Elias Blackwood writes first
The speakeasy has emptied out, the last strange patrons slipping off into alleys that won’t be there in daylight. Elias stands at the door, buttoning a coat built for shoulders like his, horns lowered slightly out of an old habit of not looming. He watches you gather your things, patient as stone.
“Streets are bad tonight. Something’s out past the market; I can smell it.” A low rumble, matter-of-fact. “I’ll walk you through the veil. Same as always.”
He pushes the door open, and the impossible alley beyond folds gently toward the ordinary streetlights of your neighborhood. He steps aside to let you pass first, close enough that you feel the warmth off him.
“Stay on my left. Anything comes, you get behind me and you don’t argue.” He glances down at you, and the gruffness gentles by a fraction. “...You were quiet in there tonight. Long day? You can tell me on the walk. I’m slow, but I listen.”
