There was not that much noise to be had, which was a given comfort. There wasn't so much trash in the area of Crocus Zancrow had found himself wandering about, and the buildings seemed to be fairy new. At the least, some of it. The area was Crocus, and there was no real way of telling otherwise, although there was a sense of elitism in the air. Streets were busy with crowds of people milling about heading to early jobs and the like, doing as they pleased under the law; vendors sold their wares, and mages looked around for work to be done. Someone happened to be selling barbecued chicken shish kebabs with red and green bell peppers, a powerful aroma that the man could not seem to ignore. Odd time to make kebabs, being the morning time.

As fate would have, Zancrow would pick up another scent. The scent was faint, but familiar among the hordes of other strong scents within the area. It smelled like the halls of Lamia Scale, although still faint. While in the process of discerning the scent, some ketchup from the shish kebab vendor found its way onto his gray t-shirt, staining deep in the form of drops that could be mistaken for bullet holes. Some dripped down to his black jeans and brown belt, and one or two drops made it all the way to his dark brown running shoes. He followed the scent his nose picked up on, drowning out a particular group of children who made it a point to holler and cuss about some shirtless man.

Looking to the direction of a randomly given alley, there happened to be a man who seemed oddly familiar. He was the progenitor of the familiar scent, and now that Zancrow had given the man a look, he figured him out to be a member of his guild. However Zancrow had rarely seen him, in passing glances and nothing more. His scent was there by memory, and that couldn't be ignored. A woman was also with him, for what it seemed. Perhaps she was one of those night time workers who manned the corners, taking men into obscure and hidden areas to make their money through special work. Zancrow wouldn't judge, but it did catch him off guard.

Zancrow stood across the street, not feeling too bothered by the cold to wear anything else than what he wore. By his positioning, the man would have had to see Zancrow the moment he took a look at the general vicinity; the Lycan was a large man over most men. Zancrow would not particularly look into the direction of the man and his apparent hired mistress, but instead stare out to a local tea shop not too far off from where he stood. A cool air wrapped around the Lycan, pushing some of the fresh ketchup around the stain holes; it looked like blood splatter.

So much seemed to happen in such a short amount of time, but Zancrow was no stranger to split-second shenanigans and the possible hilarity that ensued. However, this seemed more of his guild mate trying to either impress or string along the feeling of this apparent harlot that he hired for the day. Either reason would have made no difference to him: there was opportunity and his estranged guild mate was already into full swing. The whole bit about getting shot was made more convincing seeing as Zancrow appeared to be bleeding out, so there was some divine hand in all of this after all. Zancrow was already into the swing of things before his guild mate started having bad seizures before gallivanting to his next destination

"Yea, the shot was pretty bad, although it could have been worse!"

The prostitute came so alarmingly close to Zancrow that goosebumps riddled his body, and gave him a little shake as if the pain from being shot was actually real and apparent. There was no rest for the man, bags under his eyes evident even though he had a good night's rest. It was just one of those traits that seemed to fool people into thinking he was as sleepless as the vampires that haunt dark alleyways and crypts. Given him appearing somewhat pale in the daytime, the matter of him appearing to be shot was virtually perfect in illusion. Her breath had a most strange odor, at the least, to him that smelled of slight salt and copper. Zancrow knew what sort of substance would smell like that, given the woman's apparent position in society and her mode of work.

Zancrow would limp away immediately after the woman talked, for her breath was nauseating and he had stood for too long. His left leg fell asleep, and as he clenched the stained spot unconsciously as he limped away it gave the perfect impression of being shot. Why the man was going along with these shenanigans was trivial to ask, as he was just doing it out of boredom and having nothing else better to do. No, he was no delinquent, but he had spare time. Zancrow followed the other giant of a man into the inn he so happened to find out of chance. He took a seat in a chair adjacent to his guild mate and took a deep sigh of relief of having found a seat. The woman followed suit shortly after, just as Zancrow's guild mate began inquiring him of what occurred, what had transpired to have had Zancrow shot. A myriad of ideas came to mind, although none that could fit too well.

The man did bring up the term partner, which gave Zancrow the idea of the two happening to be agents of law enforcement. It also could have just been a mission by the two to infiltrate somewhere dangerous. The term mob was also brought up. It could have meant crime family or just a large gathering of people, but either could have worked as either could have been after them, leading to the Lycan's alleged gunshot injury.

"It was all... a sudden blur.... One minute I recalled you going over our investigation, but soon enough I heard shots firing and... you disappeared!"

Zancrow slammed his fist on the wooden table, an apparent split crack forming from his fist to the other end.

"How come you abandoned me?!"

Of course, this was all just a ruse. However, it would have to be as convincing as possible.

Before Zancrow would be able to make a witty response to his partner's quip about double crossing and other references to espionage shenanigans, the dreaded mob descended on the motley crew as they sat in the inn. The smell of gunpowder made Zancrow's hair stand on end, and when he looked to the entrance and window, he saw a large row of men pull up their Tommy guns and prepared to open fire.

"We can finish this conversation, another day."

Zancrow got to his feet and ran through the back door as the mob opened fire with a hailstorm of bullets, effectively making anyone caught in the blast swiss cheese. The Lycan was not very concerned about the well-being of his guild mate, for he should be strong enough or smart enough to overcome the drastic situation. As for the prostitute... survival of the fittest.

[EXIT]