When the door opens, from a shady London alley, it's to a scene of some disarray; people are picking chairs up off the floor, checking for broken glass, murmuring nervously. And the lights have gone out
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"Picked a hell of a night to pop in for a drink," Melkor says from the next booth over. Of course, he's got a glass of Atlantean sitting in front of him, so he's hardly one to talk.
Melkor nods. "No, there's no serious casualties yet. Don't think there will be until the grand finale. It's probably much more satisfying to watch all the normal, healthy, uninjured patrons of this place being blasted out into the Void to suffocate and freeze."
Tom walks through the House of Arch painting - and stumbles most gracelessly in the darkness.
"Bloody hell- lumos!" By the glow of his wand, he looks round at the confused patrons of the unlit bar. Then he sees a familiar face at the bar.
His lips twitch. It's been some time since he saw the demon. Tom was quite put out after hearing of Crowley's dealings with Voldemort, but that was some time ago now. Besides, he has some small understanding of evil and how it works.
Mal, interestingly enough, can see in the dark as well. Vampire, and all, it rather comes in handy. And she can see enough to know that this particular person - well, looks oddly familiar.
He tilts his head - what she is, that's easy enough, but those types can be a bit... erratic. Mentally speaking. And youthful women have a bizarrely regular tendency, here, to be at least mildly psychic and/or prophetic. So as an afterthought, he adds:
"Unless you're making some sort of cryptic reference to the sands... of time, in which case... sort of?"
"No," he says, a little more decisively. "I mean - I'm not him. It's likely enough I look like him - you meet enough bloody doppelgangers in this place."
Shalla, thanks to the stars and exploding matter and other such things, can see the figure in the booth and as such manages to not fall over him. However, there is an overturned chair not far from where the figure is sitting.
She does fall over that, and flails for a moment before managing to turn it into a somewhat messy roll. Said roll sends her headfirst into Crowley's booth.
There's no particular rancour in his voice; his wine remains unspilt, and that's the most important thing. And he wasn't really using that shin anyway.
There's a muffled wail from somewhere nearby, followed by a rather frantic apology. The wail increases in pitch, then drifts away, angry and unintelligible.
"Dammit," Raguel says, squinting into the darkness. He fumbles through the dark until he's clutching the corner of the nearest booth, one down from Crowley's.
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"These are a few of my favourite things?"
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"Bloody hell- lumos!" By the glow of his wand, he looks round at the confused patrons of the unlit bar. Then he sees a familiar face at the bar.
His lips twitch. It's been some time since he saw the demon. Tom was quite put out after hearing of Crowley's dealings with Voldemort, but that was some time ago now. Besides, he has some small understanding of evil and how it works.
"Well, well. Fancy seeing you here."
OOC: I'll be in and out for a couple of hours
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The light - dim enough, and flickering from Tom's wand - is probably not enough to see the blood drain from the demon's face.
For all that, though, his expression remains carefully casual.
"Hi, Tom."
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He noticed.
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"What?"
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Mal squints.
"...Sands?"
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He tilts his head - what she is, that's easy enough, but those types can be a bit... erratic. Mentally speaking. And youthful women have a bizarrely regular tendency, here, to be at least mildly psychic and/or prophetic. So as an afterthought, he adds:
"Unless you're making some sort of cryptic reference to the sands... of time, in which case... sort of?"
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With feeling.
"So - hang on. Are you an ex-blind, ex-CIA, part-time gunman and occasional total dick named Sands? Or do you just look like him?"
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She does fall over that, and flails for a moment before managing to turn it into a somewhat messy roll. Said roll sends her headfirst into Crowley's booth.
Ow.
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"Conscious?" he enquires, after a moment.
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"Yes. To both things." She peers up at him. "Your booth is hard."
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There's no particular rancour in his voice; his wine remains unspilt, and that's the most important thing. And he wasn't really using that shin anyway.
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"Dammit," Raguel says, squinting into the darkness. He fumbles through the dark until he's clutching the corner of the nearest booth, one down from Crowley's.
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No obvious source, for a moment - until a particularly energetic supernova gleams off dark sunglasses in the next booth.
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"Nothing permanent," he says defensively.
"I hope. She seemed kind of... fragile."
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"Here, give us a light."
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