Just Go With It

[Laszlo]

Fall 34th, 511 Twenty-two bells. The Withering Rose was busy that evening. After stepping through the door, Laszlo had hesitated in the entrance, quickly filled with anxiety as he glanced around the crowded room. The dark, rich atmosphere would usually calm him (which he so desperately needed now), but there were over a dozen other patrons seated at the tables, enjoying their wines. A hesitant sigh escaped his grayish lips. Last time he'd been in a densely crowded place, it was the Alvadas tournament, where he'd seen a Symenestra woman get beaten to death in broad daylight with countless witnesses. People were shocked and frightened, but no one condemned her murderer, and no one mourned for woman. She was only a Widow, after all. Barely even a person. Even this close to Kalinor, the Symenestra were despised. Laszlo shuddered, feeling trapped in Vethis Orthilia's willowy body under the dark of night. Though he was thankful to be under his hooded cloak, he still felt conspicuous—and he almost certainly was, as a tall figure rigid in the doorway. After another moment of thought, Laszlo decided to enter the restaurant anyway. The ever-changing roads of Alvadas were fickle, and usually delivered a person to where he wanted, or needed to be. The city had given Laszlo the Withering Rose, and he certainly had no desire to be back in his room at the Inn. Not with Seven and his screwed up head staying next door. Many of the tables were already occupied by small groups of people. Some of the tables had roses, and some didn't. By now, Laszlo had learned about the rumors regarding the different colored roses. Wanting to stay in control of his fate, he would have preferred to sit at a table that had no flowers at all. There was one free, in the center of the restaurant, but Laszlo didn't feel particularly comfortable out in the open. There was only one table available in a comfortably secure corner. A rose was laid across its polished surface, with petals the color of deep red velvet. The entire spot was laced in the spidery shadows of a nearby chandelier, completing the empty scene. With a sigh of resignation, Laszlo took his seat there for lack of a better spot. He was alone, anyway. What could possibly happen at that table if he was by himself? Still mostly hidden beneath his charcoal gray hood, Laszlo swayed a bit as he leaned back in his chair. Approaching the halfway mark of his third drink, he'd completely forgotten the flower was there. The red rose was just a piece of scenery.

[Ambrose Kain]

Well. So this was it, huh? The infamous Withering Rose. Ambrose has been in Alvadas barely a day when he'd first caught wind of the local landmark, though at the time he'd not given it much thought. He'd naturally assumed that the rumor about the roses could only have been charming hearsay--given that he'd had yet to realize how fantastical some aspects of the magical city really were. Now, he was a week wiser, but still plenty star-struck by the wonders of Alvadas. He approached the bar glibly, unaware of the street's kindness in allowing him to arrive there in the first place. Though the air immediately preceding the entrance could be considered somewhat foreboding to some, Ambrose passed blithely beneath the doorframe, pausing afterward only for the purpose of letting his eyes adjust. It was not a bright, carousing sort of bar such as his father had frequented in Zeltiva, but it certainly didn't lack polish. Ambrose lifted his gaze to admire the decor appraisingly, giving a silent nod of approval towards the thick velvet curtains, the stately uniforms worn by the bar's staff. The other patrons seemed to be rather reserved in their conversations, but perhaps that was influenced by the pervading darkness. Given that it was not yet the dead of night, a pale shade of moonlight illuminated the streets outside. Inside the Withering Rose, though, the only light seemed to come from the various wall sconces and the lanterns that decorated the small, round tables, casting mysterious shadows on the faces of those crowded around them. Despite the low volume, the bar seemed rather packed; Ambrose let his gaze pass over what he could see of the other patrons with carefully crafted apathy. He was very curious, but didn't want to cause offense by accidentally staring at the more interesting members within the establishment. One such member was not altogether that fascinating on the surface, at least not from Ambrose's vantage from the doorway. The figure wore a cloak that obscured most of its features after all, and Ambrose could only get the glimmering impression of a tall, graceful form underneath. Ambrose was more intrigued by the fact that the figure seemed to be putting so much effort into making itself nondescript, which ironically only arrested his attention that much more. Given how crowded the bar currently was, it struck him as bizarre that the creature should sit alone at a table in the far corner, like something shady was about to take place. A smarter man might have taken that as a sign of potential danger and taken the much less intimidating seat in the middle. A smarter man would avoid risk, not go rushing headlong towards it. Ambrose was not an idiot, but he was not particularly wise either. Not once his curiosity had been piqued. Thinking no more of the matter, he quickly crossed the breadth of the restaurant and sat himself opposite the unnamed figure at the small table. It wasn't as if there were names carved into the chairs, after all--none that he could see. Wearing a smile brimming with polite curiosity, he leaned forward, unwittingly leaving his gently clasped hands half-covering the red rose in the center. "Hello," he greeted in a voice too chipper to match the rest of the surroundings. "My name is Ambrose. Are you a native here?"*

[Laszlo]

Laszlo's dull violet eyes shifted slightly as a shadow passed in front of him. Feeling the presence of another person drawing near, his thin form bristled, and his lips parted to take a preparatory breath. A pair of hands appeared in his line of sight, disturbing the fresh rose laid so carefully on the smooth, darkly varnished tabletop. Closing his black-clawed hand a little tighter around his mug of aromatic amber, the Ethaefal cautiously lifted his head to get a look at who the hands were attached to. The warm glow the stranger's eyes was almost startling. Laszlo raised his eyebrows and leaned back as Ambrose introduced himself, his private air of melancholy completely disarmed by the affable tone of voice. A little inebriated and confused, Laszlo didn't respond with a gentle smile as he might have otherwise, but his features softened appreciatively. Hesitant, Laszlo gave Ambrose a proper onceover, absorbing the look of his unexpected guest. This one didn't immediately look to be carrying a somber air with him, and probably wasn't secretly an amnesiac murderer. That was a good start. "Laszlo," the Ethaefal responded belatedly, the corners of his mouth flickering upward briefly. Ambrose' question was odd, to hear him ask a Symenestra if he was native to Alvadas. It was clear that he was ignorant to Laszlo's earthbound race, or at least recognizing one on sight. This was also good. "And no, I just arrived barely a week ago. From…" Laszlo stopped himself. Just because Ambrose couldn't recognize a Symenestra when he saw one, didn't mean he wouldn't know about Kalinor, "…the west. You're recently arrived too, I take it?" Lifting his mug to his lips, Laszlo rehydrated his mouth with a generous sip. By now, his tongue was well used to the stale, bitter taste of the warm ale. Distracted by the gentle lull of alcohol, he made no connection at all between the angular face of his guest and the red rose on the table. "I can't place your accent. You're not Syliran. Where are you from?"

[Ambrose Kain]

Even drawn back, the figure's cowl still kept most of his features shrouded in darkness. Until the stranger spoke, Ambrose could only make out that he was male, or perhaps an especially handsome woman. The voice, though, was distinctively male, and pleasantly dulcet--not abrasive or harsh like some of the locals' were. Ambrose found himself smiling even wider, his interest raised. Perhaps he could persuade the man to lower his hood before the end of their conversation, however long that might last. "Oh, yes," he breathed in effervescent reply, pulling his hands back to clasp the edge of the table with the air of a pioneer striking out into exciting new territory. Even his eyes sparkled, managing to look quite lively despite the rather understated shade of brown. "Zeltiva. Proud of it." And he was. Quickly, he reached into the small satchel attached to his tunic, felt around for a few seconds, then drew out a small object, carved out of fishbone. "These little guys are really common in Zeltiva. Every fisherman is usually given one by his family for good luck at sea. I'm not a fisherman, but I always liked them, so my mother bought it for me when I was a child. Haven't been eaten by a sea dragon or run over by a horse carriage yet, so I suppose it's doing its job. Have you seen one before?" Hardly giving Laszlo a chance to answer, Ambrose pushed the object across the table closer to him, encouraging his inspection. The loud scraping noise the motion made echoed strangely in the gloomy quiet, but still Ambrose smiled unflinchingly. "I haven't seen anyone with your coloring before. Ah--sorry if that's insulting, I really don't mean it that way! Actually I think you're very lovely," he rushed on, too quick to leave room for awkwardness. "Long, dark hair like that, it must be difficult to take care of." At the mention of hair, Ambrose ran his fingers through his own shoulder-length waves. Like his eyes, his hair was a modest earthen tone, but laced with something more interesting. It contrasted mildly with the fair duskiness of his tan. "The west? Are all westerners as handsome as you?"*

[Laszlo]

Zeltiva? Laszlo's grayish amethysts flickered downward, playing over the peculiar object Ambrose had slid in front of him. Shifting his weight over to one side, he dislodged an arm and reached for the spearhead on the table. The young Ethaefal had never heard of the place mentioned, but as he hooked the object between his long black nails, he quickly realized he would forever associate the city with this tiny fishbone artifact.

At the mention of his coloration, Laszlo looked back upward, his eyes shadowed beneath his brow. An unexpected smile visited his ashen lips, angled slightly higher on one side than the other. Lovely? That's a new one.

"Not really," Laszlo replied cautiously, watching Ambrose feather his hair. Laszlo's own gray mane would change come sunrise, transforming his spidery silken strands into fiery auburn curls. His hair sort of took care of itself. He did little more than wash and comb it; it looked much better in the day. Ambrose was only sweet-talking him, he concluded. "Handsome? I don't hear that often." At night. "But… yes, I suppose they are, the westerners. If you like Symenestra. I came from Kalinor, the floating city.

"No offense taken about my colors though. It's nice to be appreciated." Laszlo set the fishbone spearhead back down in front of Ambrose. His claws and the tiny item clicked against the smooth surface of the table. A cloudy white reflection sat beneath Ambrose' trinket.

[Ambrose Kain]

"Sym-... Symen..estra," Ambrose echoed slowly, sounding out the unfamiliar word. The particular flow of it left him with the barest glean of a memory, but not enough to get anything beyond a vague sense of strangeness. Given that he'd heard so little of it even in his fair amount of traveling, he supposed it wasn't a place people often traveled in or out of. But though he might not head into the city itself any time soon, right now he had a real, life Symenestran he could put questions to, as long as he made certain not to scare him off. Laszlo seemed to be a bit skittish, or at least reserved. He'd need more gentle persuading to open up than most, Ambrose supposed. Dropping his gaze casually back to the table, he swallowed back a slight flinch of surprise. Though some of the other human races wore their nails somewhat long, none had quite the length nor pointed tips of Laszlo's. They looked nearly akin to claws, and a faint shiver of dread and excitement slithered down Ambrose's spine. Surreptitiously he took stock of the stranger, what little he could see under the man's hood anyway. On the surface he looked human, save for the terrible paleness of his skin. But what were Symenestrans, really? Ambrose was powerfully curious, but too wary of causing offense to ask his new friend anything too personal. Yet maybe a small, innocent question wouldn't be too dangerous? "Yes, but I can't help wondering how easily you get sunburned," he replied softly, and added in a disarming chuckle. His peripheral itched to glance back at those nails, but steadily he kept his gaze on the man's eyes. "Is that--why you wear such a heavy cowl?" Yet the sun was no longer even out, so why would he keep himself swaddled in clothing if that was the reason? Ambrose was intelligent enough to know it was more likely in an effort to keep himself hidden, but he didn't know how else to ask.*

[Laszlo]

At the thought of getting sunburned, the silver-haired son of Syna had to release a light chuckle, glancing modestly downward as he enjoyed the inward humor of the moment. Sunburns were probably the most charming irony of worshipping the sun goddess. Even Laszlo's pearly daytime hues weren't immune. When his red, glasslike horns caught the sunlight, however, they glittered like perfection.

For now, he was just a shadowy Widow in a dimly lit restaurant late at night.

"No, it's…" Rather than explain, Laszlo drew his hand back, hooking a black nail on the hem of his cloak's hood and flicking it off his head. Immediately afterward, he ran his long, thin fingers through his slightly matted dark silver hair, giving it the illusion of body as it settled back around his face. "Some people are unsettled by my appearance. The Symenestra have a bad reputation, and I… I've seen my share of persecution. I keep my head low."

Laszlo lifted his mug and took a long, noisy sip. The shallow lake of dark golden ale thrashed against the side of its wooden container as he set it back down, not entirely in control of his motor functions. "A few days ago I watched a man kill a Symenestra woman, for little more than being what she was. Their kind are derisively known as Spiders and Widows." With another calm, hesitant smile, a subtle warmth bloomed in Laszlo's tired eyes. "I'm relieved you seem unbothered by what I look like. So, Ambrose. What brings you to Alvadas?"

"Can I buy you a drink?" he added a moment later as an afterthought.

[Ambrose Kain]

The simple gesture was so unaffected and spontaneous that it clashed violently with the preconceived notions Ambrose had been forming about the stranger, and this time he couldn't help drawing back, his eyes slightly widened. Any notion that Laszlo might be an ordinary human washed away, and Ambrose quickly had to force himself not to gape. His lips moved in something that might have been a whisper of astonishment, but he produced no sound so it couldn't be certain. After several long seconds, Ambrose finally recovered his wits, and burst into a titter as his gaze dropped to the red rose centerpiece. At the moment, he was feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious, and it pricked the hairs on his neck as much as it made him want to lift his gaze again and drink in that exotic blend of ashen white and dark silver. "That's terrible," he murmured belatedly, his mind half in automatic mode as he addressed a statement he'd barely heard. If pressed to answer honestly, Ambrose would not deny that he was betimes a shallow man. When something struck him as beautiful, he quickly became enamored with it, and often failed to see its flaws. It had happened before with scenery, artwork, women, even men--but never with an alien creature. Not until now. Yet he knew he was being unconscionably rude to the stranger, and guilt, more than anything, brought his attentions back to the present. He answered Laszlo's slight smile with one of his own, channeling the strength of his cheery disposition. Without much thought on the matter, he reached his hand across the small table and laid it to rest over one of the Symenestran's. "No, I'm not bothered. You're beautiful. I mean it." Then he blinked, and added with an even wider, if vaguely embarrassed smile, "A drink? That's my line. Well, I would ask, but you already have one." As he dropped his eyes to Laszlo's mug, his gaze passed on to the red rose nearby. Leaving his hand over Laszlo's, he reached his other out to pluck the rose off the table, careful not to prick himself on the thorns. He pressed his nose against it and breathed in deeply. "It's real. I wasn't expecting that. Isn't it charming, that little rumor about the hidden meaning behind the roses? Impossible, of course, but still charming. All places should have such inventive lore attached to them. T'would make for a much more interesting world, no?"*

[Laszlo]

Laszlo absorbed the compliment as it was offered, a bit unsure of what to do with it. His timid smile took on a shadow of modesty while he glanced away, remembering the presence of the nearby patrons in the restaurant. Despite his new conspicuousness, no one really seemed to take notice of him, too involved in their quiet conversations.

Catching the eyeline of a passing waitress, he gestured the woman over with a hurried come-hither flick of his fingers. With a patient smile, she obliged him and stepped up to her table. Either she didn't mind that Laszlo looked like a Symenestra, or she pretended not to. "Another, please. And one for my friend, here." The girl nodded and sauntered off happily to fetch two more mugs.

Once that was taken care of, the Ethaefal took to finishing off what was left in his mug.

He choked when Ambrose reminded him of the rumor regarding the roses, nearly spitting the ale back into the mug. Composing himself, the mug found the table again as his violet eyes remembered the rose. How could he have forgotten about it until now? The petals brandished such a passionate shade of red. Could they really have any power over this meeting? It really didn't seem likely. Laszlo hadn't even considered…

A hand appeared over his. A single gray eyebrow twitched upward.

…however, if something did happen, he didn't foresee himself exactly complaining. All the more reason to down another pint of ale.

"I don't think much about the world." Laszlo looked up at Ambrose again, sliding a lock of silvery hair behind his ear. Ambrose avoidance of his question hadn't gone unnoticed, and he took the hint. Laszlo didn't want to explain his reasons, either. "I find it… exhausting. Do you ever feel burdened, Ambrose? With your weight pulling your feet to the ground as it does?" Wait. "Er, don't misunderstand, I didn't mean… Sorry. Ale does wonders for my ability to sound philosophical. I don't much care for being tethered to the earth, is what I mean."

A curious stare lingered on Ambrose' hand for a moment longer, uncertain how to interpret the gesture. Given the compliment before, though, he began to think he might have understood. Not being sure what he himself made of it, his clawed hand stayed. He liked the warmth of it anyway.

[Ambrose Kain]

It pleased Ambrose to see the handsome male flustered, though he wasn't the malicious sort. It was more that seeing such a luscious creature lose track of his words made him seem more human, and thus more within Ambrose's league. Faintly twitching his fingers in what might have been a light pat, he tilted his head slightly and allowed himself a long look at Laszlo's features. The Symenestran hadn't recoiled yet, at least; that was a good sign.

"I suppose gravity does get wearying after awhile, especially when one's feet are sore from many miles of walking," he responded, choosing not to engage the strangeness of the question. "However, I have no wings to carry me, so for that I'm glad there is yet a force to 'keep me tethered.' In some regards, it can be nice to float through life. But I'd rather not do so physically."

Finally, the absurdity caught him, and he turned his head quickly to hide a laugh. "Forgive me," he said, faintly blushing and still laughing quietly. "Perhaps that isn't what you meant. Or is it? Do these...other Symenestrans...tend to grow wings?" He knew nothing about the race after all, only that they weren't human; for all he knew, their human-like form was a mere illusion, and underneath they were insectoid monstrosities. The cool hand under his own didn't feel like an illusion, though.*