NOT ALL OF US ARE BORN DEVILS
Boomslang—a club in Capital Crocus and the result of an investment made by the former mafia, the Tesoro Family. Now, this club was still a hit in Capital Crocus, and on almost every weekend and weeknight it was swarmed with crowds of women dressed in skimpy outfits, men dressed equally as messily, and was overall reeking with alcohol. It would've been foolish for any investor to close their deal now, so Ahote, the former Guildmaster of Basilisk Fang and previous Boss of the Tesoro Family, took what wealth that remained and kept investing into the club—and now it was his main source of income and livelihood. So most days were spent here at Boomslang, and the pretty-faced Ahote had hardly lived a lick of his former glory—if he could call it that. If he recalled, his time spent on Mt. Hakobe were bitter and far from glorious. If anything, they were just sequences of unfortunate events. Famine, his adoptive mother and also former Guildmaster of Basilisk Fang, had died a mysterious death, as did her secrets. Sol Terumi, his adoptive father, hadn't done any better. He had betrayed the guild and left, taking important members with him as well. And so, he had risen to power and only through coincidence and his apparent relation to his parents, but there wasn;t much glory in that either. There were modicums of comfort in that lifestyle when he had it, however. He had made deals with some of Fiore's most formidable mages and guilds like Mythica, Black Rose, and the whole lot of Fairy Tail. Several of his underlings like Iris Esperanza, Aeluri Atra, Theo Calathes and many others to name had stuck by him until the day he had disbanded the guild and their mafia. He and many others had made names for themselves during their time at Basilisk Fang, and it was the closest thing to glory that he ever experienced. But he wasn't the Coming Storm he was when he first earned the infamous title, and while he still holds it, it doesn't hold nearly as much of a grim weight when street folk might hear other Coming Storms. But titles were only but a biproduct of success in Ahote's book, and most days he had hardly thought about them except when a new infamous face would show up on wanted advertisements or the Sorcerer's Magazine. Days had been slow and lately he had been spending his time at Boomslang alone at the counters, drinking anything but alcohol, wallowing in a deep and drowning boredom. Lately, he had tried becoming a mercenary to diverge from his idle lifestyle, but it was far too different from his career as a terrorist and volumes less exciting. It would seem that this man was quite in a pickle as far as dark mages went. Today, however, Ahote hovered over his counter mulling over a letter with fine print scribbled in ink over its paper. Everything about it smelled and felt like it was of the highest quality, and it was sealed in a red wax, marked by no one or group in particular. It was a mysterious item with even stranger contents: "Ahote C. Laspor, we are pleased to inform you that you have been invited for preliminary testing to assess your aptitude in a special business venture. We have been following your career with a vested interest and believe you to be an excellent candidate to fill a vacancy within our organisation. Our organisation is made up of various men and women with goals and skills very similar to your own, and as such we will it is only in our best interest to extend this opportunity out to you. If you are interested, please meet one of our associates at Boomslang at 11:00 p.m. We hope to see you there." it would read. Of course, any sane person would've declined such an offer, but Ahote's life was far too boring and meaningless as it was to be in any position to decline anyway. So he closed down the club a little early just for this event, and even let his bartender take the night off for this reason. Ahote wore his usual well-dressed attire: a white dress shirt beneath layers of a suited attire in traditional black and white colors and textures, shiny black loafers and equally dark dress pants. He sat at the counter with a glass of water in his hand, resting at room temperature, staring at the letter expectantly. |
AND THAT'S SUCH A SHAME