Don't Speak

Marielle "Mari" O'Leary 30 (101) Selkie Owner of Maristella Soapery

[marielle-oleary]

alistairquinlan‌:

Date: January 1st 2021 Time: 1:29 AM Location: Lethe Hospital waiting room

@marielle-oleary​

His son is a strong man, stalwart past the means of most anyone Alistair has ever met, but he isn’t surprised that seeing the ghosts of his lost family undid him. What does surprise him is how far that they had to go to get him to accept something to help, but his son in law is a crafty man as well as a kind one. Faolan is sleeping on the sofa in this private waiting room and Alistair, for the first time in either of their lives, is stroking his hair while he sleeps in a gesture of comfort. His jacket pocket keeps buzzing, but he thinks little of it. More important is to watch over his son, to get to know his grandson in hushed tones, and to wait for news of Fiona. At least until he spots a frazzled looking Marielle in the hallway, walking past the door and back again as if she’s looking for something. No, someone. Clearly it’s someone, and likely it’s him given he’s never out this late. He would have to ask her to help him with the phone again letter, but for now he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Faolan’s sleeping head and after grabbing his cane, hobbled into the hall. “Mari? Marielle!” He called, only to see her stop dead in the hall and make a run for him. “I didn’t make you worry about me, did I? Gracious, I’m sorry. The young woman who collapsed on the ice rink is my granddaughter, my son had to be sedated after all this mess with the ghosts, and I lost track of time. Are you alright?”

Lethe hospital. It’s the direction Briar points her once she manages to get a hold of someone close to the man not answering his phone. It’s well past one am, and with news spread around town of the chaos at Irving Square, well...She had planned to yell at said man when she finally found him, but can’t seem to find her words of frustration any longer. When people die, they’re supposed to stay dead. That’s what she reminds herself as she walks aimlessly from one hallway down the next, trying to find Alistair’s room. Bits of information, that’s all she received from Briar, so she doesn’t know if he’s hurt or someone else is. Part of her pray it is someone else, but that’s selfish. Almost as selfish as the part of her that wants to give in now. The part of her that thinks back to what she saw just outside the hospital doors. Her daughter, who’s eyes resemble her own, staring right at her, crying...why had she been crying? She didn’t really look like a physical being, but rather an idea of one, like an outline. When Mari went to reach out to comfort her, to touch her beautiful daughter, her hand faded away into the air with the rest of her. Just as soon as she had seen her, she was gone. 

Inside the hospital now, she frantically tells the same tale again and again to anyone who will listen to her. ‘I’m looking for an older gentleman, a fae, very pretty with blonde hair and a touch of gray? Have you seen him?’ The more she tells it, the more her eyes glaze over, and she begins to think about what she saw outside of the hospital again and again, picturing it. Her daughter, Melissa, standing right there in front of her, plain as day, and then...then nothing. By now she’s been wondering the hospital halls for at least twenty minutes, no luck coming across anyone who knows anything more about Alistair, or where he may be. Her feet scuff against the tiling, tired of walking. She feels worn down from trying to hold back the tears that ultimately begin to fall down her cheeks. And then, by some miracle- “Alistair?” She stops halfway down the hall in which she just came, slowly turning around. Yes. Yes, that is him. Marielle finds herself running down the hall, nearly pushing them both to the ground with the force of her hug. “Thank goodness, I thought something horrible had happened to you,” she breathes into her shirt, eyes closing tightly. “I’m okay,” she nods, leaning back a little to get a better look at him. “Are you hurt? What’s...what’s this about your granddaughter collapsing? And your son...Faolan or Fionn? Are they all right? I heard about what happened at the plaza, but I had no idea...I was terrified something horrible had happened to you.”

[marielle-oleary]

ingridgagnon‌:

“Oh? What gave that away? Here I thought I was being charming.” That’s sarcasm, too, and Ingrid allows a small smile with it, not sure why exactly she’s trying to reassure this woman. Not in the mood for picking a fight, beyond anything else. The suggestions tempt her to roll her eyes. As if she hadn’t thought about sprinklers… but she holds it back, just nodding. “Yeah, the new place is a little more up to date. More fire protection, better security system. But uh, maybe I’ll get some poison darts, too. You know, just for shits and giggles.” There, see? Still easy enough. Almost banter, but still too close to small talk. Never one to handle that well, Ingrid cuts to the chase, crossing her legs and leaning back to look at Marielle full on before she inquires about what brought her here. A brow raises at the vagueness. “Information, huh?” What’s she got that’s worth desiring? Certainly not a Lethe insider… oh, fuck. No, not a Lethe insider at all, but she’s an insider on this. A regular orphan nowadays, too. How is your mother? Cold in the ground, that’s the first retort on her tongue. It’s a good thing Mari keeps on talking, stammering, allowing Ingrid the time to fight it back. There’s malice there, yeah. But with the news she’s bound to deliver, well… seems harsh enough. No need to barb it with quips that her mother might’ve deserved, but Mari probably doesn’t. So Ingrid just sighs, a wearier sound than she expected. And she gets on with it. 

“Uh… yeah. I can talk about her. But there’s not, uh… not much to say nowadays.” Biding her time, avoiding the gaze of this inquisitive grandmother. The loss of a child… talk about being the bearer of bad news. She starts with something gentler — still a hard pill to swallow, but not…well…that. “I left home when I was eighteen. My mom and I weren’t exactly, uh, the best of friends. She had her demons, so you could say. Not that I was an angel child, ‘cause I wasn’t. But, um. I left. Drifted around a while ‘til I found out what exactly I am and my dad told me to come here.” Sounds like a standard enough story, but isn’t it wrought with the ghosts? The dead, so inevitable when she isn’t actively avoiding them. Out with it, then. “I, uh… I didn’t see her after that. Not until, well, uh…” Fuck. “She died when I was twenty-four. Liver failure, they said. Seven years ago, now. Didn’t have a funeral or anything, but I went up, to uh… to settle things.” Why is that worth sharing? To tell her that someone had handled it? Settled it all in the end, interred her quietly, and returned back to Lethe? But there’s something else worth saying, too: “I didn’t know you were out there to tell, or um…I would’ve let you know sooner.”

“Oh, you’re a fucking saint,” the selkie snorts, eyeing her granddaughter with a light smile. At least they could meet on common ground through sarcasm; maybe that, among a few other things, gives them a bit of an understanding. Marielle has no intention of trying to insert herself into someone’s life when they don’t want her to be there. But well…Ingrid is her granddaughter, and that means something to Mari. At one point in her life it would not have, but now that’s she’s soft, it does. She blames her brother, Maristela, and the pod for that but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. “Let me know if you need any poison darts. I’m sure I have extra.” She’s mostly joking, but she does actually have extra darts in the back. What? If someone does break into the shop and they go off, she needs a way to reload it! It makes perfect sense to have backup poison darts in the back of the shop…but she’s sure either way, Ingrid will find a way to make sure what happened to her shop never happens again. Just from their first interaction, Marielle could tell her granddaughter could hold her own. However, Melissa, her daughter, she knows less about, which is exactly why she came to Ingrid today, for information on this estranged daughter of hers. Good or bad, she wants to hear it.

Not much to say? That can mean a variety of things, and is perhaps as vague as the words that left her lips only moments ago. Are they also estranged? From what she gathered from their previous encounter, her daughter drinks and she, like Marielle, is not the best mother. Listening to Ingrid speak about her relationship with Melissa is hard. It would be much easier to hear they were close, that Melissa is doing well and Ingrid just spoke to her yesterday. But perhaps that is too much to ask for someone who left their family behind. Life is cruel, though, sometimes in the meanest of ways, and that seems to play out today in her conversation with Ingrid. Not only is the relationship between her daughter and granddaughter severed, but the life she gave birth to is no more. Melissa is no more. “She- ...she’s dead?” The news feels like a brutal hit to the gut, the force of such grief so great, for a moment, Marielle can’t even speak. Her lips part, eyes going a little wider as the crease in her brow deepens. The corners of her eyes sting, likely turning red from holding back an offset of emotions that desperately want to break free. She lets out a shaky breath of air, looking down as she pushes hair back behind her ears. “No, no it’s…I understand” She nods, still looking down. It’s easier that way. “I eh…I-I’m sorry I don’t know…how to respond,” she breathes out, blinking back what can only be described as a mixture of confusion and grief. Liver failure. It makes sense, probably from all the drinking and the fact that Melissa is only half selkie, not full. Erik isn’t like all of them; he didn’t fully understand…. “Melissa’s father was human. He knew about what I could do, likely knew Melissa could do it too, but it makes sense she…eh…yeah. She was only half.” Marielle clears her throat to keep her voice from breaking, casually wiping a stray tear from her eye. She’s gotten so good at holding them back, maybe too well. “But your dad then, he was a werewolf? And you, you’re like him? You don’t…you wouldn’t really have it. A quarter is something, but not enough to show, I’m sure.”

[marielle-oleary]

alistairquinlan‌:

That was a pain he knew, but several shades deeper now that her daughter was gone. What would he have done if he had set out to find them and found all had passed on? Broken, certainly. Maybe not in the same way as Marielle, but certainly to his own unique degree. “Oh! My dear, I’m so sorry.” He said, aware that there was little else one could say in such a situation. All he could do was feel the depths of her pain washing over him like so much seawater and comfort her, the best that he could. Her hands held in his, as much calm as he could project slipping between their auras, and a soft, bittersweet smile. He could give her that much too. “Forgive me, but it isn’t hard to read off of your aura that you chose to leave her. Which you regret now, you feel like in some way this is your fault. But it isn’t, my dear Marielle.” The look she gave him then was confused as much as it was pained, like a wounded deer being carried to safety from a busy road. Did she believe him? Not now, certainly. The wound was far too fresh, but he pulled her closer, the better to give her something steady to hold when she was still shaking. “You made the choice that felt best at the time, did you not? And you cannot see the future, Mari. That is not a gift given to your kind. So you gave her to someone you trusted, thinking she might what? Have a better life? That is a noble thing. A brave one.” Alistair reached into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, then presented it to her with a faint smile. “I am sorry for your pain, Mari, and I will not demean it by telling you how to feel. But I would be happy to listen to what you need to get off of your chest. Okay?”

She wishes Alistair’s words would soothe her but sorry has never felt like a good enough word to soothe. Many people have said it in the past, even her, but it did not change anything. ‘I am sorry’ did not change the outcome of her foster father’s death, nor did it change the lack of relationship she has with her granddaughter. It does not change the choices that were made many, many years ago by a woman who knew she was incapable of caring for a child. The warmth radiating from Alistair’s hands into her own is enough of a distraction, and it also seems to aid in ridding her chest of its tightness. It’s enough for her lungs to take in air, for her breathing to slow and even out. Tears still roll down her cheeks but she’s silent now, looking up at Alistair with big, confused eyes. “How? How is it not my fault when I am the one who left her?” For a time, Marielle kept up with her daughter’s life, reading about her goals and accomplishments. Every once and a while she would even drop in to see Melissa, from a distance, of course. Always from a distance. Perhaps it made things easier for Marielle, to keep her guilt at bay. From a distance, it did look like Melissa had a lovely life. A delusion Mari must have created to make herself feel better. Well, now she knows. 

Alistair pulls her closer and she sinks into him, forgetting for a moment about his limp. “You are saying it’s brave, but I only feel like a coward,” she breathes out into his chest, stepping back a little once he reaches into his jacket pocket. “I left her with her father because I could not take care of her myself. I thought it would be better to leave her with family than with a stranger. But...somehow I still messed it up. I always do, and this...I should not have messed this up.” She takes the handkerchief that is handed to her, dabbing the corners of her eyes to rid of them of runny mascara. “Okay,” Marielle nods. It also does not escape her notice that Alistair twice refers to her by her nickname, something he does not do often. Right now though, it’s not something her mind can focus on for long. Already thoughts of her daughter come flooding back. “Okay, can we- um, can we go upstairs? If we’re going to talk about this, I need to sit down. I don’t eh...I don’t talk about this often. But I can’t keep it in anymore either, so...I suppose it’s best to get it out then, aye?” 

[marielle-oleary]

ingridgagnon‌:

She’s not usually one for giving insider information, on life as well as business, but this grandmother of hers is earnest enough to be almost painful and hardly seems like competition. So Ingrid nods. “Yeah, they’re enchanted. Or they were, or whatever. Adam Mallory actually helped me, too. Way back when, when I first started. Long before his trip into the river. Haven’t really spoken to him since he returned, but… guess I’ve had my own shit going on.” That’s a pang of guilt for another time, though, and instead Ingrid concedes a huff of a laugh. “I’m pretty alright with yelling at people. But, uh, thanks. ‘Preciate the offer.” The use of a plural doesn’t escape her – we – but Ingrid clenches her jaw against protesting. This is well-intentioned, and it’s not the sort of thing she should turn her nose up at. Or so Morgan would probably tell her. Besides, Mari’s right. She needs better security, unless she wants another knife between the ribs. So she nods again. “Uh, yeah. That’s the plan. Get some cameras, or something. Had an alarm system, but, you know. Fat load of good that does when shit’s on fire.” She gives an almost rueful sigh, her gaze somewhere out on the horizon instead of looking for this woman that seems to seek so much from her. What’s there to say? Ingrid simply listens instead, though the comment on the gun earns a sidelong glance and a raise of her eyebrow. Color her impressed. Shit, maybe they are related. “Not a bad idea.” That’s all she offers aloud, though, mirroring her shrug after the comment about protection. It’s not that she has some deep-rooted care for this supposed family of hers. Not really. Take it as business owner helping business owner, if you will. Until she can’t. Ingrid sighs once more at the nervous question, looking at the anxious selkie head-on then. “Yeah, figured as much. You need something?” She’s in no place to be lending things nowadays – time, maybe, but most of the money she’d gotten from her father has gone into restoring the shop. But she won’t jump to conclusions. Not yet, anyhow.

Mari can’t help the natural creases that form above her brow, the worry. Other than her shop blowing up, what is going on, exactly? Adam resurfaced from the river months ago and she still hasn’t been to visit? Well, that’s none of Marielle’s business, but she is curious. Instead of prodding, she nods, sending Ingrid a light smile. “He told me about that. I came here before he showed up again, he’s... well, he’s my first Riverborn, I guess. I don’t really get it, but he seems to be doing just fine now. He’s quite talented, doesn’t surprise me at all he helped you too.” Makes sense, sounds like something Adam would get involved in. For a moment she thinks about asking Ingrid for an appointment once she opens up again. Marielle doesn’t have many tattoos, but she certainly doesn’t have any enchanted ones. “Right, you eh...you do actually seem like you would do a fine job at it,” she chuckles. Perhaps it’s just another similarity that proves they’re related. It does bring a smile to Mari’s lips, knowing she and her granddaughter have like qualities. Apparently sarcasm is one of those as well. Marielle chuckles, “yeah, that definitely won’t help shit for a fire...maybe a sprinkler system would do some good? I say set up some booby traps as well, can’t be too careful, and you can’t always trust technology.” No, she didn’t have moving walls or swinging knives like something out of Indiana Jones. But she does put trip wires around the shop, ones that will activate a call to Lethe PD and sleeping darts whenever tripped. That’s served her better than any alarm system in the past. 

This granddaughter of hers also seems to be mildly impressed she’s so prepared, especially when she mentions the bit about getting a second gun. Do people not do that? Well...nowadays people do misuse them. What she really wants to ask though, something that’s been on her mind for a while now, is the state of her daughter. Maybe she has no right to ask, especially if the person she’s asking if Ingrid, but well...now that she’s so close, it’s hard not to. Looking it up online is nothing compared to hearing it from family. She needs to know. “No, I don’t need anything just uh...well, maybe I do need something. Information, I suppose,” Marielle begins, averting her gaze from Ingrid momentarily so she can gather her thoughts. “What I mean to ask is, how is your mother? I know...I heard about your father, but Melissa, I...I never knew. I thought maybe I could eh...I could ask you. If that’s...if you’re willing to talk about your mother.” 

[elizabetholsen1989]

[marielle-oleary]

evikoning‌:

“Can’t say I’ve ever wandered to San Fransisco, but I can only imagine that most places are better than the conditions around here.” Melodramatic, maybe. Blame it on the lack of vitamin D. The witch raises a brow at the dermatological evaluation, but really, it’s not as strange as it perhaps should be. She shrugs with a nod – seems logical enough. Inexact sciences all around. “We’re the most human of the bunch, it would seem, so we’re about as finicky as they are.” Evi muses, unlocking the shop and holding the door for the other woman, even as her head spins. “Ah, congratulations then on the opening. I’ll be sure to stop by, even if it means you’ll be judging my complexion.” She manages a joke even as she winces upon turning on the lights, pinching the bridge of her nose. Blerrie. There’s something in the back that could amend this, but really, she’s not in the mood for searching. Still in the mood for generosity, it would seem, as she looks to the soap maker for a moment then shrugs. “Oh, I won’t bother with charging you. Don’t want to squint at the register right now, anyway. Take them as my thanks for helping the girl with a headache. There are a few bushels in the back corner – mostly lavender and rosemary, if I remember right. Take what you will, the rest is likely bound for the garbage as it is.” 

“Ah trust me, I’ve seen worse. You should see my hometown in Ireland this time of year. Muggy, not a lick of sun in sight,” Marielle sighs, though there’s a smile on her face. She’s rather fond of her hometown. “Seems about right, though I’m sure there’s something about magic that dries out the skin. I don’t know why but it seems like the type,” she shrugs, having no real scientific bases to her hypothesis of witch’s skin, but rather, a slight understanding from what she has seen in the past. Most witches she knows tend to have dry skin. Could be coincidental, though. Marielle laughs, “I’ll try not to judge too harshly. But no, really, I’m mostly just looking for more people to be my test subjects. It’s usually fun if something doesn’t go wrong...and hey, you’re magical, maybe you can help me out with a few things I’ve been working on.” Hey, having two witches on payroll couldn’t hurt, right? A backup for when the other one didn’t feel like helping her out. Marielle sets Evi’s things down on the counter and gestures to the pile of wilting flowers on the back table. “This them? They smell lovely,” she comments, leaning down to pick up a bundle in her hands. Most of these will do, she thinks, a smile growing on her face as she begins wrapping them up to take back to the shop. “I appreciate the trade of service, even if it wasn’t needed. These will do nicely in something I’ve got in mind for witches...perhaps you’ll see them if you come by for the grand opening,” Mari smiles, raising her hand full of wilted flowers. “Suppose I should leave you to it. I can give you my card, in case you’d like to take me up on that offer. I’m always looking for collaborators.” Luckily she finds a card in her wallet, one left. “Here you go. It was nice meeting you, Evi. We’ll have to do this again sometime. Well, maybe minus the migraine.” 

[marielle-oleary]

briarbishop‌:

She doesn’t let on how much of a relief it is to know Otherlanders don’t frequent Lethe, but her shoulders slump a fraction, a weakness she can’t hide. Briar snorts a little at the idea there are good fae, given she hasn’t met any, but she has no wish to puncture this one’s bubble if its something she believes. Hell, maybe she’s lucky to only meet the good kind. “Most Otherlands would find this place too small for their tastes,” she says, nose wrinkling, hand gesturing around the room, meaning the entire town. Oh, so she isn’t going to let it go entirely, but Briar finds it a relief to voice all the things she’s always thought and never said. “They are all… What is the word in English, grandiose? They are too much that to bother with a place like this because – Never mind, if they aren’t here, best not to draw their attention.” They can’t hear this far, but it makes her a little queasy to imagine.

“The bit… Oh, the crowd catching,” she supplies on her own, nodding, a little more understanding. “Not sure why you did it.” She hasn’t had to showboat in a long while, her presence in the Otherlands had been entertaining enough by virtue of her longevity – and the glowing helped, even if she used it rarely – and she can’t fathom a use people have for it here. Maybe its one of human realm quirks. Briar rears back, alarmed. “Andreas Van Der Zee is your brother?” Oh, no. Not today, she isn’t dealing with the selkie man anymore this month, she’s had enough cold water dumped over her head to last a lifetime. “Uh, he did nothing. Just kept me from getting hauled before your police, he has a peculiar idea of taking care of people.” Selkie, sister, she shivers a little to think about it. She misses nearly all the rest Mari says, trying to think of a polite way to extract herself from the situation. Oh, but if Andreas Van Der Zee is her brother, is this one her sister? Her head pounds at the thought, going from no family to too many of them. Briar catches the bit about explosions, and snorts, rubbing her face. “Yes, I know, explosions are very… unfortunate and strange.” She’ll have to look into that bit of information when she leaves here, but she doubts it’ll come up again. After all, she has no intention of seeing the councilman or Mari again. “I have to get back to work, goodbye forever.”

Something in the woman’s demeanor makes Marielle think she  doesn’t like faes or the Otherlands much at all. Understandable. Otherlanders are a pretentious bunch, Marielle knows from experience. Though this seems personal, like they did something to really infuriate and perhaps scare the woman sitting next to her. Eh. Whatever the case, it’s none of Mari’s business and quite frankly, she has a bit too much going on right now to care. She’s only the nosy type when she gives a shit. “The bit? Boredom, mostly,” Mari shrugs, not giving much thought as to why she does the things she does. Sometimes she just does things for attention, but she’s always a little unsure of when she’s doing it. Most of the time her motives are unclear, if not a jumbled mess of various drives and emotions. 

“Yep...” Mari trails off, brow furrowing at Briar’s reaction. Why is she so....alarmed by the idea of Andreas being her brother? Maybe he did something to her, Mari isn’t sure. It’s not likely, though. Knowing Andreas, he probably stuck his nose into her business and tried to help her. Marielle knew first hand how annoyingly pushy her foster brother could be. “Ah, so he did try to ‘help’ you. Let me guess, he’s doing that thing where he pushes himself into your life, doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer and is insistent on helping you?” Mari chuckles, shaking her head. “He does that. Sorry, but I do think you’ll be seeing him again. He tends to come back, hardly gives up when he’s trying to ‘help.’” Again, Mari knows from experience. She finishes off her drink, motioning for the bartender to get her another. Perhaps she should stop on two, but three is just so, so right... “Very strange. It’s got me wondering who’s behind it all, honestly,” Mari wonders aloud with a shrug, thanking the bartender once her glass is once again full. But by the time she turns back to her companion, she looks about ready to bolt. After a second and a quick, shitty goodbye, she does. “What the hell?” Mari mumbles once Briar gets up and darts off, eyes squinting after her. “Fucking weirdos here,” she snorts, shaking her head as she turns back around to face the bar. So much for that interaction.

[marielle-oleary]

alistairquinlan‌:

Was he asking her on a date? On further reflection, sitting beside Marielle in the cab of her truck, he rather thought he was. Unintentionally. He was a single man though, wasn’t he? Lonely as a cloud, new in a world not his own, and maybe he deserved to ask a kind, beautiful woman to share a meal with him. “I suppose it could be considered such a thing, yes. I meant it as a gesture of kindness after all you have done for me in such a short time.” Alistair explained, his own cheeks coloring the more he spoke and the more he noticed hers did as well. They went an even brighter shade of red when she said she was interested, with the tone of voice that indicated she was interested in it not just as a gesture of repayment, but as a date. A romantic…oh. He wasn’t so sure about that, not yet, not after fifteen hundred years or more since he had the freedom to pursue a relationship of his own choosing. And she was a selkie, they did not live as long as his kind. Something told him that she was younger than most of hers as well, though he wasn’t sure what. Intuition, perhaps. “I am not married. Never have been, no matter what my captor liked to claim about she and I. But I am terribly old, Marielle. Time is different there, but by human timekeeping I suppose I’m roughly…” He frowned slightly, counting off fingers and crunching numbers in his head in comparison with his studies of human histories over the years. “Three thousand, perhaps. Give or take.”

Marielle nearly ran a one of those red signs at the corner at that admission and he grabbed the handle above the window, trying not to look as jolted as he felt. Definitely younger than most, or at least not used to Fae longevity. Perhaps both. She stopped the car at the shop again, where the mattress delivery men were waiting to carry the thing upstairs along with the bed frame. Alistair let himself out of the truck with a wince, but only a slight one, and was promptly swatted away when he offered to help. Marielle simply gestured he follow her upstairs to this apartment he had rented himself. A fine place, he realized. There was a beige sofa in the living room and nothing else, so he settled himself on that while the workmen bustled about. “We’ve uh…no gas or electricity and the like in the Otherlands. Well, at least the place I was kept in did not. You may need to teach me how some of these things work.” Alistair admitted when she sat on the sofa next to him, watching the workmen carry their purchases into the room he presumed was his bedroom. A thought occurred to him as he watched her and suddenly he was embarrassed by the fact that he had asked her very little about herself in all this time. “Marielle, you’ve let me be terribly rude. I’ve not asked you half as many questions about yourself as I’ve talked about myself.” He smiled at her gently, reaching over to tap gently at her arm. “You’re a selkie, yes? And your name, O’Leary, that is Irish, is it not? And before you say you aren’t interesting, let me say that I find you extremely interesting, So indulge me a tad while we wait.”

Marielle shakes her head. “Alistair, I don’t care about age,” she tries to tell him, but he keeps insisting...oh. Oh. Ah...so time is very skewed in Otherlands. Three thousand years old, give or take. Marielle nearly runs a stop sign but she doesn’t, instead slamming on the breaks in her surprise. “Sorry! I- eh...Three thousand years old...” she murmurs, eyes widening. “And half of that you spent locked up?” The selkie shakes her head, the crease in her brow deepening. If Morrigan’s lair hadn’t already been burnt down, Marielle would have done it herself. She tables this thought when they pull up in front of the shop. The delivery men are already there waiting for them, so she instructs them to take the contents in her trunk upstairs while Alistair helps himself out of her truck. Of course she insisted on helping him but well...she’d been swatted away upon her second attempt. However, she does carry the groceries upstairs. That, she’d been extremely insistent on. Marielle finishes putting the groceries away before plopping down on the beat up sofa next Alistair. 

“We can make it work,” she breathes out in a sigh, closing her eyes for a moment when she realizes just how tired she is from her day. It’s a lot of work showing someone around town! And they had hauled an awful lot back to the shop...she turns to the side to look at Alistair, a smile creeping up on her lips. “It’s not you. I’m not really, eh....I don’t talk about myself much,” she admits, brushing a hand through her hair. “A selkie, yes...and Irish. Very tell, yeah? The last name and the bit of an accent probably did it. I’ve lost it, mostly, but I still speak Gaelic,” she offers, resting back in the love seat as the handiman walk by with pieces of Alistair’s bedframe. It looks like they’ve begun to built up the bed, all of their purchases having made it into the apartment, finally. One of Marielle’s hands rests on the back of the loveseat, and she pushes herself upward so she can set facing her companion. Normally she doesn’t like talking about herself, but the smile creeping up on her lips now as she talks about her home in Ireland goes against all that. Maybe it’s Alistair bringing this out of her, she isn’t sure. But she likes that for once she feels open enough to talk to someone about her life. Even if she’s only known that person for a few hours. Perhaps it’s strange, but...there’s just something about Alistair Quinlan that allows her to feel comfortable opening up. For now, she decides to feel thankful for it, rather than decipher what it means, or if it means anything at all. 

[marielle-oleary]

alistairquinlan‌:

Date: November 27th, 2020 Time: 7:15PM Location: Maristela Soapery

@marielle-oleary​

He felt her before he heard a thing from the shop below, a veritable maelstrom of grief and anger bursting into the shop after hours. Alistair had been putting away leftovers to share with her tomorrow, when he next expected to see Marielle, but there was no mistaking that aura. A useful trick when it came to keeping watch for burglars and the like, he had learned long ago, but she was hardly one of those. She was also someone he didn’t find to be easily upset either, and so he hurried downstairs as fast as his leg would allow him to find her crying over a half filled jar of bath salts. “Oh Marielle, this must be very serious indeed. Come now, darling. The salts can stand to be left alone a moment.” Alistair said, gently leading her to the battered loveseat that filled one corner of the work room in the back of the shop. Sobbing was quite unlike her and oh, how her emotions doubled in amplification the moment he touched her. Death, someone had died that she had never gotten to know like she’d wanted. Someone she felt that she owed something to, left unpaid. He would ask, not pry further, that much Alistair had decided by the time he pulled her into his arms and began to stroke her hair. That settled her a bit, as did the calm that he tried to pour into her with every brush of his hand along her hair. After a time he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Recklessly, given the shortness of their acquaintance, but she seemed not to mind. “I am sorry, I try not to use empathy around you, but it’s…your emotions are too strong for me not to notice. I am sorry for whom you lost, and for you, sweet Marielle. Would you like to talk?”

Dead. That’s not the news she expected to receive when speaking to Ingrid about Melissa, but here she is, bursting through the front doors of her shop in a fit of grief. But it’s not sadness she feels, at least not at first, though she’s sure that will come sooner rather than later. No, instead she feels anger. Anger at herself for leaving, for not having been a part of her daughter’s life, or her granddaughter’s. How many relationships have been severed because of a choice she made decades ago? When she enters her shop in a flurry of guilt and anger, the first thing she does is stumble to the back, opening up a jar of bath salts she meant to mix days ago. Now’s a better time than any, right? Tears prick the corners of her eyes, but she blinks them back, reaching for a container to mix her concoction in. “You made you choice, you can’t take it back now,” Marielle mutters to herself, brow creasing in the middle. She doesn’t hear Alistair descend down the stairs, in fact, she can barely see him through the tears that have begun forming in her eyes, threatening to break free. They spill over seconds later, her lips parting to let a sob break free, and it’s as though her chest caves in on itself. All in an instant, the anger is sucked out of her and replaced with the pain she feels over losing a daughter she never knew. Can she really feel remorse over someone she never knew? Apparently, as the grief is coming out of her in waves, taking form in her sobs. 

Alistair’s somehow able to guild her to the loveseat in the corner of the room, and the bath salts are left abandoned on her work table. As a replacement, Alistair’s arms wrap around her as they sit down, his fingers running through her hair gently. The kiss and his presence seem to slow her heartbeat, and after a while, her breathing evens out. She feels tired, worn down from her small outburst, but not enough to keep from crying. Tears roll down her cheeks as she presses herself closer to Alistair, eyes closing. “I don’t know,” she says hoarsely, bottom lip beginning to quiver. “I-It’s complicated, Alec. My daughter is...she’s ah...” Saying it makes it real. But well...perhaps this is a long time coming, Mairelle grieving the loss of her daughter. She lost her long before she actually passed away, and perhaps that is what she’s grieving today. Mari shakes her head, managing to look up at Alistair. “She died. I-I never knew, I didn’t....I wasn’t around,” she confesses, tears beginning to fill her eyes again. “I should have been there.” 

[elizabetholsen1989]

[marielle-oleary]

ingridgagnon‌:

There are other things she could be doing right now. Hovering around the shop and critiquing the new wainscoting, for one. Or finally painting the new logo she’s had outlined on the window for weeks. Sleeping, even, or giving another attempt at the cross-stitching she’s been told is so therapeutic. But instead she’s sitting out in the cool autumn air with a pair of blue eyes peering so hard at her that she feels like she could burst into flame. Hell of a time for a family reunion. Ingrid can’t help how her brow raises at the evaluation of soap making – crazy hardly seems like the word she’d imagine – but what does she know? Instead, she just nods. “Yeah, uh, I’m sure it’s interesting.” It’s neither a rejection nor an acceptance of the extended offer. “You make enchanted stuff, then? Or just stick to the same old? I had to learn the art of enchanted inks to get any business around here, which was, uh… trial and error.” The talk of the tattoo shop continues then, and really, it’s easier than any probing familial questions. Even if it brings images of blood and ashes to mind. “I mean, business isn’t booming, obviously. But it looks like an actual shop again, so that’s something. Hoping to open doors before the new year.” The next comment earns a sigh, a flare of emotion other than awkwardness. “Yeah. It’s bullshit. This town should actually embrace the twenty-first century and get some decent security measures. My cameras were fried and no one else is any help.” The question earns a raised brow. Maybe she should be touched by the worry. But Ingrid just shrugs. “Nah. Not worried. I’ll be better prepared this time. Any idiot who wants to pick a second fight will have another thing coming. How ‘bout you, though?” Pessimistic, really, but she’s a realist, and levels her gaze with Mari’s to show as much. “Can’t feel great, opening your doors while there’s some jackass out there burning businesses to the ground for shits and giggles.”

Well, this little impromptu ‘get to know you’ with her granddaughter is going about as well as Marielle expected it to go. Not horrible, just...okay. They’re not fighting, Ingrid doesn’t seem to be mad at her, and she did offer to talk outside, so that’s...something. And of course there's the bottle of liquor she sent as some sort of shop opening gift, that has to mean something, right? Or perhaps Mari is reading into all of this and coming up with the wrong answers. Mari nods, “yes I use enchanted materials, mostly things that Adam and I come up with. Do you know Adam Mallory? He’s the one who’s been helping me with the magical logistics of it all,” she explains, looking at her granddaughter then. “Your tattoos, the ink you use, it’s enchanted too then? Did you also work with witches? I know a bit about the trail and error part,” she snorts, head shaking. Enchanting things isn’t as easy as it would appear to be, much to Marielle’s dismay. “Well that’s good,” Mari nods, “let me know if you need anything to speed up the process. Even if it’s just yelling at people. I don’t mind doing that,” she says with a shrug. Maybe Ingrid would need nothing from her, and that’s okay, but she feels the need to offer it anyway, hoping her granddaughter will let her into her life little by little. She doesn’t deserve it, but regardless, she remains hopeful. 

“Seriously? Shit...maybe I can talk to my brother, he’s in charge of most of the town’s IT. I’m sure he can recommend something, maybe we can boost security on your shop so you’re at least not targeted again.” That’s her main worry, that the arsonist isn’t finished and he’ll come back. Who knows where he’ll go next or if he’ll try to finish the job. Best to take precautions just in case. Mari sighs, “well I’m glad you’re not worried.” Part of her is worries, yes, but that arsonist has another thing coming if he tries to burn down her shop. Because it’s not just her shop she worries for, it’s Alistair, who lives right above. “I’m prepared. I had Andreas- that’s eh, my brother; I had him double security around the shop. Even bought another gun, but he doesn’t know about that bit,” she shrugs. “Trust me when I say the place is well protected.” And with more weapons than just a gun, that’s for sure. Seriously, Mari’s ready for people to fuck with her and she’s sorry for whoever eventually does. “Anyway, I uh...I’m guessing you know that I didn’t just come here to give you the basket.” Best to get to her point now, eh? Not to waste either of their time. 

[marielle-oleary]

alistairquinlan‌:

“I have always thought…” Alistair began, blinking in surprise when she took the cart from his hands. Well, he supposed it wouldn’t have been easy to navigate with his cane regardless. Instead he followed after Marielle, always just a step to the side of the wheeled cart to avoid knocking into it. “Well, I think the most powerful weapon one can wield is their own will. Morrigan was quite intent to break me, to make me sour on the world and people on the whole. I would imagine I would be easier to push around if I had let her win, become cold hearted. Pessimistic.” Alistair shrugged, flashing Marielle a bright smile. “So I decided long ago that I was going to refuse to let her win.” How surprised Marielle was that he would be willing to cook for her! After all that she had done in such a short span of time it was the least he felt he could do for her. Not much else he could offer, though they would need to buy something he could use. “Well then, I would be delighted to cook for you. With all the things we can get here I could make quite a feast, if you’d like.” His own cheeks colored at the sight of her blushing in turn, holding out a container of preternaturally bright red strawberries. It made him feel like a young man again, the ungainly and awkward boy who used to get tongue tied asking for anything at all from the serving maids. What a strange feeling, even now.

“I like to cook anything and everything, though I’ve had to leave all my cookbooks behind. Well, and my other books. I suppose I’ll just have to start collecting again.” Alistair replied, carefully sliding a bag of carrots into the cart. Not carefully enough though, for he tripped slightly straightening up again and had to grab at Marielle’s arm to keep from falling. Clearly he was in need of a good meal, a bath, and an early night’s retirement, but in the meantime he would apologize. “Forgive me, my dear Marielle. Not as steady as I thought I was there.” There went the blushing again, with her cheeks heating to match. He wasn’t much to look at, surely that couldn’t be due to him. Certainly not. Alistair pushed the thought aside as they went through the aisles, it was more important that he focus on walking without falling. It wouldn’t do to have to be picked off the floor by the poor woman. They bought far more food than he had seen in months, so much so that he would surely have to have her over for dinner more than once. Not a terrible thing, by any means. She insisted on loading his groceries into the truck herself, though he handed each bag off to her by way of trying to be useful. “It’s funny, in the Otherlands it was high summer and here it’s nearing winter, if I guess correctly.” Alistair remarked, settling into the truck seat again. “A good time for a hearty soup, some of that bread we’ve bought, maybe the wine after. I’ve an excellent recipe for 40 clove garlic chicken soup, if you’re interested.” He could hope, certainly.

Marielle’s frown begins to turn up into a small smile, one that continues to grow as Alistair goes on. “So you’re kind in spite of her,” she chuckles, head shaking as she clacks her nails against the cart. “You are very surprising to me, Alistair Quinlan. Not many people surprise me anymore, but you...you came limping into my store with your stolen cane, and I don’t think I’ve seen anyone smile brighter. She hasn’t won,” Marielle concludes, stealing one of the red grapes from its stem and popping it into her mouth. “You have.” Whatever Morrigan had in mind for the man standing in front of her, it does not look like she succeeded in doing it. If she intended on tearing him down, she did a pretty poor job of it, despite the limp. “A feast,” she breathes out in a chuckle, head shaking. “No, no, I’m not worth all that fuss. Just a glass of wine and a plate of rice would impress me,” she admits. Cooking is quite the mystery to Marielle. She can never quite get the recipe right, even with it in front of her face. Either it has too much seasoning or not enough, or it’s uncooked or burned to a crisp, there is no in between. “I would um, I would enjoy that very much though,” Mari adds, again feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. For a moment she swears Alistair’s cheeks are doing the same. 

“We can get new ones,” Mari insists, watching as he sets a bag of carrots into the cart. “There are plenty o- oh!” Suddenly there’s a little more weight on her right arm than before, and she realizes quickly that Alistair is sliding into her before they both fall flat on their asses. Her free arm juts out to steady him, resting against his chest softly and her brow creases. “It’s all right, I just...are you okay?” She asks, her words laced with concern. For a moment she thought something might be seriously wrong with him, but no. Just tripped, that’s all. Her palm presses against her own chest as she breaths out, relieved. The rest of their trip around the store is less eventful, thankfully, and in no time their cart is nearly full. Of course she insists on loading the groceries into her truck just as she insisted on it back at the mattress store. ‘No, you need to rest your leg, ‘she said both times, along with, ‘Besides, I have two arms!’ He did well not to argue with her and passed the bags to her for support. That, she allowed. “That’s right. I can’t believe we are coming up to the end of another year,” she sighs. “Perhaps I should be used to it by now.” It never gets old, seeing the times change. Though it could be a bit irritating having to change with it, and to learn new things. She turns to Alistair once she pulls out onto the road and stops at a red light, brow rising. “Alistair are you...asking me to have dinner with you? Like a...date?” It sounded like one. It sounded an awful lot like one, actually, and now her cheeks are heating up again. Her lips curve into a small smile, eyes going back to the road once they start moving again. Then after a moment, she nods. “I'm interested.” 

[marielle-oleary]

josephine-vidal‌:

At Marielle’s question the young selkie simply nodded, smiling as she did so. Lethe was so different from home. It was unexplored territory. It was a place filled with promise and opportunities. “You’ve been arrested?” Seph suddenly asked, eyes widening as a chuckle escaped her, laughing along with Mari. Well, now she understood why her uncle Andreas didn’t want the older selkie to drag her into anything. “He may have” she admitted, still laughing a little. Gods, even in those few phrases Marielle’s life sounded much more exciting than anything she could say about her own. “Compared to that you’ll think I’m boring” she told her as she finally made her way out of the river, reaching for the towel she’d left neatly folded next to her sweater, skirt and sneakers. “I’ve been on the lookout for a place to live while I’m here. Andreas has spent enough time on the couch because of me” she said as she dried her curls. “And I’ve been working. Babysitting, really”. Was that even considered an actual job or was it more of an occupation? “And I’ve wandered around a bit, getting to know the town, the forest, this lovely river”.

“Once or twice,” she admits, wondering if perhaps she should have kept that information to herself. Well...too late now. “For little things, not anything too serious.” Marielle leaves out the bit about her stealing from stores in the past. No need to delve too deep into her past, especially when her past involves theft and lots of it. Figures Andreas would warn her. Though it’s not like she wants to go getting her brother’s niece into trouble. “What, boring? No,” Mari chuckles, waving her hand in the air. “I won’t think that. Besides, everyone has something interesting about them.” Even if it’s little, there’s always something. In the past people tended to surprise Mari, and she’s definitely made the mistake of underestimating people because of it. The older selkie watches as Seph exits the river and grabs a towel near the rest of her belongings. Mari’s chin comes down to rest on her shoulder as she listens to her brother’s niece speak. 

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot done so far and it’s only been a couple weeks,” she muses aloud, perking up. “You’re babysitting Lionel, right? He’s a good kid. And if eh,” she pauses, thinking over the offer she’s about to make. “If you need a place to stay while you’re here, my place has a spare room. Andreas insisted on getting me a place, and it has more than enough room, so,” Mari shrugs, the smile on her lips widening a bit. Maybe she’ll come to regret giving herself a roommate, but she does often get lonely. She likes having people around to rattle her ideas off to. “Right now it’s a guest room with other stuff piled in it but we can move things around. If you want. If you don’t, I totally get it. I can help find you a place too.” 

[elizabetholsen1989]

[marielle-oleary]

ingridgagnon‌:

Living in the inn for as long as she has been means that habits have formed. This has become a routine of sorts, rolling her eyes at a knock on the door and shaking her head, beginning her daily dismissal of turndown service. “Gina, seriously. I’ll survive without a made bed–” She opens the door, expecting the housekeeper and is about to give another attempt at dismissal until she realizes who she’s looking at. “Oh. Uh.” Instead of a well-meaning inn employee, her grandmother is staring at her with gifts in arm. Jesus. First and foremost, it’s worth wondering how she even got here. Morgan isn’t really the type to be handing out Ingrid’s personal information, but maybe she wanted to force her hand here. They’ll discuss that later, though. For now: “Um, hi.” She nods at the mention of the received gift. Shit, if she’d known it’d lead to this… but she shouldn’t think that way. Should be grateful for the family she’s got. So Ingrid just nods, accepting the gift basket even if her gut tells her to do the opposite. “Um… thank you. That’s… generous.” Ingrid awkwardly holds the basket in her arms for a moment before setting it aside, facing her grandmother with a weary sigh just in time for the housekeeper to come bustling down the hallway. What’s more, her cats are at her ankles now, staring up at this strange guest with curiosity and vague malice. Apples don’t fall far, or whatever. “Here, uh… let’s walk.” Clearly this grandma of hers didn’t just come to drop off a basket, and Ingrid isn’t going to beat around the bush. So she shoos the cats back into the room, grabs a jacket, and nods down the hall. It’s only after they’ve descended the stairs and wandered outside, exposed to the slight breeze and drifting leaves that Ingrid tries again. “How’s business been? In your shop, I mean. Can’t say I know much about, uh… soap selling.”

“You’re welcome...” The basket is awkward, yes...Marielle is not quite sure what she expected. Part of her actually assumed Ingrid would not take it. But they’re trying, she supposes, because family is family. While Ingrid sets the basket down, she takes the opportunity to peak inside the hotel room. Again, Mari’s not really sure what to expect. Maybe she’ll see something that gives her some insight into her granddaughter’s life, maybe she’ll find another person in there with her. Is she dating anyone? How are things with the shop? How is your mother? All questions at the tip of her tongue, but she doesn’t feel it’s the right time to ask them. Not outside a hotel room with a housekeeper coming down the hall and two cats nipping at Ingrid’s heels. They look skeptically at Marielle, who looks back at them with wide eyes. She wonders if they would get along with her cat...Munchie loves other cats, though she mostly just likes to use them as pillows when she sleeps. 

“Sure,” Mari nods, stepping back and shoving her hands into her coat pockets. She’s bundled up, hat, scarf, gloves and sweater underneath included. Business talk, huh, that’s how what she expected to start out with but...perhaps it makes sense. It’s something they have in common, something she already knows about and the reason Mari ‘came here’ to begin with. She snorts, “neither did I before I started messing around with them. The whole soap making processes is a little crazy. I can show you sometime, if you want.” The fact that Ingrid even came outside to talk to her is a blessing, quite honestly, so she won’t push too hard on another encounter just yet. Her lips roll back as she thinks of a casual way to bring up the questions she has swimming around in her mind. “How is your business doing? The uh, clean up, I hope it’s going well. I haven’t heard anything about them catching the arsonist yet. Apparently he’s still out there hitting up shops,” she frowns, looking over at her granddaughter. “Are you worried at all?” 

[marielle-oleary]

andreasvanderzee‌:

“No I would not, because then you would go mentioning Mira to her and the cycle never ends. So you can rest assured, little sister.” Andreas is aware she keeps her conquests to herself, he isn’t as blind as she seems to think he is, but it’s more accomodating not to mention that fact. For them both, honestly. You can only prod Mari so far before she takes things personally, and he knew better than to dig himself into that hole. Well, at least so early on in the day. “Then we get the lecture about how few selkies there are and oh, could we not find any to marry, she knows someone who knows someone else who…” He rolled his eyes, well aware that Mari had heard the same thing as often as he had over the past forty years. There are few selkies, he’s aware of this as much as any other of their kind, but love comes in strange places, doesn’t it? And he certainly would not put duty to the pod over duty to be true to one’s heart either. The sarcasm in her voice as she whips out that nickname again doesn’t go unnoticed, but he isn’t going to rise to the bait either. She had asked him another question that was more important. One about Briar.

“She…” What all should he tell Mari, who is dubious about this sister of his even now? The short version, he thinks. Smoothed over like a blunted sword. “She says that he forgives her for a wrong that she did to him. But she cannot forgive herself. She has also told me that he helped her escape. So I am thinking that somehow in escaping, she got him hurt. Probably because the Morrigan woman, she had been keeping Briar on a leash too.” It’s an assumption, but not a bad one. Briar was reticent about the gritty details and he hadn’t talked to this Alistair yet, but you could surmise from what Alistair had told Mari the sequence of events. Andreas rolled his eyes again at the very idea that Mari wouldn’t be welcome at dinner, then shook his head. “Ja, I insist. And no, you should say ‘hey dre is it okay to come over’ before you are popping in. I do not like surprises and neither do they. Which is, you know, understandable.” He paused, then tapped the jar she had placed in front of him. “You are working on the species, yes? What do you have for wolves?”

“You bet your ass I would,” Mari pipes up, poking her brother’s bicep. Yes, he can be annoying sometimes and the prodding really can get to her if pushed too far, but there’s a part of her that really likes all of this. The feeling of having a family of her own, a brother...yes, she misses being around him when she’s off gallivanting around the world. She never admits that to him though, not even now that her stay is more or less permanent. Marielle rolls her eyes, waving her hand as she says, “yeah, yeah, the spiel. We know it by heart by now.” Esther’s always getting on them about furthering the selkie bloodline. “There’s so few of us, Bubala,” Marielle imitates, wagging her finger in the air at Andreas like Esther’s done to them so many times before. “Any luck with that guy you think is her son, by the way?” She’s been curious about that.

And just another person to be curious about. Briar, who they’ve now come to learn is actually Andreas’ ‘long lost sister.’ Apparently the same woman who kept Alistair hostage also took Briar, which...well great. This fucking lady is nuts, she thinks to herself, head shaking. “Hm...” Mari hums, taking all this information in. Then it hits her like a brick, the pieces of the puzzle coming together in her head, slowly. “Jesus Christ, I...when Alistair came into the shop, he was limping, badly. Worse than he does now, and his leg was all,” she gestures with her hands, “screwed up. He said Morrigan cursed him, used black magic as punishment for something, but he never said what...” Now they know what the ‘what,’ is, or at least they can guess. “Shit,” she breathes out, head shaking. “They need to talk. Whatever it is, they need to. My guess is if Alistair knew he would be hurt doing it, he did it on purpose. He’s the type to take the fall for someone else. That, I know,” Mari insists. Well...they certainly have a lot to talk about, now don’t they? What a mess this woman has made, and she’s not even here for a swift ass kicking...a real shame. “I...you know what? You have a point, I probably shouldn’t be barging in when someone just burned down their house...” Real smooth, Marielle. Real smooth. She grimaces, looking down at the bottle before she nods. “Yes. Why, you want something for a ‘special someone?’” Marielle smirks, eyeing her brother as she bends down to grab a storage container labeled, ‘back stock werewolf product.’ 

[marielle-oleary]

Date: November 14th, 2020 Time: 12:34pm Location: Oddities Inn Status: Closed @ingridgagnon​

Strange as it was to receive a bottle of tequila from her granddaughter as a, ‘shop opening’ gift, it did delight Marielle. She thought of it as an olive branch of sorts, and it is a nice bottle of tequila. Also strange though, how could Ingrid have known she would even like tequila? Lucky guess, she supposes. Margaritas are her favorite drink. Maybe it’s even stranger that Mari looks into where Ingrid is staying, seeing she’s currently listed under some hotel in town. Finding the exact room is a bit harder, but the owner of Oddities Inn didn’t seem likely to hand over such information on her own. No, instead when she isn’t looking, Marielle sneaks in through the back and looks it up. Now she’s standing in front of what’s supposed to be her granddaughter’s hotel room door, right arm holding a basket full of products. Is it excessive? Yes. Is she overcompensating for years and years of regret? Mari clears her throat nervously, knocking on the door. Also a yes.

 “Hi,” she breathes out when Ingrid answers the door, her heart beating faster when she sees the look on her face. “I, eh, got your gift. And I guess I sort of just...did this,” Marielle gestures towards the basket of products, handing them over to Ingrid. “They’re for you. Stuff I made for werewolves, scents I thought you might, eh...like, I guess.”