"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.