Was in a reflective mood and kept thinking about big projects to do, and all these ambitious things, and just had to write something to calm down. Really this is something more meant for me than anyone else, but just enjoyed how nicely all of this flowed, and it would just be a waste to hide it away. I feel like while I do commission work 90% of the time and it's 'easy' to do, I sometimes forget there's an artistic side to this all, and self-expression hahahaha. So this is kind of just a story to myself, talking to myself, and just as a reminder, kinda. Blah blah blah. I dunno!

An Allegory By Any Other Name

The gas lamps flickered to life along the street as Isabella wiped down the worn mahogany counter of Café Renard for the hundredth time that evening. The aroma of coffee and freshly baked bread wafted through the air, mingling with the salty breeze rolling in from the nearby Mississippi as morning dawned. Outside, the cobblestone streets glistened with a fine morning mist, reflecting the warm glow of the gaslights.

Isabella sighed, her ears twitching slightly as she surveyed the empty café. The antique clock on the wall chimed nine, echoing through the quiet space. She knew he would be here soon - her only regular customer. The dragonman.

As if summoned by her thoughts, the bell above the door chimed softly. Rholyx ducked his head to enter. He was quite massive, and easy to pick out compared to any other customer. Large muscles - though, he was looking fairly scrawny. His suit, when he first arrived was fine and elegant - and like too much in this town, was worn down and faded.

"Morning, mon cher~" Isabella called out, bored and resting her head on her hand. “The usual?”

Rholyx nodded, his scales catching the soft light as he moved. "The usual, indeed," he rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. He began rummaging through his pockets, the fabric of his once-fine suit rustling softly. Coins clinked together as he fished them out, one by one, placing them on the counter with careful precision.

Isabella watched, her tail swishing lazily behind her. The routine was as familiar as the cafe itself - Rholyx would count out his coins, she would tally them up, and then the dance would begin.

"That's seven cents, darling," she said, her voice lilting with amusement. "You're short three."

Rholyx's molten eyes flickered, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Surely a loyal customer such as myself deserves some consideration?”

Isabella laughed, the sound like tinkling bells in the quiet cafe. "Loyal, yes. Punctual in payment? Not so much." She leaned forward, her red hair falling in a curtain around her face. "How about this - two more cents, and we'll call it even."

The dragonman made a show of sighing heavily, but his clawed hand was already moving to retrieve the additional coins. With a flourish, he placed them on the counter. "Fine, fine.”

As Isabella swept the coins into her palm, she fixed Rholyx with a warm smile. "So, how's everything going? Any new commissions?"

Rholyx's expression shifted, a fleeting shadow passing over his features before being replaced by a practiced smile. "Oh, you know how it is," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "Art is a fickle mistress, but she keeps me busy. Busy enough I suppose."

Isabella's fox ears twitched, catching the note of tension in his voice. She knew there was more to the story, but she also knew better than to press. Instead, she turned to prepare his usual - a strong, black coffee, and a warm, flaky croissant.

As Isabella busied herself with preparing Rholyx's order, the dragonman drifted toward the large bay window overlooking the street. Outside, the city was stirring to life—carriages rattled over cobblestones, and shopkeepers swept their stoops under the golden glow of the morning sun. His clawed hands folded neatly behind his back, and the tension that so often weighed on his shoulders began to ease as he absorbed the quiet beauty of the awakening streets.

The sharp clink of porcelain broke the spell as Isabella approached, carrying a steaming cup of coffee. Its rich, earthy aroma cut through the crisp morning air like a knife, grounding him in the moment. Beside the cup, she placed a plate bearing a perfectly golden croissant.

“Here you are, darling,” Isabella said, a playful gleam in her amber eyes as she straightened up. “You almost look like Napoleon standing there, all regal and broody.” Her voice, warm and honeyed, danced between teasing and fondness. She bit back a giggle, lips curling into a smirk.

Rholyx turned, his crimson gaze softening as he regarded her. A small, fleeting smile tugged at the corners of his mouth—a rare glimpse of light in his otherwise stoic demeanor. “I suppose,” he murmured, his deep voice like distant thunder, “looking like Napoleon wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

With a slow, deliberate motion, he settled into the worn leather armchair, its creak mingling with the quiet hum of the waking café. He took the cup in his scaled hands, its heat radiating into his palms, and brought it to his lips. The first sip was long, reverent. The warmth spread through him, loosening something deep within.

A soft sigh escaped, the scales along his neck rippling slightly as tension melted away. “Though,” he added after a pause, his eyes flickering back to her with the barest hint of dry humor, “I think I prefer coffee to conquest.”

Isabella smirked faintly, but her gaze drifted toward the empty tables scattered across the room, her tail brushing absently against the floor. The playful spark in her eyes dimmed just a little, though her voice held its usual charm.

“Guess you’ve got good taste, then. Can’t imagine conquering pays near as well these days.” She turned slightly, absently wiping the counter even though it gleamed spotless, the motion more habit than necessity. Rholyx’s scaly eyebrow couldn’t help but raise.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew a small, leather-bound notebook and a stubby pencil. With practiced ease, he began to write, his clawed hand moving swiftly across the page. The scratch of pencil on paper joined the gentle ticking of the clock and the distant sounds of the street outside.

Isabella couldn't help but look back, and watch him, her curiosity piqued. Her tail swished behind her as she leaned against the counter, wondering what was flowing from his mind onto the page. Was he drafting a screenplay for those moving pictures everyone was so excited about in New York? She couldn’t help but think about it - all of that wonderful, far off glammor.

Unable to contain herself any longer, Isabella sauntered over, a playful pout on her lips. "Come on, Rholyx," she said, her slight Cajun accent thickening with her curiosity, "You can't keep a lady in suspense forever. What masterpiece are you working on this fine morning?"

Rholyx looked up, a mischievous glint in his eye. He chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Oh, nothing quite so grand as all that." he said, closing the notebook with a snap.

Isabella's ears perked up, her curiosity only intensifying at Rholyx's evasive response. She leaned in closer, her tail swishing playfully behind her. "Now, now, mon cher. You know I can't resist a good mystery…”

Rholyx leaned back in his chair, regarding her with amusement. "Perhaps," he conceded, his voice a low rumble. "But an artist never reveals his work before it's ready. You know that, Isabella."

She huffed, her tail swishing behind her in mock frustration. "Oh, you're impossible sometimes, you know that?" But there was no real anger in her voice, only fondness.

Rholyx's expression softened slightly. He glanced around the empty café, then back to Isabella. "Tell me," he said, his tone changing subtly, "how long has it been since you've had a day off?"

Isabella blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. "I... well, I can't rightly remember," she admitted, her brow furrowing. "The café needs me, you know that."

Rholyx nodded, his molten eyes reflecting a deep understanding. "I know that feeling all too well," he said, his voice softer than usual. "Since I arrived in this city, it's been one commission after another, one project bleeding into the next. The days blur together, and before you know it, weeks have passed without a moment's respite."

He leaned forward, his scales catching the soft morning light. "I remember when I first came here, full of dreams and ambition. I thought if I just worked hard enough, pushed myself to the limit, I'd make it big. But now..." He trailed off, his gaze drifting to the window.

Isabella watched him, her ears twitching slightly as she listened. She'd never heard Rholyx speak so candidly before.

"Now," he continued, his voice quiet but steady, "I find myself wondering if I've lost something along the way. The passion that brought me here, the fire that used to drive my words—it feels... dulled. Like trying to write with a quill that's been worn down to nothing."

He ran a clawed hand over his face, the faint grooves of his scales catching the morning light, and for a moment, he looked very tired. "There are days when I sit at my desk, staring at the blank page, and it's as if my thoughts have turned to fog. The words don't come, the stories don't speak. I see the ink, the paper, the endless possibility, but all it does is sit there—empty. Like it's mocking me for what I can’t seem to grasp."

Isabella's tail drooped slightly, her heart aching for her friend. She reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Oh, mon cher," she said softly.

Rholyx gave her a wan smile. "It's not all gloom and doom, mind you. There are still moments – fleeting as they may be – when everything aligns. When the pen feels like an extension of my arm, and the world falls away. But those moments... they're becoming rarer."

He picked up his coffee cup, staring into its depths as if searching for answers. "I can't help but wonder if this is what happens when you chase your dreams without pause. Do they eventually run so far ahead that you can't catch up anymore?"

Isabella squeezed his arm gently. "Maybe," she said, her voice warm and comforting, "what we both need is a chance to slow down. To remember why we started this journey in the first place."

Rholyx looked up at her, a spark of something – hope, perhaps – flickering in his eyes. "You might be onto something there," he said, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

Isabella's eyes lit up, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "Well then, why don't we do just that?" She glanced around the empty café, her tail swishing with newfound energy. "It's not as if we're overrun with customers. What do you say we close up shop for the day and go on a little adventure?"

Rholyx blinked, clearly taken aback by her sudden proposal. "Close the café? But Isabella, your livelihood—"

She waved a dismissive hand, cutting him off. "Oh, come on. One day won't ruin me. Besides," she added, her voice softening, "sometimes you need to feed your soul.”

The dragonman hesitated, his claws drumming lightly on the table. Isabella could almost see the gears turning in his head, weighing responsibility against the allure of it all.

"Come on," she coaxed, leaning in closer. "When's the last time you did something just for the joy of it? No commissions, no deadlines, just... living?"

Rholyx's eyes met hers, and she saw something shift in their molten depths. A flicker of the passionate artist she knew lurked beneath the worn exterior.

"You know," he said slowly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "I can't quite remember."

Isabella clapped her hands together, her tail swishing excitedly. "Then it's settled! Give me five minutes to close up, and let me put on a dress…”

Rholyx grunted, glancing down at his own suit—a dark charcoal ensemble that had seen better days. The fabric, though neatly pressed, had begun to fade at the elbows and cuffs, its edges softened from years of wear. He ran a clawed thumb absently over a threadbare seam, as if debating whether he truly belonged anywhere she intended to take him.

“You’re sure about this?” he rumbled, his crimson eyes lifting to meet Isabella’s, who was too busy flipping the 'Open' sign to 'Closed' and tidying up, Rholyx watched her with a mixture of amusement and something deeper, more tender.

"Where shall we go?" he asked, standing and straightening his jacket.

Isabella paused mid-step, glancing over her shoulder with a playful gleam in her amber eyes. “Where shall we go, he asks,” she said, drawing out the words in a teasing lilt, her accent thick with affection as she sighed, looking at him, with a smirk. “I don’t think that really matters.”

Rholyx regarded her for a long moment, the weariness of weeks—no, years—of chasing faded dreams pulling at him like a weight. Yet here, in this worn café with its creaking chairs and crooked clock, something stirred within him.

“Then lead the way,” he said finally, his deep voice softening, as she led the way outward, into the morning dawn…

The End!