After Hours

[Seven Xu]

Spring 22nd, 511 AV

“Closing time, Ned.”

It was harder to rouse the drunk from his perch without Laszlo and his uncanny ability to command the man—through a stern voice, or djed-laden suggestion—but another early morning passed without incident, and Ned shambled from the Stallion’s Rear, shoes scraping defiantly against an aged hardwood floor. A murmured good-night was exchanged with an unintelligible grunt. Seven was behind him, threading an iron key through an old latch once the door had thumped shut; Ned’s lumbering outline was soon lost to the crushing darkness of Alvadas’ streets.

Four bells rang from a distant clock tower.

Seven all but collapsed into the nearest chair, still drawn out from its home beneath an unpolished table. His tired ankle had swollen, but relief washed over his heels and toes in a glorious, dull ache. Forehead met tabletop, with little regard for room-warm crescents left behind by enthusiastic wooden mugs. There he sat, for several breaths, listening to the sound of his own heart, the progress of vermin in their thin walls, the howl of wind against uplifted shingles. He let sleep tease him, weigh his arms against his lap and pour comfortable black ink into the edges of his vision. He let invisible violet coalesce and shimmer around a burned leg; it was a promise of protection as much as it was a perversion of practicality.

Get up, fool.

He rose with a start, shook bleariness from his face, and grabbed and flipped the chair legs-up on the table. Bare feet slapped a lopsided path to a locked door at the back end of the long and narrow tavern. The fire had gone to angry red embers. Winter still lingered in the dead of night. Seven bent to a modest pile of timber, when nebulous black shifted just beyond the fire’s sight.

A gasp caught in his throat. He nearly stumbled. “Gods,” a log rattled against the back of the hearth, sending a flurry of orange out and up, dying before they could light a broken ceiling. How could he have missed someone? Seven’s thumping heart was in the back of his mouth when he tried to swallow it down and stand. His mouth opened and closed a few times, a wet pink cave with venomous stalactites. Then, he managed to make a sound; his voice cracked.

“You—the tavern’s—I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”

[Vulpeculae]

He was developing a like for Alvadas and its nightlife, when the moon was high and the world was dark. It was quieter, peaceful. He wasn't one for sleep, finding that, oddly enough, he didn't seem to need much of it, so the man had been searching for places to spend his time. After his first time out, running into that woman who was far too "hand on", he'd become a bit braver, deciding that visiting one of the local taverns would help him become more comfortable with being around people. Maybe find someone like him, or knew about him. If anything, he might someone he could talk to. That was how Vulpeculae had found himself in "The Stallion's Rear". How could someone pass up a tavern with such an amusing name? Sure there was the moment of awkwardness when he had first walked in, unsure of himself and how the patrons of the tavern would react to him. Though once he had sat down and ordered a drink or two, his mood had lifted. The the atmosphere was comfortable and the drink was good. He had kept to himself for most of the night, sitting off on his own and watching. People didn't pay much notice to him, lost in their chatter and thoughts. It was well into the night when the tavern crowd began to thin, people heading home for the night. Fairly soon, it was just him and the one drunk left, and the other male was being led out by the strange man who seemed to be running the place. Strange in the way that was immediately obvious in that he didn't look like the regular batch of customers. His hair was white, or very nearly pure white, and the one time the pale man had walked by him, Vulpe could have sworn the his eyes were red. From what he had observed in the short time since his fall, people didn't have red eyes. Perhaps he would know, or at least have some information, about what he was. He had waited for the tavern to close, not wanting to speak openly about species, and what he amy or may not be. For he was certainly not human. Seeing that the last customer had been ushered out, a sudden nervousness reached forward and wrapped itself around his core, doubt filling his mind about the decision he had made. What if this man knew him for the monster he already thought he was? That thought alone was enough to stop him from stepping out right away, sticking to the wall he had been haunting for most of the night. It wasn't until the other man had moved towards the fire, that Vulpe got the courage to move, drifting towards the other. Understandably, the man was startled, finding Vulpe in his tavern when they had already closed. Vulpe gave the other an apologetic smile, stepping forward more confidently to meet the startled man. "No no, you don't need to apologize." He insisted, waving his hand as if waving the situation away. "I was the one lurking around. I'm sorry for startling you." Vulpe's eyes lingered on the other's, quite drawn in by their red colour.

[Seven Xu]

Seven opened and closed his mouth once or twice, like some marooned fish gasping for air. Widow, those dumbfounded lips wanted to say, but his tongue was flat and dry and stupid, and silence flooded the space between them. Fire snapped at the new log. The stranger stared unabashedly. Seven broke away from orange-lit violet to glance at a locked door.

“I’m fine,” it was a muttered failure to save grace; he reached for a tangle of feathery white at the nape of his neck, finding some comfort in curling unruly strands of hair around the tips of his fingers. It wanted for a razor, having grown out its last remnants of oily black. “You’re quiet.”

He remembered the waif, having swept in at some point past the midnight bell. Only now did he realize he did not recall him leaving. No one else had paid him any mind; symenestra were a common occurrence. Its former owner spent his nights in a Widow’s mask, and Seven was a bastard of a bastard, diluted and noticeably inhuman. But, the man had little love for blood he had not asked for. He had even less for those that pegged him as a deviant, a savage woman-thief; Lhavit had given him his fill. In his mind’s eye, he was human, or at least, the closest thing to it.

He tried to shake an unnerving fixation, only to realize he had let a short-lived conversation die on crackling flame again. Seven’s nostrils hissed with an abrupt inhale and he slapped his thighs with open palms at the end of stiff-elbowed arms.

“You’ll probably want out, then,” When Seven relaxed, it seemed to lose him an inch in height. He made a move toward the door, toes curling and pushing against the cool wood beneath them. There was a mattress upstairs, already warm and waiting for him, with heavy, musky sheets and a hard-packed down pillow that smelled like an unwashed scalp—almost sweet, irrefutably familiar.

A blind hand fumbled for a key ring, but stubborn iron eluded him and clattered to the floor. Seven stooped to retrieve the stray tavern key, balancing meager weight on his one good ankle. “I’ve locked Ned in here a few times, you know, never even noticed him until the next afternoon.” He stood with the help of a nearby stool, the ring dangling from a hooked fingertip. “You’re welcome to come back if you can find us; I owe you a free drink for this.”

[Vulpeculae]

A small chuckle left his lips at the male's comment on him. "Yes, I suppose I am." He answered, his voice dropping away at the end. He wasn't entirely sure what to say at this point, how to bring up the questions he needed to ask. One did not just walk up to another and accuse them of not being human. That just didn't seem the proper way to go about things, and it seemed the easiest way to offend someone. The conversation between them died, silence hanging over them, heavy and deafening. Nervously, Vulpeculae shifted his weight from one foot to the next, hoping that the other man might say something, anything, to break the quiet that had settled into the room. Finally, after what had seemed like an eternity of waiting, the shorter of the two finally spoke, the silence shattering and falling like broken glass. "Right, yes." He agreed, forcing a smile to his face. He didn't really want to leave. Even if he could find his way back to the tavern in the ever changing city, he'd likely not have the courage to approach the male about the questions he had, even though the other male seemed pleasant enough. A slight frown pulled at the edge of his smile. He should probably ask for the man's name before the end of the night. Vulpe followed after the shorter male as he made his way to the door, his tongue pressing against the backs of his fangs in nervous habit as he tried desperately to figure out how to start this strange conversation. The dropped key sounded like thunder in his ears, making him jump. Realizing what it was, he felt slightly embarrassed by his reaction, heat rising up to his cheeks. How silly, to be so wound up that the drop of a key would make him jump. He really was thinking on this too hard. As the man bent to retrieve the key, Vulpe took notice of the way he favoured his one foot, a frown crossing his features. He almost missed the small comment about Ned, his mind taking a few moments to catch up with the words. "Ned? Ah, that was the last man you walked out, right?" He answered, wanting to keep the conversation flowing with as few silences as possible. Anything to avoid another of those. His amethyst eyes darted down to the man's foot again, curious about how it came to be in pain, for what other reason would someone favour a foot? His eyes came back up to meet red, and found themselves locked. It was just so strange. No one he had ever met had eyes such a colour, and he found himself lost in the marvel of how it came to be that one so pale had eyes so dark. "Well, I shall have to take you up on that offer." He answered, not really thinking on the offer. It was a nice gesture, but he wasn't really interested in the drink. He was much more interested in this strange man, and the knowledge he might know. "If I may ask, and please tell me if I'm crossing a line here, how did your eyes come to be such an unusual colour?" His gaze didn't waver, still staring into the ruby pools.

[Seven Xu]

The door had barely slipped from its berth before it thumped shut again. “My eyes?” the question came out incredulous from Seven’s parched and hanging lips. He managed to close his jaw and turn away from the symenestra to fight with a stubborn lock. The probability of a stray customer so close to dawn was unlikely, but it was an excuse to steer away from the unshakable stare. He would have ignored it if it had come from a human, one whose sister or daughter or mother had been taken to caverns beyond the mountains, but no, not from this man, this ashen waif.

“They’re red,” he remarked numbly, a few heartbeats later, “Yours are purple. I was born with them. It can’t be helped.”

Quiet as a ghost, Seven moved barefoot across the floor, the pads of his feet making no sound against the worn and well-oiled wood. He made an effort not to limp, but the stiff flesh that wrapped his right foot and ankle were loath to give him the satisfaction of careful grace. “Sit down,” he offered; a smile finally blossomed on his lips and with a teasing lilt in his voice, he added, “You wouldn’t happen to be named after a star, would you?”

Ale flowed freely from a cask, when he turned its wooden stopper. It was caught in a thick wooden mug that frothed and sputtered as it was filled. Then, he filled another. Seven let his gaze lift again, beyond the curtain of white lids and whiter bangs. He laughed and shook his head before the stunned spider could respond. “My apologies, the last symenestra I knew was not a symenestra at all—he was something else. From the heavens, he said. He spoke without an accent and asked silly questions, too.” Seven’s shoulders lifted and fell, speaking of fallen celestials as if they were a common occurrence. His smile dropped. He carried the mugs to the nearest table, offering one to the Widow while sipping from the other.

“Are you not from Kalinor?”

[Vulpeculae]

Oh dear, had he maybe asked something he shouldn't have? He hadn't really thought before speaking. Perhaps the man's red eyes had become something of a touchy subject for him? Vulpeculae fell into an uncomfortable silence as the red eyed male turned away, not sure if he should apologize for the topic and let it drop completely, or maybe follow up on his question. He couldn't just let this sit between them. They had been getting along so well before he had brought up the topic. He had decided to apologize when the other male decided to answer his question. The lack of emotion in his voice seemed to indicate that, while he didn't enjoy where the topic had turned, he was willing to answer. Hopefully he didn't ask anything too personal. It might end up with the other shutting him out completely, and he'd have lost his chance to learn. About this man, what he knew. Any information he had about him. Vulpe matched the man's smile when he was finally awarded with one, taking up his offer to sit down. He would have to be out of his mind, or lacking any sort of manners, to refuse the hospitality. Amethyst eyes widened in surprise as his host managed to pin point something so personal to him. His name was his hope. His hope of maybe one day returning to the stars and the sky that housed his gods. Vulpe didn't answer the man on the question, unnerved by how accurate the man had been in such a simple question. A smile twitched on to his lips as the other laughed, forced and polite. Though, it took on a touch of realism when he began to speak of his fallen friend. Came from the heavens? Why, that sounded exactly like himself. This man must have met another like him. What had he called him? Symenestra? Is that what he was? It seems he had chosen well in asking this man. He at least knew enough to answer a few of his questions. He took the offered mug of ale with a smile, though it was short lived. "Kalinor?" He echoed, thinking hard. It sounded so familiar, but not enough to bring up an image. "I...I'm not sure. Maybe?" That sounded pathetic, his eyes dropping down, not able to hold the other man's gaze. "There's not much that I remember about myself. Who I am... What I am." His fingers curled around the mug in his hands, a dark frown set on his face. He took a drink from the mug, hoping the ale would put him in a better mood. His lack of knowledge was unnerving to himself.

[Seven Xu]

Something welled up through the depths of Seven’s gut like air through water. It closed around his throat, wiped pride from his countenance, and fizzled what wit-laden observations remained in the front of his mind. It was guilt, and it has begun to tear holes in him like acid with every teasing word he recalled, wished he could revoke. “You can’t remember.” His tongue was dry, it was bitter; it clung to the roof of his mouth. Sickening empathy hit him harder than it should have, tickled the backs of his eyes and forced him to stare into liquid amber. “I’m sorry.”

A blank slate, as enviable as it was pitiable.

The feeling did not pass, would not for a while, but Seven summoned the smile he had lost. “I suppose you think I know more about you than you do. I’m flattered, but red eyes don’t offer a lot of insight when it comes to spiders.”

One hand brushed through a balmy forest of porcelain white on the back of his neck before it dropped against the table with a muted slap. Seven sucked on his bottom lip. “You should go to a symenestra. Ask them; ask someone who’s been there. I’m afraid I’m a fake. My blood’s more diluted than our ale.”

He drank, let silence fill the room and drum against his ears—or was it footsteps above his head? His eyes drifted upward, but only saw the broken mosaic that would lend no clue as to the goings-on of the tavern’s upper level.

“Doesn’t matter to most though, I look the part well enough. Shit, I even fooled you.”

[Vulpeculae]

Despite being rather remorse about the state of his own mind, there was a dark current in the back of Vulpeculae's mind that was wickedly happy at hearing the shock and guilt that swirled in tones that were just underneath the man's voice. He did his best to squash it down, bury it away in a forgotten corner, but it still skittered around in his head, threatening to pull a smirk to his lips. "You don't need to apologize." He spoke softly, bringing his eyes back to the pale man in front of him. "It's not as though you caused it." He allowed the smile to touch his lips now, small and reassuring. He didn't blame the other for the sullen mood that had drifted over them, and really, he apologized far more than Vulpe thought he should. It was a bit of a disappointment to hear that the other couldn't really shed much light on what he was. Still, at least he had a name for his race. Symenestra, or Spider as the red eyed male had put it. "Even if you can't answer all the questions I have, I'm glad I decided to talk with you." His eyes drifted down to the table again, fingers tracing invisible lines on its surface. A brief chuckle left his lips. "Yes, you fooled me. Though as easy as it was, I wouldn't call it a boastful accomplishment." Vulpe leant back in his chair, letting his eyes close a moment, thoughts turning in his head. So he'd have to find another Symenestra to get the answers he needed? Did that mean he'd need to head to... oh what had he called it? Kalinor? That was right. Kalinor. He'd have to do some research into that. With his earlier smile returning to his lips, Vulpeculae sat up, leaning his weight on to his elbows. "Thank you for indulging me tonight. You've given me some leads so I'm no longer grasping straws." His head tilted to one side curiously. "You know, we've been talking for so long, and I still haven't asked you your name."

[Seven Xu]

“Seven.”

There was another pause and a short breath of a laugh. Tiles overhead had begun to shift into the dull grey of early morning, snuffing out the dimmest stars one by one. “Seven Xu, here and in Lhavit—Dra-Seven, I suppose, if you were to refer to me in Kalinor. That is, if I knew anyone in Kalinor.”

He watched the spider close the space between them, propped on sharp elbows and head cocked in interest. Seven rocked forward to mirror his guest, moving a curtain of shaggy white from his forehead with a sweep of mismatched fingertips. A half-empty mug scraped over timeworn grooves in the wooden table, pushed by Seven’s insistence to lean his small frame against its weight.

“And yours?” He pressed without knowledge of his insistence, having long since shrugged off a halfhearted joke. “Do you remember your given name, or did you have to make one up?”

Seven’s smile gave way to a noticeable wince as his leg twisted beneath his chair and fresh pain shot from ankle to knee. Cold sweat ripped across his forehead and he dropped his chin under the pretense of staring into the dark wooden mug.