milliways_bar | (no subject)

The front door flies open with a loud crashing discord, and something hurtles through at a tremendous pace.

The first impression is one of speed, then one of... OK, no, the impression is only really speed right now as a black and white blur shoots into the bar in a whirl of blue light. It's only when the blur spins and skids across the bar, knocking tables and chairs flying even as it decelerates rapidly, that you can make out a shape.

And you'll probably wish you hadn't.

Take two perfectly ordinary cartwheels. Sling a horse's saddle between them and add a curved piece of piping above the front one. Stick a horse's skull in front, and decorates the rest with feathers, beads, black roses, and most of the rest of the horse. Although why anyone would want to is not really answerable in this entrance post.

The rider of this strange contraption is not wearing a helmet, and if he were, he wouldn't be able to shake uncut unwashed black hair out of it. He is, in fact wearing his normal black cape - which was freshly laundered this morning. Ultimate dark doesn't stay ultimate dark by itself, you know - but over the top of that is another robe: a long, black leather one, borrowed from a wizard. On the back, in leather studs, is picked out the words BORN TO RUNE.

OH BUGGER, WRONG TURNING. SORRY.

[OOC: Kay, this is how it works. Once in a lifetime opportunity to thread with the Pale Rider onna Bike. I'm going home now, and out drinking later, but I WILL pick up any and all tags. So have at!]

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""

Vachon notes the entrance from his spot by the piano. He stops playing only long enough to clear the thrown chairs from the spot he's designated as "The Stage".

Death looks over at the vampire, and the pupilless blue eyes in his eye sockets flare briefly.

So that's why he ended up here, today.

IT'S ACTUALLY QUITE WARM, he explains. FROM THE ACCELERATION.

Vachon blinks. That... made a certain kind of sense.

"Right. "

Yes, too familiar. Death stares straight through the vampire to the music. He knows it's in there.

To the person speaking however, he's polite enough. If incredibly confused.

BITCHIN... HOG?

Vachon, meanwhile, looks back to the guy, still trying to get his point across. " Name's Vachon. Don't think I've seen you around before, but you look awfully damned familiar."

YES, WE'VE MET, Death explains. ALTHOUGH I DON'T THINK IT WAS ME YOU MET.

Makes sense to him.

Vachon stares a little closer. Recognition dawns, and the recedes, just a bit.

"So you're Him, huh? You're really Death. On a tricked out Harley. That's some trippy shit there." Then he chuckles, and there's an unpleasant touch of hysteria to it. ""

Those lights flare again as the music recedes. Someone around here does, a little.

TRIPPY? BOC?

He's really not following the conversation here.

(no subject)

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Felix stares.

"Wow. What is that you're riding?"

Ordinarily his first reaction to seeing such a skeletal figure would be to draw his sword, but the contraption, followed by the noise, followed by the VOICE, persuade him not to.

IT'S A.. Death pauses, because he's not exactly sure what it is.

IT'S SORT OF A HORSE.

"I hope you don't mind me saying so, but it looks rather dead. Then again, that fits, because so do you."

I KNOW, Death explains. PEOPLE EXPECT IT.

"Ah." Felix mulls that over for a moment before asking, "Why do they expect it?"

TRADTION, he explains. THEY LIKE DEATH TO LOOK THE PART.

Blink. "Does that mean that you are Death, or that you want people to think you are Death?"

I AM DEATH.

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"!"

Is about all Susan can manage at the moment, pretty much.

OH, HELLO, SUSAN, her grandfather says, with a friendly grin. YOU'VE GROWN UP..

"?!?!?!?!?!!!!!!"

You might want to explain before she goes completely crazy from the punctuation.

Death stares at her, worriedly.

YOU TOOK BINKY, he reminds her.

"But you--you're riding--you're wearing--"

She's spluttering. Susan Sto Helit can not believe this. "Grandfather, what--"

I NEEDED A HORSE, Death repeats, AND YOU'VE TAKEN BINKY OFF AFTER YOUR YOUNG MAN.

There's a hint of beration, there.

"Imp y Celyn is not my young man," Susan snaps, reddening. "And what were you thinking, going off like that--'born to rune'?"

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Paint job's one thing, but.

Some people take personalizing their bikes way too far.

Death stands up from the contraption, disentangling his leg bones from the various additions to it, and offers a sheepish grin in the direction of the observer.

WRONG TURNING, he explains.