If truth had been told then it would've been easy to say that he had never wanted to fall back onto a power he had never consciously chosen; after all, it made him more afraid of himself than any person ought to be comfortable with. What else could he do though? Times had been rough since his return to Sacrosanct and money was money, food was food and he had something that few others capitalised on...for a good reason. The darker arts were not just negative in their energy and reputation but their results too - he had no doubt in his mind that if he kept it up, he'd be on the end of a pike in little more than a few months. It wouldn't take long for the word to spread too far or for the feeling of wrongness to permeate too strongly.
In any case, the Voodoo Room hardly seemed to notice - or care - that he had taken up a residence there most nights. It was not his first choice of hangouts but the patrons were who he needed to be around both for their energy and their hard earned cash. It seemed everybody had a problem they wanted solved and sometimes, he'd just need to nudge them towards the right amount of drinks to be that solution. Some might have called him a hack, a complete cheat, but if he could avoid using himself...he would. He had no shame about it. Others simply did not understand.
Yet, a woman seemed to stand out just a little more than usual, a little more like him. He felt her energy before he could see her, the dim lights of the establishment hardly able to conceal her entirely. She had a particular wildness about her that lead him to believe the peacoat and sharpness of her style was not wholly her own. Something about her simply did not feel entirely right, a feeling that seemed to entirely correct as she took her place across from him, her voice surprisingly authoritative. It startled him somewhat, Avar having always been more of a timid man, and yet he grinned all the same with a tap of his finger onto his nose.
He had not missed her surprise at his appearance and for her sake, he motioned to the seat across from him rather than beside, aware that few might want to be too closely associated with somebody such as himself. Though the patrons around them found it comfortable to dress with sharp silhouettes and finesse, Avar seemed more than content to wallow in scarves and hoods of black and olive green. Even if he had wanted to fit in, he doubted he could. Too much discomfort and he was afraid he'd melt into the very walls themselves.
He tried to get a read on her, his dark eyes meeting hers as they searched for that certain something. She radiated magic, a witch through and through, and yet her magic read strangely to him, as if it had been perverted by something that did not quite fit her right - like an ill fitted sock beneath the most lovely of boots.