The Fading Embers (open to Victor, Laszlo, Seven)

[Ulric]

74th of Fall, 511 AV

“Gruurg,” Ulric growled, jerking his fur cloak higher above his shoulders, and shook drips of gray water from his lank hair. Flung over the uneven rocks, it seemed as if every one in a dozen ruptured in bright spurts of indigo flame, sending clutches of tiny, speckled lizards scurrying for cover under sacks, tufts of weeds, and inside cracking plaster. That wasn’t very reassuring, but fortunately they weren’t of any harm. Ionu, were you ever teased as a child? Ulric scowled, not even bothering to glance at the stars choking the dark, ruddy sky. They were just more tricks. But more importantly, I hope I wasn’t among the culprits. Xhyvas had to be just as elder as Ionu.

Even so, the godling strode around a flaming puddle just to be safe, keeping a hand on the handle of his knife. He wasn’t pleased by the crimson, chimerical salamander clinging to the bridge of his nose, nor the reek of scorching flesh, but what could he do except hunch over and keep walking? That didn’t mean he wasn’t freezing off his arse, though. He was faintly hungry, but fabulously parched. And as ever, the shifting lanes kept him wandering around, encountering strangely disused, algae-coated fountains, a veritable forest of ferns, fungi growing under the ledge of a roof and a skinny, many-faced woman that he could’ve sworn was vending skewers of rat that she roasted in the embers of a brazier under her faded awning.

At least there weren’t any horses.

Eventually, his dismal journey brought him to the façade of an irregular structure, black varnish, faded as a pauper’s cloak, flaking away from the columns and beams, a hint of purple lichen on the gables. There was a scrawl on the door that meant only one thing. Booze. Ulric glanced at the grimy window, discerning only the vague contours of his face in the glass, and a towering shape behind him.

Desank was coated in scales today, lambent eyes narrowed, spikes covering the ridges of his back, and a pair of tusks protruding from his smirking maw. “You’re not a fish, you know,” growled Ulric, casting an edgy, sidelong glance at his Gasvik.

“Yain ibadfb oafe?”

“Yes, of course they can’t see you, but that doesn’t mean you can let yourself go entirely.” Desank just gave a shrug.

That was the end of the matter.

Ulric thrust past the door, tender nerves grating as the rusty hinges creaked, and found himself in a long, narrow chamber, chairs and tables arranged at peculiar angles, wisps of acrid smoke curling from the hearth. Then, of course, there was the sky over his head, though it wasn’t quite so angry as the one he’d left outside the room. Having finished his preliminary scrutiny, he scratched at his bearded chin. “Shouldn’t there be a skull mounted on the wall or something?”

OOCJust ignore the Gasvik, since your characters won’t even know he’s there.

[Laszlo]

This late in the evening, the Sun and Stars didn't get many patrons, save for the lost and the already-drunk. It was long past midnight now, but the doors were still open and Laszlo was still about, drifting from one table to the next and slathering a damp towel over their worn, uneven surfaces. He had never required much sleep before, but often slept anyway as a way to pass time from dusk until dawn. Nighttime was never good for company, at least not the sort that Laszlo was interested in. The tavern had given him a reason to be awake at night, even if it was just him alone, washing tables. Well, alone except for the bearded, hefty man who took to napping in his own drool at the far table every other night, usually with a mug of stale beer cradled in one arm. He looked asleep, but he'd growl as soon as Laszlo got close. Seeing as he did always find a way to remove himself before daybreak, the Ethaefal had gotten to the point where he no longer minded the drunkard vagrant. He'd even considered naming him, like a pet. When another customer came through the door, Laszlo paused to give him a passing glance. Like most patrons, the human was briefly fascinated by the sky mosaic on the ceiling. The lanky Symenestra angled his amethysts upward too, in mutual appreciation. The quarter moon was obscured by a blocky, many-tiled cloud which slowly morphed into new shapes at it slid across the serene, false sky. "We found one once, in one of the upstairs rooms," Laszlo remarked coolly, picking up an abandoned mug and using his wet towel to gently clean it. "Tossed it out though. It looked like a human skull, and with a face like mine, we didn't want to risk rumors…" Then it clicked. Laszlo had seen this man before. The last time he laid eyes on that cold, square face, it had been splashed with a Symenestra's blood. Spider, spider, on the wall. The Oaf's mocking words echoed fatally in Laszlo's head. The silver-haired Ethaefal spared a glance to the coatrack by the door, where his all-protecting cloak was hung so far away. The Symenestra's false race was completely identifiable, clad in snug clothing that fit his willowy form well. Shyke. "…spreading." Laszlo dutifully shut his mouth, remembering courtesy. Knowing that Victor would be back soon from his other engagements, and Seven was nearby, the Ethaefal decided that going into a blind panic may not be his only option here. If Ulric could pretend to be civil for at least ten minutes, long enough for someone else to arrive, this might not end in total disaster. "Uh, hi. C-can I, uh, get you anything?" Laszlo continued washing the mug in his hands, practically wearing a groove in the same spot he'd been scrubbing for at least a solid minute.

[Victor Lark]

Barely a minute after the door had shut behind the tavern’s latest patron, it opened again. Smelling of sweat and ale and the peculiarly saccharine soot that clung to his shirt and hair, Victor fell through the threshold and shoved the door behind him with familiar exasperation. He did not watch it close, instead paced habitually toward the end of the short hall.

Usually a nod to the purple-eyed ethaefal sufficed to interrupt that short trek to the opposite door, if Laszlo was even present by the time Victor returned. But this time, there was a look strewn beneath that silver brow that was wholly unique to Victor’s brief knowledge of the man. He knew that Laszlo’s nighttime mien could not pale beyond its symenestra grey, but it had dropped to an unsettled grimace that matched the unnatural hue of his skin. Curious, Victor paused. The smirk that had lifted his lips sagged beneath the weight of his slack jaw, but his question was answered before it was asked. He followed the bartender’s gaze with his own, and at the end of it he saw the familiar face of the man his friends called Oaf.

His smile broke broad and genial as he stepped beside the not-spider and tugged the damp cloth out from between his fragile white fingers. Moving toward Ulric, he ran the filthy thing over his hands and then his neck, unintentionally blotting out a tiny ember on his shoulder and the wisp of smoke that rose from it. He pulled out a chair in offering. He forgot to change his grin of invitation to something more compassionate as he regarded Laszlo again and answered, “The man wants some ale, I should think.”

Laszlo did not need coddling; he needed distraction. Victor was loath to give it to him, but neither was he fond of serving anyone after having spent the best hours of his evening doing just that, elsewhere. With a sigh, he drooped into the chair beside the one he had suggested for Ulric. “How do you fare this evening, aside from the flaming rain?” He asked idly. Only then did he move his attention from Laszlo, stopping briefly on the vagrant in the corner. He disliked that man as much as the other two did, and yet they never did anything about him. Gesturing to the sleeping man, his eyes settled on his former teammate and he added, “And how do you fancy sharpening your axe on another sad wretch?”

[Ulric]

Ulric gave a shrug, eyes widening a bit as they regarded the man in front of him, fingers dancing over his knife. Tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Lanky, stringy pewter locks, violet eyes. Fangs and dark, curved claws on those long arms, fleshed with the blotchy skin of corpses and other unsavory creatures. Tap-tap. There was a pregnant pause, a shaky guttering of lamps. The faint quork of a raven.

And then he grunted.

“Can you get me anything? Yes, you can, now that you remind me. I want you to reach into your pockets and fetch me a swift, three masted ship, a company of stout men, and a temple.” “What, don’t have any of those? Now that’s a pity,” he growled. “Or do you keep those behind the bar? If not, then I could make do with some ale. No, petch that, I’ve been wanting a lot of ale. And don’t tell me you’re closing, either,” he said, eyeing the insensate fool.

There was another creak, and then a familiar face, gray eyes and slightly darker, undeniably satin skin. Him again. Ulric struggled to keep his calm, to keep from upending one of the tables, which meant that he swiftly descended into a sulky, brooding quiet. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. He ignored the dandy’s words, having already stated his desires, and strode nearer the snoring drunk. He jerked a chair out from a table, legs harshly scraping over the floor. Then he sat down, making the timbers creak, clunking his bearded axe on the flat surface, where the spiked head swam with a fiery, menacing orange next to those fleshy, bearded cheeks. He just focused on the drunk, half wanting to do as the dandy joked, just to make them uneasy, to hear those high, clear screams echoing in the back of his mind.

Sadly, he was growing soft.

What drives men to drink, d’you think? He frowned, poking at that hairy arm, hearing only a vague, drowsy murmur. That’s right, you’re not being very eager to provide any answers. Now then, why do you drink? I only see a broken, desultory man, casting away everything, so there is certainly a reason that you are here, and not doing something that matters.

Desank slunk around to the bar, warily examining the rows of colored, corked bottles resting on the shelves, seeming to derive some enjoyment of the distortions the murky, curving glass made of his reflected visage.

Ulric licked at his lips. And don’t you dare swing the question around on me, you foul, reeking shyke. He glanced up at the spider, making his face contort in a forced, wolfish grin. Tap-tap. Tap.

“Know anything about him?” He rasped.

[Seven Xu]

“Only that he’s a heavy sleeper,” an airy voice commented.

The door next to the sibilating fire whined and latched shut against the narrow back of a demure-faced halfblood. Seven had roused himself from the warmth of his sheets to meet what he thought would be the routine early-morning arrival of his beloved human, only to discover one far lower on his list of preferences. The Oaf; the man who had single-handedly crushed a Widow’s wicked face into a gurgling, bloodied pulp, only to turn and amiably ruffle his ivory mop of hair as if nothing had happened. Seven was uncertain of what exactly those deep lines and narrow eyes thought of him, but Ulric’s public massacre had been the source of countless wakeful nights—and the mounting resentment that went hand-in-hand with a man who appreciated sleep.

Tonight was one such night, and it showed on his waxy countenance.

Bare feet tramped across a worn hardwood floor. “It’s late,” he was sure he hadn’t been the first to notice. Finding inspiration and a wordless greeting in a set of stormy eyes on a grinning olive face just beyond, Seven reached for a dutiful smile. Clear trepidation still swam in twin ponds of crimson and warped the sincerity that had been so carefully etched into his face. “Or early, however you want to look at it.”

Seven found the resolve to occupy the third of four seats strewn about the table. His knees bent against the thick wooden table and his naked toes spilled over the edge of the groaning chair. The insipid smile had flattened, forgotten in favor of various thoughts that tugged at his wits; his heavy-lidded gaze had dropped to the bearded axe that slept an arm’s length away. Distant flame lapped at muted silver. Seven exhaled through his nose; he let himself briefly inspect Victor’s singed waistline for a familiar leather scabbard.

Finally, he slanted his chin in Laszlo’s direction, “So long as you’re pouring ale, you may as well bring me one, too.” Satisfied with the level in his tone, he added, “Please.”

[Laszlo]

Flaming rain? Laszlo hesitantly tore his eyes away from Ulric, belatedly noticing the orange, flickering lights outside the aged, cloudy window. Nothing terribly out of the ordinary, as far as Alvadas was concerned. He sent a cursory glance toward Seven as he appeared from the stairway, nodding in acknowledgement and silent appreciation. "I know he pays his tab and never bothers anyone," Laszlo added with an undertone of annoyance, now emboldened by the timely arrivals of Victor and Seven. Though relieved he was, he still shot an irked look at the dark-haired Ravokian to chide him (however futilely) for suggesting wanton murder. The Ethaefal wove through the tables, putting Victor between himself and the Oaf as he made his way up to the bar with the wooden mug in hand. Reaching a large keg, a brass tap whined softly as Laszlo reused the mug, filling it with fresh, dark ale. "If you avoid his corner, you can escape his charming aroma." The dark smile that met Laszlo as he turned around was nothing short of startling, and for a moment, his ashen face betrayed a shadow of fear. Involuntarily his eyes flicked downward at the axe Ulric had brought in with him. Did he carry that thing around with him everywhere? At least at the tournament, he'd had an excuse to have it. Bringing it to a tavern was just mad. Laszlo had to remind himself that although this form was slight in build, he was not altogether defenseless. Uttering an inward plea to Syna, and dipping into a reserve of bravery he didn't actually have, the Ethaefal made his way over to Ulric's table, trying not to stumble over his own feet out of nervousness. He assumed a stern look of determination about his face, darkening his eyes and thinning his mouth into a line as they were often prone to doing. As he placed the mug on the table with a thud, a tongue of foamy ale licked over the edge and lathed down along the side, settling on the table. Laszlo did not immediately remove his dark-clawed hand from the mug. Waves of adrenaline shivered through his veins as his violet eyes met Ulric's full on. The cold, gruff look of the grizzled human terrified him, but hypnotism was more effective with eye contact (or any kind of contact, but no force in Mizahar would drive him to touch that man). "He's boring and harmless. And so am I. Enjoy your ale." Take these words and believe them, Oaf. Trying to intimidate a man like that, Laszlo assumed, would be much like trying to threaten a raging bull. Appearing to be a Widow, he assumed his life was in as much danger as the sleeping drunk's, and he wasn't much fond of being frightened of his own customer. Laszlo's best tactic would be to convince Ulric that neither of them were worth his energy. So that's what he was attempting to do. Laszlo straightened, releasing the mug of ale and heading back to the bar. He glared forward at Seven's request, not pleased that someone presumed to ask him a favor when he'd just practically stared death in the face and cast a spell on it in defiance. I'd like to see you try that, halfblood, Laszlo snarled inwardly. He knew that his ire at Seven was misdirected; Ulric wasn't the only killer in the room, but Seven wasn't nearly as frightening. The Ethaefal still wasn't completely comfortable around the amnesiac killer, but by now he had decided that Seven posed very little danger to him personally. Seven had had his reasons, even if Laszlo didn't understand them. "What about you, Victor?" Laszlo scoffed bitterly as he leaned over to pull three new mugs from under the bar. "Ha, why am I even asking?" As he poured the first mug, Laszlo decided to remind Seven that he wasn't the only one who had to deal with customers. "You'll get a tab started, Seven?" And collect his money as well, you smug brat.

[Victor Lark]

An unspoken question narrowed Victor’s eyes, but as he turned from Laszlo’s strange glare to Seven’s tired frown, rolling mercury lifted into a smile. Both faces before him were straight like fear, drooping beneath the burden of sullen gravity. Their chary words defended the stupid sleeper, as if Ulric’s idle question was truly an application to slice that snoring throat. His fellow human mimicked their scowls with a blithe huff.

“A joke,” he insisted, fingers splayed impatiently. A laugh and his hands fell again, drumming the worn tabletop and then sliding to his lap. He cocked his head and directed his smile wholly to Seven, hoping to lift something more genuine onto those wan lips. Laszlo could brood as much as he liked; Victor better enjoyed seeing the unique vicissitudes suffered by candid crimson. Even when weighted with the early morning’s fatigue, he gambled with himself that he could make those rubies brighten. The soft leather of his shoe tripped against a bare white toe before it kicked playfully at the inside of one skinny calf, and then the other. His eyebrows flared, daring reciprocation. His hands gripped the table’s edge.

Before his foot tapped to the wood floor again, Victor regarded their waking customer. His tone strained to lighten the mood, and he shrugged. “Don’t bother with him. He’s the least interesting of all of us. Except maybe Laszlo here.” Victor gestured vaguely to the gracious symenestra, the only man who had yet to sit. He looked back at him only to see how far along he was in bringing the rest of the ale. Turning to Ulric, he asked, “What about you? Do you drink to forget your troubles, or to collect a few more?”

[Ulric]

Ulric didn’t even blink, just kept on staring at the drunk, his eyes like darkly swirling pools, their depths viciously cloudy and inscrutable, severely relentless in their unwavering intensity. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. There was a queer look on his face, a vague tug at the edge of his cracked lips. He wasn’t unaware of the hushed words, of the slender, pale thing entering the dusky chamber, of the spider fussing around at the bar, walking toward him. He saw, he heard, but he didn’t care. He was enraptured by that craggy expanse of cheek squashed against the blemished, splintery timbers, drool-beaded jaw slackening in repose, blunt nose flaring every so faintly.

And then the mug clunked, foam making a dark, smearing ring. At last, he scowled, harshly lifting his gaze to regard the lingering spider. “Boring?” he snarled, monstrously angry at the injustice of that sullen declaration. “Harmless?” There was no saying who the drunk was under his bristly hedge of whiskers, nor what he might be if given the chance. There was something wrong about how the spider had spoken just then, an insidiously sibilant whisper that made him desperately uneasy, though he didn’t understand why.

Desank had also sensed it, apparently, for he crouched beside the bar with bared fangs, a low rumbling in his throat. Stand down, Ulric scowled, but Desank wouldn’t, just kept crouching there, eyes flaming madly, unstably. Stand down.

“Hasjn aindfn uweb,” growled the Gasvik, and though he didn’t retract his glistening fangs, he turned and slunk back into the long, writhing shadows, vanishing in the verges of his primordial insights.

Ulric firmly grasped the mug, took a deep gulp, eyes widening at the potency of the murky draught. He gave the dark, shifting liquid a peculiar look, sniffed it deeply and with no dearth of misgivings. Maybe they’ve poisoned their cellars, he mused, taking another gulp. Even if they did, why not? He drained the mug, clouting it down on the timbers, provoking only a soft, drowsy hum from the drunk.

“More,” he growled.

Glancing up at the dandy, he felt the prickle of hot breath on his neck, stolidly perceiving the outwardly charming, yet leeringly deceitful flare of a grin, the lash of a forked tongue. He suddenly wanted to crush those pearly incisors, to draw the knife and flay that tender skin away from those soft eyes.

But he didn’t.

He was suddenly very weary.

Ulric was far more than the brute, the oaf, the fisherman; the stalwart bodyguard and the grieving child-usurper. He was just a man, who’d only recently found that he was a long-delayed incarnate of a long-forgotten god, somber knowledge sundering the dreams he’d once enjoyed of hearing the breakers crash against a stony, desolate coast. Victor had chosen entirely the wrong moment to speak, his cloying words opening the gates just a hair, cracking the seals, sending the dark waters gushing, shadowy forms unraveling on the swell of his caprice.

Nobody has ever asked me that, he frowned, wondering how many how many long, cruelly unrelenting years had elapsed since he’d truly spoken to another person, had let the handles of his heavy yoke drop from tensed fingers and shared but a fragmentary whisper of his dreadful burden.

“Why do I drink?” Ulric chuckled sadly. “I once drank to forget, but I never could. I drank to deaden my sorrows, but that only made them worse. I drank for courage, but swiftly found that I was craven.” He ran splayed fingers over his ravaged face, seeking to ease the ache in his heart, but losing his composure in a harsh, mocking laugh. “And now, I drink because that is just what I do.”

For a long, tense moment, he dismally regarded the dregs swirling at the base of his empty mug, and then reached into the folds of his jerkin, fumbling around until he produced not a knife, but an ordinary, roughly carved flute that he set on the table before him. “In my depths of lonely seclusion, I bide for the rustle of drying leaves, the whisper of dying dreams that marks the end of my forlorn, cursed divinity. I never asked for this fate. I never wanted this task. I never even dreamed of these sorrows, but the broken things are dearly embraced, clasped near to my chest, though I vainly wish they were as cold, fading wraiths. I have dreamed of crushing everything to dust, and yet in those frantic embraces, when hope is but a murmur, I seek only to save what I can.”

Ulric’s voice was the hushed sigh of dead, burning grass, the intensity in his dark eyes fading, as though a thinly cloaked flame had dwindled to ash, his face seeming older, the scars and lines melding.

“They never hear,” he mumbled, as though speaking to himself, reaching out to caress the flute as a lover.

And then, shakily, “The thing is, I never speak loudly enough.”

“I play a lament, an elegy that lurks softly in the dark, dreadful ravines of my ravaged heart. I would exist forever, shackled by the bonds of starkly flowing crimson, but there are so many that would see my end, the destroying of long dying, transcendent hopes. I won’t survive much longer, I think. I must surely go back to the mud, to a lashing cyclone of flaking ash, a wavering cinder caught on the wind, a vague wisp of cloud smearing a cruel, pewter sky.” Ulric turned away so they couldn’t see his face, couldn’t glimpse the tear that hung suspended in the corner of his eye, denied its quavering freedom by the scathing cruelty of his ways.

There was a string of low, lingering curses, and then he spoke again, his voice harder, viciously stony. “I sought redemption, but found only a coruscating lunacy, was caught up in the throes of my past. I have flown among flocks of crows, exchanged stinging barbs with a starkly departed raven, spectral beak clacking over a husk of fluted bone and feathers. I have bartered with a fiendish ferryman. I have sucked in the dust of dreams, and choked upon their gritty tang of regret.”

And then he barked another laugh, interwoven with the grim ramblings of a man awaiting the gallows. “We are but captives of fate, a legion of sad, yet defiant sages, scribes, and sinners, and yet there is a spark in every breast, the embers fading, but not quite struck out. I fought to save the broken things, only to find that I myself was broken, that the harder I fought, the more despair consumed of my somber task, strewing the cracked, desolate earth with burnt and graying bones, with the shrieks of sundered souls, ever straining at their laughing chains. I stare at my own, fevered hands, my every thought racing with skeins of fear and doubt, only to find that I have fashioned my own shackles, have beaten every sordid, ruddy link to the dread of dreamers, and the agony of my own demise.”

Xhyvas was wrong.

“The fire is dying,” he growled.

[Seven Xu]

Seven thought to open his mouth in rebuke at Laszlo’s veiled comment, but it was instead met with a vocalized hum and a twisted half-grin when he could not find the resolve. He was, after all, a partner in this venture; ale was not difficult to count, and he banked the trio of drinks to memory. Seven reached out for his own weighted tankard, attempting to wash down a pang of guilt in a lukewarm gulp. He stole a glance at that deep-lined, scowling face of the man he’d deemed the Oaf, but the critical garnets were not allowed to linger. Victor had called for his attentions with the rough push of a boot, coaxing an incredulous glare and halfhearted smirk to shoot across the table.

A bare foot reached blindly, making contact with the respite of a warm knee. His toes curled into thick fabric and he leaned back in his chair, tearing himself from a laughing iron illusion of mirth. Seven’s grin was distorted beneath the pull of teeth on his bottom lip, and he fixed his attentions wholly on the drifting clouds that shifted subtly in the tiles above them.

Only then did he realize the Oaf was speaking. It wasn’t the unintelligible speech of a man with more brawn than brain; it was almost lyrical in its delivery, hardly oafish at all. It made the halfblood’s chin dip to stare, slack-jawed in a look of utter bemusement. Where had that come from? The question nearly tripped out of his mouth, but the reaches of his own insolence knew to stray when he found himself vis-à-vis with a poetic murderer. Yet, he had gone this long without balking, or heeding the call of a tangle of presumably cooled sheets and a well-beaten pillow. A hand snapped up to rub black cotton from the corners of his eyes, and he tightened his jaw.

“It is.”

He didn’t turn to catch Victor’s inevitable scowl when he ended their under-the-table game in favor of rekindling a dying fire. The chair groaned and scraped across wood floor as Seven pushed, stood, and padded to the dim brick hearth. He took a squat, and busied his hands with coaxing a renewed orange glow from fresh kindling. As the halfblood slaked the fire’s need for fuel, he wracked his tired mind, grasping for something to say. Anything. Say anything. The tavern had fallen into an unnerving silence after Ulric’s stirring recount; it seemed the other two were just as stunned as he was. “You’re a flutist,” he remarked, “that is surprising. Not to say that I doubt your capability; it’s just … it’s an interesting choice; an axe in one hand, a flute in the other.”

Seven could feel his throat tightening. Light, fire, damn you. “Will you play it?” His head swiveled over his shoulder apprehensively, and added, after a macabre afterthought fell heavy into the pit of his stomach; “the flute, not the axe.”

[Laszlo]

Stunned into silence, the Ethaefal gaped at the Oaf through Vethis Orthilia's calm, practiced amethyst eyes. In the short time he had spent chained to his life, Laszlo had never heard a man speak that way, with such scope and sorrow laced into his sudden prose. Words like that should not have come from the mouth of a mortal man who should have been blinded to the greater machinations of this turning world, limited only to what his dull eyes could see playing out in front of him, though he did speak of the woe suffered by his own sad self being caught in the nature of vaguely alluded torments. In his discourse dwelled otherworldly wisdom, so recognized by the godborn creature that unwillingly sympathized with his utterances.

The Oaf was clearly mad.

Laszlo listened anyway, at some point having delivered a fresh pint to the sorry creature during his speech. He had flinched when the woodwind was produced, and held onto a thread of his fear even after he realized what it was. A flute was not a weapon, certainly, but he had no doubt that it could easily find itself jammed in someone's eye socket.

As Ulric spoken on, a word of particular poignancy had urged Syna's fallen to listen more sharply: divinity. A flare of resentment washed up from somewhere deep in Ethaefal to hear that a descriptor like that used so heedlessly by an earthly creature, but he responded with only a half-hearted snarl, cowardly angled away from the Oaf's line of sight.

Still, Laszlo listened as he prepared himself a drink, now that his patron and two cohorts were duly hydrated. Keeping his eyes fixed on the oaf-turned-poet above the rim of his mug, he took a long draught of the warm, pleasantly bitter sting. Grabbing the edge of the bar for stability, Laszlo hoisted himself with a light hop and sat upon the smoothed, polished surface. He crossed his thin, long legs in a natural desire for comfort, and leaned on his right arm as the killer continued.

It felt wrong for those words to be spoken out loud, and with little provocation. They had depth, even if Ulric was off his rocker, but Laszlo felt his sermon should belong scrawled madly across the yellowed pages of a tattered journal, not grimly mumbled through unshaven lips.

Yet how could he not think deeply on his ramblings? Not a day went by when Laszlo didn't question his existence and his undeserved fate. Even if Seven and Victor only saw the Ethaefal as a man like any other, Laszlo knew unerringly that he was so much more.

I would exist forever, shackled by the bonds of starkly flowing crimson. Laszlo drank to keep himself from interjecting. What would the human know of that? Ha, but the Oaf continued, like a stinking, putrid vat pouring the finest wine. We are but captives of fate, a legion of sad, yet defiant sages, scribes, and sinners. Yes. And yet there is a spark in every breast.

"Hm," the Symenestra finally voiced, idly swirling his ale as he sucked at the lingering flavors on his tongue. Seven was the first to give his remarks, defeating the silence which pulled at the air once Ulric was finished. It surprised Laszlo to hear the halfblood say anything at all. He'd been far more perturbed than Laszlo by the violence the Oaf had wrought that day. Though he sidestepped the uncomforting monologue, genuine curiosity showed through. Seven was surprised to see Ulric exist as more than a mindless killer.

After sparing a glance to Victor to see that he hadn't fallen asleep, Laszlo swiveled back to Ulric. His face appeared more human now, tired and world weary, a true consciousness lingering behind his half lidded eyes. "And what makes you divine?" Laszlo asked sharply, having held onto his resentment until he had the bravery to word it. "You speak like you know something of deeper existence, as if you've seen the beginnings and ends of the world with your own fleshy eyes, tasted the deepest evil and ridden the arc of the sky. What could you possibly have seen? You may sound like a sage but your passions are as bloodthirsty as any man's."

Er… well perhaps best not to provoke him. Swallowing a lump of immediate regret, he continued in a smoother, calmer bearing. "There is no deeper hell than this, breathing, smelling, itching, being. I've seen Syna's realm and now I know everything the world can't be." He drank. "But yes, please, play your flute. If there is any trueness to your words, your music will speak of it. Whether you're mortal or not, let me hear it from your soul."