Some stories echo down the years long after their original tellers have turned to dust; other stories never leave the chamber they are whispered in, or are simply never told at all. And some stories remain sleeping, sometimes for centuries at a time, for the right time and place for them to at last be told.

Gordon Arcane never imagined that an early 21st century club catering to the suprahuman population of New York City would ever be a place he would even find himself in, much less the place where he would finally share the tale of how he rejoined, however tenuously, the human race. He'd also never imagined that he'd ever again drink as much as he had that night.

These two things were without a doubt related.

Regardless, with the tale now told and the empty glasses swaying slightly on the table before him (or perhaps he was the one who was swaying, he couldn't be sure), Gordon squinted at his drinking companion who had yet to say anything now that Gordon had finished talking.

“I've got to hand it to you, Gordon,” Erik said as he polished off his own drink. “You have a real way with words.” Disgustingly, Erik wasn't drunk in the slightest even though Gordon was completely pickled just from trying to keep up with him. Erik, looking a bit rueful, joined his latest empty with the others on the table before him.

“Thank you, Erik,” Gordon answered, letting his suspicion at the compliment positively drip from his words.

“People though,” Erik continued with a bantering grin which proved that Gordon had every right to be suspicious. “Not so much.”

Gordon looked around askance at the noisy club surrounding them with its flashing lights and flashier costumes, considering once again how the place was almost a wall-to-wall press of people except around Erik and Gordon's table which had an unofficial, but no less literal, perimeter of privacy around it.

“Just figuring that out now, are you?” Gordon asked with a droll smile. “You're even slower on the uptake than I thought!”

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