He mouths the words. “What’s the origin of that?” “I think . . .” I glance at the ink that seems to cover every inch of his body. Tattoos have been embraced by slayers since long before they became mainstream, but Lazlo’s art has always set him apart from his brethren—and always fascinated me. It’s made of ancient, angular runes that remind me of the Old Turkic script. Distinctively Carpathian designs. Colors and motifs calling back to Eastern European folklore. “Hungary, I believe.” “Am I Hungarian?”
