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Friday nights were generally the busiest anyway; regulars emerging restless, tired and frustrated from the boring toll of the work week, peeling themselves away from their desks and tugging off ties or stockings to slip into black and bright colors, leather and silk and swishing fabrics that would move with them when they danced.

Add to this the 'open house' Charlie had set up, about a dozen or so strangers winding their way down the stairs and into the unusual club, and the place was -- well, packed. There had been decorations on the walls, as the night opened, spectacular glimmering snowflakes hanging from the ceiling and catching the light, but everything was starting to wilt a little by now. Several patrons observed that the snowflakes seemed...smaller. The body-heat of the combined mass of people murmuring and shouting and twisting on the dance floor had melted them down. The decorations were all ice.

There were two open booths, in the back by the speakers, where it was loud enough to make conversation difficult. The bar was a mob, Owen struggling to keep up with the pack of people pushing their way forward to order drinks. He looked harried, a little droopy, and very much like he needed more help. In particular, help who could be friendly with the customers, instead of giving them their drinks, taking their money, and telling them to move along now or get the hell away from his bar.

Many of the newcomers looked shell-shocked. It probably had to do with the crowd of regulars, who walked around comfortable and undisguised, unashamed. Charlie, with his wings huge enough that people gave him a wide berth, prowled the edges and kept an eye out for trouble. On the dance floor there were flashes of light and rumbling laughter, people with tails and tattoos and wild streaks of color through their hair, with lilting voices that spoke in strange languages or gossamer wings or -- well, everything else that the poor humans had only seen in fantasy and fairy tales.

It was hard to pretend it was illusion, or make-up. Really hard.

Sid crouched behind some of the decorations. Her hidey-hole was getting smaller by the minute, but it sure as hell beat the heat of the open air. The view of the dance floor was pretty good, and she couldn't see any real trouble that the patrons couldn't handle themselves.

She glanced at some of the new-comers. She learned to keep an eye out for them, since seeing wings and scales and tales. They probably hadn't seen her yet, as she was eight inches tall and hiding behind a shrinking ice decoration.

Owen looked like he was swamped, but it was a Friday night and they had just plastered the city with fliers. Really, he should have expected it.

Grinning to herself, she decided to try a lap around the club. The worse she'd do is run into something, or somebody. Been there, done that.

Cadence fit the mold of 'pleasant smiling service-person' frighteningly well, but he'd met a couple who were not so pleased with their jobs all the time. He made sure to stay away from the bar, far enough that there were usually customers ahead of him. Shifts like these, with dozens of people and just one working, could be nightmares, and the bartender didn't look very friendly at the moment. But then he was pointed at, and the person who'd been telling him about her cat was suddenly heading to the dance floor. He started fiddling with his sleeve nervously. "I believe there were people ahead of me," he pointed out gingerly, lining up an order just in case.

No one was ever supposed to drink on the job, at a bar -- but people did anyway. It was the way of the world, and there was no fighting it. Cadence had forfeited his place in line with his generosity: now he'd have to get to the end, or else he wouldn't be able to catch Owen's eye. It was like he had a blind spot for skinny blonds.

His eyes flicked immediately onto Jones, instead, and yes he flashed teeth...in a good-humored sort of way. "Grabbed?" He asked as he poured. The press and the rush made it clear that he was a good bartender, at least. Nothing fancy, no tricks or fuss, but he got the drink made suitably strong and fast enough to keep the bar from building up too much...

Whew. Saved by someone who looked so frazzled that, whether or not the bartender was friendly, Cadence almost wanted to try and get him calm. But the teeth were enough of a warning, and he was a bit wiser the next time -- he didn't stand in line, just hovered between the edge of the dance floor and the crowd for the bar. He skittered away from people who stood or walked by too close, and he never ventured too close tot he dance floor, but otherwise he was perfectly comfortable listening to people in line.

The pixie's voice was a buzz near his ear, a raucous clatter that invaded much too far into his personal space. If he'd had a rolled up newspaper, she might have joined someone's bug collection; if he'd had a glass in hand, she might have spent the rest of the night slowly suffocating to death, writhing in front of clueless customers. Owen was not a particularly nice guy, and his personal space was precious.

As it was, he held nothing but the soda tap, clutched loosely in one hand and set to 'coke'. Rum and cokes were always popular, and he'd been halfway through the next drink when she chimed in. It meant that his finger twitched on the trigger and, unless Sid was quick, she was going to end up sticky and dripping bubbly soda all over the counter. Either way, there was going to be a bit of a mess on the floor.

Finally frustrated into real action, Owen turned a pointy-toothed snarl on her; a couple near the bar took one look and decided that they really didn't need drinks that much, anyway, though the more persistent regulars slid in to take their places. His expression was not amused. This was not a face pulled on for anyone else's benefit. His eyes flashed with genuine dislike.

"I'm trying to work. This is my work space. Get the hell out." He couldn't focus, with an obnoxious little insect buzzing around his head, getting in his personal bubble, and he'd call Charlie over to take care of it if he had to. Training newbies was certainly not his job; if she was looking for a friendly face, perhaps the kitchen would be a better bet. Leslie, at least, could bite his tongue.

Cadence spotted someone -- either a regular or a staff member, judging by his familiarity with the club and with the cranky bartender -- catch something out of midair, using a glass and coaster.

Curiosity nudged him closer, to try and see what it was. He spotted wings, and that made him think of his frames with butterflies and dragonflies and other insects, pinned neatly above tiny labels. Eventually he sidled close enough to peek. "What did you catch?" But -- that wasn't a bug. A person? A tiny person with wings?