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Ashveil weaves through the dancing and singing crowd, ignoring the din as best as he can. He lost his client somewhere—he's pretty sure the young imagenae that hired him left with some guy she saw at the bar.
He's still rather worried for her, but she looked like she knew the other man. It's just that…he's stuck here now for the next hour, otherwise that entrance fee would've been way too high for all of this to be worth it. Ashveil groans inwardly at himself; he shouldn't have accepted when he saw the venue. But this could've gone very differently, and his help was needed.
How could he refuse?
Now that help is no longer of any use, though, he doesn't think he can endure the environment that well. His ears are already ringing and his heartbeat is lost in the pulse of the booming bass line in the background.
He approaches the bar, since it's less crowded there.
Isn't that a mistake.
"Something to drink, darling?" the bartender asks him immediately.
He panics, and stammers in a high pitch, "Just water is fine, please. Uh, thank you." He winces. He hasn't given himself away, has he? Well, not that most Planarcadia folks would mind a crossdresser, but he'd rather not blow his own cover.
It's a question of pride, more than anything else. And of his dignity (or what's left of it) as a respected detective.
The barkeep raises an eyebrow, but hums, "Alright, love. Suit yourself." She slides a glass of water over and saunters off to prep other drinks.
Ashveil takes it back—the barside is just as stuffy as anywhere else in the establishment, and he's beginning to see less and less reasons to stay.
His dress is starting to feel a little tight around the edges, and the bartender, lovely lady she may be, is eyeing him, and it's uncomfortable. And he doesn't particularly want to get wasted, either, so it's about high time he leaves.
He'll get an early night in.
Just as he decides to turn and head for the door, somebody sneaks up from behind. He surprisingly doesn't register them until they plant themselves directly in front of his periphery.
"Don't you look dejected. Not exactly in a bar mood, are ya, sweetheart?"
The speaker is in a stunningly cut off the shoulder dress, rich in colour that he can't make out because of the flashing lights. It may be a deep purple, or navy, he isn't sure. There's a string of beads around the woman's collar, with matching earrings that shine against the deep, chestnut curls cascading artfully down over her shoulders.
Ashveil squirms, a bad feeling about this mounting. How does he get out of this? It somehow never occurred to him that a woman might hit on him while he's dressed as one.
Today's the day for everything, it seems.
"I'm waiting on someone, sorry," he pathetically excuses, and it's clear she doesn't believe him.
"I'm sure you are, Miss…?"
Oh, she's a slick one, isn't she?
Ashveil makes a name up on the spot, "Valea Rifet, but my friends call my Vale."
It's almost easy, to slip into this predetermined role. Almost. He can never fully sink into any alternate personality, it just feels too strange. Anything for the job, though. Except what's the point when there's no client to serve?
"And may I call you Vale, then?" the lady purrs, one hand on her rosy cheek.
"Sure…" Ashveil shifts a little.
It's not his fault it's away from the woman.
She notices. "Aw, loosen up, lovely, I don't bite,"—while absolutely looking like she does—"I'm Poisson, by the way. Brughel Poisson."
A very fantastical name, for sure.
"Good to meet you, Ms.Poisson."
Brughel pouts, "You're so cold, Vale. Been having a rough night? What, someone dump you?"
Ashveil sighs, "No, it's just…I don't really know why I came here to be honest. Haven't been feeling up to much lately. I'm starting to think this was a bad idea, though."
He makes up whatever on the fly, with a hint of truth for his sincerity to still bleed through as a cover. He truly hasn't really been up to a lot. Life is stagnating, and not in a good way.
And still, the first new thing that sprouts up on his path…he pushes it away.
"Sorry, I think I'll head off," he apologizes before Brughel can say anything else, adjusting the sleeve and glove covering his prosthetic. "It was nice meeting you, though."
"Aw, what, not even a phone number? I'm hurt."
More pouting, and the brunette is leaning in even closer. When did she even get that close? It's a little unnerving, honestly.
"And your feelings aren't my responsibility," Ashveil declares firmly, backing off to reclaim his personal space. He unfortunately trips a little over the stool he was half leaning on. Stupid heels. These ones are so much worse than his usual boots.
He waves, half out of politeness and half-hurriedly out of embarrassment, and turns his back on this loud, lousy place. It's only once he's outside and two blocks down that he notices his neck feels lighter—it's bare.
When did it even fall off?
Oh well.
It was cheap imitation anyway.
"Well, that was weird," Yia comments to him, nodding at the direction in which the clumsy, awkward woman took off.
Sampo—well, currently Brughel Poisson—pockets the the chain and drop-jewel he deftly snatched from one Vale Rifet's neck.
He doesn't know anyone by that name, and he knows everyone.
"She looked familiar, didn't she?" he covertly asks his colleague.
Yia snorts, "How would I know? People filing is your specialty."
Sampo laughs heartedly, acquiescing the bartender's point.
"New face in town, then."
Except he doesn't think so. He's certain he's seen those bright, bright eyes somewhere before…and that specific shade of dark hair, with some barely dissimulated grey strands peeking out in some places.
It was a nice colour, on her, he muses. Definitely couldn't work for his own disguise.
He swirls the drink Yia passes him wordlessly.
He quite liked being a brunette, all things considered. He's been a blonde before, but that always felt off. If he keeps his natural hair colour, then it'd raise too many suspicions. The point is to look like a stranger, after all.
Ah.
As he sips on his drink, Sampo finally remembers where he's seen those eyes before. It was from afar, just once. He holds up the shiny imitation necklace he snagged off that pretty neck. Too bad it won't sell. He gained one piece of valuable info though.
He smirks to himself.
Heh, who knew the ace detective of Planarcadia also engaged in such…elating activities?