“There you are!” The woman who swept down upon him was taller than most men and built like a small linebacker, so it was no meager thing when she threw one arm across his shoulders and gave his chest and open-palm slap of camaraderie. “Did Jay tell you we were taking bets? You just won mama a whole pocketful of lovin’!”<br/><br/>Oliver, having recovered from the knee-buckling impact of his roommate, offered a sheepish smile.<span style="font-weight: bold">”The odds were against me?”</span>he answered in a soft voice, casually taking another sip of his hot beverage as he gingerly slung his instrument case to the ground at his feet. That didn’t seem fair. He may have difficulty arriving on time, but he did his best to show up when they asked. He couldn’t have missed all that many performances.<br/><br/>Tai, the silky strands of her long, blonde mohawk wisping in the momentum of her movement, yanked her arms from him and reached into the deep pockets of her cargo pants. “Of course they weren’t,” she chirped, though she was making no effort to hide the playful falsehood of her voice. With her multitude of facial piercings and copious use of black eye makeup, it was no surprise that she was one of the co-owners of the<span style="font-style: italic">Moon Cat</span>; Tai was a woman who had found her niche at sixteen and had never thought of straying, though she was not a day younger than thirty by this point. Tattoos of varying intricacy and colors decorated her left arm from wrist to shoulder, with a few more on her exposed stomach and lower back; they were mostly artistic depictions of cats, from the classic arched-back witches’ familiar to the grinning mug of the Cheshire. Her own grin didn’t differ very much. She withdrew a silver flask that was more akin to a canteen and snatched the hot beverage from Oliver’s hand. “Let’s Irish this up for ya, hm?”<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">“Tai wait that’s black tea it’s not  – “</span><br/><br/>Too late. More than a little amber bounty from the flask swirled with the contents. She popped the lid back on, obviously highly satisfied with herself, and handed it back to him. “So, they want to start with the first cover from the – Oh, now what’s with that face?”<br/><br/>Oliver’s nose had wrinkled so hard he was pretty sure it was trying to escape into his head, and he had to fight a cough when the hot drink came near his mouth.<span style="font-weight: bold">“I can’t drink – “</span><br/><br/>“Yes, you<span style="font-style: italic">can</span>and you<span style="font-style: italic">should</span>,” Tai countered, crossing her arms like a huffy teenager and fixing him with an intense gaze; all things that contradicted the well-worn pattern of her words. “You gotta loosen up, Kitten, otherwise – “<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">”I don’t want to ‘loosen up’ tonight, Tai. I’m playing with the band, just as a favor. There’s no reason that I would need to… you know, do all that again.”</span>He set the cup down firmly on the ground as he knelt, quickly clicking the worn case open. She could be so manipulative sometimes. Oliver was generally an easy-going person and liked to help, but he hated feeling pressured or forced into things. His long fingers gently gripped the neck of his guitar, the gleaming onyx of it catching even the dim light of the unattractive bar’s interior. Calloused hands fell into place along its body with the easy of long, long years of familiarity, but he was forced to shift as a second pair forcefully attended to his jacket.<span style="font-weight: bold">”Ack, Tai –“</span><br/><br/>“What? I’m just taking your coat. I’m being<span style="font-style: italic">polite</span>,” she insisted, her fingers peeling the worn brown garment from him with surprising ease, considering his unwillingness. She tousled his hair as she left, spinning on her heel in a way that made it clear that it was<span style="font-style: italic">her</span>choice, and that<span style="font-style: italic">she</span>was in charge of the situation. Oliver sighed quietly to himself, shrugging his shoulders a bit to realign his arms in the long-sleeved, white scoop-neck he had been left with. The jacket, while old and pretty neutral, had been the only piece of leather clothing he possessed; he had rather hoped it would help him blend in just a little better in this tattoo-piercing arena. It hadn’t really, of course, but it had made him feel a little more secure.<br/><br/>A few more people came onto the stage, most of them dressed casually and plugging in various cords, adjusting a few speakers here or there, or running a few last minute things by the musicians. There was a bassist, and the keyboard player was on stage as well; Oliver could see the silhouette of the vocalist cast against a bit of cardboard stage left. He sat on the chair to the left of the keyboard, closest to the edge of the stage on the right side, and started tuning his guitar. He had tuned it before he left, but someone once told him that the audience liked to see it done; of course, that had been just before a performance with a renowned symphony in a beautiful theatre. This was a backyard band in a shitty bar.<br/><br/>The vocalist joined them and the lights started to adjust. Almost unthinkingly, he turned his face up to the nearest one, eyes soft and half-lidded in the florescent glare.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;">------------------------------</div><br/><br/>“There he is,” Den murmured to himself, falcon eyes narrowing as he studied the monitor. Arjaâ had yet to return from her task (unsurprising; sometimes the Supervisor was startled when she managed to put her shoes on correctly) but he had already pinpointed one of the sources of his disturbance. His point of view was that of the high corner of the building, the same place that would have housed a security camera, should the disgusting little establishment have commanded enough revenue to warrant one. Of course, his view was far better than any silly, mortal camera could have given. It was also totally adjustable.<br/><br/>Sure enough, he could identify his bogey as one of the young mortals near the back of the room, on the raised platform. Den could see a palate of decidedly nondescript features, but what was most important was the gleaming characters above his clueless head: the<a class="postlink" href="http://www.touregypt.net/images/touregypt/ka2.jpg"><span style="font-style: italic">Ka</span></a>, per usual as any mortal. The archaic lines and branching tines of the hieroglyphic served as the backdrop for many individuals, save the weaklings, but that was not what marked the boy as different.<br/><br/>This mortal also had the<a class="postlink" href="http://f.tqn.com/y/altreligion/1/L/z/1/-/-/ankh.jpg"><span style="font-style: italic">Ankh</span></a>. The tribal, painted appearance of the marking did nothing to diminish its majesty or rarity, composed of a long stem and a perfectly curved noose at the end. Branching horns from either end of the circle, short but patterned, added to the scepter-like aura and for a moment, Den merely looked at it. How long had it been since he had seen one? Several centuries, at least.<br/><br/>That was not even the curious part. The connected loop at the end of the ancient hieroglyph was draped brazenly over the left protrusion of the boy’s<span style="font-style: italic">Ka</span>. Haphazardly, even, as though it were little more than a discarded walking stick.<br/><br/>Den leaned back slowly in his plush office chair, fingers lacing even as his lips leaned on them. This situation only became more perplexing at every turn. Without looking away from the screen, one of his gloved fingers darted to the tiny black speaker balanced on his desk and gave a very precise press.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">"Call Levis."</span>