Consequently

[Laszlo]

Fall 87th, 511AV
Seventeen and a half bells.

The Sun & Stars Tavern wasn't open yesterday.

No sign had been hung on the door, no message had been left. The door had simply never been unlocked. Aside from the owners occasionally coming and going, no patrons were let inside that day. Not even Ned the Vagrant, who slumped against the wall and slept defiantly outside instead.

Tonight, it was business as usual. Laszlo had unlocked the door in the few hours before sunset. As the bells ticked by, the tavern slowly made itself populated, thirsty souls passing through the creaking door one by one. The quiet walls of the long, narrow room began to resound with low chatter, none of it remotely interesting enough for the bar owner to eavesdrop upon. Without a flicker of a smile, he obliged their mugs with ale and fresh lager, the tall, gray, lithe creature moving like a weary marionette in the low, yellow lanternlight.

The churning mosaic hanging above the patrons showed a three-quarter moon, caught in a sea of false stars and gradients of gray or blue that could have been clouds. It cast an easy, bluish light where the lanterns did not reach, painting an odd mix of dim lights upon the varying Alvad faces. It was the tavern's only elegance; the rest of the place was made of scuffed, aged wood, including the uneven floorboards and the wobbling tables. The bartop was polished and smooth, but usually hidden beneath a crowd of mugs and puddles of drink. No one came to the Sun and Stars for luxury, it was just a place to have a drink.

If Laszlo's diminished spirit and lack of enthusiasm were apparent, then very few had noticed. On most nights, he was barely penetrable anyway, taking cold solace in the comforts of routine and usefulness. No one had seemed to wonder about or care that the tavern had been closed for a day, and nor did Laszlo expect that they could possibly guess the reason. These dregs were too concerned with their intoxication to worry about much.

Perhaps there was beauty in that simplicity. He did so miss the simple things now.

[Abalia]

Roxanne hadn't come home yesterday. Well, it wasn't as simple as that. Nothing was simple in Alvadas. Home was a concept more than a place with them, and it wouldn't be the first time Abalia's friend, former lover, confidant, and fellow mischief maker had disappeared for a few hours in the strange streets. The kelvic did well in the city that thought for itself, but still she was not native. She had those days, where Alvadas herself rose up to thwart, slow, and trick one into completely missing the mark. And so Abalia wasn't too quick to worry. As a delay of hours creeped into days, however, Abalia became unsettled. They were supposed to be celebrating. It was strange to imagine that Roxxie would miss that. Abalia had never been sure of the precise day of her birth, and so Roxanne had decided long before that they would make up a day. On that day, the 86th of Fall, they would celebrate both of their birthdays. A childish fancy, a tradition that lingered too long, perhaps. But, things like that meant everything to Abalia, who had found her first taste of real companionship in the beautiful girl who could change her form at whim. So it was that Abalia nursed hurt feelings for the better part of the day before. When the sun rose, from the North instead of the East, Abalia had resolved to go and find Roxanne. Perhaps the sometimes flighty kelvic had just forgotten. Perhaps she was in trouble. Either way, as the very best of her friends, Abalia would have been remiss not to go looking for her. "Oh where, oh where, has my Roxxie gone..." she sang to the streets themselves, turning to laugh and blow a kiss to a statue who uttered particularly lewd comments at her passing. The attire she had chosen had been comfortable for the night, if flattering her femininity, the sweetness of her character. She hardly looked like a pickpocket with the breezy, pearled dress she'd chosen. And the hat? The hat was just for fun. This was Alvadas, after all. Rules were detestable by nature, even in regards to fashion. Abalia had an easy way of it, wandering the streets. She'd been doing as much for longer than she could even recall, and she enjoyed the mystery, the wonder of it. She could get from one place to another rather efficiently, nearly always, and the mood of sister Alvadas seemed to be a relatively peaceful one as she visited all of the places she might have expected to find Roxanne. There were the unpredictable, yet somehow expected twists and turns in the path, but Abalia didn't even think twice about changes that might have duped and frustrated an outsider. To live and love in Alvadas, one had to accept the city as a lover, to know her as intimately as that. A decent length of her day passed in futile searching, and it was thirst, exhaustion, and the weary need to rethink her methods that prompted Abalia's entrance into the Sun and Stars. She wasn't in the mood for socializing, and so sure steps led her directly to the bar. She was too petite to be intimidating at all, but her demeanor belied a quiet calm, a smooth confidence that prevented her from seeming overly weak. She was pretty, and less than imposing physically, but she didn't have a target painted on her forehead either. "How 'boutta drink," she intoned, her voice musical, if soft. "Somethin' sweet, and some water too." She fingered the coin she'd plucked from the pocket of an older man only a short while before.

[Laszlo]

The girl's blithe chirp caught Laszlo from behind as he was toweling an empty mug to place back on the shelf. With her feminine voice came a harrowing stab of guilt, so overwhelming that for a moment, Laszlo's face was twisted into a nervous scowl. That passed quickly, and the Symenestra turned smoothly to face her. He sighed, his eyes partially narrowing. Expected to be reminded of the Kelvic girl from two days prior, he instead thought of the fisherman's daughter: innocent, curious, and stupid.

Here in this rundown tavern, she looked like a doe in a den of wolves.

"Do your parents know you're in here?" Laszlo asked mildly, setting down the mug before moving fluidly down the bar to meet her. Briefly he regarded her with an amethyst glance, large black rounds set in his thin irises in a way that reminded onlookers that he was a creature meant for the dark. Despite his question, he leaned over and pulled another mug from behind the bar in one hand, and an opened bottle of wine in the other. Laszlo filled the mug with the rich, red satin, an uncouth treatment of wine if he bothered to care.

In honesty, the woman did not look that young, at least not young enough to warrant parent supervision. The fisherman's daughter had been well into her womanhood too, but her curiosity and her naivety had been startlingly childish. With Victor and Seven's Kelvic still fresh in his mind, he couldn't help but see the girl as being in a place she shouldn't.

"Five silvers," Laszlo mumbled as he set the wine in front of her, and then tucked the wine bottle back in its shelf. "If you want water there's a trough across the street for horses." His violets flickered upward thoughtfully. "At least, there was, an hour ago. The water I have here is used for cleaning. You don't want to drink it."

[Abalia]

Those doe-like eyes turned upwards, fixing a wide stare upon the man who had come to serve her. It wouldn't have been hard to imagine that pretty face crumbling. Her lower lip jutting out in a trembling pout, those bright eyes moistening quickly. Just to evaluate the slope of her nose, the curve of her jawline, the slightness of her form, she might have seemed so fragile. A second passed, then she blinked. A sweep of dark lash against fair cheek, and those eyes lit up with mirth instead. She laughed in the face of his condescension, and lifted an arm to rest her elbow on the bar. Slender fingers unfurled, and her jawline found rest in an upturned, warm palm. She slid her single coin, worth more than the wine cost, across the bartop. "Disgustin'." Abalia was, essentially, a street rat. But Alvadas took care of her, and she and Roxanne looked out for one another. Such slights were hardly offensive, she was too thick skinned for that, but her nose curled up in girlish disdain nonetheless as she pondered the absence of potable water. What was it with men? No matter their race, it seemed. With a finger tracing the rim of the mug she'd been given, she considered alternative options. "Bread? Somethin' else then? Drinks are almost always shit in places like this, and I need something to get the taste out of my mouth." Difficult to imagine that the slender figure planted atop a stool had lived enough days to spend many of them inside bars or taverns but, to an attentive onlooker, it might be coming more apparent that her appearance was incongruous with the spirit that resided within.

[Seven Xu]

It’s still there.

Seven glared vehemently against a tarnished oval of reflecting glass, fingering strand after strand of ivory that fell to either side of his nose, across his cheeks, and then wiping a steady path back across a feathered crown to the nape of his neck. He had lost count of how many times he had washed it, how hard he’d dug his nails into his scalp to scrub only to come out with gritty residue beneath them. Culpable pink still stubbornly clung to him. Whether it was real, or a trick of loosening wits, it mocked him; it knew what he had done two nights ago; it knew what he had done a year ago, and now, so did he. He could not even meet his own reflection’s stony gaze, for the unnatural hue around his engorged pupils reminded him of no one’s blood.

The wind tugged a curtain through an open window with its chilly fingers; Seven exhaled in a nasal retort to winter’s approach. Sallow hands drove back unyielding bangs in an attempt to push them from his forehead. Laszlo would want him downstairs soon. The evening was slipping between his fingers chime by chime, seeping through stained floorboards a threadbare rug stretched to hide. A particularly loud guffaw from a patron beneath his feet caused the halfblood to jump.

He straightened to resign his attention from an invisible telltale stain on his scalp and slide the stubborn window shut. Akajia’s shadows swallowed up the streets below, darting from street lamps and dancing beneath the hoary face of a waxing moon. You know what I did, mistress of secrets. You’ve always known. It had been a lifetime since Seven had let himself settle into the coddling arms of faith; even thinking a prayer—however acerbic it turned out to be—felt childish. He wrinkled his nose, and drew the curtains shut.

A waft of bitter air lingered on fall’s dying breath; he drank deep, fixing his eyes past the ghostly reflection of his face in a newly closed window. Victor should have come and gone again by now; though it was not out of the ordinary for the Ravokian to lose his way or simply stay at the ‘Wager, or the old ‘Inn; a selfish twinge in Seven’s stomach had blossomed into something bitter. He should have stayed. Petch the ‘Wager, he should have stayed.


The face that greeted Laszlo had been washed of its callous lines wrought in profound gloom. His wan smile looked as if it had been pinned on a face that was want for a lifetime of sleep. A distant hello failed to reach Syna’s fallen in the murmur of the night’s crowd, emerging only as a twitch across pale lips and a halfhearted wave. The albino’s lithe frame stooped beneath the far end of the counter and he ghosted about an evening’s mess with a wet cloth in one hand, gathering wooden mugs for washing in the other. It was business as usual.

It had to be.

[Laszlo]

"Sorry," Laszlo replied dismissively, pulling the damp towel from his shoulder and rubbing his hands in it. "If you came here for fine cuisine, then Alvadas is playing a joke on you. My customers come here for their shit drinks, which they pay for without complaining. If you want something refined, go to the Withering Rose."

Slinging his towel over his shoulder again, Laszlo pushed back his dark, silvery hair until it rested lightly behind his ears. It was getting difficult to look at the woman, the Kelvic's mangled corpse still fresh in his memory.

It was pleasant though to see something like her, a creature of grace in this place of shadows and grime. She stood out, in every possible way, and he wondered what sort of folly could bring her to a place like this. Or, perhaps, he simply noticed her more because the tavern itself seemed to like her. Above in the mosaic, the many-tiled clouds had shifted, and the artificial moon shown down on her. It was almost as if the building were flirting with her.

"This is the Sun and Stars, azo." Crossing his arms, Laszlo leaned back against the shelves on the opposite wall, running a quick amethyst sweep of the entire bar. "Our only positive asset is above you." He nudged his head upwards.

A familiar spot of white appeared in the corner of Laszlo's eye: Seven's usual way of manifesting in his peripheral vision. He turned to look toward the head of white as a knot of still-burning resentment grew at the back of his throat. The halfblood smiled at him. Laszlo returned a sharp scowl, then promptly looked away, focusing again on the woman. He moved a step forward, as if he were asserting that he would protect this one.

"Have you got a name?" Laszlo pressed. He hadn't intended upon asking the woman, but now that Seven was present, the Ethaefal wanted to establish a connection with the girl to dissuade him from considering anything. Perhaps drive home any guilt if the Lhavitian was capable of feeling it.

[Abalia]

Abalia returned those sharp words with a smirk, curling her fingers through long, dark hair. If the temperament of the man behind the bar surprised her, she certainly didn't act that way. With a shrug of slight shoulders and a bemused smile, she lifted that mug he had given her. The crimson of the wine, deep and rich like blood, stained her pouty lips. "Quite the salesman," she retorted, drawing out her words in a way that made her seem at ease. As if this wasn't her first visit here, as if she didn't stick out like a sore thumb. If she was incongruous with the patrons of the Sun and Stars, that certainly could not be said for the way she and the building itself communed. "You'll hardly be able to keep people away with that sort of advertising." Abalia missed the strange glance between the two men when Laszlo, still a face and not a name in her own mind, directed her attention upwards. When her chocolate gaze found the moon to stare into, a smile tugged her lips upwards. It was without the layer of amused condescension she had given to the tender himself thus far. A genuine, real smile that somehow softened her even more, made her all the more wrong for this place. The stars whirled beneath her silent praise, a small laugh escaped her, and it almost seemed as if the girl and Laszlo's tavern were speaking with one another. "It's so pretty," she said, without guile. Tough enough to smirk at the daggers in his words, to dismiss his blithe underestimation of her with the shrug of a smooth, curved shoulder in one moment, and somehow soft and feminine and gentle enough to make such an innocent, simple observation in the next. His question demanded her attention again, though, and so she left behind the moon - who flickered in complaint, and gazed back at Laszlo. "I'm Abalia. Just Abalia. And, actually, I was hoping you could help me with something. Or, someone, I suppose. I'm lookin' for a friend of mine. Thought she might have wandered in here." Abalia didn't tell the looming tender that she'd spent the better part of two days looking for her, scouring streets that usually treated Abalia well for the smallest sign of her. She didn't drag out the frustration or exhaustion of such a hunt, nor did she confess the way mild worry was growing into something more full-fledged and arresting in her chest. "Pretty. Really pretty. With long, dark hair..." Abalia said, tugging on hair that wasn't nearly as curly or fantastic as Roxxie's had been. She went on to describe Roxxie in a thoughtful murmur, and then sighed over her knuckles as she leaned into them. It still could have been another girl, right? "Or, a little raccoon? She's a kelvic, and she likes to shift when she isn't feeling well." Abalia spoke with such familiarity that intimacy was more than implied. That she cared very much for the pretty girl who could become a raccoon was the cornerstone of this conversation, absolutely inarguable. And, as she screwed up her lips thoughtfully and peered up at Laszlo through a sweep of her own dark hair, a weary sort of hope made her dark eyes brighter in poised expectation. Maybe, just maybe, he'd have seen her.

[Seven Xu]

Ten fingers unfurled and a pair of mugs clattered to the floor, sending the dregs of spittle and ale across an already dirty floor and feet negligently left bare. Seven shuddered, cursed inwardly, and stooped to gather the mess with his rag cloth. His toes curled into the reeking wet puddle he worked so feverishly to sop up; they were met by rough and splintered hardwood. Seven dared steal a glance over his shoulder to gawp at the woman who had requested the impossible; he summoned enough strength to straighten his legs without his knees crumpling beneath him and drew in a measured breath.

Roxanne.

“A kelvic,” he tested his voice; finding no cracks in its smooth tenor, he turned bodily towards a conversation between Laszlo and his patron. Unable summon a Ravokian’s charisma without any sort of visible effort, he offered the vagrant woman a strained smile and a cant of his head. Stunted halfblood fangs emerged from beneath a tightly drawn upper lip as he spoke; they could have made him look insidious, had they not been packaged in such a diminutive frame. “We’ve not served any raccoons in this tavern to my knowledge.”

Twin pools of bloodied curiosity drifted ceilingward to catch the silver glow of a tile-moon. He leaned forward to drum his palms idly against the well-polished bar top, and continued, his smile unfading. “The occasional whore,” his brows jerked, “businessmen and people like Ned.” A trail of white fingers gestured towards their sleeping vagrant that was just as much a fixture as the table he slumped over, asleep, “But no raccoons.”

A snort of laughter shook Seven’s shoulders, and even he was surprised when it didn’t devolve into a feeble sob.

“Do you need me serving, or cleaning?” He turned the question on Laszlo’s whey-faced stare with one of his own that flickered with a desperate plea for normalcy. He knew what he was; twice a murderer, though he could not help but wonder if there had been more. Even more disconcerting was the mounting regret for a pair of sisters left without a father. He loved them. “I’ll clean,” he decided, giving little pause for a response from his associate. Seven offered the girl on the other side of the counter a curt nod, “I hope you find your friend.”

As quickly as he had inserted himself into Laszlo’s peripherals and tied a knot in his throat, he ghosted away, humming tunelessly as he dipped between scattered chairs, curious red-speckled cloth in hand.

[Laszlo]

The description of Abalia's friend passed over Laszlo's unfazed ears, without so much as inspiring a raised eyebrow. It was a practiced calm, biting back the urge to react as if he were trying swallow pain, assisted by the rationalization that the girl's friend might have been some other pretty brunette lost in some other part of this winding city. Didn't most women have long, dark hair?

Or, a little raccoon? She's a kelvic…

Seven's abrupt clamor as he dropped the pair of mugs spared Laszlo from having to conceal his involuntary look of astonishment. As the hollow wooden articles rattled against the hard floor, the bartender and half of the patrons turned their heads to watch the albino halfblood scurry to clean it up. It gave Laszlo a private moment to tame himself, though he couldn't stop the quickening of his heartrate.

Cold apprehension was abated by a renewed, seething resentment, making it relatively easy to look only mildly annoyed at Seven, instead of terrified at the idea that the Kelvic appeared to have friends, and at least one of them was looking for her.

Laszlo's evident annoyance faded quickly replaced by empty stoicism as he watched Seven lie through his teeth. Trying to avoid being obvious, the Ethaefal pulled his eyes from the halfblood before his stare became too pointed, returning to wiping his hands on the damp towel. He was relieved when Seven assigned himself something else to do. Laszlo wasn't entirely sure he could summon he wherewithal to speak to the killer.

"Sorry," he concluded for Seven, flicking an icy look back up to Abalia. The miza coin she had given him rattled softly against others in his pocket as his body shifted to face hers. "I haven't seen anyone like that, either. If you give me her name, I can ask my customers if her description sounds familiar. Someone might remember something."

Responding to a wave hailing from another portion of the bar, Laszlo replied in turn with a nod and stepped away from Abalia, leaving the towel upon the bar. He plucked another cleaned mug from a hanging rack, bringing it to the large round keg nearby. After closing the squeaking tab and delivering the drink to its patron, he twisted his head toward Abalia without turning his eyes to her, still waiting for the man to fish out a few coins. "Where do you think she might have gone to?"

There was no doubt in Laszlo's mind that the girl Abalia described was the poor creature that Victor and Seven had turned into their personal plaything. Even if he couldn't help Abalia, or the Kelvic, he could at least find out where the girl would be sticking her nose next. He doubted Seven would be inspired on his own to harm to the woman, but feared what Victor might do if he learned someone was looking for his butchered pet.

[Abalia]

Poised as she was, in a subdued sort of restlessness, transfixed by the burrowing creature of hope, Abalia was entirely unprepared for the sudden clatter that erupted to one end of the bar. Wide brown eyes swiveled quickly away from the face that was too familiar, too well known, if not familiar at all. There, at the end of the long expanse of smooth, worn wood stood a figure which was too slender and insignificant to be terribly imposing. And yet, somehow, he unnerved Abalia instantly. This first impression between two strangers left a sour taste in her mouth. Something about the way those lips, scarcely hiding what must have been fangs in the dimly lit tavern, curled around the word whore made her skin crawl. Oh, it wasn't as if Abalia felt particularly piteous towards whores or their lot. She'd certainly never stooped so low. But such lofty speculations were hardly the point here. The stranger's voice dripped a venom that might have seemed oddly appropriate considering his appearance, but one which had taken her aback entirely. It got worse, of course. Didn't these things always? The snort of his laughter, the cool derision with which he spoke of her kelvic friend, followed by his unwillingness to stick around to bring the conversation he'd insinuated himself into to a proper close. It was all so... strange, even to a child of Alvadas who had never really known a reality that wasn't constantly shifting, remolding itself and remaking itself into something brand new for each new moment. Before Abalia had the chance to broach this strange intrusion with the man who had assuaged her thirst with wine, which wasn't quite as foul as she had expected, he was following along in much the same vein. Veiled dismissal. She couldn't deny her disappointment. And so it was, with a breathy sigh, that Abalia divulged the name of her lost companion. “Roxxie,” she said, pretty voice almost whimsical in that way that only deep affection could produce. “Roxanne, I mean. And thanks.” It was becoming more than frustrating, this fruitless search. Roxxie had stayed out too late before, been gone too long. Especially when the more romantic aspect of their relationship had dwindled away. But this was different, in a way that Abalia could feel to her very bones. "I'm not sure where she's gone," Abalia admitted rather belatedly, only then realizing she had only answered part of his question. Expressive brown eyes drifted aside, to the place where the nameless worker had scuttled off to. In a thoughtful murmur, she added with a touch of disdain. "I suppose it's better if she didn't end up here. Doesn't seem that she'd have been welcome."