[open] morning glow starts to glimmer when you know
Characters: Apollo and anyone else!
Setting/Location: The lookout
Date & Time: Day 60, morning
Warnings: N/A
Summary: Apollo has breakfast
( winds of change are set to blow and sweep this whole land through )
Setting/Location: The lookout
Date & Time: Day 60, morning
Warnings: N/A
Summary: Apollo has breakfast
( winds of change are set to blow and sweep this whole land through )
He gave up trying to get any kind of read on Apollo. He felt that he might actually be able to do it, but it would take too much effort. Damon was tired. Anyway, he didn't need powers to tell that the man was fishing. Clearly, Apollo or not, he had the hots for Cassie. Damon wondered if he could somehow turn this to his advantage.
Well, he'd think of something.
For now, he just shrugged. "Cassie? She was pretty much on the outs with everyone. Had a tendency to annoy honeyboy by pointing out when he was being a tool." Damon smirked. It was often enough. "Kinda scary looking, until a sexy lesbian gave her a Molly Ringwald make over. After that, she was pretty much one of the hottest pieces of worldwalker ass in the vicinity." It was easy to say that. Most of them had been dudes. Or lesbians. Neither really attracted Damon's attention.
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Still. He was pretty sure he didn't like the way this guy was talking about Damon. "She's always been attractive," Apollo chose to conversationally respond. No need to show how ruffled his feathers were. "As much as she'd always had a tendency to annoy people."
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Was wench offensive? Damon couldn't really keep track. Back in the day, it just meant a woman from the country. Then it became a whore. And at some point in the transition between the 1980s and the 1990s, it became a weird sort of lesbian term of endearment. Damon wondered what the word meant here in Willa-whatever.
"So, are you like, a god or something?"
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"What is a bar wench?" he asked, furrowing his brow. He prayed that it wasn't a prostitute. That would have only further damaged Cassandra, and to a certain degree, would have cheapened their night together.
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In his most unintentionally patronizing tone, Damon explained, "A tavern is a social meeting place where ample amounts of alcohol are served by pretty servant girls in tight corsets. This is generally accompanied by singing, dancing, and general merry making." Frankly, that sounded like the perfect scene for a god, but Damon didn't really buy the god story. He was content to be the only immortal along for this ride. Him and Bonnie, at any rate. And apparently honeyboy too.
The caravan was suddenly starting to feel a little bit crowded.
"We had a tavern in Rowan called the Frolicking Stoat. It was operated by a worldwalker." He shrugged. "I'm not so good with the explaining. I don't suppose you've ever heard of a disco?"
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The description of the job still sounded vaguely like prostitution. He wondered if Cassandra had ever slept with this Damon fellow. He supposed the man was attractive, if a bit short. "Are all men smaller in the future?" he asked with every pretense of innocence.
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Cocky though this bastard was, Damon realized, he still had something that the guy wanted. That gave Damon a distinct advantage. He still couldn't quite figure out how he was going to use it, but he decided it was best to remind this dude that he wanted a product that Damon was willing to sell.
Was he mixing too many metaphors? Who cared.
"Yeah, anyway, Cassie wasn't much of a people person. Didn't really have friends to speak of. Although..." He took pleasure in drawing out each syllable of the word. "There was that one guy."
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In truth, Apollo was eager to learn more. However, if Damon was trying to get something from him, he was likely to push the other man over the railing. And it seemed as though Simon would frown on that.
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Oh well.
"Yeah, Cris," Damon replied with an absent shrug. Well, if Cassie had already mentioned him, there was no need for Damon to waste his energy. And if she hadn't...well, Apollo would just have to reveal that himself. Then Damon would know, without a question and beyond a reasonable doubt, what it was Apollo wanted. After that, he'd figure out if he wanted something back. There had to be something.
"So what about you?" he drawled. "Are you from out of town?"
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Apollo doubted that, but he had asked.
"Cassandra will probably warn you to stay away from me," he decided to mention, "If she knew you from Rowan. She's been telling all of them that, so I don't go after them." He flashed the most brilliant of his smiles. "Of course, that doesn't stop them."
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He probably should have known. If this guy thought he was Apollo (or if he was Apollo, but Damon still wasn't convinced), he supposed there was probably a laundry list of reasons Crazy Cassie had. The one thing Damon definitely remembered from his studies of the ancient Greeks was that their gods loved debauchery. How had his professors explained it? The Greeks demonstrated proper morality through the opposite, as found in their mythology. It was a fascinating subject, really. If you were a boring person. Damon was not.
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Of course, he couldn't tell this man that sort of information.
"Leverage," he announced with a shrug. "They might come in handy in the future."
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Damon knew a thing or two about irrational women. In fact, he considered himself something of an expert of sorts. It was more a science than an art, a simple matter of physics. For every action, there was an extremely unnecessary opposite reaction. The slighter the offense, the worse most girls seemed to take it; one of the more annoying things about women that only a certain amount of cleavage could make up for. Damon had once actually come up with a formula for the line of separation between hot and crazy. He was very proud of it.
"Did you call her fat? Girls hate that."
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"This is not really a conversation I'm going to have with a stranger," Apollo said with a smile. He gave a polite tip of his head to Damon and took another sip of his tea. One thing he'd learned during his lengthy life was that really, you could ignore questions that you didn't want to answer. This was, decidedly, one of those questions.
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At the very least, Damon felt secure in his position as alpha male on the caravan. This guy had issues. Kinda pathetic. Good looking, but pathetic. Vaguely like someone else Damon knew...
Feeling a bit restless, Damon pushed away from the railing, walking along the length of the lookout looking for...well...looking for something interesting. Unfortunately, there was nothing interesting. No pool table. No cable. No boom boxes. Oh, Damon was going to go crazy if he had to stay here too long. Come on, freaky tree things, come on and make this place go bye bye.
But no amount of wishing could really make it so. That was just a fact of life.
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Absently, he flexed his wrist, watching the remaining tea slosh around the inside of his cup. "Sort of makes a statement, as far as deaths go. Of course, my favorite was always roasting inside the bronze bull. Do you know of it?"
Without really pausing for much of a response, Apollo continued. "A bull was fashioned out of bronze, made to size. The inside would be hollow, though. A condemned man would be chucked into it, through a door on the side, and locked in. Beneath him, a fire would be lit. Slowly, the man would roast to death."
He lifted a finger. "Of course, that wasn't the most dramatic part. Complex tubes were woven throughout the bull, so that as the man was roasting to death, his screams would come out like the sound of an enraged bull. They say the man who invented the bull so horrified the king that he was tricked into climbing inside and was roasted himself. He didn't die, though." A pause. "Actually, he was thrown off a cliff. Anyway, the king couldn't have hated it too much. It remained a popular execution device."
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