Nothing is missing

Deme was in one of his manic states again. His mind raced with boundless energy, ideas and impulses colliding in a chaotic symphony that left him restless and exhilarated. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were wide with excitement, darting around as if he were seeing the world anew.

He could hardly keep still, his hands fidgeting with his cloak, his foot tapping an incessant rhythm on the floor. It was in this frenetic state that he decided tonight was the night for a grand adventure. Slipping out of his elaborate robes and donning a ragged cloak, he disguised himself as much as possible. Then, ensuring all his cats were settled for the evening, and that most were in bed, he slipped his watchers and went out into the evening air.

Deme made his way across the city and to The Blind Eye. It seemed like the best place to go, somewhere that would be lively and full of people. He craved exciting distractions, the kinda he could only get going out amongst the people.

He looked around and then went to order himself a drink. He asked for something fruity and fun, that would make the evening even more exciting. Quite the contrary to what he’d drink when he was in his more sullen moods, and generally preferred wine or whiskey. Next he stood back and watched the crowd, as he sipped on his drink, then realising how delightful it was, he quickly downed it and ordered another.

Every night, there was always a point where the mood began to shift. Where the tourists and socialites took their leave and their beds. Where his staff entertained the thinned crowd of die-hards, fish thoroughly hooked by their vices. Quinn’s time was very nearly his own; there was little left to do except oversee the opening and closing of the vault.

Or so he had thought.

Until an older gentleman in a rag cloak sat down at the first floor bar and began to throw back cocktails. It was no one Quinn had ever met – yet he found himself preoccupied by the stranger nonetheless. The door guards were not in the habit of letting beggars in. Heading downstairs, Quinn relieved the bartender with a few whispered words and took up making the new customer’s next drink. As he cut the fruit and muddled the herbs, Quinn could see why the man had been let in.

He wore finer clothes beneath his cloak, and the garment itself … It seemed deliberately fashioned. Cut into tatters along the edge, rather than worn threadbare. Conspicuously clean. In fact, Quinn could smell the guest’s expensive, spicy perfume even from here across the counter. A rich man’s idea of how a poor man might dress. Fine; the Eye served the occasional eccentric magister, surely this need not be anything different.

“Welcome to the Blind Eye, messere.” Quinn let his flat, Marcher accent reveal itself. He poured himself a drink as well, two fingers of cognac in a fine tulip-shaped glass. “Is this your first visit?” Quinn’s gaze flickered away briefly, observing the stage. This late into the night, the shows tended to be bawdy or bloody. The next was to be the latter; even now a mage was hard at work setting up a barrier between the audience and the stage.

“Care to lay a wager? House Icarius has sent their slave Vatiusius to fight this evening. He faces a ‘dread beast of Arlathan.’” Personally, Quinn did not favor the slave’s chances – but the spectacle would go some way to paying the noble family’s debts. “Between you, me, and the floorboards, the ‘beast’ is simply a very large spider.”

@Demetrius Arvina

Deme swirled the last remnants of his second cocktail, feeling the buzz of the crowd and the tantalizing shift in the bar's energy as the night wore on. He’d come here craving excitement, and it seemed fate had obliged him.

When the man addressed him, Deme’s gaze snapped to the man, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. The accent, the easy confidence, the drink poured with casual finesse—it all delighted him, and he could barely contain his smile.

Deme leaned in, propping his elbows on the bar with a conspiratorial grin.

Ah, *messere,* I do believe it is my first visit, yes. He let his gaze sweep the room, as though savoring a particularly fine wine. And I must say, you’ve made quite an impression. You seem to know your clientele well*.* At Quinn’s mention of the fight, Deme’s eyes sparked with delight, and he leaned in closer, seeming to relish every word.

A wager, you say? *A dread beast of Arlathan,* and it’s just a spider? Deme’s laugh was low, almost giddy. Theatrics! How wonderful. And here I was thinking tonight would be dull. He waved his hand as if swatting away the mere notion of boredom.

Then he lowered his voice, meeting Quinn’s gaze. Tell me, what are the odds in your estimation? Or better yet… Deme tapped his finger on the bar, his grin growing sly, What would you put your money on? After all, you have the advantage of experience, dear friend. Guide me.

Deme took another sip, clearly savoring the thrill of the encounter, the air between them charged with an energy he couldn’t resist—one that hinted at his manic edge just beneath the surface.

@Quintilian Frey