@Lithfangel and @Dark Cloud

The tension fled from the strangers body, the weird wild energy suddenly slack and sullen. With only the erratic movements of his dancing eyes to reveal any sign of life. Uhhh, Ophelia could feel her mind desperately grasping at straws with adrenaline laden fingers. This definitely wasn’t the reaction she was prepared for. The swelling silence grating her nervous system and leaving them raw.

With an almost disjointed fervor the stranger snapped back. His body looming, demanding, and thick with arrogance while leaning towards her new acquaintance. At least that’s how she read it. ” 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~" He had turned completely from her, focused on the barkeep before her.

Why you— Her thoughts were snapped into sudden silence as the hulking man lurched in her direction. Those dark eyes boring into her with a steady confidence. Ophelia quietly squashed the pooling anxiety that was beading in the pit of her stomach. Her body wanted desperately to lower her gaze and break away from the stranger’s intruding energy. But past experiences held her together like sutures. To look away would be to admit weakness. Something that could be proved fatal if showed unwisely. Instead she drew in a slow, deep breath through her nostrils and lifted her chin a touch while keeping her gaze steady with his own.

”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.” His eyes never wavered with each syllable spoke. Not a twitch, blink, or falter. Ophelia could feel the fine hairs on the nape of her neck rise with a chill. Everything about the stranger read as off. “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?”

There would be no hiding her emotions, not from that unyielding gaze at least. She felt as if he was stripping the skin from the muscle beneath and the idea prickled at the forefront of her consciousness. Her shoulders drooped dramatically, letting out a sound like could be taken as a sigh of disappointment. Just another entitled spoiled brat, her thoughts wrote him off while the adrenaline began to wane. He was still dangerous as much as any other stranger in a dark tavern. Impatient. Crass. Arrogant. And all the other words that scrambled through her brain that colored him the same as the others. Though the thought of coin for free was tempting it was equally dangerous.

Without realizing it she had closed her eyes, breaking free from his maddening stare down. Before she reopened them Opehlia let her body go lax, turning back to the old man. ”Keep your coin. Instead, I’ll take a favor should I ever need it in the future.” Debts. She doubted they would cross paths again. But a debt was a debt, and that sometimes was more priceless than gold. ”As for a sword for sword and barkeep for drinks. Have you never been in a tavern before,” she asked while her left hand deftly plucked the strings from her bag. ”Things are never quite what they seem.” She could feel her tone shift while she spoke. Her words smoother, softer while her hand pulled something out.

In her hands was a rectangular box, covered in a mossy green fabric. Her face reflected the swirling warmth that she felt in her core. Ophelia’s eyes now encompassed by the object in her hand. She softly set the box on the bar; folding back the fabric to reveal the tarnished box within. It was dull and worn in places. With hinges that showed signs of rust. An impish grip broke out as she flipped open the lid, looking up briefly at the old man. ”Now, back to business.” Of course there was no business discussion prior to the stranger’s meddling. But she wanted something to do with her hands. Plus, having her cards in hand brought on a certain sense of calm that very little else offered.

Ophelia pulled out equally worn looking cards. The once golden edges now darkened by time and oily fingers. It’s rich purple back swirled with dark designs that was worn in several places. She knew each card by heart. Every line, color, and word printed on them. Reading fortunes was often a parlor trick but it was something she was aptly attuned too. Though she would often fluff the readings to her clients. After all, no one wanted to pay to hear bad news. Her hands shuffled the cards with pure ease before dropping the stack in front of the old man. ”Tell me what you want to know, old man.” Her smile had widened, a toothy grin that in her head rivaled the arrogant man beside her.

“Am I not family?”

His fingers close, but it is only air that he is grasping. She is slipping away, a lithesome shadow turning her back on him as nature had always intended. He smiles to see it, the lines of his mouth crinkling with an artisan’s pride and a craftsman’s joy. She is perfect in word and deed; no mere facsimile of the creature she had been before, but a genuine article of faith brought back from the depths of history and neglect. To be party to her thinly-veiled subterfuge was a reminder of lives they have long since been dispossessed of, and to watch her flee felt more sublime than it should have. She was playing her role to a degree of perfection he could help but be delighted by, so much so that he nearly forgot his part role to play. He sighed with a love for it all, and love for her.

“There is nothing inside worth taking home with us,” he demures at her backside.

She glances over his shoulder at him like a nymph on an escapade, showing him her fret and worry in the sharp contractions of perfect brows and full, sweetly plump lips. She is perfect in form and shape, just like every incarnation before. It gives him hope that this would be her last, bereft of the faults he had forever found in the incarnations he devised previously. Some had been too willful, others too submissive. Some had possessed none of the charm and guile memory spoke of, while the rest veered so far off temperament, it could scarce be said they were Gabriela at all. He had killed them all, over the centuries. Indeed, like any true craftsman, he destroyed defective products. He hoped this one would not meet so similar a fate.

But she is gone, and he is left outside in the cold of night with only his choler for company. Taking the gauntlets hanging off his harness and sinking his hands into them again, the Outsider seals the articulate plates in place and flexes his hands. There is a brief moment given to testing the haptic feedback of the armour’s sensorium, but he quickly grows bored of it when he reflects that Gabriela did not intend on coming back out at all, at least not to him and perhaps not alone. This is a displeasing prospect, but not entirely unheard of. There was a magnetism to his beloved that attracted all kinds of ne’er-do-wells and overeager sycophants, and while he may have preferred it not to be the case, he had long ago since come to accept that she will forever have souls willing to intercede on her behalf.

There was one such soul now, barring entry into the tavern. Worse, she seemed intent on keeping him out through violence. An errant bouncer if there ever was one, he wonders why these things continue to bother him no matter how many times they happen. But he supposes everyone has their own roles to play, no matter the circumstance. He can respect such dogged determination, even if he somewhat pitied it. Reaching to his hip and unclamping his helmet, the Outsider lowers the piece of armour over his head and rights it until neck seals engage and the armour pressurizes. Then he starts to walk, reaching behind him to unclamp an archeotech lightning claw from the small of his back to fit it over his right hand. The movement is both deft and precise, speaking volumes towards habit and ritual.

”You’re in my way.”

Amplified by the speaker ports in the devil’s helm, the Outsider’s soft tenor comes out with a tinny electronic feedback that does little and less to diminish the smooth quality of his voice. No booming baritone, no overstated rumble to jar the bones and frighten the nerves, just a voice from behind the narrow slit of a visor backlit by a perfidious red. Faceless, the armoured knight raises his right hand and waves it dismissively with a snarl of servos while activating the ancient (perhaps futuristic) generators of the claw, each curving scythe spitting to life with crack and shower of sparks. He tests the talons with murderous theater while his shadow passes over Raine, scissoring two curving blades with a rasp and pop of conflicting powerfields.

”Think carefully on your choice. If you choose to fight, if you choose war, it is a path you will not be able to turn from once the first step is taken. It carries with it a terrible price."

A pause; patience beyond measure.

"Move aside. I won’t ask you again.”

[X]

(Respnding to @Roen)

The Commissar
Front Landing - Tavern Ground Level

Behind the rim of her peaked hat, Severina scowled as the knight sealed himself within his plate armour and advanced towards the now-blocked door, stopping short a few paces from her. The armour Roen bore looked both like, and unlike, that of one of the post-human brothers of of the fabled Adeptus Astartes. the infamous Space Marines of her time; the icons and exact shaping of said plate, however, were clear give-aways she was dealing with a foreigner, even as she heard a slight whine of some power-source in the armour's systems spooling up.

"You’re in my way.”

The Commissar made no immediate move to stand aside, unimpressed by the voice that came from (apparently) a vox-mic built in Roen's helm, or by the subsequant, theatrical show of Roen activating and testing his vambrace-mounted talons. Her free hand slipped to the bolt-pistol at her side, ready to draw and fire if the need eventuated.

"Think carefully on your choice. If you choose to fight, if you choose war, it is a path you will not be able to turn from once the first step is taken. It carries with it a terrible price."

"Move aside. I won’t ask you again.”

The Commissar, for the briefest of moments, hestitated with Roen's threat of violence hanging in the air. She carefully weighed up her response, trying to see through the mental trees of choice and consequence she had now embarked on.

First: if she gave way and allowed Roen passage. It was clear that Roen would do anything to recover this 'Gabriela', though whether it meant custody for her, death or capture out of sheer enamourment, Raine could not tell. If she did allow the knight to go after her, what was to stop Roen from visiting violence on his quarry? Or - should any patron inside make the same choice Severina did and waylay him - would more people, unaware of why Roen was in hot pursuit of this woman, get themselves in his way to potenially be cut down by Roen?

Second: if Raine opted to stand her ground. The Commissar's professional pride scoffed at backing down in the face of this man. A Commissar was expected to cleave to the highest standard and ideal of what the Imperium of Man was; part of that was to never shirk, cower or run from a clear threat. Further, Roen's arms and armament were not to be taken purely at face, and Raine did not have anything to go on regarding Roen's capabilities. If she did stay in place, if Roen's attempt to bypass her forced the pair to come to blows, Severina was not confident that Roen would not be able to best her ... at least, not without the risk of fatal injury.

She was - no matter her arms, no matter her armour or refractor field, not even her own well of faith in the God-Emperor of Mankind - only human. But she had chosen this path. To waver now would invite disgracing her ideals and invite further harm to others. Yet to fight would attract the fatal attention of the fates.

So, despite the insulting insinuation Roen threw at her that a veteran of the Commissariat didn't know the depths and horrors of war, Severina paced before the door. She kept her eyes firmly locked on Roen, looking for the slightest movement to disembowl or slash at her with his murderous weapons, as she chose a third path to resolve this deadlock:

"Do not mistake me for some glory-hound or naive girl playing at war, sir." Severina stated flatly to Roen, steel lining every sylable as her boots clunked against the verandah. "I may not have whatever life or life-span you have, but I have known war as well. Its horrors, the corruption among Man it brings out and the lives of so many I've seen die under my command, or the few I've had to end for failing their duty."

She took a breath, fact now established, before stopping again before the door.

"This woman I've seen you with." she finally questioned, meeting Roen's crimson visor with her grey, war-weary eyes. "Who is she to you? And does she represent a danger to everyone inside?"

“Am I not family?”

It made her pause, just for a moment, while cruel words gathered on the tip of her tongue. But there was no energy left in her to set those words in flight and send them like arrows to rain abuse upon him. There was nothing left in her that wanted to fight. So she slowed, but not enough to stop, and she carried on and away.

“There is nothing inside worth taking home with us,” he called after her, and both the sentiment of his words as well as the sound of them, haunt her.

But not nearly as much as the expression she saw on his face, just a fleeting glance over her shoulder before disappearing beyond the threshold of the building.

He had not appeared angry, surprised, or wrestling with any sort of inner conflict. His entire appearance had been relaxed, with his supple mouth edging toward a smile -- or maybe a frown, and his eyes piercing straight through her to the heart of the matter. Her fear. He was pleased, perhaps, because she was afraid, or comfortable knowing he produced such a response in her. She couldn’t be certain, but the confounding nature of their reunion followed her as she sought a back exit to the tavern.

“It’s like,” she stepped out into the night, alone, but continued to voice her thoughts -- as if somehow, that might help her make sense of it all. “It’s as if -- we’ve done this before.”

Rather than running wild into the night, she stopped there, under a short awning that protected her from the drizzle of fog that was falling in heavier sheets. A step back brought her closer to the building until her shoulder blades rested against the wooden panels that made up the exterior wall. And, as if the cold were affecting her, both arms rose and crossed over her chest. She even shivered -- but it was the memory of his face, of his contentment, of his pleasure.

They had a history. Those memories were intact. She knew who she was long before she had ever met Roen. Irene Gabriela DuGrace, from Earth, from a Kingdom by the sea -- Atitlan. She was the hope of her people, the firstborn child to a dying species. And then she became their horror when she ran away, leaving them all to a fate worse than extinction at the hands of her ruthless mother and cousin. She remembered these things. She remembered the taverns and the people she met during those times -- Kalicity, Malice, Lucis. And of course, she remembered Tenebre, though his absence now was painfully noticeable, and of course, she remembered that she had taken his place and that Roen -- he had stolen her birthright.

She remembered dying.

She remembered waking up in a public garden devoid of a public -- in an empty city.

She remembered the humiliation and the exhaustion, and the children he promised she would be able to see if only she pleased him -- if only she finished.

It was the suffocating realization that if he truly had her children he would forever have control over her. That simple and horrifying realization sent her running again. Better to never see the children -- better to never play in the game. He wouldn’t hurt them, they were as much hers as they were his, and she did not think him cruel enough to cut a part of himself from this world just to wound her. He wouldn’t hurt them, she had convinced herself of this and left. But what folly had it been?

Of course, he’d follow -- to the ends of the earth, to the ends of the universe.

Golden eyes shifted then, focusing at last upon the swirling sky above. The fog had rolled in fast and it had swallowed the night sky, but she could see through the mist. The flickering of stars shone dimly, but she could still make out the strange new pattern of constellations, the distant glimmer of hope that her old life still existed.

“He never wanted the queen, he only ever wanted the girl,” she said out loud, a whisper -- a realization that made her sudden determination steadfast. “But he can’t have one without the other.”

I am a fucking Queen.

With her arms crisscrossed over her chest, her hands clutched and squeezed at her own biceps. She took in a deep breath and let out a slow sigh -- a measured release. And then, resolute with her intention, she turned and went right back in the same way she had come. Through an abandoned kitchen, where the remnants of abandoned projects remained, and back out into the noisy tavern.

She stopped there, just beyond the swinging kitchen doors, glancing down the length of the bar. She examined the patrons, most of them chit-chatting (and all but avoiding making eye contact with the man she had stolen from), and then turned her eyes upon the wall of pretty bottles. There was no bartender, although it appeared some were playing the role -- though by their appearance it was clear they did not actually belong to the establishment.

With a shimmy of her shoulders, she decided that she too could play the part and went about the selection process. Somehow, she had to save face and prove to herself -- as much as to the devil -- that she was not just a frightened little girl. She said she came back for something and now she had to figure out what that something actually was.

Gabriela pointed a finger and walked along, behind the counter, studying the bottles. She had only ever seen Roen drinking wine -- Orisian Wine. But that didn’t exist here. She settled on a silver-white bottle of vodka and took it by the neck. Unable to partake, she settled on a single glass and made sure she filled it with ice. However, Roen wasn’t likely to believe that she had come back in for a bottle of vodka.

She needed something tangible -- and fast.

Golden eyes flickered to the door. He hadn’t come in after her. That was unusual.

She glanced around again, and then she saw the strangest creature she had ever laid eyes on. A young woman, with a pretty and pale complexion and stunning red hair. But that isn’t what singled her out. A white rose appeared to be growing out of her left eye socket. It was both magnificent and undeniably disturbing. The woman was wearing a medallion -- perhaps a talisman -- it was pretty, and Gabriela decided she wanted it. She could use it as proof that she had come back for something.

Picking her way toward the woman, still, on the opposite side of the bar, she approached.

“Can I get you a drink,” she asked, her voice thick with an accent from a distant land. With great care, she set the bottle and glass down, pushed them aside, and then waited to see if she could manage to seduce the woman into a conversation.

Lifting his prow-fronted helm and looking beyond Severina, the Outsider considers the wisdom and mercy of resisting the call to violence that was the Commissar’s continued obstinacy. He has spent too long in isolation, some distant part of him breathes. Too long having every whim obeyed and desired fulfilled. This was not the Threshold City, and this woman was not one of his subjects.

He did his best to bear these facts in mind in the face of waning patience, and cast his mind instead to the practical considerations that Gabriela, for whatever her flight had meant, remained within. He did not hear the sound of raised voices, nor did his hackles raise at some sense of danger most metas invoked when channeling their misbegotten abilities.

Roen sensed nothing untoward at all, and felt within his armour only the distasteful sense that he was wasting time and running the risk of losing his prey. He exhaled, the sound filtering out of his helmet with vague electronic distortion that was unable to mask his impatience. But for whatever it was worth, he did not lunge headlong into a fit of violence that so marked his typically choleric disposition. He chose instead the path of the sage, and lowered the menacing threat of his lightning-wreathed claws.

They snarled and spat while he flexed his fingers and shut down their power fields, rendering each scything blade nothing more sinister than wickedly sharp talons. They rasped again when he scissored them at his side, excising some measure of his disquiet and unhappiness in the sound and movement of an idle fidget. If this woman wanted discourse, then he would oblige her - so long as he was sure Gabriela remained within, and was not rallying support from those souls inside. It would not be the first time he has walked into ambushes laid so clumsily.

Tilting his head back down to pay the Commissar the virtue of his only slightly divided attention, the Outsider frowns within his devil’s helm. ”She is my ward,” he says, in complete and utter honesty. But the inflection in his words carry other meanings, some more terrible than others. He may as well have called her property, an unruly daughter, or his wife. In truth, the runaway princess was all of these things, and more. Shifting his weight and the muted growl of active warplate, the Outsider sets his free hand on a cocked hip, an incongruous pose if there ever was one for such an armoured monstrosity.

”And she is more dangerous than I could ever hope to be.” Raising his right hand and sweeping his talons in an all-encompassing gesture, the Outsider indicates the tavern, the lands around them, even the world itself. ”She is the worst degree of monster: she will take your life, and you will love her for it. She has brought Gods and Kings to their knees; she has brought nations to ruin; she destroyed our world, and she has killed uncounted millions.” Curling his talons into a loose fist, the Outsider points one substantial claw at the Commissar. ”She means everything to me, and I would see her spirited away before calamity strikes.” A pause; a question hanging in the air.

”You fear me because I am in the warshape,” he comments, softening his words. ”But evil does not come up to you with claws and horns. It comes with a pretty face and shadows at her heels.”

Leaning away and withdrawing with a sweep of his mantle, the Outsider turns his profile towards the Commissar and gestures flippantly with his talons, indicating the tavern and all those within. ”Five minutes. You have five minutes to bring her to me, unharmed and intact. I see now that if I chase, I will doubtless be confronted by yet more gentle hearts. And she becomes so intractable when she sees me fight to kill. Bring her here, and we will leave in peace.”

Gingerly, the necromancer took a sip from the glass sitting in front of him. Shaking his head as he set the glass down "Oh no, if I were expunged from my tutelage I assure you I wouldn't be a member of the living. It is the general public, you know peasants, soothsayers? The like whom cry of the evils that we...Scholars commit." those who make the study and practice of necromancy do not seek studies in the academies, they seek tutelage from others of the art.

”Tell me what you want to know, old man.” Her smile had widened, a toothy grin spread across the ladies face that might have even rivaled the unnerving one the man beside her had pastered over his weird mug, Krin looked at the fancy looking Tarot cards the mousey lass laid out in front of him, an eye brow slightly raised before he got a stupid smile of his own, though it were obviously cause he knew exactly what Ophelia's game was "Oh kid, you gotta think I'm not as sharp minded as I was long ago but if ya think I believe in them cards?" like come on, what was he? A fucking geriatric?

Apparently she hadn't gotten the clue that he knew all the tricks, he fucking lived her life, not the same sorta life but he knew what kind of street magic she was trying to run on him. He went to wiping a particularly dusty glass, still cackling at the ridiculous notion that the girl thought he would fall for drivel like the wisdom o' Tarot cards.

@Dark Cloud

---

"Your academies allow external forces to coerce them; affecting which courses are available? Hmm... how submissive to the tyranny of obnoxious ignorance, and quite dismaying. However, you still have yet to tell me why you study the arcane arts."

The terrifying resentment remained in her ruby-eye though the rest of her composed visage conveyed calmness instead of contempt - she seemed to be struggling to choose between releasing a calamity upon the aforementioned general public, and absolving all of them of their supposed crimes.

@Blesses Blight

---

Anath Homura had awaited a reply from the reticent bartender... as he tested her patience for a prolonged period of time. How many hours had passed? She almost huffed aloud when she swiftly processed the number, and ascertained that she was being brazenly neglected by this bogus bartender, realizing now why the tavern was nameless - always absent of appropriate service and professional staff.

The Creatrix became content with watching others once more, observing much of the current commotion with her searing sight. Studying people proved an arduous challenge, as she became confronted with numerous errors while everyone engaged in communication: conveyed intent often lost in the clamor of otherworldly language. It was both brutal and beautiful, savage and serene, such a paradoxical performance played by hearts swollen with hypocrisy.

Her children sought to connect to this cosmic chaos ironically called civilization, so abstruse and alienating, always straying from the Sacred Path... and she wondered why they would when it was annihilation which awaited all that were gathered in this tavern.

"Surely, you know the answer to such a simple question." Anath Homura answered softly as she suddenly addressed that another had approached her. The thief that was fleeing from the fiend outside, alone and afraid, lost and lying as she spread sin along wherever she went. Honor must be upheld, thus the Usurper adopted an auspicious smile and adorned herself with an affable aura.

"I am Anath Homura, and I ask; how shall we satiate our hunger? How to quench our thirst? Shall we speak awhile?"

^{@ProxyInc and @Dark Cloud}

🐍
<< Alcoholic Establishment >>

*Lurch* went back his body, righting himself as his mouth wrapped around the bottle neck to toss back a large gulp accompanied by a dismissive "Of course of course~" -- for the crisis had been adverted. Alcohol, obtained. Bottled no less, it was less probable to be poisoned. Not impossible, if he began sagging then in his final moments he'd kill Washed Up. But in the realm of probabilities it occupied a lower level. And Street Urchin, she wanted him to promise some lofty thing like a bid of aid despite them not knowing one another's titles. Prideful.. and useless. Easy to boast yes to.

Just like that. Just like that he had exited the limelight. Now he just had to slither into the background after this little fortune telling exercise the drunkard elder played with the wound up harlot.. and none would be the wiser. He could resume his hunt. For real sustenance. The true divine, cake, pastries. Yes.

Yet as the honey liquor flooded down his meat hole and washed down his throat carrying through the intricate crevices within the human body, a stillness came to his shaking pupils. Excellent. This wasn't swill. The ex-military veteran turned bar thief who handed him this must not've appreciated the year nor value. Obvious it was they were a thief now, in that they so harshly refused coin; weary of a trail to their misdeeds and more permitting to hand out inventory not theirs to dissuade trouble. Loathsome imbecile.

Omi was of no noble blood himself, he began at the very bottom in the harsh sands and the brutal treatment of his betters. But that was what fueled his thirst for rising, not succumbing to these... gulp, baser impulses. Least the kind that made you a faux bar patron.

Lips pulling back in a sharp toothed grimace, the bottle was already halfway down in shocking time. Yeah. He had no special love for the local government either what with being what amounted to a foreign emissary, nor a fondness for their authority and guards entrenched within town limits. But, this tavern was obviously poor. Barely staffed and worse managed. Probably barely getting by with this clown show on display. Yet he dared rob it anyway? There was no grand display here, no huge bounty. No riches. There wasn't a challenge. It was commoner goods, commoner means, and even that.. wasn't allowed?

Chink sounded his gauntlet metal grinding against the bottle neck with a bit too much force. What was it then? Lack of empathy for small business owners or.. was it his race? Judging by the clientele and the means, it was likely human owned assuming they still lived. That what it was? Old mangy mongrel of a beast-man seized opportunity, looked down on the human owner, cut their throat, and now's liquidating what ain't able to be carried off before law enforcement arrives? Keeping the illusion of operations afloat until nightfall where he disappears, avoiding consequences, avoiding responsibility? Now that wasn't okay. Think human're cattle now? Think..

GULP GULP GULP went the burning elixir with a face eerily gaining more lucidity not losing it to inebriation, a stillness in facial features most unnerving, a thousand yard stare fixed not three feet ahead. Suddenly the bottle's base found itself planted on the bar counter with a touch too loud a thud.

No. None of that was okay. Perhaps it was time to play town guard.

@blesses blight

Enter Corbin Eldritch (roleplayerguild.com/topics/190187-cha… - see Corbin Eldritch)


The battle raged far below in a massive clearing of Eldritch Forest. Dusk had settled upon the land an hour or so prior and a thick blanket of fog had rolled down the slopes of the Rook Range, through the valley and into the woods. It was a ghostly scene painted with crimson shadows, smeared by cloudy ink. The sounds of death echoed off the edge of the clearing and pierced the veil of the low hanging sky. A smile crept over Corbin's pale face as he relished the spectacle. The vampyre basked in the irony of humans slaughtering one another at his doorstep, so close to Eldritch Manor, the home that had once housed several major bloodlines. Eldritch Manor was once full of life and was deeply respected. Now it sat dormant, having slipped through its benevolent standing into legend, and has long since been forgotten. Whispers of its existence still sprouted here and there across the land however, and few had attempted to rediscover the ancient stronghold only to find themselves an early grave. Corbin would never allow his ancestral home to be tainted by the vile ignorance of men, so as much as he enjoyed the sound of them slaughtering themselves, they were too close for comfort.

Mighty feathered wings of ebony retracted and the vampyre dived toward the battlefield. Only when he reached the ceiling of the impenetrable fog did he spread them wide once more and glide over the massacre. His golden eyes easily piercing through the thick white blanket, he spotted the makeshift tents that humans used for their highest ranking officers and leaders and dropped through the cloud amidst the battle nearby. Corbin landed gracefully, his wings folding in on themselves and melding into his back, as soldiers gasped with surprise and fear. Enemies became allies as they all turned their attention to the newcomer. Screams erupted as they all began attacking the vampyre, but one by one they fell to Corbin's deadly blade, Greyscale.

Corbin lurched Greyscale through one soldier, his body sliding apart moments later as the man watched others meet similar fates. The blade's edges glowing with the absence of light as it fed on the flesh of its prey. Very quickly more than two dozen men were rushing Corbin. His laughs echoed, bouncing from one place to the next as he phased from the material plane into the Abyss, and back in another location, feeding the confused men to his blade. One man pointed and shrieked, "It's the Ghost of Eldritch Forest!" More screams followed, but despite the trembling fear in their voices and their cries, they all fought bravely. And they all died horrifically. The vampyre stalked toward the tent. He could see the heat of the blood pumping through the frightened officer's body as he crouched in a corner awaiting his fate.

"What do you want?!" The man cried as Corbin entered. Smiling, the vampyre shrugged nonchalantly as he continued his approach toward the man. He sheathed his blade and leaned down to the man's level to look him in the eye. "What's your interest in these lands?" He asked. Nothing, not a peep. "Very well. Signal the retreat and you may go free." Corbin stood up and backed into the center of the tent awaiting the man to follow as instructed. It took a moment but the man did as he was told. Corbin stepped aside and gestured for him to leave the tent. The man reluctantly accepted the offer and walked past the vampyre, but Corbin grabbed a hold of the man's head and twisted it around so he could see his bulging eyes. He pulled the head from the man's body with ease and held it over his face and drank his fill.

Upon searching through the various documents, and studying the maps that were in the officer's possessions, the vampyre learned what he needed. He placed a hand over the blood diamond crest on his chest, invoking the ability of the entity he had trapped within, and the crest became as black as the clear sky on a moonless night. Wings sprouted from his back and he took off into the night. As he flew over the dispersing battlefield he swooped down low taking out as many retreating soldiers as he could on his way out. The major force that had invaded his land had come from a city just a couple hours away by flight, and he intended to deliver the officer's head as a warning, but as he flew over the city a sensation he hadn't felt in a very long time came over him. Could it be? How? All thoughts of the soldiers, the battle, the officer's head and their reasoning for marching toward his ancestral home were no longer important to him as he honed in on the source of the familiar feeling.

Corbin let the head go high above the streets of the city, his thoughts focused only on this strange familiar feeling, yet unlike any he had ever felt. There was no way to know for sure but he couldn't ignore it. There was another vampyre somewhere in this city, and he hadn't seen or felt the presence of another of his kind in over a century.... Eventually he found himself on the rooftop of a tavern, the sensation inviting him to investigate, but he was soaked in blood. That is no way to make a first impression so he flew through a window on the third floor of an apartment building across the street for a change of clothes, and to wash up. Corbin looked himself over in the mirror and made his way back to the street when satisfied. The vampyre walked through the entrance of the bustling tavern, alive with conversation and laughter. He immediately recognized the vampyress; the golden eyes were a dead giveaway. She emanated a sort of power and authority, but masked it in a way that confused him. Why would a creature such as themselves do such a thing, he wondered. She was serving drinks from behind the bar, another mind boggling revelation as the consumption of alcohol had no appeal to them.

Corbin ignored the disgust he felt for the many patrons of the tavern, feigning comfort and belonging in such an establishment, and casually approached the bar where the other vampyre was working. There was no point in acting as though he weren't bee lining straight for her since he knew she likely felt his presence as well. As he approached her and placed his hands upon the bar she stood behind, he offered her a courteous smile that subtly flashed his fangs and looked her in the eyes. He was conscious enough not to linger too long and make it weird, but it was such a surreal feeling seeing one of his own after so long, especially one so beautiful.

"What's the strongest thing you got?" The words felt empty to him for he couldn't care less about his question, or her answer, but he needed to blend in, and hoped she'd understand his dilemma.

The whole of the universe was made up of angels and demons, and everyone who didn’t happen to be one of those two particular beasts just fell somewhere along the spectrum of good and evil. And it was really that simple. Deviations from this particular path were only shifts along the spectrum. She struggled against the guilt of her great sin -- the death of those who loved her most and best -- but she had also come to understand that she was neither side of a coin, but rather a being that spun and danced upon the edge of a narrow line.

Roen was playing games with her.

Her mind was still foggy -- a clouded space where hardly a coherent thought could manifest. She felt guilt, she felt fear, and she felt lonely and somehow, although she knew he was fully responsible for it all, there was a part of her that knew there would be no soothing to her many aches other than by his side. Or rather, under his thumb.

It was a painful conclusion, but not one she was fully prepared to accept.

“Surely, you know the answer to such a simple question.”

Gabriela had been staring at the door. The expectation of his sudden appearance became a nearly obsessive compulsion. Somewhat disoriented, a result of the strange reply as well as having to focus once again on the disturbing rose that was growing out of the woman’s face, Gabriela frowned. But before she could ask for clarification or express her confusion, the woman spoke again -- her words nothing but riddles.

“I am Anath Homura, and I ask; how shall we satiate our hunger? How to quench our thirst? Shall we speak awhile?”

Suddenly, Gabriela felt very small and very young. To think that she was ageless now seemed utterly ridiculous. But she had moved through time devoid of consciousness -- a sleeping relic that was only ever awoken when Roen felt the urge to deliver punishment or pleasure. All of it, that long sleep, was still just an endless collection of fragmented memories that felt more like dreams.

She could not trust herself.

What if this was a dream?

Below the bar, unconsciously, she had curled her long fingers into her palm and her glass-like fingernails bit into the pale flesh. The pain roused her -- reminded her that she was still awake. But then again, hadn’t she felt the pain and the pleasure of those feverish nightmares?

She blinked.

“Pardon me?” she spoke, at long last, “I am sorry… I don’t…”

Could things become any more convoluted?

She felt Corbin before ever laying eyes on him.

“That’s impossible,” she said under her breath, golden eyes shifting from Anath’s face and over her shoulder.

Their eyes met and for a moment -- for the briefest moment -- Gabriela nearly descended into total madness. There was a hitch to her breathing as the slow beat of her heart picked up.

It was his golden eyes that shot her through the heart like an arrow with deadly aim. And then the luster of his silver hair under the radiant glow of candlelights. The memory of a small child -- a newborn swirled inside her head threatening to burst her skull open. Suddenly, she could smell his sweet, baby’s breath, and feel the strong, and steady pressure of his small, chubby fingers as they grasped one of her fingers.

She stumbled backward and struck the wall of neatly displayed bottles, causing them to clatter against each other. Then, as if it were somehow possible, she appeared all the paler. Gabriela looked as if she had just seen a ghost.

There was Lucis, come back to life and coming straight for her -- surely to deliver justice.

“What’s the strangest thing you got?” he asked, and somehow she didn’t see or realize that he had crossed the tavern and was standing there before her with nothing but a wooden bar separating them. But rather than righteous rage, what she saw reflected back to her in those golden eyes of his was curiosity -- and wonder.

“What?” her frown grew deeper, and she was painfully aware of how unhinged she must have appeared -- how unhinged she actually felt. She had to get a hold of herself. “Um,” she broke eye contact and looked behind her at the bottles, which had finally settled from their near crash-clattering, “...there’s whiskey.”

With a shift of her eyes, she regarded Anath, “...there’s some whiskey.”

And then she turned away from them both and sought glasses, which a trembling hand managed to drop. The sound of glass shattering was like an alarm, and she reacted by dropping down onto a knee. Tucked behind the bar, under the pretense of cleaning up the mess she had made, Gabriela doubled over and tried to take a deep and calming breath. But it was only after she started picking up the pieces of glass that she noticed the hurt she had caused herself -- droplets of black blood had oozed out of the small nail marks she had left on her palm. Slowly, but surely, her flesh was knitting itself back together. However, the smell of her blood would help to ease any doubts Corbin might have been holding onto.

Indeed, he had come across another vampyre.

@blesses blight

Corbin didn't miss the display of shock his presence had induced within the vampyress. He felt it as well, though there was something more to the woman's reaction than he had anticipated. What was it that had gotten under her skin when she looked into his eyes? It was more than the shock of seeing another vampyre to be certain. Another vampyre... He still couldn't believe it but here she was. The golden eyes, the aura of power, and yet she seemed weakened by something. Curious...and that's when he noticed the subtle scent of something...something...he could not quite recall why it was familiar.

“What?...there’s some whiskey.” She said to both himself and a woman beside him. She was an odd thing...a strange aura about her and an even stranger face. A flower popping out of one of her eyes. She definitely wasn't human but she did not pique his interest the way the mere presence of another vampyre did, especially one of such beauty. He politely, albeit dismissively, offered the strange creature a nod before turning his complete attention back to the crouching woman behind the bar.

He was far too intrigued observing her reactions, both physical and emotional discomfort, to be bothered to do anything when her trembling hands sent glasses careening to the floor behind the bar. She knelt down to clean up her mess and as she did so Corbin hopped over the bar to offer his assistance. As he leaned down beside her he saw the telltale sign of a vampyre's blood, like black ink. That's when the realization of the scent came to him. Vampyre blood...how long had it been since he smelled the blood of his kind? How long had it been since he had bled? If he needed confirmation, which he did not, there it was and yet he felt a sense of sadness...a strange and foreign feeling to be sure.

It was clear she did not need or even want anyone's help, and she was doing a rather fine job of cleaning the mess up on her own so he took a step back and gave her some space. "I am well accustomed to invoking terror unto others," Corbin said to the woman behind the bar. "But under extraordinarily different circumstances." He stood up and scanned the shelves for something, but honestly had no clue what for exactly. It was incredibly difficult for vampyres to feel alcohol's intoxicating affects and so he just never bothered with the stuff. He was here for the woman, not a drink. Corbin leaned against the bar facing the shelves holding the bottles, his back to the patrons, awaiting for the woman to return to their conversation. "You need not fear me."

A flutter of a breeze caused a few wayward strands of hair to fly loose from behind her ear where she had tucked them. Her normally, neatly woven braid was in disarray from travel and weather. It caused a halo of wispy dark hair to frame her face, while heavier strands, which had come undone from the braid, fell in loops around her shoulders, trapped by the collar of her heavy clothes. It hid the true length of her hair, which was still mostly hidden under the dirtied material of her cloak.

She had sought a moment of solace -- a moment alone to think and to contemplate -- but had been denied the reprieve. Without an ounce of strain, the man had hopped over the bar and was now crouching down, close to her.

Gabriela couldn’t help but examine his hands as they came into view. His fingers were long and pale, and his fingernails -- so much like her own -- appeared to shine as if a gloss had been applied to them. But there was a quality of density to them that she recognized -- those nails could carve into metal. He attempted to pluck a few pieces of the shattered glass, but she shook her head and nudged his hands away with the back of hers. His flesh was cold, like polished marble.

“You’ll cut yourself,” she stated, impassively, under her breath and he read her message loud and clear and gave her some space. It was a truly silly thought -- a vampyre worrying and fretting over another vampyre cutting themselves on glass. It was perhaps the pinnacle of pretenses.

Corbin straightened and took a step back.

“I am well accustomed to invoking terror unto others,” he said down to her, “...but under extraordinarily different circumstances.”

Still down on one knee, and still plucking pieces of glass from the floor, Gabriela shifted her gaze upward. She took in the sight of his slacks, of the belt around his waist, of his shirt -- so neatly tucked in, and the heavy coat that hung over his shoulders but draped open across his chest. His words disturbed her, and there was a faint remembrance of who she had been so very long ago.

She had never savored her power; she had always sought to be small, meek-like, and unassuming. Unlike this stranger, she wasn’t accustomed to invoking terror in others -- in fact, she did everything in her power to do the opposite.

But that was a lifetime ago…

“You need not fear me,” the man went on to say -- his arrogance causing a ghost of a smile to touch her lips.

“I don’t,” she replied, climbing back to her feet with a handful of glass, “...you just caught me off guard. The last thing I expected to see in these parts was another…” She glanced sideways to the nearest patrons and gave Corbin a knowing look.

“Someone like me.”

@Blesses Blight@Crimson Crusade

---

"Shall you reimburse the tavern after shattering those glasses? Hmm... indeed; your chaotic conduct compels me to reprimand you since such boorish behavior is improper for a member of royalty." Anath Homura asked/stated, staring at the cup and bottle that she had been bribed with. This wayward woman was witless enough to offer whiskey as well, which also was another asset of the tavern that she was pilfering from without any shame or worry.

Adherent to honor, Anath Homura addressed the additional company that had come and joined this slightly crazy conversation: "I am Anath Homura, and I welcome you." She said to him, and she contemplated these two characters she spoke with, wondering why they were here. The two of them were certainly a strange species... though they possessed properties and aspects that she was aware were favored amongst the spawn of the shapers - their type of hunger, violence, and visage.

@blesses blight

Corbin cocked an eyebrow as he watched her get back to her feet. "I haven't seen another..." He paused for a moment. "...like us in over a century so I know how you feel." He smiled. The smile wasn't entirely genuine though. He enjoyed her flat out denial of having felt afraid of him, and he was glad for it. Yet, there was something that had spooked her, or induced an old trauma that went beyond simple surprise at seeing another vampyre. Who was this woman? Where did she come from? What was she doing in such a place as this? What had caused her hand to tremble? She was a mystery and arguably the most interesting thing to disrupt his life in decades. "When I felt your presence..." Corbin rolled his eyes at how quickly he was beginning to feel comfort. For all he knew she was from a rival clan or was behind the orders that had sent an army to his doorstep. Caution was the wise move here.

The strange woman on the other side of the bar interrupted. She clearly had no idea how to communicate with other intelligent species. He chose to ignore her this time, but in an attempt to appeal to the woman of interest, he grabbed a new glass and filled it with...something from one of the bottles atop a shelf. He slid it across the wooden bar to the odd creature before returning the mystery bottle to its rightful place. Corbin then grabbed a couple wine glasses, spinning them between his long fingers (in retrospect perhaps that was a little much) and placed them on the counter beneath the shelves holding the liquor. Tracing a finger tip along the pommel of his blade at his hip, a couple quick motions and Greyscale released a vial that had sat snugly within the hilt. Corbin dumped its contents into the wine glasses and offered one to the vampyress. "Still warm."

There was no need to provide context to the woman. She would know exactly what he was offering and hoped she would appreciate the gesture. Corbin lifted his glass to his nose and swirled the glass as he'd seen others do and basked in the delicious scent. "The name's Corbin." He said to her as he raised his glass in toast. "To our unexpected meeting." He watched and waited to see how she would proceed before bringing the glass to his lips.

The Commissar
Front Landing - Tavern Ground Level

My Hider [+]

Lifting his prow-fronted helm and looking beyond Severina, the Outsider considers the wisdom and mercy of resisting the call to violence that was the Commissar’s continued obstinacy. He has spent too long in isolation, some distant part of him breathes. Too long having every whim obeyed and desired fulfilled. This was not the Threshold City, and this woman was not one of his subjects.

He did his best to bear these facts in mind in the face of waning patience, and cast his mind instead to the practical considerations that Gabriela, for whatever her flight had meant, remained within. He did not hear the sound of raised voices, nor did his hackles raise at some sense of danger most metas invoked when channeling their misbegotten abilities.

Roen sensed nothing untoward at all, and felt within his armour only the distasteful sense that he was wasting time and running the risk of losing his prey. He exhaled, the sound filtering out of his helmet with vague electronic distortion that was unable to mask his impatience. But for whatever it was worth, he did not lunge headlong into a fit of violence that so marked his typically choleric disposition. He chose instead the path of the sage, and lowered the menacing threat of his lightning-wreathed claws.

They snarled and spat while he flexed his fingers and shut down their power fields, rendering each scything blade nothing more sinister than wickedly sharp talons. They rasped again when he scissored them at his side, excising some measure of his disquiet and unhappiness in the sound and movement of an idle fidget. If this woman wanted discourse, then he would oblige her - so long as he was sure Gabriela remained within, and was not rallying support from those souls inside. It would not be the first time he has walked into ambushes laid so clumsily.

Tilting his head back down to pay the Commissar the virtue of his only slightly divided attention, the Outsider frowns within his devil’s helm. ”She is my ward,” he says, in complete and utter honesty. But the inflection in his words carry other meanings, some more terrible than others. He may as well have called her property, an unruly daughter, or his wife. In truth, the runaway princess was all of these things, and more. Shifting his weight and the muted growl of active warplate, the Outsider sets his free hand on a cocked hip, an incongruous pose if there ever was one for such an armoured monstrosity.

”And she is more dangerous than I could ever hope to be.” Raising his right hand and sweeping his talons in an all-encompassing gesture, the Outsider indicates the tavern, the lands around them, even the world itself. ”She is the worst degree of monster: she will take your life, and you will love her for it. She has brought Gods and Kings to their knees; she has brought nations to ruin; she destroyed our world, and she has killed uncounted millions.” Curling his talons into a loose fist, the Outsider points one substantial claw at the Commissar. ”She means everything to me, and I would see her spirited away before calamity strikes.” A pause; a question hanging in the air.

”You fear me because I am in the warshape,” he comments, softening his words. ”But evil does not come up to you with claws and horns. It comes with a pretty face and shadows at her heels.”

Leaning away and withdrawing with a sweep of his mantle, the Outsider turns his profile towards the Commissar and gestures flippantly with his talons, indicating the tavern and all those within. ”Five minutes. You have five minutes to bring her to me, unharmed and intact. I see now that if I chase, I will doubtless be confronted by yet more gentle hearts. And she becomes so intractable when she sees me fight to kill. Bring her here, and we will leave in peace.”

Despite the considerable unease she still felt, Raine deactivated the power field of her saber and sheathed it once more. As Roen's answer (and subsequant demand) filtered through, she continued to pace by the door.

So, if what the knight was saying was true, then this 'ward' was just as dangerous as the many followers of the Ruinous Powers she had crossed blades with during the Bales Stars Crusade. And not purely speaking from a combative sense, either - the Sighted of her time had infiltrated many stratas on many worlds she fought on, preying on the insecurities of others and the desires of those underclass humans to better themselves at all costs.

Thus, it would be agreeable with Severina if this woman was to be apprehended.

"How do I know, sir," she raised the question with Roen. "If what you say is true? For all I know, your hunt and your ... 'ward' might not be all they appear."

Even so, the Commissar knew that either end of the spectrum of possibilities would carry grave consequence if she did not act.

"Would that I have had the rest of the 11th Antarii on hand." she mulled aloud to Roen. "I'dve been able to flush your quarry out far more effectively and out into the open where she could be apprehended. As is, your deadline and the presence of far too many innocents would not permit me to do so."

Her hand never straying from 'Penance's' holster, Severina finally stood off to one side of the door, nodding in agreement. "Very well. I'll do what I can to flush this woman out. With any luck, persuasion alone would be capable of seeing us both outside. But if you hear the sound of bolt-fire or battle within, do not waste time. Enter quick and get you both gone as soon as you can."

“I haven’t seen another…like us in over a century so I know how you feel.”

The man offered a smile but it did little to comfort the bewildered vampyre. She could see it -- his smile wasn’t honest and she couldn’t quite decide if it was disappointment or pleasure that hid behind his dubious expression.

“When I felt your presence…”

Gabriela became disturbed, not at the obvious emotional confession he was about to make but rather at the fact that he had taken notice of her presence long before she had picked up on his. It was a stupid mistake and the sort of carelessness that resulted in the devil himself sneaking up on her. For how long had Corbin been aware of her existence, and how easily had Roen managed to follow her this far?

And how far was she actually? How was she supposed to measure the distance when she didn’t even know her starting point? The stars were different -- all the constellations rearranged, and the earth under her feet, it felt different without so much as a trace of La’Ruta left to grant her any semblance of grounding.

While Corbin contemplated who she might be, she stood there feeling a dark and ugly numbness creeping over her -- from the top of her head, down her scalp like icy fingertips, down her throat, to her shoulders, and beyond, down further to the rest of her body. For a moment she yearned for Roen’s warmth and the familiarity of it.

He was right outside.

Some semblance of home was right outside.

A longing glance toward the door but her golden gaze right back upon the oddly formed Anath. The woman, with her one present eye, was staring right back at her.

“Shall you reimburse the tavern after shattering those glasses?”

“Glasses?” Gabriela echoed, confused, “...I dropped a glass. I highly doubt this, or any other establishment would charge a patron for such a thing. I imagine it gets calculated into the overhead cost. Accidents happen.”

She offered a one-shoulder shrug.

“However, should reimbursement be requested, I will be happy to repay.”

It was a bluff of course -- Gabriela didn’t have a penny to her name.

“Hmm… indeed; your chaotic conduct compels me to reprimand you since such boorish behavior is improper for a member of royalty.”

Dark brows lifted in surprise -- there was so much to unpack. Had the strange rose-faced woman somehow guessed at Gabriela’s lineage? Was she simply a being capable of such feats of knowledge? Gabriela, having (within her recent memories) ascended to godhood only to have it ripped away from her along with her life, knew better than to assume any creature was ever just as it appeared. But that wasn’t the most astounding part of any of this -- it was the woman’s tone and her choice of words, all of which dripped with a distinct lack of civility.

Who talked like that to a complete stranger?

Clearly, the other vampyre agreed, for when Anath turned to introduce herself to her newly found companion, the man did not regard her, save to turn away. He busied himself with pouring a drink, which Gabriela watched for a moment, before turning her attention back to Anath.

“I only asked if you wanted a drink,” she said softly -- almost a whisper, before shaking her head and turning away as well.

Corbin served the rose-faced woman a drink -- Gabriela wondered if there would be some nasty comment in store for him, or if the woman saved all of her spite for members of her own sex.

Of course, Corbin wasn’t done. He gathered two wine glasses and even spun one of them like a freshly sharpened dagger on the nimble fingers of a trigger-happy troublemaker. She almost smiled, remembering her youth, but somehow managed to contain the serious expression that was carrying her through the absolute wackiness of all of this. He tapped the pommel of the blade at his side, like a secret handshake, and much to her surprise a secret compartment in the hilt seemed to appear.

He poured her some blood.

“Still warm,” he said -- his voice nearly a purr.

To deny her thirst was the sort of deception she did not have the energy to maintain. However, this would not be the first time she went hungry. Surely, through her long sleep, her morals had not changed.

“No, thank you,” she replied, pushing the glass back toward him as gently as possible while hoping that her rejection would not be taken with offense. “I like to do my own hunting,” she followed up, before he could reply and then left it at that. Raphael had ridiculed and hated her for her dietary preferences, best to not assume a newly-met vampyre would understand her decision to feed only from animals.

He didn’t seem to mind -- after all, he was enjoying his drink.

“The name’s Corbin,” and then he lifted the glass in her direction, “to our unexpected meeting.”

“To your good health,” she added, before glancing at the door once again, “although, it may end up being a short meeting.”

Her pretty face, those pretty features, settled into a deeper frown as her brows pinched and her full lips pressed into a more severe line. Something just wasn’t right.

@Blesses Blight@Crimson Crusade

---

"How jejune..." Anath Homura intoned with a hint of irritation as she stared at the second alcoholic beverage that had been proffered to her in such a brief period, and shook her head slowly. She was already accumulating cups despite drinking not a single drop, and thus her anger was difficult to dismiss this time.

Her hand hovered over the two cups and bottle before her which warped away afterwards; returned to their rightful places with a basic teleportation technique, and then she tilted her head with a curious look at the two behind the bar. She wondered whether it was a tradition amongst those that abandoned their homes to become bartenders? Was it merely coincidental?

Even after aeons, mortals left her bemused by their antics. Annoyed as well. Too much trivia and many mistaken views.

"Hmm... your divinity has been damaged - a shame. Why ask if I wanted a drink? Do you work here? How far have you fallen, far from home, forsaking your honor. Ah... I have no need to drink, but I believe I wish to rescue you, Daughter of Darkness." She said slowly in a solemn manner to the melancholic woman. Salvation was scarce, the world was relentless and savage to the spirit, yet as an adherent to honor, Anath Homura would aid this thief; this lost liar.

Her gaze turned to the man called Corbin, and her single ruby-red eye silently said she held differing sentiments towards him. She was insulted when he handed her whatever like she were a witless and indigent imbecile instead of an ancient and exalted entity. The stench of sin that suffused him held her tongue, the taste of his taint was worse than torture and yet the tavern told her that she should allow any and all to come and go. How truly tedious!