ASH XIX, MMMMDCXIV
A crow, sprawled out, one leg bent forward, its talons still twitching. Its left wing was bashed, crushed with enough force that it was nearly glued to the cement beneath it. Alistair had the option to save it, to mend it -- it would've required a trifling amount of Vitescence, but the energy he would have expended would have been recovered over time; a few days, perhaps a week. The real danger had little to do with what he could or could not do practically, but the eyes around him. People walked by, moving through the streets of Starkwayte by the hundreds, thousands, millions. Some of them even stepped on the crow as they passed, carelessly, despite the fact that it was still evidently alive. Those eyes were the reason he could not save the bird's life, even though some strange, looming feeling in him begged him to. Even though he wanted to.
It was this sort of thing -- a reminder of his limitations; a reminder of the good things he would never be allowed to do -- that fomented a sort of hatred for the nation that surrounded him. To essentialize all things as good or bad, without acknowledging where they intersected with the other half, without acknowledging the greys and onyxes and the light beige... it was so blind, to him.
He stepped on the bird's skull, crushing the life out of it with the twist of his boot. Then, the man carried on, briefcase and all. It was better that way -- the black-feathered bird wouldn't need to live another moment of suffering, and he wouldn't need to tempt himself to destroy his own life for the sake of an ailing crow.
Alistair carried a briefcase, filled with various belongings; clothes, dranari bank notes, a bottle and flask, and a few medical necessities. He was wearing a white button-up shirt with a brown vest above, his cuffs rolled slightly back and buttoned, with a watch on his left wrist; he had on a red tie and long brown slacks, the same color as his vest. His shoes were simple derby business shoes, the laces immaculately tied. Everything about him said high class, from the quality of his fabrics to the way he stood. There was a sort of pretense where it came to the more middle-class businessmen -- many of them went the extra mile, but in a way that betrayed their esteem. They wore ridiculous hats, overdressed in the heat, tried far too much to appear perfect and poised at all times. Alistair's wealth was casual, which made it authentic. He wore the stride of the experienced rich.
The man turned into a quieter district, and then a quieter one, until he was on Vincent Row on 3rd, an area commonly known among the upper class to be a place of anonymous glories. Some of the people there surely would have recognized him had he not been masked. Either way, he was far from worried. No one spoke out about the proclivities of the other; even House Fairfax had some frequenters of the nearby clubs, though they all delved into very different things. Alistair's favored place of gathering was the Silver Sunset Society, a place where that crow wouldn't have needed to become carrion; a place where the upper-class could defy the Pillar of Modernity in peace.
He stepped in through a less-obvious entrance, along the broad wall beside the shuttered opening. Once emerging through the door, he adjusted his eyes to the dimly lit darkness, squinting towards a young man who stood there to receive him, examining his platinum medallion before nodding him in. At some point before entering, he'd slipped on his mask, which he doubted was very effective at concealing him regardless. He was easily the tallest Griscian High Lord, and that meant there was little he could do to reasonably hide. His anonymity was protected more by mutual destruction than by his features being obscured.
Moving through a narrow corridor, the man opened his briefcase before him, pulling out his flask and taking a swig. It was whiskey, infused with absinthe; he'd drank so much of it, though, that the hallucinogenic had little effect on him now. It would distort or adjust things to his proclivities in subtle ways, but mostly just served to make him less anxious. Few Corvo had a typical relationship with their chosen poison.
"Excuse me," a man muttered, shoving past him and stepping into a room along the hall. He left the door open, and as Alistair passed, he failed to resist the curiosity to peek inside. The man approached a young man -- or a boy -- who he'd seen before, a face that occasionally met his, only to embarrassingly look away. Rather than appearing flustered as he did while peering towards the man he crushed on, he looked subtly immiserated, withholding the bare features of pure malice and disgust. The taller man paused in the doorway, clutching the leather grip of his briefcase and lingering over an action; a next step. He contemplated, and considered.
The man -- of the same sort that liked to dress over-well to look classier than they were -- approached the young gentleman, reaching out to touch him, stroking along his forearm, then the backside of his palm. Alistair stepped through the door, clearing his throat.
"Excuse me," he said, repeating the same words muttered to him. "I have business with this gentleman, tonight, and for the remainder of my stay here. Leave us, if you would." Alistair flashed his rank, lifting an ornamented stopwatch from his pocket with a golden-encrusted insignia. XVII, the highest level one could achieve outside of direct leadership. All it meant was that he'd donated a great deal to the club, but that did not matter. Class ruled in every corridor of Griscian society, even here.
