The ball is rolling.

[Victor Lark]

“I’m not afraid,” Victor mentioned, falling back to bathe in the warmth of the sheets. “I’m trying to be reasonable.”

He did not have to laugh to make the joke true; neither was there any room for argument. Vethis’s mask had departed before Victor could think to stop it, and so he waited stubbornly for the last of the ethaefal to disappear behind their door. Left alone for an instant, he rose to his feet and swept to the dresser, produced a roll of socks and stole a kiss from the morning’s advocator.

Juggling his footwear between the hands that held it and the feet where it belonged, he tripped out the door in pursuit of their potential business partner. He had all but one shoe on by the time he reached the threshold to Laszlo’s room. Falling against the doorframe, he shoved it over his heel and inquired with a smirk, “You know how to get there?”

The city did. They reached the narrow black building in a matter of turns, just long enough for the skeptic to begin his interrogation. “And how much, exactly, did the Center say it would cost? We’re not exactly rich, and we’re not exactly friends.” As lies that were not lies spilled from a flagrant tongue, Victor put a hand on a shoulder that was as high as his head, and wondered how strong it was.

[Seven Xu]

Seven passed them both, shoulders offering the sky their lackadaisical retort. “No more than what we have,” he assumed, “and we’d get it back. Everyone drinks.”

The door was left unlocked, making Seven’s rattling on the latch look more confident than foolhardy. Boots woke ancient floorboards, forced them to scream in protest against that which crossed them. The sky was still there, all colors of azure and sunshine above his head and for that he was relieved. The tiles were real; the trickery was painted over them.

Years of dust covered most everything that had not been kicked up in recent visits. Old bottles on shelves were opaque with age, and cobwebs were strewn in every corner, around every support pillar. Seven sheathed his hand with a coat’s sleeve and wiped an ebony arc across the bar top. He sneezed.

“Not a bad place, it just needs polishing.” The same arm rose to brush his nose with the nook of his elbow, and he turned, hoping his bird and the Synaborn had followed.

[Laszlo]

The weight of a hand came upon Laszlo's shoulder, and although he felt relaxed, the Ethaefal's heart fluttered. He wasn't sure why. Perhaps he feared hypnotism. "About twelve hundred?" Laszlo guessed, glancing backward at the dark haired human. Something about the way Victor's tin colored eyes peered curiously into his made him smile faintly. Laszlo wondered if the look was meant to be flattering. "A little less. Split between the three of us, not quite as much. I saved a fair bit from working in Kalinor." Laszlo faced forward again, his neck craning as the modest, black face of the building in question waited ahead of them. For a moment, the Ethaefal imagined the image of a young wife standing expectantly in a doorway. He wasn't sure whether it was his imagination or a buried memory. "As for the friendship—that's something we could always work on." Seven stepped inside the tavern, leisurely followed by Victor and Laszlo. The three of them spread out into the long, narrow room, each following their own personal curiosity. They were received in a hail of creaking wood and clouds of dust. The Dra sneezed, then gave a remark of mild approval. It was a relief that Seven was still sold on the idea. Selling the idea to them both would have been difficult, even for a hypnotist of his moderate skill. Victor was outnumbered in the opposition, however, so Laszlo was optimistic. "There's still the skeleton in the tub upstairs. I'm not really sure what to do with that." He lifted a dust-coated mug from a table, tearing it away from the flimsy grip of a decayed cobweb, and revealing the clean, unmarred circle beneath it. Against his better judgment, he sniffed at the rim of the mug, but only smelled dirt. "Hopefully its ghost isn't lingering about, waiting to lay a curse on whoever touches it." Laszlo set the mug down with a grimace. "I hate ghosts. Can't reason with them." Briefly he thought back to one particular misadventure on the outskirts of Kalinor. "I'm no entrepreneur," Laszlo admitted, turning so that both Victor and Seven were in his line of sight, "but I don't think there's a lot of science behind pouring drinks. It can't be that hard. My only concern is bookkeeping. I know a bit of mathematics but nothing special."

[Victor Lark]

A friendship. “Mm.” A skeleton. “Is there?”

Victor turned his chin up to where he knew the bathroom waited. A step forward pulled him half-consciously to the stairs, but he resisted the urge. Looking down, he found an overturned barstool and righted it. His own nose itched to respond to Seven’s sneeze as a cloud of dust rose from his sweeping hand, but he managed to stifle it as he sat.

That damning, pointed steel melted from his companions and pooled along the tavern’s battered walls, its magic ceiling, its broken past. There was something alluring about this place, which seemed suspended in wait for some rebirth of purpose, like the dust was the remaining ashes of some long awoken phoenix. Victor could not be bothered to determine that purpose, or to be a part of it. He was not a builder or a creator. He was not his uncle.

And he had been too persistent in his stubbornness to turn back on it so easily. He gave a hint of a knowing smile to Seven, then turned a face of scrutiny to Laszlo. “I don’t know much about bookkeeping either,” he countered, leaning precariously against his knees. “And I’ve spent far too long in the shadow of businessmen to ever consider being one of them. A place like this... it may not be as easy as you think. Maybe it’s more work than it’s worth.”

[Seven Xu]

Seven had climbed atop the dust-coated bar, knees pushing away years of neglect to reveal polished perfection beyond the arc he’d already drawn. White hands splayed across a tiled sky; it was cool to the touch, as glass should be, and opaque, swarming with colors that faded into white nothings as soon as his nose got too close.

His mouth hung open on another thought. He narrowed his eyes, as if to see past the ceiling to the second floor. “Death must take away one’s ability to reason.” Seven’s gaze dropped, and his mouth twisted with his complacency. “I’ve seen them too. Well, one. They aren’t a problem, so long as you give them what they want.

“Bookkeeping won’t be a problem, either. I know math,” he mentioned, though belated, “Enough to keep records and write receipts, anyway.”

The halfblood dropped to a squat, knees meeting his chest. He was an arm’s length from his bird when he reached for that head of glossy black, managing to graze a shoulder when he fell away. Fingers were a poor substitute for the comforts offered by hot venom. “I’m not asking you to choose right now.”