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emberdance) wrote2026-01-13 03:42 pm
emberdance) wrote2026-01-13 03:42 pmopen post
OPEN POST
pm for plotting ✦ info / permissions
emberdance) wrote2026-01-13 03:42 pm
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Needless to say, it's unusual for respected guests to arrive at night⸻ but Azar-Ban is nothing if not accommodating to the unusual.
Crow's day job, these days, is essentially to attend parties. The king throws a lot of them, for every occasion he can think of ⸻ everything from the arrival of royal guests to holidays that nobody has celebrated for a thousand years ⸻ and Crow's job is to entertain, to enamor, and to ply whatever politician or business's opinion that's currently paying him. It's no secret that he's for sale, and in this royal court, that's tolerated because his price is extremely high; only the wealthy can buy his services, and thus, only people that the king thinks are worth his attention. The king is a philanthropic man, and Azar-Ban is a city where anybody can thrive, but he's royalty. Of course he has his biases.
Still, it's not usually Crow's job to personally greet new arrivals. There's a whole committee for that, headed by a woman named Phosphor, the type of person who's friendly but in the slimiest of ways, always bowing and scraping for the approval of the guests she's trying to entertain. So when the king had off-handedly told Crow to go welcome their newest guest as he arrived that night, he had of course questioned why.
Because he's clearly an odd duck, and I think you'd have more luck charming his pants off, the king had replied merrily. You always manage to find a way to get the weird ones in your favour.
So, here Crow is. Waiting outside the outer gate. Azar-Ban is a walled city, enormous and sprawling, with the royal complex at the north end set up against a series of red walled cliffs, and residential suburbs radiating outward from there. Beyond its walls lays a desert of golden-red sand, brutal to travel through even in the cooler seasons, but many make the trip nonetheless. Azar-Ban is a jewel in the desert, rich with local mining resources and trade. The walls are high sandstone, guards patrolling atop it visible by the pinprick light of their torches in the night.
And there, over the nearest crest of dunes, comes their visitor.
A couple of camels trail behind him, heavily laden with supplies. Otherwise, Phyre cuts a lone figure in the desert, curiously enigmatic. Crow has met esoteric scholars before, but this one has a particular reputation.
Crow rises to meet him. Dressed in black, his pants are loose at the thigh and knee, tight with dark bandages wound around the shin. Similarly, his shirt is a gauzy thing, draped off the shoulder and loose around his forearms but tight with leather cuffs at his wrists. Jewelry drapes him in a way that should be ostentatious, but somehow he makes it work, thin golden chains clasped over his chest and gold glittering in a braid in his hair. He's not especially dressed up, only a little ⸻ Phyre's arriving at night, after all, one can't expect a man to be in his court best at night, for god's sake.
"Phyre, scholar of Constantinople," he greets when the man reaches the front gate, swung open and welcoming. Crow's expression splits in a smile, somewhere between welcoming and a little too charming for his own good, not even bothering to hide it. "The gates of Azar-Ban welcome you, shield you, and nurture you ⸻ may this city treat you well, and may its people treat you as their own." Formalities, you know how they are. "I am As The Crow Flies, but you can call me Crow. The king sent me to welcome you and escort you to the apartments you'll be staying in."
His gaze tracks to the camels, curious. "Is this truly all you travel with? Most come with an entire retinue."
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His position at court had afforded him more luxuries than most - after all, a non-Muslim in the court of the Sultan was nearly unheard of, but his abilities could not be denied - and his reputation was one of legend. A wandering scholar who had been across the world, calling at ports and cities on nearly every continent; what brought him to Azar-Ban, however, was something in particular. Something unusual. Whether Crow knew it or not, Phyre had come looking for him. Not on his own behalf, of course, but through House Tremere: someone somewhere had wanted the assassin's services for something and, as a favor to those in power, the Nomad had been sent on this quest.
He was, after all, still just an Elder. Above him there were the Methuselah; why they could not do this themselves, he did not know, but here he was, at their behest, entering the gaudy, loud city that, in all sorts of ways, tugged back at his heartstrings for Constantinople. A city that was once home. A jewel in the desert, indeed. The lone wanderer, upon arriving at the gates with only his pack animals and himself - clad in Bedouin-style dress to guard against both the sun and the sand - raises just the brim of his keffiyeh to expose dark, blood-red eyes that peer out from under a dusting of dark, sable strands. His face, however, is still hidden by silks and masks.
"I am he," he affirms, his Balkan accent heavy through his speech. He was clearly not native to the city from which he hailed, indeed coming from a land beyond the gates of the grand city long ago. While he is not in any state to match the fineries his host is dressed in - sandy, bogged down by heavy clothing, and most of all, ravenous - he begins to unwind the facial coverings that had protected him from the sandstorms and winds on his way here. Once he has done so, Crow will see the delicate but stark features of the ancient man: delicate, high cheekbones; long, dark hair that ends in snowy white tips; those deep, fiery eyes.
"Thank you for the welcome," offers the scholar, bowing his head in gratitude for the hospitality, the charms in his ears jingling against one another as he does so. The name gives him a brief flight of wonder if the other is, also, a mage who can project himself to get a view matching his name but such questions can be posed later. Leading his tethered beasts of burden forward as they move to enter the gates, he nods.
"I need no escort, simply the supplies for my journey and my work here. My animals will need to rest, however, as it has been many moons of travel." And he, too, finds himself needing to feed. The beast rising within grows hungry; only so many highwaymen on the path could slake his thirst and in stretches of long distance with no civilization choices were few and far between. Much like Phyre's words; unlike Crow who seems bright and happy to engage in conversation, the Magister uses only the words needed to express what must be said.
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Crow's dark gaze is openly interested as Phyre unwinds his facial coverings, raking over him in the same way Crow examines everything: like a lazy panther deliberating whether to eat or to fuck. Those blood-red eyes are captivating, like a desert sunset in the middle of a sandstorm, dark and blazing. Phyre is a handsome man, for an esoteric scholar. And here Crow had been expecting some withered old fart.
"Your animals will be boarded at the royal stables, of course," Crow offers. He begins to lead them through the gate, as the guards up top peer down at them, and Crow waves them away, letting them know that the visitor is harmless. "For the duration of your stay, the king spares no expense on his guests. Your apartments will be right next to the palace."
Even at night, the city of Azar-Ban is alive. The suburb outskirts are quiet enough, though, and they start their way down the long road that runs a fairly straight path through the suburbs and straight into the inner city, and then, the palace. It's no more than half an hour walk, but it's an enjoyable one. Here, the stone and clay houses are well spaced apart, palm trees lining the white-paved streets. Lanterns are set in the road every ten meters or so, set atop magnificent statues of vulture-winged lions which line the royal road like sentinels.
"May I ask what your speciality is?" Crow hums, cutting a Phyre a glance somewhere between amused and thoughtful. "There are no shortage of scholars here, but an esoteric scholar is a decidely rarer breed."
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"You are looking at me as if you are a thirsty man in a desert who has just seen an oasis," the vampire observes, eyes glittering with a mixture of threat and mirth before they begin to walk through the gate. "It is not often someone is so bold in my presence."
The city's bustle does, however, take his attention for the moment. It feels like home. It makes him long for the Grand Bazaar of Constantinople. For days he cannot return to. Even the scale of it takes him back to those times and he finds himself reminiscing in silence during their lengthy walk until he is woken from his reverie by the question posed to him about what exactly it is that he does.
"Thaumaturgy." The answer is given with no elaboration, as doing so would likely cause Phyre to have to wipe Crow's memory; House Tremere was very secretive about their dealings and even mentioning their clan discipline was taboo. However, considering the diplomatic mission and importance of this particular errand, he was sure he could at least mention this. Much less mortal knowledge being what it is, it was likely assumed to be something else entirely.
"I am a Magister by trade." What he really means is, he deals in blood magic and curses. Rituals and unseen shadow. These words go unspoken and hang heavy behind the weighted terms, lingering just beyond the acceptable rhetoric he is allowed to speak. Gazing at his escort out of the corners of his eyes with that sanguine stare, he raises a brow.
"You ask out of familiarity with the art? Or mere curiosity?"
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Phyre is a different kind of beast altogether.
"Thaumaturgy, hmm? A simple term for a field so broad," Crow hums, reaching up to pat one of Phyre's camels as they're led alongside them. "I know a little, but I'm no scholar." He slants Phyre a dark, amused glance, making no attempt to hide the fact that he is hiding something of his own, a secret laid bare and tempting behind his eyes. Still, it's not much of a lie ⸻ he isn't a scholar, and he's no great mage, either. He knows the tricks that the assassin's guild have taught him, small magics of sleight of hand or escaping notice. Magic isn't outlawed in Azar-Ban, but nobody makes a show of it either, keeping it to the shadows and the dark outskirts, hiding it behind reasonable explanations.
So, yes, he is curious. How much might Phyre know, to be considered a scholar in the art? His breadth of knowledge must be wide indeed ⸻ Crow would love to pick his brain.
Then, with a grin as sharp as a blade's edge: "Is it so terribly unusual for people to flirt with you? That's a shame; you've got the kind of face that's well worth flirting with. If the average person is scared off by your mysterious aura, well, that just leaves more opportunities for the bold, doesn't it?"
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"If you do not already know, then you are not meant to. And if you are wise, you will not attempt to learn." There is a faint but distant smile upon his lips; it is not threatening, but rather restrained. As if musing over the danger his answer might carry. "Thaumaturgy is a matter of lineage, not curiosity. Be grateful for that distinction."
Indeed, it was the way of blood and the curse his carried. His house's art and the dangerous methods behind it. Outsiders were forbidden. While Crow may have had secrets of his own, Phyre could not control what the House of Tremere would do to the both of them should he let anything slip; it was for both of their own safety that he remained tight-lipped about such things. It would be a shame to see such a lovely creature turned into nothing but viscera.
"Let us speak instead of matters that concern you," he diplomatically redirects, instead seizing on the offer of flirtation. Gently tugging on one of the camels' bridles to bring the wandering creature back in line, he hums before answering the question.
"Boldness is not the same as wisdom," he says with mild amusement playing in his voice. "But... I suppose I can admire the aesthetic choice. Do be careful. People who flirt with me rarely understand what they are volunteering for." Blood. Fangs. The kiss that brings ecstasy and lust-blown eyes between movements and heat. His victims experiencing their last moments in intense sexual pleasure before their eyes close for what might be their final time. That was what lay behind those fearsome, hellish eyes that now take in the grinning assassin whose smile seems as sharp as the teeth below the vampire's lips.
"You would open that door?" The corner of his mouth twitches - not quite a smile, but something lurking there.
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Still, he's wise enough not to push right now. Whatever magic is in Phyre's bloodline, it's obviously kept an incredibly strict secret. Forbidden knowledge: how enticing.
Phyre then proceeds to warn him off flirting, too, and Crow scoffs.
"First you tell me I'm not allowed to know about your school of study, and now I'm being told I shouldn't flirt with you." Crow puts a hand to his chest, dramatic. "Are you intending to rob me of every avenue of fun?"
Oh, but Phyre is dangerous. Crow can practically smell it. It's in those dark red eyes, in the severe lines of his cheekbones, in the aura of mystery that clings to him like smoke. Crow has met plenty a man that wanted to be seen as dangerous, and they're all the same: puffed up and hollow, full of angry bluster and empty arrogance. Phyre, on the other hand, is all lazy amusement, a lion laying in the sun and idly lifting a lip to show off a sharp fang. There's a rumor that the man has some kind of blood disease ⸻ not something that sickens and weakens a man, but something other, something that makes him strange and mad.
The buildings on the streets are getting narrower and more crowded now that they're closer to the palace, the sound of music carrying on the wind from bars and taverns further up the road.
"Aren't locked doors far more interesting than ones held wide open and easy?" Crow laughs. "You're a metaphorical barred door with layers of chains and boards holding it shut; it only makes one determined that there must be a great treasure inside."
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"You are not being robbed of fun. You are being spared consequence. A barred door is not always hiding treasure," he says calmly in a level, even tone. "Sometimes it is keeping something in." At last, he glances to Crow, expression carefully blank, unreadable and impassive.
"And the men who decide to pick the lock rarely live long enough to regret their curiosity." A warning, though one not issued for anything but the other's safety; he cannot guarantee the satiation of the Beast. The way it howls within; a predator that can never be sated. It is only through keeping mortals at arm's length that he can truly keep them safe. Phyre studies him for a moment longer than necessary, as though deciding something.
"Men who romanticize danger tend to forget that danger is not there to entertain them." He murmurs after a long moment - his voice threatening to be lost in the bustle of the city.
He steps just a fraction closer as they walk, voice still low enough to feel deliberate.
"You are free to flirt if you must. But understand this - every liberty I grant you exists only because I continue to find you... Tolerable. Do not mistake that for safety." Each word underscores the danger. Every opportunity for Crow to take his leave is there, even if he chooses not to. The treasure hiding behind those chains and bars is ugly, fanged, clawed. Something so terrible even he feels it must stay locked behind the walls. Turning his gaze across the city - which threatens to close in on them further, forcing him into closer quarters once again with the flitting flirt - he draws in on himself just a little further.
"What lies behind my doors is not gold," he says at last, a faint tinge of regret lingering behind his eyes if Crow looks close enough to notice. Only death and centuries of agony.
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Point taken: Phyre is very convinced of his own danger, and Crow's an excellent judge of character, so it's all too obvious that Phyre isn't just blowing hot air up his own ass. This isn't posturing or empty arrogance; there's real history and emotion behind everything he's saying.
And yes, it does just make Phyre even more fascinating.
Still, he supposes he'll pull back a touch. It's never a good idea to flirt so hard that one becomes offputting ⸻ he's stated his interest, he's happy to leave it on a slow simmer for now, bubbling away in the background of their interactions. So he shoots Phyre one last considering glance, and then gets down to business. And he's timed it perfectly: they round a corner on the street, and turn into the long straight stretch of road toward the palace. The road is wider here, more elegantly paved, stretching into the distance toward the palace half-carved into red cliffs and lit up by hundreds of lanterns.
"Well, shall I tell you what to expect? Having hired you for your knowledge, the king will want to consult you on various academic matters ⸻ what those are, not even I know, as he keeps some secrets close to his chest ⸻ but you won't be on call all day, expected to flit to his location at any given moment. No, like any civilized man, the king will set regular private appointments with you instead, and outside of those, you'll be free to entertain yourself as you see fit." Which, Crow thinks, is pretty generous, considering how whimsical and demanding most monarchs can be ⸻ indeed, even the king of Azar-Ban can be like that occasionally, but perhaps he feels the need for temperance here. "I've been given the honor of being your tour guide; should you ever want for knowledge about where to go, I'll be your ever-so-informative map."
And then he can use that time to try to figure Phyre out! His plan is flawless.
"Tomorrow, you should write up a list of supplies that you'll need, and I'll endeavour to get everything to you." A gesturing flick of the wrist, setting off the bells he wears around it. "I appreciate that some of your thaumaturgical needs may be extremely obscure and hard to get, but if there's anywhere that caters to the unusual, it's this city."
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"Regular appointments," he repeats thoughtfully. "How considerate of him. Most rulers prefer their scholars exhausted and grateful for the privilege." That was how things were in Constantinople, at least. To even be considered for court was an honor shed only upon those expected to be eternally grateful in all ways.
The thought was stomach-turning.
At Crow's offer of guidance, the scholar tilts his head; the look he gives him is measured and assessing, but not unkind. He does have to admire the man's ambition.
"Very well," he says. "You may act as my map. But understand this: maps are useful only when they do not lie." The chiming of clarions around the assassin's wrist draws his attention for a brief moment - eyes lazy and slow beneath the half-moons of lowered lids - before he returns his full focus to his companion.
"Supplies, yes. You will receive a list. You will receive a list. It will contain nothing you cannot acquire." The means of obtaining things outside the reach of mortals always falls to his kind; nothing that could teach them of things they should not know. A faint curve touches his mouth, more shadow of a smile than the thing itself. Perhaps it is the hunger within him - roaring, clawing, fire burning up within his being - or simply the fact that the other man skirts the unknown and dances on the razor's edge. Something takes hold of him; he looks forward again, the palace drawing nearer.
"You wished to see behind my doors, yes? You are free this evening?"
The words are spoken with such casual certainty it's almost unsettling. After such strong denials, to change his heart: something dangerous beyond those doors lies. And yet the fangs beneath his lips remind him, the craving inside curls its claws. The warning was laid as salt upon the earth and still Crow looks at him as if he is a puzzle to solve. So let him solve it with blood and teeth.
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Tomorrow, he is sure, Phyre will spend his time meeting the king, and Crow will almost certainly spend all day at the market haggling for whatever bizarre supplies Phyre wants. Gods, he just hopes it's not a list full of animal entrails or something. He is in no way squeamish, but the weather is unexpectedly temperate this week, and he wants to enjoy the day, not spend it carting around dripping packages of entrails and eyeballs that might splash on his new boots.
Phyre's next words have Crow's gaze darting toward him, wide in faint surprise at first, and then narrowing in cat-like pleasure.
"I suppose I could free up some time in my busy schedule," he replies, deliberately airy and casual, to offset the depths he can hear in Phyre's words but cannot yet divine what those depths might be. "I should, of course, make sure you're settled into your apartments. I can even bring a bottle or two of local wine by ⸻ for shameless advertisement purposes, you see."
What's the catch? Crow cannot help but think that there will be one. Phyre's immediate reaction to his flirtations was to warn him away, and now he's being invited in? A man like Phyre does not easily change his mind, Crow senses, but perhaps he is still subject to whims and flights of fancy like any other man. Perhaps there's a catch, perhaps Crow's flirtations just had a delayed effect, who knows?
The only way to know for sure will be to turn up later this evening, to satisfy his own curiosity.
The night is still getting darker as they continue down the path to the palace, and as they get close enough to see the battlefield carvings detailed over every inch of the columns, Crow turns them to the left instead, a sprawling complex of individual apartments built in red stone and clay. Its garden is immaculately kept, wild flowers of paradise bursting on trellises and lush grass underfoot. "Here we are," he announces cheerfully, gesturing with a gloved hand. "See the penthouse? That's yours. It even comes with access to its own private hot springs."
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As the apartments come into view, the elder slows his steps; his attention drawn not to the garden - lush as it is - but to the way the space is arranged. He pauses upon the threshold, the scarlet fire of his gaze sweeping the area as if he is measuring the courtyard of the lodgings rather than admiring it. Exits and entrances, pathways and rooftops; ever the Nomad, ever the escapist. Most faithful to his name and to his instincts. Still holding the bridle of what passes for his caravan, he tilts his head while looking back to his guide.
"Efficient," he says at last. Not praise, exactly, but approval lives close to it. "And the beasts? Where shall we be leaving them?" The lanternlight catches his face, carving sharp lines and deeper shadows, red eyes steady and unreadable.
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"Phyre, my good sir, this is Anuket," he gestures to the woman, "and Akhem," and then to the man. "They run these apartments, and you'll find no hospitality better in all the city. It's a family business, you see, so their entire sense of pride is wound into every stone brick."
Anuket almost rolls her eyes fondly at Crow's teasing grin, but stops short of actually doing it. Instead, she bows her head to greet Phyre, Akhem doing the same a moment after her. "We have been expecting you, Scholar Phyre," she greets. "Your rooms are already set up, and an evening meal will be delivered momentarily." She glances behind her, and makes a gesture ⸻ an eager young girl runs forward to skid to a halt next to the camels, reaching up to stroke their noses and soothe them. "Sepa will take your steeds, and they will be housed in the royal stables not far from here."
Crow watches as other attendants come forward to start unloading all of the packs from the camel's backs, and starts mentally planning his day tomorrow. First, he'll get the list from Phyre in the morning, and he'll spend the day getting what supplies he needs. His evening, amusingly, is already booked.
Amidst the flurry of activity, Crow says to Phyre, "If you could write that list tonight and leave it with Anuket and Akhem, I'll pick it up in the morning and get to work." He bows low, exaggerated. "Alas, I must leave you for tonight, as I am sure you are weary from your travels. But I'm certain the hospitality here will refresh you for our meeting tomorrow."
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"My thanks," he says to the servitors when there is a break in the bustle, his voice even and warm without being familiar. "Your preparations are appreciated. Few things ease travel-weariness so effectively as competence." The dark red flicks briefly to Sepa as she soothes the camels, a quiet approval there, before returning to Crow. "That will be no trouble," Phyre replies. "I will have the list prepared before the night is out. You will find nothing on it that stains your boots." He pauses then, eyes narrowing just slightly with dry amusement.
"I trust you will exercise restraint in my absence and procure precisely what is written, rather than what merely catches your interest." Crow's exaggerated bow earns him the faintest curve of a smile before he stops for just a moment. The morning. The presence of sun. Phyre bristles at the mention but outwardly projects a calm facade. "I am unable to venture out into the sun. It is... Part of my condition. I shall have to receive you inside. But do enjoy your evening. I expect you alive, functional, and punctual come morning."
As Crow departs, Phyre turns back to the twins. The quickness of movement does not hurry him; instead, he allows himself a still moment, surveying the stonework, the angles of the entryway, the careful pride evident even in the way the attendants move through the space. "This place is well tended," he observes with care. "You honor your family name." Then, with a slight inclination of his head toward Anuket, deliberate but restrained: acknowledging authority where it is due. "I will not be a difficult guest. If there are customs I should observe, I would rather be informed than forgiven." There is no flirtation in his tone - perhaps a stark difference from Crow - but there is respect, and something like quiet interest. Enough to suggest that while the scholar does not seek to be impressed, he does notice when care is taken.
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He leaves Phyre in their efficient care, and sets out to report back to the king, or rather, the king's staff, since the man is abed by this hour. Crow is not far behind.
In the morning, he touches base with Phyre to gather the list. Because of Phyre's unusual condition about sunlight, Crow makes sure to turn up before the sun fully rises. He flirts a little, feigns offense at the accusation that he'd stray from the list in favour of shiny things, gives Phyre updates on the forecast and amusing news from around the city, and finally departs to let Phyre have his breakfast in peace. Mostly because Akhem gives him subtle shoo motions as he's bringing the plates to Phyre's apartments.
He spends the next half-day in the markets, hunting down everything on Phyre's list. Crow is extraordinarily tempted to amuse himself and throw in some extra things here and there, but he decides to stick precisely to the list as written, and it's not long before he has a camel laden with trunks full of esoteric ingredients and equipment. He has that delivered to the apartments, where it will wait outside Phyre's door until the man is ready to recieve it.
And then, finally, it is evening, and Crow turns up as invited. Phyre had made no secret that the invite for the evening was likely sexual in nature, and so, Crow is very curious ⸻ the same man had tried to warn him off initially, only to invite him closer in the end. A man of fascinating contradictions.
Dressed casually in loose black pants and a sleeveless black vest, his porcelain and gold prosthetic glints in the lantern light as he leans against the door, gold jewelry strung though his ears and hair and draped over his chest. The sun is just beginning to set, hidden enough behind the cliff face that none will be making its way into Phyre's apartments ⸻ he checked, just to be thorough ⸻ and so Crow knocks. When the door opens, he greets Phyre with a nod to the chests that lay outside his door.
"Delivery for a Lord Phyre?" He grins. "I'm not the usual delivery boy, I know, but I can still help you carry them inside, if you like."
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When Crow arrives, he is still awake, having availed himself to one of his tomes for the evening - after a little night wandering, of course - and deflecting the flirting with well-placed ripostes and warnings, though none of them overly sharp or barbed. Simply little warnings that could likely be taken as invitations for the overly flirtatious man dancing through every "where thou shalt fear to tread" as if it were some sort of invitation to danger. Once the shiny-finder has departed, the scholar moves to find slumber, solace from the sun.
Clothing is changed - a lightweight kurta and churidar pants, comfortable and practical for the purpose - before he slips into the furniture offered to him for this purpose. Before long, the red gaze flickers under heavy lids. It is dreamless. As it always is. Torpor, though short, is never pleasant. Simply darkness. A passage of time as the sun moves through the sky. While Crow spins his tales and form through the market, the elder lies silent and still in his bed, mind full of nothing and thoughts a void.
The rise of the moon heralds the end of his rest, a hand brought to his forehead as he sorts through the memories of the day prior. Yes, he is to entertain the flitty bird this evening; and good timing, too. The hunger is rising within.
Alas, he has no time to switch to something more formal - his magicked clothing, something with a bit more flair even - before the door is gently rapped upon. Crow will instead receive the vampire with slightly mussed hair and wrinkled bedwear.
"You are early, too efficient for your own good," the Balkan intones as the door slides open, midnight strands loose around his face, the darkness around his face and the earthen tones of his clothing a stark difference to the milky, pallid hue of his skin.
"I have not yet changed. I hope that will not be a problem. You may go inside. I will handle the delivery." The door creaks open all the way, the figure within moving aside to allow Crow entry first before he himself moves outside. With relative ease - as if the chests were nothing but straw - he lifts and carries them within, depositing each somewhere they will be out of the way before the door thuds shut behind him.
"Thank you. If you will wait a moment, I will wash up and change."
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Crow had had Phyre pegged as a man of impeccable demeanour. A man who took great pains to present to the world exactly the picture that he wanted to painstakingly paint, and not a single bit less. But here he is, sleep-rumpled and mussed.
It's an unexpectedly endearing sight. Like watching a wolf waking up, soft and blinking sleepily in the moments before it turns back into a creature of the wild.
"I'd say you hardly need to go to the effort on my account, but if you insist," Crow hums, moving into the apartment. He carries in the dinner that had been delivered minutes before, once perched neatly atop a delivered crate of materials, now in Crow's hands as he carries it to the table and chairs within, set near the expansive (and currently curtain-covered) windows. Crow's tempted to brush the heavy drapes aside, but he has no idea the extent of Phyre's enmity with the sun ⸻ as the last dregs of it are still in the sky, he'll let Phyre decide when the curtains open.
Besides, it looks like dinner is actually a breakfast spread ⸻ the twins have also caught on to Phyre's different schedule ⸻ so he'll occupy himself with brewing some coffee and tea.
He moves to the kitchen, familiar with the layout of these apartments, and finds both teapot and coffee press. As Phyre washes up, Crow calls, "I hope you have an appetite, because by the looks of the breakfast provided, they think they're feeding an army."
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While busying himself, he takes the time to change into his preferred attire - a warlock's frock coat and brocade embroidered pants, both emblazoned in black, red, and adorned with a hint of gold embroidery - before stepping back out into the apartment proper, adjusting the buttons at his collar. His sleeves have been neatly adjusted, his hair fixed into proper place. Order established and deliberate where all should be.
It is then that his red, hellish gaze falls upon the table and its bounty and he pauses where he stands. One cannot deny the spread is generous: bread still warm, soft cheeses, honey, figs split open like garnets, spiced eggs, roasted meats. The scent of it hangs rich in the air, tempting to any who could stomach it. For a moment - perhaps too long - he says nothing, his expression carefully blank.
"I am afraid their generosity will be wasted," comes his even, almost deadpan reply. It is not discourteous, but simply a matter of observation. Taking another step forward, he approaches the table but neglects to take a seat. Those dark, unrelenting eyes trace the fare without hunger, absent of desire or need. Simple calculation, as one would study a still-life.
"My condition prevents me from eating such fare. It does not agree with me."
It is a truth, but a softened one. Should he attempt to eat, even to humor his benefactor, it would be as ash upon his tongue. And only moments later he would eject it from his body, perhaps causing more concern than anything.
"But do not let my failings prevent you from enjoying it. It would be improper to let Anuket and Akhem's efforts go unappreciated." Continuing his pace past the table, he pauses just alongside Crow in the kitchen, glancing at him out of the corners of his eyes.
"As for appetite," he begins, voice heavy in the quiet stillness; the dark red gaze is steady and unblinking. "I can assure you that I have one. It is simply selective."