In all reality, the dark hunter didn't really know why the fuck he was here. He just... was. The man wanted to get away from home, knowing that his little sister would likely still be fussing over where her "best friend in the whole world" had disappeared off to, even daring to turn to him and ask if Lazarus had seen the white-haired witch since she'd apparently fallen off the face of the world. Why the hell would I know where the woman is? Yes, exactly why was it that he might just know where she was? Could it be because, after their less than formal and warm first encounter at the burlesque, they somehow ended up running into each other? Or maybe it was those mornings where the man would be caught by the honey-blonde young woman leaving in the early hours of the morning to go and train with the witch in that steel warehouse on the western side of the city, the man hardly sparing her any detail on just where it was he was going to "work out"? He wasn't blind to those curious looks that his little sister would give him about his unusual shift in behaviors, but he denied any sort of affiliation with the white-haired woman that was truly the bane of his entire existence. It wasn't like they were together or anything! Well, just because... certain things may or may not have happened twice didn't exactly mean that there was something there. The witch infuriated him in some of the most profound ways. At least, that was what the man told himself it was that he felt when those brilliant blue eyes would find him in the most inopportune times. Which, for the dark hunter, was anytime. It didn't matter what he was doing, even if it was nothing at all, if he was attempting to drink himself to sleep at night, or if he was working his muscles to the point that they ached and burned for days afterwards, he didn't want to think of her... and yet, he couldn't fucking help it. Why?! There were not words that could express just how much he hated how she always seemed to linger in the corners of his mind, no matter how many times he would force her away. And what made matters worse for him was that there wasn't a damn thing that he could do to keep her away. It was almost maddening for the dark hunter. Never before had someone been capable of occupying his thoughts, and he didn't like it. Not one damn bit.

Liquor used to help the man to distance himself from his problems, from the shadows of his past that so often threatened to consume him completely. He would be able to drink enough whiskey and rum to feel the familiar haze dissolve those annoying thoughts that would try and usher to the forethought of his mind when he just wanted them to go away. Bottles littered the floor of his bedroom in the townhouse he and his sister called home when first they'd arrived to Sacrosanct. He couldn't remember just how many bottles it would take for him to reach that drunken state where nothing mattered, when everything was just... still, quiet. He had never been the most obnoxious drunk, mostly because he'd been at this for years and it took enough alcohol that would have most humans hurling, passed out, sent to the hospital because of poisoning, or all of the above. Maybe once, he had been like that, his body unaccustomed to the intense amount of liquor consumed. But, he sure as hell couldn't rememeber. Then, after his mother and father were killed in what everyone was content to say was a robbery gone bad and the family council disbanded, it had quickly became a comfort more than something to help him forget how antisocial he was known to be. Now, he drank to escape his misery, until he could finally pass out or just slouch there in his chair back home and take fleeting pleasure in the silence of his mind. However, when alcohol alone didn't work, Lazarus was more than content with the idea of finding a bar to drink at and search for his second biggest vice; a pretty face with lowered inhibitions that wanted the same thing he would be looking for. The man was almost always to find one woman amidst the sweaty bodies on the dance floor that would be drawn to him or one that found his forwardness a turn on. He would steal the sheets, share a heated night lost in the throes of lust as the beast in him ravaged those gorgeous women only to leave them before dawn, slipping away and staggering back home with the scent of his latest conquest hanging thick upon his strong frame only to double over in his bed and pass out for most of the day. All the sex and alcohol had been a way for the man to quiet the beast that rattled the corroded bars that kept it stalking the shadows of dark forest eyes. It had worked for him... up until he met Vhal. Everything went to hell after that.

Now, it hardly even mattered how much he drank, she would still find him. That insatiable lust that so often had the very animal he was named after hunting for the next moment where he would be able to taste the lips of a female and indulge in those masculine desires, lost in the intoxicating appeal they held over the dark hunter... it was practically nonexistent. He's tried a couple times since the last time he'd seen the white-haired witch. Oh, how he tried, almost to the point of desperation as he would stand there in a club with flashing light and blaring music to pick a woman he could distract himself with. There'd even been several instances where they came up to him, asked him if he wanted to dance. He would give that wolfish grin and follow them into the center of the swaying bodies, feel her as she pressed against him, grinding against his well-muscled build that would have usually had him growling lowly in wicked delight. One had even pulled him of the floor with her and out into a damp alleyway where she would steal a kiss that the man would return. Those soft moans, the feeling of her hands as they ran over the toned plains of his torso only to play with the hem of his jeans... It had been the perfect opportunity to indulge those predatory urges, give the blonde what she so clearly wanted from him. And what had happened, one might ask? He pulled himself away and told her he had to go. He left her there. A woman that he would have followed home to take beneath him... and he fucking ditched her. All because he couldn't get the witch off his mind long enough to enjoy a night of reckless sex with a woman he would never see again. No, he could only ever remember how Vhal had felt against him, how she'd called his name as he took from her what he wanted and she took from him what she desired. That was when he knew he was royally screwed. None of it worked anymore. All the drinking and pointless sex did little to nothing for him now. And so, he'd decided to start working out, finding some relief where he hadn't in far too long. Pushing himself to the brink of pure exhaustion was the one thing that allowed for the dark hunter to push her away from his mind. It took him threatening those physical limits and returning to his townhouse only to pass out as dawn came to pretend she had never been there. But, just as with the alcohol and one-night stands, it was only a temporary remedy. Brilliant blue eyes, plush lips, and stark white hair would always find him. And Ellie asking him about Vhal definitely didn't help him. Hence why it was that he found himself at some bar on the west side of Sacrosanct.

There was no point in him seeking out the club he'd found here once. What would be the point if he likely wouldn't walk out with a woman under his arm guiding him to her place where they would let loose between those sheets? There wasn't one. So, the dark hunter simply sits there at the bar, dressed in black cargo shorts and a steel gray tee shirt, most of the high stools empty. The murmur of unfamiliar voices hardly reach him as he leans against the scuffed bar, a glass entrapped within his strong hands. It was empty of the amber liquor that had been in it moments earlier. How many glasses had he emptied before that last drink? Five? Six? He didn't bother to count them, the slightest sensations of warmth trickling over his mind and yet he had yet to find himself at the point of drunkenness. It shouldn't be this fucking hard to get drunk. Pushing himself up from his stool, he moves to the back door the smokers used to have a cigarette before coming back inside to continue drinking. Lazarus didn't smoke, surprisingly enough. He just wanted some fresh air. Not that smelling the rank stench of dumpster, mold, and the faintest accents of fish from the harbor was what he would consider "fresh". It was better than the heavy scent of a woman that wore way too much perfume, though. He leans there with his back against the brick wall, dark forest eyes staring blankly at the other wall across the alley. He lingers there for a while, lifting his hand to run fingers through his messy and somewhat curled caramel-colored hair as he tries to coax the teasing hints of that familiar haze to settle deeper over his mind. To no avail. I should just go home. Really, he should... but he didn't want to. Ellie was probably still awake and he would rather not deal with his sister's worry she often held for him. Just a few more hours. Deciding he would wait until the man was certain she would be asleep when he got back to Hawthorne Village, he slips back into the bar and takes his original seat at the bar, the female who had been wearing the perfume seeming to have left thankfully. He waves down the bartender and orders yet another glass of whiskey, and resumes sitting there alone and in silence, almost glaring at the shelves stocked with various alcohols as he would take a heavy drink from the cold glass in his right hand.