Paradigm [Laszlo]

[Abalia]

1 Winter, 511 AV Her hair was pulled up. Long, silken locks of the deepest brown, tresses that Laszlo had buried his fingers in. Away from the curvature of decidedly human, delicately lovely features. The only person who could have intuitively understood what that meant for Abalia was gone now. Half a lifetime spent with Roxanne meant that the kelvic knew her moods, her emotions, and the cues that went along with them. If Abalia had returned 'home' with her pretty hair all pulled back, Roxxie would have coddled her at once. Those skilled fingers would have pulled her hair down, chased the tension from her neck and shoulders, and then crushed her in a sweet smelling hug that would have lasted most of the night. Abalia had always known she loved Roxanne. She'd always realized she was a special part of her existence. What she hadn't realized was just how much she depended on the kittenish raccoon. For nearly everything, it would seem. The absence of Roxxie didn't manifest itself as mourning tonight. It didn't seep through the cracks as sadness, or anything of the sort. Tonight Roxanne was missed in the ponytail that no one else could interpret. "Dog, listen," Abalia spoke with measured patience. Her teeth ground together as she stared down at him. He was green, today, with a yellow stripe down his back. Ionu was ridiculous sometimes. "I don't belong to you. You sure don't belong t'me, 'kay? I got no more foot for you, really. So shoo, already. Shoo!" She nudged the stupid animal, who merely sat on his haunches with his tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth, with the heel of her foot. He didn't budge, and so Abalia merely huffed and went on. He trotted along after her, so that the last sound she gave to the glittering night and the first offering given to the magical ceiling inside the Sun and Stars, was a strangled growl of frustration. "Stupid petching..." she cursed and mumbled at the door. She wasn't in a bad mood. Not really. But after several days of that damned dog following her everywhere, frustration was beginning to mount. The door closed behind her, shutting the dog out, and Abalia took a moment to fix her gaze upwards upon the moon above. She blew out a breath of frustration, inhaled the musty stench of booze and men, and reoriented herself. With a smile towards flirtatious stars, she swiveled her gaze around towards the bar, and what she hoped was behind it. Laszlo wasn't Laszlo anymore. Not the golden one, anyway. Not the one with strong arms to support her when she lost herself in the feel of his lips, with horns to glimmer in Syna's sweet light, with features so perfect it nearly hurt to look at him. Now his dark, ominous claws clanked against the bin of dirty glasses he was jostling about. Now the glorious bulk he possessed when Syna ruled had dwindled, and his form was lankier. His hair was free and dark, and while any sensible person looking at the two comparatively would have to say that Laszlo was more beautiful in the day, Abalia couldn't make that claim. She just wasn't certain. There was something so alluring about this dark grace he possessed, and though he hadn't spotted her yet, she slinked up to the bar nonetheless. Settled atop a stool, she leaned forward to reach beyond the place where the bar ended. There she snatched the damp towel he'd draped across his forearm, and pulled it back to fall upon the bar in front of her. Having garnered his attention, the fixation of those stunning eyes, she questioned him with the smallest of smiles. "Are we still cranky, Laszlo? I gave you a few days."

[Laszlo]

Laszlo didn't pay much attention when the door opened to yield another thirsty customer. He wasn't noticing much of anything tonight, his thought processes all as cold and mechanical as his service and bartending. On the downslope of his seasonal Symenestra aggression, Laszlo was still less than charming toward his guests, flashing the white glint of his bared teeth and cursing under his breath for some barely-adequate reason or another at least a handful of times before midnight rolled around. On this night, his ill-mood would be coupled with an unusual unawareness, a noticeable disconnection from the events going on around him. The newly brunet Seven was forced to pick up the slack, waiting tables that Laszlo failed to notice, or heeding calls that he didn't seem to hear. For the most part, the Ethaefal stayed safely behind the bar. The wound at his side was aching, and he didn't want to move much. Pivoting on his waist seemed to agitate the edges of the cold, clean slash, so anyone who might be paying attention might notice the usually graceful creature moving a little more stiffly. It couldn't be that unusual; everyone had their off-days. Laszlo may not have been feeling well. He was being rather quiet tonight, apart from his seemingly random flashes of anger. The things going on inside Laszlo's head were dizzying. He felt compelled to move forward, to do his job, live his life, and continue on as he always had, if last night had never happened. The sound of her voice remained in his ears, the touch of her fingers was remembered by his skin, and the smell of her blood… All of that was gone now. She was gone. Given back to Leth, a soul too bright for its own good. Instead of lighting up the world, she only burnt herself out. Laszlo had done everything he could to help her, had been with her, and in the end she simply couldn't go on. She had almost been like family, belonging to a "race" of anomalies that all faced hell the first minute they drew breath. To see one fall with his own eyes… it was humbling. Terrifying. Perhaps she hadn't exactly ended her life the way she intended, with Laszlo's hand on the pommel of her dagger, but it was still her fault it happened. He couldn't be entirely blamed for her death. It had been an accident. Even in during his seasonal phase of rage and anger he wouldn't have intentionally pushed that knife into her. It was her fault… Suddenly the towel on Laszlo's arm fled in a hurry, then dropping lifelessly on the bartop. The Ethaefal snapped his head around to glare at the offender, only to be taken aback by a set of soft, pleadingly gentle eyes, ringed in brown velvet. A slight smile touched her full lips, and though Laszlo felt some of his anger drain away to see it, it wasn't enough to abate the sharp scowl on his face. "What is your definition of a few?" Laszlo asked in an exhausted growl, clearly irked. "The day before tomorrow does not constitute a "few" days. Who in the world taught you your numbers?" It was a petty thing to scold her about, but Laszlo didn't seem to mind. It felt like a perfectly reasonable thing to be irritated over. Two days. Who refers to "two" as a few? Honestly. Laszlo stared at her for a moment longer. "Yes, I'm still cranky. Wine for you, Abalia?" Unable to show it, Laszlo was in part relieved to see her again. He couldn't begin to compare Roxanne's death to Siofra's, and his pleasure in seeing her had nothing to do with regrets nor a desire for understanding. If he were feeling more rational, he might have been put on edge to see her at all, worried that his guilt would show through and he might end up confessing too many of his sins. No, she was a source of warmth for him, someone he knew needed a shoulder to lean on. As of recently, that's what he needed too. A little mutual support would do him well.

[Abalia]

"No, I don't want your wine. It's still shitty, no matter how cute you are." Abalia rolled her eyes at his vague complaint, and glanced over her shoulder towards the myriad of life that had straggled in off the streets of Alvadas to occupy space in his tavern. "If all you have to bitch about is my counting, then I dare say you're well on the way to recovery. So unimaginative, really." Having accidentally caught the eye of a half-intoxicated, threatening looking louse across the room, Abalia, diverted big browns back to the grouchy Symenestra, with his beautiful hair and those long fingers she wanted so much to touch. Tonight would be a wonderful time to feel them, pressing into her back, along the line of her throat. He could bleed the pain away in pinkish trails, so pretty on her fair skin. This wasn't the time for that kind of thinking, especially with his tongue so sharp tonight, and so she pursed her lips and merely stared up at him. "We could discuss the weather next, if you like. Would you like to complain about the weather, Laszlo? I'm all ears.

[Laszlo]

"You're trying to annoy me," Laszlo observed coldly, his violet eyes hardening as he stared down the narrow bridge of his nose at her. She had a keen mind, extroverted and analytical—like Victor, but with less control and far less conniving. Where Victor was the manipulator, aiming for a certain outcome, Abalia was a kitten with a piece of string. She saw the frayed end of Laszlo's nerves and wanted to play at it, for the curiosity's sake. She wasn't afraid of conventional things, like a stern look, a bared fang, or a raised tone of voice. Any of that would only make her hesitate at most, until her resolve came bounding back and she'd bat at her piece of string with renewed enthusiasm. "It's going to work, if you keep this up. You'll be disappointed when my solution is to show you the door." Despite what he said, Laszlo turned and hooked two long fingers through the ring of a hanging mug, then sauntered the two steps over to the lager keg mounted on a back counter. Two other kegs stood nearby, one of them drooling a slow steady rhythm of droplets that disappeared behind the bar (though there was likely a dark patch by now on the wooden floor). The tap was cool to the touch as Laszlo turned it to fill the mug, and then twisted it shut again with a soft whine. He paused then, lifting the mug to his lips and taking a small sinful taste. Seemingly satisfied, he turned back to Abalia and slid the mug I front of her, the thin ribbon of his tongue licking the last of the flavor from his upper lip. "Ever had lager?" Laszlo's salesman tone left much to be desired, the question coming out as monotone and critical. He leaned over on the bar, crossing his forearms as his elbows supported his body weight. "It's a little harsher and bitterer than ale, but my friend Victor prefers it. It's the only thing we serve that's chilled." Laszlo wasn't sure he had the patience for Abalia's games tonight. He knew she liked him, beyond whatever coyness she teased him with. That kiss the other day had been proof of something desperate and weak in her. Even if she only missed her friend, he knew it was more than idle fascination that kept Abby coming back to test him. Question was, what sort of reaction was she hoping for? Lashing out in any minor way wouldn't phase her. Did she want Laszlo to lose his temper and cause a scene? Attack her? Kill her? Just like Siofra. Amethyst eyes hid suddenly behind tightly closed lids as Laszlo visibly shuddered. He parted his lips, taking a steady breath, and in another instant dispelled whatever had come over him. Catching a flash of scrutiny from Abalia's wide, brown eyes, Laszlo lowered an offended eyebrow. "I hate feeling like this. The tavern overwhelms me periodically. I'm going to need some air, soon."

[Abalia]

"No," Abalia answered smoothly, as he turned to fetch a drink she had not ordered. "I'm not trying to annoy you. That'd be like carrying a bucket of water to the sea and dumping it in, and saying I was making it wet. You are annoyed, and I'm not in the mood to pretend to be offended and hurt so you feel accomplished tonight. Mm, bitter? I usually like sweeter things," she said, with a smile that was both pointed and playful, entirely impossible to read. She accepted the glass he gave to her, secretly thrilled at the simple notion of drinking after him. The tongue that had so casually retrieved the taste of it from his lip had, however innocuously, brushed her glass. She was pathetic, really, turning the glass intentionally so that she could drink from the same place as him. Without another retort, she lifted the lager to her ruby lips and tasted a tiny sip. Her nose crinkled a little, dark eyes narrowing in speculative consideration. For a moment, Laszlo didn't exist as she attempted to make friends with her mug and it's occupant. "Mm," she said at last. "I think I like it. It isn't conventionally tasty," she said, lifting those eyes that vacillated between fragile innocence and a shrewd wit. "But it is growing on me." Abalia had only known him a short while, but she was interested enough in all forms of Laszlo to recognize the something different that flashed across his darkly handsome face. Her brow furrowed, but she refused to fall into pity and platitudes, especially when she had no idea what might be on his mind. She felt even less comfortable exposing anything of herself that could be damaged to Laszlo at night, and so she merely picked at the edge of her mug. "I can't imagine being trapped in one place, like this. Alvadas was my playground, and my home. Nothing is ever the same. I think such predictability would drive me mad. Where will you go?"

[Laszlo]

She didn't like it. Laszlo saw the way her nose wrinkled and her brow furrowed. Abalia was only being polite. The bartender wondered, then, if she had mistakenly thought he gave her the drink for free. He lifted two fingers and tapped a pair of black claws onto the counter top, indicating that he was waiting. "It's a silver for that," he pointed out helpfully, sidestepping Abalia's prodding question. Lifting a silver eyebrow, he sent a glance down at the mug. "It's an acquired taste. You learn to like the sting of it. I'll only charge you five copper if you want to share it." Before waiting for an answer, Laszlo snared the mug with a sweep of his slender hand. His fingers brushed her palm accidentally as he pulled the glass toward himself again, though he sent no apologetic glances for it. By the time the mug's bottom met the bar again, two mouthfuls of lager were gone. "I don't feel trapped here. I feel grounded." How could Laszlo explain that his existence had felt like a dream from the start? Nothing about this world made sense in a way that sat well with the Ethaefal. Alvadas was a relief because nothing was supposed to make sense. Yet, like a fool, he still craved some sense of normalcy, the comfort of routine. This tavern was it. "These past few days, though, I tire quickly. Normally I'd just take a walk." The last walk didn’t end so well. "Tonight, I'll probably just step outside. The air is cold, usually, and it calms me. I feel rejuvenated." It was annoying, feeling this drawn to the girl in front of him. Laszlo had intended to regard her crossly for failing to heed his request, but he couldn't help but want to talk to her. She made him feel calmer, more at ease. Not in any way that calmed the Symenestra in him, but there was something intrinsically soothing about being around her. She needed someone, the way he often needed someone. Laszlo however did not have much preference to whether that "someone" was a stranger or a friend. He wondered if Abalia played this game with anyone else. The pad of his thumb traced around the lip of the mug, topped with a wicked, curved claw. "You've never been outside Alvadas, have you?"

[Abalia]

Abalia screwed up her face when he mentioned payment, the twisted smirk softening into a bemused laugh when he stole the drink away for himself. She had no intention of paying for something she hadn't even asked for, and so she allowed his voice to carry the flow of conversation on easily enough. When he spoke of being grounded to a place, Abalia was quite literally lost. She attempted to understand it, to wrap her mind around the concept, but she simply couldn't. How could you be attached to a building, when there was nothing permanent about wood or stone? They were never in the same place twice. Hell, in Ionu's city even buildings sometimes had personality. You couldn't trust a structure crafted by mortal hands, not in a city of deception. "I haven't," she admitted, lazily unfurling her fingers to stare distractedly at the faintest line of pink upon her palm, the mark of his claw upon her skin. "How can you care so much about a place, Laszlo? What if you can't find it tomorrow? Ionu could take it from you, if he wanted. Then what would you have?" That's what people were for. Abalia had lost her center, and perhaps gave Laszlo too much of her attention because of it, but she would find her way again. She'd figured it out after Dolvich left. And though she had the distinct sensation that Roxxie hadn't left her by choice, she'd survive this too. She still couldn't imagine using anything less than a living soul to center oneself, to find grounding. "People are the only thing that you can count on in this city. And then, of course, most of them are dangerous or mad, so you can't really trust any of them. Is it miserable, being so helplessly emotional? I imagine it must be frustrating, to recognize that you're pissed over nothing, but to have absolutely no way to fix it." Abalia had a way of speaking too bluntly sometimes, but the round eyes that stared upwards at him expectantly were so guileless that it would have been impossible to imagine that she meant to insult.

[Laszlo]

A pair of silvery eyebrows lowered as Laszlo shot an offended glare at Abalia's narrow face. "It's been miserable since day one," he remarked plainly, as if that was something she should have known." From the flow of her speech, it sounded as if Abalia was insinuating that Laszlo's very moods were what made him untrustworthy, although she has specifically stated she didn't trust him even before she knew he could change. Still… "And I'm not mad. I've seen mad, Abalia, and I'm certainly not… that." Damn you, Siofra. Curse you for everything. Laszlo swiped away Abalia's mug and turned to take a long, painful drink of the cold, bitter lager. He grabbed the counter as he leaned over the swallow it, the burn in his throat momentarily arresting his speech. As it faded, Laszlo straightened and set the mug on the counter. A now-free hand swept through his gray mane, pushing at the side of his face and intertwining his spidery fingers through his thin hair. His other hand upon the counter curled into a loose fist. He sighed. "I'm stepping outside. You shouldn't have come tonight. This is not me at my best." That implied that Laszlo would have preferred to see him at his best, and that was true. Any man should be allowed his dignity. Beyond that, however he knew he was entering a dangerous dance with this girl, the friend of a kelvic that Victor and Seven had murdered. It would be easier to navigate this unintelligent association with Abalia with a clear head and an able mind. "Seven!" Laszlo called across the room to the dark haired halfblood. He didn't have to explain where he was going. Seven was used to this by now and surely he hoped Laszlo's tiff with his Symenestra blood would end soon. The Lhavitian acknowledged Laszlo with a nod and the barely concealed rolling of his eyes. Even if he wanted to object, he knew Laszlo would happily leap into a loud and heated argument with him if he tried. Without another glance to Abalia, Laszlo abandoned their "shared" mug and crossed the tavern. His warm, woolen cloak was pulled from the rack and swept around him as he adjusted it to his shoulders. Prepared for the winter air, the door pulled open, swallowed the Ethaefal, and then promptly shut. Outside, Laszlo leaned against the building, resting his head back and closing his eyes. His breath came in a white, misty cloud as he allowed the freezing air to pierce his lungs. In just a few seconds, he felt so much calmer.

[Abalia]

It was inevitable, really, that she'd follow him. Laszlo might have expected the creak of the heavy door and, if he hadn't, he should have. The Sun and Stars held no special appeal for Abalia, who couldn't handle her booze and certainly did not fit in with the typical patronage. There were only two things worth coming to the tavern for; the beautiful ceiling, which seemed to like her, and the brooding barkeep now drinking in the icy winter air. "I don't think you're mad," she said, her voice sparkling and crisp like their breath in the dull illumination of the street. On the other side, where rose colored buildings towered over the shadow of the tavern, a man walked past. One leg did not seem as functional as the other, and sort of dragged behind with each step. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, even as his head swiveled around so that he could stare directly at the pair of them. Without thinking, Abalia took another step up so that her smaller frame edged closer to Laszlo. Slender fingers reached to curl about his arm, just above his elbow, and the dip of her head brought her temple to rest against his bicep. Abalia wasn't afraid. There were things far more frightening in the streets of Alvadas than a man like that. But she'd long since learned to use what was available, to deflect even the possibility of trouble when it was unnecessary. At present, Laszlo was the resource available. Whether he minded or not, she'd effectively made herself belong to him in the stranger's gaze. The creepy man eventually dragged his failing leg on and disappeared around a corner. "Just moody," she continued, as if she hadn't missed a beat. "But we're all entitled to that, right?" Why, exactly, she'd followed him was left entirely unstated. She had, and that was enough. She shivered once, and reluctantly released her hold on him. "I hate the cold."

[Laszlo]

Voices from inside the tavern briefly drifted outside as the door open, then were promptly shut up as it closed again. Laszlo winced to hear it again, quite grateful when the silence went back to being silent. The Alvadas air was crisp and aromatic with the flavor of dirt, mortar, and refuse, which Laszlo much preferred to the dank stench of the drunks inside. As Abalia's warmth pressed unexpectedly into his side, he did not stir: neither objecting nor acknowledging that she was there. Of course the Ethaefal had more or less expected, even wanted to Abalia to follow him. It was the bar crowd, their unending thirst, their dull chatter, and their continual lack of appreciation that had eaten away at the his patience, not the young woman with large eyes and an easy smile. Though it still made his hackles raise every time he saw her, thinking immediately of the dead kelvic, Laszlo was beginning to enjoy being around her. With every meeting, he became more relaxed around her, to the point where she even made him calmer than he was before. She was nosy, annoying, and stubborn, but in a way that forced Laszlo to understand that he wasn't the only one trapped in this world. She was, too, as was everyone else. A slow exhale left his nostrils, manifesting as a billowing curls of steam that washed warmly over his gray lips. Abalia hated the cold; the desire to put his arm around the small, fragile human was so automatic that he thought it had to be exactly what she wanted. As she let go of him, Laszlo sent a sidelong glance of violet in her direction, peering down from the corner of his eye. "You should drink more. It'd warm you up, and line my pockets. We'd both win." He turned his eyes away again, staring down at the road. The gravelly texture of the Alvadas street was unnaturally reflective tonight, appearing as an uneven mirror that held a lumpy, upside down version of the city upon its long face. "The cold makes me feel alive. It's nearly killed me at least a few times. Something about it reminds me that I'm still here, like I can physically feel the world holding onto me." Either Laszlo's Symenestra instinct won out or his desire for company won out over his pride, but he abandoned his reluctance anyway. His dark gray cloak shuffled back, yielding to the long, thin arm that snaked out and wrapped itself around Abalia's waist. He pulled her in next to him, so that she could feed on the warmth of his own body housed by a barrier of thick wool. His lips parted again as he drew breath to speak, but his mouth merely sat open for several seconds' worth of hesitance. The light in his eyes flickered with uncertainty, but he seemed to locate his words soon enough. "A friend of mine died last night," Laszlo uttered quietly, his usually silken, airy voice sinking down to an octave more fitting of his dayside pitch. "We weren't exactly close, but she was my kin, an Ethaefal like me, and half my age. She was… suicidal. I couldn't have stopped her. I tried to, but… I don't know what to think. I've found reasons to live, to continue on. She simply couldn't. I feel so…" Used. "…abandoned."