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Micah Callahan is bent over a table this afternoon, hair tied neatly back in a short french braid as he flips through a recipe book. It's nearing the Thanksgiving holiday, and while he is certainly not intending to be the only one cooking for everyone, he does think it's not unreasonable to help.

He's no genius in the kitchen, but he's competent: hence why he's stuck hovering thoughtfully over an incredibly easy recipe of monkey bread. (Secretly, he'd be laughing at serving monkey bread to a gathering of were-animals.)

Later he'll be in the kitchen, making dough. Because why not.

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Sinric looks up from his practice at the piano as the gentleman walks by, his breath catching in his throat.

He stares at Micah a moment before glancing away apologetically.

Micah is, alas, very used to people staring, once they figure out what he is. It's not something he was actually expecting in the bar so soon, though: he almost never assumes people are staring at him because he could be considered attractive.

"Was I disturbing you?" he asks, voice quiet and hinting at a soft purr when he looks up, purposefully tilting his head so his sunglasses will still cover his eyes.

"Not at all. Forgive me, sir." Sinric lowers his eyes in a small but apologetic bow.

"As the light caught you, I was very much of one I loved dear as a brother. Probus would have had a profile much like yours, if he had lived to maturity.

Micah cocks his head at that and tries a soft smile, aiming to be reassuring--he doesn't show teeth. "No forgiveness needed. I'm sorry for your friend, despite the resemblance."

"He is a peace and with the one we both loved." It's not a hope, the way Sinric says it. Not a platitude to comfort himself, but a statement of known fact.

"And it is a kindness to glimpse the beauty he would have grown to." Sinric's own smile is warm and friendly. "Through he would never have been able to boast your facial hair." he touches his own smooth cheek. "Neither of us could."

Edited 2017-11-22 23:16 (UTC)

"Ah," he manages, bringing a hand up to his face: that's not something people usually comment on about his appearance, and Micah is grateful for a moment that he doesn't have to answer to why he's wearing sunglasses indoors, or why it looks like someone has broken his nose at least six times.

"I...usually shave it, to be honest."

"It suits you well." He smiles softly. Sinric is delicately beautiful himself, although time and wear are starting to show. He wouldn't think to call another out on the signs of suffering by a rough life, or Micah'c choice to keep his eyes covered.

He gestures towards the seat at his side. "Please, will you join me? I'm Sinric, sometimes known as Sinric the Wanderer. Would you like some wine?"

"Thank you," he says, taking a seat beside Sinric carefully: even this far away it's easy to tell the man radiates heat, and seems to take up more space than he actually does. Micah tries to rein that in most of the time.

"Wine would be nice, thank you."

Sinric notices the warmth. And perhaps something else, like a music played distantly so one can't quite make out the tune. For a moment, his own dark brown eyes appear gold. But it could just be a trick of the light as he pours.

Sinric asks a passing rat for a second glass and pours from the bottle he has. "A red from the dark soils of Aegean Islands. Stronger than I usual drink but well suited to the cold weather." He offers the glass to Micah. "May I know your name, friend? Or shall I chose one to know you by?" There is power in names, Sinric understands that well enough.

"Oh--I'm sorry. Micah, my name is Micah. Callahan," he says, somewhat stiltedly: he's trying not to show the points of fangs he has.

He's not used to people wanting to know his name so soon, nor so...openly. But then he's used to people knowing what he is, too. "But...if you'd like to choose a different name, have at."

"A pleasure, Micah." Sinric smiles openly. "No, it's a lovely name. Hebrew, if I'm not mistaken?"

"It is, though I'm not," he says with a shrug; the way his body moves belies innate power, though to look at him you wouldn't know it. He's not bulky or musclebound.

"My parents were Catholic."

Sinric notices and wonders at it. If Micah carries some hidden gift. He's tempted to look, reaching out to the threads of this man's history but resisted. It is impolite, even if the other person doesn't know.

"Your parents but not you? You claim no god's for your own?"

"I...have issues with the idea of a benevolent and omnipotent god, knowing what I do," Micah says delicately, shaking his head. For a moment, as he's talking, it's easy to see that the very tips of his canines are pointed, and a slight bit longer than the others of his teeth.

"I'd be considered a lapsed Catholic. I haven't ever formally left the church, but...I haven't gone in years."

"I am perhaps the opposite. I believing, or more I know the power of the gods. Perhaps their petulance too. It is their earthly messengers who trouble me. I had too many unpleasant encounters with the princes of the church as a boy."

Sinric notices the fangs but doesn't comment or take fright from them. They seem very in keeping with Micah's controlled sense of power.

"I mean you no discomfort," Micah says quietly, holding up a hand. "I'm hardly in a position to give you trouble."

Sinric answers the gesture in kind, holding his own hand out, palm up in trust and reassurance. "Nor have you caused me any." He smiles lightly. "You need not fear, my friend. You will find no judgement in me."

"You don't know what you're judging yet," Micah murmurs, shaking his head.

"Nor do you know from where I stand not to judge." Sinric points out. And for a moment his eyes flash glowing gold rather than the warm brown they were a moment ago. "Not all here are what they seem."

"And what are you?" Micah asks, closing his eyes and slipping off his sunglasses. It takes him swallowing at the knot in his throat for a moment to open them again with no cover, but when he does the reason he'd kept them behind shades is immediate and crystal clear. His eyes are entirely inhuman, slit-pupiled cat eyes, a perfect blend of yellow-green in a fine-boned face, though his nose looks to have been broken and badly reset several times.

Sinric smiles warmly, finding Micah's eyes lovely and in keeping with the lines of his face.

"In the language of the Northmen, I am a seiðmaðr, a seer and practitioner of galdr - word and song magics." He answers openly and without shame.

Micah takes a deep breath, and halfway through a bracing sigh speaks again. "I'm a lycnthrope. A wereleopard."

It's been nine years, and still it takes him a moment to out himself, knowing what he does about people who seem unafraid in the face of that knowledge. Normally, lycanthropy is not physically telling. It wasn't for him until a few years ago. He's still getting used to the idea that he will never pass for human again.

"A leopard man." Sinric smiles brightly. "That explains your beautiful eyes. But if you'll forgive me, you didn't seem very comfortable in your own skin. Is this a new state for you?"

Micah lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head and rubbing his nose. "No, it isn't. It's been nine years since I was turned."

"Then you come from a place where you cannot safely be open about who you are?" Sinric asks sympathetically. "I assure you, you need not worry here. As long as you abide by the rules of this place, you may be yourself openly. It is one of the great freedoms of Milliways."

Again that flash of gold at Sinric's eyes. The open admission of otherness.

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