Too tired to tag. Too drained to do much else. Ready to give up on everything to be honest. Nobody sees my art. I have no interaction. I'm tired of trying. I've been posting less and less because I have no motivation anymore.
A collaboration between me and the magnificent @roadkill-frankenstein. The prose is mine, the art is theirs, the characters are ours. Consider it a "back-door pilot" for a setting of mine, of which he's a collaborator.
Capt. Grim Blackburn and Brennos Lobhadh belong to @roadkill-frankenstein.
Theoxenia Trismegistus and Mr. Manson belong to @raelhbishop.
Content warning: Depictions of PTSD and body dysmorphia; graphic depictions of death and stake-burning; body horror; mild emetophobia and hemophobia
❊
Two beaming yellow-on-red specks float about in the darkness. Aside from distant flickers of candles, they alone bring light to an all-encroaching darkness, like embers from a dying universe.
If one squints hard enough, one can see suggestions of a surroundings; the grain of stone, the glint of leather, the smudge of ashes, the subtle crevices of some much larger carving. In the dark, it's hard to tell truly where one thing ends and another begins.
An acrid, metallic smell singes the air.
The specks turn slightly, like two wispy marbles. A thin, bronzy outline of two circles and a line follow some inches ahead. Shuffling can be heard; glyphs, pages, come into view, given a subtle red tinge by the spheres.
Adjust the eye of your mind, and one can see something more to these specks…
❊
"Manson, are you positive this is your… friend's… address?"
"WE'RE NOT EVEN THERE YET, HOW CAN YOU ASSUME I'M WRONG?"
A sleek car moseys its way down increasingly decrepit roads. The tag on the back reads "D3MB0NZ”.
The streets reek of piss and, occasionally, some really poor quality ganja wafting from a balcony — a typical day in Miami. The hot sun glistens off the faces of our protagonists. Well, two of them.
Theo and Grim haven't been here for very long, only a few months at the most. In-between their work schedules, the two of them like to wander around Miami and make mental maps of what it holds. They've got it figured out: where all the vegetarian restaurants, liquor stores, and bars that host live music are.
These streets, however, seem foreign to them both. Mr. Manson has been driving for some time now, practically past the city's heart and into something overgrown.
Their ride comes to an end. He leaves the car confidently, leading the two past increasingly questionable buildings.
Grim adjusts his wide-brimmed straw hat. "…why are we going here again?"
"TO VISIT A GOOD FRIEND OF MINE." His voice is reminiscent of the roar of a car's engine.
"Brennos, right?"
Manson nods, audibly rustling. "YOU WILL LIKE HIM, TRUST ME. HE'S A PROPER GENTLEMAN. PLAYS A GOOD GAME OF POKER.”
The trio walk past a condemned building, boarded up, stucco walls crumbling. Mr. Manson stops at the next house, standing before a rotted door that looks minutes away from falling off its hinges entirely. He starts shuffling through his overly large ring of keys — the one thing, he laments, can't be upgraded.
Theo whispers to Grim. "I still don't know why he's our landlord."
"You know damn well why. He's the only one who would take us in."
"I dunno, dude. He still gives me the creeps."
"Come on, he's just undead, that's all. Like me."
"Well, yeah, but you've got flesh and bones and stuff. He's just… bones."
"AH, HERE IT IS."
Mr. Manson pulls out a literal skeleton key, the teeth resembling tiny ribs jutting out of an elongated phalange. At the key's base is a small crow-like skull.
He jabs it into the doorknob. Fighting a little, it eventually unlocks and glows the faintest bit. The eyes of the key light up a ruby red.
Adjusting his jacket and top hat, Manson opens the door and enters.
Theo grabs Grim's hand. They lock eyes, take a deep breath, and follow behind.
❊
A beam of light bursts through the darkness. Three figures emerge from it: the first, a top hat and Prussian blue coat clad figure, walking confident and cool. The second is straw-hatted, with hints of turquoise visible from underneath his yellow raincoat. He has only one arm. Close behind is a cowboy booted figure, sheepishly wearing a colorful hoodie with a smiling black cat on it.
As the door begins closing, the group find themselves in a corridor filled with other doors. They're all exquisitely carved — Mr. Manson notes they're made from solid ironwood — and are all identical except for a small symbol at the center of each. The door they just left bears a manatee engraved into it; a rose sits on the door to the left, and a fountain to the right.
Manson leads them to one end of the corridor, where a much larger door with a wolf-headed knocker greets them. He puts his skeletal finger to it; without even making contact, it knocks itself with a bark.
Startled, Theo leaps backwards, hitting a door with an eight-spoked wheel engraved into it. His hoodie gets knocked back, revealing two goat-like horns that curl behind and down below his equally hircine ears.
Grim sighs. He grabs Theo by the hand.
The door slowly opens, revealing more darkness inside. Manson continues, unperturbed. His shoes clack across the dark marble floor.
Following his lead, the two enter an even larger corridor. The simple wooden walls of the previous room have now been replaced with a dark stone. Pillars and alcoves have been periodically carved into them, covered in intricate detail that comes off as all-too sinister in the dim light.
The visitors peer into the alcoves as they walk past. Artefacts sit on pedestals in each one, lit by lanterns hoisted mere feet above. One holds a beige bejeweled cup, bearing the suture marks characteristic of a human skullcap. Another holds a preserved jar with a snake inside, a strange blend of the cobra and the moray eel. They pass by tusks from long-extinct wild cats, obsidian daggers, gold urns holding crystal spheres instead of ashes…
They walk by an intricate pocket watch with a mirror exposed; as the three walk past, only Theo's reflection appears.
Manson turns a corner. Theo bumps into a pedestal, showcasing a sizable ram's skull. He shudders.
They come to a still life; Theo and Grim stop to look.
"This painting gives me the creeps."
Grim nods. "It's very well done. I wonder if it has any deeper meaning."
Theo cocks his head. "Maybe you're right, dude… see the way the skull is in the forefront? Maybe it's supposed to represent how, like, death is everywhere. And all the stuff behind it is what you want to see." He points. "The books, the flute — a most excellent flute — the sword, the… weird little thingy you, like, put incense in or something…"
"What of the conch shell?"
Theo shrugs. "They're nice to look at? All the objects represent what we see in life, but the skull rules over them all."
They look at it quietly a little longer. An ever-so faint metallic smell begins to waft over.
"What do you think, dude?"
Grim shrugs. "Looks all the same to me… uh, Theo?"
He turns from the painting and is frozen in his tracks.
The two of them see the orbs in the distance. Floating. Ominously. The metallic odor grows stronger. They pinch each other to make sure this is all real, and slowly inch to the side.
Underneath the spheres, a line of frozen flames of red begin to emerge from the void. Both seem to be hovering in the distance. Eyeballing a nearby chandelier, Grim figures the orbs — the eyes, must be a good ten feet off the ground.
The eyes draw closer. The line becomes more defined, taller even, revealing the flames to be rows of sanguine teeth.
Grim feels for something on his left hip, but hears whimpers from his right. He grips Theo's arm to lessen his trembling.
"AH, BRENNOS! THERE YOU ARE!"
Manson walks past the duo, arms open.
A voice emerges from the lurking face. "Charles! Good to see you."
Stepping into the light, something emerges from the shadows.
A pink, slimy visage surrounds the eyes. It has the skull of a coyote, cleansed of all its flesh except for a thin film coating it. It sits atop a long, shaggy neck that freely hunches over. It’s composed of varying furs — suture marks can be seen patching them together.
The mysterious face seems to smile now, commanding a spindly and domineering body. Whatever other unspeakable things the body has inside it are concealed under rather refined clothes: a red dress shirt and pants, and a black collared vest with brass buttons down its left.
A book is clasped by the figure's massive wolf-like talons. They glisten wetly in the light.
Manson stands beside the ten-foot patchwork creature. The latter closes his book, bends his knees, and gives the skeleton a firm handshake.
"I'VE BROUGHT SOME CLIENTS ALONG WITH ME, I HOPE YOU DON'T MIND."
"Not at all."
"THAT ONE," he points to the figure in the straw hat, "IS ONE GRIM BLACKBURN, AND THE SHAKING SATYR HE'S CLUTCHING IS THEOXENIA TRISMEGISTUS."
"Ah, yes, you've told me about them. The ex-pirate and the aspiring musician." He approaches said musician. "I hear you prefer to go by 'Theo,' is that correct?"
Sputtering ensues.
"Ah, don't be so nervous, lad. Your horns don't bother me one bit."
Theo freezes.
"Would you all like a tour of my humble abode?"
"I THINK THAT WOULD BE IN ORDER."
Grim slowly nods his head.
"Splendiferous."
Brennos begins leading Mr. Manson down a left corridor, the others trailing behind. He begins a thorough discussion of the first item he sees — a shrunken head, hoisted to his right, said to hold the soul of the man it once belonged to.
Theo leans over towards Grim. "I think he's gonna kill me, dude."
"Not as long as I'm here."
He smiles at Grim, his lips quivering.
❊
Cacophony rebounds across the halls. Its source is a simple tea room, with Brennos and Manson chortling and patella-slapping. The two of them regale anecdotes of their "lives," happenings from centuries ago that lose some of their humor on the guests.
A fireplace roars in the background — the most light you'll find anywhere in the place. To the left lies a gallery, to the right a kitchen, and directly in front sits Brennos in his leathery armchair.
"You know, Charles, I could install one of these in your place."
Mr. Manson rattles.
"Really, it's no bother."
"THANKS, BUT NO. MY FLATSCREEN TV WORKS JUST FINE."
"Well, what about a cauldron?"
"SLOW COOKER."
"Magic orb?"
"DESKTOP COMPUTER."
"Oh, you make me feel like such a luddite sometimes!"
Grim fidgets with his coat. Theo stares into his empty teacup.
Brennos turns to the two. “So, tell me, how long have you two known each other?"
"About a year." Grim cautiously eyes his host.
"Good."
There's an awkward silence across the tea room. Brennos flashes a sanguine smile; Grim seems a little unnerved by it, so Brennos retracts. It's at this point Grim realizes Brennos hasn't moved his mouth at all — the words get beamed into his brain.
"Say, Charles, did you ever tell them about how we met?"
Before he can start, howling can be heard in the distance. Theo looks up from his teacup, eyes widened in concern.
"Ah, sounds like the tea's done." Brennos slowly rises to his full height. Theo starts bleating in panic — after trying to relax for the past ten minutes, he'd forgotten how tall his host was. Sitting to Theo's left, Grim taps him on the shoulder to get him to calm down. It doesn't work.
He moves his hand to his nape and quasi-massages his neck. The panicked bleating slows down; he breathes easier.
"YOU TWO HAVE AN INTERESTING RELATIONSHIP."
"Yes, but it's ours, and I'm glad to have it." Grim moves closer to Theo; the latter puts his head on the former's shoulder and bleats, this time happily.
Manson grins — not that he has much choice.
Brennos returns with the tea. He pours Theo and Grim cups. The former's hesitant at first, but messily takes a sip — less out of courtesy and more out of his love for herbal teas. It's quite a nice blend; the rest of the cup soon follows.
Grim notices the host pours himself a cup from a smaller kettle; he inquires.
"Oh, my friend, this is a drink for… very specific tastes. I'm certain if you tried it you'd regret it."
Grim highly doubts that — the man makes his cocktails with antifreeze, after all.
Manson and Brennos resume their recollections, some puns at the expense of a 'Governor Phips' here, wise-cracks about Puritan dogma there, and a passing mention about a Sikh vetala and a book club. Then Manson does an impression of some obscure minister that sends Brennos reeling.
As he laughs, a little spills from Brennos' cup. A crimson stain pools on the table.
Grim hovers over the spill.
Theo cocks his head. "…is that…?"
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry." Brennos pulls out a kerchief and wipes it up.
"Oh god." Theo puts a hand over his mouth.
"Down the hall, second door on your right."
He runs from the table.
Meanwhile, Grim hovers over Brennos' "tea"cup.
"I told you it was for specific tastes." He sips a little. "You look quite perturbed by it for a retired swashbuckler."
Grim stares at a painting opposite Brennos. "Have you ever seen the mountains outside Marrakesh?"
"In books, yes."
"You know how they transition from being a dried red on the bottom to pallid and snowcapped on the top?"
Brennos acknowledges.
"Every time I see… just any red, really… I'm reminded of those mountains.
"I'm reminded of seeing a pool of crimson, covering the hardened snow. Staining the jagged rocks. Draining the color from…” he winces “…skin. Taking with it, every last inch of warmth… flowing down to join the red rocks below.
"Even just seeing a crimson shirt hanging in a store makes me nauseous."
The void creature takes another sip. "Are you always so honest with gentlemen you've just met?"
"Not until lately." Grim sighs. "How do I put it…"
"YOUR BOY TOY HAS MADE YOU FEEL THINGS?"
Grim shoots Manson a glare that would make one's skin peel. It does what you would expect to someone with no skin.
"JUST A BIT OF HUMOR."
"You're not wrong, though." He resumes staring at the painting. He sighs. "I used to despise the undead, see them as affronts to the unyielding hand of God. And then, by a cruel twist of fate, I was forced to join them."
Putting his cup down, the sewn-together figure steeples his talons. "Do you know how Charles and I became what we are?"
"You just said it was some event in Massachusetts."
"Aye, but that's only part of the story. We used to be flesh and bone too. It was a rather… excuse me for a moment…"
Brennos turns to a cabinet behind him, rummaging through it. He pulls out a stone, clasps it in his hands, and concentrates. He seems to wince while doing so. When he opens his claw, the stone has been reduced to a glowing dust.
"An old trick from the Babylonians." He tosses the dust into the fire. "Observe."
Grim looks into the fireplace and watches its flames turn a vibrant green. It seems rather ordinary, all things considered… but he can't seem to look away from it-
In an instant, Grim sees a foreign vision in his head, a memory that is not his own, playing back as clear as crystal…
❊
Many people misconstrue what 'alchemy' is. It's not the search to turn lesser metals into gold; that's merely a side effect.
The true goal of alchemy was mystical: to purify the self, to transmogrify oneself from an impure being of flesh and vice into a transcendent spirit.
To study the vibrations of the world, and pluck them with understanding, turning the universe into a perfect orchestra.
To alter one's own vibrations.
Witchcraft, traditionally, was seen as the innate ability to cause misfortune simply by willing it. Magic for malice, as it were.
But some, many who found themselves magically-inclined or curious — mystically inclined or curious — were targeted as "witches". The actions, the goals, the dreams — they didn't matter to the outsider; their strangeness was enough to warrant scapegoating.
The memory unfolds in a cramped house, wooden logs as its walls and a simple dirt floor. All manner of drawings and writings in scripts — Arabic, Latin shorthand, some bastard version of Greek — line the walls.
He sees a figure in the mirror — one covered with scars across its chest, scars it - he, knows to be from disgust, from a desire to become something different.
A body, a mind, a soul, torn from years of constant, minor degradation. Like a thousand arrows shot at the psyche. Insults from others; assaults from others; assaults from his own mind… and a growing desire to escape.
Today, there is no disgust. There's only excitement… a little fear, but eager anticipation overwhelms it.
A cloth covers a vaguely humanoid outline in another corner of the room.
The anticipation wells further. Various items line the desks here; crucibles and alembics, a bubbling cauldron, ashes, herbs familiar and exotic, not-so precious gems, animal skulls, talismans from within and without the New World…
He turns to see sigils inscribed into various loose-leaf pages and small discs. A wooden one sits forefront, destined to be an amulet.
Removing a rod from the fire of the cauldron, he burns a strange symbol into the disc, then submerges it in the cauldron.
He takes the amulet and… the memory gets blurry here, painful. When it returns, the amulet has been snapped in half; one half, he wears himself, the other, now placed onto the cloaked figure. Both seem to glow gently.
His excitement boils over — as does the cauldron. He takes a cupful from the cauldron, pipping hot, and drinks it, burning his throat in the process. He doesn't care. He takes another, and pours it into the cloaked figure.
Colors now seem more vibrant. He can feel his blood, his breath, his nerves — like winds, swirling about his body. He drinks more of the brew; the inner vision, the excitement grows stronger — blinding his awareness of what's unfolding outside.
The rituals that follow are a bit esoteric for most; still, the feeling of the winds becomes ever-present. They begin to coalesce in channels across the body.
It's exhilarating… it's chaotic… it's purifying…
He can feel a synergy, a connection, with a foreign channel mere feet away, as if a door is opening with a ruby red key.
Suddenly, his own door bursts down. A mob breaks in, armed with simple weapons, dressed in simpler clothes. The few that enter are baffled by the array of oddities. They utter prayers and complaints.
The strongest one of them grabs him by the shoulders, jostling his trance.
It's as if one's hand had been jarred in that very door. The connection splinters, shivers… the winds turn into typhoons around their channels… voices from before, from beyond, from within, are amplified a thousandfold. Dread rises from every pore.
He tries to fight back, thrashing his limbs, knocking his set to the floor. It's no use.
He gets dragged out by the mob. His vision is blurry, hazy, like a mirage. As he gets dragged further, he can see his house burning in the distance. He can make out a few faces in the crowd; most prominent, that of a buckle-hatted, mustached figure — a certain Charles Baldrick Manson III, Esquire, farmer and moral arbiter.
The connection still lingers. He tries desperately to re-enter the trance, to hold on to it for as long as possible. He feels sensations across his bodies ebb in-and-out. A soul cast between two homes, tethered to neither and longing for both…
Within moments, he now finds himself tied to a stake. A woman, a familiar voice, tries desperately to stop them, but it is of no use. She pleads before Manson; he is unperturbed.
He fades in-and-out of awareness, across bodies. He feels the other one grow warmer — a sign of progress?
He can barely hear the confident speech of the mob leaders as he tries to re-enter the trance. Suddenly, light begins to shine from below.
He thinks it's a good sign at first — the soul, finishing its migration!
He looks down — both bodies — to see that he's gravely wrong.
Flames pierce the skin like cuts from a red-hot sword. The smell of burning flesh is choked out only by the stench of the wood underneath.
Blood begins to boil underneath the skin. Joints bubble and explode. Bones can be heard crackling from the flames.
His body begins to feel numb all over, the pain unbearably dulling all his senses. He goes blind — either from the trauma, or from his eyes popping in their sockets.
The last thing he can see is the smiling face of Charles, taking a mirage-like transition into darkness. Swirling darkness, like the smoke of the flames.
There's a piercing ringing in the ears.
It slowly dampens as if it were going down a distant corridor, echoing as it departs.
The vision becomes filled with sparks.
The all-consuming pain slowly seeps, drains out. He can feel the winds withdraw from his body, heat coalescing, then dissolving from the heart…
Grim grips his chest, reflexively…
… pooling into something.
The vision gradually transforms, from the light of a moon-lit sky, to an ember-like reddish glow, to black voidness… finally, to a clear, blinding, calming light…
… it sits there for some time…
… he awakes to find himself in the ashes. Not on them, in them. He feels strangely free, fluid, like he could fly through mountains…
… and yet, he finds himself trapped in a black, bile-like form, pooled in and around what was once the stake.
It takes some time for his spirit to adapt to this liminal body — liminal being the loosest and yet closest fit term for what this is.
Two bead-like eyes form from the mental image of himself. The world no longer looks the same; ghosts and auras are now as clear as day, and the mundanities of life give way to the extraordinarities of the beyond.
Brennos' cool, cold, shadow-like body creeps its way out of the pile of smolders. It rolls itself into the direction of the town, to the direction of a certain manor, inhabited by a certain Mr. Manson…
❊
The memory ends. It felt like hours. It all flashes by in a minute's time.
"I had worked so long and hard to sculpt the perfect form, something I could feel confident in…" Brennos creaks, akin to a sigh. "I spent years learning to re-assemble myself, using what little magic I had left to survive."
Grim quietly, slowly nods.
"It took me some time to get to the form you see today. Most of the bodies and cadavers I tried to inhabit were failures from the start — too decayed, too weak, too small. I soon gave up on trying to become human again. Instead I built myself a body, the one you see before you now. One of flesh, fur, and bone. At first, I was disgusted by myself."
Grim says nothing.
He sips from his cup, teeth clacking ominously against it. "It took me some time to accept what I had become. And now, I've grown quite fond of this body of mine."
Grim still stares in the direction of the fireplace. Brennos creeps over; his cheeks seem wet with tears.
He extends a talon.
Grim turns.
"We all need help sometimes."
Grim grasps the claw. They do a quasi-handshake.
"Say, Charles and I have a little… coven, you might say, of undead friends that meet here. We're called the Cabaret. Would you like to join us?"
Grim looks down, thinking.
"There is no pressure to join, my good sir."
He thinks for a moment. "Well, only if I-" He turns in his chair. "Wait a second… my landlord is the man that killed you?"
"Indeed. I was quite miffed at the time. In a fit of rage, I went over to Manson while he slept, and put a hex on him. I spared his wife-"
"AND I MUST SAY, THANK YOU FOR SPARING HER."
"Why wouldn't I? She was the only one who stood up for me."
"VENGEANCE DOES STRANGE THINGS TO THE MIND."
"Very true. Regardless, that hex is what brought him to his current form as a walking skeleton."
Grim looks Brennos in the eyes. "The cycle of violence."
Brennos nods. "Ah, but how trivial it all looks in death." He points at Manson. "You accused me of witchcraft because I mentioned the possibility of rain, and it rained that day. You were correct, of course, but your reasons… quite absurd."
"TRUTH IS, I WAS JUST MAD BECAUSE I WAS PLANNING A PICNIC THAT DAY. OUR PASTRIES WERE RUINED."
"Ah, to put your fellow man to death over soggy pastries! How interesting those times were."
Manson hunches towards Brennos. "I'M AFRAID NOT MUCH HAS CHANGED IN THAT REGARD, TO THE MORTALS AT LEAST. QUITE SAD, REALLY."
"Yes, but at least the stake-burnings are metaphorical now instead of literal.”
"YOU SHOULD SEE WHAT THEY DO IN SUBSAHARAN AFRICA THESE DAYS. IT WOULD MAKE YOUR BILE-"
A metallic thud can be heard in the distance, followed by a yelp.
"Griiiim!"
Seconds later, Theo emerges from a corridor, a helmet from a Qing dynasty coat of armor rolling in behind him. He runs over to Grim, and buries his head into his shoulder. "I want to go home!"
He sobs profusely on the pirate's left side, tears trickling down his armless shoulder.
Grim looks over at his hosts. He turns back and puts a consolatory hand on Theo's shoulder.
The whimpers echo across the halls of the manor.
As the tears begin to lessen, Grim pats Theo on the shoulder, grabs him by the chin, and turns his head.
He sees Brennos there, taking on the posture of a plant that's begun wilting.
This ten-foot fleshwork creature, witch, daemon, whatever it is, seems… sad.
Theo gets the feeling that there's emotion there. Its mouth may be bony and menacing, and its eyes more like burnt embers than eyes, but it… he, seems just like him in a way.
He burrows his head back onto Grim to process.
Theo gets the sense that, somehow, Brennos is just as sad as him. He doesn't know it like Grim knows it, but he senses that somewhere, deep in those eyes, a mortal just like him once resided — still resides. A hopeful, excited — corrupted, mirror of himself.
"Alright, I understand. You two are free to leave." Brennos approaches a little. "But first — and, I must say, this is entirely your choice — I think I have something you might enjoy, Theo. Would you like to come see it?"
He sniffles. Picking his head off of Grim's shoulder, he grips his hand and looks him square in the eyes.
Grim nods slowly.
Theo turns and cautiously accepts, following behind Brennos and gripping Grim's hand.
They wind past corridors Brennos showed them prior — weapons, skulls, preserved viscera and the like — and enter one the group missed. It's filled with instruments; Theo is amazed by their diversity and age. He brightens up a little, pointing at the erhu and the mandolin and the qanun.
Brennos then pulls out a dust-covered box from beside a pipe organ. His claws wrap neatly around it, brushing the dust off in one stroke.
"I remember hearing you liked music. Is that so?"
"I live for music."
"Good, very good. I've always admired a musician's heart. It's similar to a witch's heart, in a way."
Brennos lowers himself to Theo's height. "Charles has been telling me of all the strange new ways everyone listens to music. When I was born, you could only hear music by playing it yourself or hearing someone else. Before the phonograph or the cassette-disc player or what-have-you, we had this."
He puts the box in Theo's hands. It's wooden, fairly dense, is about the size of a paperback novel, and has a painting of a forest scene on it.
"Go ahead, open it. It won't bite."
Theo cautiously lifts open the top. As he does, it begins playing a gentle tune. He can see the machinery inside — a spinning copper disc with holes punched into it, and a braided metal rod that sticks halfway across its length, dipping up-and-down with the grooves of the disc.
It's so old, so simple, and yet so intricate.
"That's… Clair de Lune.”
"Good ear."
Something about the music box's tune strikes a chord with Theo. The high-pitched, metallic strumming seems to take him back to a time before he was born; nostalgia for a faceless face, a placeless place. He sees the tree he was born under, his name not yet carved in its side.
He feels a pressure build from the side of his eyes, growing stronger with each high-note.
Tears once more stream down his face.
He lets it loop two or three times, before gently closing the box.
"It's yours if you want it, friend. A gift."
He sniffles. "Thank you." He puts the box beside him, wipes his eyes, and looks at Brennos down his comically small glasses.
Theo slowly smiles. He chuckles. "Sorry, dude. I think I forgot to introduce myself." He puts his left fingers on his chest and extends his right hand outwards. "Theo."
Brennos nods. "Brennos Lobhadh, at your service." He extends a hand, as if to shake.
Theo extends his hand upwards.
They stand silent for a few seconds, before Charles approaches Brennos and hushedly explains what a high-five is.
Brennos shrugs and complies, slapping his massive claws against Theo's frail hand. The satyr winces, grips his wrist and grits his teeth, trying to conceal the pain twelve pounds of talons hurdling at his palm conveyed.
Brennos looks concerned.
The satyr smiles back. He sticks his tongue out, playfully. "Don't worry, the last dude that did that became my boyfriend."
❊
The wolf-knockered door opens once more; this time, Theo and Grim walk mirthfully out of it, saying goodbye to their hosts.
Manson and Brennos stand in the doorway, waving back.
"Oh, Grim!"
Grim turns. Brennos gestures conversationally.
"My offer still stands. To join us, I mean. Here at the Cabaret. I think you would make a welcome addition. We share our collections"
"Only if he can come along." Grim nods toward the satyr beside him.
Brennos puts an inquisitive talon on his face. "Well, he's not quite undead… rather the opposite, really…"
"That's my offer. Take it or leave it."
Brennos shrugs. "I suppose a little life wouldn't hurt."
Theo opens the door with a rose carved into it. He waves as the couple say their final goodbyes.
"WAIT, HOLD O-"
The two of them exit the room, entering a shaded pathway nestled beside a dilapidated corridor. Grim holds in his hand double, Theo nothing.
"Remind me never to take you to Vegas."
Theo chuckles. "Remind me to never take you to Macau."
"Think I'd drain their casinos dry?"
"I don't want to have to break you out of a Chinese prison."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Grim ducks walking past a… gargoyle?
"You're a cheat."
"I don't cheat!"
They turn a corner, Theo's hands motioning past a poster written in some strange language. "Come on, dude, you even cheat in Monopoly."
"I do not!"
"I dunno, I don't think 'accepting aid from the East India Company' is in the game rules."
"They're called house rules!"
"…Grim?"
A giant statue of a woman on horseback, flanked by two paladins, stands before Theo, with "TRANDAFIR SI APOSTOLII EI" carved into the stone it sits on.
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