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Azzlore leans against the wall with ale in hand. A large chandelier hangs in the center of the barroom, illuminating the people below. Sounds of overlapping conversations and glasses hitting the wooden bar roar through the air.
The Gilded Goblet is usually packed around this time of night, with all sorts of people unwinding after a rough day. Tonight is no different, with the barroom barely having any space to hold all the patrons. Everyone is nearly shoulder to shoulder, packed like sardines. Despite its popularity, it isn’t the worst place to drown out your sorrows in.
With his only remaining eye locked onto his drink, a familiar-looking redhead shoots past Azzlore’s peripheral. Normally, he wouldn't pay something like that any mind, but this shade of red looks too familiar.
His focus now broken, he shifts his gaze around the barroom, frantic. Almost instantly, he spots the figure across the crowded room.
The figure is facing the wall, back turned to him. She appears to be human, and she’s talking to a rugged-looking half-elf. By the looks of it, they’re both enthralled in a conversation.
Her hair is short, cut just above the shoulders, and is that similar crimson red color. Her skin is pale, and she is wearing a green dress that flows like water off her body. In a certain light, from the back she almost looks like Jane.
It can't be, Azzlore thinks to himself,
She’s never even left the Island.
Before he can make sense of any of it, his feet are moving. It’s almost like they have a mind of their own. His broad shoulders brush and clash against the other patrons of the tavern, and slowly but surely her figure comes closer into view.
Azzlore’s mind is running a million miles a minute, and his feet show no sign of slowing down.
You idiot. What are you doing?
What would you even say to her?
“Hey, how’s it going?”
“How have you been?”
If she had any sensibilities left she would turn your ass in to the guards.
Azzlore continues to push through the crowd, drink still in hand, he tries not to spill it. The Jane-lookalike is now nearly in front of him. The only thing that separates the two of them are a few rows of people. Sounds of conversations and drinks being thrown back still linger in the air. As he is squeezing past, he notices the half-elf depart by walking towards the bar.
This may be my only chance to talk to her.
Picking up his pace, the old floors of The Gilded Goblet groan underneath his feet. His breath started to get heavier, the reality of the situation hitting him like a freight train. In all the years that passed, the thought of seeing her again never occurred to him.
What would he say? What would she say? What good could ever come from their reunion? Is it even worth the trouble?
Unsure of the answer and wistfully unprepared, Azzlore marches on.
After what feels like an eternity, Azzlore finally makes it across the barroom. The human is now sitting alone in a booth, the half-elf still at the bar fetching drinks, and she is fidgeting with a napkin in her hand. He didn't spot it before, but on the back of her forearm is a tattoo of a crescent moon wrapped in thorns.
That wasn’t there before, he remembers thinking to himself.
The tattoo is subtle, almost barely noticeable. It looks pretty new, but he couldn’t be 100% sure.
Jane doesn’t have a tattoo. Or at least, I don’t remember her having one.
It doesn’t matter now. This is it.
Time to do something stupid.
To clear his mind, he takes a deep breath. With his remaining free hand he brings his long, demon-like fingers to tap the girl on the shoulder. His voice is shaky, but he clears his throat, “Excuse me?” he squeaks.
The girl turns her head towards Azzlore, and for a moment, he swears that looking back at him is Jane. But a second inspection revealed the worst truth.
It wasn’t Jane.
The human’s eyes are a dark brown, and other than the hair and skin, this woman bears no resemblance to Jane whatsoever.
And just like that, all of the repressed excitement that he set aside for this occasion went down like a lead balloon. Azzlore knows in his heart that the chances of them meeting again are damn-near impossible. He only hoped for just a moment that it was her, if not to rekindle their love, to apologize for the hell he put her through. Nevertheless, he can’t shake that feeling of disappointment.
The false Jane looks at him puzzled, her eyes scanning his figure up and down. Now realizing the mistake he made, he apologizes. “I’m sorry. I uh, thought you were someone else,” he smiles awkwardly.
He manages to squeeze out a, “Have a nice day,” before he haphazardly shuffles away.
Half-empty ale still in his grasp, he slams it down on a table along with some silver pieces. Instantaneous with the thud of his cup, the room starts to spin in every direction, but this time it isn't because of the alcohol.
Azzlore uses his arms to nudge his way through the tightly packed tavern. Shouts in protest replace the sounds of clinking glasses and cheerful interactions, he doesn’t break his focus this time, and continues to stagger through the tavern, his vision still spinning.
After successfully pissing off the remaining patrons of The Gilded Goblet he rams his way through the crowd towards the entrance. He bursts the doors and stumbles down the stairs, huffing and puffing the whole way, nearly toppling over into the mud. The townspeople that occupied the streets barely acknowledged him, making sure to cast their gaze downwards in order to not engage with the madman who came barreling out of the tavern.
Azzlore’s lungs scream for air, and he hears the sound of his beating heart in his ears. They ring loud like drums, and it doesn’t pair well with the dizziness. He manages to stumble to the side of The Gilded Goblet, hunched over, resting his one hand on the wall and clutching his stomach with the other.
He coughs hard and wretches something awful into the mud underneath him. It feels like fire is shooting out of his mouth, and when it’s all said and done it leaves him feeling more empty than before.
As struggles to regain his footing, the world is still spinning out of control. Everything around him blending into an orange blur. Azzlore fell to his knees in an attempt to catch his breath.
The suppressed doubts slowly began to rise to the surface of his mind, and it slowly infected him.
It wasn’t her. I could’ve sworn— I thought it was—
I should’ve known.
As if to make matters worse, almost like a divine punishment, Kaelthor’s words boom in his head,
“I don’t know Az. But for your sanity, you should stop thinking about her.”
Azzlore doesn’t get up from his knees until the world finally stops spinning and the voices in his head are quiet. Slowly but surely the rest of the world came into view. The sounds of chattering townspeople and crowing birds are the force that finally grounds Azzlore to reality.
When he finally rises to his feet, he wipes the mud off his knees as best as he could. Covering the pure hell that came spewing from his mouth with some dirt, he walks off. Shaking off the lingering voices that rushed through his head, he came to this conclusion.
It was for the best.
Because after all, what on earth could he ever say to her to make it all okay?
It’s a hopeless cause, and even though it isn’t the ending he hoped for, it is the ending he has.
Maybe Kal was right. Maybe it’s about time. For his sake.
“I saw your green hair, beauty mark next to your mouth. there on the subway, i almost had a meltdown.”