:The world revolves around numerous Deities; people's beliefs consuming them, some justifying their actions which may now as well be frugality. God comes in many forms, and in which the term God of Humanity is earned. By flesh and bone, turned over stone,  by clatter and clicker of utensils— we eat the weak, thrive on the meek.:

"You've shown mercy on our fresh little lamb, why is that?" Barnes quipped, twirling his glass of wine before bringing it on the edge of his lips, inhaling the intoxicating aroma. It stayed there. Eyes sharp, cutting through the tense air that wasn't addressed.

"I believe I'm lost, I have never shown no mercy on anyone." Haén says coolly, 

"I see." He simply answers back. "Entertain me then, is sparing her back at the harbour not mercy then? Not mercy from 'The Great Seed'? Tell me—"

"I believe our time has ran out, Barnes."

"Hmph. Boring."

"Simply because you've spent far too long on your wine,"

"Can you blame a man?"

"You are no man, Barnes."

"Fair enough," Barnes huffed as he stood from his seat, it groaned from agony and a mixture of relief. Its limbs wobbled slightly, and liquid dripped from its holes with an irritatingly sniffling noise. The furniture's whole frame shaked.

"You ought to change them, how long have you had them?" Barnes gave Haén a smile, as much as he could resemble a smile— dead skin stretching from ear to ear. 

The alcohol induced man tugged on the chains wrapped around the item's supposed neck— its joints gave out as it roughly landed on the harsh, cold, concrete, giving its texture another lovely pinkish hue of blisters.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Giggling to himself, he tugged once more before Haén cleared his throat in disapproval, Barnes simply shrugged. 

The sniffling sound became more evident from the chair.

"24 years."

"Mhm, vintage." Barnes quipped, dropping his hold of the chains, twirling his glass once more before settling it down on a nearby surface as he lifted his arm, submerging his fingers within, reaching, and scooping a piece of paper from one of the holes where his sights previously rested. 

Barnes offered the damp paper to Haén. Which Haén looked in brief disdain.

"Payment? Unlike you. How... Kind. Of you. Barnes." Haén gave him a strained smile. 

"Sorry to disappoint, Haén, it's not one of our kind for you to feast on."

Haén cut him off with a chuckle, 

"I suppose this means, Waywart has been treating you well?"

"Hardly. Just enough to visit an old friend of mine."

"I see, all's well ends well."

Haén offered Barnes a smile, which the other man mimicked.

"Till we meet again, Haén." Barnes gave the other man a rather extravagant bow, as smoke emitted from its body— he evaporated with it.

As Barnes made his departure, the room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, the tension dissipating like fog under the morning sun. Haén remained still, his gaze lingering on the spot Barnes had occupied, expression unreadable.

Turning his attention to the chair, now silent, Haén knelt beside it. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, caressing its frame

as he whispered words that seemed to echo from another time, a soft incantation that filled the room with a light, humming aura. The chair quivered, its form shifting slightly as if responding to Haén's care, the blisters on its surface receding, the sniffling sounds easing into calm breaths. 

"The world is cruel," Haén murmured, not just to the chair but to the very essence of the space around him, "but in pockets of shadow, we can still offer solace."

".. kill me." Came from the object Haén offered comfort towards, "..kill me.." it pleaded once more, voice hoarse. 

He smiled warmly.

"Never. You're one of the most beautiful mortals I've ever set my eyes upon."

Haén now rose to his feet, ignoring the pleas from the chair that increasingly demanded— his gaze set on the damp paper Barnes gave him, clutched in his hand, gently, he placed the paper on a table, its contents unexamined.

The dealings of men like Barnes were but minor ripples in the greater currents of his concerns. His focus was on larger, more existential dilemmas; where smoke filled the skies rather than the light of the setting sun painting it in strokes of fire and gold, a daily masterpiece unnoticed by those ensnared in the city's underbelly, far too late now to be saved. Waywart's doing.

Barnes is no threat, he simply is a messenger, Haén knew that much, but even measly little ants formed together up to a thousand can be deemed powerful, Waywart has its ways. 

Pests should be exterminated. Even if he, was the one who planted. 

After all, Haén loves a good meal.