Questions like "who was this wick woman?" and "where are we going?" never entered Charlie's mind. Not much entered his mind, admittedly. He was pleasantly and positively swimming in liquor and watching tattooed hips wiggle their way in front of him. Whatever this woman wanted from him, he was more than happy to give it to her. Gods only knew he wasn't going to be getting what he wanted from anyone else. Like, say, the nice gentlemen who had paid for his drinks or their fetching waitress.

He pouted a little, a sullen child trailing along between the witch and his sodden sister. He was attractive, godsdamnit, and it wasn't like he was asking them for anything with any strings attached. Lady, no! The very idea of it made him pull a face. Was it so wrong, he mourned, to ask a pretty girl to go out back with him for half an hour or so? A pretty boy, even? Anyone, really?

"I think it's aaaaall yer fault," his voice slurred and accusatory as he looked back at his sister.

"Whassall my fault? Issall yer fault. You got me clocking drunk and now we're following this lady and you can go off and be a massive slut if you'd like, I don't care, you're awful, I hate you." She started to cry. Laur was not a good drunk by any means. "Where are we even g-going?" Laur was rather occupied with that question, and the fuzzy world in front of her with two-headed people with tattoos was not putting her at ease at all. "Wait a second, are you going to get a tattoo? Didden somebody say that? Or was that me? Did I?" A tattoo was not the horrible idea to drunk Laur that it would be to sober Laur. Right at this point she found tattoos almost a good idea.

Cezelia continued leading the drunken procession, herself a bit too sober for her tastes at this time of night. But she had no choice but to smile, listening to the siblings bicker behind her as they puzzled over where she might be leading them. Was it such a mystery? As far as she was aware, she owned the only reputable establishment in Old Rose that inked skin by trade.
"Just a little further," she assured, though she suspected the pair behind her had no concept of how far they had gone or how far they had left to go. "Then you can have a rest and tell me exactly what it is you might be looking for," she paused wickedly, "or let me tell you what it is you'll have."

"Are we-- are we wandering down past the Market?" Charlie's voice was bleary with drink and tiredness, not to mention a healthy dose of frustration. Frankly, Charlie neither knew nor cared to know what this woman actually wanted from him. If he could somehow turn it into a chance to salvage this night, he would take it. If not, well. He just wouldn't entertain that idea.

Some very small, mostly overwhelmed part of him was concerned for Laur. Here he was, leading his baby sister through this thrice-bedamned city to somewhere he didn't even know, for reasons entirely in his own self interest. The little sensible bit of him that remembered what it was like to be a big brother and a respectable person mourned. He liked to think of this part as 'Charleton Almond', and the rest of him as 'Charlie Ewing'. When push came to shove, the mechanic won over the student. Charlie Ewing continued to follow the tattooist. Laur was crying-- so what? She was drunk, maybe she wouldn't remember it in the morning. Clocking hell, he was too drunk to remember it in the morning, and if he was a lightweight, Laureline barely registered on the scale. He could only hope she forgot. About the Walk, about the wick, and especially about the part where she hated him.

Laur kept crying, for many good reasons. Her brother was being mean, for one, and she didn't know where she was going or what time it was or anything. She prided herself on knowing things. At this point, a tattoo was sounding beautiful. A pretty pretty picture. She liked pictures. She'd get to carry one with her everywhere! Ooh was this a good idea. She'd get a flower, maybe. A rose? Sure. That sounded nice. When they showed up at this witch's shop she'd ask for that.
"Chaaaaarrrllliiie. Are. Are we there yet?"

By the time they had reached her door, even Cezelia was feeling a bit drained, though she had no doubt it was simply from the sound of the girl's crying. She quickly produced the key from inside her long, billowing sleeve and swung open the door. "Here we are," she announced, still feeling she had to point upwards at the shop's sign in case the couple wasn't sure of where they had ended up. "Inside, inside..."

There was a scuttling sound in the dark, a scratching against the wooden floor intermingled with the soft whispers of Cezelia's robes. When she finally lit the lamps, its source became clear. "Mujo ma, Ampelio," she sighed at the territorial leira. "They're with me." Turning a reptilian eye upon the two galdori, he marched his way up Cezelia's leg and settled upon her shoulder.

"Well then," her lips curled mischeviously and she gestured to the sheets full of art that decorated the walls, "what can I do for you before I take you back to the bed?"

Before this very day, hour and minute, Charlie had not actually contemplated getting a tattoo. Whatever else he might be, he was still essentially a golly boy and things like tattoos, while heartily admired on other people, were simply not something he ever thought about getting done on his own flesh.

He was also still terrifically drunk, though the walk over and the cold, wet sea air had sobered him up a good deal. So where the array of choices before him would have previously been merely dazzling, in his current state having to pick something like a tattoo was absolutely overwhelming. What in the world was he supposed to pick--? And where was it going to go? "It should emphasize how wildly attractive I am," he mused, pretending to be studying the walls when really he was trying not to fall over. "Something for the most attractive man in Old Rose-- no, the world! That," he said as he looked over his shoulder at Cezelia, "would be me." Charlie Ewing! That's who he was. Charlie clocking Ewing! He squinted and looked up. "Charlie Ewing!" he mumbled. What did Charlies get for tattoos?

"Gimme... gimme something... something like. My name! Yes." She could put it wherever she wanted. Somewhere good, he hoped. Somewhere that involved nudity.

"Tattoo? I like those. Can I get one too maybe? Hmm? Hmm?" She thought. "Charlie you're not attractive silly. And you've got your name wrong. Unless you got married. Did you get married? Why couldn't I come?Also...rose? A rose maybe? And, ummm..."
She gestured around, making confusing shaky circles with one hand, but most of the circles landed on the inside of her right breast, indicating that that was probably where she was going for. This was a terrible idea, but dammit, she was drunk.

It was almost impossible to resist the urge to laugh, but Cezelia managed tactfully to turn towards her supply cabinet and snicker into one long, jewel-colored sleeve. She had no idea gollies could be such good patrons while drunk, much less this much fun.

"A rose?" she echoed, her voice a bit higher than usual as she choked back her laughter. "I'm sure we can pin something down--can you see that board of flowers on the wall?" Silly question she thought, quite certain that if the girl had, she wouldn't be drawing air-flowers on her bosom.

In the meantime, she emerged from the closet with a set of needles and a glass bottle filled, and generously crusted, with black ink. "As for Mr. Ewing," she purred, cocking her head to indicate Charlie ought to follow, "I think I know exactly what you need."

What did Laur mean, he didn't know his own name? Of course he did. Charlie Ew-- oh right. The name change. Details, details. He was Charlie Ewing now, and he liked Charlie Ewing a lot better than Charleton Almond. Charleton Almond was such a stick in the mud! No fun at all. Gods he hated Charleton Almond. If he ever saw that guy again, he'd punch him in the teeth.

When the witch with the ink and the needles beckoned him, there was not a thought in that boy's head. Ah, no, this was technically incorrect: there were many, many thoughts in Charlie's head. It was more of a question of which were coherent, and how many were not about seeing all of Cezelia's impressive array of inkwork. Very few, to be sure. He followed her without question or hesitation. After all, she'd said she knew what he needed, which was more than he could say about himself on a regular basis.

Cezelia gestured towards a chair near the back of the room, pulling a thick scarlet curtain closed behind her. Taking a match from a little painted box on the wooden counter, she lit a large lamp and reclined the chair until it resembled more of a cushioned table or bed.

"Down," she purred, eyes locked on the plastered young galdor as she arranged her tools underneath the lamp. Her slender arms slipped from their billowing sleeves, rustling fabrics falling off her shoulders and down her back like a snakeskin being shed. The thick sash tied around her kept the robes from slipping down too far, but even if they had, she would not have been naked. She truly was covered from neck to toe in art, which was clothing enough for her.

"Whenever you're ready," she announced, perching herself on a stool beside the table.

There was an awkward pause while Charlie tried to figure out just what it was he was supposed to be doing. He'd lived in Old Rose for two years now, but he'd never yet consented to have ink on his skin. He might as well cross that line and get himself tattooed like some sort of half-breed. It certainly seemed to suit Cezelia well enough.

His head was starting to hurt-- he was too drunk for thought. Again he obeyed her. He really was feeling quite obliging today. That the chair had been transformed into something very much like a bed made him immeasurably more kindly disposed to the entire operation. As did the whole robe-removal bit, though that didn't go nearly as far as he would have preferred. Beggars can't be choosers, really. He'd take what he could get, today.

"I," he announced, half-falling onto the recliner, "was born ready for everything." There was a hopeful emphasis on the 'everything'.

Laur found the flower board, selecting a pink rose with the stem attached. The gesturing had been for the place, not the shape. She then sunk down onto the floor, waiting. Eventually, she took a short nap. Waiting took a long time, especially when you were so sleepy.