Marais Eclat, a two-hour drive east of New Orleans, was a city that loomed naked out of the murk without a hint of shame. It had all the ritz and all the seediness of the bigger city, but thrice the glamour in a very literal way. It was one of the largest destinations for expat fey, and nearly a full ten percent of its population were somewhat less (or, perhaps, somewhat more) than human. Siodorhan Springwater was one of many. It afforded him a very much appreciated degree of anonymity. Here there were thousands of other Seelie exiles like himself, and no one questioned too hard why he wasn't welcome in Titania's graces any longer. In truth, he wasn't exactly sure himself why he was in exile. After all, it wasn't like homosexuality was illegal, and he wasn't the prince's first partner... of course, he had been the first to be on top and the first to get caught at their game, but it still seemed blatantly unfair for his ex-lover to have named it rape and seen him exiled for it. He had been in the city for almost six years at that point, and resenting every moment of it. The entire city stunk of iron and piss, and its people were even worse. In fact, if it weren't for the money he was making selling his Nevermore, he probably wouldn't have even bothered staying in the shithole. But the money was good, and if he made enough he hoped to be able to retire somewhere far, far away from civilization. Nevermore was his brainchild. He had always had a talent for alchemy, and the human world gave him a beautiful opportunity called community college. Four years of chemistry and pharmaceuticals, and he had more than enough information to perfect a formula his kind had been working on for generations. Nevermore. It had only three rules. Never more than once a day. Never more than one spoon at a time. Never more than three days in a row. Follow those rules, and you got glamour, iron resistance, and a nice buzz to boot. He could sell it for five hundred bucks a bottle and make well over four hundred in profit, and he had dozens of customers. Even after he paid his runners, it was highly profitable. If he could bring in an apprentice to help him produce more, it would be even more profitable... In spite of himself, Siodorhan was quite enamored with the human habit of buying goods. In the fey courts, material goods were all but useless. No one much cared for stuff when magic was all around. Here, though... here the magic was in goods. Fast cars, fine food, fancy clothes- it was downright addicting. Already Siodorhan had rented a nice, albeit small, house in a fashionable neighborhood just a twenty minute walk from downtown. He had a brand new Nissan 370z coupe (though there was too much iron for him to drive it very often), three closets filled with designer labels, and more food than he knew what to do with. Everyone agreed, his parties were the best. He was the darling of the exiled fey, and loving it. He was crashed on the couch after yet another night of partying, his full five-foot-two frame stretched out fully, indigo wings extended slightly and antennae twitching slightly in his sleep. His hair was peacock blue, his skin alabaster pale, and his closed eyes were deep silver. Those eyes opened suddenly when the doorbell rang, and he let out a groan and a curse as he worked his glamour, removing the wings and antennae and making his features just mild enough to pass for human, stumbling bare-chested to the door. It took him twenty seconds of flipping latches and locks (both magical and mundane) before he could pull it open a few inches and peer outside. "Whaddya want?"