( RAMI MALEK / Genderfluid / Any Pronouns ) — LEVI OZYMANDIAS "OZ" SAFFET has been living in Port Leiry for 1 MONTH. They currently work as a CATMINT COTTAGE RECEPTIONIST, and are 42 years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a WITCH or if they’re connected to CIRCLE OF THE PHIAL. They tend to be quite COLD and MANIPULATIVE, but can also be PROTECTIVE and INTELLIGENT.
FULL NAME: Levi Ozymandias Saffet
PREFERRED NAME: Oz
AGE: 42 Years Old
GENDER: Genderfluid
PRONOUNS: Any pronouns (defaults to he/him for ease)
SEXUALITY: Pansexual
HEIGHT: 5'6"
TYPE: Witch from Circle of the Phial - former Hunter.
TIME IN PORT LEIRY: 1 Month
OCCUPATION: Catmint Cottage Receptionist
Full biography under the read more. Please be aware of all trigger warnings before proceeding!
Oz grew up in a family of hunters. A fear of the supernatural was always prevalent - and a knowledge that they were there, but many didn't know. It was expected to be one of them, even when he was younger.
And he did. Cutthroat, witty, and quick - Oz was agile as a hunter, and the rigorous training was almost easy for him. He wore his marks with pride, enhancing his abilities to find those he needs to take down.
Until he was badly injured by a werewolf. Claws ripped through parts of him, scars that will probably never heal. And they ripped apart many of the special markings he had gotten from his time as a Hunter, ruining his heightened abilities.
Oz wants to bring those markings back- Hunting is all he's ever known. So he tries. He looks into what could do it, and finds witchcraft could be the best way. So he immerses himself into it- first from afar, trying to learn what he can from books and those who want to give him a word or two.
Until he joins the coven, Circle of the Phial. He's taken in with open arms, despite his checkered past. The kindness he's shown is something he's never felt in his entire life... and it's overwhelming. Suddenly, he has a place to belong.
Now Oz works as a receptionist at the bed & breakfast. He continues his witchcraft, and has long since started a back and forth in his brain about if he wants to bring back these marks fully, or to stay as he is, and stay part of the coven.
The meeting is one she's been looking forward to - so waiting for the cover of darkness is only a matter of busying herself at the club until time passes sufficiently. She orders before she sits, and slides into the seat with an otherworldly fluidity that she's sure Oz knows what it means. As if the time didn't give her away.
They look handsome, as ever. And his monotone voice simply makes her amused.
"Of course, dear." She nods, crossing one leg over the other and sipping at her coffee - black, not a hint of cream or sugar. The warmth is welcome, and the hint of bitterness is as well. Nothing like the espresso she could procure overseas, but passable.
"I've been making plans, of course, about what we spoke of last. It might be a singular endeavor instead of one I work on with the current owner." She hums.
Being a witch has really changed things for Oz. The people he's opened himself into talking to... a few years ago, the idea of sitting across from someone who's so openly, obviously a vampire... it would've been unheard of. Not with the way their family had raised them.
They take a sip of the cold brew and watch her get comfortable. He admires her confidence, how easy she seems to walk about the world. Her style, too.
Maybe he can get some pointers - his own self image has taken a beating since his whole incident.
"A singular endeavor? Color me intrigued." Oz sets the cup down. "I'd love to hear more."
The pure, roaring tension, is what Elias used to appreciate the most. Now it's just his own, personal nightmare. The fact that it never subsided, that nights under leaves felt the same after thirty years, that their friends leaving and them finally being alone still made him grin after all this time. There was no denying -- they'd shared a lifetime together, had grown up together, and where others grew apart and lost touch, Elias found himself stuck with a red string, one he couldn't cut with his knifes, no matter how often he dared to try.
He truly hates this, truly hates how good everything makes him feel. How perfect Oz is at finding all his right spots, all his right places. "I hate you so much.", Elias groans into his skin, before his fingers detach from his slicked up length, and find the level of Oz's face instead. "Do you see this?", Elias asks, thumb twisting the engagement ring, "On a hand that holds so much power over this cities' witches? That holds so much power over you?" Of course, they see. And they feel, seconds later, when said fingers get pushed inside of him, skilled, knowing of their body. "So demanding.", Elias coos, softly, right into his ear, "What would other witches say, if they knew, hm?"
The cadence of Oz's breath matches Elias's - in tune, even in the way they exhale. Pattered breathing while they drink each other in. Oz would rather shut his ex up with about a thousand more kisses, but simultaneously he'd listen to him talk forever, too.
The engagement ring. Brown eyes blown with lust take it in before he feels it inside him. It makes his back arch, toes curl... Oz's fingers have to grab onto Elias, unable to support himself sitting up this way on his own. He has to cling to him, making it even more intimate somehow, as Oz's head drops back and his lips part.
"Fuck, El...." He whimpers for him, digs fingers into his back. There's a thousand comebacks but it's hard to focus on one when Elias is talking to him like that, fucking him with his finger like that.
Oz shifts as best he can into that finger. "You... know I have no shame, baby..." They finally murmur against the hunter's neck as their teeth drag over his neck, as they bite and suck a spot there. "What about the other hunters, though? A witch, fucked instead of killed, on your watch?" The smile up at Elias... it's nothing short of loving, adoring, despite the words Oz says.
It’s happening more frequently, he falls asleep and something takes hold, something feral. Something hungry. Almost every night it’s been the same, the shift, the hunt, and then confusion in the morning as he wakes up in different parts of his apartment. Naked, sometimes dirty, or with leaves in his hair. Once or twice with injuries that he has no recollection of earning. But he keeps it to himself, it’s nothing, right?
Just like every night it happens though, paws silently press into mud and earth, sometimes deep within the trees or other nights, like tonight, just on the edges. Gold eyes peering, nose pressed to the ground, ears perked, looking for its next meal. His next kill. Something to sink teeth and claw into.
It’s the cigarette the beast smells, then the soft sound of shifting. It’s been following the sound of his crutches hitting the pavement for a while but had lost it for a moment, distracted by the sound of scuttling within the branches. Head lifts from the small prey animal, blood on its snout as it sniffs the air, a sneeze of disgust at the smell, but it’s enough to lure it out.
Golden eyes take on the other’s form, scruff at its neck bristling as it crouches, a low growl vibrating in its chest. Attack. Kill. Feast whether the words play in its head fully or not is a mystery as it breaks the tree line, low growl still rumbling as it begins to stalk towards his prone form.
There's something. Sounds of something that shouldn't be there. And Oz isn't sure if it's following him, or happens to be walking the same way... but the witch stays seated there at the bench. Can't do much else, after being on his feet long enough.
Rustling. The shift of leaves. He knows it all from his time as a hunter. Any little breakage of twigs, even the huffed breathing of... a werewolf.
Shit. Shit. Oz does a cursory glance to the sky. Not the full moon, and out here? He's not that far from civilization - so why? What's a wolf doing out here?
Amber eyes and the flaring of nostrils. Teeth catching the light of the street lamp. Oz is momentarily brought back to that fateful day, and his nerves seem to short-circuit. The vice grip of giant claws that had ripped him apart, nearly literally. Fangs that had dripped saliva and snarled and snapped at him. Oz left bleeding out in the woods with a stained blade, legs twisted and spine fucked.
Not again. Please, not again. But that lapse in judgment, in his moment of pure terror, has him at a disadvantage as he tries to shift all his body weight and get his switchblade out.
Oz has been meaning to get out more. Sitting around at the bed and breakfast checking people in is mind-numbing, and he's slowly going insane. It's nothing like what he's used to. High stakes, week-long missions lying in wait for the perfect time to strike. Constant adrenaline rushes and excitement. Now he just... sits.
Talking to Lucia about her cabaret... well, it had been the first time he'd felt some kind of excitement again. So now he sits in his wheelchair at the little bistro table at a coffeeshop, waiting for Lucia to arrive. Dressed in all black- a blazer with no shirt underneath, pinstripe pants, dark leather boots with a bit of a heel, a cross-body bag. He stands out a bit in the quaint little café - but when he spots her making her way over, he gives a small nod. "Good to see you again." He states, still a bit too used to his own monotone, sometimes making him almost sound sarcastic.
It's just not a good night. That's what Oz keeps telling himself, convinces himself, as he sits outside in the darkness. A bench, on the outskirts of town, and a cigarette. He can't sleep and the open air is better than the stifling inside of his place. Maybe there's too much on his mind. Maybe it's the phantom pains, the pins and needles in his legs and feet from walking himself around on his forearm crutches for the past hour. It could be many things that keep him restless.
Maybe it's the loss of control. Those old marks now faded, ripped apart by claws. Powers, gone. The things that used to keep him sleeping easy at night are gone, and now his brain jumps from subject to subject. Person to person.
He feels the presence of another, but it's dark. Just some kind of flash of light... like how a flashlight or street lamp might catch on someone's eyes. Oz says nothing, but shifts slightly on the bench as he hears something. Rustling. And the witch feels for his pocket, where a knife is usually stored.
Knowing Oz's body like his own, is a true curse. Elias wishes to forget everything so deeply -- their first meeting. Starstruck on the stage, guitar in his hand, lips lined up with the microphone, eyes locked on Oz so bad he forgot to sing his lines. Then years of clubbing, and dancing, and also hunting, years in the forest, in cozy homes. The moment Elias figured they were the one -- that nothing would ever change, that buying a ring was a seal, a lock, a lock he really, really wanted.
The love of his life. A strange combination of words -- love and his life, that seemed to lack love from the early beginnings. The power strumming through his veins is strange, and Elias pushes it down. Thinks of Desmona, her words, her gaze. Thinks of what he could do, if he fools everyone into thinking he wants to change for Oz. His fiancé. His forever Alibi. But Elias catches himself thinking he really does want to change -- really does want to make a difference. The thought makes him laugh weakly against his partners lips, fingers digging into their skin.
He hates, how much he's opened his heart to Oz, and all he wants to do is slam his head into a wall until he forgets take every piece of clothing off of him, and so he does. Reveals every little piece of scarred skin, and then takes his own off. Bare -- not only body-wise, but his soul laid bare, too. "I want you to kill me.", Elias whispers, against his lips, as he comes down again, skin against skin now, his forehead against Oz's, "I can't kill you, so you need to kill me." His fingers wrap around Oz's length once again, thumb digging into the slit, smooth fingers sliding up, and back down. "Please."
They both know it isn't going to happen. Oz is cutthroat, malicious in many instances. He and Elias have seen each other in terrible situations - and while they miss the knife in their hand, the thrill of waiting in the darkness like a panther under dense leaves... there's no iota of him that wants to take his lover's life.
Instead his hand slips around to the other's hair. Fingers tangle and grip into it - a firm anchoring hand to make Elias look at him. "Seems... that we're at an impasse, then..." He pants out, as he aches, as his arousal only succeeds in making it slicker, easier for the other's hand to glide over.
Still, his dark eyes stay locked on the hunter's. Daring him to look away, as he shifts, as he tries to get himself closer. Tugs with whatever strength he has, to get the other down against him so he can bite, suck, and mark up his neck and shoulder blade. Silken clothing has been tossed to the side and he's left there with his obvious scars - the claw marks of a wolf who tore him to shreds, across tan flesh. Hips, chest... thighs that part to give Elias a better view. "Fuck me, and I'll think about it." He finally says, with a weak smile as he scrapes teeth against a nipple, bites at the muscle there of his pectoral, while a hand slips around back to grip a handful of his ass, desperate for the sensation, even the smell of Elias.
That statement makes Elias pause. Silk fabric in his mouth, he raises his gaze, before letting go and moving back up, features hardened. "Do you not understand?", he almost barks, "Do you seriously not see? Do you think I wear this for fun?" The hunter lifts the hand with the engagement ring, "Tell everyone I'm off the market for fun? Have you not realized you've cursed me? That you've bewitched me, body and soul? That I'd rather burn alive, than be caught touching anyone else? In almost thirty years I haven't. Touched someone else, that is. I've spent years alone. Months, in agony, thinking you were dead. I've spent months trying to kill you out of my mind, and what is always left, is pure, undying love. I've loved you all my life, since I was 21. Do you think my soul just forgets that?"
He's breathless, staring down at him, then he straightens, starts unbuttoning his shirt, tears it off and throws it away. There's new scars to his skin, barely healed wounds, and the tattoo, right above his heart, in the middle of his chest. "Do you not understand that I'm so truly evil, that there is no one left? That I'm so rotten, that they look at me with pity?" The pain is prominent in his voice as he speaks, "I disgust them. All of them. All of them, but you."
Because you know, Elias doesn't say out loud, because you understand. "You're so good. So loving. So gentle. I don't deserve you. But if I can't have you, no one should. You belong to me, no matter who you are. Do you understand that, too?"
And with that, Elias pushes his hand down further, into the fabric of Oz's shorts, wrapping his fingers around his length, cold skin holding warmth in a tight grip, before he bends down to kiss him once again, harder and less patient this time.
He’s stunned into silence. It’s words that perhaps he’s known, to a degree. But how can he blame Elias for hating what he’s so used to distrusting? Hating a witch comes second nature to a hunter, raised around those who treat him to be wary of their magic. He expects hatred. Oz expects contempt.
But. Pure, undying love. The witch’s dark and tempestuous eyes are swimming. Drowning. Damp corners, as Elias talks of who Oz belongs to. And it's true, isn't it? The hunter who’s consumed his thoughts since so long ago.
It isn’t only Elias who still wears an engagement ring from an engagement that never happened. Oz’s own ring finger is proof of it.
He’s going to protest that Elias certainly had made it sound different when he’d first come in - try to defend himself, but there’s no need to. All the words said have cast warmth over his body and he melts into the kiss. Tears streak his cheeks, an arm wraps around his neck for help keeping himself up as he’s touched.
Their body shifts into it, trying to get closer. If they could knit their flesh together with string, then they would. Use his magic to bind them so Elias would never walk back out the door. The pulsing of his heart is Oz’s too. The thrumming of his blood in his veins is Oz’s rhythm, just as much as Elias’s.
The noise he makes against his mouth is so soft. Desperate. A thousand responses he could make as he takes him into his hand. All that comes out from parted lips is: “I love you too.” Fingers tangle into Elias’s hair. A breathy, weak laugh as his hips try to sway into every touch. “Fuck you, for being the love of my life.”
He knows, from that stare alone. Elias doesn’t have to be a werewolf or a vampire to have that animalistic rage inside him. The river that’s flooded from too much rain- and all the run-off has hit Oz’s front door. And he can’t complain, not when his ex’s face runs through his mind more than anything else. The second he’s pushed into the wall, and the forearm crutches drop, Oz knows he should focus on words, and asking him why. Even trying to concentrate on balance.
But it’s his smell, the reminder of his cologne, that’s first. Most important, how it brings Oz thundering back home. Familiar lips, long fingers over the silken fabric of his pajamas… god, his skin is on fire. “You don’t have to stop.” He whispers before his lips crash hungrily back into Elias’s. Mouth claiming mouth and letting the other take whatever he wants. Needs.
“Don’t want you to stop.” Oz adds under his breath, clearly distracted as he finally focuses on balance- hands gripping the others shirt and leaning into the wall a bit more, head tilting up to let dark beady eyes catch on his old partner’s. “Might have to carry me.” He challenges, as his teeth scrape at Elias’s neck, as he sucks at his pulse point. “Please?” He murmurs, voice a rumble against his flesh.
"You don't understand.", Elias whispers, no, groans into Oz's skin. "I've gone too far. I've made a mistake." Olivier. The name echoes through his mind daily, hourly, every second. It's a ghost that haunts him, he's in his walls, in his ground, on his carpet. He's underestimated that a witch this close to being human has more friends than he has enemies, more people that search for him, look for him, than all the witches before. There's a reason why he never went back for Jac, for Desmona. Elias knows when to stop. It's just that sometimes, he doesn't. Sometimes, he crosses a line. And this time he's truly messed up.
"I need someone to cover for me, if the police catches on.", Elias whispers, "I need an alibi." There's no one else that would -- there truly is no one else. Lis is not good enough of an option, and then there's just no one else. No one left. "I don't know how to stop.", he says once again, more firm, and this time, it's not about Oz. It's about killing. He remembers the way Desmona looked at him -- like he was someone to pity, and not someone to fear.
Elias leans his forehead against Oz's, cups their face with his hands and takes a moment to breath, before he's lifted from the ground in a smooth motion, and carried to the bedroom. Sadly, Elias knows his way around, and finds it even in the dark.
"Why do you even love me?", Elias whispers into the dark, hand positioned right next to Oz's head, "I body everything you hate, I destroy everything you love. There's nothing precious, nothing sacred about me. I'm a natural selection." Elias doesn't stop his movements with the questions, instead he kisses his skin all the way down, then mouths their length through the fabric, his hands on his upper thighs when he pulls his silk pants all the way down and discards them onto the ground.
He’s pissed- he wants to make more of a fuss, and maybe if he weren’t so horny, so desperate for Elias…
An alibi? He needs someone to cover for him? That’s why he’s here? Oz’s fingers dig into his shirt. He wants to rip it apart, wants to tear into his skin. He’s angry and he’s upset and he’s lonely. So he’s being used, and Oz wishes he had the spine enough to shove him away and tell him to fuck off.
Instead he’s melting under those hands. The arms that lift him and carry him so, so easily. Pressed into the bed and wanting more. He wants his legs to curl around him, to tangle him up so he doesn’t leave again. Instead, he shuts him up with his mouth- claims it in a needy kiss. Reaches for him to grip at his shirt as the silk fabric slips off.
“Great. Glad you’re here to avoid a fuckin investigation. Do you fuck all your alibis?”
He nips at his mouth, drags at his lower lip. Tries to taste anything he can get. Because who knows when he’ll be good enough to be an “alibi” again.
Elias stands like a shadow, in all black, face frozen, features so convulsive that if laid on the ground, he might as well be dead.
His heart skips a beat. And he hates it. So desperately, most ardently, Elias hates every single emotion Oz raises in his chest, and if it's only anger. Right now, it's a mix, but his most urgent emotion, the most vivid one, is pure, mere panic.
The most cruel, most heartless, most idiotic witch hunter is standing in front of his fiancées exes door, a witch, a witch that does so truly believe in what they do; and is having a panic attack. Quick, panicked breaths, body clenched, eyes searching his face for familiarity, when his brain can't quite grasp what he's seeing, then his jaw clenches, and his body heaves forward, and in the next second he has Oz pressed up against the wall and the door closed with his other hand, kissing him feverishly enough to swallow his panic down.
"I can't stop.", Elias whispers into the kiss, "I don't know how. I know nothing else." And it means his work, it means Oz. "I don't know how to quit you." And he needs to. He so desperately needs to. But he doesn't, instead his hands roam his body, and his lips, too.
He knows, from that stare alone. Elias doesn’t have to be a werewolf or a vampire to have that animalistic rage inside him. The river that’s flooded from too much rain- and all the run-off has hit Oz’s front door. And he can’t complain, not when his ex’s face runs through his mind more than anything else. The second he’s pushed into the wall, and the forearm crutches drop, Oz knows he should focus on words, and asking him why. Even trying to concentrate on balance.
But it’s his smell, the reminder of his cologne, that’s first. Most important, how it brings Oz thundering back home. Familiar lips, long fingers over the silken fabric of his pajamas… god, his skin is on fire. “You don’t have to stop.” He whispers before his lips crash hungrily back into Elias’s. Mouth claiming mouth and letting the other take whatever he wants. Needs.
“Don’t want you to stop.” Oz adds under his breath, clearly distracted as he finally focuses on balance- hands gripping the others shirt and leaning into the wall a bit more, head tilting up to let dark beady eyes catch on his old partner’s. “Might have to carry me.” He challenges, as his teeth scrape at Elias’s neck, as he sucks at his pulse point. “Please?” He murmurs, voice a rumble against his flesh.
It's late. Oz has changed into silk pyjamas, and walked himself tiredly with his forearm crutches to the living room of the little apartment he's made his own - maybe a nightcap will help. Sleep doesn't come easy anyways lately- especially with supernatural creatures on the alert for hunters. He's been worried. About his family who he never speaks to any more. About his ex, who he's texted maybe a bit too much today. Just little messages: 'You owe me, you know. Bring some wine over sometime.' 'Good seeing your blood again.' 'Thanks for the dance.' 'I miss you.'
He's startled by the knock at the door, and leans into one of the crutches, checking the peephole before realizing who it is. The door swings open. "Do you have any idea how late it is?"
001.
open.
late evening on the streets of port leiry.
Miles still went outside every once in a while. It was a habit like any other habit. Outside, no matter the weather, standing around. He still sometimes groped his pocket for cigarettes he didn't smoke anymore, until he'd have to settle for the gum in his back pocket. He took out a piece, gave it a chew, and settled against the wall of a building, hoping the nicotine would hit as fast.
Briefly, he glanced at the person standing nearby. "Ever wonder why there's so much tension in the air?"
The question's weird, but it's about as weird as anything else someone might say in Port Leiry. So Oz isn't necessarily surprised by it. Still, his brows furrow just slightly from where he sits in his wheelchair. "There's always tension in the air here. Like a constant cloud of... something brewing." The witch leans back tiredly and rubs his temples. Far too much of that 'tension' lately. "Enough to give a recurring tension headache, I'd say." Oz adds after that, feeling for a cigarette.
It was simple really, and Oz may have known the answer if he ever did ask, but Sasha didn't have a complicated or wordy answer to it. He stuck around because he wanted to, and whether that was a good or bad thing... Well, he'd let it bite him in the ass later on. An eight-year relationship was hard to throw out of the window no matter how strange it was
So here he was in Oz's apartment, a place he knew all too well at this point. "Why are you talk-talking to me like i'm your co-worker?" He shook his head with a soft laugh, standing on his toes to grab his favorite glass from Oz's cabinet to fill it to the brim with alcohol. "Of course ham-hammered, why wouldn't we?"
Oz sighs, rolling his eyes, but he can't help the small smile. He doesn't have a lot of friends left. Not from his old life. The usual sarcastic deadpan has been the witch's defense mechanism even more-so than usual... so it's easy to slip into that, even with Sasha.
"Alright, you're right." Oz relents, watching Sasha pour himself a glass and pushes his own glass over. "Hey, don't forget about me, huh?" He could really use this kind of relaxation. A bit of time with a friend. And the thought of it does definitely bring more of a smile to Oz's face.
Elias remembers it all too well. Nails scratching his back, scars still burning. One drink too many, and one touch, too. It's a glimpse of past years rushing by all in one moment, and he still finds himself numb. Empty. He's close to the final stab, so close. Until. He leaves the main room to catch some fresh air on a balcony, taking his suit jacket of, revealing his naked arms.
"I wish you'd rather fight me.", Elias says, voice surprisingly soft if one compares it to the raw violence of his murderous thoughts, "I wish you'd hate me." The hunter offers leans down far, securing the wheelchair's brakes when he finds them, just to offer Oz both of his steady hands. It's a strange sight. Them both wearing wedding rings, like they belong.
"Care for a dance?", he asks, "I've seen you glooming the whole night. If you don't stop, I will make use of a chandelier to beat the gloom out of you." A sincere threat. One more flashback of Oz's moans in the back of his head, and he's going to flip. Down the balcony.
Maybe if Oz didn't have all this fresh air, this nice breeze calming him down, then he'd argue more. Raise his voice about how none of this is fair, how there's not a single bone in his body that wants to fight Elias. That wants to hate him. Maybe if he hadn't gotten to this point of acceptance, sitting alone for so long on his own, he could've given him a shove and told him to fuck off.
The ring, moss agate in a yellow gold bezzle, has been on his finger since Elias had slipped it on there. It's some macabre comfort, something he can't bear to take off. So it's stayed.
And there is Elias's, on an extended offer. A dance. The witch eyes him for a long moment. Just that muffled music, and the handsomest man he's ever seen. The wine's set aside and his hands fit into his ex's perfectly as he moves leather boots gingerly to get a proper footing. "Alright, alright. I don't owe you shit. You want a dance just as much as I do, so cool your jets." He mumbles, a sideways smile to try to take some of the attention off the struggle to stand. How much he has to rely on the other's grip, his strong frame. Oz gets upright and nearly stumbles forward- but grabs onto Elias's upper arms to hold themself properly in place.
"Not so hard." Oz releases a breath, dark eyes flitting to catch Elias's with a tiny grin.
A few years ago, he would've been all over this. The swirling gowns and the music, good drinks and better company. The anonymity of it all lends itself perfectly to a hunter... his favorite jobs had been in places like The Sentinel. Slipping through the crowd, unassuming. His smaller body barely even noticed in a dark suit as he slipped off after his target.
Not anymore. He sits in his wheelchair and immediately feels othered. Eyes glance from behind masks at him. Cursory little pitying looks. He hates it. Feeling on display even here. There's nothing anonymous about being one of the only wheelchair users in the place. Doesn't matter if he's wearing a mask or not, does it?
The balcony is a reprieve, with a soft breeze helping cool him down. He's on his second cigarette as he listens to the music - just a bit far away, the dulled chatter of the partygoers enjoying themselves.
He's lived too long, been too close to the man who walks into the doorframe, for him not to recognize him even with his face covered. "Come to gloat, El?" He asks simply. Dark eyes are settled behind the delicate moth mask, lips pressed into a hard line and a glass of wine nearly finished in one hand. "You look lovely, but. Of course you do."
Oz appears at the event in his wheelchair, wearing accents of leather under a pinstripe jacket. Combat boots, gloves, and a boned dark corset that make an almost dainty looking moth mask stand out even further. And yet his dark eyes and those lips are unmistakable. He almost hopes to run into old hunters here, almost hopes to strike up old conversations with faces they don't normally see... after a nice glass of red.
