"A noose of your cheapest ale," the boy ordered. The bartender, a skeletal man, one who looked about 100 years past his days, grinned with what little teeth he had left, and went to the shelves of dusty bottles behind him.

From the top of the boy's head to the tips of his feet, the boy standing at the bar top waiting patiently for his order, dripped with black. He wore a wide brimmed hat, reminiscent of those worn in westerns-the old West having been one of his favorite eras- on top of slicked back, darker-than-night hair that was tucked into the collar of his button up black shirt.

Over this, he wore a floor length duster that was-you guessed it- black. The boy loved to dress in layers; it kept the cold back and he felt an eternity of cold all the time. His black jeans were straight legged and we're missing in spots; most notably on the knees and one devishily close to his crotch.

He wore black loafers, slip on rather than the cursed tied ones, that were a half size too big. He hadn't known shoes came in varying sizes when he had stolen them. Don't worry, time had made this boy thief clever, and now he only stole what he knew would fit. Time, in this boy's hands, was a very dangerous thing, especially when he had eternities to waste.

The skeletal bartender brought over the boy's drink. It sat inside some animal's skull; one that was thrice the size of the boy's own. The skull had been painted a fire red with the word, "Fuck," etched into the bone over and over.

"How very quaint," the boy said, lifting the jug of ale as though it had been weightless. The stuff smelled sour and clumps of sand floated in the greenish liquid. You always got sand with your drink whether you ordered it or not. That was a price you paid for visiting the 'The Dead Man's Song'- first stop for all and last stop for most- who visited the Refinery.

The boy headed for the table furthest away from prying eyes; though some had forgotten their eyes in their when and others had never had eyes to begin with. The table which he had chosen was made of a blackened wood.

This wood-the wood of the dead-held a greenish hue in its grain; it's magical qualities preserved. It wobbled but suited the boy's needs rather well, and was outfitted with equal parts dead and magical, wooden chairs. They were hard to the touch but when you sat in them, they molded to you like the fluffiest cushions. A part of their magic, you see.

Sitting at the same table, though across from the boy, was a wide-eyed Captain Ire Stormholden. He looked all manner of confusion and fear though he tried to project none of that. His aura read violet, with tinges of a pastel yellow, a most interesting one for a man made of words.

Gideon Darqish, the boy in black, and a little ways back, the crow who led Captain Stormholden to this place, sat with amusement sipping his horribly tasting ale.

"Where are we?" the captain asked, the third in line of many many questions being thrown Gideon's way. The boy took them in stride, like he did with all things, a consequence of having time eternal.

"The Dead Man's Song," he replied, a sweeping motion of his outstretched arms showcasing the run down pub and brothel. A shady lot filled up the seats; all manner of extremities missing, faces fat with ale and tit, money reflected in the ones who still held their eyes. Each had a danger to them, one the captain had been unfamiliar with until now, and this made the captain reach for his pistol. Gideon laughed.

"No need for violence here," he whispered, pointing to the array of knives and pistols each man and woman held. They were all one man militias.

Gideon continued, "Pull yours and they pull there's and then there's all manner of blood and cum speckling the walls."

The captain was confused by how Gideon talked. It was improper and too familiar. He had just met the boy, and when he had been a crow, no less, though he conversed with Stormholden now as if they'd shared years at sea. Perhaps young Mr. Darqish had been an orphan. 

"I've never heard of such a pub," the captain continued, having visited many though none were quite as dusty as this place managed to be. It looked as though it had been lost to the ages.

"It's the only one of its kind in the Refinery," Gideon replied, chugging his ale now, half it lost down his gullet.

"You make quick work of your spirits," Stormholden remarked, quite in awe of the small framed boy who could be no older than fifteen. "And what's this Refinery?"

"It's not a what. More a when," Gideon responded, wiping the last drops of ale from his thin pale red lips. "A last minute stop," he added, watching the captain's aura go from tinted yellows to oranges; his confusion multiplying.

"Being a crow and finding you was tiresome," Gideon continued, thinking back to all the pirate tales standing untold in Retelling. Many writers wished to see their fantasies come alive on paper but very few had the stomach to see it through.

The boy was glad to have shed his feathers for his beloved flavors of black. And now he needed his ale. The Refinery housed his favorite brew, one that came with no age restriction, for which he was thankful; ale didn't exist in The Refracted and in Reason he was always mistaken for a teenager.

It hadn't been Gideon's fault a spell of his had stopped him from aging centuries ago. A young wizard was apt to make all sorts of mistakes in their careers. This one affected Gideon most impractically; his need for liquors and smokes hard to sate with such a baby face.

"I'm afraid your words are lost on me," the captain replied with earnesty.

"Such an honest man," Gideon remarked. "You were created with such ideals. I wonder what flaws you house."

Stormholden eyed the teen and was about to speak up but his words were stolen from him before he could spit them out. Gideon's green eyes were draining; the part of them that had held color, dripping into the empty animal skull mug that sat on the table.

Gideon looked at the man's surprise and horror, his aura now the violent maroon of alarm, and reached a hand to his cheek. The wetness was colored a vivid green and Gideon sighed. He had hoped the pills would last longer.

"Sorry about this," he said, holding his stained fingertips to the captain, his other hand reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a tin. On it was the word "Altoids."

Altoid? What was an Altoid, Stormholden thought. He had learned of so many places and words today.

Inside the Altoids tin, was an array of pills. Each one held a different color inside it's jelly exterior. Some were icy blue, some violet, others gold and green, and very few, isolated to one corner of the tin, were coal black. Gideon selected a dark grayish-blue(one that made the captain think of the sea at winter) and popped it into his mouth. Almost instanteonusly, the same grayish-blue color started to fill the clear pupils of his face.

"I can't retain color," the boy mumbled, taking the sleeve of his coat to his face, wiping away the last marrings of green on his cheeks. "An ailment I've had since I was a child," he finished, his eyes shining, a very new color held in them.

Stoemholden's face contorted in shock and disgust. The boy scoffed; he had years of similar reactions. Except once. A creature of idiocy had told him that his clear eyes had the  potential to hold every color the world could offer and that made his eyes the most beautiful.

See? An idiot had complemented Mister Darqish. Though why he chose to remember an idiot's words is beyond me. Perhaps he can not forgot; a side effect of being so magical.

The captain nodded, though he hadn't understood what had just gone on. Some manner of devilery was at play.

Gideon Darqish laughed. "I am by no means a devil, captain."

In the corner of the dusty room, a game of Hand was been played. And for all outsiders to the game, it was such a game of  all manner of devilish devices. Lying and thievery being at the top. Five men and one woman who all had the same dusted over stern countenance had been playing it and until now, in relative silence.

But a card had been flung in the air, curses heaved at each other, and guns had been drawn. Gideon sighed, watching the gunfight in what felt to him as slow motion, and grabbed at his companion's collar.

He pulled him down, stray bullets piercing the walls behind them, pretty aware of how ridiculous he had been. Stormholden had been a man of ink and paper and could not be killed. Probably. Bullets, at least those not of a magical kind, only pierced flesh and the captain was without.

The gunfight was lingering- all men of Darqish blood hated lingering- and so Gideon stood up, much against Stormholden's suggestion, seeking to end the noise.

"Oi mun mun!" screamed a robe covered man. Each of his hands housed three eyes where none should be; a creature of sense.

"You're a snivelin' little penny chaser ain't ya!" the woman screamed at the hooded figure; she was slicked back with a film of water, droplets falling from pieces of seaweed the clung to strands of her long ebony hair.

She let go another round into the air. The others, simple in their looks when compared to the wet woman and sense creature, stood angered, gun barrels smoking from shots fired.

"This is tiring," Gideon sighed, maneuvering around turned tables, broken glass, puddles of ale, and strewn about chairs. The green hue of the deadwood hummed and reached his ears; it was singing a song of pain only Gideon could hear.

He hurled himself into the mass of angered red aura that surrounded the gunfight. The red tinged with violent spikes of blacks and whites; their anger cresting.

"Stop," he said, a simple white light appearing in his palm, forcing its way out and then engulfing the party of fighters. Within a second, the light was extinguished and the gunfire had ceased.

The wet woman and the creature-along with the others- stood still, frozen in their time, frantic pairs of eyes pacing back and forth. Their auras paled, fear gripping their hearts and for a moment Gideon let them feel afraid.

The he sighed, flipped a table right, and told them, "It's a temporary freeze. You'll be back by nightfall. Just do be aware of others next time."

Captain Stormholden ran to the boy and grabbed his collar. He was awash with fear, confusion and anger.

"What are you?"  the captain demanded with shaken voice.

The boy's thin lips separated into a smile, his bluish-gray eyes going jet black for just a blink.

"In need of help," Gideon finished, throwing off Stormholden's hand and heading over to the bar to get yet another noose.