Frustration reaching its fever peak, the grizzled old warrior rubbed the sides of his head with both his calloused hands when the woman asked him for a drink, a vein in his neck was throbbing as he looked up at the lady but stopped short of giving the lass any guff, instead he did something uncharacteristic.

He bellowed a hearty laugh, the anger and frustration leaving him in that moment. As a man who had years of drinking experience he knew the look of someone who just drank the stuff what went down rough " Bourbon and whisky too much for you lady?" snorted the warrior as he stood, he had nothing better to do might as well do what the gods seemed to be pushing him towards.

So, he climbed over the counter like he climbed over the corpses of those felled by his hand and rummaged around neath the counter til he found an apron and a bottle of what looked like cheap wine. "You know kid, in my time wandering the world I've gotten pretty good at spotting a shifty character. Not that I care where your gold is from, I've done my fair share of heists back in my day." Krin tied the apron to his front and settled his greatsword against the counter, leaning over and handing Ophelia the bottle and a glass with a sly smile.

"I don't even work here kid, seems though that maybe this old warrior is destined to be a barkeep though. And whose to fight destiny eh?" honestly he was just giving in to the charade at this point, it could be fun so he'd keep up with it before anyone noticed.

@Dark Cloud

---

"Solitude can commonly serve as a soothing curative, yes, yet seeking solitude in such a crowded site such as this tavern... I would suggest that you seek change and accept the solace of companionship as well."

So she had agreed with his sentiment.

She summoned a series of scrolls and tomes to her hand and atop the table, attentively conjured adjacent to the couple of things that belonged to Alwen. The collection consisted of a myriad of subjects; from magical studies to mundane affairs, written in a multitude of languages learned and taught across the complex multilayer, multiplying cosmos. She shared this repository with the researcher, graciously gesturing towards the literature she assumed he would liken.

"Let us seek common ground then... through sharing our stories. I wonder whether you will grasp more of the Gnosis through reading the book that is me, myself, my being, and I wonder what I will discover when I read the book that is Alwen Grimmel."

She stretched slowly, and gave him a slight grin, proceeded by a pointed stare. Silently, her so sincere yet secluded ruby-red eye reflected him and his appearance - showing something strange and spiritual - perhaps that is the proper term - a sight that no mere mortal mirror could show.

The sacred goddess-gaze of Anath Homura asked him softly: Please show me yourself...

@Dark Cloud

”Bourbon and whisky too much for you lady,” he had questioned her, leaving Ophelia no time to retort before scrambling across the bar. For an old man he was surprisingly nimble, a just a few hairs short of being graceful she would wager. Ophelia’s brows had shot up in surprise and felt the whisper of amusement thread through her while the man's sword clanged loudly against the grain. This was already a welcome change from her previous set of disappointments. She waited politely while he rummaged briefly beneath the bar before emerging with a cloth apron and a bottle of something. She squinted at the faded design but ultimately couldn’t recognize the label that was peeling around the dark green glass.

Still has to be a step up from whatever, this, is. She set the mug down on the counter, tapping it’s cold base with an idle finger.

“You know kid, in my time wandering the world I’ve gotten pretty good at spotting a shifty character. Not that I care where your gold is from, I’ve done my fair share of heists back in my day.” His voice was level, tinged with what Ophelia had hoped was amusement. Still, the alarm bells were ringing in the back of her skull; skin flush with adrenaline and liquor. Was she that obvious? She didn’t feel like she was being careless, after all she had only just gotten here. Was her string of bad luck already deepening?

She sucked in a calming breath, keeping her features neutral and composed. Whomever this man was he didn’t seem threatening. Ophelia let her light eyes roam freely over his weathered face. Her shoulders drooped once her nervous system decided it was placed enough. If he was going to turn her in he would have signaled a guard by now. With a draw of her brows she let her eyes widen, doe-like and pulled her arms into her lap—giving the illusion of being smaller than she already was. ”Sir, I surely don’t know what you mean? She rose her voice an octave. ”Do I look like someone capable of such things?” She fluttered her eyes at him for good measure. But try as she might, Ophelia could feel her face twinge, her nose itching as she attempted to hold the façade. But try as she might her lips twitched into a toothy smile before long.

A burst of laughter tore from her, a bright sound that shook her entire frame. ”I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Ophelia waved her hands in the air between them while she gulped down fresh air. ”I don’t know how some people pull off the pout. I’m just—” she paused to let out a lingering giggle, ”It’s just not me. But let me level with ya, old man. Coin has no mortality. No owner. Just an item used in terms of trade and often misplaced. Wouldn’t you agree?” she prompted while he leaned his sword against the wood.

“I don’t even work here kid, seems though that maybe this old warrior is destined to be a barkeep though. And whose to fight destiny eh?” he continued. She should have known. The more closer she looked the more and more obvious it was. With a steady hand she glided the mug of foul liquid towards him before moving to open the wine bottle.

”That became evident enough after you hopped over, old man. Though I wager you should try that swill before assessing my tastes.” She paused to scrunch her nose in distaste. The cheap ale still lingering on the back of her tongue. ”Cheers, though, to a drink shared betwixt the moral planes of society.” Ophelia popped the cork before taking a swing straight from the bottle. It was smoother that was for sure but also weaker. She had given up potency for taste. A damn shame. She sighed into the rim.

”That became evident enough after you hopped over, old man. Though I wager you should try that swill before assessing my tastes. a twinge at the side of his lips pulled slightly when the woman's face scrunched up "That obvious huh?" Krin took the bottle of cheap swill in one meaty hand before knocking it back in cheers with the little lady, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve "Shit, is an aquired taste kid." he guffawed hoarsely, clearing his throat of the swill he guzzled.

"Anyone ever told ya that your nose twitches when ya lie kid? Real cute, but you definitely would be fucked if I was law abidin' schmuck. " Krin pushed aside the bottle of cheap alcohol and leaned across the counter with a raised eyebrow and a shit eating grin, handing Ophelia a glass "Ya got a name kid?"

Wha.

No.

🐍
<< Alcoholic Establishment >>

This could not possibly be. Oh some partings and arrivals but nobody had really grabbed his attention one might say. Not the way a staff member would. No tucked away apron. No hastily hidden cigarette. No badge. The uniform was lacking. Yet there it was. The world altered into a dark vortex once again.

@Dark Cloud

THIS? A busty waitress or a two-timing crook of a kid or a dusty old man or a robot, any of those archetypes would have been fine. But the delinquent drink tender was this crusty..?! You knew the look by the time you were in service long enough, they had seen and spilled blood before. Such a disgusting fall from grace to be a shift dodging lazy, unresponsive..!

No.

This was fine.

Omi Barsait, target of a turntable thief he had never met and would never know committed their crime save some random asshole dropped his custom made jacket onto the floor of the front entrance, soothed himself mentally. This was all fine. Yes. The story was starting to take reasonable shape and make sense. Allow the following: a veteran from a war, it didn't actually matter what one, had hit rock bottom. You saw the types, drinking themselves to death. The ownership of this expansive but otherwise hole in the mud establishment felt sorry for him. All the demons invading his mind and soul daily, he needed given structure. Politely, the management threw him into this job, but the guy just can't cut it. He sneaks off shift, gets shit faced, doesn't serve red clad security auditors equipped with a mace their drinks when they yell for it. It's a tragedy, a real human sorrow piece born from the ails of mankind. However, a pretty young lass gets to the bar and, what? The veteran remembers their long lost wife or lover. Yeah. Probably dead. Or he's just crusty and needs action. Wasn't really his place to judge, point is the humanity comes back and he dons his dirty apron to do his job. His one job, he's not very good at, on account Omi was dry as a bone. But his job.

Alright. That wasn't so bad.

That was tolerable.

That was acceptable. Omi wouldn't attack someone for that.

CRASHHHH came Omi leaning over the bar once more, upper torso first like a viper darting against it, a toothy grin and a wild expression plastered across his face. Right next to the woman this renegade barkeep was trying to woo. Yeah, he respected the courting dance and what have you, far be it from him to judge. But that was over now. He found his target, and his fangs were sinking in. Metaphorically so far at least.

"WELL if it isn't the lord himself. Strong stuff 'en! A bottle of good whisky. A tasty brandy. Something to get me started. Top shelf. And a dessert, I'm thinking truffle cake with fresh raspberries in a diamond formation. And, and! You needn't worry about your little "break." Your secret's safe with me and you'll be tipped damned well." Winking his left eye, all that could be described of the wild brown haired man's demeanor and movements are a raw manic flow. Like every blood vessel in his body was just barely perceptible but moving right beneath the surface, his core couldn't stay still.

More prominent in the light, his bar mace strapped to his right side nice and tight came more into view. Still you would be forgiven for thinking he was some noble hyped up on white powder, it was a lion's heart given 10,000 volts shocked into a human man's chest for all the anticipation on his face. Were there women, riches, or glory to be found here, for the next so many minutes and moments, they could be stacked to the heavens.. and still Omi's eyes could only see this old beast of a warrior. The savior of his fine dining at this tavern he didn't recognize in the town he was fairly sure he was still in. His hero. His salvation. The final last hope of a ticket, to decadence. It didn't matter if this was some drunken sod with their glory days long behind them, broken and in tatters, carrying a weapon behind the bar - well hey that was odd - but so was Omi! He was mighty eccentric too and that didn't stop this from being a rightful patronage now did it? No.

Perhaps they'd add some kind of chocolate drizzle onto the cake.

Just perhaps!

There was a busy energy to the man that reminded Gabriela of a bee -- bumbling around, buzzing, and zipping from one flower to the next, with some kind of goal in mind, but the appearance of utter chaos for anyone observing. He was by far one of the largest men she had ever seen and that was no easy feat for she had found herself surrounded, in her past lives, by creatures of great stature. But certainly, he was by far the gentlest of the giants she had ever met. Yes, there was something about him that appeared as harmless and sweet-natured as a hardworking little honey bee, but she was well aware of the fact that he might well carry a stinger.

And then, as if to confirm her suspicions about his gentle disposition, the man seemed to reflect for a moment on any potential appearance of rudeness and so he offered her a drink. It was the fact that he opened his coat just as he made the offer that filled her with a good dose of her own busy and anxious energy. Suddenly her head was buzzing with the temptation of blood -- a thought she had not allowed herself to even consider in what felt like years.

A drink, he said, and a drink he offered as she saw the puncture marks on his chest and stomach. They seemed to be shallow enough wounds, but who could really tell with a man of his size? He could be feigning strength when in reality he was terribly hurt. But he was grinning as he held out a small glass bottle to her, filled to the brim with a clear liquid that she was sure would burn the inside of her nose if she dared to open it and sniff.

“No, thank you,” she replied, holding out a small pale hand as she shook her head.

“I’d offer my coat, but…” the sleeve of his coat shifted like a living mechanical thing.

She smiled -- a tight and reserved smile as she observed the man carry on, almost by himself now. And yet she was captivated by his many quirks. She could already see why his small child was so endearing, clearly, she had a father who nurtured, if not encouraged, the child’s unique personality.

That was a rare thing to see in a parent.

And then that same busy and quick energy caused the man to perform a bit of magic. And she, still standing there near the door, observed with quiet but intense interest as the man formed and shaped a metallic flower. This small work of art was handed to her and she did not think twice about reaching out to collect the gift. It seemed a silly and stupid thing to be accepting flowers from strangers, but she could not find any suggestion of ill will from the man.

“It’s beautiful,” she told him as she held the flower close to her face and examined the craftsmanship. There were so many questions that danced on the tip of her tongue -- how had he managed it, what sort of powers or magic did he utilize, and did he carry around the material for this sort of project or steal it from the environment.
But he wasn’t interested in that.

“So, where are you from? It occurred to me that most likely none of us are originally from this strange place.”

The question struck her into a sort of shocked silence. The sheer scope of her situation became suddenly apparent to her and what was left in place of the sheer shock of it all was the sudden flood of helplessness.

“I don’t know,” she confessed, her eyebrows pinching and her golden stare remaining fixed on the flower in her hand, “--I don’t think the world, I mean, the universe is as I once knew it.”

She sighed and slowly made her way to sit close to the stranger.

“I look up at the night sky and I do not recognize the pattern of the stars -- in fact, I do not recognize a single one, not a single one of those stars, as familiar.”

She was looking up, her expression helpless.

“I have no idea where I am or how I could possibly get home.”

Silence lingered between them, heavy and pregnant with possible interpretations. As a way to end the awkwardness, the man asked her if she was warm enough. Her cloak was still soaked, and the hem of it was caked in mud. But apart from simply being uncomfortable and a burden to handle, she merely shook her head and stared down at the flower she had been given.

“The cold doesn’t bother me -- I don’t even feel it. But what about you? Where is your child? Why are you here -- this place hardly seems appropriate for decent folk.”

@Lithfangel@Dark Cloud

”Shit, is an acquired taste kid,” The old man wheezed after miraculously downing the putrid excuse of a drink.

Ophelia scrunched her nose in response, trying to brush off the flare of indignation that flushed through her veins. The cautious mix of the strong booze and the soft wine was beginning to sink in. Her body felt flushed with a comfortable heat and chased away any memories of the cool night air she had escaped minutes prior. She braced herself against the bar, hooking one foot around the other ankle while nursing the bottle between her palms.

”Anyone ever told ya that your nose twitches when ya lie kid? Real cute, but you definitely would be fucked if I was a law abidin’ schmuck.”

”What, are you telling me that you’re not a law abiding citizen now,” she gasped, one hand abandoning her bottle to press against her chest in faux shock. ”And here I was hoping that I was going to be set right by a rusty ol’ tavern drunkard.” Ophelia’s eyes narrowed into little slits of pure amusement. Should she be so openly bantering with someone who had spotted her so easily? Probably not. But when in Rome, or however the saying went. She’d never say it out loud but it felt nice to have a quick little banter with a stranger. No con. No game. Just some okay booze and good humor.

”Ya got a name kid?”

Ophelia had opened her mouth to respond but the first syllable died quickly and was buried under the loud crashing had collided into the space beside her ]What the fu- Her body had shifted instinctively, tense while fingers twitched towards the closest dagger snuggled into the band at her waist. Beside her loomed a man, if you could call him that. The way he held himself was almost comical. He seemed to buzz with energy much grander than his already large frame. Ophelia’s brows stayed arched as she tried to piece together the character that had so boldly interrupted them.

”WELL if it isn't the lord himself. Strong stuff 'en! A bottle of good whisky. A tasty brandy. Something to get me started. Top shelf. And a dessert, I'm thinking truffle cake with fresh raspberries in a diamond formation. And, and! You needn't worry about your little "break." Your secret's safe with me and you'll be tipped damned well”

Is this man for real? Ophelia had lost all control of her facial expression, feeling her head wobble in slight disbelief before casting a confused look back at the ‘bar’ man. ”Excuse me, sir,” she reached over to lightly tap the man. There was a moment of hesitation as his weapons came into glinting view. A soured feeling filled her limbs with lead. He was much too large for her to offend easily. But she followed through with her choice anyway and pressed her index finger into the side of his arm. ”A bit rude, don’t ya think? Coming in and intruding upon a business proposition like ya did.”

Ophelia had forgone her bottle of wine. And folded her arms across her chest, hands tucked into the sides where two more daggers laid in their sheaths. Her face had smoothened back from its shock and settled into a neutral albeit sharp appearance of subtle annoyance. Was she actually annoyed with him? No. But this felt like a good opportunity to show off her acting skills after having them slighted. ”I dare say I think you owe our dearest barkeep more than just a decent tip, sir. As for me, I think I can let you off with an apology.” she could feel the corner of her mouth pull up and curl into a soft smirk. Her body felt like electricity was dancing beneath her skin. The rush of adrenaline lapping intoxicatingly at her consciousness.

The Commissar
Main Tavern Floor - The Tavern

Raine awoke in her chair with a start, her scabbered painfully clattering against her leg. With a groan, the brunette-haired officer winced, clutching at the area for a few seconds, allowing both her senses to return and for the pain to subside.

Once she was sure she was fully lucid again, the took up the glass she had partaken of - seemingly hours earlier - and frowned.

"Throne of Terra; empty!" Severina cursed, banging the glass back down on the side table. "I shouldn't even be imbibing amsac whle off-duty! What's the ..." Biting down any further complaints, the Commissar gathered herself and got her cap straightened once again.

Once she was sure she was somewhat presentable - by Commissariat standards, anyway - Severina started for the tavern's front door, intending to get some fresh air before any thoughts of return crossed her mind.

The morning of his birth, Micheal Duglas cried for 30 minutes before calming down. His mother, of rare quality of earth bending, worried needlessly. as he grew up, his mother taught him everything she knew about the craft, and what it ment. "We all come from Mother Earth Micheal. We must treat it with respect. When we earth bend, the Great Mother is consenting to our efforts, so should not be used for idle or harmful matters, except perhaps for self defence." Micheal traveled the world, looking for ways to support the Great Mother with his abilities. Wearing a brown tunic with brown pants, a coin purse containing 20 gold coins, brown hair, moderatly muscular,
5'10", Micheal cautiously approached the bartender. "Do you have simple tea?"

Where he walked, the scent of Perdition and all its horror followed. This was not to say his was an entirely odious aroma. Indeed, the peat and quenching-iron taste his being spiced the air with was, to some, a charming bouquet that piqued the olfactory senses, and not entirely unpleasant. It had to do with the dichotomy of it all, if one bothered at all to articulate whatever was being breathed on the downcurrent. There was peat and iron, yes, but spice and citrus, too. There was smoke and there was flame, but there was also a subtle sweetness as well. One could be repulsed by such fragrances, but curious, too. And that unto itself was the nature of the Outsider for most: a repulsive thing that drew the curious and fascinated unto itself, wherever it wandered.

And tonight it wandered here, walking a nameless land before a nameless tavern. Side-face with his noble profile presented to the front of the establishment, the Outsider moved with the steady stride of the recently arrived and inordinately occupied, his bold eyebrows furrowed and his grossly sensual mouth compressed into one thin, hard line of introspective worry. He might have been handsome once, the creature, but time had a way of eroding the cleaner, gentler parts of a man’s face over the years, and his was no exception. Lines of fret and anger creased the edges of his eyes and the corners of his mouth, his temples graying with the hard-won wisdom of a life lived overtly long and only too poorly.

He looked unhappy, possessed of a melancholia that had long since soured into an ungovernable choler that lurked beneath the surface of fraught equanimity. Unhappy, but resolute, like a man set about a task he found particularly distasteful. And if his mien was not enough to make this observation an abundantly apparent one, then the motive force of his attire spoke volumes of his intent, for it was no dapper gentleman that tore through sodden ground, but an armoured warrior wrought in pitch and gold. He all but gleamed from beneath his fantastic gorget, fully encased within a suit of alloyed metals that hummed and snarled with both power and motion. It was not the sage that prowled, ready with a stock of easy albeit crooked smiles and off-the-cuff words that few understood came from everywhere but the heart.

Tonight, he was just himself. His beauty revealed as it has always truly been: as cruel and merciless brutalism, his noble legend set aside so that he could be unashamed, the way he was wrought. No false myth of noble devils, that guise gone so that he, though unchanged in great aspect, could become the truest, oldest meaning of terrible. A truth that should have been obvious all along, but was now unmasked, unslipped. A being of awe, when awe was a weapon of itself. An eater of worlds and taker of lives, he walked the earth within the dark majesty of his role, and looked more comfortable with the horned-helm tucked beneath his arm than he ever had bare handed and unarmed.

And oh, how he was armed. Hair oiled and spilling across gorget and breastplate with a dynamism caught between barbarity and nobility, his free hand lay heavy on the lathed hilt of his wicked sword, it’s dark-gray edge hidden by a common scabbard hung from a belt looped twice about his hips. He could have hidden the weapon, could have turned it into some harmless bauble to withhold its nature and so conceal himself, but no, there was no subtlety in him tonight, nor was there restraint. He was himself, or near enough that it made no difference. And besides, if all was going to be true to the tale, he remembered very bitterly indeed the last time he reached a heavy hand out towards his prized possession, without being armed with hate and armoured by contempt. So if there was going to be war, he felt, then it was best to reach with the aspect of the warlord, and not the sage.

It was nighttime. It was cold. He walked beneath a vaulted sky of uncommon stars and wondered, briefly, if he should have come with a more deliberate showing of force. He could see her, of course. He could see his possession, his prize and his doom. He had his profile to her, but she had the full of his attention. He could have turned, could have laid the full weight of his scrutiny and make her flee deeper still into the oblivion of this universe, but he withheld himself and that need to dominate. The orphan runaway was a skittish thing, after all, and his was the patience of stars. So he could afford strolling through the courtyard, flaunting himself, flaunting his power and flaunting his being, to terrorize her with the truth that to run was to be chased, and that there could be no hiding.

He showed his arms, he showed his armour; he walked with a purpose that made the red of his cape billow and the glossy pauldrons of his armour gleam. He showed her how he so lovingly wore her colours, as if she were some fair maiden and he her stalwart subject. And he supposed he was that, this thing of callous brutality and bloodthirsty bearing. He was her devoted as much as her gaelor. Not that she ever made such distinctions in her forced captivity. Clicking, whirring and humming, his armour made a muted snarl when at last he turned, his torso twisting and his head tilting so that, at last, he laid his ruby-gaze on her. Just a flick of his gaze, but how it landed on her. Hard, heavy, just the way his hands might strike when she was being particularly obstinate, he might have consumed her then and there were eyes able to devour.

But they were not, and there was not enough poetry in the world to wax over the sheer depravity of his attentions. There was no compromise in his stare, no room to maneuver or breadth to barter with. Perfidy, perfidy hitherto unknown and the promise of recrimination for her flight, that was his stare. But all was not sulfur and flame, not for the orphan. He could be kind when the chase was over and the prize was found. And it is that kindness that has his hand lifting from the hilt of his weapon to curl his fingers at her, first in greeting, then in entreaty. He did not want to approach and risk an altercation with her newest companion, and preferred if she came to him willing, as was his due. So he beckoned, metal digits gesturing for her to obey and retake her proper place by his side.

Ariande, the wind murmurs. Persephone. Come home.

@Blesses Blight

When she turned down the drink, it made Salvador reflect again on the way he looked and felt when he wasn’t sober. He’d felt better in this place than he’d felt in a long time, it was a rejuvenating experience and he quickly realized he shouldn’t let any of the the experience sour his time here. He didn’t like to drink alone these days, though for a long time, his alcoholism had consumed his past.

He put down the bottle he was drinking from, screwed the cap back on. And took out the rest of the bottles and set them all in a line. Staring at them. Wondering what to do with them. He would think of something in time.

He turned his attention back to her. Something about her presence was deeply comforting. Maybe it was just that he didn’t want to be alone. Maybe it was something unique about her he had yet to discover. He wasn’t sure yet. But he found himself staring at her pretty face often and tried to distract himself, clumsy and embarrassed whenever caught mid stare.

When she called the flower beautiful he just shrugged it off though. “Ah it’s nothing. Just felt a brief sense of inspiration.” He said, looking her in the eyes. He wanted to say that she was even more so, but he held his tongue.

The question of her origins seemed to fluster her more than a bit. And he felt genuinely bad for the look of concern on her face.

When she mentioned the constellations, he looked up. Having never even given it a second thought. “Huh, you’re right.” But it didn’t worry him a bit and he tried to show confidence.

“Well, since these may very well be newly discovered stars, what say we give them our own names?” He asked in a coy sense. Before turning his head skyward again and pointing. “See those ones? They look almost like a cat, don’t they? We could call it the Felid constellation, or well…I’ve never been good at picking out names.” He admitted.

He noticed another that reminded him of the owl mask and then looked away, feeling the stars were playing tricks on his mind.

“Me? I’m not sure why I’m here. It wasn’t somewhere I intended to go. But I’m glad I got to experience it.” He said, and then felt a bit sad, reminded of his loss. He said simply, lying to no one more than himself. “She’s resting. For a while.” It broke his heart to even try to acknowledge Ruka might not return. So he would just sit and hope and cherish the moments he got to have once again.

The man’s moment of reflection after she had rejected his offer for a drink was somewhat unsettling. Sitting, beside him, she watched the hard profile of his face as he regarded the drink in his hands -- a small, frail bottle within the grip of large and meaty fingers. And it was so much like a dance, the way disappointment touched the corners of his mouth and then a light, and nearly cheerful resolution. He was going through something within the expanse of those few moments, something that was perhaps profound, or could just as easily be absolutely meaningless.

She would never know.

He screwed the top back onto the bottle he was holding and set it down. Golden eyes narrowed at the display, and her brows pinched in the study of the creation he had suddenly busied himself with making. A line of bottles, all different sizes and colors, and all of them lined up prettily before them. She wanted to comment on the quantity of alcohol he had on hand, but could not think of a way to say anything without sounding judgmental.

Salvador was going through something and she would never know what it was.

He turned then, his large head on his stocky neck, and regarded her with his kindly eyes. She was momentarily caught off guard under the weight of his regard but managed to produce a small, timid smile. She didn’t have much to offer -- really, she had nothing to offer. But kindness cost her nothing, save the ache in her chest that felt like a warning that misunderstood intentions could kill.

He looked a bit more peaceful after that. Maybe the discarded weight of the bottles was a relief -- or maybe it was the fact that she was keeping him company.

We’re such wounded things, all of us…

She looked away, back up at the night sky, back to the black expanses of the abyss and the twinkling stars that tried, in vain, to light up the darkness.

“Ah, it’s nothing. Just felt a brief sense of inspiration.”

Fortunately, she wasn’t looking his way and so she didn’t see the sudden longing in his eyes -- that desire to compare her to ‘a summer's day' -- a darling bud of May. It would have been a disservice to him, to have her think him so vapid. Rather, she carried in her heart the belief that goodness still existed in the hearts of men, and that art could be conjured from the imagination of those who worshiped beauty. She needed to believe that.

“It’s not nothing,” she replied, still lost in her star-gazing, “it’s everything -- really.”

On her lap, a wayward thumb stroked a metallic flower petal.

“Well, since these may very well be newly discovered stars, what say we give them our own names?” Salvator seemed to have noticed her disconnection from their current moment, for which she felt somewhat embarrassed. She looked at him, that same hint of pink -- just a dusting of the color -- touching her cheek. “See those ones? They look almost like a cat, don’t they? We could call it the Felid constellation, or well… I’ve never been good at picking out names.”

She followed the direction where he pointed and saw the grouping of stars he referred to. It struck her as odd, at that moment, how one person could see one thing and another could see something completely different. But she didn’t say that out loud. Rather, she nodded her head in silent agreement. What was the point in telling him that what she saw was actually a rough outline of Orisia, and that thinking of the Summer Isles nearly gutted her right then and there?

“Me? I’m not sure why I’m here. It wasn’t somewhere I intended to go. But I’m glad I got to experience it.”

There it was again, the lingering residue of sadness across his face -- the loss of something, or someone. She examined him again, while he looked anywhere but in her direction.

“She’s resting. For a while,” he said by way of explaining where his daughter had gone.

Gabriela didn’t know if it was the truth, she had suspicions -- but again, she said nothing and only nodded her head.

And then there was a moment of pure panic, which she kept neatly contained within herself, as she considered the possibility of just blurting out that she had killed her own children. What would he think then? What would he say… would he say anything at all? Would tha kindly look in his eyes turn dark and hateful? Surely it would. Her lips pressed into a line and her hands trembled, but held on tight to the flower he had given her. She could just spew it all out, all of the viel and ugly posion that was sloshing about inside of her. She could confess everything. She could finally weep, perhaps, for all the great hurt that she had caused.

Maybe he’d forgive her.

Maybe he’d take that great big hand of his and wrap it around her skull and squeeze until she was a part of the darkness above, lost somewhere in the space between stars.

“My name is…” she paused then, and the words were like molasses in her throat, gunky and thick, and she couldn’t produce another sound. Robbed of her voice, the smell of brimstone and spice, caused her to choke.

There was power in a name -- she had learned that from a young age. This was a new world, a new time, but she was still who she was and surely her name would awaken something, if not in this massive stranger, then surely in herself. She would remember. And in remembering, she would shake off this accursed sadness and reclaim her understanding, her logic, her reason. She didn’t do what she did because she was wicked or cruel -- she did what she had to do. She did the only thing she could do when she was robbed of will and integrity.

But her name was lost…

She hadn’t seen him.

She hadn’t felt him.

The world was new, and she was new to the world. For eons, she had been forced to sleep, and wake, and sleep and wake, with the only memory that she was allowed to retain being that of her tragic death. Her mind was still fractured -- surely that’s why she failed to notice. She was not herself. She was not the Black Queen of Orisia, the fruit of her mother and father’s hate, the produce of dwindling line -- the hope of what was left of her kind. Now she was just a rarity, an exotic little creature among beasts of more regard, and certainly, more power.

But the tell-tale fear was nowhere to be found. Yes -- she had run away again. Yes, she had managed to find a way to open one of the many doors, and then she had stepped through it in an effort to escape her fate. And that should have been cause to run, another desperate and hopeless attempt to escape him, the sight of him standing there in full battle regalia, was instead a washing of relief. The will to run, or escape, simply wasn’t there. And it was so strange to not feel those urges. Running from Roen was the most natural thing in the world for Gabriela, an eternal endeavor that kept them both alive.

It was now that he was in view that she heard the clicking, the whirring, and humming -- it was only when she could attach those sounds to their movements, to the sight of his encased form, that any of it made sense.

Roen gestured -- a black gauntlet-covered hand held upward, a half wave.

It was the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen. The gesture did not match the grim expression upon his face, the dagger-like edge in murderous eyes, or the serrated threat of his pressed lips, which seemed to barely contain the promise of the ugly things he was going to do to her once he had her alone.

“I am sorry,” she said softly, her voice becoming a small thing on her lips, barely a whisper -- Salvator would hear the words, but they were intended for another.

“I am sorry,” she repeated, this time forcing herself to break her golden gaze from Roen’s blood-red stare. She looked at Salvator, “...I have to get going now.” She stood up, and held out the flower, “I can’t accept this, please, give it to someone worthy of your talent.” If he did not take it back, she would leave it -- abandoned -- where she had been sitting.

And then she was gone. Trekking the short distance, through the mud and the cold, to the dark knight that waited for her near the door of the tavern. He had gestured for her to come, and she obeyed. Never before in her life had she been so content to obey. There was certainly a degree of comfort in knowing he still wanted her by his side, a confirmation she heard in the loving caress of the wind as Hades called for his Persephone.

As he bid her to return home.

She still had a home.

She stopped before him and took the measure of his appearance. When she awoke in Carcosa she had not seen him like this. He had come prepared to do battle. Those golden eyes dropped down the length of his chest and settled the pommel of the sword at his hip. Once more, she looked at him, her brows pinching. She was suddenly nervous for the man sitting behind her and for his obvious heartache. She wanted to reassure Roen, then and there, that she was not the cause of Salvator’s pain.

“I don’t know this world,” she said, by way of greeting, “I don’t know where I am, and by extension, I don’t know who I am.”

Everything fell away then, in that moment of confession and vulnerability, under her heavy cloak -- dirty and caked with mud as it was -- she grabbed at the edges and pulled it closer to her, hiding her small form. But she stared up at him, sought some sort of knowledge in his crimson eyes that she could not find on her own. Bloody tears welled up in her eyes as the scope of it all came crashing over her head like a broken sky shattering into a million pieces.

She had seen Carcosa. She had understood it -- somewhat. A new world, a new kingdom, a new home. But what was there beyond Carcosa? She didn’t understand this. With Tenenbre’s gift, she would have had eons to learn, but he had robbed her of both power as well as time. She was still the same woman he knew in Valucre, she had not aged much more than those tragic last few months, and she didn’t fully grasp why it was all so different. But an understanding of it lingered on the edges of her mind and it threatened to drive her mad.

“What have you done?” she asked, breathlessly, so very quietly.

@Roen @Blesses Blight @Fancy Party

The Commissar
Front Landing - Tavern Ground Level

Finally emerging onto the tavern's front landing, Severina backed herself against part of the outer wall nearest to the doorframe and leaned against it wearily. The moonlight trickling from above played on the woman's cuirass - the refractor field built into her gorget barely emitting a registrable hum - and the winged skull that fronted her peaked cap. Otherwise, the woman's form was swathed in her commissar's greatcoat, blotting out any other colour that might be immediately registrable in the dark.

A quick glance at the scene before her made Severina realise that she'd stumbled on something she should not. She recognised one of the men - Salvador - as the father figure she'd seen playing with his daughter earlier that night; strangely, though, the girl was nowhere to be seen. However, she had no idea who the other woman was, nor the unusual, clearly capable of threat, knightly figure that appeared to be confronting the others.

A glove slipped to 'Penance', holstered at her belt, in case the situation deteriorated. But, for now, Raine made no threatening move of her own. She was in no mood to die tonight because she launched herself into a fight she couldn't get out of.

You are my beloved, said the dark knight, the wind carrying his words. There was more there, though. My beloved rhymed with my conquest and rhymed with my only and rhymed with other concepts that could scarce be parsed for the core of the thing’s meaning. A lifetime of perspective was bound up in the naming of her, and there only a gulf between what she could understand and what he meant. But there was no threat in the wind or the words within it, no untoward malice or significant threat. There was impatience, perhaps. Love. Caution. The need to possess and consume. But her life and her health was her own, as it ever was within the cage of his control. She was beloved, after all. Beloved first, and beloved foremost.

Exhaling breath through thinly parting lips, Roen let the mercurial wind go its own way with its gulfs and half-heard meanings. He was ever fond of his theater and cantrips, but it grew difficult indeed when beloved stood before him with her upturned chin and pretty albeit reddening eyes. She was on the verge of tears, and while he might never admit it to her and least of all to himself, this was a particular weakness when it came to the weeping of his woman. He simply could not abide by it. He softened in mien and aspect both, the grimness of his expression melted away before her sadness and beauty.

“Tsk-tsk-tsk.”

Clicking his tongue with fatherly disapproval, the Outsider unlocks the gauntlets off his hands with quiet snaps and hisses of releasing air pressure, and hangs them off his harness before moving to draw the vampyre into his embrace. His limbs and his chestplate whirr and hum with the motive force active warplate, but he hopes they are tiny inconveniences to Gabriela when compared to the warmth and comfort he sought to provide. He wasn’t soft, no, never that, not even out of his battleplate, but the black and gold alloy of his carapace is sympathetic with the heat of him, and his hands, his hard, heavy hands, they are gentle when he runs his fingers through her hair.

“Do not cry, lovely one.”

His fingers thread through inky-black hair so vibrant and crisp, each strand clings to a digit with lives of their own. But she is a cold thing, as cold as he remembered and always loved, and he warms her with pads and palms as he cradles the back of her head and draws her up and in. She is a small thing, lithe and possessed of a delicateness so sweet she demanded deference when touched, but she is made to lift up onto the tips of her toes to meet his descent. He seeks to suffuse her senses; to be all that she feels and sees and smells and tastes. But most of all, he seeks to quiet her. And to that effect, he claims her whispering mouth the way all lovers do: with a kiss. Was there artistry in it? Romance? The deft press and subtle tilt? Oh, he could be a master of kisses, this thing of Perdition; he could send the lover to her knees with a draw of his mouth and the capture of her breath.

But he feels little and less the artist tonight, and more the lord he was affected to be. So where there’s supposed to be art, there is savagery; where she might have wished for romance, only need. There was no deftness in the press of his mouth, except in the absolute pressure of it, and there was no subtlety in how he tilted his head - he was wickedly forward in his attempt to part her lips and seek out the coolness of her mouth. There was an audience, he knew. There always was and would be. But he is sidling close and clutching her head in his hands, and he coaxes Gabriela to turn so that it is his back that is facing all who would watch and appreciate a Don Juan Triumphant. He gives all his rear aspect, all broad shoulders and flowing mantle, all but subsuming his prize within the shadow of his shape. And he devours her. Ill-suited for the bite and draw of a vampyre, his only means of taking Gabriela into himself is to part her hesitant lips and pull the cold air from her lungs, which he does.

It doesn’t matter if she disobeys and cries anyway, so long as she has sense enough to not struggle with her captor. And he is not wholly cruel, at least not where eyes can see. He takes the breath from her lungs and breathes smoke and spice back into her, warming the cold woman from without and within. Yet for it all he is a clumsy lover in his warplate and need, and an errant swipe of tongue finds a sharpened fang with carmine results. He winces, and it isn’t just sweet cold that he tastes, but ichor, too. He has cut himself on her, his own prickly flower, and it makes his brows contract and his aspect returns to grimness when pain is spliced into his pleasure. She is no longer kissed, and Roen withdraws to briefly inspect his handiwork, and how he marvels at it! She is flushed, her lips are plumper and redder, and she is beautiful. Just beautiful. More beautiful, perhaps, than memory could say..

“What have I done?” He asks, swiping a bloody tongue across his mouth and wrinkling his nose at the taste of his own vitae. “You’re the one that cut me.” Soft, accusatory, even almost amused, he flashes her for one brief and startling a boyish twist to his sensual mouth. “How dare you?” Taking his hands from their cradling of her head, he lets her down with becoming gentility, now that he has taken the least of his desires from her. He had to, or there would be no end to the kissing. There were too many ways to kiss, too many deviations and variations, they could spend an eternity standing in the cold, willing to find them all. But they were being watched, and there were other things to do and places to be with her. Setting his hands on Gabriela’s shoulders and lowering his gaze, Roen smoothes out the fabric of her clothes, primping and preening her with his customary fastidiousness. She was absolutely filthy.

“Mmm, you’ve led me on a bit of a chase. Even I don’t know where we are, or how to get home. You must have been very afraid indeed if the Threshold City sent you here.” A furrow of brows; a wrinkling at the edges of his mouth and eyes. “I take a very dim view of mothers abandoning their family, Gabriela.” He says, serious. Menace crept into his low tone. He did not want to keep this beloved soul under lock and key, but by his power, she was forever testing the limits of his forbearance. And those two that were outside, watching them. He turns his head, throwing a cruel look over his shoulder at the giant and the woman. “Another tavern, another pair of friends..,” he trails off, looking back at Gabriela.

And in looking, his rising outrage peeters off grudgingly. She was afraid. She was still afraid. Willfully, unhappily, he softens himself to her.

“Are you okay?” He moves to place a comforting hand on her throat, hesitates, then brushes her cheek with his knuckles. “Don’t be scared.”

He is unfair, the wind whispers. And unfair. He is a black magician. Black arts he makes in black labs of the heart. The fair are fare and deathly white. The day will not save you. And he owns the night.

“Tsk-tsk-tsk.”

Each curl of his tongue, the front base of it pressing smoothly against the roof of his mouth like a promise of more, caused her to sink further and further into herself. She didn’t feel like herself, but standing before him now when so much of the world didn’t make sense left her ego with a gaping wound. More than disapproval, the sound of his tongue clicking seemed to imply that he was trying to spit out the taste of disappointment. And surely she was that if nothing else -- a massive disappointment. Hadn’t he loved her, once upon a time, because of her fierceness, her spirit, and her relentlessness, but what aspects of those virtues remained now? He called and she came, like a well-trained dog.

“Do not cry, lovely one.”

He had his hands on her. While she sank and drowned in a sea of black failure and the bitter taste of it, he had freed his hands from their metal gauntlets. The weight of his hold upon her shoulders felt like the violent weight of hands shoving her head underwater, keeping her below the surface until the bubbles stopped. And surely that was his intent, to show her, in the most subtle way possible, how capable he was of ending her existence. But she did listen -- she dried the well of tears that had sprung from her eyes, and forced the emotion down her throat via a difficult and painful swallow.

Hot fingers threaded through her hair, which was mostly trapped in the intricate loops of her braid, but he still managed to catch those wayward strands, combing them free so that her dark hair floated and danced around her head. However, it wasn’t enough to simply dishevel her hair. The wide expanse of his palm cradled the back of her head while the other hand circled around to hold her under the chin. She had been avoiding his eyes, especially at so close a distance, but he was having none of it.

Pulled in and tilted upward, her face was exposed to all of the silvery moonlight that managed to break through the bleak night. What she had tried so hard to hide under the cover of her hood’s shadow, was revealed then and there. Her pretty face was tilted up to his, and her golden eyes stared right back into those bloodied-crimson orbs of his.

It could have been something sweet. There was some rhyme behind it initially -- his lips touching hers, and the fingers in his hands curling into claws to cause her head to tilt into his mouth fully. There could have been romance then, a sweet and hungry need. But it came and went like the gentle breeze that had pushed her with gentle lies to come upon her fate rather than running from it. And now she was trapped.

The kiss turned into a savage sort of claiming that pulled the breath out of her lungs and straight into his. Her hands were wrapped around his wrists, one before her -- where she was held by the chin, and the other reaching behind, trying to unclasp his grip from the back of her scalp. And all the while his mouth crushed her own, and his tongue penetrated past her lips with desperate need. The hunger seemed predatory in nature, especially as he tightened his hold around her head and pulled her aside, causing her entire body to pivot on the balls of her feet or risk tripping and falling to dangle by her slender throat. She moved with him of course, moved until she was turned away from the curiously peering eyes. And gone was the moonlight and the shape of her face, hidden under a dense mass of shadow cast by him.

And then, with smoke and spice, there is the unmistakable sharpness of taste -- of burnt sugar and of concentrated citrus. It’s a splash of a taste, like a brushstroke of cherry red against a canvas of white, and she feels the flavor of his blood in other parts of her body, in more intimate places.

His blood was her favorite.

“What have I done?” he asks, and her eyes barely flutter open.

She watches the way he sweeps his tongue along the bottom his bottom lip, painting it with his blood.

“You’re the one that cut me,” he smiles -- she does not, her head is still locked within tight constraints of his hands.

Perhaps he notices her discomfort, or perhaps he had his fill of her mouth -- for whatever reason, he lets her go and sets her back down. Free of his hold, she almost immediately takes a step back, but her retreat is stopped by a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“How are you?” he asks, but she knows he doesn’t want an answer -- he’s distracted with smoothing out her heavy cloak over her small shoulders.

“Mmm, you’ve led me on a bit of a chase. Even I don’t know where we are, or how to get home. You must have been very afraid indeed if the Threshold City sent you here.”

Tension crept upon his handsome face and she grimaced under the weight of his hand squeezing her shoulder.

“I take a very dim view of mothers abandoning their families, Gabriela.”

The tension is near palpable and she fears, if she takes a breath, she might choke on it. But she holds her ground, as much as possible, standing under the pressure of his squeeze and with her golden eyes set on his crimson ones. He breaks first and glances over his shoulder -- clearly distracted by their audience, which has grown now by one more -- a woman in a military-type suit.

“Another tavern, another pair of friends…” he softens but she does not.

“I don’t have friends,” she speaks up, seeking to draw his eyes back -- along with his attention. “I also do not have a family -- my children died on Orisia, my children are dead and gone, as I should be.”

There were fingers on her throat, a touch against her cheek with the back of his hand, “...don’t be scared,” he urges, but she isn’t scared -- she’s angry.

“I forgot something inside,” she manages to pull away, to escape before his fingers curl and grip, just out of reach -- just beyond capture. “I’ll run in to get it, then we can go back home.”

Home…

She glances at him over her shoulder, just a fleeting thing -- they both know she’s not coming back, and then she lips through the tavern doors.

Inside, into the swirling smoky room, the dense perfume of alcohol, and the waves of voices, laughter, and singing. Inside, she goes, and this time she does not take in the aspect of the room with curiosity. She doesn’t care who she sees or who turns to look back. She goes on her way, forward and out, toward the double doors behind the bar -- the kitchen perhaps?

A back exit for sure.

If there were one thing that the young necromancer was not good at, it would have been social cues; like when a stranger would ask you to show who you are but be quite flustered by such talk without context. Alwen blinked, once then twice as he looked up at the woman sat across from him as though she said something thoroughly confusing to him "P-pardon?" he frowned and raised an eyebrow "Those are hardly words that a lady should ask a stranger, or..Oh were you simply asking to learn about me? Oh dear how dreadfully embarrassing."

Alwen slapped a hand over his face and slid it til it rested on the table "There isn't much to know, I am a scholar of magic, of less honorable repute as you scryed. I do enjoy the peace afforded by civilized lands so one must move lest they get ousted for well...Scholarly pursuis." he shrugged.

@Dark Cloud

---

"Hmm... have you been banished before from school? The study of sorcery and magic means conventional methods should be placed aside, and all paths accepted in the pursuit of truth. Please tell me, why do you study spellcraft and the arcane arts? Then please tell me where you have studied, as I am intrigued by these schools that shoo away the scholarly so that they spend their time here in a tavern instead of a supposed proper edifice of education."

There were hints of anger in the sole orb of Anath Homura's gaze, as she asked about assumed establishments and societies; the systems and structures that taught and nurtured knowledge. The goddess glanced around their current surroundings, and her ire increased as she shifted upon her intricately bejeweled throne. Her features slightly softened, as her attention returned to Alwen, and she showed that her anger was directed towards the decision of others, and not towards the wizard himself. She stared at him with worry and wonder mingling, more and more curious about his story and awaiting for him to continue with an answer and further details. As a deity - she would wait with perpetual patience.

One might consider Krin's face to always be in a resting but disgruntled expression, however when-well whatever the fuck this guy was came over like a man off his bloody rocker "Oi the fu-" the grizzled old man opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted as the man asked for...Cake? For the love of the gods, did he look like a gods damned baker? Who was this bloody man? Multiple times he opened his mouth to say something but he stopped short as he was just so taken off guard by whoever the fuck this weirdo was.

After some unceremonious rummaging behind the counter, a few bottles shattering as he looked for a good bottle of whiskey before his hands found a decently aged one. With a thunk he placed it on the counter and looked the man dead in the eyes "Whoever the fuck you are here, just-" he pushed the bottle towards the snake man "Take it, no charge at all on the house. And uh..." Krin glanced fugitively around the bar to any patron that might be unlucky enough to seem interesting til his eyes fell on some bookish guy and...what the fuck how'd that throne get in here? Wait who the fuck cares.

He shook his head and rubbed his temples "Good gods, sir I ain't a bloody pastry chef." he looked like he was on the verge of a mental breakdown but he just slumped on the bar with one arm and cleaned a glass with a dirty cloth in the other shaking his head.

@Roen @Blesses Blight @Fancy Party

The Commissar
Front Landing - Tavern Ground Level

It has often been said within the ranks of the Imperial Guard that Commissars tend to shoot the heretic first, two dozen of their own men next and only then start asking the 'who's', 'why's' and 'wherefor's'. While she admitted that the repuration among the Commissariat is - all too often - well-earned, Severina knew that experience had taught her otherwise.

Instead, as the clearly-uncomfortable exchange between the woman and the knightly figure went on as if she and Salvador were made of glass, she watched, she listened and she waited.

Severina watched as Roen and the clearly-uncomfortable Gabriela entrwined in an unequal, unwarranted embrace of emotions; moreso the hand that tried, futilely, to prise the armoured gauntlet from the back of the woman's head.

Raine listened intently as the two shared snippets of their shared pasts, of the woman's loss and the knight's apparently-long chase after this 'Gabriela' for ... For what?

And as Gabriela fled back inside the tavern - clearly in distress and not wanting to be in the presence of her former lover-turned-hunter ... the Commissar knew what she had to do.

Straightening herself fro the outside wall she had been leaning on as the door was slammed shut on iron hinges, Raine placed herself in harm's way before Roen, should he make an attempt to barge into the bar after his estranged lover. A glove drew 'Everfall' from the scabbard at her belt, her thumb activating the power blade's generator with a noticible whine. Held at her side in a wide, ready stance, the sparks and the faint blue-white light from the field surrouding the blade fell on the aquila on Raine's gorget, as well as revealed the cold, barely-restrained anger she now beheld the Knight as she readied herself to take further action.

Like the archangel that barred humanity's path back into Eden, the message Raine was sending could not be clearer: 'Leave her ... Or face the God-Emperor's Judgement'.

^{@ProxyInc and @Dark Cloud}

<< Alcoholic Establishment >>

Shoulders slumping. One lens obscured eye caught a hint of the bar lighting and kept it opaque. Previously wild smile, erased; replaced by a somber pursed set of lips.

”Excuse me, sir,”
"Oi the fu-"
”A bit rude, don’t ya think? Coming in and intruding upon a business proposition like ya did.”
"Whoever the fuck you are here, just-" "Take it, no charge at all on the house. And uh..."

No. No no no. No, no NO no.

”I dare say I think you owe our dearest barkeep more than just a decent tip, sir."
"Good gods, sir-"
"As for me, I think I can let you off with an apology.”

NO NO NO NO NO-

"I ain't a bloody pastry chef."



And like that, it all stopped. A stillness, a quietness, to this dystopian nightmare he had awoken into. Had time truly halted, or was Omi sucked into a true delusion? None were to say, none could judge, none could perceive but he. And though the bizarre man's body could not move either, in this state of timeless self reflection, he did not bother questioning it. That was just a price. A price for time to ponder.

"Alright. Let's regroup." Words without lips moving, meaning without sound. Thus began his internal monologue made external, to an audience of one. "I've never seen this business before. It's unlikely to have been constructed in the short time I was away.. yet here I am. I know, I ABSOLUTELY know, I first entered from the eastern gates of Latent. The first contradiction. This should not exist and yet it does. Secondly, it is staffed by degenerate beast-men who smell of liquor and mud." Stillness, quiet, yet his eyes still moved. "And, patronized by.. I don't even know what. Sassy, likely armed women of a younger age; probably orphaned. Likely a brigand. Latent was never this poor off, they wouldn't have drunkard rejects for waiters and muggers for customers. Furthermore, neither of these "people"," The sound of clapped lips and drawn breath was imparted, yet neither took place. Neither could take place. "Neither one recognizes me despite my renown. So we must assume the very worst."

Muttering and meandering of vocals for a moment before "Mmm, no, there are two possibilities. Three? Three. The first: I've been egressed from Latent, against my knowledge, to this unknown land. Second, I was perhaps, frozen? Frozen in some kind of stasis, unknown to time and unknowing to change. So then this is the Latent of say, a century or two ahead, dumbed down and unwashed. That could be. Alright. Alright, I have to assume then that their senses are muddled, their intelligence is worse, and their ability to be sophisticated is nonexistent. No, no EVEN.. even if it is the former. Was there three? Oh I've already forgotten the third possibility. Let's assume for now we are no longer in modern Latent. Bother. So then. The bartender is just incompetent and the woman is trying to intimidate me to establish power. I see. I see!"
_____________________________________________________

To those around him, the man said not a word. Nothing of the above took place. It was not reality, not their reality. He seemed for just an instant "spacey." Nothing more.

But that energy shot through him like lightning once more, as his fanged teeth suddenly flashed white with their exposed enamel and glint first at the bartender as though to entirely disregard the other customer: "Why my apologies fine sir, I must have mistaken this for a different sort of establishment. Free of charge simply won't do, I will make sure when I'm done imbibing to tip you most handsomely. Thank you very much~" Absolute adrenaline rush, the lightest tinge of sweat, blood vessels swimming -- yet his voice. Now it was much more even toned, with an almost sultry rattle of stones. You could certainly interpret it as condescending.

Much more so as he suddenly looked over his shoulder in a sudden lurch, half-masked face at a 50 degree rotation eyeballing the third component to this social exchange: whatever her name was. Truth be told, if this was a foreign land in space or time, Omi didn't see the need to know titles of a bartending drunkard and a street urchin. So then he'd name them appropriately within: Washedup and Urchin. Urchin had prodded him and made some thinly veiled threat. So never once minding the social faux paus underway with Omi's face uncomfortably close and fully exposed to reprisal or attack -- he thought to smooth the situation over.

"Likewise you've my apologies, I only assumed a smith at their station creates swords and a bartender at his bar serves drink. It was not my intention to slight you nor your business." Still not a single blink. It was unnerving. His neck was exposed. Madness could be a justification one gives for the behavior, yet.. his posture reeked of confidence. As though awkwardly elbow propped against a bar counter with his head comically turned sideways ignoring his flank was the most natural and secure one could ever hope to be. As his hands worked to grasp the bottle sans a single glance in that direction, his brown eyes were boring Urchin. It was anything but natural in feel. "I can fetch you a coin for your inconvenience once I have my bearings about me. What say you, fine lady? Would you forgive my rudeness?" A question asked with a barely contained curling of his lips; something about the question humored him greatly.

Yet, it was necessary. Pests swarmed in packs. He didn't need trouble with the local low lives; not just yet. If placating this woman and showing simple courtesy to the likely illegal employee was enough to deter needing to take action, it was a cost worth paying. Even if his fatigue was washing away with a brutal tension building within, it would not disappear forever. He would eventually need lodging, not blades and arrows in his sleeping form.

No. He'd imbibe the whisky, in increments as to ascertain the odds of it being poisoned.. and then after slipping the offended parties their bribery, fetch his jacket which Omi just KNEW was safely upfront and depart to better decipher where he was. That was the likely day's agenda.