After a quiet night in his room, Balthazar wakes in a labyrinth of clutter and dust, sprawled across a threadbare red velvet divan. The smell of the place, and the feel, is so utterly familiar he sits bolt upright. Home? Home! Delight and relief are immediately replaced by a vague sense of regret. He can't quite remember where he thought he
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His guise is that of a mortal, golden-haired and blue-eyed, and yet there is still a suggestion of light surrounding him, of glory, of wings. Though he hides them from sight the feathers insist on rustling when he moves, as though in defiance of their master's wishes. He steps out of the apartment.
"You are the sorcerer?" He speaks as though assuming, though he knows perfectly well that's what this man is. The power in him is something he can feel. "Your door seems temperamental today."
[ooc: I'm sorry for abandoning old threads, I think I just lost the muse for a while. u.u I hope you might still want to play. I figured the setting could be playing with both their memories here, or they could recognize each other along the way or whatever.]
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Ostensibly, because the feedback he should be getting from the wards layered around the shop isn't quite there. There's something, but it's like hearing a voice echo across a distance of several miles. Balthazar's hand drops slowly, defensive power settling (And that, too, doesn't feel quite right to him--for one thing, he normally has more to call to hand. Maybe he's been sick and forgotten it?), but as he straightens, he still looks uncertain. He can feel the light around Lucifer, even if it's not visible on a physical level, and while he's inclined to dismiss the sound of feathers as his imagination, the beauty of his visitor is hard to deny.
"The door," he says after a moment, glancing over his shoulder. "Yes. It won't open for me. Maybe you have more of a knack with it?" It's not quite an accusation, although he's never been a believer in coincidence. If a stranger appears at the same time his magic goes haywire, it's not paranoid to make a connection between the two.
((That's okay! It happens, and you're welcome to tag whenever you like. If it's all the same to you, they can recognize one another as time wears on, but maybe we'll take that progression slowly?))
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He smiles in response to that hint, too subtle to truly be called an accusation. The man's wariness is understandable. He is, after all, lurking in his apartment, in his realm, and if he had not been distracted by the puzzle of how he'd come to be here he might have tried to uncover the place's secrets; the sense of old magic is very strong. Some of it feels like the same power that flared briefly from the man when he saw him. Some of it feels like something alien, something that doesn't belong.
"Doors open when I ask them," he answers, simply enough. It's the truth, and he doesn't mind that it might discomfort this man. He doesn't need to give him his name, he senses, for the man to know he is not quite human--the same way Lucifer knows he is not quite mortal. "It seems I was waiting for you." He holds open the door to Balthazar's apartment and stands aside to permit entry, as though it's his, as though he is the host in the sorcerer's home.
[ooc: Yay! That's fine with me.]
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That's a little scary.
He's willing to accept the invitation into his own living space, though, slipping cautiously past the visitor. "Did you come to ask me something, as well?"
Glancing around the apartment, he finds things more or less as they should be. There's little decoration around the place; a few photo albums, an empty birdcage, a stack of books all over the coffee table. "I have tea, I think. Possibly something edible, depending on how long I've been unconscious."
Inside, he shrugs off his coat and hangs it on a rack by the wall. Beneath, his dress is shabby and patched.
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His wings rustle with an audible sound, though they're still hidden from sight. He flexes them outward and folds them in again while unbuttoning his coat, following Balthazar's example and draping it over the rack. Beneath he wears a dress shirt, snowy white, and gray trousers. In contrast to the sorcerer's clothes, his are immaculate.
"Tea would be welcome." His voice is mildly apologetic. "You must forgive my intrusion. The truth is that I've found myself here without willing it."
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When he turns, the mental image of the wings he hears is so strong, he's already extending one hand as if to reach out and touch them. It's a subconscious desire, but no less powerful for that, and it takes him a second to realize there are no wings visible. His hand drops, and he looks bewildered.
Gradually, the words filter through the haze, and he pieces together the fragments of information he has. "I see. Were you summoned?"
He means summoned by magic, except even that assumption doesn't fully answer the questions forming in his brain. He knows of no Morganian, or any other sorcerer, who would be powerful enough to both encase his dwelling so inescapably and summon a supernatural being, either divine or demonic, to visit him there.
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"Possibly," he answers after a moment's consideration. "But not by you, I think." Darkness lurks around them, a tangible presence. "There is another power here. You feel it, don't you?"
He glances toward the window where Balthazar had stood, the glass black as obsidian and perfectly mirrored. Outside of that window the darkness is impenetrable, and he doubts whether they truly exist in any physical location in the mortal realm, just now. He walks past Balthazar and goes to lay a hand on the glass, thinking briefly of ordering the darkness to part and show him what lays beyond it. But he's not yet ready to stop feigning ignorance and powerlessness.
"I'll help you break it, if I can," he tells the man, "as it insists on delaying me here. First, however, I believe you mentioned tea?"
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He watches his visitor touch the darkened glass, chilled and uncomfortable. "But I have enemies, and I'm sure if they could do this to me, trap me, they would." He just doesn't think any are capable. Maybe Maxim, with some power boosting and assistance, but he's out of commission.
"...tea, yes. Green, black, or pu-erh?" He moves through the doorway into the nearby kitchen, reaching for a cabinet door.
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The kitchen appears as homely as the rest of the apartment. Its faintly disreputable air suggests that it is looked after by a man with his mind often on other things. Lucifer follows Balthazar into it, drawn by the way the man seems drawn to him in return, by this talk of enemies, by his secrets. "Black," he answers his question, and then he steps in closer behind him and lays a hand against the center of his back.
"Who are you, I wonder?" His voice is a low murmur. It would be easy enough to find out for himself, if he didn't mind potentially damaging the man to uncover all of his secrets. But that would be a sorry thing when Balthazar is the only ready companion at hand, and no harm to him to let these mysteries reveal themselves.
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The touch to his back makes him freeze, something deep within him responding. The kettle overflows into the basin, and he doesn't seem to notice. "Just an old shopkeeper," he says, slightly breathless. "With a little magic and some knowledge how to use it."
It's not a lie. Perhaps an understatement.
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He reaches past Balthazar to shut off the water. It runs down the sides of the kettle; he takes the handle and pours out the excess water, then puts on the lid. "Attend your tasks, sorcerer," he murmurs, his other hand still resting against the man's back, warm through the fabric of his clothes. "You mustn't let yourself become distracted in the middle of a working."
The contact breaks as he moves away to the stove, the kettle in hand, and instead of bothering with the gas he simple lights one of the burners with a thought, a bare flicker of effort, setting the kettle to heat atop it.
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So distracted is he that he forgets to wonder how the stranger knows his name and age, until he takes the kettle away. Deprived of the point of warmth against his back, he struggles to pull together scattered thoughts and dignity. This is all wrong, and everything is suspect.
He turns in time to watch the stove light, with no apparent effort on his guest's part, and the mixed feelings and alien hunger draw together in a cloud of resentment. "What do you want from me?" he demands in a low voice, eyes cold and hard. "Tell me the truth."
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"I haven't decided what I want from you." He approaches slowly as though to give him time to retreat, but he would only follow if he did. Taking Balthazar's chin in his hand, he lifts it a couple of inches or perhaps a little more to look into his eyes. Standing before him he is taller than this man, his grasp light and yet there is an immeasurable strength in his fingers, in the lines of his body. "And that is the truth." If he wanted to lie, he would be the best at it that the sorcerer had ever met.
"What do you want, Balthazar? Would you like the power to break free of this darkness?" He lets go of the man's chin, only to run hands down his arms, to catch them at his waist. His wings lift to cup around them, shelter them, and he thinks of dropping the guise that hides them from view but doesn't yet. "Or would you like to stay here in the midst of it, with me?"
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Still, he doesn't flinch from the grip on his chin, or struggle. He can feel the strength, and he wonders if his magic is enough to counter it, but he's not ready to find out. As long as he doesn't struggle, he can tell himself he may still be able to get free with a strike at the right time. If he exhausts himself trying to get away and can't, the game is over, and he's lost.
What does he want? The grip on his arms sends sparks dancing along his nerve endings, and he's aware his breathing has picked up. Clearly, what he's getting isn't far off from what he wants, on some level. On the other hand, he's never been one to leap for the shorter, easier road, even as time begins to slowly break him down. Instead of answering, he asks a question of his own. "You're hiding something. Why? I can hear them. I can feel them. Show me."
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"Is this what you wished to see?" One of the wings trails forward, unfolding. The feathers are blinding white, pure as snow, and the leading edge of pinions that brush the front of Balthazar's clothes are soft as down, though the spines are rigid and thick. "Touch them, if you like." His attraction to this sorcerer seems inexplicable. He can feel the man's longing just as he can feel him struggle to decide whether or not to fight him, bring his magic to bear against him. He flicks feathers against his cheek, teasing. "I'm not your enemy, Balthazar."
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"Yes," he answers hoarsely, and his head tilts at the touch of the feathers. It's somewhere between an evasive motion and a silent plea for more, but just as suddenly he changes his mind and jerks forward, accepting the invitation to touch. He's less gentle than he would be, normally, still torn between anger, confusion, and longing. There's no shyness, though, as he curls his fingers in the silky pinions.
Blue eyes darkening with desire, he refocuses on his guest's face. "So you say. You know my name. Do I get yours?" The kettle begins to steam and hiss behind them, but he's no longer interested in something so mundane.
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