A grey-ish blue unicorn stallion in a black trench-coat and a tired complexion enter the bar. His tired amber eyes spot a changeling out in the open. One that appeared to have individual will, and an elegant silken formfitting red gown that accented a mare with a thousand promises of confidence and daring. And a fire in her blank green eyes that spoke of stories of equal parts grief and discovery.



Folklore: "Vintage 980 whiskey on magic created ice. Didn't think that you lot had a sense of taste, especially one that is so refined. My apologies if I offended you. Mind of I joined you? You certainly aroused my interest. *Sits next to Cricket, them looks to the barkeep.* Give me a glass of the same, no ice, fill it to the brim and keep it coming. *Looks at Cricket.* What brings you to this part of Manehattan miss?"