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.

Fortunately, he can find colder climates more easily than most. He comes into Milliways, bypasses the bar and heads straight outside into the snow. Warm drinks can come later, when he really feels they're deserved. Coat open and customary bag on his shoulder, he kicks through drifts down towards the lake.

[OOC: plotlocked for tonight, thanks!]

*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.

Her map is spread out, weighted but still somehow curling at the edges and escaping. It looks no more complete than when she began filling in its contours.

She's growing tired of waiting, on this count.

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 persistently, absentmindedly. Across the parchment lines and smudges begin to grow -- pictures of nothing on a map showing nowhere.

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.

He has the look of someone about to catch the waiter's eye and ask for the cheque. Or possibly buy the restaurant and have it knocked down, just for the hell of it. There could be dancing in the rubble.

Fair warning?

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.

Lucifer is still sitting down, bare feet propped up on the table, balancing rather dangerously on two legs of the chair. He throws and catches one of the black glass chess pieces.

His eyes are closed.

[OOC: Mun is only around for a couple of hours and Lucifer is...not in the best of moods. If your character doesn't know him well already it might be wisest to tag another time.]

Even if you've been here a while, you probably didn't see Lucifer. He didn't want you to.

But he's bored enough now to be seen, so you might catch him out of the corner of your eye, sitting with his bare feet propped up on a table and with a half-empty bottle of something red beside them.

Bored, bored, bored.

*Thom walks in and takes a seat at the bar.

It's been a while. He looks drained. And . . . messy. And, well, satiated.*