Brennan had been choking on a wormhole of despair for quite a long time. It started since he was young and only continued on as a child turned into a man. It only got worse after that. He saw the cruelty of man even within his own family. Perhaps, his mother was the one sweet soul left of them, perhaps his finance was also one of those angels in a world full of demons. Demons just in another form. One was left a husk, a broken husk of what she once was, and the other was yet another victim of tragedy. So often, evil won out.

Dorian did not seem like what he would have envisioned a fae would be after reading those countless books. Then again, maybe all he knew was based on tall tales and strange distorted whispers. Weren't witches and warlocks conveyed in the same manner? The very gesture of the man resting his hand on Brennan's arm had made him pause. Of course, his body was not used to such a comforting touch, after spending so long in a sea of perpetual violence, pain, and desolation. He could still hear the whispers of death singing through the land, devastating and consuming the lands. The warlock wondered if in time it would fade. He could not help in the way that his muscles tense, as if expecting intense amounts of pain that never came.

Dorian seemed like he was one of those good few, he seemed to care while others simple did not. Not that they could ever help a man like Brennan nor aid in his particular problem. He had went to hell, at least a form of it. But the frightening feeling, the part that haunted him almost as much as the constant battle and turmoil that never stopped, he knew he belonged there. He didn't know why, he didn't know how, it wasn't even his time. But the very desolate ground seemed to welcome him, its beasts seemed to hunger for him. Maybe it was because he was the only thing truly living in a place specifically meant for the dead. Or maybe, it was something else entirely. Hell, if he knew. Maybe he would never know. Perhaps, some questions were better left unanswered.

So, when it came time to make the fae man a promise, it was easy to make. There was no backlash of this fallout of blood magic to be done in the vicinity of his home. It was a fair request. Even though his nightmares only told him that something very bad was coming to Sacrosanct. It sounded very ominous, but he could feel it within the magic that filled his veins, he could feel it in the hushed woods, in the very air he breathed.

The man thanked him. But really it was no problem at all. There were some acts that even Brennan was incapable of doing and dragging others into his messes was one of them. Even if it lead to his own demise. He nodded his head briefly, his mind drifting of the possibilities of what had to be done and cost to execute it.

Brennan was not entirely sure of the limits he would go to get back that freedom he truly deserved. He could never get his life back, no not what once was. Perhaps there was a suffocated dreamer in that wasteland of his mind that did. Maybe there was a part of him that hoped over the desperation that maybe he could have a life after this. After all he was cursed simply by loving the wrong person. Did he truly deserve to be trapped in a hell world? Did he truly deserve to be enslaved by a demon for the rest of his days?

Brennan was hardly a good man.. But he wasn't all bad. He would never be the hero in anyone's story. Perhaps he was doomed to always come up short, to have any good that entered his life to be ripped away. Maybe he should have just been the selfish villain, good intentions never got him anywhere anyways.

Immortality seemed like a strange thing to the warlock. His eyes widened at the age of the other man's father. Impossible and yet in this world full of magic, anything could come to be. He knew the demon he had dealt with was ageless, he felt ancient, unlike anything he had ever encountered before. Amazed.. Brennan was amazed by that age for some reason, perhaps because immortality was not in his cards. He could not imagine what it would be like to live that long. He complimented the man from sheer disbelief of his age. "The fountain of youth seems to be in fae blood. The things one could accomplish in two thousand years." He mused out loud. No weaknesses like vampires to sunlight, no devouring the blood of others to stay alive. He had become a warlock out of necessity, he hardly had the proper guidance, but he had the will and drive to use that magic to aid him. It was the only way he succeeded in his quest for revenge. But then again, did one ever truly succeed?

Now that the drinks have ran dry, it was time to get this fae king on his merry way. They had made their way out the tavern, the outside world seemed awfully quiet in comparison to the bustle of inside. He could even hear his own footfalls as they hit the pavement. He eyed this Charles person while he judged him with his judgemental stare. It was as clear as day and surely there was no harm in toying with his uncertainty. Charles looked at Brennan as though he might actually bite him, good. He flashed him a roguish grin, that wasn't entirely helping this man's unease of the warlock. Neither did that zap of magic he sent through their handshake.

It was Dorian's words that caused him to return his attention to him. Did he really need a story to encourage his magic? He nearly laughed at the thought. He found himself entirely honest around the fae gentleman. Why? He hardly knew. "Nah, I just hate the silence while I work and I could use a good story." He shrugged. A distraction, it was valuable to the man considering his case of terrible luck and silence was filled with nothing but horrors of all he had endured. Perhaps after meeting Dorian things were bound to change. Maybe. He wasn't foolish or young enough to dream of hope and love and a better life. Because let's be entirely honest, when did things ever really work out?

Charles did try to make himself useful, trying to find what few tools they had. Not that he really needed them, he could just summon his own, yeah it took a little bit of concentration. But, he wasn't drunk in the slightest to truly hinder his abilities.

Brennan went to work, utilizing mainly the tools he summoned with his unique power, it certainly came in handy at times like this. He only paused his work to consider something or ask a question about the tale he was offered. Perhaps, he did know a thing or two about being cursed.

There was a reason why he didn't pay attention in history class, he found it entirely boring. There was enough going on in the present to keep himself occupied. He mentioned religion and offering him a book of what happened in the war it made his eyes widen. Brennan was far from a religious man. Religion had done far more harm than good and he wasn't going to allow someone/something else to dictate his own path, his own morals. Brennan believed the tangible. What was real and what he could feel and see. That was the law he could abide by, his own. But maybe, just maybe he was a little curious of this man that claimed he was a king, curious of his story. But books, more books. He could have shuddered. Once he figured this whole demon debacle out, if he saw another book in the next 10 years it would be too soon. He had enough books filling his bed to last a life time. "It wouldn't hurt to maybe take a peak." He murmured. He wasn't exactly sure how honest that statement was, but he was going to flat out say no either.

Dorian went on to say that he wasn't exactly alone in that house. That indeed was more than Brennan had. The warlocks only company was that demon pup creature he found, he raised and the monsters that constantly tried to eat him, or destroy him. He did miss that little pup. Besides him, all he knew was that bitter, cold, loneliness, and all that bloodshed. All in the name of survival. It was a constant fight and it nearly truly killed him. Hell, he didn't know why he didn't give up. Maybe it was that picture he kept in his inner breast pocket of that well worn leather jacket he often wore. "At the very least, you weren't alone.." Dorian also went on that fae did not need to eat or drink to survive. "I think I chose the wrong species." Warlocks were still terribly human, terribly powerful if they knew how to wield that potent magic that flowed through them. Too bad Brennan wasn't really one of them,

Then that insinuation that his bed was never empty. Well at least he was fortunate in that department! Brennan, however, nothing. Nothing since the night before he left. There were no women, batting their pretty lashes at him in that desolate place. He had come back and his only advances were shunned. He hadn't taken another woman in his bed, it was the longest dry spell he had ever known was possible. He knew that dry spell had to come to an end, eventually. He knew it could help take the edge of. But.. But... his heart wasn't in it. What the fuck was wrong with him? "I wouldn't mind being trapped in a castle for 500 years with a harem of women to dote over my every desires.." Mischief dances within his eye. "I spent who the hell knows how long, in the middle of nowhere, with every horrific creature you could imagine trying to kill me. Not a damn woman in sight. I at least had my whiskey.." To be entirely honest, talking still felt strange and yet he had fallen right back into society like a glove. Well minus the fact that he was a lot trigger happy and jumpy. The paranoia he could live without.

Dorian then asked a question that made the wily warlock pause. This blasted pesky fae. He kept making him think, making him slice into the deeper parts of his mind. The parts he would rather keep locked up and neglected. It wasn't a sound way of thinking, hell, it wasn't healthy in the slightest, but the man was stubborn. Topics of Sera always made him take pause, made him freeze like a deer in headlights. He had been avoiding her as of late, to avoid the turbulence he felt from it all. Brennan did not deal with emotions well. He perhaps even seemed thoughtful for but a split agonizing second. "I think so." It pained him to admit it, but it was true. "She resisted my.. charms. So the sooner I get over her the better.. But.. it isn't exactly easy." He paused.. his expression almost grim, but not for long. "Do you have a book for that too?" He asked as his humour returned to a paler version of its former glory, not comfortable with these sentiments. Emotions, bah. It made him feel gross and uncomfortable even admitting he had them.

Tires were easy, it didn't exactly take all that long connecting the spare, which was already conveniently on a rim and ready to go. He tightened those lug nuts, snug and secure. He also ensured the pressure was adequate. He didn't want the man coming back into that bar complaining at him. Plus, he was thorough. At least when to his boat and vehicles and women, he made sure everything was done right.

He got to his feet, patting off phantom debris and grime. "She is all good to go." The vehicle seemed to match Dorian, fancy, pristine. Not a single scuff or fingerprint dare marred its glossy surface as though, perhaps, Charles shined it up while Dorian was in that bar. It wouldn't surprise him in the slightest if Charles took out a cloth and wiped Brennan's fingerprints off the rims, or anywhere else the irishman touched.

There was a gesture to Charles and he was very eager to please, quickly finding and proffering what seemed like a business card. No guests until after sunset huh? Well it was a good thing he preferred the night anyways. Without a word, he took the card, testing it between his fingers, examining it briefly, before sliding it away in the pocket of his jeans. "Fair enough.." He would be making the appointment the moment he could get his hands on a phone. He did not get one since his return, there wasn't really a need to have one. But the mention of tea, that was entirely perplexing. He raised a brow, he knew nothing of tea. All it made him think of was it being the beverage of choice for old biddies, or the proper English. "I do not have a preference... but preferably something that compliments a beverage that is a little stronger." He supposed if he had to drink tea it couldn't be mild in the slightest. Nothing about Brennan was mild, why should his tea?

He paused, a wry grin spreading across his lips as he summoned a bottle of the good stuff, the best whiskey money could buy. He would never find it in an Irish pub or any bar. He just summoned it to his fingertips without any hoopla and bravado. It was just suddenly there. He reached and idle hand for the ever-vigilant Dorian to take it. A gift. "A belated wedding gift." The bottle had a large stag head on the label, it was a ridiculously old bottle of Dalmore 62. Perhaps he and his Sebastian could enjoy it one night when the memories of that drunken night became a distant memory. His silvery blue eyes flicker between the bottle and Dorian. Without looking at poor Charles he spoke to him.. "You can keep those tools too, in case you ever come upon another flat."

Brennan O'Connell