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Lux is the closest thing Lamont has to a watering hole. The old Cobalt Club is long gone, and he can't be bothered with the havens of hip youth. Nor is Lindon an enthusiast, thank God. Gotta love introvert love affairs. So he's brooding over something clear and citrus-scented at the bar, idly daydreaming, keeping an eye out for Lucian. Nevermind that he's got both a blond and a brunet on the string already - hope springs eternal.
Admittedly, he had a question to ask of Lamont. It pertained to their last lesson. It also came with a subtext of warning to avoid Aralune and probably Wanda for the immediate future…if at all possible. Those hexes hit hard and fast.
In a blazer overtop his usual button-down and black slacks, Strange slowly makes his way down the stairs and into the main room of Lux. Ah, there's the Shadow. "Cranston." His baritone should carry easily enough. With hands in his jacket's pockets, he wanders over, a congenial smile on his face. "What bring you here?" Since 'here' is not the Bar with No Doors.
Brooding doesn't exactly come naturally to Lucian. He has no reason /to/ brood, frankly. Not for the lovely women occasionally dancing in his presence and not with the abundance of libations on offer. A martini dangling from his fingers earns a quizzical spin of liquid, and he casually picks up a shrimp fork left on a plate. Turning it over, he hurls the weapon.
Across the bar.
Whereupon it zips right past Lamont and between the sliced pieces of green glass making up the entry. Is it even possible there /was/ space? Yeah, well.
There's a trace of foreign magic in his aura - not the wounds left by the dreamwalkers, or Strange's own sutures, but something that smells of forests, high, dry mountains - pine resin and sunlight. A barely perceptible tinge. He's in a dark silk shirt, dark pants, and glances up from his drink. "Drinks are good," he says, simply, a not-quite-smile at the corners of his mouth. "And….no one knows me here." So to speak - not a place where the wizards gather. His lips part to add something on, and then that projectile passes close enough to let him feel its breath, so to speak. Which explains why he's beneath the line of the bar with a Walther in hand a heartbeat later.
"I'd say he knows you," Anahita, the bartender and fallen goddess, replies more than a little dryly.
The Sorcerer nods, leaning on the bar. "That seems a logical enough reason — WHAT THE?!"
With Lamont under the line of the bar, Strange brings up both hands and stifles the urge to throw up a shield at the very last second. Anyone gifted or sensative will feel the wind shear of his powers being drawn close suddenly dying, disappearing as if nothing had ever happened. Looking from the shrimp fork back across the room, he attempts to figure out who threw the thing.
Ana's side comment earns her a good glower. "I'd like to speak to the proprietor of the club, please," he says, dreadfully unamused as a whole.
Impulse says to get back on that stool, holster the gun, and look cool. ……as well as lick his shoulder for composure grooming. Lamont does all but that last. "Clearly," he says to Anahita, with something like his usual sangfroid. "I take it someone does not approve of the seafood served here."
Ana still stifles a grin, turning to pluck down one of the bottles. "Stop looking like your feathers are on fire. That's fifteen points, you bastard!"
"I know where I came from," Lucian replies without a trace of irony audible. He rubs his fingers and then raises the martini in some wordless trace of a salute. Golden-haired and indelibly possessed of that certain, inglorious trace of a smirk, he might just raise hackles. Or interest, for that matter. "Next move is on them. Welcome to Lux. I'm afraid the person you want to speak with is unavailable, but I can take a message. What might be the matter?"
A glance passes to Lamont, a knowing arc of a smirk.
The blonde with the martini, with that devil-may-care ghost of a smile, immediately garners himself the same glower tossed at Ana, still working on her drink orders.
"You." That laconic response, painted liberally through and through with the Midwestern twang rarely heard anymore, is all that Strange says as he returns his hands to his pockets and leans against the bar, subtly claiming the immediate area as his own by his presence.
|ROLL| Lucian +rolls 1d100 for: 61
This is a very bad idea. Lamont turns a warning look on Lucian, meets his gaze, and shakes his head. Do not taunt Happy Fun Sorcerer. It'll end badly. In fact, he goes so far as to speak wordlessly, dropping the words like leaves at the edges of Lucian's mind. «Don't do that. He's more than he looks to be.»
Neither Ana or Lucifer Morningstar are particularly concerned about glares. A bright green glare, temporarily.
And only temporarily. The first of the First is not exactly erased in a moment's notice. Elder powers may bestir themselves, but he enjoys himself a good draught before bothering to answer. "You." A droll agreement. The royal you. All the you. The only you is Lucian is there. Or them, across a distance. What, exactly, do those impossibly blue eyes defining blue see?
It doesn't much matter for Mazikeen, pondering her next line.
Citrine about the centers of the Sorcerer's eyes remains at a low simmer as he holds those impossibly blue eyes. The fallen archangel knows well enough what he sees: petty sleights returned fivefold, cruel words flung at flaying angles to drive away those considered annoying — a career nearly ended over the accusation of a job done subpar according to impossible standards.
It's enough to make Strange swallow, sign of an understanding of what may have just happened, and still he narrows his eyes.
"You." There's a bit more of a growl this time around. Behind him, only for the barkeep's eyes, the trinity swirls in celestial starlight and auroral banners, their light shining down to mark the Conduit as their own.
He can feel will straining against will…..and now Lamont's attention's reoriented on Lucian. If a being can conquer Strange, Cranston's not likely to have a chance in he- well. So he's silent, observing, but his own little well of darkness is gathering - for all the good that one shadow may do against the source of light.
Lucian may be one of the very few beings in the moment who can arch an eyebrow with the force of a thousand rolled eyes and not lose the irony, especially in when empowered things roam behind a face. "Employees aren't poached here." Judicious use of restraint means he downs the remainder of the martini, setting it down. "They seek meaningful employment of their own terms. We don't force anyone. This is, after all, a sanctuary from the cares of the world. Mind it stays that way."
"I have no interest in your employees," Strange replies quietly. A slow blink wipes away the remainder of the godly touch within his eyes. "I came to speak with him," and he nods at Lamont beside him at the bar, " — and I'll call another time to speak to the proprietor."
Via phone? In person? Regardless, the Sorcerer turns his attention to the Shadow, summarily dismissing the shrimp fork flinger.
"He is the proprietor," Lamont says, flatly. Knowing that he'll probably never be allowed to drink here again. He looks mournfully down into the depths of the drink. Goodbye, little cocktail. I hardly knew ye.
"I am."
The war-leader of the Lilim is not in the mood to party. Especially when holding a shrimp fork. Three of them between her fingers. "I don't take calls." Mazikeen descends from the stairs to find her place behind the bar, where her entire job is to watch the world in gloomy shades.
|ROLL| Lucian +rolls 1d20 for: 6
Lamont is given the glower this time around. Glowers for all!
"Cranston, I'm not in the mood to joke, not now." He points a scarred finger towards Maz, in her bastion of bar-dom and with her shrimp forks. "If you throw those, you will regret it. Please, refrain from doing so." It's the Mentor Voice now, the one that books no arguments. Back to the Shadow. "I wanted to discuss something we came across during the last lesson."
Ignoring the war-leader of the Lilim is probably a bad idea, but pride does goeth before a fall and all.
"Honest mistake," Lamont says, resignedly. Then he's looking back to Strange, with interest. "Yes?" he asks, in an entirely different tone.
Leaning on the bar, Strange considers the man before him.
"You mentioned having troubles with your Astral form. This needs to be addressed as well. Shambala…how did they assist you there? How long were you away from your physical form?" The curiosity so part and parcel to the Sorcerer's personality rears its head. His steely-blue eyes glint in the odd lighting of the club room.
"At the longest, days on end. I almost died a few times because of it. I ….wasn't interested in my body then," he says, softly. "When I was being trained….they helped me strengthen the ties that kept spirit and body together. I wasn't falling out of it every time I slept or …became intoxicated. I wasn't forbidden to travel astrally, but…..it was clear it'd always be more dangerous for me than most."
Mazikeen has her work to do beyond whatever infernal game of darts takes place. She disregards whatever happens to be mentored in her direction. Mentorship is all well and good for willing students. A snapped motion sends a shrimp fork sailing into a matchbook on a shelf. The handle vibrates between the cover and interior. After two seconds, small flames erupt from the sulfur heads.
Lucian moves off into the depths of the club. Ana, at the bar, spends a moment finishing up the drink she prepares. Then she turns to dump the matchbook in a cup of water. Some things never change. Business continues.