❖ BAR MUSIC ❖

While Ahote was far from approaching his deathbed, he had certainly seen better days. Ever since becoming a Necromancer, while acquiring powerful magic, he was the most prone to illness and fatigue than he had ever been before. It was merely a side-effect of practicing such a dark art, but nothing he ever got used to. His hair and skin would lose its vibrant color and his eyes become something other than the rich amber he was so used to. His figure was still charming, nonetheless, but ghostly.

It happened whenever Ahote was lacking "life force" as some label it. It was the equivalent of dehydration or perhaps being anemic to put it in more common terms, but far more dreadful. As a solution to this inevitable problem, in the cellar of Boomslang is a room personalized for Ahote alone. The only reason he never leaves Boomslang except for work is because he quartered there as well. In that room was everything an adult needed to sustain themselves: food, water, entertainment, and whatnot. But most importantly, there was a rather large bathtub. It's a rather unimpressive tub, and while the nitty-gritty details are not important, it is where Ahote poured of the blood of recently passed people and lathered himself in it. It was a gross, odorous routine but one necessary if he wanted to rid himself of his peaky appearance.

It was in the middle of the afternoon today when Boomslang's biggest business was younger men and women coming in for the drinks more than the clubbing. It was only after dark that Boomslang truly came alive. But, business was business and Ahote didn't care what exactly one came here for as long as they weren't loitering.

Ahote was leaning over the bar countertop, gingerly pressing his temples with the fingers of his left hand while resting on his right. He was wearing his usual vest-suit hued with traditional pigments and a black trench coat to match. Needless to say, Ahote already had a gloomy, aloof air to him and the change in appearance only added to this idea. In fact, he looked like he was mourning someone or something when in reality, he was simply just fatigued.

"I hate this feeling. Is the bath ready?" Ahote quietly complained to the employee next to him. It was a young woman, but she neither had a will of her own or was alive. She was, in short, a cleverly disguised lich. In fact, all of his employees were simply slaves of his necromancies. They were also something to talk to when Iris and Aeluri weren't around.

"Almost. It will be ready in about ten minutes." she replied cooly.

". . ." Instead of saying anything, Ahote just sighed and continued to press his temples and pinch his eyes.

Ten minutes couldn't come any faster. Before Ahote could settle into his misery for too long, someone walked into Boomslang. The thud of boots against the floorboards prompted Ahote to stand straight, looking in the direction it came from. Not to his surprise, it was a young man who looked to be about a twenty-something with long green hair and a sharp, pretty face. Well, that's how it would've looked if it wasn't wrinkled with lethargy. The man seemed very tired, and Ahote only knew that because his own face didn't look much different from his. They both seemed heavy with some burden.

He hesitated only for a moment to look at that man's face as he sat down. Studying the visible fatigue, it was then that he decided to kill these next ten minutes inquiring about the stranger's troubles. He cleared his throat, reaching below the counter for a drinking glass and a bottle of liquor. "Of course," said Ahote, "give me a moment."

Ahote, ironically, had only drunk a small handful of the myriad of alcohols he sold since he himself disliked alcohol. However, he was still able to make recommendations based on what drunk friends drank. They would obviously know more about it than he would, and yet, he was the one marketing it. As a result, he also became rather proficient at preparing the drinks with notable brevity.

After about fifteen seconds, a glass of some brown liquor was gently placed in front of the man across the counter. "If you don't mind me asking," Ahote wiped his pale hands of the glass's moisture with a hankerchief he carried with him, "what's troubling you? Would you like to talk about it...?" he asked candidly. If the man looked up, he would notice right away that Ahote was making a sincere suggestion, as no smile nor simper creased his lips. If anything, he looked angry with his natural frown of his brows, or as some might put it—a resting bitchface. But, in reality, the quiet club owner was genuinely curious of the man's anguish, but also couldn't find any other way to kill time faster.