It's overcast in Los Angeles, reaching down to the low-50s here in early January. Cool weather, given the usual temperatures. Raguel's seen people bundled against it all evening, blustering like they're venturing out into the Arctic. But the hint of winter in the air and the demeanor of the people only make him wish for more ( Read more... )

*Meg's sitting at the bar, frowning over a list.

For once, it's not, in fact, covered with illegible choreographic designs. Instead, it's covered in mostly-illegible French phrases - which is a step up, yes?*

Xas steps in through the front door, snow dusting his eyelashes and hair. And, of course, the shoulders of his shirt.

He is, it would appear, wearing neither coat nor scarf nor gloves.

He does, however, have shoes.

And soon a glass of wine, as Bar is a very obliging creature.

Now--where to sit?

A few days after Christmas: enter Judas. He looks mildly bemused by the decor. And sits down.

Lucifer enters through the door, a large roll of paper in one hand, but he doesn't stay for long. He turns to face the door and splays his hand out on it, frowning.

After a moment, he opens it.

And steps back through.

Kassandra is reading. Her selections for today: the omnibus When We Were Very Young And Now We Are Six, and Sun Tzu's The Art of War.

The same piece of parchment she's carried about for a while, with its small sketch of an infinite city, is beside her.

Kassandra waits. She's good at waiting; it might have been a thousand years, it might have been an hour. She's been waiting since that axe fell, and she's waited since she fell again ( Read more... )

Kassandra finds a seat at a well-lit table, unrolls a large parchment and anchors its corners with worn, sandy bricks -- the kind of thing that might have come from a ruin. From the depths and folds of her chiton come a piece of charcoal for sketching, a lodestone already floating in a clay dish, and a single black feather which she strokes ( Read more... )

Despite the vaguely seasonal icon, Lucifer can not in any way be mistaken for someone filled with Festive Cheer. He sits on a table fiddling idly with the cuffs of his shirt - not red or black, for once, but a very dark blue that catches the light. Some effort appears to have been extended in this lack of cheer ( Read more... )

GIP? Naaaaah.

Lucifer enters from the lake area, the turned-up cuffs of his trousers dripping onto the floor.

He looks wind-battered - hair untidy, his eyes a little too bright - but not at all cold, despite the deplorably short-sleeved red polo shirt he wears.

Not cold. Coffee, nevertheless, is on the agenda.