery and nervous around other men.
The last thing Tom wanted was a jittery juvenile lion-soul ripping up his bar, so he sent out his wife to deal with the pride.
Not being a full-grown troll, or a troll of any sort, Rudy Morgan didn’t move the pride. She served them heavy beer and light snacks, and flirted harmlessly with only the oldest of their men and the most pregnant of their woman. And she joked. Rudy Morgan, it had been said, could joke through a hurricane. Joking through a pride of lions was all in a day’s work, for her.
And it would have been fine. It would have been strange, uncomfortable and weird, but they would have adjusted until, like bikers everywhere, the lions moved on. They would have cleaned up the glass, gritted their teeth and smiled, until the lions moved on.
Until they started buying property.
Next: Moving In
This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/457580.html. You can comment here or there.