You step onto a cracked but clean tile floor that was probably once red, but is now a faded salmon pink. A large, rectangular communal table seating about 10 takes up the middle of the floor, with mismatched smaller tables arranged near the large front windows. The long counter in front of the kitchen door sports plates of fragrant bread, cookies, and muffins and bowls of fresh wild fruits. A small, rattling fridge in the corner holds a selection of juices and cold spring water in reused bottles and jars. Atop the refrigerator is a can for cash donations; next to it is a box for barter payments. Scrawled on the box in black marker are the words "Pay what you can, when you can."
Did someone call for 'tall, dark, and handsome'? Well, dark's fairly well covered, at least. Jet-black hair's pulled into a long, loose tail at the nape of his neck, a few stray strands about the face occasionally drifting into his almost equally dark eyes, the irises of which are a brown deep enough that one needs to look closely to find the pupil. Nut-brown skin that sets off the white of his teeth and eyes -- it could just barely be mistaken for a very deep tan, if one really tried. Tall is a miss; he's still several inches off six feet, and he probably won't ever get there. Handsome... well, not a classic beauty, to be sure, but well-proportioned, with a stunning, frequent grin and deeply expressive features. Slim, but in perfectly good shape.
He's clad in... well, black leather pants. Somewhat faded, well broken in, but nicely cut and really =quite= nicely fitted. A simple cream shirt is tucked into them at the waist; the collar of it's left mostly unlaced, the ends of the cord hanging down. Over that, he wears a decidedly well-worn old black trenchcoat, almost too big for him -- the cuffs hang down half-over his hands, when he lets them, and the hem hangs perilously close to his heels. Scuffed black leather boots with worn soles adorn his feet; there's a seemingly random collection of bracelets, all on one wrist, and several piercings along the upper section of each ear -- little silver hoops.
This young man has a definite Native American cast to his features. Black, sharply defined eyebrows and high cheekbones frame eyes the brown-black color of richly brewed coffee. A prominent, straight nose set above expressive lips complete his dark-skinned face. Those lips quirk easily into a smile of one variety or another, though the expressions tend not to linger. Deep, dark brown eyes regard the world around him with mixed curiosity and wariness. He's also frequently brushing his thick black hair out of his eyes. It's straight, from those Native American genes, and is just long enough to get in the way without being long enough to tie back. At the moment his hair is loose around his shoulders.
He's not especially tall, about five and a half feet, but with the way he carries himself, he doesn't give the impression of being short. His build is the wiry one of youth, and that of someone who is in shape from exercise that comes from doing physical work. He is lean and muscular, his chest broader than might be expected, his waist and hips narrow, and he moves with deceptively languid grace.
Bryce is dressed in an assortment of borrowed clothes. A cream-colored, long-sleeved cotton shirt billows about his chest and arms, and has the baggy sleeves rolled up many times so his hands and wrists are free. Brown woven wool pants are heavily belted around his waist, and the cuffs are similarly rolled many times to allow his feet access to the ground. His sturdy brown leather boots seems to be the only things he's wearing that actually fit him, and he wears them comfortably. A long vest of the same material as the pants helps keep him warm and has a few pockets.
This is a man, human to the core. No strange blood runs in his veins, but there is an air of power about him nonetheless, arcane knowledge on a tight leash. Physically, he is a perfectly average height with a broad and stocky frame that is not fat but is made to carry a lot of it. He's probably from a variety of European stock; his face is open and gentle, his nose just large enough to be interesting. He wears a short, neat beard, trimmed close, and gold-wire-rimmed spectacles with expensively slim lenses. Behind the specs, his eyes are a light, tawny brown, almost golden. His hands are a scholar's: large and dexterous, inkstained, callused where his pen rests on his right ring finger. Callused in new places, lately, from rougher work than turning pages. His hair is dark, somewhere between auburn and brown, and almost excessively thick and shiny. It's very long, ending about waist-length, and usually worn in a glossy braid. The color is broken by a thick streak of startling, pure-white hair that starts above his left temple. So much white in his hair makes him look older than he might otherwise seem--mid thirties, as opposed to late twenties.
He wears jeans, a white shirt under a dark grey sweater, and leather lace-up boots of a rusty color. In the cold of the late year he often wears a heather-gray woolen cloak, as well. Always within reach, if not actually in hand, is a wooden staff as tall as he is.
Although he moves with the ungulate grace which is too often compared to deer, unlike a deer he usually does not make a sound, this slender young man with a waterfall of perfectly white hair-- not blond, but white and fine as Queen Anne's lace-- which has been rather carelessly confined with a simple tie at the nape of his neck. His eyes at first appear to be dark rather than the blue that is their shade, as they are so saturated with color that they absorb rather than reflect, like the evening sky. The planes of his perfectly symmetrical face reflect a beauty so delicate and finely drawn as to be almost inhuman, an impression furthered by the translucent pallor of his skin. Yet the lovely lines of his collarbones and his wrists showing delicately through that transparency paradoxically reinforce his humanity by suggesting his fragility.
He is currently wearing a calf-length dark blue cloak or full coat of wool with carved bone buttons and a shoulder cape instead of proper sleeves. Under this, he wears plain but sturdy-looking brown leather boots that reach halfway up to his knees, pale brown pants, a buff-colored shirt with wide gathered sleeves, and his green leather vest.
At rest, he sits quite still, not even fidgeting with his long and capable hands. His face tends to assume a clear, icy expression which is a first cousin to sorrow.
Justin, sitting at one of the tables, looks exhausted. In fact, he's mostly asleep, his arms folded on the table, his head on his arms, eyes closed, his glasses dangling from one hand, barely held by his slack fingertips.
Serendipity looks just a tiny bit tired himself... but annoyingly cheerful. He wanders in from the kitchen with a muffin in one hand, wiping snow off his shoulders and head with the other hand, humming something bouncy softly to himself and smiling... well, in a self-satisfied sort of what. Not to say smug. He arches a brow at the sight of Justin, and wanders over... quietly.
Justin doesn't twitch, continuing to lay there and breathe deeply. All right, so he's more asleep than mostly.
Serendipity pulls out the chair next to Justin very, very slowly and quietly, and sits in it, setting the muffin down on the table and studying the sleeping Mage for a few moments. So many possibilities. What seems like fun? Hmm... Well, nothin' like the classics! He slips under the table to see about rerouting the laces on those boots. Subtle-like, y'know.
Miki opens the main door of the Diner and stamps the snow off his boots on the mat. He sees Justin apparently sleeping at a table and smiles, walking in that direction and unbuttoning his cloak as he goes.
Shortly after Miki comes into the Diner, Bryce bangs open the door after and charges inside. "Who wants a snowball?" he asks loudly, brandishing a white, gleaming sphere in either hand.
Justin, probably in his sleep mistaking Ren's delicate touch for an insect of some sort, kicks. And then Bryce comes bursting in and he wakes up, startled.
Kicking? Ow. Ow! Serendipity stifles an 'ow' that comes out more like a little half-moan... and then more of one, and he slithers up from under the table beside Justin, wiping his mouth idly with the side of his hand. "...oh, hey, hi guys," he greets them with exaggerated innocence. "Didn't know y'all were coming too."
Miki stops, his cloak only half pulled off over one shoulder, and stares at Ren. Then his gaze flicks to Justin. "Um," he says. "Hello?"
Bryce shuts the door behind himself with his foot and steps up beside Miki. He eyes how Ren comes out from under the table and glances at Miki. "I think he needs a snowball, delivered at high speed. What do you think?" His eyes are positively alight with mischief.
Justin yawns, rubbing his dark-encircled eyes. Said eyes widen a little in alarm as Bryce seems to be threatening him with a snowball. "No, no, I'm awake," he protests, then realizes Ren is sitting next to him with a cat-who-got-the-cream expression. "Oh, sorry, didn't realize you were there, fell asleep," he says to him.
Miki's mouth becomes suspiciously grave and well-disciplined. "I think you should do whatever you want," he tells Bryce. "After all, they are your snowballs, you made them."
Serendipity pats Justin's shoulder as he stands, picking up his muffin. "Hey, no worries; you get really relaxed, it happens." He grins and takes a bite of the pastry, stepping away with the extra-innocent look... it takes him where he can duck from snowballs more easily purely by coincidence. Really.
Bryce grins a slightly feral grin at Miki and looks back at Ren. The extra-innocent look seems to be what tips him into action. "Ohhh no you don't," he says and moves to keep Ren in sight. He moves pretty quickly, and lets fly with the snowball as soon as he has a clear line of sight to his target.
Miki drops into a chair, one corner of his mouth quirking back helplessly. He casts a glance at Justin to see what he thinks of what's going on.
Justin looks at Ren's hand as it touches his shoulder. Looks up at Ren's oh-so-innocent grin. Says, flatly, "Don't touch me." And then the snowballs are flying and he slumps down into his seat, hoping to avoid becoming a target.
Miki's smile vanishes at Justin's words and he stands up, moving over towards Justin's chair with a complete disregard for snowballs.
Serendipity squeaks and dodges the snowball, but manages to fall onto a chair in the process, and cracks up laughing. "Ow, ow. Chill out, Justin, you're no fun," he protests with casual amusement before controlling the snickering enough to finally get a bite of that muffin. "So what's up =your= ass today? Maybe we c'n yank it out. Unless, y'know. You like it there."
Bryce looks satisfied that his snowball felled his opponent, even if it wasn't by direct contact. With a smug expression, he settles into a chair on the other side of Justin from Miki and takes a bite out of his remaining snowball. "So, now that I've succeeded in protecting you from certain doom, how's it going?" he says to his kumimate.
Justin narrows his eyes dangerously at Ren, an angry flush surfacing. He stands, saying in a sharp, clipped tone, "You'd do well not to torment me further," and whirls on his heel, stalking out of the Diner in high dudgeon without a further word to anyone.
Miki whirls around, grabs the cloak he dropped across the back of a chair, and runs after Justin, his face oddly, even weirdly calm in contrast to his hurried movements.
Serendipity blinks, watching Justin's exit with arched eyebrow and furrowed forehead. "...ye gods 'n' little puppies. =Someone's= suffering from Pissy Mage Syndrome." For all that, there's a hint of concern in his expression, if not the words.
Bryce looks startled at Justin's angry exit and glances over at Ren. "Wow, you really pissed him. Not even *I* can piss him off like that," he says, sounding halfway between impressed and concerned.
Serendipity munches his muffin again, the grin creeping gradually back, if slowly and decidely tilted. "...Admittedly, that's about as impressive as they get before people start goin' right for the bodily harm," he agrees, "...and it usually takes more'n one little joke. Daaamn."
Bryce shrugs, a fraction of his cheer coming back. "Well, you know those Hermetics," he says meaningfully. He's watching the door to the Diner now, as if hoping Justin will come back in. He takes another bite of his snowball.
Serendipity smirks. "He's way too fond of that big ol' stick. Hermetics, man." He shakes his head, sighs, and then shrugs. "Whatcha gonna do, y'know?" Not gonna let this kinda thing ruin his mood, nope! "So. Good snowball?"
Bryce smirks in turn at Ren. "That 'big ol' stick' is his 'focus'. It's a mage thing, though, I wouldn't worry about it. As for what to do, you can like, be more polite. If only to keep yourself from being charred into your base carbon atoms if not for, you know, politeness' sake." He seems to think that this is very valuable advice, from the way he says it. "And the snowball tastes like winter, it's good." He takes another bite.
"Yeah, well, most people carry the stick in their =hand=," Ren tosses back, putting his heels up on the edge of the table, ankles crossed. "...anyway, that wasn't particularly rude t' start with."
Bryce raises his eyebrows at Ren's comment. "Well, /that/ was rude. That's my friend you're talking about there. He's been through a lot of shit over the past couple of months, so if he's not completely cool with you invading his personal space, well I think I can understand that." He eyes Ren suspiciously. "You're not from the same planet Anderja is, are you? The one where they don't know what 'personal space' is?"
"I dunno Anderja," Serendipity replies, "...but all I did's touch his shoulder, man. Done worse'n that before, and he didn't exactly throw a fit =then=." Another shrug.
Bryce looks dubious. "Yeah, you touched his shoulder.../after/ you were messing around under the table. What /were/ you doing down there, anyway?"
Serendipity gives Bryce a sidelong look, and munches on his muffin for several moments. Then he grins. "Tyin' his laces together. You guys woke him up, though. Screwed it up."
"Okay, okay, so how is that not invading his personal space," Bryce says, gesturing with his half-melted snowball. "And you're lucky we woke up him, too, if that's what you were doing. He'd've been /really/ pissed if you'd done it."
"He wouldn't've known it was me," Ren replies simply, and grins again. "And c'mon, shoes aren't personal space. Some people're just too damn uptight."
Bryce blinks and stares at Ren. "Gaia's tits, you /are/ like Anderja. He's someone else who will like, crowd right up to you and get in your face and be like, "Oh, what's the problem?"," he says, immitating an accent similar to Miki's, but much more haughty. "Oh, I'm so close to you that you can smell to the last molecule what I had for lunch? This bothers you? But I am so beautiful..." He scowls and adds in his own voice. "SHUT UP. Anyway, you're like that about personal space. If someone doesn't like it, it's /their/ problem. Nevermind the conventions of the rest of society."
Serendipity blinks innocently. "But I =am= so beautiful," he replies, mock-wounded, before the grin wins again, and he finishes off the muffin with another shrug. "But yeah, basically -- if you don't like something, it =is= your problem. Luckily, in the tradition of my people, I'm a problem-solver." Wider, brighter grin.
Bryce blinks again. "You are the most self-centered person I have ever met," he says, awed. "And more annoying than me, by several orders of magnitude. Like, exponentially."
Serendipity blinks. "I =was= joking on the beautiful thing," he replies dryly. "...and I'm no more self-centered than most people. We're all the center of our own universe, y'know. I'm just more =honest= 'n most people." A pause, and matter-of-factly, "Plus, at least I do my part to improve the world. ...So there."
"Well you sure don't seem to give a shit about other peoples' feelings," Bryce says irritably, standing up. "Look, just keep your distance from Justin, /and/ me," he adds after a moment's pause.
Serendipity points out easily, "'course, neither of you seem to give a shit about mine, either. Oh, wait, I forgot; I don't have any. Hey, it's not like he and I were friends t' all appearances =last= time I saw the guy. But hey, Coyote forbid anyone risk tweaking the big wooden suppositories so popular here 'bouts." He smirks, not showing the slightest sign of tension. "Go on, if you catch Miki and Justin quick there might still be room for you in the huff."
Bryce stares, incredulous, at Ren. "What do you mean, 'don't give a shit about yours'? Since when have I ever even /touched/ you?" He shakes his head and stalks towards the door. "Nevermind, you're just being you. Which is to say, really fucking irritating."
"Feelings, sweetie, not personal space. Try to keep up, there'll be a test." Serendipity leans back in his chair, rummaging in his coat a moment, and comes up with a little bottle he eyes rather suspiciously. "Better hurry, unless you're planning to just cut 'em off at the pass and meet up at self-righteous."
Bryce makes a rude gesture at Ren as he goes out the door, which involves his middle finger being the most prominent of his digits. He does not, however, slam the door behind him.