Through it all, he simply kept walking. It was clear he was listening by the way he kept his stride in check to stay near when she slowed to describe painful memories, or sped up when she was angry, or simply seemed to need his proximity. When she handed him her coat, he gently laid it across his forearm and kept it there politely. He kept his gaze veiled, pretending to search for landmarks as they wandered from puddle to puddle of lamplight, since she didn't seem to want him to concentrate on her. This was more than difficult enough for her without her thinking he was judging, so he simply listened silently as he led the way through the turns of Rhydin town until she finished. He considered carefully for several steps before speaking.

"There's obviously still Zach, and the third part of the prophecy to think about. And this debt, I take it that it's not immediately pressing, or you'd not be wandering the city with me" But again, still something that will eventually have to be taken care of." His tone was mildly curious, as if merely assessing a trip down the road and not the entirety of the future of his closest companion, though his expression remained studious. It was clear he was already churning this new information over in his own mind without trying to worry her, though they walked for some time in silence before he spoke again.

"A long time ago, ten years or more, I fell in love with a business partner. Her name was Aeslinn, she was an assassin- first hired to kill me for the annoyance I had become to a large cartel, then my ally in getting out of the mess I'd created." His voice had taken on the tone of someone telling the story of some far-away place, the cadence of their footsteps almost a drumbeat of some fireside tale. It was easier to pretend he wasn't talking about himself, hurt less if he was just another detached member of the audience. "Eventually she was caught as we were trying to escape the lair of a lich. He dropped me down a hole from which I wasn't supposed to return, experimented on her until she died."

Several steps echoed off the buildings as he gathered the stoicism necessary to go on with the tale, holding up a hand to forestall any interruption- he was determined to push through. She had given him the pieces that he needed to understand what had been going on in the last little while, he needed to give her the keys to unravel some of his issues she'd come to experience since his return. Where hers were fresh wounds, his were old scars.

"I obviously didn't fall to my death. I managed to break through the well to a chamber just below his laboratory, where I helplessly listened to Aeslinn die painfully. All I could do was avenge her by destroying the lab and lich with explosives from below. It killed him permanently, but it didn't help me. He had a death-curse on his phylactory to spite anyone who could actually end him....the marks which you've seen in my back." He knew her brand, now she knew the vague pattern in the whip- and flame-scarred flesh of his torso, the lines of which never faded no matter how many other injuries overlaid it.

Like her, he hadn't sought out her face while he was talking, it was easier to watch the town grow seedier as they descended toward the river. He turned just past a row of less savory shops, some of which had been wholly abandoned, though it was likely simply due to poor business rather than nefarious deeds. He stopped at a lamppost with a few old wooden directory street signs sticking out of the top.

"I never know when or how this curse is supposed to manifest, if it's supposed to do more than just make me sterile. From what I know of Dark Thyme, it can't have been something that simple." Like her though, he neglected some of the worst parts of the tale, what happened to Aes's body afterward, or how he had to deal with that nightmare walking into the daylight. Some things were better just buried so deep they never surfaced in any form. The reflexive response to seek an alcoholic drink to wipe even a fragment of such memories from his consciousness made him lick his lips and consider going for the flask.

Instead, he shook off the shadows and gestured to an alleyway off to their right. The air that drifted up from that direction grew sharply colder and had the scent of wet leaves, they were nearing the water and it was heavy with spring runoff. Tareth offered Charlie her jacket back as they passed through to the rear of the shops and backtracked in the direction they'd been walking.

Where most places in this part of town could at least boast a once upon a time where they might have been new, shiny and well-used, the street at the end of the alley probably never even had that much. Even the street sign had the name of the trail broken off, the ends of the stump so blunted by weather it had probably been near a century since nobody had bothered to fix it.

It was easy to see why. The road was uneven, getting narrower and wider with the haphazard backs of the buildings which faced the more traveled, trafficked inner city road. It was on the river, but this part of the river had until recently been the refuse dump for all the industries bordering it, so there was a shoulder-high cobbled block wall between the street and the water. This road was the service entrance to a run-down hotel, the steam tunnel beneath a seedy casino= not worthy of maintenance or even travel. Poorly paved in the first place, the pebbles of mold-broken paving stones crunched underfoot as they walked through the dusty stillness. Only the light of the moon and stars painted their way, but with the moon so full and directly overhead it was enough. That, and it wouldn't do to see the place by torch or flashlight- it wouldn't have the same effect.

Abruptly, the corridor opened up into a small oblong courtyard. The paver stones beneath gained a little solidity and the whorled pattern peeked out discernibly under a coating of debris. The wall to the left bellied out over the river in a gated balcony. The murkiness to the right was where Tareth headed.

He finally stopped in front of a trio of buildings that defied their surroundings. These three faced the waterfront, remnants of a time where this part of town had actually capitalized on the river view. They had been built solidly enough with steel and stone frames that they'd survived the fire that had gutted them decades ago. They squatted in the bulk of the newer buildings which had simply been built around them; for some reason they had been spared the fate of their row-mates to be torn down, redesigned and turned about. Judging by the difficult, sturdy architecture it had simply been more economical to leave them up than to try and reclaim the real estate.

The leftmost building looked to be an apartment block of some sort, about three stories and small. The middle had obviously been a shop; the broken, sooty panes of glass in what were once large display windows leered impotently out at them. The last was big and plain enough to only have served as a warehouse, evidenced by the large, gaping hole in the wall which had once been an oversized delivery door. Each was obviously as empty as it could possibly be, though remarkably untainted by vandalism.

Tareth jammed his hands into his pockets as he stared at the remnants, his jaw thrust forward stubbornly. "They're haunted, too." It was a statement, not a repetition of rumor. Something in the way he kept his distance lent credence to the idea that he'd had first-hand experience with the matter, though the sparkle in his eye spoke to how that wasn't going to stop him.

"Perfect, if you ask me."

For the last six years of Eleanor Spade's life her modest pumps had briskly clipped their way over the cobbled Old Market streets which grew ever narrower as she would make her way into the district's heart. The buildings also became ever closer until they were on top of one another. Two story works of stone and brick several centuries old with glass front windows on which the name of the business was etched or left bare to display the wares the business was hawking. She would stop beneath the creaky sign baring the name "House of Retribution" to unlock the door of the business situated between a charm vendor and a perhaps too popular massage therapist and would be greeted with the familiar creaking and settling of the old wooden planks beneath her feet.

But this morning would be one of the last she'd spend in it. The echo of her footfalls seemed just a bit louder with every folder moved from filing cabinet to box. Some of the names on the folders sparked memories. Sometimes they'd make a fleeting smile cross her face, sometimes they would tighten her stomach in fear. The important folders were boxed up. The out of date material was set aside to be destroyed. It was here that she would spend her day, losing herself in the hours of work ahead.

Tareth stared at the street as his scarred boots led the way through familiar byways- familiar, yet it'd been years since he'd trod them. His fists rode deep in the pockets of his coat, which he held closed as if to ward off a nonexistent wind. His hat sat low on his head, the wide brim shielding his features from most passers-by. Altogether, it was obvious he had something troubling on his mind that demanded all his faculties. Luckily, these were familiar streets.

He paused on the threshold of the House of Retribution, hand poised to knock. For a long moment he stood that way, frozen in place as he forced his mind to settle. Hopefully this summons would be a necessary distraction. With a sign and a visible shudder he changed his demeanor, shaking off his disturbing thoughts like a dog would shed water from its coat. Eleanor wouldn't call for him needlessly. He'd already approved her transfer to the new venture. Something else was up and he needed to face it with his undivided attention.

One uninteresting white box was placed on top of a second. For how common they looked, the folders within sure held a lot of secrets. The parallelism between a handful of boxes and Eleanor herself seemed to amuse the mousey brunette as she rose to her full height upon setting it down because she allowed a smile to tug at her lips briefly. It was then that her eyes caught on Tareth. There was a time when the sight of him would have caused an instantaneous smile. But that had been years ago. Too much filled the years between.

She didn't hesitate, though, to sweep forward and pull open the door to invite him inside. Her smile was tight but polite. "Tareth."

"Eleanor, long time no see." His grin was warm and familiar, for once there were no conflicted emotions on seeing an old acquaintance. Sometimes he could appreciate the value of a simple friendship and mutual respect. He swept off his hat as he entered, ever the mannered one, and ruffled his hair back to proper prominance. Seeing she hadn't packed up the usual coat rack yet, he hung his hat on it. The straightforward act made him laugh suddenly, though afterward his expression was slightly bitter. "Home is where....yeah. " His eyes roamed through the boxes, absorbing the full irony of such a statement.

"It is good to see you. I was surprised to hear that you were back in town." It was a rare day indeed for Eleanor had exchanged out her usual skirt suit for jeans and a blouse for the packing. The outfit flew in the face of her somewhat futile attempts to put a polished face on the House of Retribution. After all, its owner had never been the sort of professional business woman that Eleanor would have preferred. "And for good I am told?"

"That's the hope at least." He cast around for the couch upon which he'd spent many nights in every condition possible. Finding it already full of packed belongings, he remained standing. Though he was loathe to use his discerning eye on a friend such as Eleanor, he was sure there was something more than pleasantries that made her ask for him. It probably wasn't for help packing, anyway. Judging by the boxes of files and how tightly they'd been sealed, he doubted his help would have been welcomed anyhow. "Charlie's shutting it all down eh' I suppose that means she has faith in me."

"She does have faith in you. But she's not the one shutting it down. I'm shutting it all down, Tareth. Charlie doesn't make the decisions here anymore. Not about these sorts of things at least." Her arms crossed over her chest in more of a self-hug than a defensive posture. It was Tareth. She didn't have to keep covering. It was time for the truth. "You've missed a lot. I've kept this place running. I've kept Koy and PJ and Eve from finding out the truth. Because that's what Charlie wanted. And she'd want me to keep it from you too but I'm not that good."

He cocked his head as he absorbed this new information, his brow alternately creasing and arching as he considered the ramifications. When he spoke, it was slowly, cautiously; he wasn't going to assume anything at this point when Eleanor was obviously more than willing to explain. "Keep what from me?"

Her shoulders slumped slightly as a breath was exhaled. Although she was certain the doctors had informed Alain as well, this had been her and Charlie's secret for so long. Letting someone else into the exclusive club felt frightening and cathartic at the same time. "The modifications and experimentation that they did on her in Hollymeade left permanent damage. We have been forced to make....changes."

His expression softened to a sympathetic mieux. "I would imagine you can't break someone without actually *breaking* them. I've had.....similar experiences. Charlie mentioned it to me in passing. It seemed fresh enough in her mind that I didn't press the issue."

"I'm not talking about her will." Eleanor's brows furrowed as she took a step back to lean against the corner of her nearly empty desk. Her arms remained tightly clasped over her chest as she stared down at her pumps. Jeans though she may be wearing, she hadn't opted for more practical footwear. Every woman has a breaking point.

"The doctors said there might be issues but we didn't know what." Her eyes lifted back to him as she seemed to find a place to start. "And then not long after she got back, she went to the store. Had a week's worth of grocery money. And all she came back with was ice cream. All that money was gone and all she had was a tub of ice cream. I went to her place and it was a wreck. Half started meals, half written letters."

Since this was shaping up to be a long conversation, he busied himself making a space on the couch, clearing boxes until there was room enough to sit. Then he softly took Eleanor by her elbow and gestured that she use it. "That would explain her....enthusiasm," he grinned; 'desperation' seemed like a poor choice at this point, "to have you join us on this new endeavor." All traces of amusement left his face as he continued in a quieter tone. "I know how much she hates to feel like she's not totally independent."

A nod was given to confirm both points. There was a sense of release in sharing the secret but there was no sense of shared burden. Charlie would not be able to stand that. "She, of course, has no problems when on a job. It would have done them no good to destroy those skills. And she and I have found quite a few ways to make her life easier. Lists seem to help a lot. Even down to the everyday things she must do before she comes into the office in the morning. On good days, they're not needed. On bad days, it helps a lot. But, obviously, the work is what keeps her moving forward."

"So they turned her into a weapon, and tried to destroy anything that didn't help that end" I suppose in some sick way that makes sense. The wild dog is often the most dangerous." Tareth scratched at his jaw. "I thought it was supposed to be the other way around. Don't they de-criminalize people there?"

The nails of one of Eleanor's hands bit into the flesh of her upper arm without her even realizing it. It had been a year since Hollymeade and still the mention of it turned her stomach. "Charlie doesn't talk about it much but from what the Baron DeMuer and I could figure out they take the criminals that they don't believe can be rehabilitated and turn them into weapons which they control. It's arrogant and disgusting but it works. Alain asked for a demonstration before he purchased Charlie. They sent her out and she killed one of Alain's enemies."

"We don't know what exactly Charlie was doing there or what exactly got her arrested. Someone had it out for her. I assume it's connected to the brand on her arm. She's not talking."

If Charlie hadn't told Eleanor, then it wasn't Tareth's secret to give out. He turned the conversation in a different direction. "So then why shut all this down" If it's helping her....I don't want to take that away from her, or take her away from it."

"Because she wants to trust you. She wants me to buy into this plan so that she doesn't think that her messed up brain is deluding her. And if I keep this place it's a sign that I don't." The words rushed out quicker than she realized it and a breath was drawn in as the truth of them settled. She continued on at a more measured pace. "I'm not asking you to take care of her. She wouldn't want it and, frankly, I don't trust you will be around long enough to handle the job. I'm asking you to keep her busy, keep her working."

The words hurt, but he couldn't say they were unfair. He half-grinned instead, leave it to Eleanor to give it to him straight. "I can do that. There's already more on my plate than I can handle alone. I, at least, have learned to take help when it's offered." He pointedly looked up at her under his heavy brows. "I've learned a lot of things over the last few years. Charlie isn't the only one who's changed."

Eleanor's eyes lingered on Tareth, letting his words sink in. There was a deeper thread there. One she had heard since his return from Charlie but one she had never heard from Tareth. It caused her to allow a twist of anxiety to reach her usually schooled features. "I hope so. For both of you."

"Not all change is for the better Eleanor. But we all have to deal with it. Now, I've been here for like....what, half an hour and I haven't gotten a hug. You're starting to make me feel like a stranger." Some things just don't change, like Tareth's ability to turn a conversation on a dime.

The laugh that was released echoed of relief as the conversation came to a close. She was glad to have navigated it as successfully as possible. "Fine, fine. Come here." And with a playfully begrudging manner, her arms outstretched towards him.

Tareth was a champion hugger. Being that this was the first time he'd seen her in years, this one was a beauty. "So you ARE coming to work for us right' It wouldn't be the same without you. I know I said it was okay, Charlie never told me if you accepted the offer."

There was a pat to his back as she peeled back and Eleanor gave a short laugh. A deep fear told her that even if she refused Charlie's offer, Charlie would accept Tareth's without her. Any hope of convincing Charlie that this was a bad idea had clearly been abandoned. All she could do was throw herself into the new endeavor. "Someone has to be there to make sure there is some sort of filing system, yes?"

"I wouldn't settle for anything but the best." He winked, then stepped back and looked at her, then around the office. "So, what else needs to be packed up?

The bass beat pounding through the pit hit almost like a physical blow, over and over until it nearly turned one numb. Flashing lights and smoke filled what space on the floor that wasn't already taken up by writhing bodies. Most were dancing, grinding, moving with wanton abandon. Some twisted in true pain, food for the rest.

Azrael sat in a plush booth far above the chaos of the dance pit below; red leather cushioned him, thin wrought iron separated him from the throng while allowing a distracting view. He spun the stem of a flute full of thick black liquid between his thin, pale fingers. Were it not for the tiny nubs of fluted black horns peeking from the cascade of silver hair, one could even call him serene.

Only the barest hint of annoyance flared across Azrael's face as a red-skinned goat man stumbled up the steps that led to his sanctuary in the storm. The obviously drunken patron gawked at the view before messily gulping from a large bota slung across his hip. Just as Azrael opened his mouth to chastise this unwelcome visitor, the satyr staggered, tripped and plopped its shaggy goat half on his immaculate couches.

Stunned, it took Azrael a moment to come to grips with such a transgression. Through gritted, slightly pointed teeth he growled menacingly "this is a private balcony." He wasn't truly giving this creature a warning, it was more of an explanation of why the satyr was about to find the flesh seared from its miserable bones. Azrael's clenched fist began to glow a greasy yellow as he summed his power to do just that.

Then, for the third time in as many breaths and only the fourth in a decade, Azrael was surprised into inaction when his unexpected visitor spoke.

"Don't I know it, I've been waiting for three hours for your guard to get distracted enough to slip up here unnoticed." The satyr's voice held no hint of drunkenness, the creature's jaundiced yellow eyes twinkled in mischief as he beheld Azrael's consternation.

Several long moments passed, the current song ended and another had begun before Azrael regained his composure enough to actually grin and reply. "Tareth. You stink of brimstone."

"How else was I supposed to get into your demon-exclusive club, Az" Brimstone's the only thing that sufficiently covers up human. Don't think I enjoy this." Tareth pulled a grimace that made his disguised face scrunch up rather convincingly. "And you never come out, so my options were a bit limited."

Azrael arched a finely-sculpted brow. "I have no reason to traffic with you above-dwellers. Why are you here, Tareth?" A hint of his previous annoyance crept into his silken tones.

"Because once upon a time, you *did* have a reason to traffic with us." Tareth feigned indifference and looked out over the twisting mass below, but calling out a debt of a major demon lord like Azrael demanded subtlety.

"What do you want?" Azrael's annoyance was gone like smoke in a wind, but it had been replaced with frost.

Tareth rapidly unslung the drinking bag from his torso and unzipped a compartment which had previously been hidden against his body. Pulling out a set of blueprints (after graciously letting Azrael retrieve his drink) he laid them out on the table.

For the moment, the minute lines that had been growing in Azrael's handsome face seemed to smooth as he looked over the papers. He took his time looking over the designs, sipping at his cup from time to time. After two songs, he finally placidly regarded his visitor again. "You want my help building this?"

"No, Az, this already exists. I want you to tell me what it is."

Azrael seemed to have mastered his expressions, but Tareth had dealt with the demon for long enough to recognize that the pause that followed meant something more was going on beneath the mask now presented. Before Azrael could bring to bear whatever machinations Tareth was sure the demon lord was concocting, he spoke again.

"Azrael, by the debt that is owed, I call on you to give this matter no more than your honest answer. Once I have what I have asked for, you are not to interfere in it further. This will end our bargain."

Azrael chuckled deep in his chest, but it was a hollow sound in a great cavern. "Until just a moment ago, Tareth, I had never considered you as stupid as most mortals. In some small way, I can at least claim some small comfort from this that I haven't been mistaken about you these years long. So be it.

"This is a magic focus, and a very big one. I don't know how you stumbled on it, but it's a very rare and powerful thing, impossible for your mortals to construct alone. Such things only exist to do great deeds, like, oh, summoning someone such as myself into your physical realm." Azrael bared his teeth in nothing so much as a predatory snarl, and for a moment the mask of beauty slipped. His eyes flared red, his face twisted into a pale skull filled with a dark miasma. It was only a flash, but one that Tareth hoped he never saw again.

"Curse you and your knowledge to the depths, Tareth." Azrael regained control of himself, but the mask hid a deep, cold fury that Tareth could feel burning at him even with physical distance separating them. He couldn't be sure if the demon lord meant the knowledge that he had just disclosed, or Tareth's justifiably cautious handling of bargaining with a master of the hells that had so swiftly crushed even a glimmer of hope of escape.

When it was clear that he'd put Azrael in a miserly mood and there wasn't going to be much more use in conversing with the demon, Tareth gathered up the plans and put them away, all under the smoldering stare from across the couch. Rising, he bowed, remaining gracious to the end. "Thank you Azrael, our business is concluded."

"Live in pain and die alone, Tareth Thorn." Azrael cursed cheerfully, then simply seemed to forget that his visitor even existed, staring out at the ceaseless action below.