Infinity. That feeling whilst looking up at the stars. In a moment so rich with the vast unknown. Just you and the cosmic blanket. Wraped around your very being. That itself is what had you, held you, that spaciousness. That eternal glittering. On the end of your eyelashes. Just dancing to the beat of your inner rhythm. Your own soul, connecting with the ultimate in an unspoken embrace of consciousness. Infinite, unchained, awe inspiring.

That's what some might experience whilst laying down and taking in the starry night. Corvus, however, wasn't exactly your average twenty something interested in astrology. Well, at one point he was. But only to get into the pants of a girl he had a crush on in his neighbourhood. China town, in the heart of New York. And by crush, it was simply a build up of male testosterone. Like any teenager.

He no longer needed simple tricks to get the job done. Just a persistence that rivaled his ability to keep from becoming completely sober. If there were two things in life he loved, it was a full bottle of whisky and a dame to chase. Or stagger towards. Fly down. Another bottle away from a trip to the hospital. The good days, as he would call them. The good fuckin' days.

And because he was who he was, star gazing wasn't for the love of the constellations. Although he knew of them. Or for the awe inspiring connection to what was greater than his measly, semi-conscious somewhat of a non-destructive existence. He only really found himself with eyes glued to the night's curtain for one reason. And it pretty much summed up most of the hours he spent being alive, if you'd even call it that. He was shit faced.

Angelo blinked. His glazed over eyes fixed on a constellation he knew well. Corvus. The Crow. Before his body jerked him onto his side so it could release some of the poison he had started on early afternoon. His abdominal muscles tensed autonomously with each regurgitation. Peas. Some carrots. And likely half chewed white rice. The brunch of champions.

Saliva dripped from his mouth onto the grass as he waited. He wanted to make sure that was all of it. His body would tell him so. Rolling over onto his back, he let out a relieved sigh. Warmth. The kind you felt after a fuck ton of alcohol. Not when it just started to take you to buzz town. But when your moments there on out would be a blank canvas. Blank, and black. Like the empty view from the back of eyelids.

Angelo's vision slowly depleted. He was too far gone to really care about anything. Including the car horn that was blaring as a dark green Ford pickup truck blurred through the intersection. There he was, hours earlier leaving The Sun-Ray Motel in Las Vegas. Now, practically out cold. Content. Drifting off into another one of his weird, sometimes prophetic dreams. On a patch of grass outside West Point Lighthouse in Seattle.

Working at the chinese laundry in New York was a world away. But some things in life followed you, no matter how many steps you took. No matter the mileage on the body clock. Some things just stuck with you, like the body itself. Or the need for oxygen. Or to some, taxes. But to others, they chose their life. What they did or did not take with them. Like continually swapping out briefcase after briefcase. This baggage, for that.

But for men like Angelo Lee, it was a reversal. For him, it was more than an escape. Nowadays he didn't even bother questioning it. It was a part of him. Like oxygen. But it was a choice. Like taxes. He loved whisky, and that was all there was to it. Tomorrow always reminded him just how much his choices had ramifications. Right now though, he was out to the world. Tomorrow, he'd wake up in another.

When was the last time he slept for more than an hour or two at a time? Certainly it hadn't been in the last week. Too many changes had forced themselves into a life already overrun with uncertainty. Things had started to settle in when he got to Vegas but that was in the rear view mirror now. Another city and another new life waited.

The difference this time was that family had come with him. The feeling was alien but welcome. It was almost as if fate had started to take pity on Raconteur. Almost. After all, not everyone had made the trip. Francis had been cut down in the final days leading up to their departure from Las Vegas and it had taken a toll on everyone. The deadened part of his heart reminded him that he had lost many in the past. He had lost closer in the past. This was just another body added to the dotted line that marked where he had passed by.

The rest of him thought of Francis standing alongside him, both men having newly earned their buttons. Their ill-timed and ill-tempered meetings. In a way, he was almost surprised that they hadn't died together as the result of their unknowingly taking the same job and running into each other under the cover of darkness. As it was only Francis had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The ache of losing a brother in blood was just different enough from that to which he was accustomed that it was as fresh as a bullet wound. Francis had saved him from his demons only to become one in the end by the actions of another.

Whiskey had been a comfort in these times as it always was. A steady diet of it left the world just dreamlike enough to believe that maybe things were still the way they used to be. When he sobered up he was sure he'd be sitting in the Vegas strip, surrounded by noise and activity alongside the newly freed priest, both of them having gone on a bender they'd spend a day sorting out. Maybe he'd even be waking up back home in a vineyard being shouted at because there were grapes to be harvested and he was too good to sit around being a lazy drunkard embarrassing his mother. 

Raconteur couldn't say he enjoyed Seattle. There was just too much quiet here. Too much open space. So much space it led to self reflection and questions and what ifs. A man can get lost in that kind of space just as quickly as in the bottom of a whiskey bottle. The difference being that the whiskey has the decency to pack up its bags and get out the next day and after a few hours you're none the worse for its company.

Raconteur had started his day with two quick shots to delay his morning reckoning for a bit longer. It had been a long flight and he had come in well after the rest of the family. He had been in Chicago to drink off his grief away from prying eyes when he heard of the move and never let the buzz wear off. After his pick-me-up he poured himself in the back of his car and told his guard to take him to the Tower knowing even as he did that there would be a reckoning for his state. He comforted himself with the view of the sea and its turmoil as it collided with the shore and felt peace with the knowledge that it was just as pissed off at this shoreline as he was. Unfortunately the man lying passed out in the middle of the grassy patch by the lighthouse was too much for even his addled mind to miss.

He ordered his driver to stop so he could check on the unconscious form. The Tower wouldn't just leave someone lying in the grass and he was afraid at first it was a rival crew leaving a message. That fear quickly evaporated when he stumbled out of his car and drew up to the unconscious man. He noticed that there was no blood and the look on the man's face was almost serene. By the looks of the area around him, the man had been having a rough go of it but hadn't yet paid for whatever landed him in his current position. Raconteur chuckled to himself as he thought about the man finding the state of being he had been dancing around over the last few days. He sat down beside the man and realized for the first time that he hadn't even put down his own bottle since those warm up shots this morning. Waving his bodyguard back to the car, Raconteur took a deep draw and nudged the man to try to rouse him. "Wake up buddy. This probably isn't the best place to take a nap and you're going to want something to take the edge off." He shook his bottle a bit and sloshed the marvelous nectar within for the man to hear in the hopes that their shared mistress would help the effort.

Her voice was soothing. Like ice to a burn. And he'd had his fair share of scolds in his time. But none of that was present. Just her, and the way the words came to life through her enthusiastic reading. A book she always went to when things got tough for Angelo. But again, there was none of that. Just her sweet tone, reading from a page in The Secret Garden.

"One of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever. One knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands alone and throws one's head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing and marvelous things happening until the East almost makes one cry out and one's heart stands still at the strange unchanging majesty of the rising of the sun - which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. One knows it then for a moment or so. And one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries. Then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure; and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a look in some one's eyes."

Suddenly the fond memory came to a sloshing halt. The bottle in motion, swirling before his face was what pricked his ears first. Then, the look in some one's eyes. It didn't give the same feeling his dream had done, not in the least bit did he feel like he was eternal. He instead felt like he was death itself. Pangs. Sharp sounds from the real world and a distinct throbbing in his head. Tomorrow was here. Kicking his ass again.

The offer from a stranger though. What was this all about. He didn't care as much as wanting to make sure the liquid alarm clock was in his hands. Corvus took a quick swig, attempted to hand it back then ended up bringing the glass tip back to his lips and downing some more. Golden. He felt the sense of what the fuck ease into a curious who the fuck and where the fuck as he handed back the bottle.

"Who..- are you? And..- where the fuck..- am I?" He eventually made out through a flurry of coughs. He then began rubbing his face with his dirty hands.

Ah, the look of a man desperate for gauzy numbness. Normally it would inspire pity but everything seems so much more amusing through the haziness of a half bottle of booze. Raconteur grinned dumbly at the squinting man before him having come through that same ache an hour earlier. His own crushing reality check had started fading out during the drive with the aid of a hair of the dog that bit him.

He'd originally intended to get the bottle back, but this guy obviously needed it more than him. Plenty more at the lighthouse anyways. He stood and extended a hand to help the stranger up. "You can call me Rac. And as for where, you're on the lawn of The Ivory Tower. Not too many folks find their way here by accident." Raconteur looked the man over and saw quickly that he was a rough sort. Scars of past fights complimented his current state and seemed give off the aura of nothing left to lose. That was a dangerous sort of man and even more so if they were on your side. "What is it you do when you're not keeping nature company? Depending on your line of work, we might just have something to discuss over a nicer drink. It'd be a good excuse to pop another bottle at the very least."