"You come where you're not welcome, Cleric."

The brusque voice carried across the relatively quiet tavern hall. No one looked at him but his accuser, but everyone knew to whom the man, a known werewolf, spoke.

"Hey, I'm talking to you!"

The young drow wench taking Lazarus' order for food and drink looked nervously between them, her customer, and the wolf -Ashur, he was called. A brute of a creature, even in his human mold. Bulging, but agile muscles scarcely contained in neglected, tattered trousers and tunic, wild, dark eyes, long dirty blonde hair, and a penchant for stirring up trouble with outsiders.

The drow's pale blue digits fidgeted with her apron, and she scurried off behind the bar when Ashur arose and approached the table.

"My deepest apologies, for I did not intend my presence to be an affront to yourself, your city, or your way of life," Lazarus finally replied calmly. "…And I am not a member of any clergy."
His deep voice had a sort of lilting, hollow quality fitting of a monk, however. It was clear he did not speak often, but he spoke well and confidently, nonetheless.

This level and affable, response gave Ashur some pause, which caused a few heads to turn in their direction. He looked Lazarus over. His dark grey robes, the simple sandals, the rosary.
"Why are you dressed in such a way then, mm? This city does not need any absolution, or any cures for what you outsiders call 'afflictions'. I-"

"It does, in fact," Lazarus interrupted, causing Ashur to grunt and clench his fist. "I am not here for those that have made peace with what they are, or can heal just fine on their own due to their race. There are those among you, however…mortals who are simply diseased, that wish for a way to return to their old lives. Also those that fear for life and limb that are not a part of any of the Clans that must travel in the near-perpetual darkness. Sin is none of my concern, nor am I qualified to absolve it."

A low growl emanated from deep in Ashur's throat, and he slammed his fist upon the table as he leaned in close. "We'll be watching you, outsider."
Lazarus leaned as well, inches away from Ashur's face. His two-toned gaze met and held the werewolf's dark orbs boldly. "As well you should."

When the wolf had stormed out, the Alchemist leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up, and thoughtfully twisting the feathery locks of his beard and unkempt hair about his finger as he stared after his near-assailant. He beckoned absent-mindedly to the wench, the poor girl, to return. Her nerves seemed no less frayed, simply for the fact any whom Ashur spoke to ended up in confrontation, dead, or worse.
"I'll just have the strongest house mead, if you please…and an empty, clean decanter as well, if it is no trouble."

Lazarus sifted through a small pouch at his side, withdrawing a handful of dried herbs and fungi, setting them aside, and began hastily scribbling on a parchment with a bit of charcoal.

Torn sat in the corner of the tavern, drinking deeply from his ale. There was tension in the air, as it seemed to be across the entire town. Small wonder, what with all the werewolves. The town and the surrounding areas were packed - heh, good pun, must remember that one - with werewolves and similar things. Torn would do something, but he didn't quite know how. Taking down a werewolf threat was a surefire way to increase his renown, but despite his lack of education, or any real form of forethought, Torn wasn't stupid. Besides, an opportunity to learn more, and perhaps act, would surely come his way.

He didn't have to wait long. Torn wasn't sure when, exactly - he'd been lost in thought - but a man wearing the garment of clergy had entered, and now a big, aggressive man was making a fuss. Torn watched with interest. The exchange was like listening to a rather powerful giant pummeling uselessly at an immovable mountainside. Torn listened with fascination as the man shot down the werewolf's threats and accusations with impunity, before taking the moral high ground with such accuracy and determination that the werewolf simply had to back off - but not before salvaging his pride by making a generic threat about 'watching the outsider'.

Here there be trouble, Torn thought, smiling to himself. And I am not going to miss out on this opportunity. He emptied his drink and stood up, passing the werewolf from earlier nonchalantly on his way to the mysterious man's table. He felt the werewolf's gaze, knowing the werewolf would be paying attention to the conversation. Torn didn't care one whit. The werewolf was uninteresting.

He approached the odd man at the table, crossing his arms and smiling. He whistled, to get the man's attention. "Phew, not about to get shot down on your first day at work, are ya'?" He slumped down into a seat next to the man, uninvited. Torn kept on grinning like a fool - which in many ways, he was. "Name's Torn. Now, I don't know who you are, who sent you, or why you're here. What I do understand is that you're about to make a ruckus." Torn grinned even broader. "And I want in. No price, no hesitation. All I ask is to be credited for my contributions. If that's not acceptable, tell me now and I'll be on my way."

Torn had a strange air about him, an air of carelessness and idiocy which frankly meant he appeared completely sincere. Torn himself, of course, chalked this effect down to charisma and charm.

Lazarus looked up from his note, quirking an eyebrow when he heard the whistling. He did not yet respond, and made no move to stop the young man before him as he sat by his side. He merely let him speak, politely giving his full attention, even as his drink and bottle were brought about to the table.
"I am Lazarus," the Alchemist replied after a pause. "If by ruckus, you mean caring for those in need, you are welcome to assist in whatever capacity you are able. I was brought here by correspondence via courier. A merchant's daughter has come from the mainland. Deathly ill. She was to be married."

He had paused in his introduction to open both the empty decanter and the mead, pouring a bit into it, along with some sprinklings of the herbs he had left out, and a bit of a silvery tincture from a small vial. The mead swirled with brilliant color, like a tinged honeygolden galaxy. Lazarus lifted the small decanter and gently twirled the contents about, as though he were about to sample a fine wine. The liquid gradually simmered down close to its original hue, albeit somewhat darker.

"I sense…that may not be what you are here for, however," Lazarus observed, eyeing this Torn carefully, and taking each of his words and demeanor into account. "I could very well send you on your way, but I've an even stronger inclination to believe our paths shall cross again regardless. I know synchronicity when I see it."

Lazarus leaned back in his chair once more, this time picking up a spare lantern that was on the floor near a support beam by the table. He opened the glass door, withdrawing the wick and oil, and poured a generous amount of it into the decanter, swirling this about as well after replacing the lantern as it was. "I can assure you I will be given grief while I am here. I always am. Though, I have not had the pleasure of running into the fellow a moment ago before. You can come along if you wish, and take any amount of credit you desire. So long as any violence is not traced back to me. I have good relations with the Council here - the Drow part of it, at least. The Vampires tolerate me."

Torn listened to the man patiently, his all-too-charming smile shining a brilliant white in the dim candlelight. He leant back in his chair, nonchalantly cleaning his fingernails with a knife. "I don't like instigating violence, but I'm not going to hesitate to defend myself. If you don't want that coming back to you, fine." He leaned back in with a smirk. "And if anyone gives you grief, say the word and I'll do what I can to end it. Charm, cunning, or skill - anything you prefer. I do love a challenge." He sat back in a more neutral position, but the smirk still remained.

So this guy's here to help, but doesn't want to get his hands dirty. understandable enough, only idealists would try to help this town, anyways. I better play it cool - keep him a bit on the edge of his seat, so he won't be complacent just by having me around. That's no fun.

"Well, then. I'm not one to ask many questions right off the bat, so if you like, you can go first. I've already told you my name. Is there anything else you'd like to know, before explaining to me how exactly I can be of help..?" Torn kept his smirk on his face, mostly to unsettle the man before him a little. If he wanted to be impressive, he'd have to be at least one kind of scary, and right now, Torn was too happy of the change of pace to really do anything else. His golden locks shimmered in the candlelight, making his hair look as if on fire - the only changing aspect of an otherwise stone-carved face.

"Charm I can use. The wolves do appreciate manners," Lazarus mused, after Torn had finished speaking and leaned in his chair. "It does not take much to instigate anything with them. Should you choose to be reckless, it would be regrettable that I should have to intervene."

It was unclear if the Alchemist was being humorous, or quite serious. His tone was a mixture of amused and stern. He also did not imply at all whom it would be regrettable for.

His expression was placid as he observed Torn. The stern tone in his voice faded, showing more amusement than anything else. The corner of his mouth turned up slightly.
"No," Lazarus replied simply. "I know all that is required. I only ask that you keep your wits about you. Know that we will be followed. Confrontation may or may not be inevitable."

Rising slowly and picking up the concoction in the decanter, Lazarus walked towards the door of the tavern. Despite his loose-fitting robes, he moved with great economy and poise. He did not beckon or call for Torn, simply walking out onto the dark street. It seemed he did not have any reservations about traversing Kurayo alone, letting Torn follow at his leisure. A grim, pale, but oddly attractive woman, clad in dark leather armor, and a sash bearing the sigil of her house stood some distance away, across and down the street. She was leaning against a barrel.
Lazarus did not have to look directly at her to know that she had been waiting - now, watching.

Unphased by his stalker, Lazarus withdrew the letter he had received from a small pouch, reading it over, and glancing up at the street signs. "The house we need is only the next block over," he announced, seemingly without care if she overheard, or if Torn was even in earshot, had he followed immediately. Lazarus walked calmly past the street corner, and made left down an alley adjacent to the tavern.

Torn listened somewhat half-heartedly to what Lazarus had to say, noting the fine balance between stern and amused, before following him out the door to the tavern. He noticed the woman immediately - she had made a poor effort at remaining hidden - but as Lazarus didn't seem to care, neither did Torn, much. Besides, Torn had weapons he had not yet revealed - and relatively close by.

"Next block over, hm? What are we looking for, exactly? A bit of information would help me help you."

Torn found himself intrigued by the man he was following - somehow he had turned the tables on him, and kept Torn at the edge of his seat instead of the other way around. He felt a stirring in his chest - a grand adventure was about to unfold.