Nov. 8th, 2012

27_53: (no more mister nice guy)
They are in a new town, one with almost-proper winters (at least, he thinks they are almost-proper winters; Katya merely laughs at the clouds when they attempt to spit snow and only manage a flurry of icy drizzle that melts before it hits the ground) and good food. There is a market near enough to the loft they've settled in to, and while the furnishings are not quite as upscale as their last residence, it is habitable.

And in all honesty, habitable is enough right now.

Skellig had begun to feel strange ever since they had arrived in the town, but hadn't been able to figure out why.

Not at first, anyway.

There was a reason they had come here aside from the prospect of better food (even if the ethnic population allows for a wider variety of 'proper' bread) and colder winter weather.

And he had seen evidence that there was something, not like him, not like her, but something else entirely, that needed further investigating. So they had stayed. And things at the bar had begun to get stranger and stranger, so he stayed away, focused on the signs he was seeing in his (their) world instead of symbols and mysteries at the bar.

It has gotten him nowhere.



Tonight, he is sitting on the roof in the shadows, face lit only by the glow of the cigarette dangling between his lips. His eyes are closed as he sits, listening, listening, trying to focus in on what little trace he has to go on.

She patrols the Gloom on nights when he gets like this - leaves him to sit and listen with his cigarettes and sometimes a bottle of the mid-shelf vodka they pick up from the corner store. There is no vodka tonight.

Only smoke.

(And mirrors.)

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