Fortunate Sons [Lukas/Mikhail]

THE CITY OF LIGHTS
Shuddering as he breathed, Lukas sat cross-legged, the small quarters of his backyard razed clean around him. His focus was elsewhere, closed eyes and tight lips a product of the rare thought for self improvement. Doctor advised and therapeutically recommended; the kind of treatment you give to a wounded veteran. Meditation by any other name, but for Lukas? Another way to shelf his frustration into something he'd consider worthwhile.

His reiatsu stretching skywards, tight against his skin before it leaped towards the sky - a sword stabbing towards god, if he existed. Not that such thoughts concerned him. If god were real, he had been dead for a long time.

Slowly now. The surge of spiritual power began to shrink, pulling itself back towards the man as it stretched away from his skin, blossoming outwards to feel at reiraku. An enormous hand, feeling outwards for the threads that stitched across the stadt. For a moment, he felt aware, and then it dissapeared, eyes opening as his reiatsu vanished.

Arrancar and shinigami, their filth hung at the edge of his mind as he stood, but another thread hung in focus. Alien, for a quincy. With an ember of curiosity, Lukas swung a furred, navy blue jacket across his stump, and made his way into the stadt.

A shift in the day, the sun sliding towards noon as he found his man. The street bustled around them as Lukas elbowed his way, a tap with the back of his knuckles addressing Mikhail's back. "Where'd you crawl out from, waffenbruder?"

Such magnificence! In stark contrast to the dull cities that marked civilization around much of the rest of the world, or to the wide open plains of Nartia, Mikhail could only look in awe at the white construction of the City of Lights with a reserved wonder. Such was surely the mark of a proud nation; it was no wonder that an order would make its home here.

Before the hand even tapped him, Mikhail's eyes had darted back, spiritual sense all too apparently honed and a decided awareness in his gaze as he turned. Battlefield experience made itself clear, even in spite of the jovial expression the knight wore as he made his reply.

"Hail! I have traveled here from Nartia, having heard word of the Knightly Order of the Stars which calls this place home, and among their ranks quincy. Prior encounters with such honorable folk drew my attention, and so I have come to see what sort of land would put their swords to use."

THE CITY OF LIGHTS
Nartia? The fuck? A brief moment of confusion cut through Lukas' unwavering stare, like a split yolk. The speed of the man's reaction was little surprise when he got a better look at him; whatever he was wearing, Mikhail was far from a civilian. If anything, his tone and expression were more of a shock, not that the quincy would show it.

"Sternritter caught your interest, huh?" Despite his personal misgivings to the sect, the reputation they gave was good for the Vandenreich. Certainly, they weren't attracting many recruits with the Todgestalten. "Don't know how many swords you'll find, bows and arrows are a bit more common."

Lukas shrugged with the last sentence, or whatever he could manage to resemble one. Oddly enough, he had encountered more and more sword users - melee had become a bit more in fashion, it'd seem. "Any Quincy is welcome here, regardless of whatever or wherever you come from." Extending his hand, Lukas nodded towards the man. Even in his greeting, a weight was in his words, be they disbelief or plain misgivings. "My name's Lukas."

"The bow is a noble weapon, to be certain! The man who taught me much of my technqiue was a master of the bow, and so I would hardly think to suggest otherwise in my verbage."

Unwavering and lacking in any apparent misgivings, Mikhail took Lukas' hand firmly to shake, eyes bright even as they made confident contact. This was a man who was, without any doubt, quite sure of who he was.

"I am Sir Mikhail of the Dance, knight of Nartia currently questing on behalf of the Princess Nataliya. The Quincy I have already met from this land have proven exceptional; I have no doubt that you are of similar mettle."

THE CITY OF LIGHTS
"Of the..." He understood what the man was saying as words, but they were no aid in his confusion. Lukas managed clemency in his expression, preventing it from souring entirely. "No idea where, or who, any of that is." Letting go of the foreigner's hand, Lukas jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing with his head in the direction.

"But you're in the stadt now. And if I don't know where you're from, it's a long ass ways away, so you could use a drink. First round's on me." Who the hell had met this man? Where the fuck was there a princess giving quests to quincy? A tumble of thoughts inside his head that, frankly, Lukas did not want to bother with right now. Better to drink them quiet.

Turning, Lukas whistled low before making his way down the street, past the hustling crowds, and into the narrow, poorly lit bar of his choosing. The bartender waving in recognition, he had not particularly bothered to see if Mikhail had followed, but still sat down and ordered the same. "Two pints, two shots bourbon."

Mikhail followed with no doubt seemingly anywhere in his mind, smile still bright as his gaze studied the city and their surroundings. It was so unlike home that a man could hardly help but be captivated, whether by the astounding glamor of the city itself or by the shift in tone as they entered this particular tavern.

"There are certainly few ways better to bond with one's fellow warriors than over drink! I have indeed traveled long to this land, so your generosity is well appreciated."

In spite of his antiquated demeanor, there was no particular confusion to be found in Mikhail as he sat down, as if this was all still perfectly natural. Why shouldn't it be, after all? To drink in the hall was common practice everywhere.

THE CITY OF LIGHTS
Drinks followed, the initial round arriving with a familiar clink. Cheap bourbon, questionably clean beer downed with scant few breathes between. Whether it was the ordeals he had gone through or the particularities of the stranger guiding such a swift gullet, Lukas had no idea. Neither did he care, so long as they kept coming. A rap of knuckles against the bar, and they did, so life was good.

"'Warriors', 'knights', 'sir', man, I know some people around here can be old but -" Lukas half turned, glass in hand. "You don't strike me like one of those centuries old geriatrics. Certainly not in the eyes." He would've gestured towards his own, if he had the limb for it. Instead locking gaze with the foreigner as he drained the glass at hand.

Turning away to get it filled, he continued, stifling a belch before he did. "Plus you come from some place that sounds like a fairy tale. Dunno what to make of that."