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The Blind Monkey is quiet--- it's approaching 3 a.m,, and Ezekiel is the only one behind the counter, the only one in the establishment at all. Triton's Antiques upstairs has long since closed and the backdoor that only some patrons are aware of has been locked and latched. [break][break]

He likes the night shift -- he likes the final hum of quiet, the realization of just how empty something can be when everything that's in it leaves.
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And, of course, he likes---
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Right on time, the trapdoor kicks open and a mop of black hair comes out, with as much gravity and seriousness as you can get given that you're rising from the ground like some sewer monster.
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He chuckles, remembering the first time he saw Farah come into the bar like that, the way he's had a heart attack and almost went for her throat. The way she had held up her hand like he was a broomrider and she was a pedestrian with no real regard to her own safety, vaguely confident that she would never really get hit.
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"I'll never get used to that," Zeke says, shaking his head as his hands wipe clean another used mason jar. He sets it back on the counter instead of putting it away, waiting for her order. Or orders?

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Zeke shakes his head at Farah's sarcasm, the tone so subtle it almost sounds like she's being serious. It had taken him a while to get used to that, at least. [break][break]

He snickers at her request and then looks at the variety of options left to him. [break][break]

He decides to make her something he knows she'll like -- Pythian whiskey. Coffee, whiskey, cream, and brown sugar. Something sweet that'll still hit you.[break][break]

As he makes it, he puts his hands under the counter and pulls a small lever-- the lights that illuminate the counter turn a soft, hazy purple, and markings begin to appear- drawings and scratchings a million years old, protected by enchantment and illusion that's lasted just as long.[break][break]

He pays the revelation no heed. Like Farah's from-the-underground appearances, he's seen it a million times before.[break][break]

"Yep," Zeke says, a little impressed that Farah had managed to hear about it. Isn't the Hightown gossip his job? The party had been fun to follow -- he knew the catering staff well enough, and they had an interesting tale to tell about the kitchens and noble kids that think they can get away with anything. [break][break]

"But it doesn't matter. I don't think the Wolves or even the--" he puts his fingers in the air, quoting the next word for emphasis "--criminals--" An eye-roll, as if it wasn't subtle enough "--know what's going on."[break][break]

He hands Farah her drink and slides a small black box across the counter.[break][break]

"So. My turn." He grins. "I heard the initiates tried casing the Citadel crypts," he says, playing it cool and conversational, timing his words to the second Farah's lips grace the rim of her glass.[break][break]

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Zeke chuckles and then laughs at Farah's reaction, always excited to be a bringer of good news and chaos, and this happens to hit both of his specialties. He must admit the gall of initiates surprised him, but Maddox had been more than willing to divulge the tale of his latest arm scars. [break][break]

"Yeah. The war room, apparently. Must be nice there, now that Gammana's dead."[break][break]

Of course, his definition of 'nice' might not be exactly the popular one, but he's sure Farah knows what he means. The enchantress had made the Citadel impossible to even contend, and Hydra hadn't made the attempt to take it, even during the height of the war period, or so he'd heard.[break][break]

The only real reservation he had about the Costwick matriarch's demise earlier this year was that it hadn't been one of them who did it. There were few things that might stir him to action, but revenge would always be top of that list. But he supposes Hydra isn't quite there...yet.[break][break]

He taps the box he had slid over to her earlier. It looks like Farah was too caught up to have noticed it.[break][break]

"A gift for our favorite patron, by the way."
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He winks.
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He lets the conversation settle-- he's sure Farah will grow quiet at the mention of the death and, not to mention, want to see the contents of the box. She's contemplative like that, and relics of the past, whether living or dead, always occupy her mind.
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After a pause, he asks,
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"Game still on?"

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Zeke looks at her.

Into her eyes -- always the same cold and black eyes, like she has seen the weight of the world and decided to keep it there, tucked in the corners of her vision, lest she forgets. They have been the same ever since the day he met her, which feels like centuries ago at this point. They've always been that same glossy black, whether the shine on them is real or imagined, he can't tell anymore.
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"Farah," he begins, straightening himself to his full height, towering over her for a moment (she doesn't blink, trails his eye with hers like a cat watching a spool of thread) before taking in a deep breath and putting his elbows on the counter top. He slumps, hands go to his neck, tracing the white hairs and the black.
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A little pleading, and a little uncertain. [break][break]

His serious tone gives way to a nervous laugh -- he doesn't want to say no, he doesn't think that he can. Not to her, at least. And surely not in this room, alone, talking about something as serious as this. Sure, he had called it a game. And sure, it was technically a bit of an experiment. But he knew what was at stake.[break][break]

"What happened to having high hopes for the initiates?" he says, finally, looking up at her with a strained smile, trying to reverse the shift in the room's atmosphere.[break][break]

But ever since he turned on those lights, the purple haze has been constant. And through the dark and dizzying light, he can just barely see her eyes and the gleam that they hide. [break][break]

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At her question, Zeke looks a little hurt, and then he finally slumps back into his arms and straightens out again, removing himself from the counter and standing back up. He seems to undo his previous posture, and, in more ways than one, he reverses the atmosphere and tension between them.[break][break]

"No, ma'am," he says, the formality a bit of a jest. But regardless of its levity, it's true that she had defeated him with the slightest of pressures. Ezekiel hadn't wanted to be pulled into the fray again, not this soon. He likes the comfort of the bar, the quiet and important role he likes to think he plays in Hydra. [break][break]

And he supposes...it's not like Farah is forcing him to do anything.[break][break]

He's not backed into a corner -- both paths still splay out in front of him, dancing and taunting him. Almost bitterly, he wishes it had been said like a decree. But if something goes wrong and he had said no to her now...well. He wouldn't be able to live with himself. No one in his position would. So really, the minute she had asked him, he had no choice. Touche. [break][break]

Zeke's easy smile has been replaced by a more pensive one, a subtle tug at the lips. The gesture isn't vanquished, it's just further complicated. He's not upset, but he rubs the Void ring on his finger absently, letting it spin around his flesh. The gears in his mind are whirring as he ponders it...a mission of his own. After how long?