Unwanted guests and overstayed welcomes.

[Cinnabar]

It's a polite but stern-faced deputation of Constables that knocks on the Teahouse's door this afternoon; almost a dozen burly figures in neat grey tunics, one of whom sports a quite splendid mustache and a trio of chevrons upon his pauldron which mark him out as being the sergeant in charge, and it is he who briskly applies knuckles to varnished wood.

The rest of the constables wait behind him, a few of them glancing up and down the street, and a couple holding a quiet conversation as they wait for the door to be answered.

"I hear they been in here since the riots, that right?"

"Aye, seems so. Got brought in wounded, an' Madame Swinton an' her girls nursed 'em back to health like ministrin' angels, like. Then these oiks decided they liked the set-up and refused to leave. Bloody shameful, so it is."

"You're right there. Imposin' on a honest woman's hospitality like that. Shameful. Must be awful for the woman. An' the girls too, rough sorts hangin' around like that."

"Aye, you're not wrong. Still, not for much longer. Soon as they open the door, o'course. Reckon they'll be right grateful, if you know what I'm sayin'."

"Heh heh, reckon so. Might get a cuppa out of it. That'd be nice."

"Alright, that's enough chat." This from the sergeant, mustache bristling disapprovingly. They've a job to do, he's little patience for idle gossip among his men. He draws himself up to parade-ground attention as an approaching figure can be seen through the door's glass panels, and puts on his Stern Enforcer Of The Law face. It's quite impressive, if he does say so himself.

[Seeta]

Seeta hurried to the door of the half-timbered Tea House and stepped back as she opened it wide. She looked like a frightened rabbit, her wide eyes taking in the sight of the officers standing in her midst. The girl stood with her shoulders slightly stiffened, and it was little wonder - for beyond her, chaos ensued. The once pristine main room of Madam Swinton's establishment was a disaster, particularly when compared to its ordinary, peaceful perfection.

The loud men were rude in every aspect of their being, even from a distance: the homeless man who introduced himself as Governor Helstone, still healing, but not wounded enough to put him on his back, hollared at one of the girls to fetch him another cup. Some of the benches were overturned. To Seeta's everlasting horror, there were tea-streaks on the walls and brightly carved chairs.

She stared at the Officers, her eyes puffy and her lip quivering, clearly at the end of her wits.

"Oh," she whispered, shaking a handkerchief in her gloved hand. "Oh, thank heavens you have come to save us, Officers! Please, do come in! I am so sorry for gaping. You see, I simply could not believe my eyes. I saw you all in my dreams last night, and when I woke to find everything just the same, I was so very sad! Please, do come in! You are more welcome than you shall ever know!"

Seeta stepped back and held open the door, curtsying deeply; the softness of her pale hair fell down around her face, which remained becoming, even as she sulked and fretted.

"Madam Swinton will be with us very soon."

[Cinnabar]

The sergeant has to amend his gaze in a downwards direction as the slight girl opens the door, but touches the edge of his helmet in a polite salute once he spots her.

"Good afternoon ma'am. We'd heard you were havin' some troubles." A glance past the girl into the teahouse has brows lowering in vexation, foreboding of some rather emphatic enforcement of the Peace in the very near future. He doesn't step inside just yet, however, instead lowering his voice a touch.

"Before we come in, I'd suggest that if there are any items which Madame Swinton regards as valuable or fragile, it might be worth removin' them to a safer place." He glances about conspiratorially. "Not to alarm you, ma'am, but it might get a bit rough."

[Seeta]

"Trouble! Oh, what trouble!"

She gripped her hands together when they did not immediately enter, and she rocked forward in her slippers to listen. Her eyes grew round as saucers.

"Rough, you say?" She very quietly squeaked. "Oh, I shall do what I can! What an awful thing!"

Clearly in despair over the matter, the flighty young thing turned on her heel and hurried back up the incline and into the tea room. The one called Pandemonium made a grab for her arm, but she evaded him with a deftness born from days of this torture.

"You are no gentleman!" She cried out, and because her voice was meant for softer things - it was a little hoarse with the volume.

Pandemonium laughed.

"Oh, I hope Madam Swinton comes very soon down the stairs," she whispered to herself as she frantically collected what fine things, what lovely china, had not already been relocated. The free-loaders did not seem to pay her much mind. They were used to her frantic behavior and content in their ruckus.

[Wendy]

Sleep-deprived Swinton turned the corner of the stair to notice the scene:

Seeta flitting about in an all-out effort to protect the teahouse breakables, the awkward pawing and commentary from that disturbing flock of bastards, a half dozen or so costumed men waiting in earnest beyond the opened door...

It was a hot afternoon, baking a ripe stench in the tearoom. Debris littered the warm, wooden floor. Deserted food crumbs and spilled drinks turned to cake in-between its slats. Filthy clothing that she and the girls refused to continue to launder was sprawled over priceless chairs. Tearoom curtains had been torn down to use as bed linen when the Madame refused to provide more.

Yes, the common area was unrecognizable. No longer was the tea service area. No longer was the pride of the six women who had lovingly slaved to maintain an extraordinary environment.

Only the upstairs portion of the Teahouse remained off-limits, and only because its Madame and her girls fought with ferocity (and whatever they could use as weapons) to keep the men down in the sacred, stolen space.

The Madame wore a look of surprise at the appearance of the uniformed group. Their presence trumped the purpose of her visit to the first floor.

"I see the High Constable made good on his word," she smiled. Her gaze followed Seeta for a length, before returning to the shapes that remained outside.

Crossing the floor, she ignored the shadow of a man called Herrold. He was pleading for the Madame to allow him to stay. His loud voice insisted that he was still injured and, if that was not reason enough, then Madame should consider that he.. wasn't like the rest of the men there. The monstrous, red-bearded man stopped chasing with words just shy of where the Madame stood. She grinned at the group of grey-clothed, insignia-wearing, fresh-faced gentlemen.

Madame Swinton heard her own, loud sigh. "Welcome, constables!" she said, raising a hand to gesture them inside, forgetting that her palm was a mess of dried blood.

Though the sleeves of her blouse were secured at her elbows, she had not managed to avoid getting streaks of the stuff on those billowing things. The grime of ash was smeared on the loose fabric in a number of places. Her dark skirt could hide such things... but the blouse? It once was white.

Sweating, smiling and otherwise looking excited, she stepped back to permit entry.

[Cinnabar]

"Ma'am." The sergeant nods and touches fingertips to the rim of his helm in salute, ducking slightly as he steps into the tearoom and about half of the constables follow - six indoors now, six waiting just outside. The sergeant's gaze slowly sweeps about the room, taking in the mess and disarray and filth, and his mustache twitches with disapproval. Finally he looks to the squatters, scrutiny moving from one face to the next with the air of a drillmaster inspecting a particularly slovenly and unkempt regiment on the parade-ground. Some of them cannot meet that flinty gaze; others return it belligerently. Eventually he clears his throat, and speaks in a firm, gruff voice loud enough for all in the tearoom to hear.

"Gentlemen. You are required to leave these premises. If you cannot or will not remove yourselves, you will be assisted. Those requiring medical attention will be escorted to the Rememdium. The rest of you can sod off."

He nods to the constables with him, and a path is cleared to the door.

"Anyone still here by the time I have counted to twenty will be assumed to require assistance." There is a shifting among the constables, perhaps a slight readying of stances.

"One."

The sergeant regards the grubby interlopers impassively, barking out the numbers so that there can be no doubt he means business.

"Two."

One of the constables behind the sergeant grins to his colleague beside him and cracks his knuckles.

"Three."

[Wendy]

These were men at odds with government involvement. The gentleman "Mahr Vellus" took initiative at the start of the constable's count. Sighing, he reclined in one of the comfortable, ornate teahouse chairs, tipping back so that its front feet left the floor. The heavy item croaked while impositioned. Vellus stretched his arms up high, joined his hands together, and with an even more contented sigh, he let them fall. His meaty palms served as a pillow for the back of his head. The little tearoom skirmish was bound to provide entertainment.

Madame Swinton watched as nearly no one took off to the count of three. "The Baie" was teasing Seeta, having taken a fancy to her sweet disposition. He was doing his best to upset the fine work she was doing of salvaging tearoom wares.

The red-bearded one looked longingly back and forth between the Madame and the constable who took charge. He wasn't sure whether to beg - whether it would would do him any good. Moving closer to lurk by Madame's side, this man, Herrold, bent to have her ear, "Eh? Didja get all soiled up on purpose? Eh? Tryin' ta look all the more convincing, are ya?" he asked, certain that she had not been abused.

"Seeta, thank you for putting those away. Why don't you wait outside for the constables to do their work here?" Obviously, the Madame was willing to sacrifice the pottery in order to spare the young girl any more of "The Baie" hijinks.

Swinton turned a look at Herrold, "Heavens, no! I've been working with wounds!" The tall man nodded, though unconvinced. Her words were not matching up with the scene of healed misfits.

Some of the girls would be returning to her shop that afternoon. Madame Swinton took steps to go around the few constables in her way, hoping to intercept the girls's arrivals. In this way, she could warn them to keep out until the room has been cleared, and probably share in the great relief that, finally, -finally- these users would be gone.

"Constable," she said, looking to the counting man, "Whenever you're ready." She would wait until Seeta was safely outside before she would also leave the immediate area.

Herrold kept his eyes on the Madame, meanwhile.

[Cinnabar]

The sergeant nods in acknowledgement of Mme Swinton's words, but dutifully continues his count to twenty nonetheless. As he finishes counting and none of the squatters have seen fit to move he sighs slightly, casting a mildly irked glance about the room.

"Hmph. Fine." He reaches up to properly secure his helm, and looks to the constables beside him. "Right then; time to assist these gentlemen from the premises."

In response the constables already inside spread out across the room, working in pairs; the intent seems to be to take each man firmly by the elbows and frogmarch him from the teahouse, picking him up off the floor if necessary - not for nothing had the High Constable dispatched a dozen of his burliest men. Meanwhile more constables move in from outside, expressions somewhere between grim determination to see the job done and annoyance that these uncouth louts hadn't decided to cooperate.

If they won't cooperate, they'll be moved out firmly, but politely. If they still don't cooperate, things look likely to get a fair bit less polite.

[Raveness]

Lavender smelled like horse. It reeked through her pores and she felt the dirt on her teeth and the layer or two that covered her flesh. She needed a bath, wanted a bath, no.. she would kill for a bath. And her bed. Her soft, warm, inviting bed that was hers and hers only. The scent of her pillow and the silky coverings that only her blankets could bring. The thought of returning home finally after two weeks worth of haggling, begging and searching for tea from the outer edges of the land were tiring. She couldn't even remember half the names of the towns they had travelled through, nor did she want to.

Her counterpart was handsome enough, but he lacked on conversation directed at her. She knew why the Madam had sent him with her: he knew how to ride a horse, knew his way around the towns, and knew how to bargain and bring back the exotic teas that they were sent to retrieve, oh yes, and he was dashingly handsome. Lavender did little but watch, but she was learning and this part was key.

As she rode up, she saw the Madam and others gathered outside. She slid off her horse and gave the reins of the black gelding to the man who'd been looking after her and the horses. She dusted off the front of her blouse, grabbed her small pack that contained her soiled clothes and a few of the teas and achingly walked towards Madam.

Before she could say a word, the Madam had embraced her and instantly began rattling off about hospitals, riots, constables and injured men and then began to explain about the destroyed tea room. Lavender blinked at her strangely, but before she could say a word there was more. Lavender's mind was on fast forward and she really did try to catch all of the Madam's words as they spilled from her lips, but it was all too much for the weary travelled woman.

"What? Where? Who?"

When the Madam didn't answer her fast enough, Lavender gathered up her small pack of things and headed for the tea house. The Madam tried to stop her, but Lavender just held up a small, dirty hand and pushed past her and into the ruined tea house. She had to fight to get inside as the room was filled with constables who were trying to force people out. Well, Lavender wasn't about to the thrown out, not now that she'd finally made it home. She would hide out in her room and not disrupt what was going on downstairs.

Sneaking up the stairs, she headed for the solace that only her room could bring. Once outside the door she pushed it, but much to her surprise, the door wouldn't budge. Locked? She pondered and then turned towards the stairwell which was just to her left. She tried once more in vain. The door refused to budge. A locked door meant only one thing and Lavender's heart sunk at the thought of being unemployed. Had the tea trip only been a guise to get rid of her? Her pack fell from her hands and plopped onto the floor with a loud "Thud" and her eyes fought back stinging tears.

[Tebrin]

"Mahr Vellus" casually crossed left leg over right, content to watch the hijinx he was sure were about to ensue. Somehow, he did not seem concerned that -he- might wind up in the line of fire. No, he would let The Baie, Governor Helstone, and Just Herrold enjoy the honors of tangling with the guards.

He had come here for the entertainment, had he not? Why should he sacrifice the best seat in the house to the best show in town?

It did not help Mr. Vellus' judgment that it had been entirely too long since he'd truly had a drink worthy of his liver's attention. Tea grew tiresome - but at least the women were attractive, and the room, as trashed as it was, was far more comfortable than the streets of Myrken...

Or, Heaven forbid, that harpy of a wife he had the poor fortune to find himself wed to.

No, this was far preferable, no matter how he imposed upon the flustered young women, no matter how disliked he was - anything was better than to return home, and this was a damn sight better than he could have hoped upon his departure. He had shelter. He had food. He had ... tea. He had eye candy. In particular, Swinton herself was a rather choice slice of...

Shaking his head to clear salacious distractions, gray eyes focus in on the impending scene. Grin spread to a smug smile of self-satisfaction - one he did not seem to care to wipe off of his -own- face.

[Ted]

Despite the muggy summer day, Gerard was in full dress - a body as big as he is, easily a head and shoulders too tall for a proper fit in the door, and clad in a full uniform - well, it's a wonder that the beads of sweat on his brow weren't turning to steam! If there was any discomfort to be had, though, it didn't register on the big man's face.

Seeing his superiors and seniors go inside in front of him, he figured this was a cue to go inside as well. He didn't really know what was going on: only that the fellows in there without Suits were the ones unwelcome, and he was one of the many Constables to 'uninvite' the group.

He lumbered in, taking survey of the room with a slack look on his face. The place was already a bit of a mess, but from what he had heard, this was supposed to be a reputable place where a body can go enjoy some tea! How can a body enjoy some tea if there is debris on the ground? He stooped over to pick up a broken teacup by the handle, looking curiously at it before a sharp poke with a senior's truncheon urged him further inside.

"We...we're getting Rough, Sergeant?" He says to the head constable, carefully placing the broken teacup down somewhere that isn't easily trodden on.

Though, the Sergeant was already counting to three, so Gerard's question turned moot. He joined one of the other Constables, following his lead carefully. The other man was nowhere near as large, but equally as burly, with a penchant for bludgeoning. "Just you wait, Gerry," the other Constable said. "It won't just get Rough in here - it'll get Rowdy."

"Oh. I don't really like Rowdiness..." Gerard said, as they inched closer to the red-bearded man, Herrold. Gerard put his fists up and pushed his elbows close to his chest, protecting his front. Even with the obvious unease in his voice, he knew that they weren't coming along peaceably...

"Well, I'll tell you what - let's make this quick, and then we can reward ourselves with some tea after the job is said and done. Fine ladies out there lookin' on us as the Heroes of the Day...You know?" The other Constable flashed a big grin as he pulled his truncheon out. By scale, the piece of wood was about as big as one of Gerard's forearms.

"I do like tea..." Gerard hunched forwards and lurched closer to Herrold, looking from his target to the floor, sidestepping all manner of debris that was once precious but now irreperable.

"Well, good! So it's settled - you will buy us some tea after we clean up this sorry lot, eh?"

"Yes, sure - why am I buying?"

"Because I'm treating you, you ox!"

"Oh, I see." Gerard didn't really see. But, true enough, he did like tea. He wouldn't mind paying for tea. "Well, I suppose that it can't be helped."

Off in the middle of the room, the Sergeant was finishing his counting..."Right then; time to assist these gentlemen off the premises."

"Let's make our move, Gerry! For tea!"

"R...Right! FOR TEA!"

[Imagine]

Robert "The Brawler" Weylin had been sleeping quite peacefully on the floor of this wonderful house that was odiferously pleasant at first, but now stank of Herrold, Just Herrold's scurrying whine. It made Bobby, as his Momma would call him, quite cranky. So, to avoid that ridiculous chatter -- because everyone else didn't really bother him at all, just the unrelenting pleading -- he slept. Which is what he'd been doing for the past week and a half to heal up on his wounds. Which were quite extensive, honestly, though he was loathe to admit it. After all, he was The Brawler. It wasn't a brawl, till Bobby Brawler was present. And so, how could he be refusing a fight when a fight presented itself. In the middle of town. While he was really just out shoppin' for Momma.

He loved his Momma, after all. This one time, he was fightin' with his twin brother Billy -- he was really named William, but that was so high-class-soundin' that his Momma would have none of it; 'lest they conjure up some horrible haunt of a sophistic playboy father whom flew the coop, after a roll in the hay and a failed attempt at making omelettes on a Tuesday mornin' three days after the boys were born -- and his Momma plucked him up by the ear, but he was still swingin' and hollerin' and he scored a hit right on her jaw.

Momma had stopped and locked gazes with him and declared that he was a "Baby-bawlin'-no-good-son-of-a-wannabe-prissface brawler", but that he had a fantastic left hook. She had then proceeded to knock him out with a slap to the back of his head that had him reeling forward and into the unknown depths of ow. Which really only prompted him to keep fighting more, but to aim better and keep his right fist up while dipping low to avoid cheapshots at the ear and unfair targetting of his head's backside.

Thus, after years of inane brawling, he had hit the mother of all brawls while out shoppin' for his Momma -- Billy had thought to have been victorious when he'd won the cointoss and got to fix the chair instead of shop for clothes and groceries. His Momma would have been proud of his ducking and rolling and swinging and punching, without really having any clue as to why he was fighting at all. As he had told Herrold, during one of the scrawny behind's less whiny phases, "Oh. I didn't know somethin' was goin' on aside from fightin'. And I fight. So I fought. And there was much fightin'. An' I was happy. An' punched in the gut, face, shoulder, side and groin. So I'm kinda hurt too. But fight I did, and the fightin' was good."

Which brought him to why he was now in the teahouse. Sleeping. Like a baby. Most of his wounds had healed, and he could walk normally enough. He had been a little worried about his... jewels... having been punched there and all. But his stretched time at the teahouse -- with its very fine and genteel ladies -- had proven that he was perfectly fine and very, very healthy. The problem now was that he should be going home. Truly, he was healthy enough to do so. The richly colourful bruise on his ribs had turned into a mottled yellow-brown, but he could breathe and not want to die, so that was a good thing. Really, it was. The bad thing, however, was that he should be leaving and heading home to Momma. The problem with that being he had done absolutely no shopping. And his Momma would have his jewels -- no matter how healthy or injured they were -- on a plate and elbowdrop him on the ear for good measure due to his heinous misdeed of shoppingless return.

So, he slept. And he slept so well, that he did not even hear ever-respectful constables rush on in and tell 'em all to boot the Hell out. He woke with a jolt as a heftier-sized constable poked him with a foot in his bruised rib, pain shooting into him like fire. "Augh! Momma! Five more minutes, please!" And he fell back asleep. Honest.

[Wendy]

There was no stopping Lavender from rushing headlong into the instance of a fray - should there be one. The Madame, already exhausted by the scene, decidedly took a walk away from the immediate area.

On her way across the road, a young man called her name and gained a tired look. He hurried toward her. "A parcel, Madame," he hurried to say, and slowed his jog as he neared the woman. Her blouse was a map of blood and ash, tied off at the waist so that it couldn't impede her in whatever she had been doing. "From SinVraal," he said, reaching out an arm which held the package and a letter.

The sun was relentless in the late afternoon. She couldn't imagine how the constables could withstand their full attire, especially in that stuffy front room. The Madame's hair was flung over a shoulder, spreading the long, dark streamers across her back, before she let out her hand.

The whereabouts of her girls was on her mind, "Thank you," she said to the young messenger. He backpedaled from her scene in order to see what was with all of the lawmen across the road. "Yes, Madame." he said, on his way.

Lavender's room key stuck to her skin, but she made no move to change that. Instead, she tried to focus on reading the letter from Vraal. Without control over what was happening in her teahouse, it was a welcomed diversion. It just took a few tries to actually detract her from checking on everything from the distance of a street width.

[Wendy]

Herrold noticed that the constables were circling him. He was a large man, and aware that he seemed to always be the prominent example used in times like these. Whenever there was trouble, there was Herrold, unwittingly becoming the "this could happen to you" dummy.

Gerard and another constable made him unbearably nervous. When Herrold was nervous, he talked. When Herrold talked, he whined, "Pleased ta see ya, m'good men. The lady was havin' some trouble'n it'sa helpful thin ya doin' here. A helpful thin! I was just helpin the Lady widder tearoom..." he said, glancing at Gerard and his partner, turning his massive body so that his back was never turned to a club-wielding officer. This put his back against a wall, and a stammer in his conversation, "Bah Bah Bye d'way, I was jus tellin d'Lady I'd be too happy ta help widda cleanin up and tidyin business. Sah, See, I ain't, I ain't like them-them good fah nuttins. I pay my way. Heh. What, What's your name then? I'm Hah, Herrold. Herrold, ju-just Herrold." Herrold grinned to show that some wide, white teeth were missing.

[Cinnabar]

The Constables spread through the room with the demeanour of men asked to do strenuous, not particularly enjoyable work, and who are intent on getting it done and out of the way as quickly as possible.

As such, Mr. Vellus will find a Constable standing to each side of him, stooping to seize his chair with the clear intent of carrying it - and him - to the door. If he won't walk out, he can be carried.

Meanwhile "Governor Helstone" has another pair of grey-uniformed men moving to escort him from the premises, hands firm but insistent at his shoulders. There's no real violence applied as of yet - none of the squatters have given cause for it - just that determined force used to manhandle them out through the door and into the street.

"The Baie" might turn to find himself staring into the Sergeant's luxuriant mustache as the officer steps up behind him, mouth pressed into a disapproving line at the fellow's conduct towards Seeta. This close, one can't help but note how well-tended that 'tache is, thick and glossy and carefully-brushed while the rest of his face is shaven quite clean. An ex-military man, from the look of him, and more than experienced at whipping recalcitrant soldiers into shape. Broad-chested, wide-shouldered, and with a glare that's been rumoured among the junior Constables to make grown men wet themselves. The same glare that is turned upon the vagrant with full force, stern and unblinking from beneath lowered brows.

The Sergeant holds The Baie's gaze for a slow count of ten before nodding slightly towards the door.

"Way out's over there, sir. Off you go."