The streets of Crocus were far quieter than the rough and tumble areas he's become acclimated to - a peaceful town, wealthy and prosperous enough that Luka contemplates what struggles could afflict such fortunate souls that require such a strong presence of Rune Knights. Still, there's a discomfort in the malaise doldrums, fake smiles and nods to passing citizens traversing the well-paved roads from whatever their evenings entailed. Luka's collar feels too tight. A quick tug to loosen his bowtie, fiddling with his cuff links with the tips of gloved claws.  Something unsettled stirs beneath the skin - itchy and suffocating, knowing full well that his skillset would be better served in the darkness. As a dim candle guiding wayward souls? No, Luka's fire was extinguished long ago. All that remains is the scorching cinders, abyssal smoke, and the courage to spend what's left to cleanse wickedness from the earth before he burns out completely.

All he needs is a quick detour. That's what he tells himself. Luka reaches into his coat jacket, fumbling around for the remedy for his sporadic outburst of stress as his shoes click against the yellow-brick road, turning away from the beaten path into a secluded alleyway. It suits him more - the solitude found in the gutters. He finally plucks a cigarette from the elusive packaging, a steadying hand finding its way to rest against his cheek as he lights it, playing with the tip with a steady wiggle of his lips. Luka continued exploring the winding alleyways, obviously less maintained than the rest of the city he'd seen, but even this was a paradise compared to some of the places he'd lived.

Trash strewn across the ground, littered with ripped bags and empty bottles, but there was not a single soul in sight for most of his diversion. Luka taps away at his side, thumb hitched between the nook of his belt and trousers, and he takes a drag from his cigarette with an exasperated sigh, But that's when he sees a figure, leaned up against a wall with a bottle in hand. Small, feminine? His watchful canine eyes shining viridescent in the moonlight couldn't quite reveal any details through the haze and shade of night. The figure was cloaked, a hood concealing anything notable other than the striking glint of steel reflecting moonlight whenever they took a swig. And they were certainly armed to the teeth.

Luka had little interest in making small talk or keeping company tonight, but his curiosity got the better of him. A careful approach, prying his cigarette from his mouth as it curls into a wry grin. "Oi, can I bum a sip o' that, mate?" His hand flits into a friendly wave held static as he leans over to sneak a glimpse of the mysterious stranger. Only it wasn't quite an unfamiliar face hidden beneath the hood. He freezes a twitch of his eyebrow and the sly, overconfident mask he usually adorns slips into a flustered miscellany of emotions. Delight at seeing a childhood friend and a shame of what was lost years ago. Would she even recognize him as he is now? All he knows for certain is his tail betrays any of those worries, flapping wildly as his voice echoes.

"Tatyana? Is that you, sis?"

The inevitability of something all-consuming was the inevitable excess that came with its consumption. It was the shakiness of slight, pallid fingers that gripped a dusty bottle with the reverence of ambrosia. They wormed around it - a bony prison, the ache in her limbs possessive of this one release and playing distrusting over its wide body - and pulled the stopper to Tatyana's lips. She didn't drink. She sighed over its head, a foot just under her coat alert and grinding its frustrations into the full shape of a pouch; coins jingling inside every time she'd pushed in the searing bite of her heel.

She muttered a number she dare not repeat. It was swallowed by the bottle, taking her secrets to the bottom of its amber antidote. Arguably, in comparison to the seemingly uncountable number of coins being tread by her sole, it was an inconsequential part of the sum - not even the most shrewd of mercenaries would miss it from their own coffers. For Tatya, however, she had taken precious bites of the feast she was meant to offer her family as if it was another loaf of molding bread: all for this deceptive liquid and the quiet it offered the pounding in her head.

She ground her foot down, planting it firmly in a carved recess of the brown bag, and she let its give punish her for what could be filling that space. She responded to this drowning sensation by tilting her head back until untidy auburn fanned across bricklaid stone and the liquor, uncorked, was released into her quickly-gulping maw. She caught herself against the wall with a hand that smacked away its grime, yanking the drink from herself and gasping to admit air where only alcohol had been, and brought herself back from the golden sea. A little fuzzier. It started in her head and snaked in loopy spirals down her skull. Her vision blurred, blinked away - easily enough - for now.

Her shoulders felt less tense, but more alert. Her front exposed through the opening in her coat as she took just a moment of rest for herself in the alley's dim light, mulling sleeping arrangements over in her thoughts no different than the liquor on her tongue. Bitter and tempting. She moved to spit - in spite of herself, or the taste, she couldn't say - but knew better than to waste. Want not, and all. She swallowed, and it felt dry, so she moved to drink again.

Interrupted. A voice, responded aptly with two knives between the knuckles of a fist that flashed them through the air and threatened in the next moment to loose both on the invader. Her eyes flickered under the hovel of her spectacles in time with the nearby streetlight, casting only shade and warning. "Not likely --" Blue, pensive and sharp, on white steel and --

"L... Luka?" She was stunned, uncharacteristically, and her voice came so much smaller than the figure under its heavy hood. Her hand with proffered weapons dropped, knocked from the air and hanging limp 'til her grip lost all strength and sent both knives to the earth. They clattered, forgotten, as she stepped forward; brushing back her hood, which would reveal one long, red-furred ear and another, and the gaze of a woman much older and tired than the gentle noblegirl Luka had played with in his youth.

It's a promise, okay? came hauntingly from the ether, a previously misplaced memory that now struck at her frozen core. She was slanted forward, reaching out a hand in but the breeze of a moment before that was swiftly retracted and lain over her heart instead. "Luka Rozanov? Lulu...? Is that really you?" Her voice had melted of every edge, more alike to the feminine quality she was raised with. Polite and soft and wistful, back to when she'd spin tales of their future for the little boy who clung to her silks.