Ramon
Ruth wasn't nervous. She wasn't nervous at all.

She knew his kind: stuck-up suit-and-tie rich people, who saw hard-working folks as below them. Their crispy white shirts, their smelly cigars, their condescending attitudes. And yet, she knew very little about Valerian Barka himself. People were talking, and a lot: in a town like Briar Ridge, a person like Mr. Barka would always muddy the waters. Some said he came here to regulate the thing with the mining company, some – that he came here to bury them all. It was hard to believe anybody. It seemed like no one actually knew who the man was. It seemed like that was intentional.

But Ruth wasn't nervous. A tad curious, maybe, that's all, but not nervous. She could tell exactly how the meeting was going to go. She was going to dress into her cleanest clothes – she already did, - that for him would still look filthy. He was going to laugh at her if she was going to open her mouth; amused, as if she was a circus animal. She was going to show him the pelts. He was going to try and run her dry. She was going to force herself to bargain, as much as she could; she would get tired and give up. They were going to exchange the money for goods. He would bark out the joke that she wouldn't laugh at. He would look at her like she offended him by not laughing. She would bow, leave, and he would get her out of his mind. Because there was nothing for him to get out of her. She was a simple working woman, no more and no less.

The snow crunched under the feet of her cleaned-up boots. She carried a big heavy sack with the pelts he requested, all clean-up and pretty: you wouldn't even know a couple moons back that thing could run around and squeak. It was warmer than she had anticipated: sweat gathered behind her ears and on the back under her coat. The snow was wet and sticky: it was like nature was sweating too. 

The Barka Estate, in all its silly triangular form that made it look like something from a child's book, grew before her very eyes. Its famous wild vegetation was hidden under the snow. Ruth threw the bag off her shoulder and wiped the sweat from her forehead with a sleeve. Her lips felt dry. She approached the door, grabbed the knocker, and made two solid knocks.

She should have been expected.

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Tabitha
She was. If she could mind the damnable gore that *Beaux fucking LeBlanc* Put on his porch again, he would be happy to not acknowledge it. Still, there was so much about his home that he wished for control of again - who and what barreled through its doorway was one of them. Stepping gingerly around some of the items that Mr. Whitaker needed to continue his repairs, Valerian went for the front door, smiling demurely as he is approached.

"Mrs. Hansen," He says, complacent and kind, as too many of his interactions began, "Please, come in. I have coffee prepared, if you drink some. Feel free to lay the pelts out anywhere - I'd like to hear a bit about them before I decide which ones I'd like to purchase. Please, mind the mess. This damnable cycle seemed to be beneficial for anyone but me." 

Growing up in Briar Ridge, Valerian was very much so aware of the Hansens, and Jack's passing during the war. How quiet a sin that must be - dying for a war you didn't believe in? The death of the eldest Barca saved Valerian from that fate, as planning for the funeral, being the head of the household, and caring for his brother marked him safe from the draft. A piece of him is guilty for such a thing; another part of him knows he, too, would have died.

A cup of coffee is set down on the living room table for her, like presenting a treat before a hound, and he puts his hands in his pockets, already admiring that which she'd brought. A draft of wistfulness crosses over his eyes, remembering the times he and his father would go hunting, but it's swallowed down like the sip he's taking from his mug. "Beautiful," He nods in agreement, smiling softly, "Might I ask your expert opinion on something, Mrs. Hansen?"
Ramon
What a mess it was.

Her tired eyes skipped over the puddle on the porch, mistaking it for some dirt; a realization settled in only after she decided to take a step, and her foot *Slid*. She looked down, and an unreleased gasp got stuck in her throat. She was standing in a sizable pool of blood. 

The porch looked battered, thick claw marks traced in the soft wood. Mechanically, Ruth scratched her own scar.

And that was the time Mr. Barca decided to indulge in trade?

She looked behind Valerian's shoulder, preparing herself for the worst; but the estate inside looked... Normal. It seemed like whatever happened, happened just barely outside. The curiosity tugged at her tongue, yet she kept quiet. She'll learn what happened in due time. Right now, she wasn't there as a guest, but as a merchant.

Valerian asked her if she drank coffee. She didn't. But she didn't respond, because that was a question that didn't require an answer. Leaving bloody footprints on the estate floors, feeling more and more guilty with each step, Ruth followed Valerian inside. Mr. Barca wasn't going to crouch, scrubbing off the blood for hours off the wooden floors; yet whoever would be, she just added a lot of work onto their plate. At the point they'll get to it, all the blood would be dried, too. Even harder to wash off. 

Ruth took a seat offered and dropped the bag at Mr. Barca's feet, letting him rummage through it. She accepted the cup of coffee and took a small, careful sip. A bitter, chocolatey tingling was welcome on her tongue. So far, the owner of the state has been treating her well. But that was, of course, how they got you.

She didn't quite believe his compliment, but the question sparked her curiosity yet again. Valerian stroked her as a person who expected everyone else to ask *Him* Questions, and then marvel at the sharp intelligence of his response. So, Ruth didn't make him wait.

"Of course," She replied calmly.

||
Tabitha
Ruth Hansen didn't speak much; in that way, she was a perfect fit to hold conversation with the ever-verbose Valerian Barca. Unfortunately, Mr. Barca wasn't in too much of a speaking mood these days, after a handful of things had come to pass. The porch. The werewolves. *The sheriff.* And now, there was that damnable emergency meeting he felt compelled to go to. But *This-* No, this was normalcy. This *Had* To happen, else he might lose his mind. See, Valerian was a man of control; he *Had* To exert his will over something in order to be able to survive, to keep his composure. He was not so much a fool as to think he was above failure, but its repeat evidence was a tapeworm forming in his gut, bleeding him dry of anything he might have tried to consume.

"I am purchasing these furs as a gift," He explains, talking with his hands nervously. "For a girl I am, frankly, quite sweet on. She's a master craftsman, very talented, and I was hoping she might want to make *Herself* Something out of one of these fine things." Now, there was a point to be made here - Valerian wasn't trying to exert control over another person, but instead, himself. If he had a touch of normalcy among the wreckage; if he could do something normal, like buy furs for a woman he admired and respected, perhaps he would then might be able to have a normal relationship with someone in the tumultous dynamics Briar Ridge threw at him.

_ _
Imagine: the Judas of a coal man, nervous that he would fuck up a present.

"She's... Ambitious, and kind, and determined. Very intelligent, and beautiful, mind, but... I, sheepishly, have never purchased a present for a woman who was not my sister, and the kinds of gifts I'd buy my sister and the kinds of gifts I'd like to buy this woman are *Very* Different." He looks to her, a polite expression on his face; something not unlike a mask. Something that seemed to hide the complex nausea he was experiencing in the wake of his own inadequacy. "Which of these would you recommend as a gift?"
Ramon
Nothing in Ruth gave away the interest with which she was listening to Mr Barca explain himself. She closely followed the nervous fidgeting of his hands, the slight shake of his fingers, the embarrassed twitch of his lips. Like a forest rabbit, he was, at that moment: jumpily awaiting for something to strike him. There was something endearing about Valerian letting out the words that resisted him. A fight with his mind, a fight so brave.

She knew how it felt: wanting to speak out when the words were clawing at the sides of her throat desperately, refusing to leave it. Ruth, in these cases, always let the words win; she swallowed the need and kept silent. Mr Barca fought back. Maybe that was where the void between them started: a woman trampled by her own emotions and a man that refusing to let his wants take control.

"Hard to say. – she responded, - Do you know which furs she works with? Or has experience working with? 'Cause if not, instead of a good material, you risk giving her a headache."

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Tabitha
`CW: Description of the death of an animal.`

Oh, God. What furs *Did* Hazel work with? Would this even be worth his time? His upper teeth catch over his lower lip as he looks over all of the pieces before him, unwilling to let the anxiety take over his form. No, no— he was educated in culture, and the intention of this wasn't for her to make anything functional - it was to make something pretty. Hazel was talented, beyond so, but if she'd never worked with a material like this before, perhaps it may be more of a nuisance than a thoughtful gift. He runs his fingers over one of the fox pelts, looking at it curiously. To be honest, he hoped she would wear it like a shawl, perhaps lining the inside with silk to make it look more presentable.

Death was such a curious thing- everyone died, even animals, to further the existence of others. The fox pelt that was laid out for him was once an animal of tender mischief, but now the fur is used for a pelt, the meat used for sustenance. He thinks now of the coal miners, some of whom died on the job, others who died of complications in the safety of their home. They, too, were like the foxess - dying, so that others (he) might thrive. He flattens his lips into a straight line, point down at the fur. "This one, I think. It's foxfur, yes? I think it may be smarter to work with smaller pieces, so that she might make anything she wants to with it. I'll take them both."

He reapproaches the table where his checkbook lays. Instead of writing the check, however, he reaches even further towards his wallet, beginning to thumb through the open leather. He keeps it somewhat hidden, tucked against his chest, but a master of perception would find that his hands feel awkward around the leather, as if his fingers, long and skinny, struggle briefly to take what he wants from the wallet.

"How much will this set me back?" He asks, turning to her now and smiling.
Ramon
The touch of Valerian's hands to the fox fur was gentle and trembling. The pelt was intentionally kept complete: the muzzle and paws of the delicate animal could still be seen hanging from its luscious fur body. It was so easy to imagine for a second a still-living fox nuzzled into Mr Barca's hand, trying to find protection from something that already happened to it. Maybe that's where his sudden compassion came from.

Who was this man, mourning the death of a fox, a simple animal, and yet – ruling over the coal mines, this entrance to hell before death, poisoning the very air around it, crippling the capable men, making them age painfully before their time? Maybe the death of the humans wasn't as real to Mr. Barca, who probably never went down the mines himself. He never had the remains of the miners, corroded by the hellish work, sprayed in his lap, just like the fox was. If he had, would his silver heart tremble, just like his hands did now?

The question of price didn't come as a surprise for Ruth. She has been selling the pelts for quite some time, sending them out to the big city with the help of the Riar Bridge car owners. She didn't have anything to compare it to, so she didn't know if her prices were good; but people were buying, and the money put food on the table, so Ruth had no complaints.

"100 for one, 200 for both," She replied methodically, but then the curiosity got the best of her. Mr. Barca has been very open with her so far, and the story of a woman, before whom the famous dandy of Briar Ridge became as charmed as a deer, could not *Not* Draw her attention.

"If I may ask... If you want to give the girl a present, why are you so insistent on giving her more work? Why won't you make something out of these pelts yourself and let her enjoy the result with no hassle? Then you won't have to wonder if she'll use it."

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Tabitha
Valerian's eyes gouge at the price - which for the sake of this narrative has been translated into 1920s dollars - but he inhales and exhales briefly at such a thing. So long as Hazel never knows of the price, surely she wouldn't complain about receiving lovely furs - though, somehow, if she does find out the price, she may beat him upside the head with some kind of embroidery wheel. (It's a risk he's willing to take.) 

"Mm," Valerian chuckles, "I was afraid you'd ask something like that." He takes the money out of his wallet, beginning to count it out in a combination of bills and coins; dipping briefly into his savings to collect this luxury. It'll make a good first gift; that one has to be impactful. "I could get her fineries, like a cloak or a coat or cosmetics or what have you, but the girl I'm buying this for... Well, she's *Very* Forthright. The kind of woman to be gentle in one moment and then shoot your brains out the next; I've seen her plunge weapon after weapon into wolves' fur. She is nothing if not opinionated, nothing if not... Raw."

_ _ 
He tilts his head to the side, handing her the money and lifting up the furs he was now the owner of. A beautiful color, he can already imagine it being complemented with something Hazel owned, beaming with opportunity. "And to be honest with you, I think that if I purchased her a finery, she wouldn't accept it. She barely accepted the first gift I gave her, and the only reason she did was because she was missing the item I was replacing. But if I get her *Furs,* Something raw and beautiful, I am putting the control of the gift back into her hands. It's not... Work, not really, so long as she gets to make something for herself."

He looks up at Ruth now. Perhaps one might expect Valerian Barca to speak of women as if they are objects that he would like to own; instead, he speaks of this woman - Hazel - like she is a dream, something just outside of his reach. And perhaps she is. It would be fitting that the man who could have everything fails to have the one thing - person - he wants. But he is nothing if not a stubborn man, so he will keep moving... Pursuing... Chasing. "So, I suppose the answer to your question is your question in reverse: giving her a completed project will make me wonder if she'll ever use it, ever have somewhere to go to wear it. But giving her the furs means that even if she makes something practical with them, she'll still be using my gift. And selfishly, I hope that means she thinks of me when she wears it."
Ramon
Listening to Mr Barca speak, Ruth felt her heart soften. She had heard so much about his man, she felt like she had his image completed inside of her head; and yet, Valerian Barca before her, - tender, gentle, caressing the fur, dreaming aloud, - was nothing like the heartless ruler of the mines. He went through the most picky and complex wishes of the unknown woman as someone would sort through their precious collection of jewelry; and, despite herself, she felt herself drawn to his descriptions, felt what he was describing close to her heart. She understood the rush of a loving, beating heart to gift an object of your affection a moon, yes, a moon, with all the stars and the bow on top; when the only thing stopping you is that the wonderful person won't probably know what to do with the moon. She felt a slow, sharp pinch of jealousy, like a needle dragging through her skin. How lucky must a person be to experience feelings this strong, this cathartic, when every moment of your life is felt with meaning, just because a special person is still here somewhere. The coffee in the cup she was holding went lukewarm and stale, but it was hard to care about it, even a little bit. She took a drink, to try and stuff this feeling of softness for the man who probably didn't quite deserve it, just because she found herself relating to his feelings, his thoughts. However, suddenly, a much more important and dangerous thing slipped through Valerian's words, and now was fully invading Ruth's head, like a dark creature haunting the murky waters.

"She shot a werewolf?" Ruth repeated, carefully placing the cup on the table, "When? How?" Her head was a mess, struggling to make sense of what she just heard. Briar Ridge had werewolves? Someone was hunting the werewolves? Someone who wasn't *Her*?

Only a couple of seconds later regret started to seep in. Why would Valerian Barca talk to her about werewolves? Maybe it was a saying. A common metaphor to describe someone's bravery. Oh Lord, she always found herself as helpless as a newborn kitten, when it came to allusions and parables.

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Tabitha
He looks up, confused when Ruth asks the question. Had she not heard of the repeat damage of the Barca Estate? Of Oswald Katz? He says nothing, instead pointing to the giant hole in the wall that comedically stood behind them. "I wouldn't say *Shot,*" Valerian expressed, shrugging, "But she used her fabric scissors - a silver hatpin - other weapons that stab. When the beasts threw themselves through my home, there were several of us holed up here, and Hazel and I were some of the only ones to do some damage in return to the beasts. Poor Oswald... Died in my living room, and I have been left to clean up the mess, unfortunately." He gestures, again, to the giant hole in the wall, looking at the ruin as if it was the beast itself. Alas, he turns to put the furs down, to keep them out of the way of their conversation.

"I should offer, then," He begins, leaning against the table. "If, during the full moon, you ever find yourself in need of comradery as we weather the storm, you're welcome to join us here in the estate. There's plenty of room, and my siblings are usually around - good kids, the both of them, really. We're one of the more northern points in town, so sometimes we can get away without seeing the beasts... Here as of late, though, we've been repeat victims. I'm just blessed no one else has died on my property." A pregnant pause. "*Yet.*"
Ramon
"And, God willing, no one will," Ruth responded quietly but sincerely, after the man went silent.

When Valerian started talking, the confusion on his face prickled Ruth's heart; but the more she heard, the more that sharp pain of shame transformed into dreary helplessness. The woman he was describing was so brave, so selfless, - just to think, standing up to a werewolf armed with a hat pin! And Valerian himself opened up his home to keep others safe; he might not have been selfless in his motives, but he was definitely being kind. She wanted to pray for these poor people, and she probably would; but that would be not useful *Enough*. Tomorrow, she was going to find the first person responsible for fighting those creatures, and she was going to join the volunteers. She had a weapon that wasn't a damned pair of scissors. She had a responsibility before the people of her town. She wanted to fight.

She wanted to thank Valerian for telling her the news, but the words got stuck in her throat. Should she thank him? Should those even be classified as news? Thinking back to the pool of blood on his front porch, Ruth concluded that yes, the events he had described were very recent. Should she tell him she's sorry? Should she ask to mourn with him? Should she ask about the repeat victims Valerian had mentioned, or is it better to keep silent, until Valerian brings them up himself? Should she keep talking at all? Ruth was always so bad at determining whether a person wanted to talk to her, or they didn't, so she always defaulted to "No". But Valerian, for good or bad reason, was different. He wasn't trying to charm or attract her, but he was direct and polite, and this felt like enough for Ruth. She felt like she could talk with Valerian: not *Open up before him*, not *Share her feelings with him*, but talk. And this was still more than usual for Ruth.

"Tell me more about your siblings", she decided to ask, lowering her shoulders and folding her hands in her lap.
Tabitha
His siblings. He could talk about his siblings - it's better than the werewolves, it's better than the pain of reliving the fact that they took a chunk out of his house, that they killed a piece of the memory of his father. He steps to the side, taking a photograph off of a sidetable and turning it to show her. In the photograph are two people: a young man with dark hair in a wheelchair, holding some kind of half-finished sketch in his hands, and a young woman, also with dark hair, hands on the back of the wheelchair, bent over, grinning as brightly as the sun. Both of these people shared some semblance of relation to Valerian - they all had his high cheekbones, his dark eyes, his smile.

"Olivia," He gestures to the girl in the photo, then moving his finger to the boy. "And Florian. They are my pride and joy, really. Everything I do is so that they can have warm, comfortable lives." It's a silent admission of acknowledgement. He knew everything he had done was done in bad taste. Many people have died so that Valerian and the Barcas might have survived. In some ways, the pride on his face as he looked them over is not that of an older brother, but of a de facto father, a de facto mother, a guardian who protected and brought them up when no one else was able to do such a thing. 

He's not trying to convince her is he a good man: he's not even going so far as to convince her that he is a man who deserves kindness. He knows who he is, what he is, what he has become. He knows that he is the devil in a suit and tie. He knows what he is, and he knows he would do the exact same things over and over again if it meant he kept this house, kept his siblings, kept his pride. His jaw sets. Valerian Barca, despite his tenderness in regards to the woman he cares deeply about, the woman he's trying to *Court,* The woman he's yearning for something fierce, is a cruel and cold man. Hazel simply is the exception.

_ _ 
"Florian is a painter, Olivia is unemployed, but she keeps the house just fine. She's trying to find herself after a cold man broke her heart, but I don't doubt that she'll follow in Alma Cooper's footsteps and be some kind of teacher, soon. She loves the kids, here— wants one of her own, if only she could find someone who didn't take advantage of her. And Florian... He's one of the most talented artists you'll ever meet. I send his paintings to colleagues in Richmond, see if they're interested. Sometimes they buy them, and I give the money back to Florian. Other times, they send the paintings back, and I try again. Same thing with Ohio - I send the paintings to Mother in hopes that her friends might be interested. Same thing applies."

Some might expect the other Barcas to be as cold, cruel, and unusual as the disingenuous patriarch of the family - but how *Real* They sound when Valerian speaks of them. How cool, calm, charismatic. How Briar Ridge *Loves* Them, despite its acidic hatred for their older brother. Yet another burden on self-flagellating shoulders. *If they were alright,* Valerian's expression read, *Then I would do whatever it takes to keep them that way."
Ramon
The faces in the picture looked so related, it was as if someone had created them as a perfect porcelain family, together, as a set. Olivia's lively smile bursting through the stillness of the image, Florian's dreamy face of a true poet, and Valerian, between them, the one looking most out of place. She listened to his voice as it trembled lightly, while he pressed his fingertips into the glass. Florian's kept paintings, Olivia's waisted love. Valerian's hands, holding their each and every action so tight Ruth could imagine it to be suffocating. She listened to him talk about trying to sell Florian's paintings as if it was the main thing Valerian did for him, and the sudden wave of deprecation washed over Ruth so hard it made her teeth clench and hurt.

*Is that really*, she wanted to say, *Is that really so?* Was there no other way to support your dearest siblings than to make other people's brothers, other people's husbands, other people's loved ones rot in the mines?

Suddenly, the air itself around them seemed to taste bitter. She felt equal parts disgust and pity for the man standing before her, his arms crossed, - as if he needed protection. Who was going to clean the blood splatter from the porch? Who was going to clean the blood off his hands? And who was going to clean up the bloody handprints Valerian Barca left on his brother and sister he cherished so much and held so tightly? Did he think they didn't know? Did he think they didn't care where the money came from? Did his talented brother want to get his paint, and his canvases, and his brushes; and did his sister want to get her kind words washed in other people's blood?

*Valerian Barca*, she wanted to say, *You are a mess.*

Ruth wasn't close with her siblings; Ruth could not understand. And that was right, she couldn't, - only for a completely separate reason. She loved her sisters. She would've fought for them. She would've left if they wanted. She would've come back if they asked her to. But, - *This*? The torture? The gouging, to squeeze out the last possible drop of income from a living human body? You wouldn't do that to an animal. You shouldn't do it to a man.

Was it worth it? For him, - Ruth looked at his pose, his broad shoulders, and his hands clenching one another, - definitely. But for them? Were the sacrifices worth it?

Barely feeling her legs, Ruth stood up.

"Thank you for the warm welcome." She said, her voice hollow, "And for your stories. I hope to meet Olivia and Florian someday". And then she cut herself off. *I hope to. I hope to look them in the eyes, and I hope to God there would not be this metallic, immovable, confident, bloodthirsty dull glare in them that I see in yours. Because the only thing that could save you, Valerian Barca, is your love. I hope you pray to it.*

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