The Mad Rat Tavern
On the outside, the building is quite unassuming. A little strange in how old it looked. Not decrepit, mind you; it seemed in pristine condition, its styling resembled something one would expect to find in a fantasy novel, not modern-day hell. Bricked brimstone walls surrounded a large wooden door. A simple wooden sign with "The Mad Rat; Bar & Bedding" hung above said door.
Stepping inside, was an entirely different world. It still possessed that same old world charm, though now it's tinted by a lens of gold and deep, rich crimson. Though spacious, the tavern was cluttered from floor to ceiling with décor and life, lending the room an unexpected intimacy despite its size.
The walls were red and covered in art, be it paintings, taxidermy, or skulls of various origins. Some of the taxidermy was simply preservation, while other pieces were more artistic in nature. Like that large hog head which hung on the east wall, it had been split entirely in half by a solid gold axe, its eyes replaced with rubies and the internal cavities revealed by the split stuffed full of pearls. The paintings were equally macabre, provided one lingered upon them long enough.
Here and there throughout the tavern appeared the same curious, somewhat familiar insignia: several rats joined together at their tails, forming a living wheel. Whether it was merely decorative or held some deeper significance was difficult to say.
In the western corner, a small stage housed a band whose music was fit for the finest burlesque stage. It had the refinement of an old aristocrat's ballroom and the restless soul of a dimly lit jazz dive. Lively enough to set one's foot tapping, yet mysterious enough to make one wonder whether the melody was composed yesterday or centuries ago.
It wasn't terribly crowded, but neither was it sparse. There were a fair number of sinners, all indulging in whatever vices they pleased. It was a place for both loud celebration and hushed negotiation. Everyone seemed to be at least somewhat acquainted with each other, a place like this requires a target audience. It seemed designed to have a large clientele of regulars.
The smell of smoke, alcohol, and mingling perfumes was strong, almost distracting from the undertone of something metallic. Almost.
Seated at the bar counter was a particular rat-like sinner. He seemed to match this establishment flawlessly, as if he himself was made from it, or perhaps it from him.
He seemed occupied by some idle conversation with the bartender. His long tail was never really motionless, swaying and shifting around his stool. A small black rat skittered across the counter, no one seemed to care about the vermin. It carried in its maw a single cigarette, which it brought to the sinner at the bar. He accepted it without a second thought, giving the rat a scratch behind its ear before sending it on its way. In fact, dozens of the rodents meddled in the shadows of this place. (OOC: pspspsps @zestialmorde)
Zestial had not forgotten.
An Overlord of his standing did not forget. He merely had... priorities. The troubles of a sinner with whom he'd shared only a handful of agreeable encounters had, regrettably, never reached the top of that list.
Not when there were archives to reorganize for what was surely the fifth time. Not when an entire afternoon had been spent tracing the origin of a particularly fine nightshade tea blend. Such pursuits might have seemed frivolous to another, yet to Zestial they were the quiet labors that kept eternity from stagnating.
He sighed, rubbing a hand across his brow.
The matter had resurfaced only because he'd stumbled across it while searching his journals for something entirely unrelated. In recent years he'd taken to recording nearly everything, a concession to the slow erosion that centuries worked upon even the keenest mind. The difficulty, he had found, was no longer remembering what had happened, but where he had written it.
Perhaps, he reasoned, the delay had proven a kindness.
Surely, by now, the matter had resolved itself. Such conflicts often did. Hell was not a place that rewarded dependence, and there was little virtue in allowing an Overlord to solve every quarrel that crossed one's path. Better to cultivate resilience than forever seek shelter beneath another's shadow.
Still...
A promise, however small, ought not be abandoned.
The tavern emerged from the haze as he stepped from one shadow into another. The familiar prickling at the edge of his thoughts, the strange sensation that had lingered ever since Kostya first mentioned the "friend", returned with renewed insistence at the sight of the store front. It was maddening, like a forgotten name poised just beyond recollection.
He could have materialized within the establishment itself.
He chose not to.
There was little sense in startling whatever unfortunate soul the rat had become entangled with.
Instead, he crossed the threshold at an unhurried pace, seeming less to walk than to drift. The tavern's peculiar blend of wood and grandeur suited him oddly well, as though the room had been awaiting his arrival for decades.
Conversation faltered.
Heads turned.
He paid them no mind.
One patron abandoned his drink altogether, making hastily for the door the moment an escape presented itself. Several others stiffened where they sat, careful not to meet his gaze. Fear had long since become part of Zestial's presence; he neither encouraged nor discouraged it. It settled upon him as naturally as his cloak.
He had come for a purpose.
Kyota's descriptions had been... sparse, according to his own notes. A sinner who commanded rats. One with little affection for the modern age.
Hardly an impossible figure to locate.
Then he saw him.
The dull ache at the back of his mind sharpened all at once, blooming into something perilously close to pain.
...No.
Recognition stirred before memory itself, ancient and insistent.
Without betraying the slightest flicker of surprise, Zestial made his way to the bar.
He came to a measured stop beside the man, his expression composed as ever.
"...Old friend," he said quietly.
The words carried neither accusation nor certainty-- only the weight of centuries.
"It hath been an age."
Mykhailo knew the very second Zestial entered, despite having his back turned. The shift in atmosphere was enough evidence for anyone to guess, but let's be honest here, Mykhailo knew Zestial was approaching before the Overlord had even neared the door.
He could've stood to greet him at the entrance. But when has Mykhailo Schurko ever denied himself a bit of theatrics?
The rat waited, casually blowing smoke from his cigarette until Zestial approached, as if he were utterly unaware of the presence in the room. Oh, how he fed on the suspense. Though his tail betrayed his feigned nonchalance, squirming restlessly as it coiled itself around the legs of the stool beneath him.
Once Zestial spoke, Mykhailo exhaled one final bloom of smoke before turning. Stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray, he finally regarded Zestial directly, a knowing smirk spreading across his muzzle as he looked up at him.
"Ah! Zestial, I knew you'd find me eventually."
A rumbling chuckle escaped his chest as he rose from his stool, offering Zestial a dramatic bow in greeting that managed to feel both respectful and teasing.
"Welcome to my little corner of hell, I think you might find this charming little place to your liking."
The rat waved over the barkeep, and gestured towards the bar.
"Oh, you simply must let me treat you to a drink. I reckon I owe you as much after a few centuries of absence. What's your poison, darling?"
The theatrics came easily to Mykhailo, they always had. It was far simpler to offer a smile, a joke, a drink, than to admit how long he had wondered whether Zestial would remember him at all.
