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*
LUX. The name spells out the first three letters of luxury, and all that embodies even in the depths of the East Village area. Luxuria, too, the sin warned by medieval writers would spell the loss of the soul. They might have been closer to the truth than they truly realize.
Lights barely give any definition from the ornate fixtures and brackets hemming in the mezzanine level, the shadows invited to darken into texturized patterns. Turned down, few filaments in the bank of edison bulbs overhead permeate the intimate shadows. The way the gentleman manning the bar prefers it, and apparently his customers. Telling how many are here would be impossible to guess. They hold a contingent of Latverian businessmen in one corner, deep in conversation with their counterparts. In another booth sit a man and woman charting the future of mutantkind in Ireland over deeply mixed drinks. To say nothing of those who aren't human at all, but they have no reason to fear.
It's not often the former prince of Heaven, Samael Demiurgos, decides to hold court. And when he does, others do their best to pile onto neutral territory.
*
How long has it been since he had a drink in his home realm? A public one, anyhow. This place is more like the speakeasies he remembers, if several leagues classier - Lamont's a man out of time, in his own way, if not as bad as Captain Rogers. The hair and the suit are all of a cut and style long out of vogue, but they suit him far better than more recent fashions….and the latter is carefully tailored to conceal weaponry as well as flatter.
He's unattended and unaccompanied, strolling in with his hands in his pockets. There's an air of utter sangfroid to him, but also the faintest hint of curiosity. He heads to the bar with a surprisingly soundless tread.
*
The alcohol available here constitutes some of the more exotic choices in the city, thanks in no small part to custom recipes by his truly. White shirt, black pants, loose black collar in mockery of a priest's band, Lucian shakes up a bottle one-handed and assures no one is complaining about the pours. They rarely do. Libations have a cost higher than some places in the Financial District, but he serves up his pours with a punch that may well actually come from the cut crystal bowl simmering away with blood oranges and other spiced concoctions over the stormy recipe described as a little of this, a dash of that.
Blonde hair shines incandescent in the dimness, and his face lies in shadow, eyes gleaming at all who wander past. The glistening wall, an undulation of myriad green slabs, blurs out all the beings come to call upon him. He doesn't speak, not immediately, but one of the servers is there intercepting him. "Welcome to Lux. Take your coat or are you meeting someone?" Bold as brass, that one.
*
"Unaccompanied," he says, coolly, "But no, t hank you, I'll keep it." No more than a suitjacket, anyway…..and flashing a shoulder holster is permitted only to police, really. He takes a seat at the bar, settling easily hipshot on a stool. There's still that hieratic stillness of feature, personal reserve elevated to armor. Almost funereal in his soberness of dress, though it's a dark, dark gray rather than true black….and an dark opal ring gleams like an ember on his left hand.
*
Unaccompanied and clearly no minor, the trouble is not the server's to worry about. She shrugs her shoulder eloquently with a dose of French charm and carries on her way to intercept the next unfortunate through the door. Upstairs remains a continent unto itself, no less remote than Australia to the minds of New York's citizens. The bar holds the sweep of marble dissipating into shadow, a miraculous assortment of philtres and tonics visible. Let a man pick his poison: none of them are simple, other than the very literal simples. If a chemist was this fun a century ago, no wonder soda fountains started with pharmacists.
"What shall you have?" The question that's begun a hundred conversations in a dozen cities in the last moment or two. Let him make of that what he will.
*
His face is weathered, even a little tan, though the original complexion was clearly fair. Lamont cocks a pale gray eye at the speaker, interrupted in his rather dreamlike survey of the club. He considers for a moment, and then says, offhandedly, "….your choice. Whatever drink you think you're best at, or recommend most highly." An invitation to gouge….but by the quality of that suit, money's no object. A glance away, and then he's looking back at Lucian again, more thoughtfully. Perhaps a ghost of familiarity….or simply caught by that beauty.
*
If money is no object, so be it. "Tastes matter. A simple or an herbal or a concoction to ease your way into the night?" Lucian has the quality of speaking without an obvious accent, although the very faint tones embody a smile in the dark, one that wants to be English and comes just short of the line. "Nothing quite so heavy as a Sazerac, if I had to guess." He puts down the bottle on the inner side of the bar and lounges for a moment in place, water dripping from long fingers articulated in a spreading fan.
*
Lamont's silence is musing. Not a man given to idle chatter or quick decisions, when there's time. "Herbal, I think, thank you," he says, finally. His own accent's Upper Ten New York, as old fashioned as his garb. Then he asks, after a moment, "Smoking permitted in here?" Some places don't allow it, after all.
*
A nod follows this, and then Lucian returns to the business of preparing the request. He plucks down a rather interesting glass, a tulip by the shape of it, fairly long-stemmed. Adding a base of liquor starts the creation, a clear splash of something from a coffin-like bottle that comes out without a fragrance. Cabinets are assaulted, one of the clear bottles labeled in a spinning hand chosen, herbal spirits poured without a lightness that one might expect. Next comes something golden-green, splashed inside, the scent incidentally between a summer garden and a splash of citrus, though he clearly hasn't added anything unless it happens to belong to the syrup. A squeeze of lime joins the concoction, and he gives it a good muddle while seeking the finishing touch. That is a brown bottle with a punch of treacle copper warmth, all that spun, shaken, and given a good rattle in a cup for measure. He pours it out, and then slides the curiously amber drink to him.
*
He's got a pewter cigarette case, incised with curling Art Nouveau decoration, and a matching lighter. But rather than lighting up, he sets them aside for now. He picks up the glass, inhales, lifts it in mute salute, and t akes a sip. There's the appropriate moment of letting it roll on his tongue, deciding what he thinks. Something relaxes in his face, one more little ritual in remembering how to be at least a nominally ordinary man on Earth completed. "To your very good health," he intones, and then adds, "And one for yourself, if it pleases you."
*
"Handsome piece," remarks the bartender, a nod to the cigarette case. He knows quality when he sees it, naturally. The choice of ashtray is anything but simple, a curve of soapstone laid down for the benefit of catching ashes that might somehow scar the polished bar. His choice of a drink is potent: the flavours there are an elaborate milieu of vodka and apricot beer cut by a marjoram and lemon verbena elixir. The herbal liqueur itself is harder to place but gives the body to melt into the drink. "That," he adds, "is one of the herbal cups. Athena's, if you want it again." Lucian offers a noncommittal smile and looks over Lamont, finding whatever he will to comfort. It isn't his role to ask questions or comfort the lost, but one gets a sense of being a shepherd. "Seeking something?"
*
"I think I found it," he allows, with a hint of humor. The next taste is more a mouthful, the kind that makes his throat work, before he sighs with evident pleasure. There's even a hint of a flush appearing across those stark cheekbones. The Lightbringer's choice has hit the spot, it seems.
*
"Good, then." Lucian offers a sly, quick grin. Pride in work is hardly too deep a sin, not even worth a single Hail Mary. He gives the bar a tap of his finger and leans into the beveled edge slightly. "Most would never bother to say herbal. You set the bar high enough to warrant trying. Smoke, music, a drink. Is there anything else that would make this a perfect night?"
*
There's a little grin that pulls at his lips, oddly puckish on those austere features. "Nothing else you provide here," he notes, almost wistful. "This is just fine, thank you. It's been a long time since I was in New York."
*
"It's a unique city." Truth in the fact laid out while he helps himself to one of the glasses. The terms laid down by Lamont were simple, and will be honoured. Whatever is left in the mixing glass he pours into the fresh one, and adds a stir of lime juice squeezed from another wedge. "Much changed, much the same. Wandering the street in daytime is always a good way to know it. Though word to the wise, keep an eye out in Harlem. Word is troubles are brewing there."
*
"Nothing else like it in the world," Lamont affirms, and his tone is immensely fond. "But I'll keep that in mind, as we get reacquainted. What sort of troubles?" Who better than a barkeeper to share the scuttlebutt>?
*
"A few come close. London. Never Paris. Hong Kong, in a way." The Lightbringer chuckles as he brings the glass up, peering into its contents. No divining anything through a liquid lense. "Admire what it offers. The Big Apple has a way about her." An adjustment and he swallows the contents with a healthy gulp. It burns and cools its way down in twinned streams, giving a momentary heady glow and fading out almost instantly after that when the compounds simply burn into nothing. One of the delights of being him.
"Trouble. Civil rights activists getting stirred up. Gangs out looking for easy marks." He puts the glass down on a coaster cut from cork rather than thick cardboard.
*
That brings a certain lupine light to the gray eyes. "Interesting," he says, while the rest of him's no more expressive than the stone pharaohs down at the Met. Then, he observes, amused, "The more things change…."
*
The stone pharaohs at the Met once smiled. The tapestries in Cloisters show wooden maidens and chimerical horses, but they resemble something in flesh and blood with imagination, experience, and the like of all three passing through certain gates into his realm. Lucian replies, "Plus c'est la meme chose. Karr knew what he was talking about. It is a most reasonable sentiment, I find."
*
The Shadow's let the devil pick his drink. Bartender's advice. He's dressed in a suit with tailoring that's decades out of style, but somehow seems to suit him just fine. There's a beautiful pewter cigarette case and matching lighter before him, on the bar….and as he deliberates, he flips the case open, extracts a brown-papered cigarette, and then flicks the lighter alight. "True," he allows, lazily.
*
The drink is an admittedly complex brew. A proper herbal cup dosed with herbal liquor, apricot beer, vodka, and marjoram to go with the lemon verbena. It might sound exotic and it is, balanced out to avoid a medicinal finish. The sort of taste someone might sip, a good tipple, lasting half the night away before need for another. That's probably rather the point. Lux is not a watering hole for fast drinks or cheap beer. Neither is the blond man sipping his own from the other side of the bar. The largesse of a guest, delivered on its maker.
"Much." The trickster smile is back for a moment. "The only thing that really hooked you though. I wager you like the scent of that cologne. Trouble has a way."
*
He's not precisely feigning ignorance, but he gives Lucian an interrogative "Hnh?" as he lights that cigarette. It's strong, strong indeed - Turkish, perhaps. Then he's proffering the open case to the blond. Though surely that one's had more than enough of the scent of smoke and brimstone.
*
Ignorance is not the same as chattering on. He's not the kind to blather. Not spend words like an endless supply of currency in the hands of a real estate magnate. Lucian takes another sip of the drink and sets his own cup aside while the pleasant flavours mingle, deepening on his palate. If only they could see and perceive how he does… no matter. Brooding settles for a moment and then flies away, blasted off by the wind, and he arches an eyebrow at the offering. Fingers quick and slim collect one cigarette, and he holds it up. "One of the employees will be on my case about this," he mentions, sticking it in the corner of his mouth. Delicious, how a filter presses between the lips and stays fast with the slightest application of pressure. "How did you find the beautiful thing?" A nod to the case. Lighting comes after, something to be pursued. He has his own, of course. But not for purely public consumption.
*
"An heirloom of a kind," he explains, after a moment. "Given to me by a friend, during the war." He fails to specify *which* war. "The lighter's the same," he adds. It's strong and spiced, nothing at all like the usual American tobacco.
And as for the matter of perception - the mortal's gazing at him with that thoughtful air…..and reaching, slowly, for that particular view of his own. The one that lets him perceive those most secret wickednesses. Not that it succeeds, no more than an ant trying to push over a statue by herself. That little line between his brows deepens, and Lucian can feel the brush at his mental wards, like fingers prying.
*
A nod follows. Art Deco limits the choices, and it's not something entirely polite to ask after. "A good friend," he adds. The blitz of flame kissing the unfiltered end of the cigarette soon has paper smoldering and withdrawing, melting into a ring of red and a crumbling leaf releasing its mysteries of the Oriental souks into the air. He can breathe deep and does, inhaling the elixir into his lungs and down, down, down. Small pleasures count. Lucian gives a slow, crooked grin.
Too knowing by half, but it takes someone born in the light and fallen to the shadows to recognize intrusive darkness. Up, the tickle of little psychic feet, to find the curvature of a pipe the size of a galaxy lingering there. "Anything to ask?" Blowing out the fine smoke creates a near ring, not quite perfect. Always time to practice.
*
Caught red-handed. That….should be embarassing. Lamont's only concession to it is a faint arch of his brows….and that feeling subsides. He's long since become aware of what sort of bigger fish inhabit the arcanists' pond. "No," he says, mildly, and takes a deep drag off his own cigarette. You win some, you lose some
*
The smirk is a light thing, around the cigarette. There's no other way to smoke, after all, with the stick at the corner of his mouth and brewing with carcinogens and luxurious scents plucked from the old Ottoman lands. Lucifer's hooded gaze sparks and he dashes the embers into the soapstone ashtray. As an arcanist goes, well, he is complicated. If anyone has the Sight and opens it up on him, The One Above All save them. "One day."
*
"Perhaps," Lamont allows, and there's that dry humor in his face. He's already encountered Strange, who is so far out of his league magically Lamont might as well be playing tee-ball. "Glad you like the cigarette. Most Americans I've offered those two don't," he notes, wryly.
*
A meeting waiting to happen. "Pity they have such a limited view. But the familiar becomes the appeal. Everyone has Virginia Slims or DuMaurier, that's all they want." Lucian dashes the tip of the cigarette again, and places it back in his mouth. "More interesting for the rest of us. Easy way to filter out individuals of a certain number of qualities." Qualities. Virtues that may go down with a little less interest, and interest is the only thing keeping things trucking along after a certain point.
*
He sets his down on the soapstone ashtray, to take a drink or two. "Fair enough," he admits. "Does filter out the bland, that's for certain." A glance at the door, as if at all the faceless mass beyond. The myriad innocent and ignorant, going about their business.