[ The current "owner" of Draumahol had moved it. Oh, there had been the apologetic wringing of hands, and GregĆ³r had been clear that the bar was doing well topside in Old Springstar, where people didn't see it as associated with the drugs and vice that Kowloon held. Kowloon, of course, brought in the addicts, but Uptown was where the people who didn't want to associate with Kowloon flocked, thinking themselves better than those that resided underground, where the sun didn't shine. It was also, he would note, a place that he could not enter without a great deal of finagling, given his current condition. Something that GregĆ³r had been quick to dismiss as not relevant to his decision. Unlikely, of course, but Silco had always been a paranoid man, and GregĆ³r had to be lying. He wanted the prestige and power of the position as Silco's retainer, even though GregĆ³r had offered, and even though he'd thought to escort Silco into the bar every day, that required him to be dependent.
No, that wouldn't do at all.
He'd arranged for help, of course, one of the younger, newer Zenites. Smarter than most of them, more concerned with victory and achieving it than he was in looking reasonable. Something that still made Silco's hackles rise, and his annoyance bubble to the surface. Go figure, though he certainly didn't look... pleasantto perceive at the moment as it was. Standing across the street from "Draumahol" with no eye over the o, looking the very picture of a respectable bar, the kind of place someone in Old Springstar would want to visit to make themselves feel... better than the rabble in Kowloon. Disgusting.
Puffing on a cigar, Silco is dressed from head to toe in rich blacks, slashed with red here and there, iron-toed boots, a pair of dark glasses to block out the sun along with the umbrella he held over his head, even as he stood in the shade of a near-toppling structure. Anything to keep him out from under the sun, really. The smoke wafts in a dark cloud around him, and his fingers tap against the end of it, just waiting for the backup before they enter to take care of the problem.
The last time he took control of Draumahol, he'd murdered Birdie Martinson in secret. Alone, unwilling to even use Sebastian to do so. This time, there would be no secrecy. This was intended to send a message. They weren't safe from the depths, just because they stayed in the sun, and certainly not if they crossed him. ]
ā³ Downtown Kowloon
Ī± [ The humming underground was just like home. Less pollution, more wealth, a thriving city living off of the innovation of other cities, some particularly brilliant minds able to change them to their own use. Magic from Highstorm and Technology from Skysong combined into a unique and odd mishmash, where one building may use the uniquely powered lights and sound machines filtering in the sounds of topside, to the small flutter of a plant that seemed to grow an eternal supply of peppers and a sink that drew perpetual water from... somewhere. It was everywhere like that, coupled with the dark streets of people who looked more like they had been on hard times -- or had Always been on hard times -- alongside vampires, cannibals, and other creatures who probably would have been suited for Ryad, which was now more a... bazaar for those appetites than an open hunting ground. Most of his time down here was spent in the remains of Draumahol, though some locals just called it The Eye, which was fitting, since it had been Silco's own Resting Room. Cleaned of such nonsense, trinkets sorted or disregarded, the office was already closed off again from the public, and the bar was slowly returning to what it had been before.
Slowly. Crews came in and out, and there was the sense that things were being updated. To be fair, a century is probably enough time that renovations should be done. Silco can generally be found overseeing the work from the second floor -- some of that balcony had been left for him to look down on the revelry. ]
Ī² [ Of course, he was not a workaholic (yes he was) and there were other obligations. Individuals to meet, to either coerce or intimidate, Silco could be found throughout that first month throughout Downtown Kowloon working to establish what a century had slowly eroded. From the exchange of funds to shimmer -- now Draumahol's primary fare -- to coming with muscle behind him to... "kindly insist" on protection or acquiescence. One can find him outside one of the floor-level establishments, his voice a hiss that can very nearly be swallowed by the din of the mash of bodies, but not quite swallowed -- ] Do you think they will continue to ignore us, now that we have returned? The war over the oracles was merely in a lull, and now that they see themselves as safe... they will seek more control. Do you want to have done nothing in the face of the inevitable?
[ There are no weapons, but yet, Silco seems almost a weapon himself, leaning forward, head tipped upward, his whole body looked more like a switchblade half-opened. ]
ā³ Highstorm (Tomes & Bloody Marie's)
A [ Highstorm had its own changes. The long watery ways and the oddly-powered gondolas pushed forward via magic were only one of the many odd changes to the city wreathed in darkness. Between the odd construction on the Rookery to the occasional flash of light from the Academy, it was all so much, so many changes, so much to see, and experience, and Silco frankly had little interest in most of it, beyond what it could do for the end. He had no interest in the Oblivion, or the fight against it, but what it did present, was opportunity. The first stop, of course, was the Tomes, where Silco could actually be found often enough, with a stack of books, both recent history and more esoteric subjects, if just to brush up on the most recent of events. Though the attendant often tutted off to the side at the foul-smelling cigars that often came part and parcel with Silco, she was rather powerless to stop such a high-ranking Zenite, though she had taken to keeping an ashtray that was often sourly brought with a snide remark about paper and fire. ] As if these are not warded against disaster.
[ He mutters, before returning to reading, though the subjects are a bit odd, titles like: The Twilight Struggle, and Argument for Highstorm's Innocence, Uplifting out of Danger, and The Oracle Stalemate, all written by notable Zenite authors, of course. ]
Š [ Then there is Bloody Marie's. Instead of frequenting the new Ryad, Silco had other places he could obtain what he needed, and he was well known by the staff at Bloody Marie's -- because bless vampires for their long lives -- most remembered him quite well, so the first time he darkens the doorstep, they're happy to offer him his old table. Somewhere in an out-of-the-way corner, where the traffic doesn't pass, but where there is plenty of sight to the rest of the bar. his back up against a wall. It's almost as good as his own bar, and he can be overheard not only talking shop with Marie, but there is the additional occasional individual swinging by his table, and though Silco is the type that does not enjoy the company of... well. Anyone. For some reason, he's often willing to hear them out, sometimes Marie brings the human (or non-vampire) by for him to eye up and down, though he generally waves a hand in dismissal. Very, very rarely, he'll be caught tugging someone into the back rooms and returning shortly after with only a slightly less dour look on his face.
Though for the most part, he annotates in a small book, smokes his horrid-smelling cigars, and drinks a never-ending glass of whiskey. If approached, he'll wheel an unblinking eye onto the interloper, and say: ] Is there a reason you're bothering me?
[ Truly, a good example for everyone. ]
ā³ Wildcard!
[ Truly, I'm down for anything! If you want me to write you a starter though, hit me up, or just throw me something! I'll roll with it! ]
[ the selected assortment of reading looks complicated and boring, but tony knows well what books can bring. where he was from, humans tried to destroy everything that went against their world order, and tony isnāt stupid enough to think that he wouldnāt wake up to the sameā¦ but still, whatās offered on the shelves can still tell him something.
the problem is there isnāt a whole lot left on the shelves in the genre that tony would be looking for now. ]
[ There's enough that it's pretty clear that Silco was... not actually reading all of the books he had in front of him. No man can read that much, but more like he'd been overhwelmed by the choices, and had decided to simply take everything, and then break them down before him. There were several stacks all set into now-neat piles, and disseminated by some odd manner of organizing them that it didn't really quite make sense to most, but was at least... logical. Ish.
Instead of a stack of history books, or by date, they were instead broken down by region. Same with anything else.
He ashed his cigar into the ashtray, and then swung his mismatched gaze back up at the boy. ]
Hm? Why not? Is there anyone else here?
[ Not really, but Tony is someone that is here, Silco!! ]
Though it may not suit a proud Zenite to be reminiscing of the past, Akechi can't help but think of his old life: not so much a double (or triple) agent these days, but nonetheless a private hitman of sorts, his only agenda being victory on his side. Whatever progress towards peace has been achieved during their century-long Repose -- something he very much blames Meridian for, for that matter -- has done little to dissipate his own, personal urgency towards his end goal; anything less than that would just mean living on borrowed time, another repeat of the world he left behind.
And so today he joins Silco in a fun little enterprise-- that is, reclaiming control over Draumahol and bolstering Kowloon's forces; one long nap ago, they had sided with Zenith, and this newfound neutrality just won't do. Or... at least that's what Akechi figures, though one good look at his faction veteran -- his zenpai, if you will -- tells him Silco may have more personal reasons to force this business back in the cozy underground... ]
So, this is our new and improved Draumahol. [ His tone is his usual calm and composed, though not lacking for a dash of disdain. ] I can't say I was a regular in the past, though it would take an idiot not to see how the atmosphere is vastly different.
[ To say nothing of its actual location, of course. Even to a newer Zenite, Old Springstar is still far too close to Meridian forces for comfort. ]
Regardless, our target should be near. Shall we go over our options again?
[ There's a certain finesse to the final stages of murder that Akechi prefers to uphold, but if it's a loud and clear message that Silco intends to send... well. He has a method to match, as well. ]
[ Silco's fingers tightened at the head of the umbrella. Thankfully, it had a small blade placed into it, so he looks every part the respectable businessman, just... clearly a Zenite, from the look of him. After all, Highstorm gathered people like Silco (now) and gave them a place to feel secure and welcomed. It really is telling that he probably still prefers a place like Kowloon, as opposed to Old Springstar, where people seem to be willing to treat with him, but not in the way he wants.
That, and the sunlight is far too bright. A year and a half of living in Highstorm, coupled with his own history of living underground and the addition of vampirism are all... a massive part of why this cannot stand, but more importantly: Silco takes everything personally, and this? This was a personal affront?
(Was it actually? No, but): ]
GregĆ³r will be in there. I made sure of it.
[ He arranged for a shipment to be made to the surface-side Draumahol, where the liquor would need to be handled, categorized, and added to any storage. It will tie him up for some time.
In fact, he'd seen it go in only a half-hour ago. ]
Our options, of course, are to enter the back, or enter the front. The back will ensure anonymity, and perhaps save face for GregĆ³r, but when we're through, that will be relatively meaningless. The front will send a message.
[ A thoughtful tap against his lip. ]
Beyond that, it is merely holding him down while we kill him.
[ He had an idea, but he was more interested in what Akechi would say, or what he would think. If he had ideas. ]
[ Itās about a week after the Repose has ended that Tezcatlipoca comes to call.
Itās off-hours, so the place isnāt busy at all at this time of day, so he stands out easily. As he steps inside, itās with a turn as he passes someone by on his way out and looks around with interest. He lets out a low whistle and adjusts the paper-wrapped package under his arm. He looks towards the stairs that lead up to Silcoās office, but he grins as he sees the man leering from the balcony. ]
Howād I know Iād find you here, nice and easy?
[ He raises his voice lightly to call up to him, but he shifts past the people in the way towards the stairs. The bouncer thatās keeping the VIP section closed starts to put up a token effort, but with a few words from the god and them seeing to notice something about him, they give a glance to Silco, then let him pass.
Itās at least immediately obvious what theyād noticed as Tezcatlipoca approaches. His face is clean, but blood clings to the ends of his golden hair, and though itās hard to see on the dark clothing, there are deep stains in his coat, and just enough leeches off onto the white undershirt below. It goes completely without comment, and he just sets the round, wrapped package on the table nearest to Silco. ]
I bet your Resting Room was here, yeah? So, gotta ask, what kinda god theyād make you into, bossman?
[ He said, simply. Not... quite. Honestly, Silco didn't know if it was funny, or sad, that of all the bearers, he was simply seen as... something not quite human, or quite godlike. Like he was lingering in between the two, not quite able to be one or the other. Though, he supposed, there was something to say about that, given that it seemed to be his very life. Always in between, always trying, striving, managing to make a place, but it never seemed to quite fit. Even this, even here, it didn't quite rise to where it should be for others. ]
I was apparently some sort of... [ He wobbled his hand, trying to find the words, and his lips peeled back as he finally started to put together how Tezca was looking. Bloodied, gore and mess on him, hidden in the black, but there are signs.
He wondered where the god had been, but he supposed it doesn't matter. Blood and strife seemed to follow Tezca like an aura. ]
I suppose the best word is patron. They thought I was good luck for deals ā and betrayal ā so most agreements and arguments seemed to transpire here.
[ A scoff. ]
I feel as though they had peered into my life, to think these were the most important features.
[ He snickers at his own ācorrectionā, then looks around the area briefly before he heads to the (currently unmanned) bar thatās up here. Silco is likely used to this now, that Tezcatlipoca is pushy and presumptive, but letting the god do what he wants is less of a headache than challenging him. Usually.
(Besides. Even if Tezcatlipoca might not know why, heās picked up that Silco has a soft spot for this kind of behavior.)
It barely takes any consideration before he grabs a bottle of tequila, and he whistles appreciatively to see a solidly scorpion-esque bug inside it. Now thatās the kind of fun he likes to see. ]
Yeah, but pretty fuckinā funny though, right? Kinda wish that your boy Gregor hadnāt moved us. Imagine what kinda fucked up shrine this woulda been if all three of us were snoozinā together!
[ Two beautiful gods, one skrunkly human(ish) manā¦ The symbolism writes itself. He pours himself a sipping glass, then after a beat of consideration, pours a second for Silco. He knows itās not his usual flavor, but worst comes to worst, Tezcatlipoca will just have two. ]
So? You gonna keep up with that rep at all? Or just back to business?
[ He could imagine it, would he have been some sort of human(ish) avatar for the two, or would it have been something different? He'd imagine with the way their imaginations went, there would have been some sort of imagined relationship that he would have had to deal with, and Silco is, perhaps briefly, relieved for what GregĆ³r had done.
At least for that. Because still. Fuck him. He moved them topside, and while it probably didn't matter to the orc, it mattered to Silco.
And well, there's something about insulting Silco (even inadvertently) that certainly upsets the man, predictably. As always. ]
I don't think I have much of a choice but to keep it. I've had a few altercations already since waking. A few betrayals gone south, and there were more than enough deals made here that I wonder if they sometimes think that I'm still asleep.
[ He hadn't really closed off most of the area yet. He'd probably still maintain a private office, but Silco had left the desk on the balcony to look over the entirety of the club. ]
Though I don't know how, given... [ He gestured at the ashtray, a neutral one, he didn't dare keep one of his most precious possessions out here. ]
I think they enjoy it, looking at us with such reverence, and if it keeps Kowloon progressing, and growing as it should, I see no reason to stop.
[ He walks back to Silco and slides one of the glasses across the desk his way before plopping down comfortably in a seat near the package heād brought. He takes a drink of the tequila with a wrinkle of his nose because itās a little more pungent than heās expecting, but itās not unpleasant. Justā¦ different. Itās the kind of āqualityā you can expect here in Kowloon. ]
āCourse they do! Itās nice and convenient, havinā reverence. You got somethinā to hope for, somethinā to blame, somethinā to be whatever it is you want it to be.
[ He reaches into his jacket to pull the gun out of his holster and set it on the table too so that he can lean back comfortably. The odd axe blade is noticeably covered in blood tooā¦ ]
Welcome to deification, bossman. If you dug my Ocelomeh, hereās your chance to make some loyal followers of your own, yeah?
Hm. Well, I am not unused to being blamed or thanked, I suppose reverence isn't that different for me.
[ Silco's eyes flick toward Tezca when he says it, and he tipped it this way and that, before he drank. He was used to foul things, half like lighter-fuel or gasoline in how pungent they are. Finer, nicer drinks are often his preference now, but he barely flinches as he starts to knock it back. Silco may have been elevated, but he's never forgotten what kind of sump-tube he crawled out of. ]
Kowloon has been...mine since the day I stepped down here, practically. It would be a given that my... followers would come from here.
[ He says it with a certainty. It may not be true, but Silco believes it, because he understands Kowloon. It's so similar to Zaun that it was easy to superimpose his tactics. ]
I did like them, you know. Your people. Anyone who needs to fight for survival is a people I would respect. Perhaps our Kowloonites would learn something from you and yours, especially if you... [ he gestured to the bloody axe ] keep on as you are.
[ Tezcatlipoca nods along, and the tenor of his Communion is satisfied and content. Itās the praise for the Ocelomeh that sends a ripple through it thatās half agreement and halfā¦ sad, albeit faintly. But as Silco points out the fun he had on the way here, he laughs it off cockily. ]
Well, yeah. āCourse I will. Iām the heart of conflict that makes sure you treasure every damn day youāve got, ācause the next one aināt guaranteed, right?
[ He doesnāt explain that flicker of sadness, but thatās what it was for, really. The Ocelomeh were doomed, no matter what. They had no future. They only had a year of existence before they were either destroyed by ORTās awakening along with the rest of the planet or wiped completely from existence by pruning their world, which never should have existed in the first place. So, Tezcatlipoca had granted them his brutal philosophy as a gift, even if theyād never know it. Their lives were destined to be brief. So, they had to live them passionately, even if it was a violent one.
ā¦Itās not the same, of course. But he thinks Silco understands that. Somewhat. ]
Not that I started this lilā scuffle, just so when the rumors make it your way, you donāt get the wrong idea. Jumped into it, sure! But if one side of a gang is smart enough to call out for a passinā war god, theyāre the smart ones, right?
[ He grins toothily over his glass as he takes another sip, then satisfied with that, he reaches back to grab the package. He holds it out for Silco to take. ]
Which, speakinā of! Special delivery for ya. āBout 114 years late, but, hey, outta my hands, you know how it is.
[ And when he opens it, heāll find something that probably isnāt at all what heās expecting, but itāll certainly be familiar in parts. Itās a round shield like the one that Quetzalcoatl had carried, but rather than gold and stone, the front of this one is emblazoned with a shockingly intricate pattern of feathers arranged like a mosaic to create the design. Itās largely feathers of deep, shimmering black, but dotted among them are bursts of colorāblood red and an incredibly vivid and specific green. It all forms a geometric pattern, but the significance of it isnāt clear because there definitely would be one associated with Tezcatlipoca but I donāt think any examples existā¦. However, right in the center is an indentation thatās left undecorated and is a small well lined with a true mosaic of obsidianā¦ Perfect for a few pieces of crystal to be set. ]
[ Silco does understand that, at least a bit. He nodded at Tezca's statement of living because the next day was no guarantee. He knew that one well, after all, didn't he? He had lived eygh that for so long... And perhaps he had lost some of it with time, at least in the undercity. He did not go to sleep fearing for his own life like he once had, but arriving in Horos and then Kenos... Had revived that fear in him. That certainty that he could be ended at any time, and his old paranoia had returned to rear it's ugly head.
Something else, lately, too. Am acknowledgement that there is something more that he needs to do. A fear of losing the opportunity and losing all of the work he'd pumped into their future. Of losing...
Well. Tezca keeps going, and Silco's looks curl into a barely there smile that seems to burst to life -- sharp and knowing -- before it dies back, and he took a drink to drown it.]
I'm sure the opposing gang regretted that they didn't call out to you, didn't they? Perhaps next time --
If there's enough for a next time.
[somehow, he doubts it.
Though, as the package is finally revealed, and the contents are before him, his eye widens slightly. It's magnificent, really, and the craftsmanship... Well, he's no expert, but even a layman like him can appreciate it. Theres something about it, the way it reflects the traits of Tezca, but still with the hallmarks of a shared origin of Quetzalcoatl that makes it feel like half a trophy, and half a blessing.
He reached out tentatively, his fingers brushed against the iridescent feathers, as if he was afraid of breaking it.]
This is quite the gift. [ A brief moment, and then: ] where are the feathers from?
[ He likes pulling those little bursts of animation out of Silco, even if itās never at anything good. So, even as Silco tries to smother it in the drink, thereās still a spark of pleasure from Tezcatlipoca for it. In his opinion, Silco could afford to be a little less stoic, butā¦ Well, Tezcatlipoca knows himself. When he thinks about the company heād bad (largely literallyā¦) in the Lostbelt, he has a liking for the stoic types.
Heād get into the fun details of his little encounter if not for the gift he bestows. This reaction he drinks in with more interest. He can take a guess that this is something well beyond Silcoās experience. Silco struck him as a modern man, so what good is a shield like this to him, practically? So, heās actually a bit surprised, but pleased, that Silco seems to appreciate it as something significant. ]
Reward. āGiftā leaves out the fact that you earned it.
[ He corrects Silco casually, but itās followed with a laugh and a shrug as he picks up his glass again. ]
Ah, yeah. Black ones, no problem, since thereās plenty of crows and blackbirds. [ Which, lmao, though Tezcatlipoca has no idea about that particular connection. ] Reds and greens thoughā¦
[ He holds his glass up as he grins into it while he drinks, and with it comes a very intentionally shared bit of imagery through Communion. A dark forest where large, but silent black paws pad through the brush. Perched on a branch with Quetzalcoatlās temple in the background is a stunning bird. Then, the coil of tension, the taste of hot blood. Yet, whether itās literal or not isnāt so easy to pick out. ]
Well, her temple, her bird. People named āem after herāthe quetzal.
[ That caught his attention. The birds at her temple with such an apt name... they would have had to have been slaughtered, wouldn't they? To make enough to cover this shield? The surprise was apparent, but he didn't look to be troubled by it. They were just animals, so there was no maliciousness either, but simply... acceptance. He'd slaughtered the birds for it, well. ]
Fitting then. You're right, this is quite the reward. Not what I would have expected in the slightest.
[ Truly, something like this was... heartfelt, in its own way, he supposed. This was a genuine creation, not something that was created simply for a reward, or to pay him off. It had intent behind it. Even Silco could see it ā and appreciate it.
His fingers brushed along the feathers again, and he nodded. ]
I assume that the black ones are to represent something other than her? [ His eyebrow couldn't lift over the blackened, angry eye, but when he turned his attention to Tezca, he could assume that it would, if it could. ]
Well, figured not. [ He responds to Silcoās expectations with a laugh. ] Itās āmyā culture, but itās still old-fashioned, even for me. But it seemed like the most apt thing.
[ Itās a complicated thing about Tezcatlipoca that heās not sure anyone had fully understood. Daybit might have, if heād been able to. But Tezcatlipoca is a god that canāt look back. The fact that the Aztecs and all their predecessors had been essentially lost was a damn shame, sureā¦ But he still embraced the world that replaced it. He loves the craft that led him to make his shield. But itās also a symbol of changeā¦ Or perhaps a lack thereof. If Quetzalcoatl had taken Silco seriously, then perhaps she wouldnāt have met her fate.
This, of course, is nothing he explains.
Instead, he kicks back and takes a drink of the tequila. ]
[ He rattles off the epithets easily, and thereās a sense that even those are just a selection of many with how his tone lazily moves through them. He even gives a little flourish of his hands as if he might take a bow, were he standing, but it comes with a laugh. ]
Not to bore ya with the theology, but all comes from me, bossman. I am the almighty god of my lands, and even Quetzalcoatl wouldnāt exist if she werenāt an aspect of yours truly. So. Bit on the nose, sure, but the dark eating up the resplendent felt damn good, so far as artistry goes, yeah?
[ He can't help but agree. A lot of it is because the darkness, this night wind feels a lot like Zenith, as well, but he doesn't voice that. No need to offend him, if he were to think that was not apt. Silco does, of course. He can see it, the way it seems to swallow the bright, iridescent feathers.
He likes it like that. ]
I have never been a religious man, you know. Though, I think, if any gods were more like you, I would have been a touch more keen. [ A beat. ] Interesting that we had to go through her to get to you, then, when you are the source of it all.
Ha— Just said I wouldn't bore ya with theology, and you're about to make me a liar!
[ It's a playful retort without any bite, but he does look at Silco a little more seriously. He takes another drink, then sets it down again in a way that makes it clear that he might be talking for a bit... But he does ask first. ]
Well, I got my own theories on why I ended up here and that order of operations. They're just that, theories, but. If you're interested, I can give you the divine perspective.
[ Silco's lips curled from the irony, because really, he should have guessed that this would go down a path that Tezca had just promised, but...
Well. Color him curious, perhaps. He took a sip of his drink, and then gestured with the glass, as if to encourage him. Sure, he is no god, but the perspective is... different. Perhaps it is Set's influence, knowing more and more about gods these days. ]
By all means. I'm curious about your divine perspective. I've heard it plenty from Set, I'm curious how yours differs.
[ Tezcatlipoca sits back comfortably, because this is a bit of a tale. Itās not one Tezcatlipoca minds telling, but he just generally prefers not to. Silco gets a little pass because of how clearly different their worlds are, though. ]
Well, itās important to understand somethinā about me first, just cosmologically speakinā. Tezcatlipoca is my name, but itās also a bit of a title. I was born from ÅmeteÅtl, but that was only me. From me, there are four aspects that are gods in their own rights, but theyāre all part of me. Think of it as reflections, if you were able to let that reflection step through the mirror and become their own person. Theyāre all Tezcatlipocaāthey are all aspects of me. We each got a color and a cardinal direction to distinguish us.
[ He counts them off on his fingers as he goes. ]
Thereās the Tezcatlipoca of the East, the Red Tezcatlipoca. Xipe Totetc, the Flayed One, god of agriculture and regeneration. Then thereās the Tezcatlipoca of the South, the Blue Tezcatlipoca. Huitzilopochtli, the Left-handed Hummingbird, god of war and will.
[ He gestures to Silco with a sly smile. ]
And you got the Tezcatlipoca of the West, the White Tezcatlipoca. Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent. You know enough about her, so no need for old news, yeah?
[ He snickers, then gestures to himself. ]
And finally, thereās me, the Smoking Mirror. I am the Black Tezcatlipoca of the North, and I have more epithets than youād know what to do with, but Iām only Tezcatlipoca. Iām the almighty god. The living, the dead, the flames of the future—I see it all. Providence, darkness, and all things unseen are my specialtyā¦ But since every Tezcatlipoca is an aspect of me, all their domains can fall under my purview too.
[ He gestures to his eyes as he reaches up to take another languid drink, so perhaps itās somewhat literal. Itās hard to tell. But he grins behind his glass as he watches Silcoās expression. ]
[ Time for Matt's weekly descent into the underworld.
He shows up a little early today, lingering by the bar. He's been keeping half an eye out for GregĆ³r, but the orc bartender hasn't been in the past few times Matt's visited Draumahol. Maybe he quit.
Good for him.
At any rate, Matt's disappointment quickly cedes to curiosity for the trickle of Kenosians here at this slow hour. He even strikes up a conversation with one of them. The fellow in question is on the clock, but Matt considers himself to be half patron and half special delivery, so he doesn't feel too bad taking up his time.
Here's a question: What does heightened desire look like on a guy who was already living life on the advanced hedonism track? Matt wears it more like ease--a looseness of limb, a comfort with making first eye contact. An unfurling, curious warmth in place of conscientiousness for the edges of his personal bubble. Losing track of time and knocking on Silco's office door a few minutes late isn't part of it, strictly speaking. Just an unfortunate side effect. ]
Ah--sorry. I was downstairs. [ He smiles, recent flirtatious memories percolating in his brain. ] Lost track of time.
[ Matt's a bit paler than he was when they started this whole thing, but he was pale to begin with. Maybe it's just the light. He's also sporting a new bite mark, though his shirt's high collar hides it pretty neatly. ]
[ He says, all of his usual enthusiasm for. Anything. His mismatched eyes flickered up from the paperwork on his desk, and up to Matt who looked. Off. He can't really describe it, but there was something about the movement, the smile, the relaxed pose that just sets him off somehow.
Silco's lip curled, but he started to stamp out the foul smelling cigar into his ash tray.]
Punctuality is something I prefer.
[ Says the guy who indulges literally the most carefree and chaotic child, who isnt on time for anything. He started to stand, predatory grace implicit in the motion. Silco has always been all business when Matt arrives, and today is no exception. If he's ignoring that mild, annoyed disgust, perhaps it's more accurate to say that he's more interested in satiating his hunger than he is in questioning Matt's easy, relaxed poise.]
Won't happen again, [ Matt assures him lightly. A moment later, he feels he has to add for accuracy's sake, ] Probably.
[ Contrary to what Silco may believe, Matt doesn't spend all his waking hours (or even 80% of them) actively fantasizing about everyone to cross his path.
That said.
He does glance Silco's way as he crosses to his usual seat and settles down. The quality of Silco's movement, something like the stalking of a cat or the sweep of a shark in deep water, is something Matt's always noticed passively. He notices how everyone moves. But for a whole stack of interpersonal reasons, including but not limited to Silco's habit of sacrilegious murder and his sourness over being hit on by his alternate self, Matt rarely takes a moment to appreciate it. ]
[ His fingers trail along the edge of his desk as he rounded it, feet eerily silent on the ground, despite his steel-toed boots he always wore. By now, Matt was used to the little oddities that came with Silco. The way his hands were always gloved, the way he always wore make-up across the scar that split his eye, and the small touches of his clothing. Dark slacks ā with the faintest of stripes on it ā a dark vest with gold lining, a dark shirt, cravat, and steel-toed boots. There was a coat, but it was hung neatly elsewhere. These days, he instinctively often let his fingers trail toward a pocket, where there was clearly something, but he never pulled it out. He kept it on him at all times, now. He couldn't chance it getting blown up, or destroyed, or in danger again. He couldn't risk it.
His crossing was swift, his eyes narrowed at the way Matt watched him, suspicious in nature as ever. Silco has never been able to handle others well. Nobody could be trusted. Nobody. There was nobody who could be trusted. He wondered if there was a plan here. Something of note.
He was late.
What was it? Could it have been a drug? Had he injected himself with something to put an end to him? Deprive Zenith of his fervency and dogged pursuit of their new world? Was it something else? Perhaps someone had given him something? Was it ā Sebastian whose only promise was to keep Jinx out of his machinations, but perhaps he would only have to nudge and hint to get someone else to do so? The demon worked downstairs still, and Silco had seen the way the boy talked to him.
His lips peeled back, showing bared fangs. The agitation is apparent in communion, the paranoid circles Silco's brain takes are classic, expected, but he only crossed to halfway, before he stopped. ]
[ Matt watches Silco's fingers skim the desk's surface. He likes to watch people's hands. Tezcatlipoca's fingers maneuvering a cigarette; Amos in his workshop, transmuting disparate parts into a whole; GregĆ³r mixing drinks as if following a melody that only he can hear. He's noticed Silco's gloved fingers feinting towards his pockets, and guessed some weeks past that he's got a weapon in there. Silco doesn't need to carry weapons, but what is he if not the definition of "overkill"? ]
--Oh. [ Matt blinks up at him. Smiles. ] You, I guess. Is there somebody else in here?
[ Actually, now that he says that, Matt's gaze flicks to the corners of Silco's office. His awareness of spells and auras isn't passively much better than a baseline human's, but he figures he might be able to detect discrepancies in how objects are behaving.
Everything seems normal, though. He looks back to Silco. ]
[ There isn't much in his office, really. The biggest difference is now the large shield crafted by Tezcatlipoca sits in a place on the shelves, Quetzalcoatl's shards placed into them and seated into the center. Really, other than that, there isn't much. Though. From this end, Matt will probably be able to see the trace of a rune that seems to connect a wall to... nothing ā or perhaps the more accurate way to say it, is that it appears to be a door, but there is no door there ā as if it would activate a path to outside. (The crafty sort would probably notice that it does indeed connect to the alleyway that Silco had found Matt snooping in. hm!) ]
Why?
[ He asked, his tone sharp, and annoyed. Why even bother? This is an uncomfortable thing, isn't it? It isn't like he hasn't noticed that it hurts Matt when he feeds ā though he hardly cares ā and Silco's reedy, gloved fingers naturally gesture with his words as he does so. The space between his glove and his wrist on one hand shows a darkened, sinewy stretch of skin, as if it was necrotic and dead.
[ It's interesting, that rune. Matt would put something similar on his wall as a focus for divination, or an anchor point for a spell meant to cleanse or protect. It could just be art, of course. A stylistic flourish. The decor in Silco's office is so sparse that it feels to Matt like its pieces are meant to convey something; like symbols in an unfamiliar alphabet. But that could be pareidolia talking. Maybe he's just spent too many moments staring at those shelves over Silco's shoulder.
Matt hears why, and his gaze snaps back to Silco. It's a confusing question. Why does he breathe, or eat, or respond positively to sunsets and rainbows? Admittedly, he doesn't usually notice Silco the way he might notice, say, D.
Almost never. ]
Let's not throw stones where weird's concerned, [ he protests, ruffled but amused. ] Sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.
[ He asked, with a faint snap of his reply, like a cracked whip. He wants nothing more than to silence him, or maybe turn his head away because he looks like he is noticing things, and Silco does not like the prospect of someone ā anyone ā noticing something about him.
He is a cruel, hard man. He holds many secrets, and he wormed his way into power by being careful, and cautious until it was too late. Silco had always had to claw and bitterly climb his way to what he wanted or needed, and it meant that he had often noticed things that others didn't. It was one of the few tools he had in a world where he had always been lesser.
He does not enjoy someone else throwing that atool against him. ]
You seem to not mean a lot of the things you do. [ He finally says, a sharp blade, wielded carefully. His steps are slow, like a predator, but more than that: he is dragging out the wait. It always makes the blood pump faster, make it taste better. ]
[ The actual words Silco's saying are almost funny, especially given the stakes of the conversation as Matt understands them. But his demeanor is a little more forbidding. And his posture has changed--the whole pitch and tempo shifting downwards, slowing.
Matt's eyes widen very slightly. For a moment, he wonders if this is how Silco finally kills him--one hopes not permanently. Or if it's how Silco finally pushes him down, pins him one-handed to the couch cushion and makes him beg to be drunk fro--
Uh.
Matt doesn't blush. But something of a flushing feeling sweeps under his skin, not unlike the silken warmth he associates with D. His gaze skitters to that pocket where he assumes Silco's keeping some kind of weapon. ]
I think ... I would need to understand you better, to stand a better chance of not stepping on things. [ As usual, Matt's tone is even, polite. Placid surface over a melting, shuddering heart. ] And I get the sense you don't particularly want to be known, so.
Matt now has something in common with someone who no longer resides in Kenos ā the only bearer to be shattered, actually ā that there were plenty of little landmines around Silco, and accidentally stepping on them only became easier the more he hated someone. Was that because he saw the worst in people? Yes. Was he a wholly acerbic and unpleasant man with few redeeming qualities? Also yes, and those were what far too people brushed up against time and time again.
Silco never bothered hiding them these days. Where before in Zaun, he had a purpose that required at least a veneer of peacekeeping, now... Now he had nothing of the sort.
The more power he obtained, the less he seemed to bother with pretense.
He notices Matt's eyes on his pocket, where he keeps ā ]
Who told you?
[ He hissed, his tone harsh, fingers now tensed, almost clawed. Like he wanted to rip his throat out from his neck. ]
[ Another widening of his eyes, this time abrupt, turning them huge. In a way, Matt's grateful for the savage shift in temperature. It makes it impossible to focus on the humiliating, borderline intrusive fantasy of a moment ago.
(Almost impossible.)
Instead: Matt's personal assessment of the situation shifts firmly to "Silco is finally going to kill me." Does he have that sleep spell ready to go? He's been focusing a lot more on Oblivion lately ... ]
Who--
[ Matt leans back where he sits, trying to breathe steadily to even out his heartbeat. To call up the shape of the spell in his mind. His eyes flicker to Silco's clawed fingers. ]
I don't know what you're talking about.
[ Slight uptick at the end of the sentence. Matt's pretty sure Silco doesn't mean "who told you that I don't want to be known," because the answer would be literally all your words and actions told me. ]
[ He doesn't, of course. The problem is that Silco is so used to looking for hidden meaning in every corner, because the man had always been a paranoid mess, and the past few months had done nothing to alleviate it ā they've only increased that scrambling sense of paranoia at the edges of his perception. After nearly losing Jinx during the explosion in Yima's Manor, to briefly seeing her, before things just sort of... disappeared, his brain is a swirling mess of frustration and anger.
And Matt had dared to focus his gaze on where he kept her, a crime that the man could not allow to pass. ]
Of course not. [ He sneered, his tone acerbic and sarcastic, angry. Petty. ]
The same as you don't know what you're doing, or where you are at, hm? It's all on others to figure out what you mean when you're doing it.
[ Silco.
Silco has an astounding lack of self-reflection. ]
[ God, Matt thinks distantly, what the hell is in that alley. His heart has picked up speed despite his efforts. Knowing he likely doesn't have much time before some sort of crisis point, he wants to breathe faster, deeper--but of course, this type of easing can't be rushed. One deep breath; one slow release.
O auspicious Kalika with dishevelled hair, from the corners of whose mouth two streams of blood trickle-- ]
I can't figure out, [ Matt says, on the exhale, ] if you think I'm an idiot ... or like, playing six-dimensional chess.
[ Which is to say, there's no way to win. Matt's instinct is to comfort someone who's thrashing like this, either out of sympathy or placation; but an equal, opposite instinct says that could make Silco mad(der) or (more) suspicious or both. Maybe fighting and losing is the only way to make him feel sufficiently in control of his circumstances.
If that's the case, terrific. Matt rocks at losing fights.
Gently, trying to hold the shape of the sleep spell in his mind (they who recite another doubled bija of thine destroy all their enemies), Matt makes to get up from his seat. ]
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APRIL 2024
ā³ Downtown Kowloon
ā³ Highstorm (Tomes & Bloody Marie's)
ā³ Wildcard!
highstorm - a
the problem is there isnāt a whole lot left on the shelves in the genre that tony would be looking for now. ]
Can you not hog the books?
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Instead of a stack of history books, or by date, they were instead broken down by region. Same with anything else.
He ashed his cigar into the ashtray, and then swung his mismatched gaze back up at the boy. ]
Hm? Why not? Is there anyone else here?
[ Not really, but Tony is someone that is here, Silco!! ]
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Though it may not suit a proud Zenite to be reminiscing of the past, Akechi can't help but think of his old life: not so much a double (or triple) agent these days, but nonetheless a private hitman of sorts, his only agenda being victory on his side. Whatever progress towards peace has been achieved during their century-long Repose -- something he very much blames Meridian for, for that matter -- has done little to dissipate his own, personal urgency towards his end goal; anything less than that would just mean living on borrowed time, another repeat of the world he left behind.
And so today he joins Silco in a fun little enterprise-- that is, reclaiming control over Draumahol and bolstering Kowloon's forces; one long nap ago, they had sided with Zenith, and this newfound neutrality just won't do. Or... at least that's what Akechi figures, though one good look at his faction veteran -- his zenpai, if you will -- tells him Silco may have more personal reasons to force this business back in the cozy underground... ]
So, this is our new and improved Draumahol. [ His tone is his usual calm and composed, though not lacking for a dash of disdain. ] I can't say I was a regular in the past, though it would take an idiot not to see how the atmosphere is vastly different.
[ To say nothing of its actual location, of course. Even to a newer Zenite, Old Springstar is still far too close to Meridian forces for comfort. ]
Regardless, our target should be near. Shall we go over our options again?
[ There's a certain finesse to the final stages of murder that Akechi prefers to uphold, but if it's a loud and clear message that Silco intends to send... well. He has a method to match, as well. ]
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That, and the sunlight is far too bright. A year and a half of living in Highstorm, coupled with his own history of living underground and the addition of vampirism are all... a massive part of why this cannot stand, but more importantly: Silco takes everything personally, and this? This was a personal affront?
(Was it actually? No, but): ]
GregĆ³r will be in there. I made sure of it.
[ He arranged for a shipment to be made to the surface-side Draumahol, where the liquor would need to be handled, categorized, and added to any storage. It will tie him up for some time.
In fact, he'd seen it go in only a half-hour ago. ]
Our options, of course, are to enter the back, or enter the front. The back will ensure anonymity, and perhaps save face for GregĆ³r, but when we're through, that will be relatively meaningless. The front will send a message.
[ A thoughtful tap against his lip. ]
Beyond that, it is merely holding him down while we kill him.
[ He had an idea, but he was more interested in what Akechi would say, or what he would think. If he had ideas. ]
Ī±
Itās off-hours, so the place isnāt busy at all at this time of day, so he stands out easily. As he steps inside, itās with a turn as he passes someone by on his way out and looks around with interest. He lets out a low whistle and adjusts the paper-wrapped package under his arm. He looks towards the stairs that lead up to Silcoās office, but he grins as he sees the man leering from the balcony. ]
Howād I know Iād find you here, nice and easy?
[ He raises his voice lightly to call up to him, but he shifts past the people in the way towards the stairs. The bouncer thatās keeping the VIP section closed starts to put up a token effort, but with a few words from the god and them seeing to notice something about him, they give a glance to Silco, then let him pass.
Itās at least immediately obvious what theyād noticed as Tezcatlipoca approaches. His face is clean, but blood clings to the ends of his golden hair, and though itās hard to see on the dark clothing, there are deep stains in his coat, and just enough leeches off onto the white undershirt below. It goes completely without comment, and he just sets the round, wrapped package on the table nearest to Silco. ]
I bet your Resting Room was here, yeah? So, gotta ask, what kinda god theyād make you into, bossman?
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[ He said, simply. Not... quite. Honestly, Silco didn't know if it was funny, or sad, that of all the bearers, he was simply seen as... something not quite human, or quite godlike. Like he was lingering in between the two, not quite able to be one or the other. Though, he supposed, there was something to say about that, given that it seemed to be his very life. Always in between, always trying, striving, managing to make a place, but it never seemed to quite fit. Even this, even here, it didn't quite rise to where it should be for others. ]
I was apparently some sort of... [ He wobbled his hand, trying to find the words, and his lips peeled back as he finally started to put together how Tezca was looking. Bloodied, gore and mess on him, hidden in the black, but there are signs.
He wondered where the god had been, but he supposed it doesn't matter. Blood and strife seemed to follow Tezca like an aura. ]
I suppose the best word is patron. They thought I was good luck for deals ā and betrayal ā so most agreements and arguments seemed to transpire here.
[ A scoff. ]
I feel as though they had peered into my life, to think these were the most important features.
[ A beat, and a tip of his head. ]
I heard about the... mixup. With you and Set.
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[ He snickers at his own ācorrectionā, then looks around the area briefly before he heads to the (currently unmanned) bar thatās up here. Silco is likely used to this now, that Tezcatlipoca is pushy and presumptive, but letting the god do what he wants is less of a headache than challenging him. Usually.
(Besides. Even if Tezcatlipoca might not know why, heās picked up that Silco has a soft spot for this kind of behavior.)
It barely takes any consideration before he grabs a bottle of tequila, and he whistles appreciatively to see a solidly scorpion-esque bug inside it. Now thatās the kind of fun he likes to see. ]
Yeah, but pretty fuckinā funny though, right? Kinda wish that your boy Gregor hadnāt moved us. Imagine what kinda fucked up shrine this woulda been if all three of us were snoozinā together!
[ Two beautiful gods, one skrunkly human(ish) manā¦ The symbolism writes itself. He pours himself a sipping glass, then after a beat of consideration, pours a second for Silco. He knows itās not his usual flavor, but worst comes to worst, Tezcatlipoca will just have two. ]
So? You gonna keep up with that rep at all? Or just back to business?
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[ He could imagine it, would he have been some sort of human(ish) avatar for the two, or would it have been something different? He'd imagine with the way their imaginations went, there would have been some sort of imagined relationship that he would have had to deal with, and Silco is, perhaps briefly, relieved for what GregĆ³r had done.
At least for that. Because still. Fuck him. He moved them topside, and while it probably didn't matter to the orc, it mattered to Silco.
And well, there's something about insulting Silco (even inadvertently) that certainly upsets the man, predictably. As always. ]
I don't think I have much of a choice but to keep it. I've had a few altercations already since waking. A few betrayals gone south, and there were more than enough deals made here that I wonder if they sometimes think that I'm still asleep.
[ He hadn't really closed off most of the area yet. He'd probably still maintain a private office, but Silco had left the desk on the balcony to look over the entirety of the club. ]
Though I don't know how, given... [ He gestured at the ashtray, a neutral one, he didn't dare keep one of his most precious possessions out here. ]
I think they enjoy it, looking at us with such reverence, and if it keeps Kowloon progressing, and growing as it should, I see no reason to stop.
Though I am hardly going to abandon business.
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āCourse they do! Itās nice and convenient, havinā reverence. You got somethinā to hope for, somethinā to blame, somethinā to be whatever it is you want it to be.
[ He reaches into his jacket to pull the gun out of his holster and set it on the table too so that he can lean back comfortably. The odd axe blade is noticeably covered in blood tooā¦ ]
Welcome to deification, bossman. If you dug my Ocelomeh, hereās your chance to make some loyal followers of your own, yeah?
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[ Silco's eyes flick toward Tezca when he says it, and he tipped it this way and that, before he drank. He was used to foul things, half like lighter-fuel or gasoline in how pungent they are. Finer, nicer drinks are often his preference now, but he barely flinches as he starts to knock it back. Silco may have been elevated, but he's never forgotten what kind of sump-tube he crawled out of. ]
Kowloon has been...mine since the day I stepped down here, practically. It would be a given that my... followers would come from here.
[ He says it with a certainty. It may not be true, but Silco believes it, because he understands Kowloon. It's so similar to Zaun that it was easy to superimpose his tactics. ]
I did like them, you know. Your people. Anyone who needs to fight for survival is a people I would respect. Perhaps our Kowloonites would learn something from you and yours, especially if you... [ he gestured to the bloody axe ] keep on as you are.
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Well, yeah. āCourse I will. Iām the heart of conflict that makes sure you treasure every damn day youāve got, ācause the next one aināt guaranteed, right?
[ He doesnāt explain that flicker of sadness, but thatās what it was for, really. The Ocelomeh were doomed, no matter what. They had no future. They only had a year of existence before they were either destroyed by ORTās awakening along with the rest of the planet or wiped completely from existence by pruning their world, which never should have existed in the first place. So, Tezcatlipoca had granted them his brutal philosophy as a gift, even if theyād never know it. Their lives were destined to be brief. So, they had to live them passionately, even if it was a violent one.
ā¦Itās not the same, of course. But he thinks Silco understands that. Somewhat. ]
Not that I started this lilā scuffle, just so when the rumors make it your way, you donāt get the wrong idea. Jumped into it, sure! But if one side of a gang is smart enough to call out for a passinā war god, theyāre the smart ones, right?
[ He grins toothily over his glass as he takes another sip, then satisfied with that, he reaches back to grab the package. He holds it out for Silco to take. ]
Which, speakinā of! Special delivery for ya. āBout 114 years late, but, hey, outta my hands, you know how it is.
[ And when he opens it, heāll find something that probably isnāt at all what heās expecting, but itāll certainly be familiar in parts. Itās a round shield like the one that Quetzalcoatl had carried, but rather than gold and stone, the front of this one is emblazoned with a shockingly intricate pattern of feathers arranged like a mosaic to create the design. Itās largely feathers of deep, shimmering black, but dotted among them are bursts of colorāblood red and an incredibly vivid and specific green. It all forms a geometric pattern, but the significance of it isnāt clear
because there definitely would be one associated with Tezcatlipoca but I donāt think any examples existā¦. However, right in the center is an indentation thatās left undecorated and is a small well lined with a true mosaic of obsidianā¦ Perfect for a few pieces of crystal to be set. ]no subject
Something else, lately, too. Am acknowledgement that there is something more that he needs to do. A fear of losing the opportunity and losing all of the work he'd pumped into their future. Of losing...
Well. Tezca keeps going, and Silco's looks curl into a barely there smile that seems to burst to life -- sharp and knowing -- before it dies back, and he took a drink to drown it.]
I'm sure the opposing gang regretted that they didn't call out to you, didn't they? Perhaps next time --
If there's enough for a next time.
[somehow, he doubts it.
Though, as the package is finally revealed, and the contents are before him, his eye widens slightly. It's magnificent, really, and the craftsmanship... Well, he's no expert, but even a layman like him can appreciate it. Theres something about it, the way it reflects the traits of Tezca, but still with the hallmarks of a shared origin of Quetzalcoatl that makes it feel like half a trophy, and half a blessing.
He reached out tentatively, his fingers brushed against the iridescent feathers, as if he was afraid of breaking it.]
This is quite the gift. [ A brief moment, and then: ] where are the feathers from?
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Heād get into the fun details of his little encounter if not for the gift he bestows. This reaction he drinks in with more interest. He can take a guess that this is something well beyond Silcoās experience. Silco struck him as a modern man, so what good is a shield like this to him, practically? So, heās actually a bit surprised, but pleased, that Silco seems to appreciate it as something significant. ]
Reward. āGiftā leaves out the fact that you earned it.
[ He corrects Silco casually, but itās followed with a laugh and a shrug as he picks up his glass again. ]
Ah, yeah. Black ones, no problem, since thereās plenty of crows and blackbirds. [ Which, lmao, though Tezcatlipoca has no idea about that particular connection. ] Reds and greens thoughā¦
[ He holds his glass up as he grins into it while he drinks, and with it comes a very intentionally shared bit of imagery through Communion. A dark forest where large, but silent black paws pad through the brush. Perched on a branch with Quetzalcoatlās temple in the background is a stunning bird. Then, the coil of tension, the taste of hot blood. Yet, whether itās literal or not isnāt so easy to pick out. ]
Well, her temple, her bird. People named āem after herāthe quetzal.
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Fitting then. You're right, this is quite the reward. Not what I would have expected in the slightest.
[ Truly, something like this was... heartfelt, in its own way, he supposed. This was a genuine creation, not something that was created simply for a reward, or to pay him off. It had intent behind it. Even Silco could see it ā and appreciate it.
His fingers brushed along the feathers again, and he nodded. ]
I assume that the black ones are to represent something other than her? [ His eyebrow couldn't lift over the blackened, angry eye, but when he turned his attention to Tezca, he could assume that it would, if it could. ]
no subject
[ Itās a complicated thing about Tezcatlipoca that heās not sure anyone had fully understood. Daybit might have, if heād been able to. But Tezcatlipoca is a god that canāt look back. The fact that the Aztecs and all their predecessors had been essentially lost was a damn shame, sureā¦ But he still embraced the world that replaced it. He loves the craft that led him to make his shield. But itās also a symbol of changeā¦ Or perhaps a lack thereof. If Quetzalcoatl had taken Silco seriously, then perhaps she wouldnāt have met her fate.
This, of course, is nothing he explains.
Instead, he kicks back and takes a drink of the tequila. ]
Black is me. I am Yoalli EhƩcatl, the night wind, Tloque Nahuaque, the one who owns what surrounds you, Yaotzin, the venerable enemy, Icnoacatzintli, the merciful.
[ He rattles off the epithets easily, and thereās a sense that even those are just a selection of many with how his tone lazily moves through them. He even gives a little flourish of his hands as if he might take a bow, were he standing, but it comes with a laugh. ]
Not to bore ya with the theology, but all comes from me, bossman. I am the almighty god of my lands, and even Quetzalcoatl wouldnāt exist if she werenāt an aspect of yours truly. So. Bit on the nose, sure, but the dark eating up the resplendent felt damn good, so far as artistry goes, yeah?
no subject
[ He can't help but agree. A lot of it is because the darkness, this night wind feels a lot like Zenith, as well, but he doesn't voice that. No need to offend him, if he were to think that was not apt. Silco does, of course. He can see it, the way it seems to swallow the bright, iridescent feathers.
He likes it like that. ]
I have never been a religious man, you know. Though, I think, if any gods were more like you, I would have been a touch more keen. [ A beat. ] Interesting that we had to go through her to get to you, then, when you are the source of it all.
I wonder why that is?
no subject
[ It's a playful retort without any bite, but he does look at Silco a little more seriously. He takes another drink, then sets it down again in a way that makes it clear that he might be talking for a bit... But he does ask first. ]
Well, I got my own theories on why I ended up here and that order of operations. They're just that, theories, but. If you're interested, I can give you the divine perspective.
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Well. Color him curious, perhaps. He took a sip of his drink, and then gestured with the glass, as if to encourage him. Sure, he is no god, but the perspective is... different. Perhaps it is Set's influence, knowing more and more about gods these days. ]
By all means. I'm curious about your divine perspective. I've heard it plenty from Set, I'm curious how yours differs.
no subject
Well, itās important to understand somethinā about me first, just cosmologically speakinā. Tezcatlipoca is my name, but itās also a bit of a title. I was born from ÅmeteÅtl, but that was only me. From me, there are four aspects that are gods in their own rights, but theyāre all part of me. Think of it as reflections, if you were able to let that reflection step through the mirror and become their own person. Theyāre all Tezcatlipocaāthey are all aspects of me. We each got a color and a cardinal direction to distinguish us.
[ He counts them off on his fingers as he goes. ]
Thereās the Tezcatlipoca of the East, the Red Tezcatlipoca. Xipe Totetc, the Flayed One, god of agriculture and regeneration. Then thereās the Tezcatlipoca of the South, the Blue Tezcatlipoca. Huitzilopochtli, the Left-handed Hummingbird, god of war and will.
[ He gestures to Silco with a sly smile. ]
And you got the Tezcatlipoca of the West, the White Tezcatlipoca. Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent. You know enough about her, so no need for old news, yeah?
[ He snickers, then gestures to himself. ]
And finally, thereās me, the Smoking Mirror. I am the Black Tezcatlipoca of the North, and I have more epithets than youād know what to do with, but Iām only Tezcatlipoca. Iām the almighty god. The living, the dead, the flames of the future—I see it all. Providence, darkness, and all things unseen are my specialtyā¦ But since every Tezcatlipoca is an aspect of me, all their domains can fall under my purview too.
[ He gestures to his eyes as he reaches up to take another languid drink, so perhaps itās somewhat literal. Itās hard to tell. But he grins behind his glass as he watches Silcoās expression. ]
You followinā so far?
(wildcard) I hope it bleeds all day long
He shows up a little early today, lingering by the bar. He's been keeping half an eye out for GregĆ³r, but the orc bartender hasn't been in the past few times Matt's visited Draumahol. Maybe he quit.
Good for him.
At any rate, Matt's disappointment quickly cedes to curiosity for the trickle of Kenosians here at this slow hour. He even strikes up a conversation with one of them. The fellow in question is on the clock, but Matt considers himself to be half patron and half special delivery, so he doesn't feel too bad taking up his time.
Here's a question: What does heightened desire look like on a guy who was already living life on the advanced hedonism track? Matt wears it more like ease--a looseness of limb, a comfort with making first eye contact. An unfurling, curious warmth in place of conscientiousness for the edges of his personal bubble. Losing track of time and knocking on Silco's office door a few minutes late isn't part of it, strictly speaking. Just an unfortunate side effect. ]
Ah--sorry. I was downstairs. [ He smiles, recent flirtatious memories percolating in his brain. ] Lost track of time.
[ Matt's a bit paler than he was when they started this whole thing, but he was pale to begin with. Maybe it's just the light. He's also sporting a new bite mark, though his shirt's high collar hides it pretty neatly. ]
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[ He says, all of his usual enthusiasm for. Anything. His mismatched eyes flickered up from the paperwork on his desk, and up to Matt who looked. Off. He can't really describe it, but there was something about the movement, the smile, the relaxed pose that just sets him off somehow.
Silco's lip curled, but he started to stamp out the foul smelling cigar into his ash tray.]
Punctuality is something I prefer.
[ Says the guy who indulges literally the most carefree and chaotic child, who isnt on time for anything. He started to stand, predatory grace implicit in the motion. Silco has always been all business when Matt arrives, and today is no exception. If he's ignoring that mild, annoyed disgust, perhaps it's more accurate to say that he's more interested in satiating his hunger than he is in questioning Matt's easy, relaxed poise.]
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[ Contrary to what Silco may believe, Matt doesn't spend all his waking hours (or even 80% of them) actively fantasizing about everyone to cross his path.
That said.
He does glance Silco's way as he crosses to his usual seat and settles down. The quality of Silco's movement, something like the stalking of a cat or the sweep of a shark in deep water, is something Matt's always noticed passively. He notices how everyone moves. But for a whole stack of interpersonal reasons, including but not limited to Silco's habit of sacrilegious murder and his sourness over being hit on by his alternate self, Matt rarely takes a moment to appreciate it. ]
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His crossing was swift, his eyes narrowed at the way Matt watched him, suspicious in nature as ever. Silco has never been able to handle others well. Nobody could be trusted. Nobody. There was nobody who could be trusted. He wondered if there was a plan here. Something of note.
He was late.
What was it? Could it have been a drug? Had he injected himself with something to put an end to him? Deprive Zenith of his fervency and dogged pursuit of their new world? Was it something else? Perhaps someone had given him something? Was it ā Sebastian whose only promise was to keep Jinx out of his machinations, but perhaps he would only have to nudge and hint to get someone else to do so? The demon worked downstairs still, and Silco had seen the way the boy talked to him.
His lips peeled back, showing bared fangs. The agitation is apparent in communion, the paranoid circles Silco's brain takes are classic, expected, but he only crossed to halfway, before he stopped. ]
What are you looking at?
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--Oh. [ Matt blinks up at him. Smiles. ] You, I guess. Is there somebody else in here?
[ Actually, now that he says that, Matt's gaze flicks to the corners of Silco's office. His awareness of spells and auras isn't passively much better than a baseline human's, but he figures he might be able to detect discrepancies in how objects are behaving.
Everything seems normal, though. He looks back to Silco. ]
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Why?
[ He asked, his tone sharp, and annoyed. Why even bother? This is an uncomfortable thing, isn't it? It isn't like he hasn't noticed that it hurts Matt when he feeds ā though he hardly cares ā and Silco's reedy, gloved fingers naturally gesture with his words as he does so. The space between his glove and his wrist on one hand shows a darkened, sinewy stretch of skin, as if it was necrotic and dead.
He sniffed, and shook his head. ]
It's weird.
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Matt hears why, and his gaze snaps back to Silco. It's a confusing question. Why does he breathe, or eat, or respond positively to sunsets and rainbows? Admittedly, he doesn't usually notice Silco the way he might notice, say, D.
Almost never. ]
Let's not throw stones where weird's concerned, [ he protests, ruffled but amused. ] Sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.
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[ He asked, with a faint snap of his reply, like a cracked whip. He wants nothing more than to silence him, or maybe turn his head away because he looks like he is noticing things, and Silco does not like the prospect of someone ā anyone ā noticing something about him.
He is a cruel, hard man. He holds many secrets, and he wormed his way into power by being careful, and cautious until it was too late. Silco had always had to claw and bitterly climb his way to what he wanted or needed, and it meant that he had often noticed things that others didn't. It was one of the few tools he had in a world where he had always been lesser.
He does not enjoy someone else throwing that atool against him. ]
You seem to not mean a lot of the things you do. [ He finally says, a sharp blade, wielded carefully. His steps are slow, like a predator, but more than that: he is dragging out the wait. It always makes the blood pump faster, make it taste better. ]
Yet you keep doing such things.
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Matt's eyes widen very slightly. For a moment, he wonders if this is how Silco finally kills him--one hopes not permanently. Or if it's how Silco finally pushes him down, pins him one-handed to the couch cushion and makes him beg to be drunk fro--
Uh.
Matt doesn't blush. But something of a flushing feeling sweeps under his skin, not unlike the silken warmth he associates with D. His gaze skitters to that pocket where he assumes Silco's keeping some kind of weapon. ]
I think ... I would need to understand you better, to stand a better chance of not stepping on things. [ As usual, Matt's tone is even, polite. Placid surface over a melting, shuddering heart. ] And I get the sense you don't particularly want to be known, so.
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[ He says, tersely.
Matt now has something in common with someone who no longer resides in Kenos ā the only bearer to be shattered, actually ā that there were plenty of little landmines around Silco, and accidentally stepping on them only became easier the more he hated someone. Was that because he saw the worst in people? Yes. Was he a wholly acerbic and unpleasant man with few redeeming qualities? Also yes, and those were what far too people brushed up against time and time again.
Silco never bothered hiding them these days. Where before in Zaun, he had a purpose that required at least a veneer of peacekeeping, now... Now he had nothing of the sort.
The more power he obtained, the less he seemed to bother with pretense.
He notices Matt's eyes on his pocket, where he keeps ā ]
Who told you?
[ He hissed, his tone harsh, fingers now tensed, almost clawed. Like he wanted to rip his throat out from his neck. ]
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(Almost impossible.)
Instead: Matt's personal assessment of the situation shifts firmly to "Silco is finally going to kill me." Does he have that sleep spell ready to go? He's been focusing a lot more on Oblivion lately ... ]
Who--
[ Matt leans back where he sits, trying to breathe steadily to even out his heartbeat. To call up the shape of the spell in his mind. His eyes flicker to Silco's clawed fingers. ]
I don't know what you're talking about.
[ Slight uptick at the end of the sentence. Matt's pretty sure Silco doesn't mean "who told you that I don't want to be known," because the answer would be literally all your words and actions told me. ]
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And Matt had dared to focus his gaze on where he kept her, a crime that the man could not allow to pass. ]
Of course not. [ He sneered, his tone acerbic and sarcastic, angry. Petty. ]
The same as you don't know what you're doing, or where you are at, hm? It's all on others to figure out what you mean when you're doing it.
[ Silco.
Silco has an astounding lack of self-reflection. ]
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O auspicious Kalika with dishevelled hair, from the corners of whose mouth two streams of blood trickle-- ]
I can't figure out, [ Matt says, on the exhale, ] if you think I'm an idiot ... or like, playing six-dimensional chess.
[ Which is to say, there's no way to win. Matt's instinct is to comfort someone who's thrashing like this, either out of sympathy or placation; but an equal, opposite instinct says that could make Silco mad(der) or (more) suspicious or both. Maybe fighting and losing is the only way to make him feel sufficiently in control of his circumstances.
If that's the case, terrific. Matt rocks at losing fights.
Gently, trying to hold the shape of the sleep spell in his mind (they who recite another doubled bija of thine destroy all their enemies), Matt makes to get up from his seat. ]