milliways_bar | (no subject)

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illyria

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A decidedly blue former goddess is -- wonder of wonders -- actually deigning to be in the Bar.

She appears to be toying with some completely unidentifiable small metal object that looks rather as though it oughtn't be entirely able to exist in normal realities. It's not a Rubik's Cube for Old Ones, but it may as well be, the way she's turning it this way and that, stopping to glare at the offending object when it fails to cooperate with... whatever she's trying to do to it.

Feel free to ask, but don't expect completely coherent answers.

[tiny tag of unspeakable horror: wilbur whatley]

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(This is going to be FUN!)

"Yew want halp wit thet?"

"Certainly not, I am more than capable of --"

Illyria goes perfectly, absolutely still, except for her head, which quickly snaps up to fix icy blue eyes upon the newcomer.

"Where have you come from?" she demands.

"Dunwich. Near Arkham. Why dew--oh. Thet's . . . seven, eight . . . et least nine-dimentional, esn't et?

"Ur yew a Great Ol' 'Un?"

The fact that Wilbur took that long to notice may say something about what he is. Or it might not.

Illyria doesn't roll her eyes, but only because she tends to avoid that particular human cliche.

"Of course I am. And I am rather less concerned with this thing's geometry than whether or not it will serve its purpose."

"Wal, whut ur yew tryin' ter dew with et?" Wilbur asks.

He thinks a moment. "An' whut's yer name?"

"Illyria; God-king of Primordium and Shaper of Things," she says, almost bored-sounding. She's set aside that title a ways back, honestly, and now it just reminds her of what she's not.

"It's going to help me restore an ally to corporeality, if I can get it to cooperate."

"Thet sounds like a good idea," says Wilbur. "An' my name es Wilbur Whateley--I'm half human, yew see."

A tentacle slithers out of his coat. It seems as fascinated as Wilbur does.

Illyria eyes the tentacle with what may well be envy. She didn't get to keep hers. (For which certain ex-Watchers are probably infinitely grateful.)

"Most of mine are," she sniffs, then places the object on the table, apparently satisfied with it for the moment. "I suppose I am some percent human, myself. This Shell is, though I imagine I came by it a different way than you acquired yours."

"My Father es ." He grins. "My mother was a cultist."

Illyria wrinkles her nose.

"Your Father mated with a human?"

Illyria, for the record, has no room to talk. She's just being uppity.

"Ayuh. She was 'un o' His worshipers, an' I suppose et was her reward fer loyalty--ur suthin' like et, anyway."

Even Illyria doesn't want to think about the mechanics of how such a thing took place.

"I suppose that is one way to reward one's followers. I was not aware that any offspring were ever produced from such a pairing, however."

"Wal, yew know now." He chuckles. "We're probably from slightly different Earths, yew know the drill."

Illyria nods.

"Yes, as I hadn't heard of any Hellmouths in ... Dunwich, was it?"

Illyria can't be certain, but she's pretty sure that her world doesn't even have a town called that.

"Ayuh. En Massachussetts.

"An' I've never heerd et called a Hellmouth befer."

"It is a human word, declared so by a subset of people who consider themselves Champions."

She says the word with a great deal of disdain; it's obvious that she doesn't have a whole lot of patience for the so-called champions that she knows.

"'Heros', yew mean?" Wilbur rolls his eyes.

"Precisely. Several of them are half-breeds -- vampires, if you can believe it. Completely unworthy of the title and mostly useless."

Good for hitting and snarking at, though!

He raises an eyebrow. "Es 'un o' them named Angel? I met him not tew long agew."

Illyria sighs in irritation.

"Yes, that would be one of them. He is quite an annoyance. He tends to doubt and question my every action, and is completely undeterred by violence or threats thereof."

"He did halp yew git this thin' made, though, ef I remember right."

(OOC: It's getting a bit late, and I have things to do still. More tomorrow?)

"This particular object I acquired on my own. But the vampire has been helpful in locating others, yes. If he had not offered his services I would have had to delay my retrieval of this one, which would have stalled the entire project."

She's sort of grateful to the vampire, she supposes.

"Wal thar yew ur, then.

"Et's good ter see another o' our sort en the bar," he adds. "Tew many people git freaked out be the tintacles, et gits annoyin'."

"It is not altogether easy even without them," Illyria replies.

"Anything strange is unsettling to them. One must look human in order to accomplish anything of note in this place. It was the same in my world before the city I resided in got pulled into one of the hells."

"Wal, I suppose thet's 'un thin' en yer favor--yew look fairly human. More than I dew, et any rate."

"I can look more human than this," she says, and glances about her quickly to be certain that no one who would be upset is looking.

Then she changes, the blue fading away and her red leather-like armor changing seamlessly into a simple sundress in the same approximate shade.

She smiles, bright and false, her voice a shade brighter and more human-sounding as well. "It's convenient, don't you think?"

"Ayuh! But et's . . . wal, et's nawt yew.

"The blue suits yew better."

She shifts back to normal, then, and the fake smile is replaced by an entirely more genuine, if harder to detect, look of smug satisfaction.

"I certainly prefer it. Deception never suited me."

It's not the only reason she doesn't appear purely human, but it's the only one she'll share in casual conversation.

"Et's nawt my kind o' thin' either." He chuckles.

"Et was a pleasure tew meet yer ladyship," he adds, "but I have thin's ter dew an' I must be awff."

(OOC: AKA several other threads are beckoning, and my brain is starting to hurt from doing five of them at once. See you!)

Illyria nods to him as pleasantly as she ever does anything, and goes back to tinkering with the strange object.

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