Memories. They were the things in everyone's lives the the mind seemed to render of some importance, of relevance, in one way or another. Names. Images. Flickering to the surface without warning. Some causing happiness, warmth, tender reminiscing about love or the birth of a child. Others sorrow, betrayal, heartbreak, loss. In the beginning, just when he was starting to experience the length of his immortality, Marcelo could close those earthen eyes and picture everyone so clearly, standing beside them as if they had never left them, their lives fading away while he watched them, unwrinkled, unbroken, forever young. The boy with locks like brandished gold could see it in their eyes, roving back over their own memories. He could see it plain as day with his own earthen eyes. He wonders, what they think about, their youth? Their own children if they have them? The love of a spouse. What do you look back on when you have only lived such a short time. But how do you too, look back on things, when you have an eternity of memories to see?

Earthen eyes flutter open as the boy with hair like brandished gold stares around him. This was not his apartment, and this was not his bed. It was not a bed at all in fact, but rather a barstool. He blinks the sleep from brown eyes and ruffles his hair as he comes to a sitting position. He is surprised to find the remnants of glass then fall from his dirty blonde locks. Closing his brown eyes to prevent any glass from getting in, he then shakes those locks and rids the rest of it. Clearly, this was not the usual.

He looks around at the bartender and she notices he is now awake and walks over to him. "Well, hello there sleepy head," she says smiling. "Just so you know, we are closed, but you were so cute I left you sleeping," she says and this is when Marcelo looks around the place and realizes it is empty. "Why do I have glass in my hair?" He asks, confused. "Some guy knocked a glass over your head when you hit on his girlfriend. We kicked him out and you took a nap," she says before moving to clean up once more, the conversation clearly ended. The jackal boy smiles and laughs to himself. Yeah, sounds about right. He gets up from the chair and exits the bar. It is still dark out, his guess would be early morning, after the bars are closed, but before the morning joggers wake up. This is when he catches the scent of something familiar: fae. He has an idea and is reminded of a particular face.

The fact that he is looking for Iliana is a strange thing. It was clear evidence that she had piqued his interest, Marcelo hardly being the type to stick around if he lost any interest at all. He was a wandering Casanova, content to chat to pretty girls and let them fall into his bed. Never see them again after the morning sun came up. But, despite this, Marcelo decides he ought to find her and heads for the southern part of town. After all, after that night, Iliana had to have been thinking about him too, right? It is a testament to his ego that the brown eyed boy would find himself fascinating next to Iliana who is infinite in her mysteries and wonderful in the way she gives him the attention that he so desperately loves and craves. He has always been comfortable in arrogance. He is just himself as he was - bitter, lonely, frightened, but devastatingly charming. He has thought about her more, there was some sort of jealousy in that she could live so freely it seemed when her parents were just as dead as his own, but the feeling is fleeting, it plunges into the black hole that is his heart.

Marcelo knows the way to the southern forest, having hunted there many times. Those jackal sense remain sharp, ears stretching to listen for any sign of her in the dark, his nose twitches when he finally gains her scent and he smiles, crooked and wolfish, before heading in that direction. He comes to a clearing and calls out for her. "Oh Illy," he says as one may perhaps try to coax an animal. "Do you want to play with me today?" He asks. Surely, even in the middle of the night, his company would be wanted.