A/N: Victubia's not my idea and none of these people are my brain babies! For more background on Victubia, visit their tumblr or devianart. The links don't work on FF, but Google is your friend. That being said, NONE OF THIS CANON! Just roll with it, yo.
Hope you enjoy.
"Midnight, everybody! Who wants another round?"
A roar of approval swept over the crowd, the wordless cheer reaching the rafters of the high ceiling. Individuals started calling out requests over the music and easy chatter that filled the festive air in the Late Night. Pulling out more cocktail shakers, Lord Cryaotic tried hard to keep the pout from his voice.
"You know I appreciate the business, Russ, but do you have to let them choose their drinks every time?"
It wasn't working.
"Aw, come on, Cry," Sir Money leaned back on his barstool perch with an easy grin. "It's more of a challenge this way! Didn't you say you were practicing some new spelled drinks?"
"Sure, but everyone's made it into a game: who can order the most complicated drink and confuse Cry into making the wrong order."
His voice had a definite sulk to it, but he set an array of glasses before him as he spoke. Even though the mask never tilted away from Russ, his hands fluttered between gleaming bottles and poured precise measures of liquor in a complicated dance.
"I offered to help before and you wouldn't let me," a monotone voice observed. Lady Red calmly ignored the bar's lifting counter and vaulted over the gleaming mahogany surface to land softly beside Cry.
"Because you were sneaking shots behind my back! I can't mix any drinks if you steal all the ingredients. You shouldn't be drinking on the job anyway."
"You underestimate my tolerance," Red blithely replied, picking up and knocking back a shot without missing a step or letting her tray slip from her arm.
Cry huffed and Russ grinned as Red sauntered towards the kitchen's swinging doors. Focusing once more on the drinks, Cry added the last few garnishes before sliding the whole assortment towards Russ.
"Alright, hot brandy flip and a custom bloody Mary for table 2, a dirty black Russian for table 10, all the whiskey sours go to table 13, and the Liquid Balls goes to – oh, almost forgot."
Russ glanced up from moving the glasses to a tray. Cry had lifted the last cocktail and was cradling the clear, fizzing liquid in one hand. As he murmured what sounded like nonsense, his palm and the liquor glowed with a neon light, highlighting the white of his mask in fluorescent green. With a gentle wave of his other hand, the glow peaked then faded, leaving the steaming drink gently glowing like radioactive waste from a superhero cartoon. Russ eyed it as Cry carefully set the finished cocktail on his tray.
"Done! Table 6, good sir."
"Yeeeaaah, I was going to ask about that. Liquid Balls?"
"Liquid Courage was already taken, so Pewds came up with the next best thing."
Russ gave his friend a look over the glass, but the bartender's face was unreadable under the bone-white mask.
"It wards off hate and increases the drinker's charisma. Side-effects include feeling on top of the world and a higher chance of impressing the ladies."
Russ quirked an eyebrow at the drink one last time before shrugging.
"Whatever works, I guess," he muttered as he lifted the tray to his shoulder.
Behind the mask, Cry gave his retreating friend a wry grin.
With a temporary lull in orders, Cry had a moment to lean his hip against the bar and absent-mindedly clean the collection of used shakers and utensils that had accumulated since the last round. His thoughts wandered as he took in the building that had become both his livelihood and home.
The crowd was good tonight, lively and cheerful. Laughs and loud conversations were passed around more than drinks. A good number took advantage of the large dance floor and pulsing beat. The town's small group of haters and idiots had decided not to visit the famous bar for once and no one had started a yelling match about PC vs console. All-in-all, an awesome night to chill with friends and love his job.
Of course, the Late Night Bar was never known for its peace and quiet.
"Welcome to the Leppy!" a few of the more tipsy patrons near the entrance cried. Cry turned just as the double doors closed on the chill night breeze. A woman glanced curiously around the expansive bar and turned to Lord Jund, who was manning the entrance. And spoke to him, judging by the way Scott tilted his ear towards her. Intrigued, Cry shifted to lean on his other hip and carefully watched the newcomer. He didn't recognize her face, although most citizens of Victubia wandered into his bar eventually. A traveler, or someone visiting a relative, then. By the intricacy of the lady's midnight blue gown, she was a noble with a handful of hired help to pin her golden hair in a mass of braids and lace her stiff corset. Odd, considering the lateness of the hour and her lack of escort or company. And Jund was leading the strange lady straight to the bar.
Sensing trouble, Cry set the glass in his hands down and threw a dish towel over his shoulder in a deceptively casual gesture. As they came closer, he could see Jund was sending him a confused look that said 'I don't know what's going on, but hopefully I'm not dumping anything too bad on you.' Great.
Cry also noticed that the lady had a strange air about her. The ramrod straight shoulders, delicate steps and crow's feet around her eyes spoke of age and an aloof dignity. But the woman smiled at the crowd in amusement and wiggled her fingers in response to welcoming shouts. Her eyes roamed with delight over the wood and stone structure of the large hall, taking in patrons and lanterns and the Great Wall of Alcohol back-dropping the entire bar with the awed intensity of a child. Jund gestured to Cry, mostly to bring her head forward again.
"Lord Cryaotic, milady, co-owner and bartender of the Late Night," Jund said, his discomfort disguised in his manners. "Cry, this is Lady Flora, a passing traveler who heard the bar was famous."
"I'm only staying in Victubia for the night, but when I heard the local praise, I had to try one of your beverages myself," said the lady, crow's feet crinkling with her beaming smile. Her voice was rich with a curious mix of playfulness and maturity. "Even the more subdued commenters were positive that it was worth my while."
Despite his reservations, Cry found himself smiling back. Her enthusiasm was contagious. Still, he was relieved when Jund started wiping down the bar a few feet away, too far to listen in on the conversation but close enough to stay in his peripheral. The bartender waited until Flora gracefully lifted herself onto a bar stool (a feat considering the corset and skirts) before answering, "The town has given my friends and me more credit than we probably deserve. They like to exaggerate, I'm afraid. But I'll try my best not to disappoint. What'll it be?"
"While I hear your selection is magically exquisite, I know you brew a unique cup of tea. Might I impose a little and ask for a truly rare treat?"
Cry blinked and stared at the woman in amazement, glad for the mask to hide his parted mouth. He did actually brew tea, quite often in fact, but never for customers. The kettle was only brought out for personal enjoyment, when he was cooped up in his room upstairs with a cold or his friends needed some soothing chamomile after a hard day.
"That's not a frequent request, no…" he answered slowly, trying to pick out the best response from the whirlwind of questions in his mind. "I doubt any of the patrons in this room even know I own a kettle." He paused, watching her face for any clues. "So I have to ask…how does a complete stranger know that a random bartender in Victubia likes to brew tea?"
He couldn't keep some hostility out of the question, but Flora didn't seem to mind. Strangely enough, the lady's polite smile widened into a satisfied grin and her emerald eyes danced. Before Cry thought to respond, she turned her attention down to her gloves, which she worked off her fingers with deliberate care as she spoke again.
"Oh, I wouldn't say random. I have a very…personal interest in your skill with concoctions. When word of you and your talent found its way to me, I just had to find out more. Using a few unique skills of my own, I dug a little deeper and verified the truth to these rumors."
She paused to daintily place her gloves in her lap, only noticing the way Cry had frozen when she glanced up.
"Don't worry, my good lord," she continued with softened crinkles. "My aim was only to confirm the rumors about the magical quality of the drinks. I have tread over the lines of privacy in my younger days and paid dearly for it. I would not suffer the consequences again for the morbid pleasure of discovering one man's secrets."
Cry stared hard at the woman in a stony silence, but her chestnut eyes never wavered and the neutral expression betrayed no hint of guilt or smugness, only an open sincerity. "What kind of…skills would help you find out a stranger's personal hobbies?"
"I am a witch," Flora said. Casually, as if she was declaring herself an accountant instead of one of Victubia's greatest urban legends. "A very experienced one, too, if I may boast a little. So you can see why I was intrigued when I heard of a young man brewing potions into alcoholic drinks that could rival my own in power."
A trickle of fear like cold sweat ran down his spine. Her expression and tone were still polite and amazingly neutral, but Cry could pick out the subtle threat behind those calmly delivered words. Behind the bar and out of her line of sight, his fingers made a snapping gesture at his side. A blue spark briefly flared at his fingertips. Jund quickly dropped his rag and straightened. Before he could move closer, though, Cry tapped his leg with two fingers.
Wait. Keep both eyes on her, but don't attack yet.
Jund threw him a miffed glare, but didn't move except to fold his arms. Cry gave him a small thumb's up.
Thanks.
"And? What did you find using your witchcraft?" he asked carefully.
"Sadly, not as much as I'd hoped," Flora admitted. Her tone held a sigh of disappointment, but she didn't seem dissatisfied at all. She leaned forward, those bright eyes roaming the shelves of colored bottles behind him with delight.
"Vox magic is not my specialty and, coincidentally, has very few parallels with witchcraft. Your spells leave a unique residue, or signature, if you will. But they are very hard to pinpoint from a distance, which is why I decided to visit Victubia myself. Once I arrived, I was surprised to discover that none of your spelled drinks were formed in malice. Your patrons do not carry the weight of a spell warped by ill intention and even the alcohol's sharp bite does not loom over them the next day. You have an amazing gift for spreading cheer and fortitude and relieving other's burdens."
"I'm just a bartender who enjoys making drinks," Cry cut in. Enough of this. "If you're here for information, it sounds like you've already found out more than enough – by violating the privacy of both me and my customers. If you came for a drink, there are plenty of other bartenders in Victubia who would be happy to serve you."
"I didn't come here to aggravate you," she quickly replied. A note of earnestness entered her voice and she leaned forward again, her hands splayed on the countertop. "Your magic is unique and powerful and I believe it can do things that mine cannot. Especially your tea."
"I don't put spells in my tea," Cry said. If she was hoping not to aggravate him, it was already too late. "The leaves were bought in the market. A hundred other people have probably made the exact same tea. Now that you've finished your business - "
"No, your tea is special, I know it," she shot back. Although the voice only conveyed quiet certainty, her bare fingers had clasped together on the table and her knuckles were slowly turning white. Cry watched her nails dig a little deeper into her skin and wondered what it meant. "I can see it now, in this very room. Your friends all carry traces of old spells and charms, layered like no other magic I've seen. While your usual blends only leaves traces for a day or two at most, the protections and healings on your friends have the feel of ancient incantations, powerful and permanent. They are of Vox origin, but so subtle and different from your usual spells, I almost suspected they were from someone else. But as soon as I arrived and talked to you myself…The spells come from you, milord, there is no doubt."
An ache was gathering behind his eyes. Probably from trying to keep up with the stupid witch. What the heck was she trying to prove with this nonsense?
"Look, I already told you. I don't put spells in my tea or into anything else besides the stuff I sell. Magic - human magic at least - has incantations, words you have to say. Unless I somehow thought the spells into happening, there's no way - "
Cry stumbled on his words, a memory of last Wednesday hitting him like a slap to the face. Red had been feeling under the weather, but didn't feel so bad she needed to take a day off. By eight, she had started mixing up orders and staggering a little under her tray. Russ had convinced her to at least rest for a while upstairs and Cry had heated up a quick pot of tea to help with her rough voice. He hadn't thought much of it, but when he swirled the ceramic white tea pot, he had felt a slight tingle where his skin touched the round belly of the pot. At the time, he had set the tea down, figuring he had let the heat soak into his fingers too long. But he recognized that feeling now. It wasn't heat he had felt. The same feeling hit his palms when he mixed drinks, the slight shock of pushing a small amount of manipulated energy into an object. His usual spells had a much stronger punch to them, a less painful version of the paperclip-in-a-socket kind of shock. Last week, the subdued pinpricks of warmth across his hand barely registered and he had been more concerned about making sure Red was set, not a little heat on his hands.
But he knew now, it wasn't heat at all.
"No…" The witch had picked up on his silence and had a perfect expression of amazement on her face, her eyes wide and her mouth a wide 'o'. "You mean to say that the magic you wrought was unconscious? I have heard of such power, but only in tales of creatures and in very few cases."
Somehow, that whole statement made Cry cringe. "Unconscious magic? That's just a theorist's dream that the Academy taught in some of the advanced courses. I didn't understand half of what they were blabbing about and have no idea how to actually do it."
"Regardless, the drink you give to those close to you is different, I swear it," she pressed. The lady's eagerness was visibly growing, fueled by conviction now. The edge of the counter cut into her diaphragm in a way that was uncomfortable to even notice. "How else do you explain the intricacy, the subtlety? They are delicate things, but the power stems from you, believe me."
"I - don't…that's impossible."
Truthfully, Cry wished it was impossible.
The thought of nonverbal magic had crossed his mind, but each time he had shoved it away with a shudder. All those incantations were a b*tch to memorize, but they were reassuring in a way. Words guided a spell and made sure the intended result happened. Without them, a magic user could accidently set fire to his couch or blow up the kitchen. And if he could use magic unconsciously? Images snuck into his mind of patrons choking on a poison much stronger than alcohol, his friends cursed with unbreakable fevers and incurable illnesses.
He shuddered.
No. The potential of that kind of magic opened up a lot of possibilities, but the idea of all that undirected power, especially in his hands, turned his stomach into knots. And it was confirmed now, he had it. All that power that any second could have wreaked havoc. As his thoughts ran wild, his blood ran cold and his fists tightened.
"Milord. My lord! Lord Cry!"
Cry jumped back into reality with a snapped, "What?" and winced. The word came out much harsher than he intended.
Lady Flora frowned, her face painted with concern and guilt. "I did not mean to cause doubt. From what I could glean, your friends are safe and the spells will cause them no harm. They are subtle things, more of a passive blessing than an active change. Your friends will have better luck than most and less frequent accidents and such, but I doubt your tea could give them eternal life or a second personality."
"Pardon my suspicion, but I'll decide if they're really okay on my own terms," Cry answered dryly. The lady didn't respond, simply sat primly on her chair as attentive as ever.
With a sigh, Cry flexed his hands and ran them roughly through his hair. All at once, his worry and irritation deflated into a resigned fatigue. Well, so much for a peaceful night…one thing at a time.
"Why are you so concerned about the stupid tea, anyways?" Cry asked. His voice was under control again, but worn. "What were you hoping to gain coming here?"
The witch hesitated for the first time, picking at the gloves in her lap before meeting his gaze head on. "You have treated me with respect thus far, even though I have disturbed you thoughtlessly. I can only excuse myself by admitting that I have much knowledge of human ways, but little interaction with them. You have shown me a kindness by not attacking me already." She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Jund, who still had his arms crossed, before continuing.
"Although I had thought to do it in a different way, I did come here to ask a favor from you. My sister…she has been struck by a curse which blocks her witchcraft. For some reason, the most powerful enchantments of our art will not heal her. I have searched many texts and many towns for a cure these past few days. Performing certain spells slows the curse's progress, but she grows weaker day by day and I have yet to find an actual cure."
"I…wish I could help you, really, but curses aren't my forte. I'm sure there are other spell casters and magic healers all over Victubia that could - "
"This is not an ordinary affliction," she pressed on, eyes blazing, "to have resisted not only witchcraft but other forms of magic as well. The vice around my sister is designed with the same principles as witchcraft, but warped and twisted. All magics that I have used were drained by the spell in the same way my sister is being drained. I am running out of options and time."
"Time?"
She stopped, eyes flicking up and down the bar for eavesdroppers. The closest customer sat four seats away, the music and chatter loud enough to drown out distinct words at that distance. The witch leaned against the counter anyway and Cry reluctantly bent forwards to suit her, catching a whiff of medical herbs and pine.
"I should not be divulging this much, but I trust you and I fear for my sister. Witchcraft is a gift bestowed at birth. Our power is entwined with our life before we even leave the womb. Draining my sister of her art is the same as slowly draining the blood from her veins."
She sat back, her mouth a rigid line and her gaze cold steel. "I trust you with this information only to help you understand my urgency. While I have tried most known kinds of magic, if this twisted witchcraft encounters a rare magic that most people haven't seen before…"
"…you think my unintentional spells might break it." Cry shifted his weight back and crossed his arms, mostly to give him time to think. If she was expecting a miracle cure, she had come to the wrong place. Cry had literally just been forced to realize the potential in his magic two minutes ago. How was he supposed to intentionally create a healing spell when the uniqueness of it was the unintentional part? Would it work for someone he didn't even know? Would Vox magic even work on a witch? There were too many what if's for this to be a good idea.
But…
"I don't know…" Cry muttered to himself. He stared at the candlelight reflected in the waxed surface of the bar, hoping for the right decision to pop into his head.
The shifting of blue cloth made him glance up. Lady Flora slid from the stool with the grace she had arrived with, but now she smiled with a resigned quirk to her lips.
"I understand, milord. I am a stranger asking you to trust my word, my intentions, even my morals as a witch. I should not expect you to relinquish a secret, especially a powerful one such as your brand of magic, into my hands. If you agree to it, I will leave you tonight and come again when you have had time to think over our conversation more clearly. If you never wish to see me again, which I can understand, I will continue to search for a cure in other places."
"Wait…" Cry contemplated the witch one last time. Her figure was elegantly poised to turn and glide away, but her face betrayed the weariness of a prophetess that no one listens to laced with determination and very little hope. She was a witch, a stranger that had barged into his home, dug through his secrets, made him realize a danger he didn't know existed inside himself. He should have thrown her out – well, escorted her out, she was a lady – about five minutes into their conversation. And yet…he didn't think she had told a single lie.
"…wait here." Cry nodded to Jund and then at Flora, waiting for him to nod back before turning away. Before the lady could respond, Cry stalked into the kitchen, shoulders and lips tight.
He shouldn't be doing this. He knew that. He really did. But Cry couldn't ignore someone who had trusted him without anticipating something in return. She hoped for something, yes, but she had also come in expecting to run into another dead end. The witch was obviously desperate for an answer and if he denied her another chance, even if it didn't work…
The kitchen always had a sense of hustle to it, even after midnight. Cry snuck around the flames and steam, dodging cooks and half-finished dishes as much as possible, to a less crowded corner. He quickly filled an aluminum kettle – not his nice ceramic one, but it would do – and put it on an open burner.
…water boiled so much slower when he was doubting himself.
Succumbing to the emotional exhaustion the witch had inadvertently put him through, Cry set his forearms on the stove and rested his masked forehead on top of them. His hair was dangerously close to the flames, but he didn't really care at this point. What he really needed what a shower and a solid ten hours of sleep, but he would take a few minutes to breathe and let the clanks, hisses, and rough voice of the head chef fill his brain.
"Hey."
Cry didn't lift his head, so much as drag his ear to his arm so he could see the rest of the kitchen. Snake was focused on lifting dirty dishes from his tray to the sink, but there was no doubt he was talking to Cry.
"…Sup."
"Who's the tea for?"
Cry dragged his chin back to face the kettle.
"A witch, who's on a journey to lift an unbreakable curse from her sister. She came to the bar to ask if I could make magical tea. I agreed for some reason."
Snake paused to look at him, his tray tucked under his arm. In some people, silence usually implied disapproval or awkwardness. In Snake, though, it was reassuring. He reserved his comments for the right time and he only asked questions when he was truly concerned.
"Want me to get rid of her?"
Cry pretended to think about. "Mmmm-nnnnaaaah. She's actually alright, even if she's horrible at asking for things. Either way, she'll be gone once I brew her some tea."
"Alright."
With that, Snake turned to go, but Cry knew he couldn't let Snake leave just like that.
"One sec." Snake stopped. "Tonight, or tomorrow night, or whenever…I've got to get everyone together. That witch made me realize something that I might have been doing for a while that…could…potentially…affect you guys. I'll explain in detail later, but give everyone a head's up for now."
Snake watched him expressionlessly for a moment before nodding. "Alright," he said again. After another pause, he added, "You're not going to tell us you're secretly a witch too, are you?"
Cry chuckled. "No, although it would be a cool way to reveal I'm secretly female."
"True. Take it easy," Snake said as he turned towards the door.
Somehow feeling lighter, Cry smiled tiredly at the kettle. Which was almost boiling, thank god. Cry rummaged for a canister of honey-lemon tea and a thermos.
Now, here came the hard part.
Cry took the whistling kettle off the heat, dumped in three spoonfuls of dry leaves and stopped.
He stared at his bent reflection, feeling just a little stupid.
How did I even do this before?
Going with his gut, he swirled the kettle and recalled last Wednesday, concentrating on the push of the warming metal against his grip as the water sloshed in circles. The distracting clatter from the kitchen faded out as he remembered what he was thinking as he made Red's tea. Concern for her quick decline, confidence that she would recover quickly as well as trust in Russ to take care of her. He thought of Flora's quiet desperation, her fingers twisting the gloves in her lap and splaying forward on the table. Reaching forward despite the calm façade she had tried to maintain.
A warmth trickled across his palms and, just for a second, he thought the kettle heated up a fraction of a degree. He gingerly set the kettle and lifted the lid, ignoring the distracting heart beat in his ears. Steaming, yellow-orange liquid rotated the leaves in lazy circles at the bottom.
Well, I couldn't really tell before either…
Still, it would ease the niggling doubts in his mind if he knew for sure.
Flora didn't have the same qualms.
"Did you, really?"
She stood just outside the kitchen doors, her hands clasped in front of her like she was resisting the urge to climb over the bar top between them. Jund trotted up looking harried, sparks jumping through his upright hair.
"Look, lady, you can't just go jumping off your chair like that. I was about to use the bar stool as an electric chair - "
"It's okay, Jund," Cry said, pulling up a section of the bar and stepping up to Flora. She glanced between him and the thermos in his hand, unsure of which one deserved her wide eyes. Cry handed over the thermos with a smile. "Here."
Her eyebrows shot into her hairline, but she reached for the tea all the same. "Are you sure, milord? I'm not sure you understand exactly what you are giving to me."
"It's yours already." He nodded to the thermos, which was already clasped to her stomach like a lost child. "Besides, I think you'll do good with it."
"Thank you, Lord Cry. Thank you so much. I'm not sure this is the cure for my sister, but my sister and I need it all the same." Her crow's feet deepened with her smile and her face positively glowed with gratitude.
"Hey, it wasn't much effort on my part. I'm glad I could help. Stop by once your sister is recovered and let me know what happens."
"Of course! Thank you so much, truly. I should get going. Um, my broom – back at the hotel. Um…I need…" Her mutter trailed off as she glanced towards Jund, then the door, then back at Cry in a second.
"No worries, you've got a sister to take care of. Go on."
"I will, but…before I go, I should show my thanks, um…payment! Right. I have payment for - "
That brought Cry's hands up. "No really, it's fine. I don't need it and you should hurry."
Flora slowly closed her purse, a frown forming. "But I should repay you somehow. Is there something I could do for you or some magic I could - "
"No! No, that's fine. No offense, but I could use a little less crazy magic."
Her frown deepened and her grasp on the thermos loosened a little. "But isn't there something…? Do you have no small wish that I could grant?"
"I…" Cry shifted his gaze to what lay behind the witch. The Late Night was still in full swing, jokes and drinks passed around as he watched. Russ and Red bickered with each other and the table they were serving, Russ' grin dominating his expression. Snake looked up from taking an order and nodded before jotting something else on his pad. Jund was keeping oddly quiet from behind the bar, although he glanced between the witch and Cry nervously. He thought of his room upstairs filled with stacks of books on Vox magic and the weathered playing cards on his night table and the animals that crowded his living room floor during the day and his bed at night.
Cry met the lady's concerned eyes with a wide grin. "Nope. I'm good, really. No need for wish granting."
She answered with her own small smile, although her brow was still wrinkled. "Your life must be a happy one. But are you sure? I would have thought you would ask for more luck in love. I saw no sign of a young maiden to warm your bed."
Jund looked away for the first time and clamped down on his lips to keep from grinning. If Flora was talking to anyone else but him, Cry would have joined in. But he was too busy being reminded of every awkward conversation he had with his mom about girls and sex. Did she really have to phrase it like that?
"Um, no? I mean, I'm sure I'll find someone that's good for me on my own. I appreciate the sentiment and all that, but…no."
"Ah, I meant no offense. I know a good charm to attract a companion for any taste."
Confused, Cry stared at Flora blankly for a second, and then glanced at Jund. He had the exact same expression of bewilderment and mouthed to Cry, 'Any taste?'
As they traded mystified looks, the realization clicked at the same time on both their faces. Jund let out an explosive snort before clamping a hand over his mouth and retreated a bit with shaking shoulders. Cry just sighed and barely stopped himself from clapping a hand to his forehead. Flora seemed to be entranced by Jund's reaction, obviously not following.
"No. Just…no. Thank you for wanting to…do something for me, I guess, but seriously I'm good."
"Hmm, alright. I'll take my leave then." She carefully slipped the thermos into a pouch at her waist and grasped Cry's hand warmly. "Thank you truly. If you require aide of any kind, don't hesitate to call for me. My sister and I live on the outskirts of the Faron Woods a few kilometers west of here. Send word to the mayor of Ordon and we will surely come within a day."
"I'll do that, thanks."
"I wish the best of luck in all matters. Hopefully, you will find not only the love you desire, but the love you need and deserve."
"Uh, yeah, thanks." Cry left it at that, ignoring Jund trying to unsuccessfully contain his laughter in the background.
"Well, I won't intrude anymore, lest I make you regret your good will. I will see you again to better return the favor."
Before Cry could respond, she gathered up her skirts and swirled them around her in a disorienting blur of blue fabric and lace. Her image was swallowed in the suddenly large swath of fabric, the last impression of her a dimpled smile forming words, as Flora the witch blinked out of existence. The only trace of her left was a gentle breeze and the clean scent of pine.
Cry stared at the now empty floorboards, wondering how that dramatic exit could feel underwhelming. None of patrons seemed to have noticed her disappearance, too absorbed in either their conversations or drinks.
Jund clapped a hand on Cry's shoulder and said, "Witches, man."
Cry sighed, "Yeah…I need a drink."
"Sounds good. Think somebody here would want to be your drinking 'companion'?"
Cry immediately elbowed Jund in the ribs, which only worked because he was trying to keep his laughter silent.
"B*stard. Shut up."
"Yeah, yeah." Jund obligingly leaned on the bar instead, although his smirk didn't budge. After a second of trying to actually be mad, Cry gave up and sagged backwards, elbows on the bar top. Theoretically, nothing had really happened, but that conversation had exhausted him. Why did all the strange cases seem to come to him?
"Hey," Jund said on a more serious note, "I don't really like her, but I'm sure she'll be okay."
"Yeah…she seems pretty capable."
"Mm."
They stared at the activity of the Late Night in companionable silence, a bubble of quiet surrounded by familiar noise. It was broken when someone yelled, "You're on!" A crowd had gathered around two men who were grinning threateningly across opposite sides of a small table.
Russ called out to Cry, "Five shots of the strong stuff for both of these gentlemen!"
Cry snorted, "No rest for the wicked, apparently."
But he was already lifting the bartop and searching the shelves for the right bottle.
"You seem to enjoy it anyways," Jund countered.
Cry grinned behind the mask. "Yeah, I do."
A/N: I need it. I must have it! Give it to me! I MUST HAVE THE TEA!
Yeah, I don't know either. At first it was just a neat little reference to how Cry fans are obsessed with tea, but somehow it turned into the focal point of the whole story. I saw where it was going, too, and I just thought, "Meh, I'll make it work somehow." Now I can't take any of it seriously and I have no idea if I made it work. Ah well, hopefully some of you will get a kick out of it.
Actually, the whole premise of the story got turned around on me. The very first line I thought of was the witch saying "Hopefully, you will find not only the love you desire, but the love you need and deserve." I heard something about Cry and how he has a girlfriend that may or may not be true, but either way I decided to use the witch as a mouthpiece and say this one line. But the story turned more into a look at Late Night crew dynamics and how strangers can make you uncomfortable in the worst ways and the power of secrets and all that jazz. The line also turned into something of a joke, although it makes it no less true. Writing, man, it's weird like that.
Anyways, tell me what you think. What do you think of my version of Victubia? Do you like the longer format as opposed to the little 500 word things I've been doing? I know I said I wouldn't do it, but you know how promises go. I got kind of tired towards the end, mostly because it was impossible to do in one sitting and Life got in the way, but it was kind of satisfying. Comment away and I'll respond as soon as I can.
PS. The whole "companion" joke is just that – a joke. If you take me seriously and start complaining, I will start glaring. And you don't like me when I start glaring.
PSS. There's a reference in there for all you Zelda fans.
Hope to hear from you soon.