Challenge complete: Bar scene

As I'd mentioned, I wanted to do something in the vein of Big Hero 6's animated intro scene where they had their characters walk into a café to get an idea of their personality. Here's the first of these scenes, which will be figuratively split in half. What do I mean by that? I will be writing two scenes with this particular character: one in a distant past before the occurrance of a life-altering event, the second well after said event. So it's not just an exercise in character voice, but also in character evolution and comparison.

* * *

Devon shook his hood, lightly, dusting off the amassed snow like white fluffy rain. Then, after a short moment of thoughtless contemplation, he looked up at the skies.

The night was dark; cold and wet, a typical weather during the Snows. He was hungry; not yet a potential threat for passerby, not even blinded yet to the world surrounding him. There was time, still, to enjoy the beauty of the stars and wonder why their sight warmed his heart. Was it just misplaced sensibility? Or was it these lights, these tiny speckles of light lost amid vast seas of darkness, that stirred memory and sorrow?

I'm sorry.

He shook his head as memories surfaced and forced them back into the depths. Then he took a look around, his eyes narrow in the dying light of nearby lanternposts, and spotted a weathered signpost. He could barely make out the fading lettering beneath a damaged carving of a mug:

The Divine Intruder

Devon snorted. He'd be surprised if they were still in business, and if they were, whether they still served any drinks that were neither stale from age or, as the worn sign somehow suggested to him, poisonous. On the other hand however, a place like this –ruined and forgotten– might prove to be a haven of peace for someone like him: no prying eyes. No patrolling guards, as the nigh unperturbed snow led him to believe. He looked down at his hands, the tips of his stiff fingers protruding from cut gloves, and the vapour escaping from his suddenly trembling lips.

The door to the Divine Intruder creaked open as he entered the wide, dimly lit tavern. Immediately he scrutinized his surroundings, determining potential threads from the get-go (always look, she had told him, they look, you look back). He was relieved to see but a few patrons drinking and smoking, each of them to their own table; only the bartender, a tall, thin moustached man with short black hair, seemed rather displeased by Devon's sudden entry.

"No vagrants," he spat, and a few heads lulled in Devon's general direction, "No coin, no table."

"What makes you think I am a vagrant?"

The bartender's lips flared, as did his temper. "We don't need your sort here, boy! We got problems of our own here, business's dead – DEAD I tells ya! – and you think you can barge in here and—"

All ears, twitching to the sound of rustling metal, forced their owners to turn their attention towards the vagrant who held in his hand a small pouch filled with what sounded like a small fortune.

"I'm sorry, you were saying?"

The bartender's eyes twitched. "Sit where you want."

Devon gave the man a fleeting, polite flat smile, took a look around, and chose a table a certain distance away from all men present, away from the door, and away from the room's major corners (corners are bad, she had told him, good view, safe, but they see you, and catch you later). He sat down with the exit at his back, arms placed on the table as support, and took a deep breath. Behind closed eyelids, memories surfaced once again, and stared back at him with icy fierceness.

"What'll it be?"

Devon blinked a few times, as though woken from a daydream. He looked up at the grumbling bartender. "Something warm."

"Don't have that."

"What do you have, then?"

"Booze."

"I don't drink."

The bartender's nostrils flared. Devon was certain the man wanted nothing better than to lash out and kick him out of his delapidated establishment, but the promise of a potentially substantial remuneration was all that reigned the bartender's frustration in.

"What does his majesty desire, then?"

Slowly, Devon's brow furrowed. It wasn't merely the bartender's contempt that struck a nerve; a quick glance about revealed careful motion and, potentially, threat. Wait for last chance, she had told him, then, break – and how often she had done so, resulting in devastated places and, every now and again, imprisonment. He did not have her power, nor did he thrive on destruction; however, he possessed one attribute that was sure to end the situation immediately. So, Devon dropped his head briefly and smiled.

"I suggest you desist," he said, and he raised his fierce brown gaze towards the man heheard take a step towards him, "or this will not end well for you."

The man, an elderly drunk with clearly nothing left in his life and his veins, let out a sharp choking cry. A blade clanked onto the floorboards. "V-V-V-"

Devon smiled, a wide grin that revealed extremely sharp, fang-like canines and lateral incisors. He leaned forward, clasping his hands, and stared, up until the old man's panic took hold of him and he ran, knocking chairs aside as he screamed like mad.

Then, when the old man had exited the tavern, Devon looked back up at the ashen bartender.

"Now, if I may: have you anything other than booze to offer me?"

* * *

The night was cold; dark and uninviting, save for the light of a crescent moon. Devon pulled down his hood and the snow amassed on top, and looked up at a neat, clearly well-kept signpost. In the light of a nearby lantern, the lettering was clear and left no doubt:

The Wairing Hole

This is the place. He glanced about, casually, while taking in every detail of his dark surroundings: footsteps partially filled in by drifting snow, specks of dried old blood on opposite walls, the smell of rotting meat likely devoured by rodents and the occasional stray Wair. And, above all, the smell of old, musty death lingering on the air. He knew that scent too well.

Devon's upper lip curled, revealing a set of sharp, fang-like teeth. His stiff fingers tightened into fists.

He pushed the door to the Wairing Hole open and was immediately assaulted by a barrage of smoke and the stink of days-long sweat and burned meat, and a cacophony of laughter and drunken arguments that led even as he entered to a brief fistfight that ended abruptly, one man bleeding on the floor. No one truly seemed to notice him, and he took this advantage to slither his way towards one of few vacant tables – which, unfortunately, was located too near the center of turbulence. He sat down, took a deep calming breath, and slowly looked around.

Most patrons, he suspected the longer he observed them, were clearly drunk. A few were about to pass out or be sick –or both–, several were getting overly friendly with what he expected to be waitresses or women of leisure –poor girls with no other talent but their physique–; some he suspected were taking advantage of those far more drunk than themselves to rob them without their knowing. And, in one dim corner, Devon found what he was looking for: his prey.

There were three of them, all dressed in simple hooded cloaks with little trimmings and no defining attributes. One of them spoke with ample gestures –whether out of habit, or to blend in with the surroundings, Devon did not know, nor did he care. The night would be as long as they made it. When opportunity arose, Devon ordered a drink of ale, and started waiting.

Before the group of three rose from their seats about an hour later, Devon had been rudely knocked aside by one surprisingly large patron, been harassed twice by drunk, sweat-drenched women, had to defend his drink and his spot several times, and repressed with every minute that had passed the urge to kill every single person present to finally get some peace. It would have defeated the purpose of blending in, but it sure as hell would have felt good.

Focus. Focus.

Devon waited a minute or so before rising from his seat and slithering back out of the tavern. Once outside he took a deep, deep breath of fresh, unpoluted air, and a moment to calm his wrecked nerves after sitting in that abysmal den of depravity for so long. Then, he sniffed the air, and followed the trail of old death through brightly lit streets and dank alleys, until he, unsurprisingly, reached the outskirts of the city and a delapidated ruin of a house.

Memories flashed before his eyes, of times not long enough passed, of a makeshift home where he'd lost his heart and his sanity. Fangs bared, Devon let out a small growling sound.

He hated them; he hated them all; time willing, he would kill them all.

Devon screeched; blinded to reason, he threw himself against the door and crashed inside.