Post originally by Character_The Black



Aleris Railway - Time: 3:12 AM
Departing: Eternelle Lune Gateway Rail-Station
Arriving: Soul's Ferry Rail-Station

Fractured slices of light cut across a clear cocktail glass, carving trails along the weary irises of the sparse midnight crowd lingering in the dim bar. The only stars visible in the black room shine from the surfaces of shifting pools held within glass sculptures, likewise held within the slowly slackening grasp of lonely strangers. The bartop reflects sloppy glowing smudges from the wan ceiling-mounted lights. Strong, well-maintained fingers grasp the stem of that cocktail glass and pull it to a pale, handsome face. The liquid within filters light awkward and clumsy through its body, which shrinks until drained completely. Lime eyes, like the bright waters of some idyll shore, stare over the tilting glass rim, expressionless.



A smooth, welcoming voice crosses the bartop like a summer breeze, to the man behind it.

"Again, sir, it's only vermouth and gin.", the barman says, flatly though not unkindly. There is a tone of exhaustion about his amiable manner, and the creases outlining his mouth beside his mustache seem to have deepend to accomodate the weary depression of his eyes. Outside the windows, the countryside rolls away under a twilight canvas and the bright chalk eye of the moon stares out, full-bright.



"Wouldn't it have to be?", the bartender remarks without a glance to the man across the counter, his weathered hands running a white rag through the inside of a deep glass, long fingers extended to the bottom. His balding head still possesses it's dark brown colour, and though he is reed thin his posture is respectable. After he finishes, the rag is tossed across his left suspender strap. His voice is gravelly but level as he speaks, running his thumb and forefinger over tired eyelids, "You've had more than I can count."




"It's a wonderful side effect. That beautiful vision at the end of the bar has two identical sisters, and their siren call is all but irrestible.", the young patron sighs, overly maudlin. His green eyes light up with theatre. "If only I could walk."



"Well. Let's hope he's had an appointment with the barber by then.", the younger man's eyes sink with his mouth into a droll relinquish.



"Oh please no, I don't know where I'd land. It's not the drunkeness I'm drinking for, I swear. It's the taste. And these...", the young man gestures towards his cocktail glass.















"Impossible, signore. How could I sleep when there's so much drinking to do? And besides, I'm to meet an old friend here, sometime along.", and with the punctuation of his statement, the door opens, briefly exposing the raucous sound of the out-side to the gently drowning patrons of the bar. In walks a man of middle-age, inauspicious in most every way. He has a thin build and his hair as well as eyes are an unremarkable brown, and his nose is a tad overlarge for his face, but not alarmingly so. He wears a black overcoat, and holds a folio-case. Before closing the door completely he throws to the wayside a small cigarillo. "Ah, speak of the devil. Here he is now."

The young man swivels in his seat, black shortcoat rubbing against a bar wet with spatters of alcohol. His silhouette is cast in candlelight, a strong chin with otherwise rounded, pale features. His dark hair and brows serve to underscore the already striking lime in his irises. Filled with light, their colour appears to sway and rollick, in contrast to the still porcelain graveyard of his other features. "Dear Mr. Brown! Come sit by me."

The man who has just entered shakes and inspects -- almost nervously -- the area over his shoulders. He offers out a hand to the air, suggestively, his fingers splayed towards the small tables set in rows by the window, "Wouldn't you prefer a more... private location?"

"Bah, ridiculous!", the green-eyed man as well waves a hand, though in a very much more drunken fashion, as if to invite the bar itself into his embrace. "Uh...", he sits, frozen in unknowing.

The bartender inserts, "Marion."

"Marion? Really?", he says, quietly, almost as a whisper, and pauses before continuing in a louder tone addressed to the newly arrived Mr. Brown, across the rectangular room, "Marion here and I are great old friends, anything you must say to me you can say in front of him."

Mr. Brown waffles for a second, his skinny frame lost within the large sleeves of his modest attire, while Marion levels a gaze to the green-eyed man, and quips, wholly uninterested, "Queer definition of great."



Marion merely steps off towards the other end of the bar, "Let me check on Jerome. I'll put in a good word for you."

The green-eyed man whispers to himself, swiveling back towards Marion as the old bartender makes his way down, and as Mr. Brown is arriving beside him, "Ass."

"Mr. Black, I --", the man starts breathlessly.

"It's 'The Black', as in a title. I'm not a Mister anything.", the green-eyed young man says, taking another long drink from his recently refilled glass, it's round rim tipped just slightly against the soft pink of his bottom lip. As he pulls the drink from his mouth, he faces the bar fully, inspecting the contents of his raised glass as if he was talking to no one at all.



"You shan't, Mr. Brown. I'll call you. My fee?", The Black questions in a relaxed tone, but one whose volume disregards completely the request of discretion present in Mr. Brown's cadence.

"Yes, the latter half.", he says, reaffirming his own whisper as a plea to the man beside him, as he moves the folio case to his lap, opens it, and displays it as clandestine as he is capable of, before shutting it and settling its bottom close to the foot of the green-eyed man's seat. "What... what became of them?"



"Yes. Yes, very well. I suppose it doesn't matter.", Mr. Brown says sheepishly. He hangs his head and sighs deeply and full of relief. "And... you're sure that it was them?"



"With you?!", Mr. Brown erupts, this time abandoning caution, but quickly reined in by the echo of his voice. "You mean..?" He looks over his shoulder again in abject fear, and begins to rise from his seat. The Black's hand reaches out to Mr. Brown's shoulder settle him back into his chair, steadily and with some force.

"Settle yourself, Mr. Brown. I am the unfortunate victim of circumstance. My uncle and his three sons have died in a horrible burglary, and I must escort them to Soul's Ferry for burial. The rail staff is extremely sympathetic and have made a wonderful effort to accomodate me in this terrible time of mourning.", The Black says, his eyes still dancing in the light in complete ignorance of the man beside him, his face ablossom with chilled calm. The agitated Mr. Brown settles down and sighs again, a slack smile moving across his lips. Not one of joy, and certainly not devious. A smile which a man displays when a noose has been lifted from his neck.

"But... why?", Mr. Brown inquires, genuinely interested.

"My own reasons, Mr. Brown. And -- Oh, haha!", the green-eyed man, The Black, barks out laughter, hooting wildly. "Oh, Jeffrey. I haven't laughed in so long, thank you for coming to talk to me at such a gruesome time. I truly needed a friend. It's too bad you must be leaving for your own cabin.". The bartender's shadow sweeps across the bartop as he arrives back.



Mr. Brown's brain races behind his chestnut eyes to keep up with the green-eyed man's banter, and though he bungles the timing of a few expressional cues -- indeed, missing some of them completely -- he does eventually decipher that he must be on his way. The Black steps up and under the guise of gently guiding his friend to the door, his grip tightens like iron around the Mr. Brown's arm and yanks him, though convincing of softness, from his seat, pulling him along.

They stop at the door, the green-eyed man's controlling strength preventing completely any passage further. The Black leisurely opens the car door, and moonlight slices across his face like lightning or an errant swordstroke, his dark handsome features half set aglow. He is like a pale king or a wraith, the effulgence of his external beauty so captivating that it is slightly ominous. The hailstorm roar of the locomotive churning beneath them buffets their ears like a grinding thunder. Despite this, The Black's voice is heard well by the windblown Mr. Brown.



The stronger, taller, and currently infinitely more fierce green-eyed man ushers Mr. Brown onto the flimsy walkway between cars. The sheepish Mr. Brown obliges, but turns back just as the other man is just about to close the car door.

"Thank you, Black.", he says, his voice weak with emotion.

"We never met, how could you know my name?", he says threateningly, but lowers the aggressive glare in his glare, seeing the tears collecting along Mr. Brown's eyes. "Yes, well. I've been payed in full, no gratitude is necessary. While it is doubtful, should you ever need my services again, you know how to find me."





The car door is slid back forcefully, sealing the quiet back into the dimly lit bar, likewise sealing Mr. Brown, and the tiny mechanics of his equally miniscule life, on the other side.

The green-eyed man stumbles back to his seat and starts on a fresh gin and vermouth, his ankle subtly keeping track of the folio-case at the base of his seat.

"Your pal seemed in a hurry. What'd he have to say?", Marion says, his eyes still stuck on the spot of Mr. Brown's exit.

"Nothing, really. You know old friends, the only rush bigger than the one to see you is the one to get away. But he's a good sport.", the green-eyed young man replies, tilting his cocktail glass to its finish.



"Oh, no. That would be mine, I'm afraid his whole reason for meeting me was that I myself left it behind during our last meeting.", green eyes suddenly open from half-closed to full alert, a charming, clumsy smile curling at his lips, as if to imply a record of such carelessness.

"What's in it?", the bartender asks, only half-interested in the answer, as he examines the bottom of a glass, before filling it with red wine.



"Of course.", Marion responds, recorking the wine bottle, and then resting his forearms against the bartop, glass in front of him.

A distant silence creeps into the air between the two men, as they both examine their glasses, one full and one empty, under the distinct but interacting oppressors of weariness and cognitive preoccupation.

"I suppose I don't want to know what all really went on just now.", Marion says, at last, bringing the wine glass to his lips.



"Another drink? I don't suppose your night life is always this exciting.", the bartender says, pouring a drink in tired resignation. The bright green eyes of The Black shift like chop along tropical surf over the rim of his glass, as he pulls it back to his lips. They stare out, perhaps to some memory of another midnight, bored and heavy.