Now the west was a particular beast to behold, with its dilapidated walls and industrial feel, it had a certain hominess to the warlock. He took his time through the worn side streets and dank alleyways, there weren't many who would try and pick a fight with him even in these parts, even with so many prowling. Most made the wise choice and maintained their distance. He passed large industrial building with neon, glowing red letters that sprawled out SYN, pausing to take in that large building, it seemed peculiar and busy. It was not his scene, he was terribly certain. He did not need a place like that, loud and obnoxious with dance music threatening to pop out his ear drums, he just wanted a bar. It didn't have to be pretty, it could have been sad looking but as long as it possessed what he needed, he really couldn't give a flying rat about it. He wanted a distraction not frills and luxury. He could care less about those things. His mind seemed in a perpetual sour state as of late, the words of that fancy man Dorian, the king of England.. no Italy. King of Italy and some other equally extravagant titles. Regardless, his words still echoed within his head, bouncing around like a ping pong ball, never slowing and always building momentum. It pissed him off.. Not his soulmate. He didn't give a shit about soulmates, those kind of things were not real, but figments to sell a pipedream that was hardly tangible. Life was messy, relationships were messier, love was a fucking wanker that was dressed up as happiness. It was all a sham. But he hated someone telling him what was and what was not. His face pulls into a scowl before settling within a weathered bar, it looked a little rough, but well worn. It was perfect enough for him, it was a usual haunt, well, before he was cast to hell. It smelled how you would imagine a bar wood, sweat, booze, thousands of random scents that made it impossible to pick out each one. There was a particular aroma that lingered within the air too, one that he oddly remembered from the last time he had been here, so very long ago.

The warlock wore his carefully placed blinders and it wasn't even that busy yet although someone entered about the same time as him. He was content to ignore them and even happier to b-line it to that bar that seemed to call his name, that amber hue of his drink of choice calling out to him like a siren's call. A call he would happily comply. His relationship with whiskey was a simple one, one he savored in.

He sat down on the bar stool, the cushion upon it well worn and some even distinguishably torn. He had sat in worse, this place may not have appealed to many but it worked for him. He scanned the drink along the wall of booze. Hmm, which one shall I have today he thought to himself. He was like a kid picking out only the best at a candy shop. "Give me a double of the Macallan 12 and keep my tab open.." With the mood he was in, he was going to be here for a while. Thoughts of Sera lingered within his head, all he had lost and was sure to never obtain again. She was 'happy', sure, a normal person would have simply let it go. But for some reason he can't shake it, he cant seem to let the memories of her simply die. It would have been easier if he had never fallen. He was not the type to fall, god he felt like such a fool and it pissed him off. Fucking women and their fickle ways. Fuck emotions and the havoc it creates. He had a long list of things that pissed him off, yet it was hardly her fault. She had no idea he had been cast away into hell, no idea that her mentor sent him there to never to return. How do you think that worked for him, the only living man in hell? Exactly as it sounded, it was shit.

He seemed lost in his thoughts, playing back memories that would only plague his already tormented soul. He could not drink enough booze quick enough to numb the chaotic pain that lived inside of him. He was lost like a ship without an anchor and he was being drawn further and further out to sea.

He wore his usual well-worn leather jacket, his signature black jacket that had enough stories within that supple, worn leather to last a lifetime. He kept a few key weapons within the inner jacket, that strange stone he kept from hell, some cash, and some other miscellaneous necessities. He wore a casual grey v-neck that went down past the collarbone, some chest hair peeking through. His pants were plain, loose jeans. He hardly cared much about his appearance like some men did, he wasn't out to flaunt for anyone, he was here to dull the resentment that flooded his heart.

There wasn't a damn person he could exact his revenge on, to blame for his current dilemma. He only had himself and that pleasantly burning liquor as he poured another shot down his throat. He had every intention to drink right off that precipice where he didn't even remember how he made it home. For now, he simply wanted to forget. Forget responsibility, forget those stupid emotions he cursed every damn day, forget that his time was borrowed. Forget he was cursed and perhaps always will be, but maybe, just for one god damn night, he could get lost in the comforting hands of that amber liquid.

He was at least on his third drink and he felt not even the hint of anything when a strange tousled haired man sat next to him. His drink of choice seemed to garner his attention, while everyone seemed to order their pretty sugary drinks or mixed vodka beverages he thought tasted like an insult on his tongue. A drink was promptly brought out to him and Brennan could hardly keep the wince to himself. They gave him the fucking cheap shit. He could hardly keep the disdain from his silvery blue eyes. Those who watered down booze deserved that special place in hell, where they burned internally forever. So even though the bartender seemed pretty and flashed the tousled-haired man a flirty grin she was serving shit and calling it whiskey. Silly girl should have known better, she should have refused her bosses. He could not let it stand. "Try the Macallan. It's the only thing worth drinking here." He murmured casting a half glance to the man sitting next to him. His blue interlaced with silver that always seemed to churn like the magic that flowed through the warlock's veins. His eyes mimicked the waves of that cruel turbulent sea, always roiling as though it were as agitated as his very soul. He muttered in a low voice, his Irish accent laced words only intended for him. "They water down the cheap shit." His nose wrinkled in distaste, disgust flashing within those strange hued eyes. If anyone else needed a drink, it was the man beside him, it was written all over his hardened face and that brooding stare that probably mirrored his own.

Brennan hardly noticed those chittering women to the far right of the bar that so seemed to stare and giggle, whispering to one another. Once upon a time, the warlock would have no qualms preying upon those women. But now, all he wanted was to drink his drink in peace and forget about a time he would never be able to return too.

Brennan O'Connell