Jude
It was a crisp early morning when Liam Whitaker made the trek on up to the Barca property. 

He had a pair of denim overalls on and over a white cotton workshirt. In a moment of reason, he'd thrown a coat on as well. In hindsight, he was damn glad he did. Every year brought a cold that crawled up under your skin and wrapped around your bones till you forgot what being warm was like if you weren't good and ready for it.

His toolbox gently bumped against his thigh with every step as an unnecessary reminder that he was on the job.

The Barcas were local, according to what Uncle Eddie used to say. Richer than most folks and not so generous with it. Eddie said that Aunt Rosie brought them a few caseroles when the old Barca patriarch died. It was the Christian, neighborly thing to do, of course. Aunt Rosie was the closest thing these hills had seen to a saint, if his uncle was to be believed.

He rounded the last bend in the dirt road leading to the Barca property. Liam took a moment to marvel at one of the few two-storied buildings in the holler before approaching.
Johnny
Anyone could tell you that Valerian Barca was not an easy man to get along with. He was overprotective, frugal, bitter, and selfish - all of these spurned from some primal association with power and survival, of course, but that was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. If this was the case, why not offer kindness to your companions? Why sell your soul to the wretched and predatory company that has taken livelihoods, family members away? Valerian didn't have an answer, but it was in moments like these that perhaps he wished he had been kinder - so that others could have been kinder to him.

It isn't beneath him, however, to ask for help - especially with all of the ways that his siblings have been complaining about the cold. As his back had grown tighter sleeping on the couch in his living room, the spirits of his still fucking haunted house (and it is, he doesn't care what the people at the tabernacle might think - whatever is going on in his house is of the devil. He supposes he might deserve it.) terrorize him.

All that to say, Valerian Barca hasn't been getting much sleep. The effects of his appearance with the Anti-Werewolf Coalition - of which, was he now a member? God only knows. - have darkened once-bright eyes, hollowed handsome cheeks. It, and the nightmares of Oswald Katz's death are enough to push him to post on the board. And Liam Whitaker, Valerian thinks, is a gift sent from God. Because, frankly, with all that has been said and done over the last few weeks, and the growing threat of another full moon...

Valerian will still stand here with what is left of his family name. His siblings, however, will not. He won't let them die in the same way that so many in this town have. (A letter to S&C demanding a meeting with a company representative higher than his station sits, half-penned.) 

When Liam arrives, Valerian sees him coming through the window, and meets him at the door halfway. A tired smile meets his features, yet here he is - pristined and polished in his nice grey suit. (Didn't Hazel do such a phenomenal job?) "Mr. Whitaker," He greets him, a hand extended. The damage to the front of the house *Is* Evident. "Thank you for accepting on such short notice. As you can see, I'm asking... Ah... Quite a bit."
Nancy
Liam Whitaker only paused a moment at the sight of a slick suit that had the man sticking out like a nail waiting for the hammer to fall. Men in suits usually meant the coal companies - usually the company settling up with whatever poor family wouldn't be having their son or daddy home for dinner ever again. Coal had brought more money than most had ever seen into these hollers, but only a fool would call it honest work. That money was soaked through with blood and misery.

Liam reckoned Old Scratch wore a suit like Mr. Barca's.

Regardless of the devil's preferred dress, the Good Book said do unto others. Well, Liam didn't think Mr. Barca would ever patch a hole in his house but he'd seen stranger things. Even a rich man didn't deserve to freeze to death - his parents raised him better than that. Besides, the suit was the only thing polished about the man.

The Carpenter touched the brim of his hat. "Mr. Barca," He greeted as he neared the house. "How've you been? How's the family farin'?" Liam adjusted his grip on the plain steel toolbox and offered Barca a friendly smile. He grasped the man's hand and shook it twice. The carpenter's hand was like a leather glove despite his youth.

"Well, you seemed ruffled. Besides, wouldn't be neighborly to just leave you in the cold." He shrugged with a small laugh. "I gotta take a look an' get an idea of what needs to be done. Try and get this done for you 'fore the weather turns sour on us." He thumbed his nose, looking around for where he'd be working. "Now you mentioned it was a hole in the house or somethin'?"
Johnny
People like Liam Whitaker were, to Valerian, such a common thing. His own father had never been a tradesman in such a way, but he's sure that his grandfather or his grandfather before him had to have been. Hardworking men made nothing but money and fine reputations for themselves - especially in little holes like Briar Ridge. In some way, having Mr. Whitaker in his home flooded it with nostalgia, but Valerian would never speak of such a thing.

"My siblings are as well as they could be," He answers politely, chuckling, "If you account for a total of three half-finished paintings and the fact that my sister's hobby of the month is *Opera.*" When he smiles, his deep-set smile lines press into pale flesh, the corners of his eyes crinkling like a man who was older than the body that had been put in front of him. It is a practiced song-and-dance, polite small talk done often in boardroom happenings and around the corners. Too often would he lean on the desks of the secretary girls and ask about their days or their husbands, and he'd be sure to compliment the partners on the way out the door. The devil wore a suit and tie. Still — there's something like wearing an old leather jacket that comes with shaking Liam's hand, that comes with listening to him speak. Gentle is the accent that comes from his lips, the same one hidden behind Valerian's well-educated, polished smile, as if he is ashamed of this place, even living within its borders again.

He pulls back the tarp in the front of the house to reveal the majority of the damage - where the wolf had come barreling through, where Oswald had bled all over the carpet... He sighs again, recounting the scream and the tear of sinew from flesh and bone. How shameful he had been then, unable to do more than fire a grazing shot at him. His lips turn up into a wicked little smile for a brief second, though, recounting how after the next moon, the silver had made werewolf flesh singe and burn.

Never again would Valerian Barca have a fool made out of him in his own goddamn home.

Splintered wood and broken glass left the front of the Barca estate in a state of disarray, and had it not been for the expert masonry that came before, the front of the house easily would have come down around it. There's a defined line where the wood would need to be repaired, the house boarded and the wall stained. No matter - if there was a task Mr. Whitaker couldn't do, he could hire someone else. Money talks.

"One of those damnable creatures killed a man in my home, Mr. Whitaker," He gestures to the catastrophic damage, "I must have this at least fortified before the next moon. My brother is in a wheelchair, and not many homes are equipped to protect him as well as mine."
Nancy
Liam sniffed as the man discussed his siblings hobbies, going over the Carpenter's head. The hell was opera, anyhow? Hardly seemed like useful hobbies to him, but it wasn't his business. The Barcas were a queer sort, managing to walk the line between the familiar and the alien.

"Sounds like they keep busy," He responded, lacking any real knowledge on painting and the like. He was an expert with the awl, the plane, and the saw, as well as the matters of the land. "Glad to hear they're hale an' whole." He didn't see them at church too often. You had to wonder about such things.

Mr. Barca pulled the tarp like a magician showing off the fact he made a whole damn wall disappear. Liam emitted a low whistle as he set his toolbox down. "Well, shit. Weren't kiddin' 'bout that hole," He muttered. He took a knee to retrieve his tape measure and a pad of paper. His eyes flicked over to the splintered boards at the base of the wall. He duck walked over to the wall and began taking measurements. Each movement had a well-practiced air to it. Liam had been measuring boards for his uncle since he was 13, after all.

There were a host of creatures in the hills. Boohags and haints, ghost lights and stranger beasts still. It was why he kept a silver mirror near the door and a broom over the entrance. The fact folk died to them along with regular things didn't bother Liam too much. Meeting death out here wasn't exactly an uncommon occurrence. "I'll get it squared," He assured.
Johnny
"God bless," Valerian said, a hand on his heart. Too often was it that there were complications, but Liam's willingness to at least *Try* Was more than Valerian was expecting of him. It's probably off-color for him to expect so little of those who might want to enter his home, but he's found that it's easier to put himself at the bottom of the barrel and expect very little so that he might be pleasantly surprised than to keep his hopes up and then fall shorts on his wants and needs. It seems to have worked in his favor this time, but he's not so sure that it'll happen again.

"By way of materials, I'll fund the cost outright - please just make a list of the things you might need and where I can obtain them, and I'll have them delivered to the house." Valerian seems to change here; his shoulders are loosened, his body relaxed. He still wears his suit like a suit of armor, as if it is set up to protect him rather than make him look nice, but any formalities he may have had before are suspended in favor of polite professionalism. He is, of course, a southern gentleman tried and true. "As for labor... What do you think you'll charge per day to get this done, and what sort of timeline are you foreseeing for this project? I know it's *Quite* The mess, frankly."

To be honest, Valerian wouldn't be comfortable with any timeline that Liam set, given the race against the full moon. Still, anything that could be done before the glow of the unbitten sky hung overhead would be a blessing. He prayed and prayed, silently, that the werewolves wouldn't target *His home* This month - but perhaps, oh, just perhaps they might so that they do not attack wherever he may send Olivia and Florian for their safety. Worry flashes over his face like lightning, but he shakes it off somewhat quickly as he prepares his financials in a neat book on the table on the other side of the room, happy to make room in the monthly budget for Liam's costs and needs.
Nancy
Liam shrugged at Mr. Barca's outright gratitude. "It's my livelihood," He reminded him. Besides, his mammy had raised him to be a good neighbor.

"I reckon maybe two quarters an hour's fair." He'd heard carpenters up in Richmond made double that, so it felt fair enough in a sleepy little town like Briar's Ridge. "I got most of what's needed, materials-wise. I like to stock up and treat it 'fore the cold weather makes it hard. Doesn't look like any of the load bearin' walls're damaged so you can put that in yer prayers tonight," He said with a soft chuckle. "I'm figurin' on usin' oak. Sturdy enough for the weather an' the like. I'm afraid replacing the glass in the window is beyond my capabilities at the time being, but I can fix up some solid shutters for you. I'll have to go see about gettin' more nails made. I'll keep track'a the number of boards and I can invoice you in the spring when I get more, if that satisfies."

"I got Mr. Olander's roof to patch but that won't take more'n a day, then we'll start in on this after the Sabbath if that's quite alright with you, Mr. Barca?" The carpenter finished off his measurements and reviewed them one last time. They were neatly organized, although his handwriting left a lot to be desired. It was a near indescipherable chicken scratch, mostly numbers than anything else.
Michael
He is so pleasantly refreshed at the sound of a man who knows how to do some semblance of business. He begins to estimate and budget some numbers in his book, nodding. "An invoice would be perfect, thank you. Whatever you need, add it to the bill - money isn't an issue when it comes to the state of my house. My father's father built this home, you see, and my father added onto it. I don't quite have the skills he would, so I trust you to put it back together for me. Now, about the glass - is that out of your skillset completely, or is that something that could be done, perhaps, when the weather gets warmer?"

He looks up from his book, and in a strange way, he also looks... Human. With a smile, he's curious as to Liam's current capabilities, yet doesn't press out of fear of wounding his pride. The last thing he's interested in doing is irritating the man who is supposed to be securing the structural integrity of his house. And Valerian, unfortunately, has a little habit of pissing people off just by existing.

"After the Sabbath is fine with me. It's unrealistic to expect this done before the full moon, but whatever we can get done before then will be pleasantly appreciated. I don't host too many guests, these days, so I'm not very worried about the mess, so long as there is a clean space from the front door to the hallway at all times. My little brother is in need of a wheelchair, you see, and so I have to ensure that he's able to get around his own home. My sister will likely be in and out as well, but you can pay her no mind. She's a social butterfly, so she'll never be in your way except to offer you a sandwich or two."
Nancy
Liam clicked his tongue, looking at where he'd imagine the window to have once sat. "Well, I can see what I might kick up but it'd be a spell 'fore you'd see it. Hence the shutter an' all. It's the sorta thing you jus' gotta order outta the holler an' the snow's comin' soon, mark my word." He was pretty sure he had a cousin who worked for Louie Glass, so he might be able to order on the cheap there.

Mr. Whitaker stood, steady as an oak. Despite his youth, there was a confidence in the way he conducted his measuring. He'd been a carpenter in some way or another for the past twelve years of his life. Mr. Barca could stick to his numbers and Liam'd stick to the mysteries of woodworking.

He nodded in agreement. "When I'm doing the inside paneling and insulation, there might be some clutter just as a fair warning." There wasn't much he could do about that but he'd see what could be done to mitigate it. Tidiness was right there next to godliness, after all. "I'll be sure to stay out of their way," He assured.