Roen

Club Tablillas, The Alcove High above the revelries and dancers, two disc jockeys plied their craft with inordinate skill. Spinning records made out of composite crystal and plastic materials, they controlled not only the tempo of the nightclub, but the atmosphere and ambiance. It was by their synthetic hands and neurosynced minds that the lights dimmed, brightened and flickered in tandem with the heavy beats they were dropping on the congregation, making the floors vibrate under their feet with smooth bass that could only come from Hell's Gate and Hell's Gate alone. Heads nodding along with rhythm and hands moving with purpose, the pair of synthetics, D1 & D2, respectively, heeded well the words of a certain tailed-fiend after a cordial discussion concerning clubs, music and certain birthday girls. This was not to say it was an easy venture. Displaying an inordinate and vaguely uncharacteristic degree of intimate knowledge in regards to all three subjects, the Outsider had to nonetheless navigate the techno-lingua of the synthetics, their speech largely restricted to blurts of static and canted binary emitted through the speaker grills of their helmets. Not an insurmountable challenge, the main difficulty arose when the trio disagreed on the proper level of bass rumbling up through the floor. Roen complained it made his kidneys quiver uncomfortably, while D1 and D2 demurred they had no kidneys and so did not care. He knew of many ways to vocalize dismissive-haughty-indifference, the Outsider, but even he had to admit that machine code made the sentiment particularly insulting. They reached an accord in the end, Roen greasing their palms with glittering platinum coins and asking them to play for him as some unknown point in time. Patrony and coinage, they ever made the world go round, but the Outsider had to wonder what artificial intelligence did with currency. As he stood on the gantry leading to The Alcove where the disc jockeys played music with warm mechanic precision, Roen braced himself against the railing and looked down, peering into the seething crowd. Seething, yes, that was the word for it, the Outsider thought. It was like a sea of souls and flesh, writhing and undulating and crashing against shores of distinct personalities and soul fires. There was a center point, though; a fulcrum, for lack of a better word, and it was that shore against which the waves broke, receded and came back again: the birthday girl. He looked down at her from afar, his lips compressing into thin lines of speculation. Though he adored her, and truly, none held for her the length and breadth of ardor for Isabella than the eminent Lord of the Black City, the dreaded fiend found the crowds around her nigh repulsive. The press of bodies, the stink and sweat of them, the whole of it made his insides cringe with trepidation. He grimaced. Needs must. Descending the gantry and tugging at the edges of his cuffs to adjust the fit of his tuxedo jacket, Roen slipped casually into the throng of men and women that danced and mingled on the dance floor. And, because their lizard-brains sensed a predator among them, they gave way to his stride without understanding why. They continued dancing, of course. They continued their conversations. But hairs pricked and stomachs twisted and hearts knocked when the Outsider touched their shoulders and hips with the pads of his calloused fingers, gently urging them aside and out of his way. The journey wasn't a long one, and in due time, the Lord of the Black City was sidling up to Isabella. Oh, he was a considerate devil, the Outsider. His face betrayed nothing of their intimacy, physical or otherwise. He donned the mask of the Gentleman Sage, all casual smiles and gentle gazes, while he tapped her elbow with a feverish touch. "Ms. Marquez?" Even above the din of the nightclub and music, his soft tenor resonated in the space between them. He waited until she turned and laid her eyes on him before he continued, albeit hurriedly. A performer in true, he gave no undue time to this supposed stranger, playing his part oh-so-very well. "Roen, Lord of the Black City. I saw the fliers." A smile, so warm and so incredibly, frighteningly friendly. His tail coiled behind him, catching a flashing light and glinting with the amount of polish he played into the hide. With a wrinkle of a brow, he laid a devastating admonishment at the young woman's feet. "The next time you throw a party, do invite me." And then he laughed, low and smooth and entirely without merit. An act, yes, a fanciful little act. Reaching into his jacket and pulling out an envelope, the Outsider leaned in and dropped his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "For the birthday girl..," he said, his warm mouth beside her ear as he pushed the parcel into her dainty hand. And if he brushed his fingertips along the inside of her wrist, well, that was his prerogative and delight. "Don't spend it all in one place." And then she was for herself again, the Outsider withdrawing, one final brush of eye contact between them before his gaze flickered, noticing Xartia. Cocking his head, Roen thought he recognized the fellow. "Don't I know you, sir?"

Again he smiled, though this was no weak and meager thing. With genuine pleasure, Roen recalled Lunarius Maji, a friend and sometimes companion of his. She had been a green dragon bound to mortal shape through a geas, seeking a Duke of Perdition’s aid in freeing her from the curse. That was a long time ago though, and he said as much to Igni. “I knew a few dragons, once upon a time. Flighty things.” He jested. Still looking at his objective from afar, the Outsider raised a hand and ran blackened nails through the fire, gold and ash of his beard, scratching an errant itch that grew with his recollections and nostalgia. He stroked and scratched and idly tugged on the long, coarse strands before exhaling a breath, sighing out his sentiments. History was a beautiful thing to have and to share, but it was best not to dwell. Igni, blessedly so, brought the conversation back around to the focus of tonight’s festivities: Isabella. Lowering his hand and settling it on his hip, Roen nodded slowly in reply. How could she be anything less than a cause for celebration - she was vibrant, beautiful and alive. Even in the mortal shape, she was lovely to look upon. “She is.” He said. “Her name is Isabella Morcia Marquez.” The fiend pauses, his lips compressing into a thin line as he considered how best to summarize the extent of his knowledge. He couldn’t tell Igni the truth, not without destroying the anonymity Gabriela was cultivating for herself, but neither could he lie, for devils were incapable of the feat. In the end he plied his glib tongue to the task, dancing around the question and subverting it innocently enough. “And I have no idea who Isabella Morcia Marquez is.” Morris caught his attention then, prompting the Outsider to turn and lay the weight of his scrutiny on the bar tender. A rainbow of sentiments indeed, Roen’s irritation should have been as palpable to the empath as it was written clearly on the fiend’s face. It was a delicious sort of irony that an empath would man the bar, but one which the devil did not appreciate. Empaths in general earned his ire, capable of reading most intent behind the facades of masks. If Roen wanted to feign laughter for effect, as the most immediate example, he didn’t want another to undermine it with deft deduction, as this man did. “I’m fine..,” the devil demurred. Not that it mattered. Shanna appeared, and Roen took that as his cue to find other entertainments while they were all distracted. Sure as sin, he made his way over to the DJ booth to have a discussion with the resident disc jockeys...

“-- so, how do you know the birthday girl?” Turning his head, the Outsider threw a baleful glance over his shoulder at the tactless bartender. A deeply personal creature, Roen didn’t take kindly towards interest in his intimate dealings, not the least of which being his relationship with that of the newly christened Isabella. He let his lack of appreciation show in that moment, a clear sign of disapproval writ clear on his unhappy, harrowed face, before he turned back to continue his quiet vigil over the why and wherefores of the subject of his dire obsessions. Such was his focus that he scarcely registered the large woman that sauntered up beside him, her incredible shadow passing over him like a stormfront. His head turned before his eyes ever did, loathe as they were to release Gabriela - Isabella - from scrutiny. A thing of modest stature, he was forced to tilt his head and sweep his gaze high to meet Igni’s eye. He could not remember the last time he had seen a woman quite so large. For a moment, he was struck gobsmack. It was not just her sheer size, but the force of her presence that drove ready reply from his lips. It was not often the Outsider was made to feel like a lesser before another. Fortunately, it was a fleeting sentiment. He was an arrogant thing, and pride did not keep him on a wrongfooting for long. Turning where he stood and setting the half-finished flute of bourbon he was tendered, Roen settled that free hand on his hip and gave Igni a looking over. From head to heel and back up again in a brazen display of genuine interest, the Outsider considered this giant - and indeed, she was a giant insofar as he was concerned - before replying. He might have cared little and less for inquiries into his personal relationships, but interests in his person directly were nothing less than excuses to flatter himself. “Neither.” He said. “And I don’t mind your asking.” Soft, too soft to be a proper bass, Roen spoke in a deep tenor with crisp diction and a vague, polished accent; foreign undoubtedly, but clear and measured, if not somewhat egregious with the ‘ah’ in ‘asking’. Breaking off the contact of the eyes and encouraging his tail to lift with a subtle tense, Roen reached with his other hand to take it, twining the smooth, glistening appendage around his wrist and wide hand. It gleamed as if polished in the dim setting of the nightclub, as well it should have, having been rubbed with oil not some few hours ago. “A devil.” Some color left his eyes at the naming of himself, some brightness and luster dimming in the confession. “Though I haven’t called them kindred in a long time. Years, now, I think.” He tugged on his tail, a wry smile tugging at the edge of his mouth, entirely out of place on his unhappy and melancholic face. “Definitely not a demon, though. I’m afraid they are the other side of the same coin. Not my kind of crowd.” Then the smile fell away, quick as his smiles were wont to do. He disentangled his tail from his wrist and hand and swatted it back down where it belonged. “And you?” He asked this vaguely, nominally interested. While he hadn’t intended to be rude, and truly, there were other, more pointed ways to be a lout, his attentions were diverted as they ever were when sharing the same atmosphere as the ‘birthday girl’. Without meaning to, the Outsider turned his head and flicked his attention away from Igni, seeking once again the girl he had come to see all unbidden. She stole his focus through her very nearness, and his mind, while grand in the ways of the esoteric and the occluded, tended to become very narrow and focused, when it came to her. “I like your dress..,” he commented quietly, not looking at Igni but much aware of her presence. She practically dominated his peripherals, after all.

We need a DJ.

There were dinner jackets and dinner jackets, and the Outsider had chosen the latter. Selecting the extraordinary over the customary for this evening, Roen set aside boots and britches for a tuxedo of modern design for modern tastes. Following the latest fashions of evening wear with a one-button front, silk trimmed peak lapes, jetted pockets and no vents, his tailor went with the inspired decision to go sans cummerband or waistcoat, following the Outsider's strict instructions concerning the past and the death of it, at least in terms of fashion. With a spread collared shirt and double cuffs with a packet of hidden buttons, the formal wear hit the elegant sweet-spot, or so the man said. This was not the say the Outsider was unrecognizable, however. There were markers of identity he rarely did without, such as his ring of office, with its bas-relief of a dragon and pawn set against black enamel. He fiddled with it as he waited in line, twisting the platinum band around his middle finger in the distracted way he was wont to do when he was passing time. And, of course, there was the delineation of his tail, the appendage that stemmed from the base of his back and ended at a spaded-tip. It swayed low and menacing above the ground behind him, curling every so often with animation that could have been considered impatience, agitation or some mixture between the two. He brought Hræðilegr, too, it had to be said. Dreadful, it was called, or Horrible. It was neither tonight, a sentiment the Outsider hoped would survive the evening. He kept it dormant and in an altered state, a black ribbon spattered with jewels the color of blood that he used to keep his hair drawn back and out of the way. They flashed and sometimes glowed with a preternatural light, depending on how the eye caught them, as if bleeding from within with a malevolence that could be seen. Fortunately his hair hid most of that, long and thick and cascading down his back in subtle waves. It was long, now, perhaps too long, but he hadn't the heart to cut or trim it. Such could be said of his beard, which, it had to be said, needed both. Nearly a month and a half of growth gave him the option of tugging at the gold-and-red hairs on his cheeks and chin, or twining his fingers through and twisting the hairs, as evil men were wont to do. He did both, though stopped whenever he caught himself in the act. It wasn't flattering, and though he dared not admit to it, he was a slave to appearances in that particular respect. Better to be thought of as solemn and unperturbed than fidgety. And that was him, all of him, this evening tonight. A tuxedo, long haired, bearded and frowning, a dichotomy of clashing aesthetics that perhaps suited his caprice and moods. And this is what the bouncers saw when it was his turn to be invited inside. Roen indulged their inquiries but did not let them touch his person, as his personal space was inviolate. He opened his dinner jacket and made of show of presenting himself instead, indicated he was, in fact, without weapons. Not necessarily a lie, no, Roen never lied, but an off-kilter truth. Hræðilegr was not a weapon, at least not at the moment, and while he could probably strangle someone with the shape it was currently in, such as the birthday girl's slender neck for not inviting him, he decided to keep that bit of superfluous trivia to himself lest he be turned away. Buttoning his jacket back up and plucking at the cuffs of his shirt, Roen inclined his head at the two men and, in a act of simple delight, turned his attention to the Great Danes that kept the men company. He shared a private, genuinely pleasant smile with them, though certainly knew better than to reach out to pet them. They were not, in his opinions, 'good puppies', and after his last encounter with them, he doubted they'd react all too kindly to his affections. To say their mistress had ambivalent feelings about the Outsider was a gross understatement, though no doubt one shared by her faithful pets. So, he kept his hands to himself, as a wise man would, and palmed some local currency into one of the bouncer's hands to seal a good first impression. This was his first night in Hell's Gate, after all, and it paid in more ways than one to be friendly with the locals. Once inside, though, the Outsider frowned. His eyes, deep set and dark, squinted. The restaurant level was reassuringly pleasant, but it lacked bodies. Well, at least the ones he wanted to see. There were couples eating dinner together, a few men at a table smiling and talking, and some few other odds and ends of souls Roen paid passing heed to. No, there were no familiar faces here. Though he was sure to fit in better on this level than any other, he decided to take his chances elsewhere and made for the stairways that led into the lower-tiers, descending one after another. He passed a woman on his way down, his shoulder brushing against hers, and the two turned their heads, following eachother with gazes. His scent, always his scent, it came off of him in a subtle way, like a cologne. Peat and spice, quenching iron and citrus, blood and smoke. It was heady in a way, both repulsive and inviting, but never uninteresting. She might have stopped and inquired after him if he hadn't dismissed her with a turn of his head, which in turn prompted her to readdress the stairs she was climbing. He drew in deep breath, then exhaled. Though he had bathed only a few hours ago, the scent of soap could only mask his aroma for so long. He had left the Pit in what seemed like a mortal age ago, but no matter how hard he scrubbed, it never seemed to leave him. He adjusted his cuffs and descended the remainder of the flight. At the bottom step, Roen scanned the room with a sweep of his eyes, the heavy bass of the club music vibrating up from the floor and sending vibrations through him. For a moment - just a moment - he thought of Sigil, the City of the Doors. He had dressed then as he dressed now, and walked through scenes much like this. It made him nostalgic, albeit only briefly. Those were different times, different days and a different monster. It didn't take long to find her. No, it didn't take long at all. She flitted between bodies like the faen creature she was, perhaps lacking in the grace and subtlety she possessed as a vampyre, but no less lovely and familiar in periphery. She drew his eye as she was ever wont to do, though through no fault of her own, and he watched her from afar, a familiar action if ever there were any. He didn't approach the birthday girl, though he wanted to. He didn't catch her eye, didn't seek to interrupt her, and neither did he self-aggrandize himself, as to invite attention to his person. He simply -- walked, circling around the gathered congregation of young and happy revelers, and made his way to the bar. This was her night, after all, not his, and it was still young. Before his shadow ever fell across her and stole the air and momentum of the evening, he wanted her to enjoy freedom, however fleeting. He was here for selfish reasons and selfish concerns, but they could wait. Rather, he ordered himself the Valutian equivalent to two-fingers of bourbon, neatly served, and leaned against the bar waiting for it to be poured. Roen, the wallflower. He rather liked the sound of that. "Thank you," he told the tender, who looked at him far longer than necessary. The Outsider laid local currency on the counter, turned to lean against the bar, and inhaled the aroma of his drink before taking a sip.

Sunlight is too much for you to bear It's high time you came up for air Don't hide a single thing behind your perfect skin Don't keep your secrets in a prayer There is nothing you can say or do I won't cut you loose, no So break the silence We know that we can brave it all

Broken down and hungry for your love With no way to feed it Where are you tonight? Child, you know how much I need it. Too young to hold on And too old to just break free and run Sometimes a man gets carried away, When he feels like he should be having his fun Much too blind to see the damage he's done Sometimes a man must awake to find that, really, He has no one So I'll wait for you and I'll burn Will I ever see your sweet return, Or, will I ever learn? Lover, you should've come over 'Cause it's not too late.

Baby, I'm yours And I'll be yours until the stars fall from the sky, Yours until the rivers all run dry In other words, until I die Baby, I'm yours (baby, I'm yours) And I'll be yours (yours) until the sun no longer shines, Yours (yours) until the poets run out of rhyme In other words, until the end of time I'm gonna stay right here by your side, Do my best to keep you satisfied Nothin' in the world can drive me away Cause every day, you'll hear me say Baby, I'm yours (baby, I'm yours)

It’s so hard to be so far out Living our separate lives Your phone was really broken I tried your number twice And if you need confirmation, baby I understand It’s alright if you want me to Tell you you You got my only heart Yea, you got my only heart Yea, you got my only Only heart

And I don't know where you went, when you left me but Says here in the water, you must be gone by now I can tell somehow One hand on the trigger of a telephone Wondering when the call comes Where you say it's alright You got your heart right Maybe I'll sleep inside my coat and Wait on the porch 'til you come back home Oh, right I can't find a flight We share the sadness Split screen sadness

So, if you want something And you call, call Then I'll come running To fight and I'll be at your door When there's nothing worth running for When your mind's made up When your mind's made up There's no point trying to change it When your mind's made up When your mind's made up There's no point trying to stop it, you see You're just like everyone When the shit falls All you wanna do is run away And hide all by yourself

Can I stay here with you through the nighttime? I've fallen sad inside and I need a place to hide Can I stay here with you through the nighttime? I'm all alone and blue, won't you take me to your room? Lay with me in your thinnest dress, fill my heart with each caress Between your blissful kisses, whisper, 'darling, is this love?'