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Cemetery Dance

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It should be storming, Bahorel thought, rather disappointed in the balmy evening, sat across a makeshift altar from Prouvaire. The younger man, at least, looked appropriately ghoulish with mussed, loose tresses, scraggly beard, and recherche markings in what Bahorel was half-convinced was jam along his forehead, cheeks, and hands. Prouvaire’s all-black attire drew him out from the Parisian cemetery night, unlike Bahorel’s own dark blue, the most subtle clothing he unhappily possessed, even when livened up by the handsome hat he wore.

Candlelight glinted off the coins and animal teeth inside a wooden bowl Prouvaire had brought along, glass jars with curious contents cast menacing shadows along the mausoleums around them, faded yellowing playing cards and an old leather-bound book resting off to the side either for later entertainment or the offerings to a very boring spirit.

Bahorel watched skeptically as Prouvaire lifted a candle and chanted, circling it over the bowl before tilting it over and pouring the hot wax over the contents. Bahorel's eyebrows raised when Prouvaire pricked his finger with a dagger and dripped it over the cooling wax.

"What, precisely, are you doing?" Bahorel leaned forward, noting the strange way the blood seeped into the wax, taking on an oozing sort of movement.

"Setting the stage for our departed friend, of course," Prouvaire told him with an ease of confidence Bahorel rarely saw him exude outside of discussions of ancient literature or a good scrap. Perhaps Prouvaire truly new what he was doing.

The bowl and it's contents went up in flames.

"Er," said Prouvaire.

Perhaps Prouvaire didn't know what he was doing at all...

The wind picked up, underbrush and scattered leaves rattling in violently in the rush of air.

"I do believe we should take our leave," Prouvaire murmured just over the howl, gathering up the accouterments of the ritual and shoving them into a bag.

"I believe you are right." Bahorel firmly held his hand to his head, lest it make its own escape as they were.

The friends bolted from the cemetery, a gruesome screaming sound on their heels. As their shoes met street, all noise ceased, a deathly quiet consuming the area, the wind stilling entirely.

Bahorel puffed, catching his breath. "I do believe we should pursue traditional haunting, and leave summonsing to those more suited to them. Do you agree?"

Prouvaire's eyes were huge in his thin, pale face. "I do."

Bahorel slung an arm over the taller man's shoulders, guiding him down the street. "Shall we find our compatriots? A warm drink and a warmer woman are the perfect cure for an unhappy evening."

Finally, Prouvaire smiled, slipping an arm about Bahorel's waist. "And if female company isn't my lean?"

Bahorel's laughter boomed out in the quiet night. "That can be accommodated readily enough."

They wandered towards the warm glow of cafes and friendship, earlier disquiet set aside.