He turns onto a smaller street and for the first time this night, the sound of a blinker cuts through the soundless vessel and both would be forced to hear it.

Tck-tck-tck-tck.

Metronome abyssal.

Tck-tck-tck.

Rhythmic madness sounds a turn left on a street filled with no other souls- as the sedan lurches to a depressed stop on a small street backed by an unusual patch of field cordoned off in the middle of the city. Probably to become housing- or business. As hyuron liked so well.

The ticking pauses. The car sighs aslumber and release or the end comes as the locks to the back lift finally.

Aezhyrrael turns- the seatbelt never worn- and gets out.

Nhera, in the third age, is a fatalistic and somewhat grungy world wherein temporary peace paves the descent of other races upon Theastone, Arune's capital.

Once a city-state carved in white and gold, the seduction of higher-tech nights has bolstered the city as one of the Imperia's most profitable ports. Also one of its most diverse. Hyuron loyal to the Spectra make a living or survive comfortably while dwarven night-markets thrive and draihari kabals paint the streets black in blood over territory disputes.

Aezhyrrael, corsair prince become false Kabalite as dark as the rest of his kin in Theastone, is owed the Black Rite's fate and throne to himself- yet is bidden away by a jealous false Divine in his place.

He sent himself away to collect the lost sword of his birthright; of Zhaine's own blood-kin, that he would give draihari blood to Mornfeir's bite and secure his fate.

He was brought to Theastone when his soul lurched at the theft of his blade from beneath the waves of the Hraen as though Zhaine himself sang out anguish when it was retrieved.

Though he knows not where it lies now, he could begin with several guesses. All turning in horrendous, synchronised steps towards Calix.

All nerves made lucid at once were over-sensation to the eldar's mind and his own shoulders twinge beneath his suit in ecstasy shared as he was forced for such peculiar half-moments to share in it: his own heart pounded within his caging ribs and he felt nerves erupt into flame at the edges of his own limbs darkened. But shared in sensation even still.

Such forms a dance of serpentine revelry as Aezhyrrael grips him and rends him closer.

He would have him understand his demands. In ardour, that he would not kill him. Punish him perhaps. Find ways to make his mind and soul curl in defeat at the steps of descent but never quite down them.

Sensation burned in his veins for over-long at what Aezhyrrael thought to be a rather simple demand as he grips him and is met with a languishing grunt.

"Oho..." Aezhyrrael inhales between fangs, the grin emerging again in all of its heinous design as Calix's body forfeits its secrets to him; writhing, disconnected, arcelectric. The wailing of so many many nerves pleasure obsession.

The third button, gripped, tugged, is pulled free and claws pause their playing to reach his hand over the warm flesh. Insatiable warmth and soft fur warmer still in Asra's light.

"I make my possession known wheresoever I please. Over coffee or otherwise." He growls into an ear, pulling fabric apart.

Calix. Private investigator, pale pet, white-hot touch, fresh blood. The fascination of Aezhyrrael's who belonged to him on the first night they met: when Calix first appeared at the dock and watched over the Black Rite's machinations. When the first cigarette was lit and given so vibrantly to watching night-eyes, Aezhyrrael had come to know him.