Creepy would also define what passes for this particular residence. The door opens itself, for one thing. A closer inspection of its facade will reveal complex, handpainted designs of varying size and shape: veves, designed to keep the unwanted out ... or perhaps to invite them in. With someone like Midnight, it's impossible to tell.
The scent of heavy Cuban cigar smoke drifts toward her down the plushly decorated hallway. It wouldn't look out of place somewhere in New Orleans. The only difference is the distinct lack of that city's oppressive heat.
Selina makes her way toward the source of the smoke. This is a horrible horrible thing. She wants to get out of here already. She's been here for less than a minute and already she wants out of here.
The door closes decisively behind her, leaving only the bracket-mounted, dim lighting as company.
She won't be alone for too long. A breeze -- or perhaps a breath, colder than darkness -- washes over her exposed skin, preceding a cloud of smoke. Papa Midnight is standing behind it, like a cobra ready to strike from the shadows. "To what do I owe this delectable pleasure?"
Catwoman's reputation as a thief should be what gets her through at least the begining of this. She has the connections. She was in England recently. And it isn't exactly well known that she and Constantine are at all close.
"You look like you have many things I could want." His white teeth, revealed in a smile that wouldn't look out of place on a starving tiger, are a stark contrast against the darkness of his skin.
The thing she's carrying does in fact hold a distinct, dark aura that piques his interest. A powerful aura. A useful one, that can be twisted and shaped, perhaps.
Reaching into her bag, she pulls out the item in question. "I've also been told that you might be the man for this." It has been a long time since she's been able to use exactly /that/ tone. The smile that comes with it has been missing awhile as well.
Unlike most men, however, it's not her body he's interested in. Shades and souls are more attractive to the Bokor than mere mortal flesh. They are more easily manipulated with the right words.
His eyes narrow as he looks at the item, swathed in cloth. How would this thief know to come to him? The list of suspects is ... rather short. "You are a skilled thief, but you are no fence." There's a slight electrical charge to the air, suddenly. "Who sent you?"
"I have connections. This isn't the first magical thing I've run across. I know a man here in Gotham - Sanders." Catwoman continues to smile at him, even as she can tell it isn't working at all. "He told me you were the man I needed."
The air surrounding them is like ice. The smoke from his cigar seems to caress her skin. It's not a pleasant sensation by any means. It's like he's sizing her up for a coffin. The woman is lying. The source may be important. To purchase an item that belongs to another has serious implications in his tradition.
The look Catwoman gives to him is skeptical. "I'm not going to breach any of these." A clawed finger points out the protective glyphs on the wrapping. "I don't know much about magic but I do know that much."
He steps closer, the better to see the faint markings. Possibly centuries old, scrawled in haste on linen bandages. A strong magic, warding and protecting - and binding. There is something of some considerable power contained within.
All the more reason to be cautious. "Misery does so love company," he says cryptically, looking back at her with impenetrable dark eyes. "You truly have no idea what this is, girl, do you?"
Catwoman shifts her pose. He might not be intersted in her but, well, she's still who she is. "And I know that it is dark dangerous stuff. What more do I need to know?"
The predator's smile comes forth once more. The stub of his cigar glows. "The longer you possess something that is not truly yours, the more restless the juju become. Things tend to ... happen." Hauntings are usually the common mortal's explanation for disturbances when such objects are brought unwittingly into the household. "I prefer my juju where I can control them. Where did it come from?" He pauses, eyeing her carefully. "Try not to lie to me this time. I have unconventional methods of determining the truth, but it has its downsides."
A dangerous glint reflects in the cesspits of his gaze. He recognizes the source now: yes. A distinct acquaintance of that bastard Constantine. The sigils wrapping the artifact take on new relevance and meaning in this light. This belongs to a man who may well be the reincarnation of Arthur himself. A true prize indeed. Control of the item may come to him, but it will take some significant blood sacrifice to the Lwa for that.
It would be worth it. He'll have to take to the districts tonight. It's better when they have spirit.
He toys with his cane, a finger caressing the rat skull with embedded ruby eyes at its top. After the last stunt Constantine pulled, he's wary. "And you just happened to get the idea yourself."
"I normally don't deal in this sort of thing. I was told that this guy might have something worth lifting. I'm not exactly in the know of London's nooks and crannys. I'd have rather tried to tack something shiny." And she did think about it while in London. She hasn't had many chances like that before.
"Look, do you want it or not? I'm sure I can find someone else who does."
The scent of heavy Cuban cigar smoke drifts toward her down the plushly decorated hallway. It wouldn't look out of place somewhere in New Orleans. The only difference is the distinct lack of that city's oppressive heat.
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Damn it, John.
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She won't be alone for too long. A breeze -- or perhaps a breath, colder than darkness -- washes over her exposed skin, preceding a cloud of smoke. Papa Midnight is standing behind it, like a cobra ready to strike from the shadows. "To what do I owe this delectable pleasure?"
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Catwoman's reputation as a thief should be what gets her through at least the begining of this. She has the connections. She was in England recently. And it isn't exactly well known that she and Constantine are at all close.
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The thing she's carrying does in fact hold a distinct, dark aura that piques his interest. A powerful aura. A useful one, that can be twisted and shaped, perhaps.
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Reaching into her bag, she pulls out the item in question. "I've also been told that you might be the man for this." It has been a long time since she's been able to use exactly /that/ tone. The smile that comes with it has been missing awhile as well.
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His eyes narrow as he looks at the item, swathed in cloth. How would this thief know to come to him? The list of suspects is ... rather short. "You are a skilled thief, but you are no fence." There's a slight electrical charge to the air, suddenly. "Who sent you?"
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"Show it to me."
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"I can always take it to someone else."
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All the more reason to be cautious. "Misery does so love company," he says cryptically, looking back at her with impenetrable dark eyes. "You truly have no idea what this is, girl, do you?"
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Catwoman shifts her pose. He might not be intersted in her but, well, she's still who she is. "And I know that it is dark dangerous stuff. What more do I need to know?"
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Death is one of them.
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Catwoman gives him the address of a place on the outskirts of London.
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It would be worth it. He'll have to take to the districts tonight. It's better when they have spirit.
He toys with his cane, a finger caressing the rat skull with embedded ruby eyes at its top. After the last stunt Constantine pulled, he's wary. "And you just happened to get the idea yourself."
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"Look, do you want it or not? I'm sure I can find someone else who does."
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