Consequently

[Laszlo]

Laszlo. Just the way she said his name, curling ever letter around her tongue like it was made of molten chocolate, was enough to make him shiver. He didn't, because he was still aware of his situation. He knew Abalia would never find her friend, that little anecdotes about Roxanne were all she had left. And he remembered, oh so vividly, seeing her mutilated corpse in Victor and Seven's room, not an hour after he'd seen her laughing and stumbling through his bar with the snake-tongued Ravokian. The claws of guilt were firmly embedded in his heart, no matter how quickly it was beating. But when her fingers were twisting themselves through his hair, coiling his waves of silver around her fingers, it became difficult to think about that, or to think at all. Laszlo didn't move away, didn't move at all, he simply continued leaning there, watching her as she played her hand through his long hair. He allowed her to get close, stilled by caution and restraint, watching her through keen violet eyes, coldly observant and yet with a touch of warmth as they stayed locked on hers. Then her fingers dug deeper, grazing his scalp with the whisper of her fingertips. He couldn't help the sigh that left him, or keep his eyelids from dipping. Her breath washed across his face, perfumed with the strong scent of young, cheap wine. Nails gently scraped the bar and Laszlo's open hand drew into an unclenched fist. Was he doing this? Was this his fault? Or was it really just the alcohol? Laszlo finally opened his eyes again as he felt her hand against his cheek. What she said bothered him; did she suspect something? She must have. Or was this some Alvadan trick? Even if we just play pretend. He sat on those words as her fingers drew across his lips. His mouth parted a little, but his voice stuck in his throat. "Uh…" was all he managed at first, until he finally snapped out of it (only after she was finished with him, of course). Laszlo straightened his posture and leaned back, pulling his arms off the bar. One hand quickly dug itself into his hair and briefly massaged his scalp, to rid of the tingling feeling she'd left there. Automatically, his eyes diverted to the girl's bare shoulder, which she quickly covered. Pity. Laz? How odd, no one had ever shortened his name before. No one had ever been that familiar with him. He liked it, actually. It personalized his stolen name, made it his. Laszlo gave a nasal laugh. "Good thinking," he told her as she prepared to leave. "You really can't hold your wine." As Abalia left, Laszlo hooked two fingers in the handle of her half-empty mug and poured it into the trough under the bar, where all abandoned drinks ended up if they weren't snatched up by another thirsty patron. He'd dump the trough itself on the street once it was full, or when the tavern closed: whichever came first. Setting the mug with the others to be cleaned, Laszlo turned and left it behind for now. With the smooth, natural grace of a Symenestra, he left the bar and crossed the tavern, heading straight to where Seven was working. Whether the halfblood saw him coming or not, Laszlo closed his slender, bony hand gently around the Lhavitian's thin upper arm, physically begging his attention. He looked down at Seven, the tan and yellow shadows playing across on his pallid face and high cheekbones while the tiled ceiling shifted above his head. This was probably the first time he'd directly looked at Seven since the other night, let alone touched him. "I want to talk with you, later," Laszlo said lowly in his accented Symenos, limited to mostly simple wording, though he was sure he got his meaning across. "Just you and me, after we close. Understand?" After giving his message, Laszlo let go of Seven's arm.

[Seven Xu]

His arm still hurt.

The patrons had been ushered out long past last call; even Ned, who shambled out the front door with little more than a grunt of a promise to return again the following afternoon. Seven’s face was twisted in some unreadable scowl as he heaved two hands onto the bar top, burdened by a wooden mug looped in nearly every small white finger. “I speak Common, you know.” The jape, spoken in a halting accent of his own, drifted to the waiflike tender on a cantankerous and lopsided grin.

It irritated the halfblood when Laszlo reverted to Symenos, as if he were readying himself to speak some clandestine wisdom. Usually, he had nothing interesting to say in the Widow’s tongue that warranted such secrecy. Usually, he was just angry.

From Seven’s deadpan sarcasm rose another death-glare the Ethaefal had gotten rather good at, as of late. “So what is it?” The soft pink bow of his mouth flattened, giving glimpse to a row of white teeth and infantile fangs; they were once deemed ‘adorable’ by some poor soul, like to be as dead and crushed as the woman at the tournament. Seven chewed his bottom lip. The question was another thorn in the Ethaefal’s side; it had no meaning and was like to get no response. He knew the why of the summons; where it was like to go after that, he could only guess.

“Do you want me to apologize?” Shoulders heaved in a dismissive shrug and a pair of hard reds darted from Laszlo’s arresting stare. Condescension sailed unbridled in a sea of guilt. “It was an accident. Victor brought her here; it’s him you should be glaring at.”

She was only an animal, was his best defense; Seven’s nostrils flared under the weight of a sigh.

[Laszlo]

Another mug was tossed into the tub beneath the bar. The entire thing rattled as it received its latest passenger, disturbing the other some dozen awkward wooden cylinders inside. Laszlo would wash each one later, closer to morning, after he was finished with the rest of the tavern's cleanup. A damp towel left swirled patterns of shine across the polished bartop, erasing odd puddles of ale, drool, and godless mixtures thereof. A hazy, sour-faced Symenestra appeared in the towel's wake, too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice his own reflection. Victor still hadn't come home. Laszlo hadn't seen him since early afternoon yesterday, before he'd headed to the Wager. Normally, he'd be strolling on home in the vicinity of the hour, but the tavern was empty but for its two spidery owners, locked in silent tension until one of them finally spoke up. Silken syllables of Symenos played through the air like honeyed coffee, rich and bitter, with a hint of sweetness. Laszlo might think Victor was avoiding the tavern if it weren't for Seven, left alone here with a vexed Ethaefal. It didn't seem like the Ravokian to abandon his halfblood lover. "What is it, he asks," Laszlo mumbled in a mocking response, refusing to say more until Seven pressed him again. What an inane query. Apologize? Seven acted as if he'd spilled a mug of drink in someone's lap, or inattentively bumped into an unwitting body in the crowded Bizarre. What would an apology do now? Or the better question was, what would Laszlo do with such a paltry thing not even meant for him? Roxanne was the one who died. Abalia was the one who suffered. "An accident?" The towel halted on the bar as a flash of seething amethyst aimed themselves up at the albino. "You call that an accident?! Which part, exactly? When you smiled madly at me with her blood running down your arms? Or what followed afterward with Victor?" Laszlo shook his head with a growl, resuming his circular attentions to the bartop. The ghostly image of the Symenestra across the flat surface appeared to move with more vigor than before. "Spare me your deceptions, Seven. I know what you are." A bite of fear hinged on the end of that sentence, teasing the inside of Laszlo's chest as he remembered that sobbing laugh that had first unnerved the Ethaefal—enough make him avoid the halfblood for days afterward. "Victor appears to have better things to do lately and I'm in no mood to run and find him. Once he finally returns, he'll not find me in such a pleasant state as I am now." Laszlo was referring, likely unbeknown to Seven, to his seasonal distemper. It was one of his least favorite Symenestra traits which he'd learned manifested itself at the end and beginning of every season, but fortunately only occurred at night. Even now, he could feel his wits and his patience slipping out from underneath him. In another day or two, he'd lose much of his ability to think or act rationally. His machinations upon the bartop slowly stalled, until Laszlo's arm halted and his posture slackened. Uttering a sigh, he looked up at his compatriot. The violet in his tired eyes softened into velvet. "Seven, I… I know about your father." He looked down again. "And I… thought I had accepted it. I could at least pretend to understand that you had your reasons, but…" Laszlo shook his head before resuming eyecontact. "Seven, that poor girl did nothing to you. Why did you do it?"

[Seven Xu]

You call that an accident?! Which part, exactly? When you smiled madly at me with her blood running down your arms? Or what followed afterward with Victor?

The cleanup had taken most of the night; it was closer to dawn than dusk when Victor joined Seven in his bath, where the man had spent his hours trembling, complaining of the cold, and sobbing unintelligibly while a faithful human patted away dried and cracking blood from his hairline, his shoulders, beneath his fingernails. They spoke sparingly if they spoke at all between fits of tears and hushed and empty consolations.

Whatever secrets a latched wooden door could hold had apparently weaved themselves through Laszlo’s mind as something that made the halfblood blossom into a hue that would make a pomegranate proud. He thought to lash out, defend himself but he never found the words; his tongue was stupid and stuck to the bottom of his mouth as the Spider adroitly weaved his claims.

Seven chewed his lip. After a lengthy silence, he spoke; a rattling echo.

“You know about my father.” He hadn’t even mentioned it to Victor, not once. He’s gone could have meant a world of things, but the harsh syllables that drove themselves across the room to hit Seven in the face lacked of ambiguity. He could feel the heat rising in his throat, a swelling tide that brought with it a color that barely had time to fade. A rasp came again, “How long?”

It seemed to Seven that it could only be longer than he had known. A spark caught in the back of his mind and spread like wildfire through his limbs.

The space between them was suddenly gone, white fingertips pressed against a slippery wet bar top and Seven was bending forward, brows furrowed in an irritation not often expressed by the habitually glib man. “How long have you known?” The corners of his mouth twitched; bastard fingernails scraped and destroyed a flawless sheen with their oily tracks. Seven found his tongue again, spitting insults as a cornered animal would bare its teeth.

“You think you know so bloody much; I’ve pissed into wells deeper than you. You come into my life—our lives, and haul our gold into a tavern you lord over. Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you glare at him, or me, for having less free time to wash glasses or clean spittle than you seem to. Do you even listen to yourself? Spare me your deceptions; that’s a lark, coming from a God-forsaken creature that’s a walking definition of deception.”

Seven was quaking, lightheaded. His elbows had grown stiff, forcing the short-statured halfblood on his toes. “You don’t know what I am, you know nothing.”

[Laszlo]

Laszlo parted his lips as Seven drew nearer, drawing a cautious breath as he rocked backward. Though he was sure he didn't need it, he quietly thanked the bar for being a protective barrier between them. Those red eyes flared at him, burning more fiercely than the Ethaefal anticipated, even if he'd known this confrontation was coming. Though he tried to keep his facial expression neutral, the sharp features on Laszlo's reflexively narrowed into a defensive scowl. The dampened, discolored rag hung heavily from his clawed hand, releasing a chaotic pattern of grayish water droplets that dotted the wooden floor. Keeping his eyes resolutely locked on Seven's, Laszlo forced his breath to remain steady as he absorbed the halfblood's reaction. Until that remark. Those words bit down hard. Laszlo's eyes widened. He flinched as he felt a flash of white-hot resentment rip through him, and his sense of restraint evaporated. Retaking an aggressive step forward, Laszlo bared his teeth at Seven. "I am NOT forsaken!" he barked as his balled fist found the bartop, the sting of the impact shooting up his arm. For a moment, the resentment in his dark amethysts matched Seven's, his mature fangs lengthened and tingling. "You know nothing about that, and don't you dare mention Her." Tearing his eyes away, Laszlo lifted his aching hand and slid his fingers over his hair, long black claws dipping into his silver lengths. He looked down at their hazy reflections in the smooth countertop, mottled by drying patterns of moisture still left from the damp towel. Was that what Seven really thought of him? The halfblood's short, heated speech played over in Laszlo's head as he reeled from the insult, until they became a fine-tipped dagger pressing into the small of his chest. Deeper than you. A tavern you lord over. The way you glare. The blade pushed into him, forcing out an astonished breath. Laszlo screwed his silver eyebrows together, for the first time wondering if his position here in the tavern was really so fragile, so resented. Words, just words. Laszlo shook his head, forcibly pushing the matter aside. Falling a step backward again, the Ethaefal calmed himself, bringing his violet gaze back up to Seven's bloody one. "Seven, this—" He stopped, and some of his expression fell. "…Do you really think that?" No, this really wasn't the time for a conversation like this. He wiped a set of long, white fingers over his tired face. "Look, I'm sorry, but this isn't about that. A girl died here, Seven. Begging for her life. Don't you care about that?" Seven's father. That was a secret Laszlo had been sitting on for quite some time, one he'd mulled over and considered at his leisure. With life continuing normally, relatively murder-free up until Roxanne, Laszlo had thought he could have forgotten about it and allowed Seven's past to remain in the past. Now that the halfblood was twice a killer, he no longer knew what he thought. The information had been misbegotten through the use of Hypnotism. Laszlo had never meant to excavate that rage, to uncover those secrets, but the damage had been done. Even if it was an accident, he couldn't tell the truth. If Seven learned that Laszlo was a hypnotist, it could mean a new world of problems. He could easily put two and two together about the acquisition of the tavern itself. He'd already proven to be the vengeful type. "A while. I've known a while." Laszlo cautious brought his eyes to meet Seven's again. "Remember, a few days after Victor's match at the tournament? I came into your room, and you were drunk on wine. We talked about that woman's murder, the Symenestra. You were having nightmares about it, and your father. "I asked you to tell me about it. You lied down, closed your eyes, and started to explain. I don't know if it was the wine or the worry, but you seemed to… drift into half-sleep. You addressed me as though I were your father. Cursed me. Told me things… about blood on the wall. Said you'd do it again." That laugh. "You frightened the petch out of me, but when you woke up you didn't seem to remember. I didn't know what to do. I avoided you at first…" Laszlo fell back against the far wall, his body quaking gently as his back landed against the wood paneling. "You seemed to hate him so much. I thought, with him, you had your reasons. It was your business. But this girl…"

[Seven Xu]

He’d struck a nerve.

Glorious victory surged the fringes of his wits and burned a flare of white in his eyes. His hands splayed across the slick wood, inches away from Laszlo’s outrage. He featured eight fleshy, soft fingertips, and two as hard and black as obsidian. They marked his bastard birth; his largest source of pride and shame.

Seven won another foot as Laszlo receded; he let an absent ankle draw a barstool close so that he could perch on the bottom rungs, gaining a few inches in stature. “Begging for her life?” An incredulous snort, “You know nothing.”

“I killed my father and I killed Roxanne,” he said in a tone more befitting of a man that had just said “I squashed an ant.” “She was begging for death when you barged in, not for life; the dagger slipped, I hadn’t meant to hurt her, but as soon as that blade went into her gut it was over. I finished what I started. I suppose you would have offered her a bandage and a pat on the head and let her rot from the inside out, rather than ending it quickly?”

He narrowed his eyes. That was more explanation than the self-righteous Synaborn deserved. “And stop calling her a girl. Those things, Laszlo, those skinchangers, their love is empty—they’re animals, servants. Faithful, loyal, obedient—do not give them humanity. They’re as much human as you are Symenestra.”

And what of Palla? Seven’s chest flattened in an exasperated huff. The ginger cat-thing that had gained his affections and become a fixture in his life would never learn of Roxanne; she was too simple to understand. He was beginning to wonder if Laszlo was, too. Maybe this was only for Victor to comprehend; he seemed to be the only grounded one in his stifled circle of friends. He understood. He always understood. Even when that mercury stare went blank over a flattened mouth unable to form a meaningful retort—he understood. If he were here, he’d have courage to laugh in Laszlo’s face and change the subject, rather than explode in a torrent of pent up emotion.

“As for Zhao Xu,” The name felt like a curse on the halfblood’s tongue, “you know nothing of my hatred for that man. I was his only son, a bastard with a Widow’s face; he resented me from the day my whore mother thrust me into his life.” Suddenly, Seven’s face flattened, wrinkles of rage washing away with wan realization. “I didn’t know about my father until Roxanne died, Laszlo.

“Not consciously, anyway; I mean, I must have known, but I simply did not remember or I chose to forget.” Pale brows strained to meet, and his voice slowed to emphasize every word of the pointed question. “How could I have told you, if I did not know?”

[Laszlo]

A sharp point of accusation needled its way into Laszlo's chest, pushing his balance backward again. The Ethaefal often lied so heedlessly, so carefully, but never with malicious intent. A hypnotist's magic doesn't work nearly as well when his subjects are aware of it, and how could anyone trust a man who could so easily bend other minds to his will? Perhaps he had coerced Seven and Victor a little forcefully into making this tavern a reality, but neither of them ever seemed to regret it! It had worked out for the greater good, for everyone. So what if Laszlo made himself a part of their ambitions? All he wanted was to have an identity, to be part of something. He certainly wasn't a Symenestra, no matter how much he had once tried to play the part. Laszlo wasn't exactly divine anymore either, not in this form. Seven couldn't understand that, any of it. How could he? The halfblood couldn't see beyond his own, tainted ambitions, locked in a heated dance with that silver-tongued friend of his. Laszlo did like Victor, but knew well to be wary of him, even before this. Because I'm a hypnotist, Seven. I forced it out of you, his mind answered. "I don't know, perhaps you half-remembered. You weren't exactly conscious." Laszlo tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. His tingling fangs receded just a bit, though they still glinted as he spoke. "I do it all the time. I dream about my past lives, and when I wake up I can barely recall anything. The memories are always there, on the edge of your mind, even if you don't always feel it." Laszlo shook his head, almost violently, wiping back his silvery hair with both hands and clasping it behind his head. "Is that really important right now? Stop trying to change the subject, Seven. This is important. There's a human woman asking about Roxanne. What's going to happen to her? What if she knows something? If she goes to the authorities… I lied for you, Seven. I'm not willing to do much more than that for your murder." Laszlo didn't know what Alvadas' version of a jail was, but he doubted it was anything as joyful as the inside of a stony Syliran prison cell. The City of Illusions itself was enough to drive many people mad on its own. Gods help whoever the city wanted to punish. Both hands fell to his sides, and his dark hair spilled back around his face again. Laszlo's eyes were downcast, violet hued pools studying the fascinating, uneven shines across the bartop. The lanterns were dimming. They needed new oil soon. "Look, I'm… I'm not trying to come down on you. Really. I lived in Kalinor for a year. Do you know what happens to women there?" Seven's spiteful degradation of kelvics was mildly bothersome; Laszlo had known one in Kalinor. She had been… strange, but the Symenestra Duvalyon had been fond of her. More than he was fond of most things, and he watched people die for a living. He had to have seen something in Dor that was more than just an animal, more than a pet. Laszlo had been certain before that they had souls no different from anyone else. Still, Laszlo's personal opinion on kelvics was mostly uneducated and almost entirely his personal speculation. He had no grounds to enter a debate about what was and what wasn’t a person. "I don't care that you're a killer, Seven. That's not what this is about. I'm sorry about the way I worded it, I just…" Laszlo looked up finally, his pale face grim and a little pained. His brow was creased with concern, silver tufts sitting atop his dimly showing amethyst eyes. With a set of long, clawed fingers, he motioned to his face. "I was a Symenestra in another life. Vethis Orthilia killed women, and didn't regret it. He did it… I did it for my own reasons, I did it for what I believed in. Their deaths weren't in vain." He dropped his hand. "I'm sorry about what your father did to you, your whole life. It's his fault you killed him, you are what he created by treating you that way, and you were his harbinger of fate, making him repay for his sins against you. I understand that now. It doesn't frighten me." A sigh left Laszlo as his posture slackened, his eyes now failing to keep hold of Seven's burning crimson gaze. "Roxanne… was important to somebody. She had a name. She breathed, felt, spoke, and bled. Viratas would have spoken for her, just for that. Her death wasn't an accident. She shouldn't have been in that room at all, at the end of a dagger. There was just no reason for it. Now there could be consequences." With a grimace, Laszlo shuffled his eyes to the side, reaching up behind his head to scratch at his hair. "That's what bothers me. Killing is not unnatural, death is a part of life. Murder… a wanton slaying like that. That's what scares me." He drew a breath and held it for a moment before speaking again, pausing to word his next sentence. "I like you, Seven. I have since we first met. I enjoyed our conversations. I thought we were friends." Laszlo cautiously swept his eyes back upward. "I don't want to be afraid of you."

[Seven Xu]

“I’m not a killer,” he argued, “it isn’t something I do for leisure. Gods, if I wasn’t forced to put her out of her misery I would have sent her home, unscathed, if not a bit confused.”

He could not manage to say Roxanne’s name, as if voicing her existence would draw her apparition; or worse, the brunette that was searching for her. Was that regret? Seven chewed his lip, desperate to reach for his mask of lethargy; it seemed to be slipping, aided by the sweat on his brow. “Victor told me that she lost a bet,” he recalled his human’s hushed words as they sat together in the murky pink lukewarm water. “That at the ‘Wager, you can bet your life, and if you lose the bet—well,” his brows rose with his shoulders in a dismissive gesture, “You pay.

“That’s what he said.”

A period of silence filled the air between them, drummed in his ears and stuffed cotton down his throat. Consequence; it was a notion that his busy mind hadn’t had time to dwell upon. He grabbed Laszlo’s violets in his arresting stare again, his eyelids quivered. “You’d be the first to be afraid of me,” he didn’t even fear me when I ended him. When I scrawled my bloody retribution across the wall during his dying breaths, he didn’t fear me. Seven sank down to sit on the stool, hands receding from the countertop. Despite his straight-backed crouch, his shoulders sagged and his head lolled to the side to stare between rows of still-drying wooden tankards. “I was angry, when I said what I said before.”

Seven’s mouth twitched; a smile lingered, if for a split-second. “I don’t think you’re forsaken. You’re probably smarter than I presume, too.” He paused, having no inkling of the abrasive wrap his compliment came in. “And whether you like it or not, you’re involved in this. You had the option to stay out of it, and you didn’t.”

He stood. The stool screeched against an uneven and untreated floor. “I’ve told you why she died. I’m not up for talking about how wrong murder is, your guilt is the last thing I need.”

Was that selfish? Of course it was. Seven huffed, fingering the lining of his pockets as he stole a glance towards the locked door at the back of the narrow tavern. “Unless you’re willing to tell me how in the world you know about my father—honestly—then I’m going to go take a bath.”

[Laszlo]

Some of the pressure eased when Seven half-heartedly apologized for what he'd said. The brief smile brought Laszlo a sense of relief, and his mouth twitched in failed reciprocation. The air in the room was still thick with uneasy tension, but at least the bitterness between them seemed to evaporate. Hackles were no longer raised, even if Seven's explanation of Roxanne's circumstances were severely disconcerting. Victor says a lot of things, Laszlo thought darkly. It may well have been true, about bets at Ionu's Wager being that serious; he wasn't sure whether to disbelieve it or not. Still, Seven had a point. As much as it unsettled him to be involved in this ugliness, Laszlo was a part of it now. Though it was frightening to consider the consequences they could all face, even if Roxanne's death was legal, Laszlo probably wouldn't have gone about this any other way. Seven and Victor were likely his only allies, his only friends, and it didn't bother him greatly to remain loyal to them. Seven's observation, however, left Laszlo anxious. The halfblood was unconvinced. Laszlo had carefully worded a misleading explanation to draw his attention away from how he'd found out about his father, but it wasn't enough. He'd made a mistake, revealing that he knew that much. Now, for the first time, it was beginning to look as though he might have to confess the truth. Anymore lies would only make his deception more obvious. Any hypnotism might backfire and incriminate him. Laszlo opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it. What could he say now? He couldn't tell Seven about the hypnosis or the magic. The Ethaefal had no right to be plundering around in Seven's head to begin with. He couldn't tell the truth, but he couldn't lie. Paralyzed by indecision, he glanced around helplessly, as if the proper words were stowed somewhere in the shelves under the bar, or lying on the floor. Grimacing, he soon realized that too much time had passed, and now his silence had made him look guilty. As Seven sighed and left for the upstairs, Laszlo's shoulders sank in defeat. That whole conversation could have gone better, and now on top of everything else, he was looking at the very real possibility of confessing his magic use. Would Seven understand and accept it? Doubtful. It seemed easier to think that both he and Victor would balk. Perhaps throw him out of the tavern. Unable and unwilling to speculate about the near future, Laszlo picked up the damp towel and resumed wiping down the bar.

[Gossamer]

. Character: Seven Xu Experience: Acting 1 XP, Cleaning 1 XP, Interrogation 1 XP, Observation 1 XP, Rhetoric 1 XP, Debate 2 XP Lore: Laszlo Likely Keeps Secrets, Roxanne’s Bet at Ionu’s Wager, Being Unable To Wash ‘The Blood’ Off, Simmering Resentment Of Victor, Being A Bald-Faced Liar, Knowing How To Push Lazslo’s Buttons, Having Friensd Manipulate You, Admitting Murder, Being a Cold Blooded Murderer, Justifying Murder as Mercy, Knowing Oneself Better Than Others – Smarter, More Understanding, More Insightful, Being Utterly Selfish Character: La-s-zlo Experience: Bartending 2 XP, Observation 3 XP, Interrogation 2 XP, Acting 3 XP, Storytelling 3 XP, Socialization 2 XP, Intimidation 1 XP, Lore: Being Depressed As A Despondent Person, Understanding Guilt, Simmering Resentment of Seven, Being Defensive, Releasing Secrets Best Kept Secret, Covering Lies With Logic, Admitting Weakness, Admitting Fear Character: Abalia Experience: Singing 1 XP, Investigation 2 XP, Negotiation 1 XP, Interrogation 2 XP, Socialization 2 XP, Storytelling 1 XP, Seduction 1 XP, Observation 2 XP Lore: Being Cheerful Even In Serious Circumstances, Being Curious Enough To Go Look, The Fine Art of Sarcasm Well Applied, Sensing Underlying Currents in Rooms, Being Dangerously Distracted By Memories, Additional Note: Hi guys. Fun and tragic thread. I realized how messed up the boys relationship with each other are… and how dysfunctional everyone in this thread is except maybe for Abalia who is what she is. Seven loves and hates Victor. Laszlo resents Seven, and I gave Seven/Laszlo acting for all his bald face lying. Everyone knows actors are liars. .