Orpheus / plotted starter.
@nxctiphanyâ
Streetlights eat away at the mist hanging thickly over the pavement, banishing beams of darkness that night has brought with it. Moths gather at the illuminated bulbs, mad fluttering, an almost deranged congregation. There is only one other shadow around, with slender arms folding over their chest, brought close to their body. A feeble attempt at retaining warmth. Europe, a land that reached such chilling temperatures in the winter months. Not the ideal home for someone like them - the pale individual never the most resilient to even minor chills. So why choose this continent then? Why not one of the many others with warmer weather and sunnier skies to offer?
Well - fugitives simply couldnât be picky.Â
The svelte criminal has found refuge in this land, even without the paperwork needed to be a citizen or resident here. How risky it is, should the law sight them. But would anyone be looking for a runaway hailing from Japan in the heart of this place? They can only hope not. The beige fabric of their kimono cardigan is swept up by a chilling wind, the black turtleneck shirt not offering them the warmth it promised. Nor do the black calf boots or equally dark jeans. There is a light shiver to their form, every passing wind hitting them like a fist.Â
Strange to think the sylphlike one navigating these dark streets is a killer themself. An unintentional kill perhaps, but murder nonetheless. They had known the man may perish at the hands of their medical work, but they had done it anyway - for science, for human advancement. How the sound of every passing car has them tensing, recalling the chilling sound of the police sirens outside their door, the barking of officers, the howling of trained dogs. Enough to startle them. Capital punishment was a certain possibility - and execution simply tasted too bitter to bite. Running had been their only way out, and so, here they stand. Flinching at the sound of traffic, tensing at the passing cop car. No matter how oblivious these citizens and law abiding people are of the criminal in their midst.Â
But they are in search of a particular venue, they seek refuge somewhere more private than a country oceans away from their birthplace. A bathhouse and inn - or was it a brothel, mixed messages heard from other illicit travelers. They didnât know what precisely they were looking for, only that it was a hard to find place. How tempting for someone like them. Oblivious are they to the fact that it is not a human den at all. That their hopes of disappearing there are not so simple.Â
It wouldnât matter of course, this place is starting to seem more myth than tangible. They have searched for weeks now, and every direction offered by sources, admittedly unreliable ones, turned up a mere dead end.Â
Disheartened, but certainly far from giving up, they have no idea one fateful night that they run in to the establishments owner. Less informed of his true nature and species. He looks so human here, beautiful undoubtedly, with sharp eyes that hold the same amber as their own, but human as far as they could tell all the same. They have escaped the pale moon to take cover at a bar, one of the few venues still open at this hour. Long black hair tumbles around them, swept briefly in the breeze when the door open and channels the wind with extra voracity. Orochimaru has found that drunk men are the easiest targets to steal from, men either swayed by their pretty face and charming tongue, or simply too smashed to even notice a slight of hand.Â
With all the credentials and qualifications of a doctor and scientist, they have no ability to work regardless. Not with a warrant out for their arrest, and their license revoked due to ill practice.Â
When they spot Orpheus, the scent of perfume catches their interest first, then the wealth presented in his dresscode. For a moment, the sharpness to his eyes, the intelligence there, makes them doubt targeting him. But the rowdy crowd is offering slim pickings tonight, and so they gracefully make their way to the bar near him. An error they could never have guessed, that the one they would try to steal from would have senses superior to any animal or person. Putting to shame the hearing and scent skills of hounds, and the eyes of hawks.Â
First, they speak with the man behind the bar, unaware of who Orpheus is despite him being near to them, asking the bartender whether he had heard of the elusive bathhouse owned by the present immortal. Again - it is as if nobody has. Their questions leave them empty handed. So they move on to their next go to for the sake of survival - petty theft.
The baggy sleeve of their long kimono cardigan works wonders at concealing items, and it would do so tonight. Right under the bartenders nose, such experienced hands are they in theft. They had stolen when they were an orphan, stubborn in the face of constantly changing foster homes, and now, it seemed the streets had reclaimed them once more. Like their mother and father, who both fell to crime in desperate times - the catalyst for their orphaned child - it seemed the apple never would fall far from the tree.
âSorry dear,â they say to the vampire, excusing the light touch when they bump him. An action used for the sake of pick pocketing, pretending they had lost balance when another man moves past, when he bumps the slender one, and their far lighter form naturally loses a bit of balance. It would be so fluid and graceful, so seamless a motion, that a normal man would never be able to tell they were using this âblunderâ to steal - a great pity the eye catching man they target is not ordinary. Brilliantly hued long hair tangling around a handsome visage, tall, bewitching. But it is not his good looks that make him exceptional - how they would have been better off if they were wrong about their initial instincts telling them to back off.
    A distinctly musty stench clung to the stagnant air within the stained walls of the bar, mixing with the ever present scent of barley and liquor that seemed to seep into the cushion of every elongated chair and the very wood - tinted a faint burgundy from one too many glasses spilled upon its splintered surface - of the tables crowded all around the counter. Flaxen lights buzzed with muffled vengeance where they hung behind rattling blades of the fan smack center of the looming ceiling that did little but push and pull the smell of tobacco until smoke all but lined the floorboards. Warm was the air that filtered in from the street just beyond through cracked windows that hummed softly against the gentle breeze that knocked at foggy glass - still damp from dew that had yet to be cleaned off and made their sheen dull in the dim lighting. Chatter bounced casually from table to table - the crowd today was thin and huddled in different corners of the wide room. Not unfriendly by any means, but more keen to keep to themselves than to allow strangers in. On an off day like this, the bar wasnât nearly as crowded as it might have been on a blistering weekend.Â
   He stood out where he sat at the counter - calloused fingers folded against the sharp line of his cheekbone and expensive silk robes draping smoothly from broad shoulders that sagged beneath the meager light cast upon tall, muscular frame. A glass of wine sat upon the countertop between his index and middle fingers as scarlet locks hung in front of golden irises that almost seemed to gleam in the dark, and cascaded down his back to lick at the tableâs surface. Sharp gaze fell primarily on the bartender who rambled heedlessly about customers, but keen ears unraveled every conversation - hushed, giddy, or loud - that swirled about the bar. Rumors that gave birth to hidden truths and intoxicating lies. Stories that were as tragic as they were humorous. Heated disagreements that threatens to turn into a fistfight when no one bothers to look their way. He made a point to know everything that happened within this city because it would be his. Everything and everyone, unknowing, unwillingly, or otherwise, would be belong to him. Â
   When the old bell chimes as the door is opened, not a single soul bothers to spare the newcomer a glance. Theyâre already absorbed into their conversations - their bickering and their fights. Long fingers with nails as sharp as claws and as hard as the diamonds that he wears around his knuckles lift to wrap about the neck of his glass - swirling the red liquid within idly a the stranger approaches the bartender. Glass is held against pale lips as its contents are drained - a smile tugging at the corners of his eyes behind the shimmer of his glass as he easily picks up on their conversation. The bathhouse, to them, is both something of myth and an everyday presence. It welcomes those it desires within its doors, but rejects those it harbors no interest in because it bends to his will and his will alone. Â
   And how curious it is that this stranger would inquire about his domain. Gaze flickers towards them as his glass is set, empty, back down upon the table - head leaning against his knuckles; earrings of gold and ruby catching light with the motion. Their questions turning up nothing but puzzled words from the bartender who remains fixed in place - eyes unwilling to meet his as they continue to rub at the mud clutched within their hands. He can almost taste the anxiety that radiates from the man who had been questioned - back rigid, sweat threatening to pool between his brows as friendly smile quivers until this new customer ceases that line of thought when there is no information to be gained.  Â
    Fate is a mistress he has been in touch with time and time again - commanding her troubled whims, and tonight, she would swing, once again, in his favor at the expense of another. The stranger withdraws, brushing against him as another man makes his way to the counter - using the slight push as an excuse, and itâs hardly a bad when their form is so lithe in contrast. Their motions are fluid, graceful even, but are almost comical, not to mention sorely ill-informed and dreadfully unlucky, when theyâve made the mistake of choosing him for a target. The hand upon the counter lifts to grab slender wrist - hold tight and powerful though effortlessly. He could twist and shatter bone if he so desired, but didnât quite grip with enough pressure to do so.Â
    Smile remains upon his features as he shifts - free hand falling into his lap as he leans closer to the stranger. The telltale scent of copper and iron clings to his lips. âBe careful, darling,â he returns - deep voice vibrating within his throat yet it spilled like honey from his tongue as his thumb traced nonsensical circles against the vein nestled beneath their wrist. A motion that was far from comforting - a veiled threat as the tip of his nail pressed into delicate skin. âYou never know who might bump into. Fate has a thrilling way of bringing two people together, wouldnât you agree?â Venom drips into his voice, yet its tremor never lows into one of hostility. The bartender pays him no mind, and the glossy eyes of drunken customers donât even lift from their glasses.Â
    âYou look like you could use a drink or two. I suggest you have a seat and enjoy yourself for a bit. I would hate to have to break your pretty, little arm.â Grip is just tight enough to bruise, but voice remains pleasant. He doesnât pull the other down, though he easily could. No, he waits. He observes. And he commands through velvet-coated words that are more unsettling than they are comforting and far more vicious than they let on. His thumb does; however, lift ever so slightly off of that vein where the rush of a pulse nestled beneath flesh and the sensation of blood flowing through their body makes his own frigid skin feel lukewarm. âNow then, wonât you tell me why youâre searching for this bathhouse? Perhaps I can be of some help to you.â   Â
