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I wish to learn more. Two Beers, as night falls.

The message is deceptively simple, but there are two things which might catch her attention. One, the handwriting is superb, an elegantly flowing script that imparts an importance upon the simple missive which it would not ordinarily have. Besides its aesthetic qualities, this suggests that the note was written by an aristocrat, perhaps even a noble. Secondly, there is the name ascribed to the interested party, a name she may and may not have heard around town. Certainly knowledge of the first name would have required some digging, but the surname .. oh, that she may well know.

If not from rumors, if not from Rosalie or Rajani, then from the crate of weapons which arrived last week, good weapons, weapons that had looked as if they were meant for some noble's personal guard. They'd been in the way of a donation, delivered in the name of 'Friedrich Grimm.' If she did not already know, it would only take a little asking around to learn that Two Beers is a tavern which is owned by Friedrich Grimm, or rather, the Friedrichs Grimm, a set of brothers so alike that it's rumored none can tell them apart.

I wish to learn more. Two Beers, as night falls. -- Jacob Grimm.

So surely the interest of a relative is good, if the Friedrichs were eager to donate to her cause .. right? The tavern that night is busy, largely thanks to the presence of a rowdy pair of entertainers, a musician and a tiny little sprite of a dancing girl. The girl dances on a table opposite the bar, smiling wildly at the crowd, and it may take Siobhan a moment to find the seat that's meant for her.

It won't be hard. There is really only one seat free in the whole of the place, at a single empty table tucked into a quiet corner. The table is small, large enough only for one person, and the man that sits there is being determinedly ignored by everyone nearby. Little wonder why; he is as out of place here as the dancing girl and her partner would be in a fancy dress shop. His clothing is fine, far too fine for a place frequented by merchants and craftsmen, and he himself looks even better, with lovely golden brown hair and refined features that speak of a noble ancestry.

There is a mug in front of him, half-full, and as she sits down a passing serving girl will place another mug in front of Siobhan without so much as a glance at her. The Grimm patriarch takes his time to answer her, looking her up and down -- it isn't sexual, it isn't leering, it's more like he's trying to figure out what she's made of, or maybe what she's worth. The presence of the hawk causes him to grimace slightly, as if he finds her willingness to bring an animal indoors to be somehow rude: indeed, he wonders what it is with this city, that so many would find such behavior to be acceptable. Siobhan is far from the only one to travel thus; everywhere he's looked there have been deer, grimalkin, birds and mice.

But he does not comment on it. He is not here to discuss her personal inadequacies.

"You have declared yourself," he says quietly, so that his voice will not carry, "the leader of a small resistance faction, have you not? Just as the note said -- I wish to know more."

As he speaks, another serving wench passes, and this one (also without so much as a glance) bends low to leave underneath the table a shallow bowl heaped full of bright, crisp greens, fresh carrots, and radishes. This seems to be done quite naturally, as if she has done such a thing a hundred times before and thinks nothing of such a service, which will speak to Siobhan of a place accustomed to serving Chosen and their beasts. But Jacob seems puzzled, reacting to the delivery with a slight frown, and then regarding his guest with one raised brow, as if to question why she might need a bowl of salad delivered underneath the table.

"Would you prefer, then, to deny my charges in private?" He watches her with a little half-smile, and if there is no mockery in his tone, that is perhaps because he is too elegant to employ it. But he is mocking her, subtly, or rather -- challenging her, as if he suspects she might be too wary, too frightened, to go somewhere alone with him. Surely she has the courage to follow him wherever he might lead, does she not? If she truly is a fighting woman, a warrior, she shouldn't be afraid of this tall, fancy stranger!

Yet before he can take this any farther, his pretty little game of careful words is destined to be interrupted: a cream colored blur drops down from the rafters in a ruffling of feathers, dropping onto Jacob's shoulders and hissing with a fury first at Bael, then turning about, every feather on end, to hiss even more fiercely at the hawk on Siobhan's shoulder. The rook is a large one, with a glint of cleverness in her eyes which mere animals do not generally have, and if she is protective towards Jacob he seems quite startled by her presence: he does not react as a hedge witch might, with a sigh or a word of caution for her, but sits quite, quite still, watching the bird out of the corner of his eyes with astonishment.

Unwelcome seems to think this is some sort of invasion -- to be sure, Guardians are common here now since Last debuted Unwanted, but for another bird to enter her territory, and a hawk at that, why, it is a terrible insult and a terrible enemy, and she sees nothing wrong with defending her witch's nest mate whether he wants such protection or not.

The pale rook looks sharply at Siobhan, though she keeps some portion of her attention yet on the hawk, for she plainly does't trust him here in her space. It's an instinctive behavior, one that may well lead to a crudely drawn sign being posted outside the door of Two Beers by tomorrow, indicating through the use of rough pictures that no hawks are allowed on the premises due to certain territorial rooks ..

She hisses lower, but smoothes down her feathers of her own accord, preening the feathers along one wing while watching Siobhan and the hawk sidelong.

"Rrr talkfast," she manages, surprisingly clearly; "nohunt. Leavesoon."

Jacob continues to stare at her out of the corner of his eyes, plainly stunned: not only that she would intervene, but that she would listen .. and then answer .. Siobhan's reassurances. But as Unwelcome settles, with an air that suggests that she isn't going to let the hawk out of her sight, he recovers quickly. "I beg your pardon," he offers to Siobhan with a low murmur, "I was not aware my brother's bird was so .. territorial. It seems a change in scenery would be more then wise."

Unwelcome sits up taller, her feathers slowly smoothing down; by the time Siobhan returns, she is contentedly preening her belly, the slick feathers giving the appearance of a supremely pleased bird. With the woman's appearance, Unwanted fluffs her feathers for a moment before bobbing her head in acknowledgement.

"Prrrrecisely sso," she says, and from the sudden sharp look from Jacob, this must be a phrase which she has only lately picked up, perhaps even from him. Its tone does not exactly match what she might have heard about the twins, but it does sound like something that this well-heeled gentleman would utter in all seriousness.

"Perhaps," Jacob suggests suddenly, seemingly addressing the rook, "you ought to check on First?" Though the bird straightens up and bounces happily at this name, her answer is a mimicked snort of laughter -- followed by a series of what sounds like loud snoring. Why should she watch her hedgewitch sleep when the real entertainment is here? The elegant Grimm brother must apparently count mentally to ten to restore his temper, and only then does he look again at Siobhan.

"I do beg your pardon. I will have a long discussion with my siblings on the responsibility of good training." A long, angry discussion, centering on why it would be unhealthy for First to allow the bird to ever embarrass him again. "Why don't you tell me about the little shadow currently devouring salad beneath the table ..?"

The expression he wears is now faintly irritated — he reaches up, pinches the bridge of his nose, and requires a single long, slow breath to settle his thoughts. It is not entirely Siobahn’s fault, merely that the whole of the evening is not going how he wished it to go, and he finds this whole city atrocious, and he simply cannot understand Unwelcome’s mind-boggling affection for him. When he does speak, he will do so calmly, his bland expression returning.

“Need I repeat myself again?” The words are a murmur, accompanied by a single raised eyebrow. “You are not the only one in a position to be distrustful of institutional authority, Lady Commander, nor the first to think that you might be forced to stand in opposition to it.” He sits back, eyes fixed upon her with a sharp intensity, as if daring her to speak of the reason why his family might not be enamored of the idea of being made into hands and arms of the State. Smugglers. Thieves. Information brokers. Blackmailers. Pirates.

“My brothers clearly think your little cause is worthy, worthy enough for them to provide you with equipment without my permission, and as leader of my family it behooves me to attempt to understand what it is that has convinced them that your group is worthy of such support.”

For just the barest moment, he looks appalled -- at what is not quite clear. Her manner? Her tone? The fact that she doesn't know a quarter of what he seems to know or think about her? The way she dresses? But then the look is gone and he just looks tired, pinching the bridge of his nose while Unwanted turns her head this way and that way to watch him, as if she can't quite understand what he is doing or why. Siobhan, it seems, is not the only one puzzled by Jacob's behavior.

"My apologies. I forget where I am, it seems, and who I am speaking to. Yes, I am interested, but I am only interested in someone that I think will succeed, do you understand? And right now I am not impressed. I want you to impress me, Lady Commander. If you impress me, I will support you, and I hope you know enough to understand that that is no small thing." Now his eyes are darkly focused, intent upon her own, and though he has spoken softly, he has made sure to speak slowly and clearly, as if to prove that he is saying exactly what he means: no subtleties, no diversions necessary. What she can do, say, or present him with that will impress him -- or if she even wants to do so -- is up to her. But he will sit with folded hands and steady gaze until she makes some sort of answer to him.

He listens to all of this carefully, quietly, and intently, with the expression of a man who is taking in every word. Though he does not seem to think less of her for her gender or her place of birth, little noticing the thickness of her accent, he is waiting for her to prove herself nonetheless: impress me, he’d said, and meant it.

She seems to have done so, at least in part. When she is finished speaking, he nods to himself, leaning back in his seat and taking a long swallow from his own mug. “Those that I am able to send to you,” he says casually, “will be of the kind which the Guard would not accept, nor perhaps the royal Wardens either: but they will be, as you have said, in possession of .. unique .. sets of abilities.” Criminals, he means. Outcasts. Women. Kids — hardened by the streets — or those considered otherwise useless. Her mention of the Blind Guardian seems to have struck a mark, in that she is creative enough to make use of such resources which traditional fighting bodies would have discarded.

By the time this war is over, one way or another, they may need every little bit of help they can manage — blind, broken, mad or otherwise.

“My brothers will be the first. I will send them to you to train, and if I like what you have done, others will follow.”