Desmond Cusick's Diary

The playwright is full of vicious words, when he tries to be. Shame the strength of his ideals does not match the strength of his pen; then he might not embarrass himself when he engages in debate with me.

What made it all the more amusing was when Cedez, the waitress, leapt to my defense. I suppose it's not so hard to believe--she is, after all, associated with our kind--but it made it all the more entertaining to see the look on Avery's face when a woman I had only just formally met sided with me.

Cedez . . . she's an interesting one. Trueblood, but as honorable as any shifter. She asked permission to call me "Dessy"--amusing, isn't it? I haven't heard that name from anyone except Mother. I ought to visit her tomorrow, before I check in on Babenkov. Business has been so time-consuming lately that I haven't been able to drop in to say hello to her.

There was another Trueblood there as well. Ben is his name. Another admirable member of his species. He was there when I arrived, left before the argument, then returned shortly before Avery stormed in a huff. I was able to talk to him after that. Apparently, Ben traveled with a Caravan in the Wastes for a time. It takes a certain breed of character to survive out there. He seems a man of action, for he was baffled by mine and Avery's exchange of insults.

Felix came in as well, up to his usual antics. He ordered something alcoholic that happened to also be a vivid shade of blue. This was a source of interest for a young boy named Jackson--another admirable person. He's a shifter, I gathered; some type of mustelid by the smell of him. Apparently, he single-handedly tried to reason with the owners of the Cage about the reprehensible business they run. He was unfortunately beaten for his efforts--this is no surprise--but that he would even try is praiseworthy.

There were many interesting people in the Siren tonight, it seemed.

I wonder in what shape I will find Babenkov tomorrow?