[ he catches himself staring at his reflection in the train window more than the blur of surroundings that pass, searching for the ghost of a mark on his throat that he's certain should be there. royalty or not, for over half his life gray has been shackled to servitude, and entering this city to find himself suddenly back on the other side of the tracks has left him swimming in a nearly nauseating sensation of vertigo. his grip on anything tangible feels little more than a shimmer, a trick of the light, and he moves his hand from the hollow of his collarbone to the pane of glass — half expecting it to fall through and feel the wind rushing by outside the train; perhaps he'd be sucked outside and lost.

perhaps it's all a dream.
nightmare.

he'd be nearly content to chalk it up to that and close his eyes, shut out the loss of inertia, save for one thing: he can feel the throb of witches here. of one witch here. it whispered to him to climb down from his strange perch in the Up, it called him to the train station, it pulled him with beckoning, insistent arms to a particular train going south? southeast? did cardinal directions exist here?

and it pushes him out of his seat at a stop near the mass elevator system; nearly tripping over himself and an older gentleman with a cat... girl... catgirl... in his lap one seat ahead and across the aisle. this place. he grouses more than apologizes before scuffing his way off the train and staunchly making his way toward the Down. it's with a sharply inhaled breath that he takes the descent, overwhelmed by the anxious energy manifesting from the company crowded in all around him. it's bad here, he can tell, and something's happened recently — something's worse. people are frightened.

gray all too eagerly pushes his way out of the transit lift and into the dingy, tattered excuse for a market square, scanning makeshift booths and storefronts that look like they don't stay open in one place for more than one or two days at a time. people travel quickly, heads down, many with scarves around their necks despite clearly being in the realm for the Submissives.

he can't just meander aimlessly while no one makes eye contact with him, he has to be efficient, so he reaches out for the elbow of the nearest passerby, unable to see their face, attempting to school his expression into one of simple curiosity, ]

Beg pardon, but have you seen any fortune telling shops around here I might be able to try? Something of the sort? I'm interested in witchcraft.

[ something about this place tells gray it isn't run by the sinister masterminds of the city.
a donation goes into the box with very little conflict of mind as he enters the establishment.

it isn't that he purposely dresses to be undressed, but the curves and angles of gray's body are simply... well, interesting to ponder for some, perhaps, under black trousers, a well tailored black blazer and a grey v-neck t-shirt. it's chilly outdoors, but he finds these are enough layers once inside a particularly bustling, dimly lit nightclub, nearly humid with body heat from dancing and close whispers and all manner of intimacy taking shape in various nooks and corners of the nebulously shaped premises.

what he really needs is alcohol. whiskey. an entire bottle of bourbon would do, at this rate.
the fae court was lavish and wanton and hedonistic in its own way, but this...

...gray could see the strange twist this put on the faces around him. like film developed, and then distorted. haunting omens.

the bourbon burns going down, grounding him, and he wonders if it isn't useless to fight, if he isn't already distorted. cursed long before the coven got hold of him. gray, the exquisite. gray, the prince, the slave. gray, the heartless.

he enters the lottery. why not?
the heartless have nothing to lose. ]

name: gray
handle: gray
photo ID: photo

hello. i need to report a crime.
someone broke into my flat and did my laundry. gave me a complete fucking turndown service as well.

i've been doing my own laundry for about a millennium. i don't know how to not do my own laundry. this is a miscarriage of... cleaning. who has tidied up without my consent i must know immediately.

[ a born dom who's been a sub for a thousand years who doesn't know how to be a dom anymore HELP JESUS CHRIST. ]

[ i'm down for just about anything, homies, so hit me up with any prompt, or PM me if you have q's! ♥ ]