He couldn’t sleep, not when the moon was this full—this high in the sky. Hours still from the crest of la luna, Nightingale sat against his window like a bird to it’s perch, and watched the way the pale white light brushed the peeks of the trees while flooding the valley below. He found the solitude peaceful, but worried through the coming weeks lessons in an attempt to keep his mind busy.

”I struggle most on the weekends, and especially during the long breaks between terms.” He once told the healer of minds, a therapist that specialized in his sort of case, and tried to remember what it was she instructed him to when his depression sank in. Go out, meet new people, date, or perhaps even find a part time job just to fill the space between. Just don’t stay in your apartment like some troll to it’s cave. But that was easier said than done.

For years the constant threat of a battle had loomed over Hogwarts until it became just as much a lesson as any other class, and now even with the victory it was hard to swallow the fear that there was another constant shadow looming on the distant shore. Learning to deal with danger, the constant struggle between right and wrong, and even an impending war came naturally in his youth…but who would have ever thought that learning to move on without it would be the true struggle.

With every new class, little by little the memories of those few days faded, and Gale constantly had to bite his tongue when a student spoke out of line or showed little signs of respect. They thought they have it hard now, but truly they knew nothing of what the world could be like. Yet, how were they to learn if no one was to show them? It was a taxing job, that sometimes got the better of him, but little by little he was learning to deal with his inner demons.

Rainclouds, thick and violent broke his train of thought as the distant sky lit up with the threat of a storm, and in this he smiled. He loved the rain, and found it an omen to find the night. She was right, he needed out, and suddenly the stone rooms felt like a cold tomb. Little feet found large boots, and narrow shoulders refuge beneath a cloak, Gale sat forth onto the night and to those who inhabited it.

Through the darker parts of town he drew up his hood, covering the pale moon colored strands of hair that often gave him away to students he refused to pass, and those that might harbor grudges from the past. But upon reaching the Inkwell’s front step he lifted his face to read the sign, and the hood fell back enough that the street lamps warmed his face with their golden glow. He didn’t have an appointment, but with the heavy rains now falling like stones he doubted very many would even venture out. And truly a tattoo wasn’t something he would commit to on a whim, Gale put a lot of thought in nearly every detail of his life, and sometimes…too much. However, this was something he felt akin to, and wondered if the timing was right to finally sacrifice his alabaster skin under the needle. He had an idea of what he wanted, but the Romani Frenchman didn’t have the talent to put it on paper.

Gale suddenly felt a very nervous feeling rush him upon entering the doors, and even though he knew he could turn away at any moment he felt as though he had already committed to the marks. The hardest part was simply saying hello, and the receptionist being as beautiful as she was caused his cheeks to flush a moment before he directed his eyes somewhere…anywhere else.

Mon dieu, Nightingale. You can stand before an entire crowd and speak, but you can’t say hello to a single person? Maybe this was a bad idea. However, after a few moments of nervous fiddling with the hem of his sleeve he spoke out in his softly spoken Picardie accent.

“Good evening, I…well, I’d like to speak to someone about possibly setting up an appointment?” He breathed, though more inhaled as that was nearly spoken all in one breath, “And I’m not an artist.” With that he fell silent, and the only visible eye fell closed a moment to gather his thoughts, “I mean. I’ll have to have someone draw it as well?” With that he fell at ease, and stood before the shop the confident Professor so many knew him for.

It was one of those weekends. All the young'uns were back in school and the Knockturnite crowd that lingered around Dietrich's parlour were scarce, on account of the weather. Hell, it was pouring so heavily outside that he was surprised that Lana even bothered to open shop tonight. They weren't on good terms lately, he and the receptionist, but she wasn't one of those flimsy gals who dropped her job the moment things became sketchy between the two.

Dietrich was sat at the back of The Inkwell, legs propped up on one of the round tables as he pivoted back in his chair. The witch was at the front of the room; as far as she could have been without leaving. He stared up at the ceiling fan and nursed a dram of firewhiskey in one hand, watching the wings turn in rhythm with the sound of rain being blown against the front windowpanes. God,  it was a slow night.

The wizard tossed back his drink and let the glass fall to the floor with a surprisingly durable thud. He'd take anything right now. Rundown miscreant looking to pierce her ears, druggie off the streets searchin' for some skin art... and then the door clinked open. Dietrich glanced across to the entrance, bringing his chair back onto all fours. Well what d'ya know. A customer. And he didn't even look like the disreputable kinda cretin he'd been expecting.

Pale and a little quiet, the man at the front looked like he was having a helluva time trying to get his words out to Lana. But that was the way with walk-ins.

"Hey there," Dietrich called out as soon as caught that bit about drawing. He hauled himself up to his feet, smiling genially at the other wizard as he approached the counter. "Y'looking to be inked tonight?"

Lana - quietly and maybe a little resentfully - turned away, hiding her tan face behind a veil of dark hair. He ignored her best as he could, keeping his attention on what was probably gonna be his only job this evening.

"We don't always do walk-ins on the weekends but I got a lot of cancellings today. I can show ya down to the parlour now, if it suits, but I take it you don't know what design yer looking for yet?"

“Thank you,” Still he spoke to the woman who retreated from the front when the other wizard came forward, and instantly before this man Gale pulled on his mask. Like a warrior going into battle he quickly went stone like, and all emotion fell from his face. He looked up at the man, and admired the distance between them. Standing all of five foot seven, Gale nearly had to stretch his spine to even meet the eyes of the artist, and smirked a little with the amusement. He could wager this man’s arms were as big as his thighs, and his fist the size of his heart. The artist certainly was a handsome man, the sort that made Nightingale’s heart turn in his chest a few moments, and try very hard to quell the bitter iron on his tongue.

“I know what I’m looking for. I just don’t have any sort of means to produce it on paper other than magic, and frankly. I’d like for once something in my life procured with more than a few fickle waves of a wand.” He withdrew the hood the rest of the way from his face, letting it shrug around his shoulders.

“I’d like to see a portfolio of your work, hire you for a preliminary sketch, and perhaps have you place a temporary tag so that I might wear it a few days before it’s permitted permanent.” The way his little French accent made his voice sound truly added to the arrogant ass he came across as, but there was a kindness in his one eye that could almost explain it all away as just nerves. Gale fiddled again with the hem of his sleeve, and looked up at the man with an apology written across his brow.

“I’m sorry…I just, at home. My people they ink themselves with everything from Egyptian gods to cartoon characters. I’d just like to take a little more pride in what goes on my body.” Gale worried his bottom lip between his teeth a moment, and fell silent so that he could follow where the man lead. 

What a funny li'l guy. Funny accent, funny requests, funny way of asking fer something on Knockturn. They way Dietrich saw it, you didn't act like a stick was up your ass unless you were any good with the stick in your hand.

He didn't really look all that dangerous only you knew better than to judge by appearance once you've been 'round the block, or around a few blocks.

"Ain't my place to judge what yer looking for or how important it is to ya, so long as I'm getting paid..." the blonde wizard leaned forward against the counter and looked down at his customer, lips creasing into a smile that only barely reached his eyes. "Though I can appreciate ya wanting to give it some thought. Some of my stuff is on the walls," he jerked his head towards the far end of the entrance space. The wall was covered in framed prints of his work.

Line illustrations, intricate tribal designs, contemporary pop art... and, in line with his usual clientele, plenty of macabre sketches. It was a diverse selection. Dietrich glanced back to the other man and pushed back to stand straight, hooking his thumbs on to his pockets.

"I could get some albums or we could just sit down in the back, figure out how to get yer idea sketched out." That is, if the fella would deign to allow it. "But  I'm gonna need a name for our books. Don't have to be a real one, mind you."

Gale could often appear as horribly rude, but truth be told his social skills simply were lacking the good faith of humanly affection—and smiles. He didn’t smile often, but it wasn’t misery that overtook his features. The Professor simply kept his canvass blank, expressionless as if wearing a mask that could hide everything he hated about himself, or everything he desired in another. Dietrich was beautiful, he would give him that, but his blunt nature and silly words like ‘ain’t’ and ‘yer’ damn near killed the attraction.

The work on the walls told stories that first appearances couldn’t, and Nightingale wondered if the artist was truly this talented or a divine tracer.  He touched the ink glass as his good eye ran over every brush stroke almost as if he were trying to recapture it in his mind. New Spells perhaps?

“And you come up with this on your own?” He asked with his back to the blonde brute, not realizing truly how that sounded so close to an insult. “Or does it come from books?” Implying he could read of course…it was a start right?

Gale went quiet, watching the framed bits of art as if they were all spinning a spider’s web like tale of the origin of each and every line. He was enchanted really, and touched a few of the frames as he studied each one. For a moment, it appeared as though he out right ignored the request for his name, but after a moment of silence he offered up the Romani right of passage.

“Kesali” Back to the art he went, but he stopped catching sight of his reflection in the glass and turned a pondering look over his shoulder to Dietrich, “Did you give me your name already? Or do I need to ask for it?”

Gods. Talkin' to this fella was gonna be like threading a needle. Dietrich blinked, forcing down the sudden desire to literally curse the gentleman wizard who'd so casually brought into question the inventiveness of his work. Come up with this on his own- fuck, you'd think anyone about t'be inked would know better than to talk down to the guy who was gonna needle him.

"Most of 'em, yeah, I drew..." he trailed off, eyeing this stuffed shirt who was hopefully worth the fee. "Clients come around for original work, or at least whatever they've brought in on their own. Don't really get none of that commercial shit here."

The Inkwell was an establishment of integrity-- was what he would like to have said but seeing as how he'd just come off a bottle of Firewhiskey and some questionable gillyweed, Dietrich wasn't so sure if he should. Lightning flashed at the front window and he glanced out at the alley just as the other wizard finally gave him a name. Kesali? French, if the accent was any indication, though it sounded more like an Italian branch.

"Dietrich Eisenberg," the artist replied almost instantly and his voice dropped into a less colloquial, German inflection for a second before snapping back into guttural American. "Now listen here. I ain't gonna turn down no customer who wants t'get marked but yer starting to get on my nerves."

Which was saying something; Dietrich had but all the patience of a Buddha when it came to younglings. He expected a li'l more from anyone old enough t'buy a hard drink.

"If you're not gonna tell me what you want," he ran a hand through his hair in an impatient gesture, " Then it'd be best if ya leave this room before I decide to take a needle to you anyway."

Gale had to hand it to the artist, he was pleased truly with everything that was on display, but the threat came he froze in his browsing. His hands froze on the frames, his fingers delicately poised over the glass as if to brace himself for an attach, and in the reflection of the mirror like surface a memory flashed unyielding until he tore his attention back to the man.

“Gadjo[1], I offended you.” The only visible eye displayed a flash of silver that expressed his concern, and his stance only enforced the confession. His hands came together so that his sleeves nearly covered them, and petite shoulders squared with his feet in a sign of respect and submission.

“Forgive me.” Suddenly, a flash of nerves fired through his body to force him to answer, and as he started Gale tucked a strand of his moon colored hair behind his ear,

“I’d like a tree, but not just any tree, the rukh[2] of my name.  with shon[3]..the moon, behind bare branches. The sort that do not just reach for the sky, but of the kind that is deep beneath the soil.” His face flushed brightly with the horrid display of self expression, but the truth was he had thought deeply about it. He dreamed of the mark as if he had known it his entire life, and in truth—he had. Kesali, was the Romani word for Forest Spirit, and in the backs of old motor powered wagons with horses tethered along the row he had grown up with the moon behind bare branches out his window. In the mild short summers of France there were nights as a child he slept in the branches. He wanted to capture that feeling, that sort of freedom that came with the nomadic lifestyle he had once loved dearly, but left behind when he came to Hogwarts. Maker, why was this so hard to communicate?

Under his breath he cursed himself in a language that sounded as if it were a mixture of French and some unknown wild part of passion fueled by frozen winters. His eyes closed, and though only one wasn’t hidden behind leather it was clear both were sealed tightly as a silence fell over him. The very air around the Professor seemed to calm, yet collect a warmth that only came with magic, and as Gale called upon a charm he learned a long time ago the movement of the nearly electric air around him caused the pale strands of his hair to move slightly. And finally when he opened his eyes again to look at the man, he spoke in a voice less harsh than before,

“Have you ever known a winter so cold that you worry your blood will freeze? The way the sky is so clear that the moon through the branches looks like wisps of silk ribbons? And that barren tree looks like it’s painted with blank ink against La Luna’s light? I want that. I want it painted across my skin like some old Nordic fable, like a survivor. They named me Nightingale because I came on the coldest night of the year. I came singing, but the truth is Mr. Eisenberg. I came out fighting, and damn it I’ve been doing it ever since.” He took a small collection of breaths before continuing.

“Does that make any sense to you? I’d like a tree, Melalo[4]but not just any tree. It’s a fortress.” And there he stood, panting a little from his little burst of a confession, and nearly glaring at the man with his good eye daring him to laugh.

1.	Adult Non-Gypsy
2.	Tree
3.	Moon
4.	Bear

If there ever was a man who spoke in tongues, Dietrich wouldn't have had a difficult time believing that it was this sorry-eyed, pasty excuse of a wizard standing in his parlour. The apology was welcomed with a firm nod but the rest of it... well the rest of it took some forbearance.

Some words he didn't quite recognize were thrown in, and thankfully explicated, followed by a description that seemed like an awfully wasteful way of saying that the tree he wanted had t'be old or deeply rooted. Frustration. More words he didn't recognize... very likely nastier in meaning than Dietrich guessed the other ones were. He leaned back against the counter, arms bracing themselves against it as Kesali suddenly asked: “Have you ever known a winter so cold that you worry your blood will freeze?"

What (the fuck) was this leading into?

There was a long pause of dead silence, interspersed only by the fella's hard breathing. That... rendition had taken a bit outta him. And no wonder- it was a hell lot more heartfelt than most've the stuff that came floating through the doors on Knockturn. Dietrich regarded his customer with a sceptical, preoccupied look that nullified the glare it met.

"Lemme get this straight. So you don't really want a tree, what yer looking for is a scene, ain't it?" he started, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "An old winter tree with strong roots... oak, maybe, if it suits ya. I can do that. Use a shimmerin' ink for the moon, get some black glimmer for contrast. 'Course you'll be wanting a mock up first..." Another pause and this time he pushed himself straight again, drawing up to full height.

"This is important to you." It wasn't a question. Y'would have to be an idiot not to see how fucking invested Kesali was in this piece of work. Dietrich sighed heavily. "You give me a day or two, how's that? I'll draw ya a few interpretations of what it is you think you want, maybe do some research on this... La Luna of yours or whatever. Concept art." Just great. This was lookin' to be the makings of a full blown commission.

"Come back then. If you like it, I'll ink ya. If you don't, we start over. That work for you?"

When Dietrich stood to his full height Gale had to tip his head back once more to catch the man’s eye.

The eyes are the window to the soul, the looking glass if you will, Nightingale, never let it go. And in that bit of iron will he did just that, but kept his hands folded before him. When Dietrich spoke about research, Gale wanted very much to correct him. This sort of thing wasn’t found in books, or even old scrolls. No this sort of thing was found under the stars, and deep in the woods that Gale worried this man had never known.

“That would be fine, but…” Suddenly he felt rather nervous, and though his little shoulders already shook Gale pressed from his stance to close the distance between them. ”Can I? Um…See your hand?” He folded a bit of his hair behind his ear, the little silver rings chimed with the charms that decorated his lobe. He extended both of his palm up to cup the back of his hand if it would be offered, "I promise I won't bite it off."

...but?

Dietrich held the other wizard's gaze carefully, as if though it might drop and shatter and the man might flee his parlour like a bird with silver wings. He was a dainty thing. It would've been a waste of his time to scare him off now, after all those damned descriptions.

And time was a commerce y'couldn't get back no matter what ya sold. ”Can I? Um…See your hand? I promise I won't bite it off.” He proffered his palms in an odd, ritualistic gesture.

Bite it off? Dietrich nearly laughed. Somehow he didn't think that Kesali had teeth sharp enough to make much of a difference anyway. 'Course it wasn't a regular request- there weren't many gals he'd offer his hand to, much less fair-headed fellas with sticks up their arses.

"Y'trying to get a read on me or something?" he raised his eyebrows amusedly and then offered his left hand- his wand hand. It was considered kinda rude in some cultures but he doubted that the other would care. "Knock yerself out. I charge extra for the biting."

“Oh I’ve never had to pay for biting. If anything it’s the other way around Mr. Eisenberg,” Gale smirked when the other man raised his brow, and visibly relaxed with the bit of banter. His fingers delicate yet deadly smoothed over the skin of the artist’s wrist as one hand came to collect the man’s pulse, while the other opened his fingers so he could see his palm.

There in the hands of an artist, a piercer—a businessman, Gale ran the tips of his fingers over Dietrich’s palm as if he were reading a sacred map, and was clearly satisficed.  And though his own hands were calloused and worn, knuckles broken from a few fights—he didn’t get the chance to study if Dietrich’s were the same.

“No, no reading. I don’t have the time. But it’s a comfort isn’t it to know that there are real things in the world, Dietrich that no amounts of spells can change? Like how creative we are. How passionate.” He followed the deep line on the artist’s palm, and finally let him go to look back up again, “No matter how hard we try to hide it. Or fail to express it.”

He wouldn’t pull his cloak’s hood back up, no Nightingale needed that rain on his face like the very air in his lungs. He felt himself on fire, and would probably shed the damn thing half way home. And suddenly the room felt far too small.

“Next week then?”

Patience was one of Dietrich's more exercised traits and he'd stood, staring interestedly at Kesali's expression, like a parent patiently humouring a fussy child. It was a foreign concept, examining someone's hands so closely- foreign at least to the English and therefore most've his customers.

But he understood the logic behind it. Back in California, when he'd been learning tricks in the back of Marlene's caravan, the two of 'em used to lure muggles into paid palmistry sessions. Most've it was junk but you could tell a lot from a man's hands. His scars and his blisters and how gentle it was.

Kesali's hands were gentle- Dietrich had expected that. Not like a woman's (no, there was something to be said about a woman's literal touch), not even all that soft. Just careful and thorough.

“Next week then?”

Dietrich's hand was his own again. He smiled uneasily at the pale wizard and nodded. "Yeah, just waltz in some time then, I'll have some sketches for ya." Hopefully they wouldn't have to get through too many before the fella was satisfied with the scene he had in mind. "I'll put ya in the book for Saturday or Sunday afternoon."