Nine Swords

*Eulalia glances away form the window*

I'm with you to the end...as it should be. *she smirks a bit* Someone needs to keep you all alive.

She turned to the lady behind the counter, slipped the correct change and tossed tip in the cup before asking her, with an amused smile: "How often do people come in here to rally?" The lady smiled, slightly tilted her head with a small movement of the shoulders: "We've been around a while..."

Maxime laughed softly then walked back to her table, moving around Conlan to sit back on her bench, carefully setting down her steaming coffee bowl.

*she goes back to her coffee after the short rally call. She glances back out the window*

You were right mom...loyalty to the utmost...a family. I'm in good hands...as are they. I promise I won't let anything happen to them as long as it's in my power to prevent it.

*she smiles at looks around the room again, noting all her allies and family in the room*

((not sure if this is still going on, but figured I would post anyway!))
Wes practically tripped into the coffee house, his damp hand slipping from the door handle as his soaked shoes hydroplaned across the smooth floor of the entry way. While he managed to catch his balance no one could accuse him of anything like cat like reflexes or nimble athleticism. No, this was more akin to poorly executed amateur slapstick comedy. Glancing around to take in his surroundings every bit as much to gauge how embarrassed he should be, Wes took the measure of the room as he approached the barista.

"One uh...house coffee please. No, um, nothing else, thanks." Wes placed his order whilst checking his meager funds.

Wes noted how disheveled he was compared to the other patrons. His simple tee shirt and dark jeans were neat and clean, but obviously sodden from the long walk from the Underground. For once, he was glad the only thing that really stood out about him was his six foot height. The brown hair and eyes and average looks that usually guaranteed him a certain anonymity were welcomed at this point.

Quietly, a young man dressed in a brown suit enters the coffehouse. He closes his umbrella and while heading to the counter looks around discretly.

- A double expresso please - he asks with a hard to grasp foreign accent.

While waiting for his order he sees a small table for one, perfect for him to conduct his work. Coffee in hand he sits at the spot and takes out a small handbook and a pencil, while trying to see if anyone has noticed him. It seems not, so he takes a better look at the coffehouse customers and starts writing.

He takes notes, draws small symbols and crude portraits. All in his line of work, since he is writing a novel, but he hopes to remain undected: no thinking of what people carrying axes in the middle of London might think of him observing them.