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!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

"" At the uncomprehending look, Vachon shakes his head. ""

The vampire slings his guitar around and starts playing through the intro and first verse.

...

Oooooooohhhh, Death's angry now. That's propaganda, that is. He glares at the music.

YOU DARE?

There's a flash of something behind the brown eyes. Vachon? He's not in right now. Please leave a message and he'll get back to you.

The tune shifts, and the song changes.

The scythe flashes angrily, And Death draws himself up to full height. And a little more.

YOU'RE NOT GOING TO WIN, YOU KNOW, he points out. YOU CAN'T TAKE THIS PLACE.

A smile, flashing fangs and golden eyes.

I WON'T NEED TO, he replies. YOU BELONG HERE EVEN LESS THAN YOU BELONG BACK HOME.

YOU'RE OUT OF YOUR DEPTH, MUSIC.

Anger subsides slightly. Can Death be smug? Maybe. Confident, certainly.

THER IS ALWAYS ME.

The tune wavers. Trembling fingers strike a sour note. Confusion and pain knit across the vampire's features.

Then, control returns, long enough to strum three chords. They hang in the air, the meaning as clear as if they were spoken words.

The guitar strap breaks, spilling the instrument onto the ground as Vachon slumps backward, forehead beaded with blood sweat.

Death... doesn't do anything, except pick the guitar up and carry it over to the Bar. The vampire, he trusts will reover in time.