[right][h2][color=ffffff]Neorch's Catharsis[/color] | [color=8493ca]Damien's Catharsis[/color] | [color=BDBDBD]Silas's Catharsis[/color][/h2]
[@Object 452k][@silver21][@DaftJive][/right]

[color=808080]Catharsis makes room, as it always does, for those who find their way inside.

For the ronin who steps through the entrance with his hand hovering near his blade, it is a small izakaya tucked at the end of an alley that wasn't there a moment ago. A red paper lantern sways outside despite the lack of wind. Inside, the space is narrow and warm, barely room for eight at the counter. Handwritten menu boards line the wall, their characters faded to ghosts. At the grill, a man tends to something sizzling. His movements are unhurried, practiced. He glances up. Nods once. A woman beside him wipes her hands on her apron. She is perhaps fifty, perhaps older, grey streaking her tied-back hair.

"[i]Welcome,[/i]" she calls out. "[i]Sit anywhere you like.[/i]"

For the baphomet who arrived mid-sip with a cup that is no longer tea, it is a bar overgrown. The counter is there, yes, and the stools, and the bottles lined up behind. But vines climb the shelves where top-shelf liquor ought to be. Flowers bloom from old glass bottles, pale petals catching what light filters through the canopy overhead. Bundles of dried lavender hang from the ceiling alongside rosemary and sage. The air is thick, humid, alive.

Behind the counter, someone is watching him. They are slight, soft-bodied, with dusty brown wings folded against their back and antennae that curve gently from their forehead. Fine fuzz covers their arms. Their eyes are large, dark, unblinking. They wear a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows and hold a ceramic cup between their palms as if warming it for him.

"[i]You brought your own drink,[/i]" they observe, gaze flicking to the cocktail in his claws. A beat. "[i]Would you like a different one?[/i]"

For the young man at the bar, Catharsis is a pulsing, blacklit thing. Music thuds low and constant. Bodies move at the edges, silhouettes against the glow. The counter is glass, slick, reflecting neon.

Someone is sitting on the stool beside him.

A young woman with a sharp jaw and dark hair cut blunt at her shoulders, nursing something clear in a rocks glass. She doesn't look at him directly. Just sits there, comfortable, like she's been waiting for someone and doesn't mind if that someone turns out to be him.

After a long moment, she speaks without turning her head.

"[i]You ordering, or just here to fall apart?[/i]"[/color]