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Who: Lahabrea, Irhya
When: 6th of Deceur
Where: Spooky Vampire Bars, Evening
What: mystery!
Warnings: Blood, probably language. to be updated.

Desmodus Mori was a bar thoroughly intended for a different sort of clientele than Lahabrea; he's still alive, he's not a vampire, and he's not friends with anyone who frequents the place.. but he's good enough for something else: donation.

Who doesn't like a cooperative meal? It's not the first time the Ascian has turned up, willing to trade blood for a meal or a handful of cunes, but the price had gone up a bit since discovering his blood had oddly fortifying effects on those who drank it, which means he's a bit more willing to push the limits of his depressingly mortal shell in order to gain a bit more stable finances. Every bit helps, after all, and he'd be in a far better place by way of money if he could just resist the compulsion to spend it on things he really didn't need at all, like jewelry.

But just around twilight, he'd returned, to supply another round of drinks for some bloodthirster or other, collect his coin, and for a while sit on one of the unoccupied couches with a small glass of some sort of juice and a pastry to recover a bit before returning to what passed these days as a home. Usually it would be another bell or so before patrons really began showing up, and he intended to be gone by then.

By now, it's at least easier to the bartender to figure out what category the Ascian belongs in for the menu, by the long feathered tail that had chosen to NOT go away after the recent full moon, currently wrapped around himself in a crimson and brass fluffy coil of comfortable warmth. It matched the blunt-worn talons, somewhat elongated ears and the delicate smattering of scales across his hands, most of the rest of his form hidden by a volumnous plain-woven dark robe that rather distinctly is not the ornate uniform he usually wore. And while it's hooded, he's forgeone the hood for now in favor of simply keeping his mask in place, eyes half-closed, only partly listening to the chatter and occasional music around him. Lahabrea would be the first to try to convince anyone, even himself, that he lingered simply due to the weakness of blood loss, not because of the nagging persistent yearning to hear other voices, smell the presence of others, and take some dim comfort in the existence of other lives than his own.

He is beyond such things, and loneliness - especially dragon-born loneliness of a gregarious species kept nearly in isolation since arriving in the city - simply didn't affect him. Surely. It must be so.

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Such as their bond may be, Irhya is adamant she cannot rely on Emet-Selch for her sustenance every time she needs it. The bar is a frequent stop of hers in these cases, for plenty of customers willing to strike a deal abound within. It's actually amazing sometimes, the number of people who are willing to pay in their lifeblood for some company or the re-enactment of one silly fantasy or other.

But the bar has a peculiar visitor today, one she hasn't caught wind of for a while now. Frankly, she'd wondered if he'd simply dropped off or straight-up vanished, though she hadn't bothered to go to the mirrors to check. For a moment, she doesn't recognize him, either, until he turns just enough to make the mask visible from the threshold where she hovers.

Ah. He's... blonde.

A peculiar observation that has her carefully proceeding forward to engage with him, against her better judgment. He told her in no uncertain terms to stay away, but...

"What an odd place for you to turn up after a moon or two of silence," she remarks lightly, taking the other end of the couch while leaving ample space between them. "But I suppose if there's anywhere one would want to shill their own blood for coin, this would be it."

Paying in blood or being paid for it - a thing that regenerates with no harm done if the proper care is taken, is for some possibly far more convenient than scrounging for currency. After all coin doesn't simply grow on its own, to be freely harvested. And if some parasite wished blood, a temporary inconvenience at best, and would pay for it... well. Mortal economics relied on payment.

It was no great price for Lahabrea. He had no real attachment to the form he wore, less so its blood, and surrendering a little let him soothe a little of the persistent itch to be around others even a little. But right now, he's suddenly regretting that decision. Certainly he'd come here before and Irhya hadn't been there, but she was a vampire, and would surely balk at doing her own hunting or looking her prey in the eye while she drained them...

"'Shill'. An interesting choice of word for one likely reliant upon such services." Although his voice is neutral, his grip tightens on his glass, claws briefly squealing across its smooth surface and a ridge of brassy-gold feathers along his tail briefly rising. Shill is not a word most use in a positive context, as far as he's ever experienced. It sounds disparaging to his ears, especially when he already expects it. "If you insist on violating the peace I have granted til now, I expect you to at least know how to pretend civility. I know you are capable of it, else the Sultana would have tossed you out, hero or no."

It's strange how even the promise of the Warrior of Light's acid commentary would somehow be preferable to the silence in his own halls. As annoying as it surely would be, if only because he seems incapable of even trying to avoid provoking the very reactions he scolds her for, it .... was something. Something other than the quiet emptiness that once he took solace in and now ground against him like sandpaper.

How pathetic, truly.

"Relax," she says with a sigh. "My word choice was not made with deliberate malice. I was just making a comment. I'm here for the same reason, just as a buyer, so to speak."

Touchy. No surprise there, though. She leans her back against the back of the couch, letting her head loll against the top. It's hard to miss his hackles rising, but maybe this time she can have a decent conversation instead of dissolving into taking shots at one another...

"I don't like only relying on my Bond partner; I prefer to spread myself out so as not to drain him dry." She sits there in silence for another moment longer, then casts an eye at him and asks, "Did you ever get that housing thing sorted out? Alone, like you wanted?"

"As you say." Was Lahabrea going to relax? Not even remotely.

But leaving right now also wasn't an option. He tells himself it's because of simple blood loss, that he should finish his drink and pastry and be on his way as soon as he felt better, but 'felt better' is strange and nebulous a goal right now.

It's no real revelation that she has a Bond; the Warrior of Light was ever wont to make friendships and allies after all, why would that change here? "As I understand it from this place, some find such a thing exciting. Mayhap your Bond does as well, and you are denying him an entertaining evening." Which is possible, he supposed, but those who might be addicted to the thrill of dabbling with a vampire could likely find plenty of others to wile their time away with!

He wasn't one of those people. There was no great pleasure in a blood donation, it was simply useful. And in it he saw a future that would allow him to escape the revolting implications of a bond, as his own kind were rather sparse and other immortals too thin on the ground--

"Yes. Not of the Coven's granting, their generosity comes with caveats." And now he owned his own little patch! Not massive, not in the best of shape, but it was his and he could do with it as he pleased. The work there has kept him rather occupied, a thing he desperately needed more times than not, he didn't do idle well at all.

The pastry is rolled over in his hand, but not eaten. Sooner or later he should. "I wonder if the circumstances might otherwise be the same, had I succeeded in finding you before Hydaelyn did. This ... unwanted place. These unidyllic circumstances."

"I'm not worried. He gets plenty of that from me." And excitement he may need in his life, but she's making an effort to keep from irritating him with overexposure, too. Then again... perhaps he's used to it by now.

She picks her head up and looks at him, curious. "Why do you say that? If you had found me before Hydaelyn, what would you have done?" It's not like he could've elevated her, with Azem's seat all but forgotten from their ranks, right? He might rebuff the question as none of her damn business, but she may as well ask.

He does not ask - what other people do with each other simply isn't his business. It's for the best he doesn't know who that bondmate is exactly, given previous conversations with others.. as it is, mortals doing things with mortals.

"Occasionally you will find, should you live long enough to learn the lesson, denying an enemy an ally is reason enough to act." Almost absentmindedly he begins putting pieces of the pastry in his drink, where it sinks slowly. "Finding those distant traces of ancient power across the entirely of the Source before Hydaelyn can is oft a challenge but a worthy one to pursue when able."

That's right, he had a whole legion of underlings under his employ totally unrelated to the sundered Convocation, didn't he? She can't help but crack a smile at the thought.

"Well, that begs the question: if that had happened, would you have been more forgiving of my sense of humor, or would I have pissed you off too much regardless?"

Some people's personalities are simply not meant to be, after all. Her thoughts take her to wondering if Azem and Lahabrea had such a relationship; if Emet-Selch and Azem argued and made up time and time again, then perhaps it was a similar situation with two very strong-willed individuals.

"You, Elidibus, and Emet-Selch must have rubbed each other the wrong way pretty frequently, as it was. Being stuck for that long with only two others for company... it'd make anyone a little crazy."

"As you are, but otherwise free of Hydaelyn?" He frowns, slowly adding the rest of his pastry into his drink and giving it a slight swirl. This is not a conversation he should be having with an enemy. What good did it do? But it soothed a little the ache of want that he would eventually come to understand as the dragon's instincts and not his own.

The dragon is content to linger. "I think not. My tolerance of the antics of mortals is not extensive, but in turn we would not encounter each other." What would he need with some random mortal, whoever her soul used to be? The frown deepens. "Were you more truly our kind, bereft of memory but not power and longevity, then... moreso. Children are oft granted liberties that would be appalling in an adult. You would in time learn when and where such behavior is appropriate, and the right to exercise such knowledge."

Certainly he and the others barely tolerated each other, but that was the price they paid. "Do understand that there are many more of us than three. If one wishes to avoid those who grate, then there are others, or work to be done."

There were many more than three, she corrects mentally with a twitch of her lips. It's not even just her who's been picking them off, either, between Ardbert and Gaius. And probably even a handful of others she isn't aware of, at that.

"Ah, the type to bury yourself in work, I see... I'm familiar." There is a pause before she asks, "Was that how you were with Azem, too? They were quite the free spirit, after all... It seems like your philosophies might have clashed from time to time." Gods know Emet has told her the same, even though he was ostensibly the one Azem was closest with.

And they always return. What a futile effort it must be, trying to be rid of people who simply keep turning back up. A different face, a different voice... same soul.

A spoon is picked up, and the mess his drink's become squished around a bit, still as if he's not quite paying attention to what he's doing. Maybe he isn't! This matter of Azem.. well, he knew perfectly well who's soul she was a part of. Had noticed on their first meeting, in fact. Who wouldn't? But they weren't old coworkers. Not anymore. And Lahabrea spends a long, long few minutes considering this, the feathers along his tail finally, slowly laying flat again.

Of all the things he shouldn't be discussing. "No. Your impression of Azem might be a bit... mistaken. Azem was as dedicated to that seat as any of us were. What was required was done. None of it was frivolously tossed aside because there was something 'better to do' or simply 'not wanting to'." And then things came apart, and where was Azem when the fourteenth was needed the most? Where was the final voice to add to the chorus?

Behind his mask, Lahabrea's eyes close. He didn't mourn the past quite the same as emet-Selch did, but he hadn't forgotten it either. "All of us had our differences, but we knew how to work together. Azem might have tended towards behaviors I could not publicly condone, but that public front was not required behind closed doors. There are many of my works, my nightmares and Ifrita among them-" Not Ifrit, but close, "-that I would have never been able to see at full potential without Azem's timely ... 'interference'. None ever needed to question why Azem had such easy access to 'restricted' concepts, it was already common knowledge." One clawed hand gestures slightly; the lighting of the place turns some of the scales blood red. "Rest assured if you think our interactions have much similarity to what once had been.."

The sentence isn't finished. No. This was nothing like how things used to be. Certainly Azem could be trouble, and endlessly was, and said and did things that really didn't need saying and doing.. and caused constant problems and headaches for those who could not step out of bounds.. but they had all been staunch allies. It changed things.

"I see." The word choice is curt, but her attention is rapt on him, still curious as ever. Ifrita? She can't help but wonder if there's any relation to the present-day primal, but the answer to that seems to go without saying when it was the Paragons who taught the various tribes their summoning techniques to begin with. If they were keen on giving them the power, why not provide them the gods with which to perform it on as well? Even if, once upon a time, their purposes had been far different.

"I'm actually kind of glad to hear that. I had thought based on your reaction to Igeyorhm's shade that perhaps you were just like that to everyone... but you do treat your friends well, at least."

Not that it fixes the rest of his personality, but at least he retained something of himself, or remembers a time when he had. Irhya faces forward again, folding her hands in her lap.

"So, why sell your blood, anyway? Other than it being an easy, replenishable way to make coin, I suppose."

Edited 2020-12-13 14:29 (UTC)

The curtness works against her. It tells him she's not actually interested, and is here for something. But what? What was she after? What did she truly want, that led to her sitting through old stories? He'd have to be more mindful of the information he gave out.

"You are not the first to be astonished I did not treat an obvious illusion, an acknowledged manipulated dream, as if it were real. It was a nightmare, nothing more. It was not a true reflection of any reality at all. That you and others are surprised I might not treat it as the sad parody it is makes me question your collective grip on reality." Which is really saying something coming from Lahabrea, but he's convinced he's not wrong. They all knew it was a dream, and under something else's control, and anything deliberately designed to disturb them was thus an illusion. "None of it was real, and none of it had actual consequences, so what was done was irrelevant. Kill a 'friend', burn down a forest, throw those begging for their false lives into the void - it's meaningless."

Irhya really wasn't the first to question his actions in that setting. She might not be the last, he hadn't re-encountered everyone he came across there yet. But he had hesitated. Some impulses were too deeply ingrained. The rest he had not, and incinerating the wyld or some false copy of it wasn't an issue at all.

When matters turn to blood, for a long moment Lahabrea is silent, weighing. Was that her true purpose? Surely not given how easily it was to acquire here. But what a victory it would be, to feast upon one's endless foes. "It is an easy, replenishable way to acquire coin. This city sees not to the needs of its citizens without such, as mortals are wont to do."

Noticing the hesitation, she ends up doing the same herself. There's no denying it was a dream purposely designed to try and bait people into treating it as real, and that they all knew it wasn't. A very practical way of looking at things -- practical to a point of callousness, as she's beginning to learn.

"Perhaps, but even in the realm of the completely fictional, there is always a grain of reality somewhere. I don't know what it says about either of us for our handling of what creatures decided to take on shapes that once meant something, but your approach is..." pause, "it makes me wonder if I'm getting too soft, honestly."

She looks down at her hands, and continues, "Though about the blood, I guess that's reasonable. Witch's blood always has vampires toeing a fine line between addiction and malnourishment, so I guess monster blood isn't a bad idea for in-between."

"When you are certain the threat before you is naught more than an illusion shaped by its very design to cause you anguish, then yes, if you do not strike it down for the sheer offense of its existence, mayhap you are soft." And they had all been certain. What a strange situation it had been. More frightening would have been removing the certainty, and giving those illusions false reasons to strike.. "The only reality was the appearance. That was the grain of truth. The rest ... an insult to be answered with all the harshness it deserves."

Even when the insult is taking the form of some other mortal. Such an attempt was nothing more than spitting upon the true mortal, and what must surely have been some kind of friendship. How could anyone react with anything but fury?

But conjure up the same heretic, and change the situation, change the belief - and suddenly the dragon-lover woman is determined to protect her own versus the marauding threat, tricked perhaps by the selfsame dream...!!

No. The illusion failed, because it was so certain it was all a dream.

"To glance at the menu of this place, a wide variety is in offering. I must presume there is a distinct difference in taste, to allow such a wide variance in prices." It left him wondering if fae tasted like spun candy. Or bugs. Or sugar coated bugs.

"When you put it that way..."

One of her hands draws up to twiddle with the ends of her ponytail, a nervous tic she's never quite been able to kick. Why nervous, though? Perhaps she is getting too soft. Perhaps it's time to re-assess and go back to her roots.

...Which would probably entail that she stop caring so damn much about the Ascians, and their fates in the end. That's something she doesn't see herself letting go of so easily, though -- and so she ends up at a crossroads.

"Just because I shouldn't care doesn't mean I won't," she says with a sigh, "and that's all on me, I suppose. It is difficult to just... turn off the heart sometimes."

As Emet-Selch could likely attest, as well. She peers up at the mention of the menu, however. "Different people, different classifications... they all taste different as well, yes. I can't quite describe it, since it doesn't align with the tastes of a normal person, but it's definitely something. Not that I've had everything just yet, but from those I have had the opportunity to take from, that is. The one thing I can say is that witch's blood is... sweeter, somehow. It provokes a similar reaction to sweets for a normal person, but on a much greater scale."

This particular Ascian sighs. "Caring for one's kith and kin is one thing. Caring for an illusion you are aware is an illusion, designed to harm you, SHOULD be a very different matter for anyone, even your kind. Well I can tell you that even one of your Scion companions would not hesitate versus a mere image. I might rather strongly recommend finding a mage willing to put you to that test again and again and again until you can overcome a mere image."

It might be telling an enemy how to become stronger, but Lahabrea doesn't favor that particular sort of trick in combat, so it was irrelevant. And if someone else did, well, too bad for them, they should pick their targets more carefully.

The drink, now thoroughly sodden with bits of pastry, is actually drunk like that. It takes a bit more effort than some drinks, but he doesn't seem to hesitate. "I suppose in time I shall find out myself about witch blood, but the rest is not of particular interest. Still, it allows a bit of currency, or a meal that is more palatable, and that is enough.'

"Yeah, yeah." It's never easy to admit one's failings. "I still killed it, didn't I? I can do both."

But beyond that, it's hard to do much other than put up a front. She glances with mild disgust at his drink, now that he's effectively turned it into a bread milkshake. Still, like the oh-so-infamous Sharlayan archon loaf, a meal is a meal.

"Why do you say that? Are you supposed to be feeding on blood?" The light flecking of scales on his hands makes her think perhaps not, but she also isn't totally versed on the ins and outs of all the different monsters here.

Silence is the only response for quite a while.

Care must be taken. Must always be taken. If an ally had been vicious with his admittance of weakness, he could reasonably expect far worse from an actual enemy, and have such a thing cruelly exploited. It was bad enough that he'd been found here, worse that his changes were at least partly on display, Lahabrea would have to be mindful to make sure he didn't make things more humiliating yet.

A soggy drink isn't one of the things he finds such.

"A good question." And one he doesn't actually answer, as he's not entirely sure exactly what he's becoming - though he had some fairly solid ideas by now - and because it had absolutely nothing to do with diet and everything to do with the ferality that gripped monsters eventually. Inevitably. It could be staved off however.. "Mayhap like certain birds, it is required to maintain a colorful coat." He's certain that's not it at all, but it doesn't keep him from saying so.

"Well... it is an ingredient in a number of potions, to my knowledge, just like certain types of monster blood. I suppose it must have specific properties outside of just sustaining vampires."

Birds, though... he definitely wasn't going to be a harpy with those scales. But what had feathers and scales both? Hraesvelgr springs suddenly to mind, with his own beautiful scales and pristine feathers, but that's probably not it.

"They are very nice feathers, though," she adds neutrally, casting a glance at his tail. "Almost golden, like the firebird. Oddly appropriate in that sense, I suppose. If you find the right market for them, perhaps you could get by selling those, too."

Most birds have scales! He knows, he used to make them all the time. Scaly feet is just how it goes, and some have more scales up the legs than others do. "I have heard similarly. As spell components and more."

Witchblood potions were not ideal. It would do, in lieu of treating so frivolously the act of binding his soul to another as to do it with some random passer-by and not someone he'd had a relationship with for eons.

"I don't think I'll pluck myself for profit," he mutters. "The season is bitterly cold. Ishgard's clime stalks me across entire stars." It doesn't and he knows it but surely there's something to the idea that he left one frozen hellhole and found himself immediately in another one!

The feathers are quite comfortably insulating. Of all the things that did plague fire dragons, a weakness to cold wasn't going to ever be part of it unless that fluffy coat got wet.

A phoenix would be appropriate. Almost tolerable, he knew what to expect from their instincts. He wasn't sure yet that the pinions he was growing matched that first ecstatic bird, but ... but they were visually appealing enough. Weren't they?

"Were you visiting this place out of idle boredom, or do you have a purpose to it?"

She can't help but laugh at the comment about Ishgard; she remembers complaining about it too for the first fortnight or so, preferring the balmy temperatures of Vylbrand or the rich, earthy air of the Black Shroud herself. "Perhaps you'll molt when warmer times come! Then you can just collect the usable remnants and fork them over for a profit."

It almost -- almost feels as if she's laughing about it with a friend for a few moments, rather than civil conversation with someone who maintains adamant opposition to her. When he asks her about her purpose for being here, she looks down to her lap, sobering.

"Boredom, I suppose. I could feed, but I really shouldn't right now. I've been trying to space them out and keep them that way so as not to accidentally indulge too much, and then fall victim to an addiction. All I have to do is think of who I could hurt by feeding too much, and it makes the self-discipline aspect that much easier."

She tilts her head back and casts him an oblique glance. "And I rarely drink; I can't hold my alcohol worth shite. So I suppose that's the only excuse I have right now. I tend to go stir-crazy at times like these, when I'm not actively working on something."

He doesn't join in the laughter. Is he capable of anything other than lunatic cackling? That's really a good question - and one that goes unanswered for now. There's a snort though. If he had his way in the next rejoining Ishgard ... and for that matter nowhere at all on the Source ... will remain in perpetual winter. How hard would it be to skew the climate so hard everywhere was temperate simply to enjoy more comfortable weather when running around causing disasters?

They didn't need another calamity of ice. The remaining worlds could surely be tipped towards less miserable things.

Getting that one past the entire Convocation, simply because his dislike of the cold was ratcheting up rapidly the longer he had to endure and actually feel it, was going to be difficult but Lahabrea was up to the task. "Underdown mayhap, which usually molts out. I don't seem to have much of that at the moment.." And he has indeed checked, privately. The scales underneath, each feather hiding a scale, was definitely not what he's used to but there was a reasonable chance not all birds followed his designs.

"Surely witch blood alone is not required by your diet." He gestures vaguely to the menu, which is littered with options. "Indulge in a ... naga blood sausage."

It's true; she can eat other things, even if her body can't really use them as it used to. At the seemingly random suggestion, though, she can't help but smirk. "If I didn't know better, I'd almost think that sounded like an invitation to stick around for a while."

Perhaps it's worth considering, though. After a time, she waves someone over to put in an order, then looks back to him.

"If you're selling blood, you really ought to eat more than that, yourself," she remarks. "While we're here, after all, we only get the one body. May as well take care of it." After a pause, she adds carefully, "Are you actually blonde, or is that just a trait of the vessel you're in right now?"

"No." The answer is prompt and pure ice, though whether it's to her words or the smirk is questionable. "There are other seats." Lahabrea's tolerance only extends so far for any mortal, or frankly probably anyone at all, even with the grinding itch against his thoughts to be around others.

He's doing rather well, all things considered. But nothing lasts forever. "Pray, mortal of under three decades in experience, tell me more about how to care for bodies I've been wearing longer than your entire species have had a name to call yourselves." The mask prevents his expression from being withering, but somehow it's still there. It's ... so painfully easy to misstep with someone as touchy as Lahabrea, and the inherent hostility probably doesn't help much.

But he's well aware of what's best to have right after blood loss.. and it isn't a large meal, as far as experience has ever taught him. "...This vessel is blond, as the previous one had white, and the one before that russet. I don't modify the bodies I take, though my cohorts are often wont to do so."

Being old is not the same as being wise, Irhya doesn't say, even though the look on her face says as much. Instead, she crosses her arms, tipping her head back in stubborn disinclination to move. "Ah... I see. I guess physical form would lose a lot of meaning in those circumstances."

If she feels the chill from his emphatic response, she doesn't show it. Best not to let it bother her; he might get even more irate if she cowed to him so easily, or so goes the thought process.

A sigh. "I've no desire to tell you how to take care of it, just that you should endeavor to do so. And trivial though it may be to you, death is still a rather unpleasant process when you've only got one body to spend it on. Though I honestly wish there were a way to break the conformity to this world and get our original abilities back..."

No desire to tell him how--

"Not two breaths ago you did just that," the ascian points out, voice suspiciously soft. "As if speaking to someone who has not an idea in their heads as to how to even keep a body alive. And now you seem to suggest I might not know intimately what dying is like."

He uncoils slowly, red feathers sliding over rough black cloth. "Either it is deliberate, or you forget to whom ... and what ... you speak to."

Lahabrea's tone never changes from that same quiet pitch.

"I can't make a statement of fact?" she says wryly, making a face of distaste. "Look, I'm not trying to aggravate you. Mayhap stop reading into everything I say as something more sinister than it really is."

This time, the flare of offense does find a way up into her chest, manifesting as a slow breath out through her nose. "But let's not make a scene in the bar, yes? I'd rather keep bar brawls off the checklist, thanks."

"Calling opinion fact does not make it so, Warrior of Light." And his tone still hasn't changed. The quiet never gets rid of the dry rasp that's always present, but he's not yelling. He's not even going to be heard one booth over. "Mayhap learn to think before you speak, if you are not trying to be constantly, endlessly insulting. Would you as soon tell the bartender how to stir a drink? Or a sparrow what it is like to fly?"

But he's also still moving. His meal, such as it was, had been paid for in blood, and the remaining cunes long since pocketed. But these seats are not made for his changing proportions, and unwinding takes care and time. It looks languid and deliberate. "You continue to live up to my every expectation for your kind."

"Good grief... most people in a normal conversation would just agree with the sentiment and leave it at that, you know. But since it's me, and you're inevitably going to be offended by anything I say to you, I guess it doesn't matter."

She shrugs, then crosses one leg over the other. Maybe their personalities just don't mesh. Or maybe the natural bias against one another puts them at odds a little too much to mix well.

"What are your expectations, then? That implies there are those of 'my kind' you'd actually become friendly with under the right circumstances."

What does, however, matter, as far as Lahabrea is concerned.. "You labor under the illusion I treat you any differently than I treat anyone else," the ascian snaps. "And given your previous words of boredom I would dare to venture you don't speak to your companions much better than you speak to me, else you would be with them and not skulking in bars out of a lack of anything else to do."

Projecting his issues with isolation onto someone else does not make those problems legitimate, though she surely did have plenty of friends to visit and entertain herself with. The Warrior of Light was rarely lacking in companions, after all.

For a moment, he's torn. Some places insist used utensils are left behind, others prefer it if they were brought to the counter, and he doesn't quite remember which this place expected. After a long moment's hesitation he picks up his cup and fork. Right move? Wrong move? The small dish, likewise acquired. To the bar with them? ... Why not, he already had them.

Unfortunately, what he meant by Irhya living up to his expectations of mortals is anything but flattering. "I expect your kind to be petty, thoughtless and quick to blame their mistakes on others, at every possible opportunity." And she did not disappoint! In another few Rejoinings, when her soul was whole and this ridiculous mayfly life washed away under the force of Azem's experience and mind, who knows where things would lead. Certainly Azem would not, could not approve of their actions.. but what was done by that point would not be so easily undone, and he would burn that bridge when he came to it.

Her eyes follow him as he puts his implements onto the bar, very politely considering the scathing things currently coming out of his mouth. "Perhaps so, but it would also be remiss to think there's no bias there at all, whether it be for one or for all. It was the same with Emet-Selch. You see only the elements you want to see, and for me, it's ill intent."

That she uses past tense for him makes her expression thin a little more; besides which, the implication that she treats her friends like garbage is not one she's willing to take lying down. "Sure, I speak informally, but that doesn't mean I don't take care of the people I love. And to be honest, being nocturnal is enough of a hindrance for me in that regard anyway. When I wake up is when most people are starting to wind down."

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Time for some headcanon

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