Drinking Ale in Bars with Ixians (Closed)

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Events take place after Leaving Eiskalt. Spoiler Warning for those reading!!!

The little bell that hung over the entrance way to Ashley’s Tavern jingled almost soundlessly against the backdrop of the loud noise coming from drunken throats. There was loud chatter, hollering, laughing, and good times being had by all. In the entryway to the portal was the Enigmatic Immortal himself, Jensen Ambrose, the small frame of Astarelle Set’Roh before him looking side to side. The immortal tapped her shoulder and pointed to a small booth the two could have some privacy within and he turned to Ashley. Without a word between them she grabbed two tumblers and some amber liquid making the drinks and having a waiter snatch them and deliver them off to the table at the same moment the two Ixians finished sitting.

Jensen thanked the worker, a new boy he realized, and turned to his company for the evening of drinking. Astarelle looked back to him, a little reluctantly and the immortal gave her a soft smile of reassurance. Lifting his drink taking a sip, he and looked at the desert native with a blank stare.

“What?” she mumbled, looking to her drink instead of him.

“Well, I just…still don’t get it.” Jensen admitted. “You fell hard, Astarelle, and for a whore. I mean,” Jensen chuckled in exasperation, as if the following was obvious. “You don’t fall in love with whores. They don’t know how to love.” She gave him a dark glare, but he returned it with a salute and a drink.

“What does the so called Enigmatic Immortal know,” Astarelle started to speak with venom, but she let it out with a sigh. “Never mind,” she said quickly. “I’d just rather forget the entire Eiskalt war if that’s alright with you.” The knight nodded to that as both took a sip. When they lowered their respective glass they gave each other a sideways glance.

“Are we friends?” Jensen blurted loudly. Astarelle to her credit didn’t look startled, but what did startle him was the look of confusion on her face; She was contemplating the question too.

“I…I don’t know,” Astarelle admitted. “Maybe? We fought the Jihta Catherine Remi together.”

“Then you pushed me away in favor of your whore” Jensen replied bitterly. “You really pissed me off back there you know.” Astarelle didn’t say anything, instead responding with another sip of ale and taking a relaxing exhale after she let it wash down her throat. “But then again," he mumbled. "You did make sure I left Eiskalt with some semblance of Sanity.”

“Perhaps I should have worried about my own first,” Astarelle mumbled angrily, prepared to take another sip. Jensen’s hand lifted and covered the top of her drink, a smile on his face and a wink in his eye.

“Tastes bitter when you are angry. Deep breath and exhale slowly, then take a sip.” Astarelle eyed him suspiciously, but did as she was instructed. The liquid came down softly and she fluttered her eyes for a brief moment. “Told ya.”

“It burned more,” she admitted with a slight pause in her tone from regrouping. “In a good way.” She admired her drink a bit more before she turned the drink towards the immortal. “You…care a lot more than you let on, you know that?”

“Well I am buying these drinks, I’d hate for them to get wasted.” Jensen said crassly. Astarelle grinned and slapped his arm playfully, relaxing into the worn cushioned backing of the booth.

“You know what I meant,” she took another sip. “Why? I always thought you were the crass, crude, King of Rude. Not one finger would ever raise to help someone, but only one finger to tell them what you thought. You sure acted like you have no cares in the world when you fought Draug in the Cell. I had thought, honestly, Jensen Ambrose cared about nobody. Imagine my surprise when Sei told me you once had a family.”

Jensen remained quiet for a moment swirling his drink in his cup and looking to it before he took a sip, and looked back to Astarelle. “Story for a story?” he asked. The woman blinked a few times, before nodding. Jensen took a sip and pointed to her.

“The whore…it wasn’t just because of some fling. You longed for something there, something you had once but lost…” Jensen stood a bit taller, leaning closer, and looked to her eyes. “What have you lost Astarelle that you fought so hard to get back?”

[Roht Mirage]

He just had to go there. Astarelle's stomach knotted. The last drips of alcohol burned in her throat.

“You're a lot more perceptive than you let on, Jensen Ambrose,” she said with a coy grin, stalling.

The immortal wasn't having any of it. He dodged the compliment with an expectant quirk of his brow. The silence in their booth grew heavy, almost suffocating, while laughter and drunken stories flowed all around. “I would have to go far back for that one,” she said softly, running one thumb over the rim of her tumbler. “I don't talk about my history often. Or ever, really. I've lied to cover far smaller secrets, you know.” Her forehead creased as she looked up from under her lashes, making the words a challenge. Do you dare trust me?

Jensen nodded sagely. There was humor in his eyes, enough to make Astarelle feel suddenly foolish. She took a sip to hide the unbidden color in her cheeks, but the drink just made it feel hotter. Jensen took a sip also, clearly giving her a moment, before he said, “Try me.”

Astarelle smiled through the blush, feeling a game afoot. Slowly, so as to let the color fade, she placed her tumbler daintily upon the table. “I'm a runaway princess. It's my divine right to rule over all of Falli-”

“Fallien doesn't work that way,” Jensen interjected smugly, “I know that much. Anyway, you don't have the table manners of a princess.” He pointed to her mouth.

Her hand shot up to brush away a tiny trail of liquor from the corner of her mouth. It glistened wetly on her fingers as she stared, her face settling into a scowl. “Fine,” she said curtly as she wiped it, in a very undignified manner, upon her sleeve. “I'm the child of a goddess. Back home, I was worshipped as-.”

Again, she was interrupted. “Like some sort of demi-god?” he asked. The humor had faded, and there was just a touch of distaste twitching the corner of one eye. Astarelle's smile faltered. Bury me. It was a claim far too reminiscent of the Remi's self-serving legend. She gritted her teeth and fidgeted with the tumbler as Jensen's gaze grew distant. Stop it, sand-brain, she wanted to curse at him, You'll never defeat them if you can't push them out of your own mind. Oh, how she wanted to shout it. But, that wouldn't work. She knew from experience just how tightly the Enigmatic Immortal held onto his demons. Separating them, even for an evening, required a gentler touch.

“Two halflings in a woman suit,” she said, her face stern and sincere.

“What?” Jensen asked, blinking a few times.

“Two halflings in a woman suit,” Astarelle repeated, “Escaped from a circus. Hiding from a cruel ring master.”

Jensen grinned, almost laughed. He held it in, though, as he wore a mockingly serious expression. “I find that difficult to believe,” he said studiously. “Even the best halfling contortionists in the world couldn't make your shape. It just... feels too real.”

“I was unconscious!” Astarelle snapped, glaring to pass off the swell of ruby-gold in her cheeks as anger. An image floated around in her mind, painted with the grandiose pigments of a heroic tapestry, of Jensen carrying her, eyes closed and body battered, from the ruins of an Eiskalt city. She had little proof of that moment, though. It was Aislinn's face that she woke up to; Jensen gone, only a note left behind. That was before the regrettable faun encounter.

“I didn't want to drop you,” he offered with an aloof shrug and a barely concealed smile.

“I read the back of the note,” Astarelle said with a scowl, neglecting to add, over and over, and then kept it for safe keeping. The color wasn't leaving her face, nor had another sip of ale helped, so she just went with it. An accusatory finger thrust at him as if, were it not for the table, she might pin him into the cushions that he happily leaned back upon, cradling his drink in both hands. “You are very brash, Mr. Ambrose. Most men with wandering hands wouldn't leave a smug confession behind.”

Jensen couldn't hold in the laugh anymore. It rose with his usual mad enthusiasm into the sea of merriment that filled the bar. Astarelle found it infecting her and pulled her hand back to cover her mouth as she shook her head at the Enigmatic Immortal. The insane immortal? The incomprehensible immortal?

“Astarelle,” Jensen said kindly as his voice lowered.

“Yes?” she asked, elbow on the table, grin covered by her hand.

He leaned forward, clunking his glass upon the table as he pivoted over it. “You're a sweetheart, so much that I almost forgot about the question I asked you.” His voice lowered farther, so soft, still kind. “Story for a story. You agreed.”

Astarelle's gaze dropped to her amber reflection in the liquor. A heavy sigh escaped her, but no words. The darker-toned woman in the tumbler watched her despondently, her image shaking from a small jitter in Astarelle's hand. The vibration was most evident at her reflected brow, where the divine mark rippled like a mirage. For so many years, she had wished to escape to a place where it drew nary a glance, and now that she was here, the wish fulfilled, it felt empty. To every eye in Corone, her Roht mark was just a tribal tattoo. There was only one man who had seen it, known the weight of it, and managed to look through as if it meant nothing.

“What I said earlier, it was all half-truths, kind of,” she began in little more than a whisper. She didn't look up at Jensen, but she heard a long, contemplative breath from him.

“Should I order another drink?” he asked.

Astarelle glanced at him, barely making out his face through her lashes. “For who?” She didn't tilt her head up to see his expression.

But, by the depths, she could hear his ridiculous smile. “For the bottom halfling. I bet its thirsty work moving those sexy legs around. Does he need a straw? Through the belly button?”

Astarelle saw the woman in the amber looking glass slouch and sigh... then laugh until she was squinting back tears. “Bury you, Jensen. You're going to drive me insane,” she squeaked as, still shaking with laughter aftershocks, she scraped the tumbler toward her chest.

“Sanity is overrated,” he said with a salute of his drink.

She returned the toast and took a long, invigorating gulp, making sure to draw the back of one hand across her mouth – just in case. She knew the blasted man was disarming her, that much was obvious. But, she also felt energized. That, she chalked up to contagious madness. Or... maybe the alcohol.

“All except that last one,” she said with a grin and a glittering glance through the dark strands that had come loose from her ponytail. Another sigh followed, not dour. Just... tense, as if preparing herself to run the endless, golden expanse of her beloved desert home. She made herself look at him as she clenched her fingers around the tumbler to keep them from fidgeting, and she spoke. “I was born to a people and a city that no one else in Fallien knows about. I can't say any more than that. I couldn't even tell you where it is.”

Curiosity fluttered across Jensen's face, held in check by what was likely the very depth of his impulse control. Astarelle smiled sweetly and obliged him. “Really,” she said in earnest, “The city probably isn't where I left it.” That just made his eyes more vibrant with questions, but she had given him enough. “The important part, the part that leads to answering your question -and I am getting there- is that my people don't have a distinction between princess and priestess. I suppose it's like the Jya in Irrakam. Though, not really. There are so many rules. It's so confining.” She visibly shivered, just once. “But, I'm quite good at finding loopholes,” she added, bitter memories turning to a sly smugness. “By making demands that no priestess had made before, and therefore no rules were made against, I was able to travel the desert with a man who, in secret, traded on behalf of our hidden city. He taught me so much... about every place in Fallien and what might be beyond, about being honest to myself while lying like a night devil to others, about... love...” She faltered, knowing that Jensen's answer lay further, but unsure if she could continue.

After a quiet moment in which he showed the grace to avert his eyes, he asked gently, “What's his name?” Astarelle's lips tightened as she eyed him warily. He looked at her, apologetic yet insistent. “He sounds like a big influence in your life. Maybe I'll see some of him in you. I, honestly, might even ask about him out of the blue, because I'm rude like that. So, I'd rather call him something other than that guy.”

Astarelle retreated downward into her amber reflection, staring at the divine mark. A voice from what seemed a lifetime ago whispered lovingly to her, “There's nothing Roht about you.” She smiled.

“Akashere. His name was Akashere.” The past tense drew a sympathetic grunt from Jensen. Bless him, he didn't ask. And Astarelle didn't have the heart to leave him hanging. “With him, I didn't just find loopholes in the rules. I broke them. We broke them. If anyone found out... it's still hard to imagine what would have happened. We made sure to show my people nothing that would draw suspicion. He was better at it than me. How much better, I didn't realized until he lay dying from an illness that he had kept from the healers... and me.”

Jensen answered with silence and stillness. His gaze was adrift again.

She drew him back with a heavy glare and even heavier words. “I don't give my heart to anyone, Jensen Ambrose. Ever. And my body, only to those I am willing to... maybe even those I'm hoping to lose.”

[Enigmatic Immortal]

There was a moment of silence as the words tensed the air. The patrons continued their merry drinking and revelry as the immortal took her statement in and with a soft exhale processed that tid bit of information on his desert friend. He looked to his ale and saw that it was getting dangerously empty. He turned to holler for more when the waiter dropped off two fresh poured drinks. This time the liquid was clear and had a hint of cinnamon to them.

With a salute to Ashley the tender he turned back to Astarelle who sniffed the drink. Her wrinkled nose shot her head back as she made a face at the drink, before she shrugged preparing to sip. A second time Jensen’s hand jumped out, covering the top as he shook his head.

“Oh no, this one is liquid fire. You nurse this you’ll burn a new hole in your throat.” Jensen took his as an example and slammed it quickly, his chest aflame with burning desires as he let out a very characteristic giggle while one hand punched his chest, a cough following in the wake as he grinned like a fool. Astarelle looked to him with a sly smile, looking back to her drink and in a mocking fashion saluted him before she too was feeling the burning sensation tickle her throat. She let out a polite cough, clearing her throat as the two took a moment to regain themselves.

When they were done laughing about the others misery with the drink Astarelle leaned into the warn plush of the seat, her eyes scanning his face in expectation. Jensen lifted an eyebrow in concern, turning to look behind him and snapping his head back to her. “Sorry, no Faun’s. But I do see a hook-“ A loud slap echoed between the two as he rubbed his arm, a whine of mirth escaping his lips as he hissed in pleasure. Astarelle leaned back to her original position, giving him the same look.

“What?” Jensen asked at last as he waved to the waiter and motioned for two more drinks. The boy nodded once as he passed them, in a clean motion snagging up both tumblers and leaving them be as Jensen mentally thought to tip the boy well for his dutiful work ethic.

“You make up this ridiculous game and then try to worm out of your turn. I told you a story, now cough up one.” Her voice held venom in it, but there was no edge as she couldn’t hide the smile curling in the corner of her lips. Jensen sighed as he rubbed the back of his head; suddenly the cushion he sat upon was no longer comforting as he felt the wood underneath. “You pry into my life, I get to pry into yours. Fair’s fair.” She nodded as she watched the boy return with more amber ale, and they both took their glass and drank a sip at the same time. Jensen saw she wasn’t aware at the blunt manner she spoke, or maybe she did. He couldn’t tell but the color in her face was still red. “Tell me of the one you lost, since you made me do the same,” Astarelle took a bitter swig of her drink, and lowered it slowly.

“I told you,” Jensen mumbled. “Bitterness ruins the taste.” She gave him a sideways glance, her face turning redder as she cupped the drink in both hands, looking into her reflection. Jensen dropped his drink on the table with a loud clatter, the glass echoing off the wood. He yawned and rubbed the back of his head again, his actions rather crass as he shrugged.

“So then,” Jensen replied with sass. “Which one?” Astarelle looked away from her melancholy reflection to give him a suspicious glance. He said nothing but instead lazily brought the glass back to his lips, took a sip, and pursed his lips to let out an obnoxious sigh of pleasure.

“I had assumed Stephanie was the only one,” Astarelle said warily.

“Many do,” Jensen admitted as he felt the alcohol slowly grip his body and let it flow without his conscious attentions. He felt limber, and a tad bit disconnected and with a silly smile he leaned back, feeling the cushion push back. “No, before Stephanie thawed the brick-like chunk of asshole-fueled ice around my heart, there was another."

“This is a side of Jensen Ambrose I am unsure to be scared of, or honored to get to know.” The two laughed as Jensen grabbed the tumbler, feeling it’s warmth as he took another sip. He rolled the glass back and forth between his fingers, as if not sure how to proceed before he spoke, his voice carrying a weight that Astarelle had heard but once before when the knight admitted he was losing his war against the Cult of Blessed Torture.

“She was so beautiful,” he started, nearly chocking on the word. “Not a bit of her body was made without the consent of all four horsemen. Her hair was the deepest shade of night, her skin as soft as the silk in a royal dress. Her wit was sharp enough to cut clean through bone, and her courage was astounding.”

Jensen smiled into his cup as he recalled the memories of the woman who was his first love. “We met in training when I was a member of the Knights of Apocalypse. She was my sparring partner and she beat me blue. Kept telling me to try harder, and when she flattened me again she pounced me and said, with this sassy attitude, that if I could hit her just once, she would give me a kiss. Well, three fights later I managed to clip her blade aside enough to punch her in the shoulder. She lost her balance, stumbled, turned, brought a fist up and grabbed my collar. I held fast, prepared to drop her when she pulled herself up and kissed me. I was stunned, the senior knight was stunned, the class was stunned. Then she tossed me over her hip onto the ground and said ‘Cloud Nine departing.’ I was the laughing stock for days.” Jensen chuckled as he began to roll the glass again. It teetered in a circle around his thumb and forefinger and back in rhythmic pattern.

“One day, she brought me with her to the library, and we got to talking. Said she liked me, and I again was dumbfounded. She just laughed away my nerves, never giving me a chance to be on the offensive. She controlled everything, but there was one thing she couldn’t do.”

Astarelle’s eyes beamed as she caught on instantly. “She was just as nervous as you were.”

“Yup,” Jensen giggled. “Her bravado was her trying not to let the butterflies get to her. We joked around and kept up the charade that we were just close friends. We never held hands or anything silly, because quite honestly the training I did had no time for such things. We were taught young to do war, to think of battle, to do the horseman’s will. Love wasn’t something we shunned from, but in those early years we just never had the time for it. Well…at least we never thought we did.

“She took me by the hand one day,” Jensen’s mind turned into a fog as he recreated the moment in his head, the world around him vanishing. “We had finished our duties for the night, and it was the only evening we had together. She dragged me with her to the tallest tower in the Mage’s wing. We giggled and laughed the entire time, the twenty flights of stairs nothing in the excitement. She had a surprise for me and wanted me to see it. I had lost track of time and the auguries pointed to an eclipse that night. On the tallest tower we had a view that few could match. She pulled out two sleeping rolls, laying them next to each other and pulling out a large blanket made of sturdy hide. We watched the eclipse and held each other under the blankets, the first time we allowed ourselves to get that close. When the sky went dark she leaned in and well…” Jensen snorted into his drink as he chuckled darkly. Astarelle grinned as well as both took a sip. Jensen left himself lost in his memory as Astarelle looked to him, and then she spoke softly.

“So then what happened?”

Jensen’s shouldered visibly tensed. The memories were no longer warm as the immortal’s smile faded almost instantly. He rolled the cup in his hands as if he was trying to gain some kind of warmth from them. He didn’t look to her as let his voice lower to a saddened, deep tone filled with remorse.

“I was a coward,” Jensen admitted. “We were returning from a mission in Salvar, the weather was so cold.” Jensen shivered as he frantically began to roll the tumbler back and forth. “I just wanted to rest, to find some kind of warmth! We rested in a pile, the two of us and our best friends. The four of us were freezing out assess off. She told stories of her home to keep us warm. But in the end I was just so cold!” Jensen shot his eyes to Astarelle and took a deep, shuddering breath, and he took a frantic sip of his ale. There was no warmth in it. He was cold all over again, freezing to the bone as he recalled his body shivering so badly it woke them up. Then, the woman he loved got out, picked him up and with a soft kiss moved him to the middle of the group and took his spot. His friends, his closest comrades during those years all held him to keep him warm. Greedily he took their warmth, so cold he couldn’t mutter the words thank you.

Jensen’s freezing stopped, his body still as the table they sat at. Astarelle looked to him, a bit afraid of his sudden frantic outburst, but wise enough to say nothing of it. Instead she watched. She didn’t want to pry, the answer was clear.

“In the morning,” Jensen said in a dead panned voice. “She was dead. All of them were. They died to keep me warm, freezing to death.” Jensen looked back to his drink, as did Astarelle. He felt his body shiver again, but the immortal paid it no heed. “If I had known I was immortal…” Jensen whispered. “Fuck me, who knows what would have happened. Maybe I would have bought her another few years before she died on a mission. But she…” Jensen fought the sob and took another bitter sip. “She was the one I couldn’t protect, Astarelle. She was the one I failed who I loved so very much.”

“I have the fucking pleasure,” Jensen spat. “To be first hand witness to the demise to everything I love dying. So excuse me, Priestess, but I don’t just throw my heart out either. I keep it guarded and safe. And the last person who pried it from my fingers wound up dead.”

He went to take another sip, but Astarelle covered the cup. With a smile she looked to him and said in a stunning mockery of his own tone which sounded very much nothing like him, “It tastes worse when you are angry.” Jensen gave her a coy look, smiling and laughing as he nodded, taking a breath and letting out the pent up stress before taking a sip. The fire returned, welcoming and beautiful to behold as he smacked his lips.

“My jacket,” Jensen removed it. “I cut the sleeves and the belt off. Nobody can claim warmth from it. I was weak and let friends I cherished forever die. So no more will I covet the warmth. I know my friends have my back,” Jensen smiled opening it. There, in faded red stitches were three sloppily made names, and one less faded red thread that was much nicer script: Chanelle Kim’Hotep, Denzel Vermillion, Miguel Sanchez (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?20972-The-Longest-Night), Stephanie Odara Ambrose (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?23587-Two-Peas-and-a-Pode).

Astarelle looked to the names, but her eyes seemed to focus on the one at the top, the one undoubtedly about the story he told. “You were very careful about something in your story, Jensen Ambrose,” she said, her face flushing a bit, but a slight change in her tone. He wasn’t sure if it was irritation, confusion, surprise, or even a touch of anger. It was there though, and she was right that when he told his story he left a very key detail about the woman out. “When did you plan to tell me you had fallen in love with a Fallien Native?”

[Roht Mirage]

“It didn't seem important,” Jensen said quickly. His voice jabbed at her like a stick-wielding little boy over a dead bird. He was obviously trying to feel out the change in her tone. “Yes, she was,” he confirmed before taking another sip. “So?”

Astarelle leaned over her glass with serpentine tension playing over the muscles in her back. The sympathy she had for his lost love was turning fast like freshly plucked fruit left out in the sun. “So,” she said with a scowl as she refrained from mirroring his sip of ale, “So... Bury me, I'm tired of being the replacement for everyone's old Fallien girlfriend!”

Jensen swallowed hard as if he had to walk every muscle in his throat through the motion simply to avoid choking. “W-what?” he asked with a cough.

One hand fluttered from her glass to point accusingly at him. “First that Ai'Brone, now you,” she hissed, “Is it just a man thing? You just think 'close enough' and get right back to it?”

“Whoa, whoa.” Jensen's tumbler wobbled as he slapped it to the table and lifted both hands. Astarelle clamped her mouth into a terse line and glared at him. “First question,” he said, marking it with one finger, “You have an Ai'Brone boyfriend?” By the depths, the fool smiled!

Astarelle cursed in her old tongue – a rapid series of sharp syllables that made Jensen's eyes go wide as if he could feel the poison flowing – and she flopped back into the cushion of their booth. “I bloody well don't,” she ranted without slowing to the normal rhythm of Tradespeak. “I should have known when he got all soft on me; making sure I was comfortable with their reincarnation nonsense, giving me the most perfect arenas. Turns out he had a Fallien woman in his history, too. A real sadistic jihta. But, hey, she had this going on.” Astarelle swiped a finger across her forehead. “Close enough, right? Is that why you're always hanging around, like I might pick up her sword and get right back to that dance?”

She didn't give a thought to how he might react. There wasn't room for it with that particular dam of bitterness finally breaking. Still, when he did respond, it left her dumbfounded.

Jensen Ambrose laughed as if she had just told the greatest joke in history while falling down a flight of stairs. His cackling washed over the noise of the bar, causing her to glance sideways at the other patrons. Many were staring at him over their drinks, yet some shot heated glances at her.

Under the sleeves of her blouse, her constant accompaniment of sand shifted on her sudden instinct to form herself a new face, just like in those old days in Irrakam with Akashere disguised at her side. However, it was unlikely that even he could have gracefully extricated himself from this situation.

“Jensen,” Astarelle snapped, waving briskly at him, “Jensen! Just...” Her words were lost in muffled exasperation.

He tilted forward so quickly that he might flop over the table, yet caught himself before upsetting his drink. “Astarelle,” he wheezed with tears in his eyes, “By the horsemen, you are so full of yourself.”

It sounded like an endearment, one that she couldn't comprehend in the slightest. “And you are the rudest man I've ever met,” she shot back venomously.

“I mean,” he gasped, then continued as if unable to hear her, “I could never replace her. Not with you. She had darker hair, darker skin. You're a bit on the light side for Fallien. She didn't scowl all the time like you do.” In that moment, Astarelle couldn't help but prove him correct. “And her tits were much bigger.”

Astarelle shook with the effort to keep from hunching over. She saw a flash of the faun's impressive chest, bare and triumphant, framed by the fires of war. Was that why she had done it? Did she have to prove something to the whore in her own language? No, that's stupid, she chided herself, I don't need to prove anything to her...

“And I don't need to prove anything to you,” she said aloud to Jensen. He blinked teary eyes at her as if he was finally listening, and naturally wondering where her proclamation had come from. He had no time to ask as she sat up as much as the table would allow and put a hand around her glass. She wanted to slap him, maybe even pour her drink on him. Her hand wobbled indecisively, and it was only with the ringing of glass on wood that she realized she had knocked her drink toward herself. She squeaked and shrank back from the amber puddle that rapidly approached the edge of the table. Before it could splash over her cream colored blouse and down her lap, a towel swept across the table. She took a moment to realize that the mess had been expertly extinguished, the glass plucked away, and a stack of napkins left at the center of the table.

“I'll get you another,” the serving boy said with professionalism beyond his years.

“Thank you,” Jensen said as Astarelle's mouth worked uselessly. He wore that natural goofy grin of his, though she hadn't seen it very often lately, and put a surprising amount of sincerity into the words. She shot him a suspicious glance, to which he responded, “If you get wet, I assume the evening is over. That would be a shame.”

She felt herself turning red, then redder when she realized that the majority of the establishment was laughing at her. She readied her most withering of glares to draw across the room. But, when she looked up, the workmen, revelers, and general rabble of the bar were already returning to their own drinks and their own conversations. One of them saluted her with whiskey in hand before turning on his stool. Apparently, this was a normal night for them; always one entertainment or another when so much ale was flowing.

Astarelle turned back to Jensen sheepishly, though she couldn't stop the slow appearance of a smile. “A shame, huh?” she asked teasingly as if he was proving her point.

“Not like that,” he teased back. One of his hands tensed around his glass, then relaxed as if he wanted to wait for her replacement to appear.

Astarelle looked away. Her fingers played over the edge of the table. “I still think Coronians can't tell brown people apart,” she said as she grabbed a napkin and started folding it absently.

Jensen's cocky expression was hot against her forehead even if she couldn't see it. “You're kind of racist,” he informed her giddily.

“And you're not?” she asked without looking up.

The cushions creaked as he leaned back. “Not against 'brown people', as you put it. Elves, on the other hand...”

Astarelle finally looked up, though her fingers kept playing over the paper. “Really?” she asked with a raised brow.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

“Friggin bush humping, leaf licking pansies is what an elf is on their best day. Such pointy eared superiority complexes make me want to strangle each and every one. So many guys I knew wanted to get with an elf because they are so majestic and mysterious. As freaking if.” Jensen slammed his drink bitterly and tossed the cup on the table, watching the waiter smoothly roll out two new tumblers and scoop up the glass with a soft chink on his table.

“He’s good,” Jensen mused pointing to him. Astarelle nodded taking a sip of her liquid and sighing happily. He could see the flush in her cheeks grow, but he wasn’t as coy as he thought. She quickly wagged a finger to him spotting him starring. Jensen’s felt shame cross his face as he grinned.

“So really, hold nothing back there, Mr. Ambrose,” Astarelle teased, Jensen swatting her finger aside as his own face flushed a twinge of red. “What have the Elven race done to you, personally, to have your undying animosity.”

“I dunno,” Jensen admitted pursing his lips and drumming his fingers on the table in a rhythmic pattern. “You ever just look at something or someone and think…think, well gee wiz, I really hope this particular person or thing would die in a fire?” They both laughed softly, but the Fallien woman nodded.

“Oh, once or twice,” she mused. “I put you on that list for a moment too,” she said jokingly bringing her finger back up to annoy him as it hovered just before his face. Jensen wasn’t aware, but some point during their revelry they had moved closer to one another. He again moved, fast as a serpent and grabbed her wrist, finger trapping hers as they fought against one another. At last she managed to squirm free, gripping her drink and taking a sip as Jensen laughed, grabbing at his.

“So who else made that list?”

“I’d rather not,” Astarelle started. Jensen lifted his hand out this time in offering.

“Joshua Cronen,” he said flatly. “Never met the guy before the Cell, never talked to him even once. But something about him makes me want to kick puppies into his face.”

“He can suck a harpy for all I care,” Astarelle mused recalling the battle of the Cell. Jensen laughed again muttering for her to say no more. They drank in peace before the immortal leaned back, looking Astarelle over again and debating how much of this evening was her just acting, and how much of the real woman was cracking through.

“You don’t seem to hate Tobias Greenleaf,” Astarelle said taking a sip. There was something in her tone. Something…different Jensen surmised. He tried to dissect her words and mannerisms, but she talked again, elegantly and full of joy. “So not all elves must perish in a fiery end.”

“We all have our exceptions,” Jensen mused thinking back to the green haired woman. The elf maiden had been the first to take Jensen’s racial slurs and throw a few back at him. Despite several attempts of hostility she just laughed it off like it was nothing, and soon the two became close friends. “She was persistent, and well, when you had the kind of year I had, you start to appreciate things a bit more than you had before. She took real good care of me, Stephanie, and Azza. Not once ever did she do it for a thank you. Never to hold it over me. No…she was just doing it because that’s the kind of heart she had. Though the bitch did sleep with Stephanie.”

Jensen was careful to time that last one right as Astarelle was drinking, and her ale went back into the cup as she suppressed the need to spit out over the table. Jensen let out a mighty roar of laughter, slapping the table as Astarelle composed herself. “She slept with Stephanie?”

“Yeah, she and I had this big fight. We broke up, and well…I made a mistake, Stephanie made a mistake, but in the end, it was never a big deal. Besides, of all the people she could have slept with, Tobias wasn’t the worst.”

“You claim you made a mistake as well,” Astarelle grinned now, the Cheshire smile hiding behind her glass as she tipped it just right to hide her malicious intent. Jensen sighed loudly, rubbing the back of his head. “Oh ho-ho! Now who is the one looking for love in all the wrong places?”

Jensen playfully tried to slap her arm, but she lifted hers up to push him aside. Both laughed a bit as Jensen took a sip of his ale, and lowered it before he cleared his throat, talking with a bit of shame. “Yeah. I suppose I was talking from experience. But instead of going out for whores,” Jensen teased, Astarelle faking a glare. “I sorta hooked up with Sei’s daughter Kyla.”

“Oh dear,” Astarelle said with as much pity as she could muster. Her hand reached out and patted his affectionetly as the immortal took a swig and shook his head.

“Wasn’t all terrible to be honest. But it was wrong. Stephanie and I gave each other a free pass and all was well. Until she died,” Jensen mumbled, both solemnly taking a sip as the space between them got quiet.

“Have you ever loved after Stephanie?” Astarelle said, her words flowing so innocently, so carelessly from her lips. She caught herself too late, eyes widening a fraction before she passed it off with more drink in her mouth. Jensen looked to her, eyes looking to each inch of her face. She was very hard to read, but he was sure he heard that same dissonance in her voice. He took another sip of his ale, smacking his lips before he rolled the glass around his fingers, debating how to answer.

“I…” Jensen paused again. Astarelle looked only to her drink cup. In a moment the immortal spoke again, his tone a little reserved. “Oblivion the Forgotten One, fifth of Xem’Xund’s lieutenants, had been causing enough trouble for Sei to send me an elf named Erissa Caedron to investigate. It was after we did some damage to the Red Forest that I learned Cassandra had,” Jensen bit back an emotional wave, focusing on his story again. “Anyway, Oblivion was using these fruits to increase his magical power. Turns out he was offering the power to the spirit of Xem’Xund. It was all bad enough that we agreed he needed to stop. The bastard played with my head. Made me think I fell in love with Erissa. We both clicked like fish to water. She offered to fill that void, I accepted, but then we both learned it was a ploy to make us lose sight of our objective. Erissa and I, we both thought it was love, and it was a love for sure, but…It’s…complicated.”

Astarelle nodded to him, taking a sip, and her words she spoke were muffled, drowned in amber liquid. It could have been anything. She could have offered him a solid apology, or even said nothing at all. But deep in Jensen’s psyche, he processed the sound as ‘good’ that escaped the Fallien native’s lips. She looked back to him, her face looking more confidant as she nodded to him in understanding. Relationships were always complicated after all.

“So nobody really took her place in your heart. Emotions and feelings, but never her?”

“Yup,” Jensen said with a wet rasp of his lips. He took a sip and looked back to her. His finger lifted and he grinned out of the corner of his mouth. “You sound a little elated to hear that.” Astarelle shot him a dirty look as she adjusted in her seat, leaning back in a new angle, her long legs stretching. There was a brief second the immortal wondered if she was about to rest them on his, but instead her dusty boots kicked his aside, gently, and they fumbled awkwardly readjusting. He stretched his legs out under the booth, and Astarelle rested hers on the cushion opposite her seat. The exchange took only a few seconds, and spoke again, regaining her confidence from earlier.

“Don’t think you are some heart throb, Jensen,” she chided. “I’m not over here looking for a chink in your armor to sneak past and steal your heart away. I could do without the drama of your life. I have enough of my own.”

Jensen felt a little saddened to hear that, but shook it away along with the creeping effects of the booze. He took another swig and looked to her, smiling dumbly as she eyed him casually. He lifted his glass to his lips again, hiding his own feelings of mischief as he spoke to her.

“You crept two stories out of me, so now I get two out of you. But if you answer this big one, maybe I’ll give you a free pass.”

“And what pray tell is that?” Astarelle replied with a solid smile on her face.

“You could have very well left me for dead in Eiskalt. You had every opportunity. Even when we fought over your fling, you had chances to sever the ties with me. So how come? This all seems…out of character for you. Not that I would know what in character for you is,” Jensen mumbled loudly in faux whispers. Astarelle took a sip and her face turned redder. “There is a story to you, Astarelle. Something buried deeper than the sand you let cling to your body. Something about the real you that peeked it’s head out in Eisklat for fresh air after nearly drowning. So what is it?”

[Roht Mirage]

Astarelle's face grew redder the more she thought, and a potent scowl blossomed like venom nettle in a new oasis. “The real me,” she said softly, then took a sip that really was bitter. “Bury me if I know.”

Jensen chuckled as if trying to restart her cheer. “What kind of answer is that?” She wanted to shift, but that might involve her legs touching his again, and her playful mood was all but evaporated. Still, he tried, saying with a smile, “You have some wild ups and downs.” He took a sip. She placed her glass deliberately on the table and took up another napkin. Wordlessly, she folded it. Finally, Jensen relented. “Okay, I can think of another-”

“Your jacket,” Astarelle said without looking at him.

He looked at it were it lay on the seat, checked for stains, felt for wet spots. “Did I get something on it?”

She shook her head, then rested her elbows on the table and looked him in the eye. Through her steely eyes, she tried to convey an emotion that even she couldn't describe. “You took it off,” she said as if it was a revelation, “You take it off a lot when you're comfortable.” He gave her a sly look, but she waved it away with a flutter of her hand. “What if you didn't? Imagine you wore it every day of your life no matter the weather or the company. Would you recognize yourself when you took it off?”

He lifted his glass to his mouth, but stopped short in thought. Slowly, he lowered it and gave her a sympathetic look. His lips parted, no doubt bearing awkward sweetness.

“Just. Just let me finish, seeing as you got me started,” she said shortly.

His jaw clicked shut, but his eyes said, “You have to say something before you can finish.”

Astarelle carefully retracted her legs and slipped closer to him. Her eyes took on a timid shine, her shoulders sank, and her fingers folded soft paper mindlessly under the table. She looked like a child in a confessional, one who would take a good hour to set straight. “I'm a pretender,” she whispered.

Between the obviousness of her statement and the ripe bouquet of alcohol on her breath, he couldn't help but laugh. She swatted his arm to little effect. Then, she patted it softly as if to undo the pain. That quieted him rather quick. “I know you are,” he said as her hand shrank under the table once more.

“No,” Astarelle sighed, sounding a little annoyed, “I really mean it. Some think I'm the champion of the stupid Cell. I lost count of how many times the Ai'Brone had to scrape me up. Some think I'm a bloody hero. We both saw how that turned out. I bet even you still think of me as one of the Ixian Knights.” She leaned in and almost hissed, “I'm not. I just want a roof over my head and food in my belly. If it's a giant roof and great food, all the better.”

He hunkered down to meet her eye to eye, breath to breath. “I don't buy that. I've seen you make friends there.”

She sniffed. “That's easy.”

“Those kids,” he countered, lifting one finger from his glass to poke at her, “Those... Ferals.” He paused as if unsure what to call them. Astarelle got a far away look in her eyes. “You take them off the street and dump as much of Sei's hospitality on them as you can. They're getting a whole freaking wing of the castle for your tournament performance, Miss Champion.”

Astarelle gave him a challenging glare. “When they pick on horses, I let them get kicked,” she said, stifling a very un-motherly giggle.

He shrugged. “If that's how they learn.”

Astarelle leaned back in her seat. “Fine,” she said meekly, “I'm a decent pretend mother.”

Jensen rolled the ale in his tumbler. She looked over his face, searched for his smug victory at drawing an admission from her. But, Jensen being Jensen blasted Ambrose, he had to dig further. “Back in Eiskalt,” he said delicately, “When we cried.” That was all the description needed. They both looked anywhere but at each other for a moment. “I... I thought I was seeing something honest.”

Astarelle flippantly tossed her napkin creation onto the table. It landed next to the first she had made, forming a duo of thick, four-pointed stars. The second looked slightly more sloppy than the first. “That's it, then,” she said bitterly as she took up her glass and drank her poison. His hand came up on reflex, but she waved it away and exhaled sharply from the ale's new-found bite. “That's me. Some scared and stupid girl. Better to pretend.”

“That's not true,” he insisted. He sounded as if he might give up the laughing maniac routine and actually get annoyed for once.

“You have no idea,” Astarelle spat. Her eyes bore into his. “You don't know what I did during the Magus. What I almost did. If she hadn't stopped me, I would have brought it back home with me and then we'd all be sorry. Mostly me.”

“Brought what?” he asked suspiciously.

She almost said it. “I tried to steal a gun so that you all wouldn't know... so that I could shoot my way out if the pretending became too much.” But, even drunk, Astarelle had some discretion. She let the spark of her glare be her only answer. Jensen held fast; waiting. That is, until she reached for another napkin. “Who stopped you?” he asked, refusing to deviate beyond that.

“You don't know her,” Astarelle mumbled. She pulled her hand back from the stack of napkins and lifted her glass instead. When she thought of her friend, sweet sincere Cellar, the ale regained some of its sweetness. She sighed as she lowered it. “My friend doesn't like Ixians; what they do, how they go about it. How they think. She makes some very good points. She's smart for her age.”

Astarelle expected Jensen to launch some sort of defense, perhaps a speech straight from Sei's mute lips. What she got, though, was a long pause and a furrowed, contemplative expression from the immortal. “But she likes you, even though you run with us,” he said.

With a short laugh, Astarelle looked into her shallow drink. She didn't know when she had consumed so much of this one. Shrugging, she tipped the glass back and dove to the bottom, then wiped her mouth. “She knows I'm pretending.”

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Jensen sipped at his drink modestly as the air between the two lost a bit of the camaraderie and was replaced by a coldness. He had a feeling he knew about Astarelle’s desires. An escape plan, of sorts, for when the lies became too much. Jensen wasn’t sure why he cared, for frankly, in any other circumstance, he wouldn’t. But…Eiskalt was a sobering, horrific affair. From the bastard of the Crimson Hand, Lye, to Catherine Remi, to Madison Freebird and the dragons came events that shook the foundations of the immortal’s core.

Feeling lost was a usual thing. He was usually content when he had no direction, but he realized tonight that some people were forced to live that way. By the Horsemen Jensen worshiped, he was positive that the woman would die if she had given herself a goal, a plan. She had to live each day one at a time, for the future brought her little hope. Jensen, despite his usual demeanor, sagged his shoulders a little to think that.

“You got quiet,” Astarelle said breaking the silence. Jensen looked back to her, not sure what to say. She looked down upon her chest, and with a smirk the immortal broke a grin and took a sip, casually letting slip the words,

“Your breasts haven’t grown since we started.”

There was an instant retaliatory slap, loud, popping like noise that made the patrons around them turn to see what had happened. Jensen laughed rubbing his arm, the sting burning as he giggled to her, smiling brightly. She looked at him, trying to figure his angle of attack now, but even her will was eroded by the drink and the good cheer. “Incorrigible dolt,” she said loudly. Jensen gave her a mock salute and finished his drink, Astarelle sticking her tongue out at him. They laughed merrily for a moment, before Jensen made up his mind to let Astarelle be and not poke her for more details about her checkered past. Instead he motioned for more drinks to the waiter, who nodded and made way to grab them. Jensen then turned to the tavern owner, Ashley, and signaled for his favorite drink by running a finger across his throat.

“What was all that about?” Astarelle asked pushing her finished drink aside to the table edge in preparation for the next one.

“Oh, it’s a drink that I have ordered when the night is getting old. It’s my favorite drink when I’m sad, depressed, or just need to forget for a while.”

“Why?”

“Well, because it gets me shitfaced. It’s called an End Times, made with really strong stuff. Seth Dahlios and I took a shot of it after a bottle of Lavinian Ale. Woke up cuddling each other in the morning. I was big spoon.”

Astarelle looked at Jensen, eyeing him carefully. She saw the tug in the corner of his grin, and she shook her head in disbelief. The woman let out a chuckle as Jensen slapped the table grinning, watching her face flush red as she boldly lifted her gaze to his, adding a hint of mischief to her features as she waited for the drink. When it arrived they each took the glass, the black liquid looking strong, and smelling tough enough to jump out of the cup and stomach punch the immortal. When they reached for their drink, Astarelle’s fingers grazed his in a strange fashion. It was quick, nothing special, but a simple touch. It only felt weird because she had to go out of her way to do so.

“So this drink gets you drunk, eh?” She eyed it, taking a whiff and slowly lowering it.

“Yup, figured we both could use the sleep,” Jensen replied taking a gentle sip. It went down smoothly, but gripped his throat tightly for a moment, relaxing his muscles with a satisfying smack of his lips. Astarelle peered to him over the edge of her cup, her grin widening.

“I wonder if someone is trying to get me drunk for selfish reasons,” she mused, taking a sip. Her eyes widened, but she showed no other signs of disgust or enjoyment. “Oh dear,” she whispered hoarsely. “This drink is going to get me drunk.”

“Told ya,” Jensen teased. The Fallien native didn’t remove her gaze.

“Still haven’t told me your master plan. Are you hoping to spirit me away, Mr. Ambrose, to your room to play around?”

“If we have the coordinational skills for even walking after this to get you there, I would consider it consent.” She laughed in his truthful response, tapping her foot against the seat as she once again eyed him. “What’s in that pretty head of yours?” Jensen felt the word slip his alcohol loosened lips.

“Oh, I’m pretty now?”

“The drinks have been slowly adding up your hotness level.” A slap for that answer, but her arm didn’t move back. Her body language was shifting as she drank some more, leaning closer to the table. Jensen shifted, getting more comfortable leaning a little closer so they could talk with a bit of ease.

“I was thinking,” she said with a slight snort of mirth, retracting her hand just enough to stop touching him. “About…” There it was. That change in tone. It was warmer, gentler in its teasing, higher pitched as the words flowed, but she said nothing to finish her thought. Instead she just smiled to him, and he in return gave her a goofy look making her laugh. “Bury me, Jensen. You have a nasty habit of breaking my melancholy spirit.”

“Adolph told me I was some spiritual source of joy. That the way I conduct myself around the halls and in the fields of battle brings the men a boost of morale. I told him he was jealous.” They both gave a little chuckle as Jensen once more took a brave sip of his alcohol. “It wasn’t always that way,” he admitted looking to his cup a little more intently than he intended. He rolled it softly back and forth, a habit now from the nights activities.

“I had heard rumors,” Astarelle started. “Of a knight in the sourest of armor. Your heart was in there, somewhere, they said. But more often than not you dared not show it. Now I wonder why that ever was. You are so eager to make me realize I don’t have to pretend. And bury you, sometimes, I believe it.”

“Immortality,” Jensen whispered darkly. “Is a curse. There is nothing to be overjoyed about. I watched my three best friends die…die before my very eyes. I have had friends, close ones, killed by time or blade. When it happens enough you start to…lose yourself.” His hand gripped the cup a little tighter. “I am doomed to watch an eternity of war, bloodshed, and death. No matter who I met in life, they would be taken from me. Duffy, that bastard, said he was immortal…now he’s dead. Stephanie is dead. My dad is dead…you’ll be dead…” Jensen whispered glancing to the Fallien girl.

“But…you couldn’t have thought the notion of friendship was worthless…” she thought aloud, more due to the drink than design.

“I can, and I sometimes still do. Each loss of a loved one is another death I experience. I can’t be with them anymore, Astarelle. When a life is taken from me…” Jensen swigged his drink, gently tilting his drink to allow it splash against the back of his throat. He sighed, looking back to her. “I learned to be like you, for a fashion. I put on a mask. I acted tough and aloof. Nobody was allowed to get close anymore,” Jensen shivered a bit in the cold thoughts in the darkest pits of his mind. He took a gentle sip of his drink, barely tipping over the liquid into his mouth as he mulled his thoughts over.

"It's so...easy," Jensen admitted to her. "I could give up on my own base needs to keep my sanity. I can say freely that my mind has been more sound when I didn't care. When everything that I love now, instead would be pushed away. If in this peaceful world of my own design, you could have been another notch in my belt than an actual companion I admired and talked to about my fears. Maybe..." Jensen sniffed back a tear, shaking his head, forcing himself to face that which plagued his soul. "If I never cared, then Stephanie would have..."

"You have got to drop that," Astarelle said stubbornly. "If you never cared, then the lives you touched would never have been brought joy. You gave a woman who pined for you a purpose for her heart and soul! If she knew the consequences, than I bet you all the gold in the world she would gladly pay them for the moments of life you showed her." The immortal's eyes flashed to hers and in that serene moment he could tell she was caring, her mask had at last dropped enough to show her true self that he had seen in Eiskalt.

She slipped long enough to bring him comfort in his grief that he all welcomed all to greedily. "What happened to her wasn't your fault Jensen. I could no more blame you for that than you could blame me for...for..." Jensen passed a weak smile as she lost her ability to think straight, perhaps catching on that she slipped out of her persona she always tried to air around those close to her. The alcohol pushed to the fore and she lost her thoughts, but Jensen's hand moved, slowly, obviously towards her. It moved in steady hops, like he was unsure what he was doing. His face flushed a bit as he neared her fingers, and her face flushed as she gingerly let them intertwine for a moment.

"It's not easy to give up our demons, is it?" Jensen said with the most fake of smiles on his face. His other hand lifted his drink to her, and she took the glass in the other hand, still holding his fingers. They both hovered in an eternal state of grasping tightly and pulling back. Something within them sparked, and they were unsure to proceed or run away. "I can not blame you for hiding from your demons, if you promise me Astarelle," his words were soft, like a lovers, as he looked to her eyes. "That you will never blame me for clinging to mine."

She took a sip, nodding as he did the same. They looked to one another again, and Jensen chuckled into the cup, his breath bouncing into his face. She giggled too, only a few pips of noise. Then, with one last look to the darkness of their reflection in the liquid, seeing the real them reflecting in their poison, they nodded without looking to one another, tilted their heads back, and drank the remaining reminders of their demons.

Jensen leaned back, his hand not leaving hers. He kept his hand distant, and she didn't tug him back, but she didn't loosen her grip. They sat in silence before the immortal let out an unpleasant noise, turning his attentions to the table and gesturing with his empty drink cup to the origami star napkins that littered the space between them.

"Is this some cheap ass attempt to recreate the night under the stars with Chanelle? Are you hoping to whisk me away to the top of the towers of Ixia to have your way with me? 'Cause your missing a few key things. For one your clothes are on," His grin was coy as he looked to her, and she sheepishly smiled, not wanting to but doing so despite herself as she giggled shaking her head.

"You can try all you want to make me your dream girl, Jensen Ambrose, but like the mirage of the desert, you'll just keep grasping air." They both laughed as the waiter made way to collect cups, and Jensen nodded again to the folded napkin stars, a half gesture as he kept her eyes in his sight.

"Then what are they for?"

[Roht Mirage]

Astarelle took some time answering, but she didn't look away from him. Her eyes were pinned to his, her fingers still in the comforting precipice of his grip, and her other hand crept distractedly up the front of her blouse. His eyes twitched down as she played across the neckline, teasing it ever so slightly toward her supposedly-not-big-enough breasts. Across his face played doubt, the amusing kind that marked him questioning his own intentions.

“I was joking about the clothes. I think. Maybe?” he sent loud and clear with his wide eyes, his slack jaw, and that momentary holding of breath. She could blasted well read his mind.

Perhaps he could read her's too in her eyes. “Just a tease, love,” she tried to send. However, the weight of her hand on her blouse -the sensation of her own heart vibrations- seemed to counter that thought. She swallowed heard, tasting the remnants of that black drink insomuch as she could. Her tongue felt numb.

“The stars,” she said quickly as she fluttered her hand to one of them. Jensen exhaled. She slipped her fingers from his so that she could pick one up in both hands. The soft paper made it droop more like a lily pad than a star. “The stars,” she repeated, fumbling in her own mind for an old, dusty story that might have already sunk below the alcoholic tide. Finally, she found it somewhere between the memory of sleeping uncovered on the desert floor, the sand and sky her endless bed and blanket, and that niggling sensation one gets when they can smell water and green nearby, but can't sight it over the dunes and plateaus.

She put on her official storyteller voice, though it swayed noticeably. “In a quiet corner of Fallien, there's a tribe that me and Akashere traded with, maybe once a year. We always tried to be there for one specific day. It was their festival of stars.”

Jensen looked to the napkins with a sarcastic smile. “We having a star party?” he asked, then chuckled as if it was quite funny.

Astarelle shook her head bemusedly. “Let me finish,” she said with a soft rap upon the back of his hand. Without pulling back, she pressed his hand over hers, the star trapped in between. “Their legend says there was once a small girl who lost her parents to raiders when she was young, and the grandmother who tended her when she was barely old enough to marry. The others in the tribe tried to comfort her. But, she felt that she didn't have anything left. She didn't want anymore her people or the desert.”

Jensen glanced knowingly at Astarelle as if seeing some obvious correlation. She wanted to tell him that he was imagining it. He was very drunk, after all. Instead, she continued. “There was a story her grandmother had told her... that the world and its rules aren't as solid as they seem. When you look out over the desert, you see the golden spots of starlight reflecting. And if you imagine just hard enough that there is no difference between the sand and the sky, you can simply walk up into it like a bird – a walking bird, I guess.” For a moment, she lost track of the story. Jensen had no sarcastic response, only a heavy weight in his eyes. “So, the girl...” Astarelle resumed sluggishly, “She would go out on every clear night, and some that weren't, to watch the desert and see if she could imagine hard enough to escape into the sky. Her people brought her food, tried to take her to bed, but she wouldn't listen. They told her it was silly, and after a long time she was almost ready to admit they were right.”

Astarelle placed both of his hands around the star as she slid another one to herself. His fingers were limp around the paper as if in disappointment. “But, she had an idea,” the priestess said with a clever smile that was contagious enough to turn the immortal's expression into a grin. She positioned her new star between them on the table and drew a finger along its edges as she continued. “She took all the money she had -she even sold all the keepsakes of her departed family- and she paid a trader to bring her as many squares of gold paper as he could. It wasn't real gold, of course. It was just yellowish and kind of shiny. He was able to get a lot of it, though, and soon stacks of it were the only thing you would see if you walked into her house.

“Her tribe began to worry. They still brought her food, even if sometimes she blocked the door and all they could do was put it through the window. Night and day, they could see her at her table. Folding. The baskets that they brought the food in started moving to her side in a big pile, and then were filled with golden paper stars until they spilled over onto the floor. The stacks became lower and the piles became higher until the people started bringing her extra baskets just so she wouldn't bury herself.

“Then, one night, an old hunter of the tribe came to her window. He found the door ajar and poked his head inside. She was gone. The stars and their baskets were gone also. He dropped the food on her doorstep and circled her house, looking for tracks. Near the back, he found a cart trail that led out of the village. He followed it until he came to the cart. In it was about half of the baskets, still filled with her stars. Beside it was strewn a field of empty baskets. The tracks told him she had made multiple trips, taking one basket at a time and emptying it... somewhere. He followed her steps to the crest of a dune and looked out over the desert.

“At first, he thought he was seeing a mirage. There were bright lights all across the desert. It looked like the sky had been reflected, darkness turned to sand, and the stars fed until they burned brilliantly. He blink away the glare, then realized that her paper stars were what reflected the light. They stretched as far as he could see. Of the girl, however, he saw no trace, and he couldn't pick up her freshest trail among all the routes she had walked. She was just... gone.”

Astarelle leaned back in the seat, inhaling long and deep as if she had forgotten to breathe. When her air returned to her, she giggled and looked up at Jensen with a gaze that discouraged his good mood from turning somber.

“For generations, that tribe has commemorated her. They buy all the gold paper they can afford –not as much as in the story, mind you- and every year, give or take a day if the night sky is cloudy, they cover as much of the desert as they can in folded stars. No one in their tribe disappears, thankfully. But, they always seem so happy, being allowed to imagine with all their might no matter how old they are. Often, me and Akashere were the 'merchants' who sold them the paper. We barely charged enough to cover our costs. We were just glad to be there. They would even let us help scatter the stars.”

“Hey,” she suddenly said in a lighter, sharper tone, “Don't make me slap you again.”

Jensen looked at her with plodding, thoughtful eyes and a suspicious turn to his mouth. “Did you make up that whole story?” he asked. She lifted a hand. He added, “It's just so you.”

Her hand settled on his that still held the star, and she slid closer. Her shoulder almost touched his. “Jensen, everyone in Fallien has times when they want to just disappear. It's that kind of place,” she said with a cheer that no other person could have lent to such depressing words, “But, it's home. No matter how far out the tribe lives or how inhospitable the current season, they survive, and they are proud to walk along that cliff edge of life without veering either to safety or open air.”

He nodded and gave her an understanding smile. “I guess that's why you always live in the present, isn't it?”

She leaned in, whether it was more toward the cushion or his shoulder was a matter of degrees. “I just take it one step at a time,” she said as she patted his hand.

He also leaned until his shoulder touched her's, then said in a low voice, “Do you think she made it? To the sky?”

Astarelle looked up at him. Her lips pouted in thought. “Fallien... has a way of making things disappear; between predators and wind and sand and just plain getting lost. We never stayed with the tribe for long after the festival. But, they told us that, within a month, you'd be lucky to find a single star in the whole stretch where they scattered them. I don't think anyone could ever know if the girl flew away to some place better.”

She lay her head on his shoulder. The rise and fall of his breath rocked her. “But, it's possible. I did.” She felt his arms move toward her, then freeze. His voice fell on her ear timidly.

“Uhhhh... oops.”

She lifted her head quickly enough to catch the transition of shame-to-mirth in his face. Her gaze followed his down to the star that had been in his hands. It had three tails untucked and the remaining point was bent over rudely. She sighed and shoulder-bumped him. “Bury me. You're like a big child.”

Jensen just laughed as he clumsily tried to fix it, though he couldn't seem to tell the difference between how one works paper and how one works clay. Astarelle cringed as the paper crumpled.

“No no. Like this,” she snapped as she tried to guide him directly. Together, they ended up just forming a knot of fingers that might have been cloyingly intentional from his end. Astarelle half giggled, half huffed, and climbed up onto the seat. Before Jensen could react, she was kneeling against his hip with her torso curled behind. Her arms traced his until her fingers shadowed his hold on the paper. “Like this,” she said breathily into his ear as she guided him through slightly-less-clumsy motions. Her chest rose and fell on his back, bearing all her weight to keep her from toppling over.

At the nearest table to them, three ales hung, untouched, in the grips of three workmen. They each bore the colors of their trade. The carpenter's shirt was dustily brown. The mason's overalls were gray and flaky. The smith's short sleeves were peppered with black scorch spots clear through to his thick shoulders. Their throats were becoming dry from how long that had simply watched the Ixian duo – the Ixian couple?

“Bury you, no,” the Fallien woman said as she swatted the back of his hand.

The man just giggled softly and unabatingly. “Show me again, then,” he teased.

Her hands lay over his. Hells, her whole body practically lay over him! With giggles of her own, she tried again.

“That's too hard. You have to be gentle.”

“Like this?”

“No. You see the fold? Just slip it in.”

“Then I pinch the tip?”

“Just until it's pointy.”

The carpenter made a low sound of exasperation in his throat that seemed to break the spell over all three of them. “This is cruel. By the Thaynes, this is bloody cruel.” He guzzled his drink like someone lost in the woman's fabled desert. The other's followed his lead, gulping loudly.

“That's it,” the smith said gruffly as he gasped and clunked his empty tumbler to the wood, “I'm out of here. We'll be up all night if we wait for them to go get a flamin' room.”

“I kinda feel sorry...” the mason said as he rolled the last swallow in his glass.

“For the lunatic or the temptress,” asked the carpenter.

“Or for us?” added the smith as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

The mason shrugged. “All of the above, I guess. But, mostly those two. So much baggage. I doubt either of them can think straight even when they're sober.” He finished his drink and slapped it down with the smith's.

“I hear ya,” said the carpenter. He shook out the last few drops before sliding his to the center of the table. It clinked against the others.

With grunt, groans, and soft belches, the three men stood from the table and walked through the quieting bar. The creak of the door seemed oddly loud, as did the echo of their coin on the table. In the night, they dispersed to their warm beds, their simple lives, their plain wives, and they each did so with a thoughtful smile. It was easy to appreciate the straight-forward things in life...

...after drinking ale in bars with Ixians.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

They fondled over the napkins and tripped on each other for several minutes; both attempting to create the paper napkin stars and litter the table with them. Yet as the merry noise and hustle and bustle softly stopped, fading into a quiet reserve, Jensen motioned for his tab and dropped a generous amount of his coin bag to leave as tip for tender and waiter. That settled he looked back to Astarelle, who gave him a rather intriguing look filled with some hidden intent. What it was he could guess at, but was it the drink or the actual manifestation of some desire that made her so bold was the bigger question.

He shrugged as he slipped next to her, his arm not so casually moving to wrap around her shoulders as he let out a raspberry and decided how to proceed. She nestled into his grip, leaning her arm along his leg as they just existed for a brief moment. Stress from the past month faded in gentle breaths, the tension between them only building in one direction, but lessening in another. They were in this one moment a cute couple, companions forever, and boozing buddies. If there was anything one could take home from the other tonight, it was that in they could call the other a trusted comrade.

But Jensen felt his blood flow again, and he looked down upon the desert native, her fingers inching towards his as they both continued to say nothing. He felt her heart beating against his, and the steady drumming beat only intensified the more they flirted with what could be destiny or disaster. In the grand scheme of things, them together wasn’t a horrific thought. She could take care of herself, was strong willed, and it would never be a dull moment. Then on the other side of the coin there was the uncertainty of every action, what would be real and what would be for show.

“Over thinking this,” Jensen said loudly by mistake. Astarelle’s head poked up, her nose tickling the bottom of his chin as she leaned back to look at him. They had, for whatever reasons, decided that they had to look the other in the eye when they talked. It made hiding his intentions that much harder.

“What’s in that pretty head of yours?” her words teased those he uttered earlier the last time he misspoke out of turn. Her grin added a level of mockery to him, and he growled at her expert play of words and timing to make his face flush. Regardless of his next words, she knew it was a lie that was coming. So the immortal decided to give in to some of his urges.

“Getting home. I figured you were going to get piss drunk, but I didn’t figure I was either. You mi’lady, can hold your liquor.” She titled her head with a coy smile, enjoying the torment she gave him, but his comment was innocent enough to parry her jesting. Instead she nodded to him in a fashion agreeing with his point.

“Well, I do have my teleportation trick. I always leave one of my blue beads in my room so that I can always escape home. I suppose I can get us back to the castle that way.”

“In your room huh?” Jensen’s eyebrow raised, and he poked her gently in the stomach, she flinched back, and he expected the slap, but instead she just winked to him, filled with so much malicious thoughts that he laughed riotously to her. She giggled with him, turning to look at the bar.

“We’re getting to be the only ones,” she mused looking back to him.

“Ashley’s entertained me late before. She’s a great tender. Why I throw my business at her when possible. But ya, it is getting to be rather late. Why don’t we head out.” Astarelle let herself unfold from the booth, both stretching as she retaliated for his earlier jab with a thumb to his ribs. He wheezed out a laugh, both giggling as they began to drunkenly stagger a bit forwards. When they reached outside, barely in a passable stride the immortal admitted something deep about himself.

“I hate teleporting,” he spoke, his words light but with a measure of seriousness. Astarelle gave him a sardonic glance, saw he was serious, and grinned to him.

“Of all the things,”

“I can do it, obviously. But…something about it seems just wrong. Moving me through the air via…however the hell you do it. Everyone has their own way. But in the end. I like my feet on the ground. So in regards to your little teleport trick I had an idea.” He gave her a wink of his own and she gestured for him to continue. He took a breath, let it out slowly she wouldn’t know, and spoke casually, like it was nothing.

“Why don’t the two of us just get an Inn together?” he pointed down the road. “The place there has cheap rates, I can cover for us.” Astarelle’s face suddenly paled, her smile dripping away as she turned away from the knight’s gaze. His heart jumped as he began panicking, thinking he dipped too far. He misread her, her feelings, all of it. She maybe was just blowing off steam, feeling comfortable to enjoy Jensen’s antics, but not actually…his mind raced with all forms of avenues of what could go through her mind. Instead, she spoke, a little timidly about her thoughts.

"My friend, the one who doesn't like Ixians, stays at an inn near here. I haven't seen her since coming back from the war. I've been... scared of how she'll respond. I keep putting it off until tomorrow, then tomorrow, and tomorrow again. Maybe, this is the time." Jensen gave his own look of surprise, then narrowed his eyes in warning.

"You're going to arrive on her doorstep, drunk, in the middle of the night?"

"I'm not drunk. I'm just full of courage. Stupid stupid courage." Her hand lifted up to show she was full of that stupid strength, but her feet tripped upon their own power, her body tilting and preparing to collide with the messy cobblestone. Her eyes widened and she was about to let out a little yelp when two hands grabbed wrist and waist, turning her in a wild dance as the immortal grabbed her and spun her like a dancer to her feet where he held the small of her back and the palm of her hand.

Sheepishly, face red, she muttered. "And maybe drunk. Could you walk me there?" The immortal looked to her, a sorry look in his eyes, but he nodded once and let her go. He made to release her hand but her grip was vice like as she leaned into him. They continued down the street a few silent moments, the two lost in their own worlds. She pointed out a few streets to turn down, leaving the rather normal district of Corone towards the docks of the inner city.

“I should thank you,” Jensen whispered to her. His eyes looked a little jaded. She snapped out of her own thoughts to look back to him. “Months ago, you came to immortal-sit me on Kyla’s orders. I was a drunken child, full of anger and hatred. I was ready to beat the shit out of you for even thinking of taking me away from all of it, but instead you…you joined me. You let me go around and be myself for a night. I cannot forget that, Astarelle. No matter how much you try to hide that.”

“What if I was hiding my true intent to just find the easiest way to get you home without actually having to do work?” her careful words were full of a fear. Jensen shrugged.

“It made little difference to me. I’m no stranger to gold bricking. I used to do it all the time. But that’s not the point. I needed that night, and you gave it to me. Whatever motive you had isn’t changing you let me take care of myself.”

Again, though a bit sloppily, they turned a corner, and Astarelle’s hand released enough to slide behind his back, and she maneuvered to stand in front of him. She tapped his chest, leaving it there long enough to forget about it, her fingers gently rubbing him. She looked to him, earnestly, and tried to speak. Instead, he lifted one hand to her lips, placed it there to shush her, and then cupping her face and moving to the tip of her head he patted her.

“I met terrible people in my life, Astarelle, just take the fucking compliment,” the knight smiled to her and she giggled into his chest, letting him hold her for the briefest of moments. They looked once more at each other, both hearts beating in time with one another. Her eyes sparkled in the moonlight he noticed, and also noticed he was leaning in, slowly, like the head of a turtle coming out of its shell. He felt shame instantly and looked to see her toes lifting her up, just slowly, to meet him.

They both giggled as they broke apart, laughing at nothing. No jokes were said, nothing to fall back on. They just let out stressful laughs of almost coming in contact. They turned to continue to walk towards the inn, when Astarelle’s fingers made the first move, diving into his coat pocket to break his clenched fist open and hold his hand. Then she pointed to the inn, The Roaming Tide.

“Ritzy,” Jensen whistled. “This place is a four star, how can your friend afford it?”

“I can afford it, or Sei can that is. He’s a generous man, and a generous man has much in common with a fool when it comes to money.”

“Elegantly worded,” Jensen giggled.

“Thank you, I tried.” A genuine smile covered her face. “Though…his mind reading can be a bit problematic at times…” she shivered, and the immortal nodded understanding. With the life she lived, being able to look past her mask was a large concern. Instead of prodding, the immortal removed his coat, swiped it around her shoulders and walked with her.

“So do I get to meet this friend?” he asked innocently enough. “Should I get my own room and meet you later? Get a room for two…” he trailed off in a mumble. Astarelle didn’t seem to notice his last comment as she looked to the hotel door.

"Let me smooth things over with her first,” her words were filled with apprehension, and the knight just nodded to her, giving her space. She held his hand tightly, and he slowly removed it from her grip. He wasn’t sure who was making it last longer. “Another day, maybe, if you promise to be nice." She grinned brightly to the immortal as he cracked a grin in the corner of his mouth. They looked to one another, and then with her face flushing, she said. “For everything...maybe another night. I can meet you back at the castle. No need to wait for me.”

He was positive those words came out easily, but her eyes told him that it was more difficult than she imagined to speak. Jensen passed her his trademark, damning smile, and she warmed quickly to him again. He made it easy for her to not feel at the moment, which was all he supposed he needed to do.

“So then, this is the part where we say goodbye,” Jensen mused to her. She nodded, slowly, and they both looked to each other. “I had a uh…great time. It was fun. We should do it again sometime.”

“Ya, sure,” she said non-committingly. He nodded back to her, prepared to leave, his body showing a little hurt to be dismissed after Thaynes knew what was brewing. She coughed, lightly, and lifted her hand out to him, catching herself quick enough to pull back. “Thank you! For the drinks…and the company.”

“Ya…sure,” Jensen said, lost for words as he debated what to do. They looked to each other, and the immortal felt a wave of panic come back. Quickly his hand shot right up, firm and full of confidence as he took hers and shook it like they just finished a business agreement. “Goodnight, Astarelle,” Jensen said, his words far softer than they had any right to be. She giggled, but it was more forced, both looking to the handshake like it was offensive to do just this. Maybe a hug would be alright. That wasn’t committal. Or a slight peck on the cheek. If done quickly, and not awkwardly, they could go for it, and then move on.

“I’m over thinking it,” he whispered out loud, once again, on accident.

“You are,” Astarelle said leaning up on the tip of her toes, pulling him to her.

[Roht Mirage]

The sea breeze cut through Astarelle's hair, and Jensen's breath touched her face. She was in no condition to notice the smell of alcohol, let alone be bothered by it. His body bowed to her as she rose. He closed his eyes, then she closed her's. The great crumbling immortal mountain of a man submitted and took her advice. She wished she could follow it herself. This moment was all she wanted, however long or short it was, or what it might lead to. This one blasted moment. She forgot Eiskalt. She forgot the Ixian Knights. She almost forgot the one specter that had been haunting her all night.

This was goodbye. He didn't know it, and she wasn't planning to leave immediately. But... soon. She would disappear like her namesake mirage and start somewhere else with a new mask, a new name, and an opportunity to live without Corone's madness on all sides. But, before that, she had to have this moment. They both had to have it. To do otherwise would be too cruel. With her on tiptoes and him hunched over, their lips just barely brushed when a bout of insidious clarity struck her.

I'm going to break your heart. Her toes felt weak. Just like Philomel broke mine. She sank to her heels. With a hand on the chest, she stopped his descent.

Lips puckered in air, Jensen cracked open his eyes and looked at her from under the adorable hanging spikes of his hair. There was panic in his face, and Astarelle didn't know how to calm it this time. She didn't know how to calm her own.

“I thought...” he fumbled as his face turned red.

Astarelle shook her head and gave him a sad smile. Her gray eyes shimmered in the moonlight. “You don't deserve someone like me,” she wanted to say.

Jensen still struggled. He looked dizzy, like he might topple over. “I don't understand,” he said, then was distracted by a blue light emanating from his chest. He looked down to where her hand was pressed to him. The light came from between her fingers; a piece of the teleportation pendant in her palm. “Oh,” he said numbly as if he had been kicked. Hard.

Astarelle's mouth opened. She wanted to say something to make it okay, to let him know that it wasn't his fault. Instead, what came out was, “Don't touch any of my things.”

Jensen disappeared into lines of blue light that faded to nothing. Astarelle kept her hand up as if it was still against a solid and warm surface. A sob escaped her, and she closed her eyes. His downtrodden face was still there in the darkness of her eyelids. She forced them open.

For the first time in the evening, she actually felt drunk. Toward the inn's door, she stomped in as straight a line as she could. Farohtian curses escaped her like the rapid staccato of nighttime insects. One hand fumbled with the latch while the other kept the coat from falling off her shoulders. This is as good a time as any to disappear, rolled the inebriated voice in her head. She couldn't disagree.

The lower tavern of the inn was bright. Her tirade of steps paused for her to cover her eyes and blink. Only two people were present, one very bored bartender and an old ship captain on a stool. His suit was as crisp as if it had just come from the cleaner, yet his heavy eyes and lip-marked scotch glass said he had been there a while. Toward him, Astarelle veered. “You travel your whole life, don't you? Never settle down. Never rest,” she said as if it was some kind of accusation.

The captain looked at her with wide, wobbly, bewildered eyes. He started to say something, but bit off his words when he realized that she was coming directly at him. His back connected with the edge of the bar and his hands waved for balance. She stopped right against him, hip against his raised knee, and ripped the stately hat off head. On his balding dome, she planted a wet kiss, then plopped his hat back in place and patted it down. “Was that so blasted hard?” she demanded of no one in particular, certainly not the two shocked men, as she stumbled toward and up the stairs.

Somehow, she remembered which room was Cellar's - might be Cellar's. She both pounded on the door and leaned on it for balance. There was no immediate answer. She pounded again.

“Keep it down!” shouted a bedraggled voice from another room.

“Go bury yourself, pok!” Astarelle slur-shouted back, using the Farohtian insult for 'outsider'. She hated that word.

Something moved under her hand, and she almost fell into the night-shirted arms of one very sleepy Cellar Door. The poor girl blinked her too-tired-for-wisdom bloodshot eyes. Astarelle caught herself on the door frame.

“Astarelle?” Cellar asked as if she thought she was dreaming. From the dour cast of her face and the limp stickiness of her brown hair, she looked like she had already delved deep into the land of dreams.

“Hi,” Astarelle said in an attempt to be nonchalant. Her first word made Cellar's nose wrinkle, and perhaps woke her up a bit.

“Have you been drinking?”

Astarelle's body rocked with a sob that she hadn't known was sneaking up on her.

“Wha- What happened?” Cellar asked with the purest of concern. She opened the door all the way, but Astarelle's white-knuckled grip on the frame held fast.

“I went with the Ixians to war,” she said, unable to look her friend in the face. She didn't want to see the flash of disappointment, but she bloody well heard it.

“You said you would leave them before something like that happened.”

“I know!” Astarelle's words tumbled from her mouth like a parade of inebriation. “But Eiskalt was being attacked. There were people who needed help. Catherine Remi was about to kill the girl, or Jensen was about to do it for her, I don't know. Whatever it was, I stopped it. He's a good man. He drank with me tonight. He gave me his coat. Then, I sent him back to the castle because I'm a dirty lying jihta. I can't leave without giving it back. It's not warm at all, but he'll come looking for it. It would be like I had stolen the memory of everyone he ever loved.”

Cellar blinked as if in pain.

“I couldn't even kiss him. I bet he's so frustrated right now. I'm not worth a stitch of red thread.”

“Astarelle?”

“He's probably looking through my underwear drawer.”

“Asta- what?!”

“Jokes on him. I don't have any frilly lacy fancy ones.”

Cellar smothered Astarelle in the biggest hug her small frame could manage. “Please. Stop. Talking,” she begged desperately.

Astarelle stopped... for a moment. Water ran off her chin as if her eternal mask had cracked and was leaking. “Sorry,” she mumbled into Cellar's ear, “I'm crying on you.”

“It's okay,” the shorter woman said, petting the back of Astarelle's head and down the length of her hair. She didn't let go. “This is a conversation for when I'm awake and you're not drunk. And you are very very drunk.”

“I know,” Astarelle hiccuped.

With short steps, Cellar drew her friend over the threshold and into her room. “You can have half the bed. Just don't kick me off in your sleep.”

Astarelle laughed into the side of Cellar's neck. “I'll try.”

[Enigmatic Immortal]

There was the flash of light, the passing of magic, and the sudden feeling of feet on the ground once again in the span of a single breath. The immortal felt his hand rest on his chest, softly letting go of the bead that he clung to. It hit the ground with a soft thud, bouncing towards a dresser littered with clothes and half open. He felt his shoulders shiver, and he fought the tide of emotion building within him.

And as always, he couldn't.

He let out a silent, regretful chuckle, that turned into a growing fit of giggles, before heaving throes of mirth filled anguish passed through him. He slapped his knee like the cosmic joke of the world was given to him; a punchline of such mighty proportions that he couldn't even mentally handle the delivery. He rolled backwards, his feet shuffling drunkenly while he lifted his head back to let out mighty roars of impassioned laughter.

He shrank after a moment, eyes cast down on the bead. "Always keep them guessing, huh?" Jensen whispered drunkenly. Shrugging as he pulled himself together, not entirely sure what to think about the night, he instead moved himself around her room. He fingered through her drawers, wrapping a knuckle around the knob and pulling them open. Littered garments were strewn everywhere, and he blushed to notice her underwear. Not that he was embarrassed to see them, but more disappointing that she had nothing exotic. Just plain good 'ol fashioned underoos.

He giggled shoving a few clothes aside to search for hidden treasure, a diary, something he could use against the Fallien woman when they would meet again. It wasn't even an invasion of privacy as he drunkenly saw it. Instead, it was only fair, for in the same situation, had the roles been reversed, he was positive Astarelle would have snooped. Though he knew, deeper in his heart what he was looking for. Something, anything, to prove his point that she was a good and decent human being and that the mask she wore could come off.

It was wishful hoping, he knew, but he was in a hopeful mood, exasperated by the drink he partook in earlier. With dry lips he smacked them, hands slapping together as he rubbed them over each other, looking to the few lamp shades in the room. He also found a few wall posts against a rather bland wall and with fluttering lips pursed out in boredom he scratched the back of his head.

"Boring as shit," he mulled over chewing his bottom lip. "Could use some flair and-" He stopped looking at the tiny porcelain figurines on her drawer. "Oh dear god that's just creepy." He knelt forwards, slipping to a knee and back up, giggling inanely as he picked each one up, examining them and laughing as he put them back. A wicked idea came over his mind and he knew how his revenge would go.

With feet slapping hard he exited her room, pushing her door open with a clatter and stumbling down the hall until he reached a door way. He banged on the knocker with his fist, hurting his hand but he giggled through the pain awaiting a groggy woman who answered. "I need a pen and paper,"

"It's past one in the morning," was her tired reply.

"Official Ixian Buisness. I have no choice but to touch everything in Astarelle's room."

"That's...what? Huh?" She wiped the sleep from her eyes, and Jensen tapped his foot impatently. When she saw who she was talking to her eyes widened a fraction. "Captain Ambrose, are you drunk?"

"That's not the point!" Jensen shouted.

"That's also not an answer, but your breath speaks volumes. Fine, whatever, I'll get your stupid paper if you promise to leave me alone."

"Sure, why the hell not." He waited a moment, still tapping his boot so it clicked against the floor, but when he saw the small stack of paper and the pen he grinned like a loon. "THANKS!" He grabbed them, running back with more dark chuckling as he used a bit of his wind magic to slam the door shut behind him.

He moved to her dresser, opening each one and writing a note, tucking them into the garment, and then turning to the next drawer. He hid three notes within them, tucking one within the nicest piece of underwear she had with nothing but a drunkenly scrawled happy face.

He moved to her figurines, moving them so they all looked towards the wall and out of his vision. "Those are just too creepy," he muttered, his pen spilling ink over several notes as he tucked them across each statue, laughing like a hyena with each anger filled note. With a cackle of glee he moved to her bedroom, jumping onto her bed in a belly flop, writing a note for her pillow, then one under it, and chuckling darkly while he rolled over to open her bed drawer.

He pulled a book out, placed another note in the same spot as the bookmark, and shoved it back in and continued to maneuver around the room. He was having far too much fun with this task as he spent an hour in her room, leaving notes everywhere. The contents were personal, even down right lewd as he left dark thoughts about what he touched and exactly how he did so.

When he felt compelled to leave the room as it was, feeling smug and proud of his prank, he turned to the last light on the far wall. This one wall was barren, a little note saying he added a bit of color with a spot of pee. Crass? Undoubtedly, but he was also understandably letting off some steam from their close encounter. She made him feel like the night was a waste, that she lied.

He also felt foolish for falling for the Fallien vixen. Yet deep in his gut, with remorse, he also felt a connection to her. They had something, that was for sure. Romance? Friendship? Companionship? Benefits for carnal needs?

Love?

The immortal wasn't sure. He wasn't sure how he felt about her. The drink they had was strong and stiff, and he surmised that maybe he was wrong. Yet while he sat in her chair just before the lamp, resting at the little end table, holding the last note for her, he felt suddenly more melancholy. The joke was over, and that meant reality had to sink in. Jensen was going to his room, once more, all alone. That section of the castle had no occupants anymore in that particular wing. Was it depression that he was alone?

Or was it possible that the fluttery feelings for Astarelle had to finally come to a close? He wanted to think he was being malevolent to her, for spiting him. But he did this all, leaving every tiny note because it made him laugh with actual, genuine pleasure. Something he admitted he hadn't done in a very long time.

"Jensen, you have thought far too hard and long about this. Time for us to go," He said to himself sternly. He giggled, standing and turning out the light, leaving the last note on the lamp post. He looked at it one last time, not sure if he should leave it or not. It was a rather personal drawing of the two of them looking up at the stars. Even in his drunken haze, he felt rather proud of his drawing. It wasn't even remotely good, but it was clean and the message was clear. Would that have been too much? Was that a line he would cross and possibly ruin everything?

Didn't Astarelle just show where she stood sending him home instead?

He left the note anyway, heart racing despite nothing to build up its tempo, and he shut the light off with a click, turning and holding the wall to support himself. He moved himself carefully, as one can when inebriated, and felt his hand push in against the wall startling him. A small panel of the wall shifted and opened, and Jensen felt a cold draft of familiar origins; the Caverns beneath the castle.

He cussed in alarm, not sure what to do, noticing that there was a lantern on the wall. He fumbled for five minutes trying to figure it out, before the light turned on and illuminated the small crawl space. Clearly this was a room that functioned as an escape during an attack. Probably had been used during the darkened Night of Debauchery. The immortal calmed himself and was about to close the door when he caught something unusual on the back wall.

A silk pillow held upon it one spent bullet, flattened and reverently placed in such a manner as to make room for more. Jensen's head tilted in confusion, walking forwards and feeling his heart race again but this time with curiosity. He moved his way down, stopping at another inlaid shelf with a reed tube. Next to it were several aged papers, possibly years old, and he gently thumbed the corners up, looking to them. He didn't have to be sober to know they were forged. He narrowed his eyes looking at the rest of the small sanctuary before he felt his stomach drop.

He felt a twinge of pain to think that the papers were recently checked to ensure they were ready to go, to be used. Astarelle felt like flying the coup and she had all the things she needed ready. He recalled a solitary memory when he brought them into her room, many months ago when she moved in. The reed tube had once been on her dresser, but when he went to touch them she nearly bit his head off as she explained that it's a trap to destroy everything inside if not opened in a very specific way. Jensen didn't even think about it then. Now it all made sense. She was protecting her escape route.

"Well," Jensen said bitterly. "Looks like I know how you really feel. Glad we spent all that time together," he made ready to leave. Annoyed and frustrated, and angry at himself because he felt cold and hurt to think she was getting ready to just run away. Part of him didn't want her to go, a big part, and he refused to acknowledge that little voice in his head that was screaming to him why he felt that way.

Yet bitterly as he moved, he stopped, heart beating so powerfully he felt it. He was stone still, as if in shock, as his hand hovered just in front of one small, tiny folded paper. He knew that paper. He knew it very well. He wrote on that paper the first note he ever left her, way back in Eiskalt.

Of everything he knew about Astarelle, of everything he pieced together tonight, the fact it was here, in this hide away meant clear as day that it was precious to her. More precious than anything in her room. So precious...she was willing to run away with it as a keepsake. Even in her new life she would have that memento. Whatever that meant to her was only inside her head to know. Jensen wasn't sure it meant what he thought it did. But it wasn't the point. In complete terror, he realized Astarelle cared deeply about something from their time together. So deeply she didn't want to lose it even when she changed her persona and put on a new mask.

He felt sick, and quickly he left her inner sanctum, realizing that wasn't his place to be. He should have never found that. Never looked. Things were so much more simplier before he walked in! Now Jensen was more unsure how he felt, and even more confused how she felt. Through it all he left her room, tears brimming his face. He chastised himself for even feeling like this. They had spent no romantic time together. They didn't flirt with one another in public. Despite a few alcohol fueled antics, they had shown no love for each other.

He wiped his eyes on his wrist, fighting the emotional pain he felt and couldn't justify feeling. Why did he feel this way? Why did he care? He wasn't even sure that she even cared! This was all too much to think about, and Jensen ran up his stairs to the top of the tower to his home of isolation. He ripped the handle open, never bothering to lock it in the first place, and kicked off his boots angrily. He threw his weapons against the dusty couch in a fit, letting out a tiny moan of frustration as he gripped the top of his hair. He pulled the shirt off his back leaving it behind him as he reached his room.

There he crawled into bed, fighting off everything he felt, before he managed to calm himself enough to shut his eyes. He promised himself that he would forget this night. He turned to look out the window, and he began to laugh, long, hard and loudly in horrific irony.

There, in the night sky, was the most beautiful night of stars he had seen in a very long time.

[Roht Mirage]

Astarelle slunk through the castle halls like a repentant burglar with the pilfered coat hugged against her chest. It was far later in the day than she would have wished. A good number of people, both servants and knights, had seen her. She was puffy-eyed. She was wobbly with headache. She was carrying Jensen Ambrose's blasted coat like a trophy. A simple disguise of sand would have spared her all the strange looks; come confused, some congratulatory. But, she had just remembered that very morning that complex sand manipulation made a hangover one million times worse!

The day had started with a mess of shame-faced apologies to Cellar, and then apoplectic silence as she tried to use her sand to do something, anything, to conceal her sorry state. Eventually, Cellar made her stop trying, and they just talked. There was no anger. That was an emotion Cellar could scarcely hold on to. Her disappointment faded as well, replaced with sweet, calming, undeserved sympathy. She even suffered a spectacle worse than drunken crying: the morning-after 'what have I done' mope.

It was Cellar who kept her from just hopping the next boat to anywhere, and it was Cellar who made her promise (real promise, not the lie-promise she knew was the norm) to visit her before making any drastic moves. Astarelle thought she might even be able to keep her word, but only because Cellar was so much more stable and so much easier to deal with than Jensen Ambrose. Cellar also didn't make her stomach knot up. That was a sensation that had hounded her since waking, and she was certain it wasn't the alcohol, but the pressure of thoughts that she didn't dare think.

In a haze of not-thought, she slipped into her room and clicked the door quietly shut. Her forehead touched the wood while her hand stayed on the handle. Heavily, she exhaled, then turned. There was still the matter of how to return the coat to Jensen without, preferably, being anywhere near hi-

The metal plates in the coat clanked as it hit the floor. Astarelle stared. A litany of, “Bury me. Bury me. Bury me,” became her new method of breathing. She stepped to the table beside her door, where the closest of the notes hunkered beside her travelling pack like a single rat among an infestation.

“I touched this,” it said.

She inhaled sharply, tasting fire. You...

A note on the pack said, “I emptied this and put everything back in upside down.” The tiny drunken scrawl was so difficult to decipher that it made her head throb. Regardless, she moved on. The notes became a crinkled, ever-growing mass in her hands.

Pinned on a needle of her windowsill cactus: “I touched this. Ouch! Touched it again.” She inspected the poor plant for damage. It was already having a hard enough time in Corone's climate.

In her drawers heaped with enough costumes to start a theater troupe: “Too small,” and, “Makes me feel pretty,” and... and.... a smile in her underwear.

“I knew it!” she screamed as her face turned three kinds of red; one for embarrassment, one for rage, and one for her determination to sling Jensen Ambrose out her window by his stupid spikey hair. She scoured the breadth of her figurine collection, checking any place that the paper plague might hide.

For the little porcelain girl jumping rope: “I'd tap that.”

For the karuku-tal, a wolf-sized nightmare cat that haunted Fallien's moonless nights: “Creepy! Think of the children!” She crumpled the note with gusto. Jensen wasn't capable of understanding the collection. It was about balance. It was about innocence alongside danger. It was about... not all staring at the bloody wall! Almost hyperventilating, she straightened her figures and barely stopped to read the notes. She did read them, though. For the boy playing a trumpet, “Toot! Toot!” For the coiled bulk of a sand-wyrm, “Dick of the Desert!” Her fist full of paper felt hot enough that it might catch fire. She wanted it to. After she collected them all, she'd burn the whole lot at the base of Jensen's tower and smoke him out.

To her bedroom, she charged. The bed was a mess, blankets half off and most of the pillows flung afar. For once, it wasn't her doing. And everywhere, the depths-spawned notes! She went into a frenzy, ripping them up with beautiful violence. It was war on paper. Her breath surged and her chest heaved on each attack.

“I drooled here,” on her remaining pillow. She hurled it across the room, only to find...

“You j- what?! By the depths. You're disgusting,” she retched as she forced the ink to bend as her sand did. The words smeared to blessed illegibility, though she felt like a spike had been driven between her eyes. In spite of the pain, she searched for the far-worse-than-drool stain that the note promised. There seemed to be nothing, but that didn't calm her one bit. The rest of the notes, she seized in a mad rush as if she had summoned a storm of sand to rip them down, only with no sand necessary.

I was right to ditch you! You're disgusting! You're heartless! From all the corners of her habitually-compartmentalized mind, the thoughts flooded in and piled up. She wanted to scream them, but her mouth couldn't move fast enough and she didn't have enough air. I didn't want to touch you. I didn't want to just grab your hair and kiss you. I didn't want to have sex with you! I didn't want to be one bright spot in your eternally miserable life! I don't want to save you!

For a long time, she stormed, she thundered, and then she faltered. The maelstrom wound down to stillness with her sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bedroom. All about her was a killing field - notes were ripped, shredded, eviscerated. Only one remained in her hands. It shook. After all that rage had swelled and popped, she didn't know what to feel. Her mind was numb. With fingers that had moments ago flayed paper guts to the four winds, she touched the picture. Softly. She traced the crude stars just as she had toyed with her drunk origami the night before. Her touch drifted through the night sky, and her eyes replaced it with the memory of Fallien; festival night, stars dancing in the sky and over the sand. She touched the shape that was her own, felt the sand under her toes and the arid breeze cool against her face. Then, toward the spikey head of Jensen... and her finger stalled.

He hadn't been in that scene. Did he want to be? Even after all the poison he had spit from his paper fangs?

Astarelle's shoulders dropped as her breath fled and her eyes grew sneakily wet. “I didn't want to lie to you,” she whispered as if forgiveness lay at the whim of a doodle. She understood his anger. It mirrored her own in power, but it was a more recognizable breed - a universal constant, always on her heels. That anger, that rage at being deceived, was why she kept moving.

But not yet, came a thought that would normally have been tucked away, safe and silent.

As she sat amid the proof of Jensen's anger, his feelings of betrayal, she didn't want to run. She still had words to smooth everything over before she moved on. Maybe she even had the words to leave him no more damaged than when he had met her. All she needed was a few days to think and calm down, to find enough forgiveness to look him in the face without ripping out his-

A knock at the door. Its hollow ring broke open her contemplative burrow. Her heart raced and her head pounded as she waited for proof of what she expected.

“Astarelle? Are you... home?” Jensen asked through the door.

She bounced to her feet and looked through the open bedroom door, toward the one that kept him back. Her body was savagely tense. She could barely think. It was with ambiguous purpose, even to herself, that she spoke. “Come in!”

Jensen entered with cheery words already popping off his tongue. “I brought you something for your head. It's helped me befooore...” He stopped when he saw her, across the expanse of her rooms, standing in a ring of paper carnage. There were two tall glasses in his hands; something red. He collected himself just enough to keep it from splashing to the floor. “You might not like it, but it will help,” he said as he advanced with a brave face and words that sounded as stilted as if he was reading off a script. It was a poor script. He had only written it that morning, after all.

He crossed the threshold into the bedroom, holding one glass out to her. She choked back dark laughter. The poor man was trying so hard. He was trying to be her; to pretend that the giant white elephant in the room wasn't there. Certainly, he hadn't expected to find the elephant's carcass in pieces and her the guilty party with paper under her fingernails.

Astarelle took a deep breath and a long blink. Part of her wanted to give him a real slap, not the playful pokes of one drunken night ago. But, she didn't have it in her. On the floor lay the ruination that was both of their anger. Clarified. Expunged. Brutally murdered. There was no apology in his eyes, just a willing ignorance. She was intimately familiar with the concept. It was the most comfortable thing in the world to slip into.

Her lashes fluttered open, and she gave him a tired smile. “Thank you.” She lifted both hands to receive the glass, only to realize that his drunken doodle was still in her grip.

His eyes grew wide. He waited, licked his lips, searched her face for meaning.

Astarelle just shrugged. She took the glass with one hand and walked to her nightstand, stepping over the paper as if it wasn't there. “Last night was fun,” she said without glancing his way, and she meant it. Mostly. She had enjoyed herself in the bar with him. It had been a connection almost like... It had been a connection. The events that followed were another matter, one that they chose to disregard in silent, grateful unison. “We should do it again, someday.”

Jensen sighed audibly, then caught himself. Astarelle cut her own sigh short, though he might have heard. She couldn't turn around to read his face, lest he see her's.

Gingerly, she placed the picture on her nightstand. Perhaps later, she would put it in her secret stash with the Eiskalt note. That note always made her a little sad. He had thanked her for not letting the nightmare of war bring out the monster in him. There was more to him than madness. Perhaps, there was more to her than lies. Whether he had drawn himself into her story because he believed or because he simply liked it, she couldn't be sure.

To her thoughtfully wandering eyes, an oddity jumped at her. Her nightstand drawer was partially drawn out, and the book inside it was out of place. Almost certain of what to expect, she picked it up.

“Your room is so messy,” he said as she heard him step deeper into her bedroom, “You should have someone clean it up.”

She turned with the glass almost at her lips, the book held casually at her hip. Jensen wore the most Cheshire of grins. That's better, Astarelle thought as she gestured aloofly with the glass. “My room is always a mess. The maids hate me.” As she tilted the concoction to her lips, the sun angled just perfectly through her window. It made the paper shreds on the floor glow; white, not gold. But, it was close enough for her to imagine Jensen on the star-streaked dunes, grinning like a fool. She really wanted him to believer her, and if he didn't... she'd take him there. They would spread the stars and imagine that they could-

“Ugh,” Astarelle gagged with her tongue poking from her mouth. She looked at the glass as if it had called her a bug-slurping jihta. “Is this,” she asked, smacking her lips, “Supposed to be tomato?”

“Among other things,” Jensen laughed gleefully, then took a showy gulp of the horrid stuff. “It also makes you never want to drink that much ever again,” he said with a shake of his head as if even this poison invigorated him. “Food helps also. We could go get break- er... it's kind of late. Lunch?”

Astarelle narrowed her eyes. She had caught the tiniest squeak on the end of that, as if his bravado was wavering. With a sideways glance of contemplation, she abandoned the glass on her nightstand and sashayed over the white elephant's graveyard. “I don't know,” she purred. Absently, she lifted the book and flipped it open to where the bookmark had some very familiar company. She stopped a step away from Jensen, allowing his eyes to drift down. There was a hint of shyness, but also a chuckle deep in his throat.

With quick fingers, Astarelle plucked out the note and tossed the book onto the bed, not caring if she lost her page. “Read it. It sucks,” she said aloud. Jensen looked just a little bit doubtful. Astarelle flashed him a smile. “You're right. It's wasn't very good. The characters were too simple.”

Jensen laughed. There was relief in it, though anyone other than her might not have noticed. He stepped into her sitting room and set his glass on the dresser, perhaps assuming that it was customary in her abode. She didn't mind, considering everything else her rooms had suffered. “So, lunch is a yes?” he asked more confidently, already gesturing for her to walk with him. She nodded and placed a hand in the bend of his elbow. “While we eat, you can explain these to me,” he added. Astarelle followed his gaze to her collection of extremes in miniature.

Then, she stopped. With a tug of the arm, she turned Jensen to face her – how easily she handled him, or he allowed himself to be handled. In her other hand, she held up the small book critique, scrawl facing him. With one finger, she stirred the dry ink. He gave her a look as if he could see the strain on her face, but she just grinned and pressed the note to his chest. Her hand lay there for a moment, feeling his heart beat through the paper. “For you,” she said sweetly.

He brushed her hand delicately as he stole the note up to the sunlight and squinted, then chuckled. “You know I can't read this stuff.”

She put her hand back under his elbow. “Just keep it.”

With a cool shrug, he slipped the note into his pocket and started them toward the door. “Did you see the stars last night?” he asked conversationally.

Astarelle shook her head and softly said, “No. I fell asleep pretty fast.” Her smile was disproportionately bright.

“They weren't so bad. Better than I've seen in a while, actually,” Jensen said as he closed her door behind them, sealing in the surprise for some unfortunate maid, “But there was one star that night that I couldn't take my eyes off of.”

Astarelle was careful not to look directly into his eyes, though she didn't hide her smile in the slightest. She would let him think it was for the oh-so-sly compliment, but it was actually for the note.

The piece of paper she had pressed to his heart was scrawled with Farohtian script. It read, “I touched this.”