Denouement

[Laszlo]

Winter 4th, 511 Past sixteenth bell. It looked so worthless and small in Laszlo's hand. A tiny key, made from molded, impure brass, and tarnished with age, that fit easily in the hollow of his palm. The worn teeth at the end would fit perfectly into a lock, on a door, at the inn, which for now hid away and protected the material belongings of a woman who no longer existed. Weapons, money, baubles; artifacts of a misunderstood mind that would never be known again by anyone. She had given him this key, a cheaply made piece of metal, that made all of her belongings his. For days it had been heavy in his pocket, waiting for him to remember it. Laszlo almost hoped that he might accidentally lose it, so that he would be completely rid of Siofra and her insanity, and mistake he had made in corrupting her beyond redemption. He still had it, though, which meant that he had to do something with it. He could pitch it into the sea, but then what of Siofra's belongings? It would seem like a waste if he chose to let fate take its course, allowing the inn's owners to pilfer through a dead woman's things. The key was still his, which meant he had control over what would happen. Why give that up? The music ended with a yelp from a violin, and Laszlo clasped his hand shut and finally looked up. Eight or ten rows down was the stage, the focal point of the amphitheater. A cast of actors in colorful costume, one of them Eypharian, had completed their final act. Barking and rolling sounds of applause murmured through the small, patchy audience attending the Crooked Playhouse matinee. Laszlo held the room key in two smaller fingers as he lightly clapped with his palms, mindful not to bump the split on his broken finger. Although he hadn't paid rapt attention to the entire performance, he had enjoyed what'd watched. The Ethaefal had arrived about halfway through, finding his seat during some dramatic and musical confrontation scene he could only guess about. He might have been able to learn more, had he watched the rest of the performance carefully, but he'd been too distracted by recent events. Ifran was the only reason Laszlo had come this afternoon. The desert prince might be the only one who'd be able to help him. Seeing the play was just happenstance. As the spectators began to stand and leave the playhouse, Laszlo slipped past them and approached the stage, pocketing both the key and his uninjured hand. The actors were beginning to clean up the set, chatting amongst themselves. "Ifran," Laszlo called to them, putting on a weary smile. "It's always good to see you in action."

[Ifran]

Ifran looked bored from afar, standing in the middle of the stage and watching people move back and forth with set pieces and the like. Upon closer inspection, his inactivity was but an appearance. He was actually spending a great deal of energy clenching his jaw. It twitched, muscles shifting over bone and under skin, and he looked like he might bite harder than a Myrian tiger. Something had not gone his way, perhaps, as he was normally entirely subsuming himself into the role of lowly player rather than the desert prince that Laszlo knew, the one who held him through the terrors of night and took him by the horns in the morning light. His eyes flashed at the ethaefal's approach, like the terrible blue of the sky flashing behind the wings of some dark bird intent on one's flesh, but he relented instantly, the tension going out of his jaw and shoulders, and he bowed exquisitely with a dancer's grace and his statuesque physique. "Laszlo," he said, his mouth forming the name carefully, his voice lending it the air of a benediction. "You came." As if this were the only thing missing in his life. He descended from the dais, which, while making it harder for Laszlo to crane his neck quite so much to adore him from below, made it possible to embrace the man familiarly. "Let's get out of here," he said, as if not half-dressed with painted skin and hair. It was Alvadas, after all. When people didn't believe what they saw, they assumed it was illusion. For this one afternoon, anyway, he owned his pride. Having been snubbed, he would snub in return. An Eypharian never forgets.

[Laszlo]

Despite the grimness of the past few weeks, Laszlo couldn't stop himself smiling. It was a subdued look, warm, but appearing more relieved and tired. Ifran's accommodating reception immediately helped Laszlo to relax and feel more secure. And there was an edge to Ifran blue eyes—or it might have been the paint on his face and his intriguing costume—that tugged at a corner of Laszlo's heart. He was glad to be in good company. "I'm glad to hear you say that." Thumbing the key in his pocket, he turned and gestured his arm toward the theatre exit. He wouldn't begin leaving until he was sure Ifran was coming with him. Laszlo needed someone near him, right now. Even the thought of the Eypharian leaving to change his clothes and remove his facepaint made him feel dispirited. "I was really hoping I could steal you away for the evening." The smile had faded by now, but it still clung to the bare corners of his lips. His golden eyes made another sweep of Ifran's tall form. "You like nice, like that. I really like it."

[Ifran]

It certainly seemed that Ifran was intent on absconding with his costume for the evening; one hand rested at the small of Laszlo's back, another on his shoulder. So many hands! Ifran led him away, and out the stage door to avoid the milling crowd at the main entrance, though there were some few waiting there too. Thankfully some other actors had their share of admirers too, and he was able to navigate through the patches of people with Laszlo and then they were alone together, a horned man and a painted desert creature, of all the strange things in Alvadas, these two being real. Only outside did he respond. "You appreciate the exotic," he noted. They always played up the exoticism of his face and form, his words and the melodies of his blood. At times he tired of it, but when eyes like Laszlo's delighted in it, he could not be entirely at odds with his lot in life. There was something to be said for open admiration. "You need me," he noted, though he waited for the ethaefal to elaborate upon that fact.

[Laszlo]

Laszlo coughed, or laughed. He was startled to know he was so transparent, but not offended. "Yes," he admitted, looking down at their feet. The Alvadan street glittered like fine, golden sand in late afternoon sunlight. Laszlo watched his and Ifran's feet shuff through it, kicking up shortlived clouds that soon dusted their pant legs. "Does that bother you? I mean… I came for you, not the performance. I keep meaning to come see something in its entirety, but with the tavern I don't have much for free time." Just excuses. This wasn't why he'd sought out Ifran. It was difficult to remember that clearly, though, with the warmth of Ifran's hands on him. Much of Laszlo just wanted to find a quiet spot somewhere, so he could melt into all those arms and fall asleep again. Ifran might find the idea annoying. Laszlo smirked at his thoughts suddenly, then decided to press on. "I need a favor. And some advice. And company. I need a lot of things that aren't Seven or Victor or my damned bar." Or Abalia, who he was growing a little too fond of. Considering her unknown association with the men who murdered her friend, Laszlo should have washed his hands of her days ago. It was dangerous to keep spending time with her, with this terrible secret on the tip of his tongue. "I injured my hand, a couple of days ago." Laszlo lifted his injured hand, brandishing the splint on his finger. The bandaging was still fresh, and white, except for one small stain that was probably from ale. "I need help carting a few things from the Cubacious Inn to my home. Considering you're an Eypharian, you probably think it's laughable that something like that hinders me so much." He smiled, but swallowed. "Ifran, um. This will sound strange—are you a principled sort of man? Would you judge criminal for his deeds alone?"

[Ifran]

"At some point," he said slowly after some consideration, "if we are to be friends, it would be strange for you not to have made an appearance for the purpose of experiencing my work. But on the other hand, and I have many, I would not want you to come solely to appease me." He had many other hands, and could think of many other factors in this line of reasoning, but kept most of them to himself. People without six hands often grew bored or, worse, angry at how long it could take to look at a problem from all its angles. Had he been in Ahnatep or speaking to another Eypharian, the idea of a scion of the noble House of the North Winds playing valet would have been tantamount to insult, but they were not in Ahnatep and this was not an Eypharian. Playing the part of a common man among common men required one put aside one's gods given superiority sometimes. "I would be happy to help," he said without pause. But Laszlo kept talking as Laszlo was wont to do, always giving away too much to the patient listener, and Ifran might have to school him in intrigue if he did, in fact, become his friend. "I am not a priest, friend Laszlo. I live in the world, and most crimes can be rationalized by a clever mind." Whether he judged that was unclear, but he said nothing with such conviction, it sounded like, well, something.