Maybe I’m a different breed…

He turned properly then, regarding her with measured indifference. "That you're troubled. Unpredictable. Unstable. That your parents are forever cleaning up after one scandal or another." His expression shifted slightly, a faint crease forming between his brows, as though he found the entire situation regrettable. "The details tend to change depending on who's telling the story."

He let the words hang for a moment before dismissing them with a wave of his hand. "I don't put much stock in gossip." His gaze lingered on her, studying her expression. "Though I imagine it grows tiresome having complete strangers decide who you are before you've opened your mouth."

Another small shrug. "Still, I'm sure you have it well in hand. You're the mayor's daughter, after all." There was just enough dry amusement in his voice to leave it unclear whether he meant it as praise or criticism. "It's not like I'm telling you anything new. People like us don't really get the luxury of anonymity."

"Aren't you lucky, Dorian wells? I am a spirit myself. One who quite enjoys living as one. You might enjoy it more if you stopped being so angry at everything," they tutted softly. Ayumu had not lived with a physical body for centuries by now and hardly missed it. "Have you gone to anyone for help? Absynthia is under demon jurisdiction. I'm not sure a new spirit such as yourself will be able to do much against them."

"So what? I should thank whoever decided to steal my life because I've been promoted to... this?" One hand swept vaguely at his own semi-incorporeal form. "Like it's some grand opportunity I've been given instead of having everything that belongs to me ripped away?" His jaw flexed. "I will not just roll over and let someone take what is mine."

"Demons. Right." He gave another derisive scoff, this time succeeding in pulling free of the other's grasp. "You do realize how insane that sounds?" His lip curled. "Who exactly do you suggest I go and tell that fairy tale to? As things stand I have no office, no home, no money, no identification, not even a change of clothes." He spread his hands. "If this is truly how spirits exist, forgive me if I find your enthusiasm for it difficult to share."

She watched the way his eyes darkened. The change was rather abrupt, but clearly she'd hit on a sensitive spot. "Everyone has endured the heartbreak of loss, but I sense that yours is greater than stolen trinket." She leaned forward, giving him her full attention. Whether he was ready to speak on the matter or not, whatever he was hiding piqued Belle's interest. The smooth talker seemed rather shaken by the theft. What it could be baffled Belle.

"An astute observation. Dependency becomes a handicap that can be wielded against a person when none were there before." Even the most independent people could fall under the right set of circumstances. She chuckled lightly, enjoying the banter. "I must say that your act of charity turned out rather fortunate for me as well." She didn't even noticed whether or not the nuisance of a man from earlier this evening was still in the bar. Her focus had narrowed solely to the gentleman in front of her.

The shift in his expression was subtle when she spoke again, but not enough to escape notice. She had seen through him far too easily. "You would be right about that." He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that he could set the matter aside for one evening. But the anger still burned beneath his composure, refusing to be ignored. His fingers curled into a tight fist, knuckles briefly white, before he forced his hand to relax, flexing his fingers once before settling them back against the table. "But you wouldn't believe me if I told you." His gaze remained on the whiskey, expression unreadable. There was no version of the story that did not sound absurd once spoken aloud. A stranger stealing his body through some impossible trick was the sort of thing Dorian himself would have dismissed without hesitation only days ago. He knew exactly how it sounded. Knew exactly what he would have thought of anyone telling him the same thing, and he had no desire to let the course of the night change direction.

A slow breath left him before he looked back toward her. "Besides," he said, lifting his glass slightly, "I have rather enjoyed my luck this evening." His gaze held hers. "I would hate to push it by turning the conversation toward something unpleasant."

She raised a single brow, leaning forward the slightest bit. "Interesting is one of those words we use when the truth is not so pretty. It is a rather bland word attempting to make something more palatable than it really is." Nothing worth having was ever something safe. The thrill of that risk only made the reward that much sweeter. She'd lived far too long to not notice the predictability of the daily choices one makes. The patterns of the universe, while chaotic, still existed in an alarming regularity. "Something troubling you?" He looked as if he spoke from the experience of having his treasure snatched from beneath him.

"There is a certain selfishness to doing good deeds. Some wish for the acclaim while others do so for the simple feeling of a job well-done. Either way, there is self-gratification in the acts of charity." It was difficult for any one act to be truly selfless when the motives often were so self-serving. "But then again the benefits of said acts are hardly worth complaint." She hummed, taking a moment to process his remark. "And you are one to always seize an opportunity when presented?"

"Sometimes," he countered with a slight tilt of his head, holding her gaze without offering any further argument. At her question, Dorian's face darkened. His jaw tightened as his attention drifted to the whiskey in his glass. For a moment, he said nothing. The silence stretched between them. When he finally spoke, the easy confidence had been replaced by something far more severe. "Have you ever had something stolen from you?"

"You're not wrong." By the time he looked back at her, the edge had receded beneath his usual composure. "And too much charity isn't charity at all. At some point you're no longer helping someone—you're simply making them dependent." There was little hesitation in the opinion. He'd long since made up his mind on that. Then the corners of his mouth lifted again. "Though some charitable acts are rewarding enough to justify the investment." His gaze lingered on her just long enough to leave little doubt which sort he meant. "I'd be hard-pressed to complain about this one." His answer to her final question came without a trace of uncertainty. "Yes. Always."

"Why don't you tell me how you died, Dorian Wells?" the spirit asked. Dorian seemed relatively well-adjusted for someone who had just turned into a ghost. The anger and annoyance was not anything Ayumu had not seen before. "And let's get out of this shady little alleyway." The hand around the other man's arm moved to slide into the crook of his elbow instead as they guided the irate spirit out of the shadows.

Distracted again. This time the source of the noise revealed itself and Carmen’s head tilted as she watched the stranger approach. She didn’t recognise him, nor could she quite recognise his species. The elderly man beneath the tree drank more out of his flask and seemed sluggishly disappointed at the lack of contents before slouching further down the trees trunk and quickly beginning to snore loudly.

A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, polite enough to smooth over any lingering awkwardness without pretending familiarity. "Very well, then," he said evenly, slipping his hands into his pockets. His eyes flicked once toward the old man beneath the tree before settling back on Carmen. "Just try not to make a habit of proving people right." He inclined his head in a small, almost absent-minded gesture, already angling himself as though to continue on his way. "Enjoy your breather, Miss La Greve."

Happy 35th Birthday Brett Patrick Dalton!

Isabelle understood the difficulties of adjusting to a new life. It might have been well over a millennia ago that she turned from human to vampire, but the transition had been fraught with problems. Problems similar to what the spirit before her was experiencing. "Dancing on the daggers end keep the adrenaline pumping. If you are not on the edge, you are not truly living. At least that is as the old adage goes." She leaned forward ever so slightly. "I get the impression that you are the sort who enjoys high risk, high yield investments."

She smirked, touching her hand to her unbeating heart. "How very noble of you." Normally she might have shaken off the savior when their use expired, yet Belle found something genuinely intriguing about the man from the way that he carried himself to the playful touches in their conversation. "What about you? As a man of the world, have you become jaded by it all?"

He settled back into his chair, studying her over the edge of his drink. "You're not wrong. Risk is what keeps life interesting." Interesting... and, lately, exceptionally inconvenient. A faint frown creased his brow as his thoughts wandered somewhere less pleasant. The whole situation was still too strange to fully grasp—too absurd to accept and too real to ignore. Somewhere, someone was walking around wearing his face. Had stolen his life out from under him. And when he got his hands on them, there would be hell to pay. Though, for the moment, there were more immediate matters to concern himself with. "If the outcome is guaranteed," he continued, leaning in slightly as though sharing a secret, "someone else has already claimed the reward."

He mirrored her gesture with a small shrug, the expression on his face suggesting the answer was obvious. "I've always believed in community service." The faint curve of his mouth made it clear he was aware of the irony, though not enough to let it humble him. "Though I suppose not everyone is willing to make such a generous contribution of their time." At her question, he tilted his head slightly, considering it. "Jaded?" He rolled the word around as though deciding whether it suited him before dismissing it with a slight shake of his head. "No. Bored, occasionally. The world isn't short on opportunity," his chin lifted with quiet conviction, "it's short on people willing to seize it."

Vievecor City Park was always peaceful at night and it was a convenient cut through back to Carmen’s apartment on the nights when she felt like walking. Luckily, the elder elf that looked after the park wasn’t often there at night time and so Carmen didn’t have to deal with his judgemental gaze. Her parents had assumed Garond would be the safest place to house her, with less temptation and bad influence readily available in the mostly elf populated district, but all it had done was enhance Carmen’s tastebuds and turn her favour towards the Elven population.

But it wasn’t the peace of the park of the Elven blood that Carmen was in search of tonight. She sat on one of the benches, waiting for someone to approach that she could practise on. She’d noticed that late at night, most of the humans that wandered through the park were often intoxicated and heading back from a night out in the city bars, or those without a home to return to at all. They were easy targets for learning how to glamour.

She was focusing on a man who had settled with his back against one of the tree trunks, organising his blankets for the night and trying to balance his flask of liquor on the uneven ground, when she sensed someone else close by. Carmen’s brow furrowed, suddenly concerned, and she instead tried to find the source between the trees. When she failed, she convinced herself she had imagined the incident, before she returned to the task at hand, focusing more intently this time.

With a faint shake of his head, he stepped closer, adopting the easy confidence that had carried him through boardrooms, negotiations, and more bad decisions than he cared to count. "Excuse me," he said, drawing her attention without raising his voice. "Are you alright?" His gaze swept briefly across the dark paths and clusters of trees before returning to her. "It's late. You shouldn't be out here all by yourself."

She raised the glass to her lips, her lipstick leaving a vivid red mark upon the rim. "So Dorian, do you make a habit of playing prince charming to the maidens in need?" The way he practically purred her name suggested a certain familiarity with the game that they played. She was no pawn on the board nor did she ever wish to play with one. It was far more interesting to be challenged by an equal.

"Indulging in the unknown. I'm certain you must understand the lack of thrill when everything becomes so trite and repetitive." In her time upon this earth, she had seen empires rise and fall. She'd heard every joke, every pickup line, every supposed novel idea. True singularity was something that she rarely encountered.

His hand moved toward his drink and for the briefest instant, his fingers slipped cleanly through the glass. Right. The reminder of that particular inconvenience arrived abruptly and unwelcome. A muscle tightened in his jaw before he withdrew his hand as though he'd never intended to reach for it at all and returned his attention to her. "Isn't that what they say?" he continued, entirely unfazed. "That the most beautiful things in nature are usually the most deadly." His eyes held hers for a moment longer than necessary before he tried again, this time successfully lifting his glass for a sip.

"Ah, but what a shame." The corner of his mouth curved upward as he shook his head in mock regret. He'd heard that complaint before—that everything became repetitive eventually. Usually from people decades older than she appeared and far less striking. "It seems I'll have to spend more time with you to find out what such a novelty might be." There was an easy certainty to the statement, delivered with the confidence of a man accustomed to getting his way. "A sacrifice I'm prepared to make," he added, sounding thoroughly unconvinced by the hardship of it.

The vampire allowed him a moment to access her and decide whether he wished to continue the evening in her company or not. He'd served his purpose if he wished to leave, but there was something intriguing about him. Few possessed the confidence that he'd shown so far. This was a man used to getting his way.

"What makes you think I haven't already seen the city from above?" She toyed with the olive stick in her martini. If he wanted to impress her, he would need to be far more original than mere showings of wealth and status. Isabelle had plenty of that on her own. She longed for someone to challenge her and make her existence a little less mundane.

"A pleasure, Mr. Wells." Wells... Wells.... The name struck a cord with Isabelle, although she couldn't remember where she'd heard the name before. Of course there were Orson and HG, but she doubted this man to be related to them. No his assurance came from a more self-made perspective than an entitlement. "Isabelle Laurent."

Most people were impressed by helicopters, private rooftops, sports cars, a view money couldn't ordinarily buy—but her response suggested she had already seen that particular side of the world. Which made her all the more intriguing. An equal.

"Isabelle Laurent," he repeated her name slowly, deliberately, as though he was savoring it. Women tended to like that sort of thing. It made them feel special. Seen. Whether it worked or not, Dorian saw little reason to abandon a strategy that had served him well for years. Her name was one he recognized. Attached to the right circles. The right kind of people. "That's better than sweetheart." His smile deepened a fraction as he touched a hand to his chest in an easy, habitual gesture. "Call me Dorian. Please."

His gaze drifted briefly to the untouched martini before returning to her. "Now you've made me curious," he continued, folding one arm across the back of the booth, entirely at ease in the shadowed corner he'd claimed for them. "What does an interesting night look like to you?"

A hand shot out to close around Dorian's arm to hold him back from moving any further. "Now before you get too ahead of yourself," the spirit said, throwing Dorian a sideways look as their eyes flashed unnaturally in the low light once more.

"Why don't you cast your eyes downward? See what you're missing?"

His attention returned to the stranger, then to the hand still wrapped around his arm, the contact earning them a brief look of distaste. "So unless you are planning to help me, you're in my way." He lifted his brows expectantly, waiting for them to either relinquish their hold or offer something useful.

Still, she can't help the wince that pulls at her face when his voice suddenly cuts through the quiet. "Keep your voice down." She hisses, finally glancing back over her shoulder. Even hushed, the irritation in her tone is clear.

"I'm not security, but I do work here. Which means I have every right to be here - unlike you." Her words are an obvious contradiction to them sneaking around in the dark, but she doesn't care to elaborate on her late night escapades. "Just concentrate on keeping up."

Finally, they reach their target.

Beck drops to a crouch beneath the window, eyes fixed on the security guard inside as she studies his movements carefully, the rise and fall of his chest. Ronald still looked asleep, thankfully, slumped in his chair beneath the dull glow of the office light.

She notices a second too late that Dorian has straightened to full height beside her with no regard for his visibility, already making his way toward the door. Beck's stomach lurches.

She's about to grab him. They were both trespassing, and if Ronald woke to the sound of them barging in, they were both screwed - but it quickly becomes apparent that intervention isn't necessary after all.

To her credit, Beck does try to suppress the amusement that flashes across her face as Dorian's hand slips uselessly through the doorknob. But the tension in his expression, combined with the increasingly frustrated way he fumbles for the handle again, eventually forces a smug smirk onto her lips.

For a moment, she lets the silence stretch deliberately between them, satisfaction written plainly across her face. Then she pushes herself upright and steps closer.

Even now, even in this situation, he's barking orders at her like she’s a dog. A thought that gets her back up. Beck's jaw tightens, a sharp breath escapes through her nose as she nears him, voice low and firm.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but here, you listen to me." Her eyes lock onto his. "If that guy wakes up, we are both fucked - I'm out of a job, you're out of your answers, we're both arrested. Got it?"

The irony of the lecture is not lost on him either. She keeps talking about getting caught while sneaking around her own workplace in the middle of the night. Whatever explanation she has for that, he doubts it would impress her employer. She seems very pleased with herself at the moment but for all her posturing, the consequences here land much harder on her than they do on him. "Besides," he continues, eyes narrowing, "if anyone should be worried about jail, it's you." The corner of his mouth pulls into something halfway between a scoff and a smirk as his gaze drifts over her. "Jail is no place for delicate little girls."

He looks back at the door. There is a reasonable chance he could simply walk through it. Maybe. He has passed through solid objects before—walls, fences, the containers in this very shipyard and more than one unfortunate pedestrian since ending up like this. He has also gotten stuck in things before, and there is no chance in hell he is giving her the satisfaction of watching that happen. So he settles for pointing a finger directly in her face instead.

"My name is Ayumu. Nakatomi Ayumu," the much older spirit replied with a knowing smile as they looked up at the other. Dorian seemed to be trying to use his height to intimidate, but Ayumu was not easily intimidated.

"Do you know that you're dead, Dorian Wells?" Ripping the bandaid off seemed like the best option and it gave Ayumu the gleeful opportunity to see how the other man might react.

Matthew leaned in to light his cigarette, blue eyes still trained on the other man's face as he pulled away. "Your actions don't quite match up with your words, Mister Wells," he said as he blew the smoke from his lungs.

At the question, his expression tightened almost imperceptibly. Several hours wasted moving through overcrowded streets and festival traffic had done little for his patience and even less for his mood. “I’m looking for someone,” he said plainly. “Someone currently in possession of something that belongs to me.” His hands lifted slightly then, gesturing vaguely toward himself—to the expensive clothes hanging off a body that wasn’t entirely there, to the noticeable transparency below his knees, to the entire impossible situation clinging to him like a bad joke. “And I intend to get it back.”

for: anyone and everyone~ @vievecorcitystarters location: the sidewalk outside liber (klin)

While there were no official Vibe Fest parties in Klin, it did not stop various bars and clubs from throwing many of their own to take advantage of the revelry. Matthew hated Vibe Fest just as he hated most forms of merriment, but the hate was especially strong that evening.

He had stupidly chosen this weekend to come by Liber again after being a recluse at home for so long and he was starting to think that it was a terrible idea. It did not help that he was still depowered and opening himself a portal to go home was not an option.

Liber was very lively, which was always a good thing, but Matthew still felt the need to step out for a moment. He exited his wine bar and walked a bit of the ways down before pulling out his sleek silver cigarette case to fish one out to place between his lips. He would normally have lit it magically with a flick of his fingers, but alas... The fallen deity growled in annoyance and flagged down a passing person to ask (rather menacingly)...

"Do you have a light?"

No trace. No lead. No sign of the bastard walking around with his face.

At this point, being stopped by strangers every few minutes had become less an inconvenience and more a certainty. Most either wanted directions, drugs, or to tell him his lack of visible feet was a 'really sick effect, man'. Dorian had stopped correcting them after the fourth time.

“Do I look like a convenience store to you?” he replied automatically, the words dry as ash before his attention settled properly on the man speaking to him.

The animal spirit's eyes flashed in the darkness, giving Ayumu's silhouette an other-worldly look against the shadows of the alleyway and the corners of their lips spread mischievously even if the other could not see it in the dark.

“My name is Dorian Wells.” The words ground out of him like gravel as he advanced swiftly—no feet to slow him down. If there was any merit to this clown's bluster, that name should mean something to them.