A thunderous crash echoed through the room as bits of polished oak scattered about. Vilcība stood back up, wincing and rubbing the back of his head. He was aware all eyes were on him, but this time, it was indisputably not his fault. He was far too fond of this bar to cause a scene.

All he had done was walk up to the barkeeper and ask for his regular—absinthe. It was the only thing they sold that got him even slightly woozy, and all he wanted right now was to be numb. Preferably somewhere he wasn't ridiculed for being different, somewhere he could be surrounded and yet be alone. This bar was exactly that. At least until he was bashed on the back of the head by a chair for no reason at all.

He could think of a thousand different ways to respond, and twice as many to kill his attacker without losing a wink of sleep. Instead, he brushed the bits of wood off his wavy mass of black hair and shoulder as he took a seat on the barstool. Today he was here to drown his sorrows alone, not to socialise or to pay any attention to bigots.

His indifference was often mistaken for arrogance, and if this was any other bar, he would probably have been bashed again. However, this was a bar that took care of all its patrons, even the 'different' ones.

So he could go back to his drink without batting an eye—he only had one working eye too—and he could expect the staff to sort the scene out themselves. He was far too worn out to care anyway. Vilcība downed his glass in one go and pushed it back expecting a refill. What he had definitely not expected, was a wrinkled hand to push the glass back in his direction.

He lifted his head as subtly as he could, if the counter was made of anything even slightly reflective, he wouldn't have needed to glance up at all. Yet his brief glance had confirmed the old woman on the other end was not his regular bartender. Vilcība sighed, deciding whether or not to ignore this new human with wild, grey curls. As much as he didn't want to, he would probably need to find a new favourite place to drink now. When the staff got pushy, it was easier to pack up and leave. Except today, Vilcība wanted to get what he came for, drunk and numb.

He looked back down, fully intending to very maturely push the glass back the old woman's way, when he noticed it. There was an ancient roll of paper in her hand—a scroll? He wasn't sure what to make of anything until she called his name.

Vilcība stood up very suddenly when she spoke, knocking his seat down as he did. She had been loud enough for the entire bar to hear, in fact, there were probably people on the other end of the street who must have heard her call his name too.

"Who are you?" he snapped, he was done being nice or at least neutral, although he was also certain this strange, old woman was more than just your average bigot. "What the hell do you want?" he demanded anyway.

The woman pushed a few coins his way, enough money for his drink. Vilcība smiled, amused despite the situation, or perhaps because of it. "So you yelled my name to give me spare change?" he wondered, maintaining his grin, "Do you announce everyone's names before you're being a Good Samaritan, or am I just special because of what I am?"

The old woman still didn't respond and Vilcība felt the ever-persistent pang of annoyance. She was beginning to irk him now. He watched her with a guarded expression as she slid another item towards him—the scroll. He was definitely not sure what to make of her now. He knew he didn't want her analysing him, but it had seemed more and more like she was doing it regardless.

Vilcība reached for the scroll, gingerly unrolling it. He didn't read anything just yet, deciding first that this mysterious, old woman was going to answer his questions whether or not she wanted to. All he had managed was a defiant look at her though, one that she had also promptly ignored. And then immediately, with a puff of smoke, she was gone.

So she wasn't human? He was certain she wasn't the same kind of 'different' he was, there had been no embossed mark on her forehead, and yet she had vanished in a puff of smoke like the rest of his kind did.

Vilcība turned his attention to the scroll instead, a very short letter had been neatly scripted in a loopy, cursive font.

"Dear Vilcība,

I apologise for being so discreet, but I couldn't risk this letter falling in the wrong hands. It is imperative that you travel to the location disclosed using the map below. You might find your destination strange and unusual, but you are the only one that can be trusted."

Vilcība rolled the letter down further to reveal a hand-drawn map.

A nameless letter and a questionable map.

Perfect! Just perfect!

He considered scrunching up the scroll and tossing it away, but the parchment was so old that it would probably disintegrate if he tried. Besides, if they knew him, if knew who he truly was, maybe his help had a greater need than he realised. He couldn't ignore the suspicious, anonymous plea for help; if that's what it honestly was. His conscience would never allow it.

Vilcība let out another sigh as he pulled the toppled barstool up and slid it back in place. After today, he definitely needed to find a new favourite bar.

(975 Words)