[h1]THE NEXUS ROOTS[/h1]

A man and his grimly existence sunk deep into a rustic-orange sofa, sulking, like he had a cloud above his head. The mauve suited man could be seen isolated, in the back of a speakeasy with the posture of a willow. In front of him, a table of hallowed shrunken heads operating as ashtrays. Stuffed in their sockets, ears and mouths were an infestation of cigar butts whose ashes gave off heat like whitening charcoal. Unsatisfied, he lit another with a spontaneous amber flame dancing in tune with the blaring brass vibrations of the club. The deafening volume of ragtime performed by a trio of ghouls several meters from him served a single purpose. To drown his monstrous den of conflicting emotions, all with their own voice, festering within his troubled mind.

Some days, this pulsing migraine of guilt and shame was only a minor inconvenience, and others, like today, physically drained his spirit. It was a curse, one embraced out of respect to his family. A crime family, spearheaded by his superior, the "Top Card," Ealdorman Sarcoen. If Sepias, underboss of the syndicate failed to abide by the orders of the mafia's head, order would not resume.

Like a prisoner awaiting bond, Sepias past issues shackled him. He was a shell of himself, in an internal high that caused him to meander clubs, graveyards and casinos like a zombie. The flame which powered his soul was faint, dim, dying even…

clink
 
A noise akin to a finger gently tapping on an aquarium, woke him from a near dose. At this point, the sounds of the band felt muffled and began to endlessly reverberate until it fizzed out. Sepias closed his eyes…

clink 
Gradually, the haze of his conscious simmered. The depressing voices, the constant anxiety and most importantly, the feeling of inadequacy dissolved. All he could make out in the blackness was the crossfading image of a gold coin, painstakingly twirling in the air. It landed in a hand resembling a heavyfisted fiend closing upon arrival, concealing the results. 

"Clean yourself up. We got shit to do, Parooz."

"That voice. That hand. Sepias eyes rolled like slot machines, with both eyes buldging with lucky number seven embranded. A coin fell into his palm. It landed heads showcasing the sinister leer of a baphomet and now his eyes held the same amber glow.

Not only was the curse gone, his presence, his name was back. The Jazz music literally stopped as the entire speakeasy appeared to strengthen up their posture and collectively swallow. They understood the magnitude of his return. They knew exactly what it meant for everyone associated with the Sarcoen family for Ealdorman's dog, his enforcer to be let loose. Collectively, the organization was low on souls, and now, they had to do their jobs.

He had his name back. Parooz. And just as soon as his intent sent out venom into the room's atmosphere, he was gone…

"Welcome warrior."