milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The door opens, and a woman with long dark hair and a short black dress steps in.

Well, really, that's technically only partly true. But it's probably close enough to accurate. Workable, at any rate.

She stops and looks around. This doesn't feel like any bar she's ever been in before, and, darling, she has been in a lot of bars. Desperate people do like to drink, and a week in a bar here or there, that's like picking ripe fruit off low-hanging branches.

Well, well, well. Isn't this . . . interesting?

[OOC: If you're the sort who's good at recognizing demons, feel free. If you're not, though, chances are she's just going to come off as young human woman. Questions, etc., ping elsinorequeen.]

[tiny tag: the crossroads demon, cerberus]

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Behold the brimming bowl which has been foth to ease out hunger! Behold the flowing flagon, moist and sweet which has been sent to slake our thirst!

Er...

That is to say there is a pale young man; lanky, barefoot and dressed in a rough tunic sitting on the floor nearby. He has a large mug full to the brim of water set beside him. In his lap there is a steel bowl containing some rather interesting bar snacks (http://www.drsfostersmith.com/images/Categoryimages/normal/p_4577_FS26005DZ.jpg).

Shortly after the door opens, the newcomer will find herself on teh recieving end of a curious stare. He's come across that scent before here.

He might find himself on the end of a rather curious stare himself.

Hell recognizes its own, after all.

Only he's not . . . quite . . . anything she's encountered before.

After a few tense seconds, the boy's eyes track slightly to the right, focusing on her ear rather than making direct eye contact. His shoulders relax slightly.

"Evening?" If it sounds a bit stiff... well. That would be because he's mimicing what he's heard others say here. It is evening, right? And that is what people say?

It's a very nice ear. Well, the ruby earrings she's wearing are stunning, at least. (They were the deciding factor in picking out this particular host body; they bring out the red in her eyes.)

"Good evening," she says, smoothly.

She nods to the not-exactly-human-shaped shadow on the floor.

"Don't look now, but I rather think you're giving away the trick."

Two demensional images usually pass entirely outside Cerb's perceptions. They're just not that important, really. Fortunately, this particular one has been pointed out to him before. He peers at it obligingly.

"I've been told I'm a bad liar."

Beat.

"Who're you?"

"I've been told I'm a good one."

And she can be. Or she can be ruthlessly truthful.

(The trick is telling the difference, and she doesn't cast a telltale shadow.)

"You can call me Verity.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Cerberus," says Cerberus. The tenseness fades even further. She is a stranger. And a monster. But her stance deos not seem confrontational. He cants his head to one side, regarding her curiously. Most new things come in with still legs and raised hackles. And he has not found this particular monster's trail before.

Easy now. There's no need to start calling names.

Monster is so judgmental.

"Cerberus," she says.

"And where are you from?"

It is??

"The Underworld." And then, because he has had to go through this more than once, "Across the river Acheron, beyond the western horizon."

"Not a bit of geography I'm personally acquainted with, I'm afraid.

"I'm sure it's lovely, though."

'Lovely' and 'Acheron' is an odd combination to hear in the same sentence.

"I..." wouldn't say that.

"I'm sure he would be pleased to hear it."

"And, um, do you know how we got where we are now?"

She's not bothered by it, per se. But she will admit to being . . . curious.

"No." It is only truth.

"This ground takes creatures from time to time. It does not belong to me."

"Interesting.

"And who does it belong to? Or is that a secret?"

"No one knows that I can tell." Or hasn't told him if they do, anyway. Which is fine. If Cerberus were meant to know, someone would have told him.

"We are at the end. Where gods, monsters and mea- mortals cross trails. I do not know what sort of thing could do that." Or keep them all in check.

"Well, I have to approve of any place monsters and men cross trails," Verity says.

They're her stock and trade, really.

But she knows there is no end. Not really.

The universe can end all it wants, but eternity goes on and on and on.

"You may find dragon sign in the mountains here though I have not very often since the last season turning. There are sea monsters and harpy as well. And creatures like yourself."

Mentioning other "neighbors" is mannerly. Even herbivores do it. Gorgons are not mentioned. She has met him, which means she has in effect met the pack, even if it is only the omega.

Creatures like herself. An interesting way to but it.

"More of those than men? Or are 'creatures like myself,' or you, the rule rather than the exception here?"

"Dogs come through rather regularly." A breif pause. "They've all been mortal, though. I... I have not seen many, but I have smelled many..." He trails off helplessly. He does not know what her kind call themselves.

She smiles, very slowly.

"Demons, dear.

"Creatures like me? We're demons."

A slight headtilt.

"Smelled?"

There is the briefest of silences as Ceberus puzzles over how this might be explained with words. Words can be cumbersome things for both the teller and the listner, after all. Which is why, rather suddenly, there is an enormous hellhound sitting in the place the young man had been seconds before.

Oh!

Realization dawns.

Yes, there are a great many of small ones living out there. What sort of daemon are you? If you don't mind my asking?

Demons. Daemons. One could possibly be forgiven for confusing the two.

Possibly.

The woman (who isn't really a woman) smiles very brightly at the hellhound (who apparently isn't really a boy).

"Well, hello, there.

"I'm the sort of demon you meet on a bad night at a deserted crossroads.

"And I know some of your . . . let's say 'distant cousins,' shall we?"

That gets his interest, oh yes.

I don't think I've met any... The family is very large. Who is it that you know?

He had been certain they were from different ~~lands~~ worlds...

The names she gives him are . . . rather difficult to reproduce in written English. (Or written much of anything else, for that matter.)

"Quite distant, I suspect. As cousins go. But hellhounds, to be sure.

"I'd get very little done without them."

Cerberus cants his heads, listening intently as the foriegn names are pronounced. It is, however a different word that makes his earss prick forward with curiosity.

People keep saying that. Um. What is a hellhound? I've asked Epimetheus but the only thing he said he knew of them was they weren't his doing.