1964-11-30 - Fire and Feather and Horn
Summary: Social interludes.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
lambert lucian michael lindon 

They plunder the night for inspiration, a solemn swipe at the Christmas season already ramping up. Down here, one finds no greenery or evergreen delights. Wreaths stop four doors down, and besides, half the population of East Village on the borders of Greenwich Village owes their religion to Orthodoxy or none at all, that dangerous choice. It suits the proprietor plenty to celebrate other matters. Here, in a temple to degenerate pleasures and luxuriant delights, the business of the hour is a flaming pudding.

Those gathered around the table stare into the flames, admiring the effect that singes from hot violet-blue to something near copper. Occasionally sparks erupt as crystallized liqueur catches and ignites. They're quite lucky not to lose any eyebrows or teased bangs. Men and women in a circle lean forward to stare down into the melange, and occasionally yelp or laugh, rearing back to avoid the flame's strike.

That suits Lucian well, for he lounges against the curve of the Steinway, back pressed to the supple, feminine curve that begs for a musician's touch as much as any lover.

No greenery, no carols. It's part of the appeal for Lindon. Not that he's got anything against the Christmas per se. It's just a rough time of year without the family all together. It used to be a big deal. So he needs a break from everyone else's good cheer to drink a little of his own.

He's drawn to the flame. What is this? He's not one to elbow in, but the natural shift of the crowd and his height put him with a decent view.

He's been here before, has Lindon. Back then, it was ill-fitting suits and awkwardness. He's still awkward, but he's doing it looking good, in something nice and tailored to that tall, lanky frame. Someone has discovered how to dress.

They have every kind of excitement in Lux, and apparently torching desserts because they can. The clutch watching this excitement express their approval as the flames dance in different shade,s a byproduct of alchemical jiggery-pokery on part of Ana. Working the bar, the strawberry-blonde water goddess hums to a song heard only by her own ear, a thrumming melody carried in the undercurrent of any crowd. Life shines in a certain way, it burns in a certain light, and that calls for indulging herself. Lucian isn't drinking or playing so much as watching that thrill.

He dares to smoke, mind, the torch at his lips sending exotic, dark curls of ash-blue smoke ascending in their dragon-dance. A mere flick of the wrist would dismiss it, but no matter; he certainly won't be bothered with that.

Chocolate has no place, of course. A proper pudding might be made of candied fruits, and this isn't entirely the truth either, as they've blended frosted violets for the hell of it with a blend of rather interesting nuts and liquors to make, of course, everything erupt.

Maz is somewhere. The tall blond entertains himself watching those come and go, for the moment.

Lindon smiles at the leaping flames from the pudding, then withdraws. Not his dish, and fire is only fascinating for so long. He gravitates toward the bar. It's the strange brews he comes for, and once he gets there, he waits on Ana, a Deat Poet in mind.

Lucian hasn't escaped his notice, oh no. Lucian is held in Lindon's peripheral vision, and it isn't coincidence that he missteps on his way to the bar, stumbling over his feet. It's a minor hitch. He's used to it by now, so he catches himself with only a blush. Maybe next time he'll faceplant.

The fact that there _are_ expensive deserts here that are on fire draws Lambert's attention, of course. He is up that side of things, wearing the closest thing he can get to going out clothes - a fairly nice set of trousers that have been butchered to allow the tail, a white shirt he probably uses a chef's events, and a longer coat to hide aforementioned tail. His curly hair is styled down to hide his ears and tiny horns, and he is busy staring at the flames in delight - and breathing in the caramelised sugar while making frantic mental notes.

Dead Poets, easily done. Winter Haze, a new one, only by request. The chalkboard with its usual saucy message declares, No mundane drinks for 198 hours. Don't be that guy.

The strawberry-blonde circulates the dreamy concoction in her favourite cut-crystal bowl, shaker at the ready. Strawberries obtained from whomever knows where in this season spill across a chopping board. She hums to herself, tapping her toe, like there's nothing greater in the world than drawing arcane glyphs in a language dead for four thousand years through the curious little brew. Ana's in a good mood. Consequently Lucian is. With Mazikeen off causing mayhem, the usual dour guard over Lux has been lessened a bit. The movement along the green nebula ripple of course parts the sea of his distant thoughts, while the group admiring the burning pudding will soon enough be wielding forks to eat.

Burning. Yes. They do eat it while it's smouldering without any hint of concern whatsoever.

He serenely considers them. The masses of others walking down the steps, clipped moves. Men in better suits than they wore before. "And welcome to this little world within a world."

Lindon clears his throat and maintains what dignity he can as he orders his drink. He smiles for Ana, and he has a nice smile. It's the kind of smile a nice man has. He tips well, too. Then he spies Lambert, and he starts to call out to him, but shyness prevents him from raising his voice. Drink in hand, he makes his way toward the satyrkin. "I didn't see you," he tells him. "You should try the Dead Poet. It's good."

His attention drifts to Lucian. His gaze lingers. It's not like him to make goo-goo eyes on purpose. Usually. "H-hi," he says to him, and that nice smile returns. Nice and a little hopeful. "We met once. It's good to see you again."

And in walks the boss's brother. Altogether more shadowy and imperfect, though decent-looking enough by human standards. A good suit, a matching hat, though the latter is in his hand as he enters. No hint of his celestial nature, for the moment - just another tired traveller come for a drink. A smile lightens his face as he sights Lucian…..and only broadens when he spots Lindon. It's to the latter he heads, as if sure of his welcome.

Huh. Lambert is considering whether his prodigious ability to consume food and drink that is, in fact, poisonous extends as far as burning flame or lava goes. He strokes his chin a little, considering, then breathes in again. Sugar. Pomegranate syrup. Burned cardamom. Hmm. Can he replicate something similar? He then looks up and grins, his teeth sharp in his mouth "Hi!" he says in his cheerful voice, and he slaps Lindon on the back "Wow! Didn't expect to see anyone I knew - I thought, I've heard stories - I should get out, right?" He leans forward past Lindon to focus on Lucian, and his eyes widen "??? ?? ??????!" says Lambert with purient interest. Of course, he might even have vaguely purient interest in Mazikeen, and she is missing half her face sometimes "Oh, er, wow," A look at Michel now, and Lambert looks down at himself and hisses "I don't _own_ a suit! Is it supposed to be suits? Suits are more expensive than black carp!"

"All of it rather is. I wouldn't dare to serve something worthless, tasteless, in such a sanctuary from the mundane." The drinks or the people? The experience as a whole? For all that he wears the face of an intense, somewhat brooding young man and the garments of someone totally disregarding all common fashion mores, Lucian is what he is. He pulls the light to him because he can and any sensation of this place being normal, everyday humdrum club with a high dollar liquor shelf is entirely dispelled when he hops up onto the Steinway. The concert-quality grand piano alone could cover the cost of a very nice apartment in most parts of the city for several years, and speak nothing of rent control. He treats it like a damn horse or vault, though the lithe acrobatics are easily achieved.

The cigarette remains in the corner of his mouth. Careless ease as he rolls back his shoulders. Imperfection will only take its orders from Michael. Him, another matter altogether. "Absolutely thrilling. Those bodes curiously. No, no need for a suit unless you wish to." A red velvet martial-buttoned waistcoat open from the base of his sternum down doesn't count as a suit.

Lindon leans in close to Lambert and says, "I know. He's…" There are no words, or rather too many to choose from. He watches Lucian, and he sighs softly. "Too far over our heads, man. I woudln't even know what to say that wouldn't get me punched or arrested."

Lindon offers Lambert his drink and says, "Here, try this." He offers the satyrkin a kind of dopey smile. "I like you dressed like this." Then he spies Michael, and he perks up. Waving to him, he says, "Lambert, this is Michael. He's so nice."

"That's kind of you to say," And it is. He's laid waste to entire worlds, overseen the slaughter of entire nations. It's just that it was never personal. Michael ventures a smile, pleased, and extends his hand to Lambert. "Pleased to meet you." And then Lucian's taking up his seat by the piano. "Do listen closely," he urges the mortals. "He's very good."

Lambert takes the drink and has a good sip, and he laughs, and then he says to Lindon "No varsity jacket. Getting too old, right?" His look is amused, but then he glances to Michael. Hmm. Another looker, though more human, this one, and he reaches out to shake. His hands are broad, the nails thick. Hands for doing things. "You too! Hello Michel! Oh, really? Okay!" And he leans forward, his long ears shaken out of his hair so he can rotate them towards the piano. One arm carelessly reaches out to pat Lindon's back, almost as if to reassure him.

"Arrested? You imagine the police would bother with a place like this?" A wave of Lucian's hand intimates the mezzanine in all its shadowy glories where powers and principalities mingle with the hoi polloi. Using a piano as a bench is rather excessive. The diners around the dessert don't seem to be screaming for an ambulance, either, for all they should be subject to very real burns in their mouths. No harm, no foul? "I'll use smaller words, next time."

He inclines his golden head in Michael's direction, but still sitting on the piano, chances are fair he won't be banging down a note or two.

Lindon's cheeks color at Lucian's reply. The lighting does him favors here, or else his pale skin would be blazing pink. Though the offer to use smaller words causes him to purse his lips, and he looks away from the blond, turning his attention instead to Lambert. "He is rather good," he admits. Then he looks to Michael, and his smile returns. "How have you been?"

The ears. Those are delightful. And Michael unthinkingly reaches out to touch one. He may have learned about clothes, but he apparently has not gotten beyond the preschool stage of wanting to touch anything novel. At least he's passed the 'cram it in your mouth to see what it tastes like' toddler period. "I'm fine," he says, simply. "I hope you can say the same?" Mike's also learned just enough discretion to ask Lindon if he can drag him home to bed, later.

"Yes, what's with that?" asks the creature from an entirely different pantheon. He peers up, not quite able to focus, being more in the hoi polloi side imself. He then says "Er, I don't know! I try to keep my head down and not get in trouble." He grins, though, automatically lascivious. At least he is not as gnarled as his grandfather is - The Satyr Next Door. Then though, he says "Tch. Poor Linny." Lambert says to him "Never let the pretty ones get you down, book head." He is just about to reach out, when someone is touching his ear. Lambert laughs "They're attatched!"

A mild shake of his head and Lucian slides off the piano. He glances around the building, painting the walls with casual indifference and the ceiling in its coffered copper light. A crook of his fingers summons Ana out from behind the marble bar, a puzzled look on her face. «Come on. The incessant cursing is becoming intolerable. Let's go silence the source.»

The strawberry-blonde slips off the black apron tied around her waist. It's tossed carelessly past the drinks, and she glances at the trio — faun, angel, relic. The archangel plucks the cigarette from his mouth and it goes up in flames in a heartbeat, one fast flare so sudden the remnants don't even turn to ash. White wings outlined in an opalescent etch no wider than human hair evoke their staggered tiers around him, swung out behind otherwise there might be the simple problem of getting to the door. The plumage isn't made of feathers in conventional downy senses, but rather rips every last watt of light in Lux to him. The bulbs will regain a fraction of their suppressed burn, but the moving radiance follows the highest of the seraphim taking the steps three at a time. Ana has to run to hurry up.

Lindon's gaze drifts back to Lucian as the cigarette goes up, and his attention lingers. His brows lift. Did that just happen? Mystical things? Yes, please. He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he struggles for air, and it comes in a helpless gasp. Lindon leans against Lambert and murmurs to him, "Don't let me kneel, whatever you do." He bites his lip, stifles a whimper, and says to Michael, "Friend of yours?"

"That's my brother," says Michael. His tone is mild, but his expression is uneasy. "He's generally not so…obvious unless something is quite wrong." Wait, Mike has wings, too? "But he didn't ask for me to come, too, so….must be not that bad." And he shrugs, as if settling the feathers of his own wings, and withdraws his hand to peer at the mortals. "I know," he says to Lindon, commiserating. "It's hard not to stare at him." A pat on the hand for Lambert. "Sorry. I was curious."

Lambert lifts a hand cheerily to Ana. He grins at her for a moment, then he looks up at the archangel, and he says vaguely to Lindon "What's wrong with kneeling? Puts you at the perfect height." He sighs as the two of them head off "I like the bartender too. They all seem great And…why can't they stay so I can watch 'em? Pfh!" His ears twitch, and then he says curiously to Michael "You guys look like Hermes. With the wings and the glow and fast movements and things. Are you related? If you are, we're distant cousins! Hermes was the father of Pan." And he gestures at his horns, and then he says "Or you're…those Eastern things? Daeva?"

"Angels," Lindon says quietly, like it's something to keep on the downlow after what just happened. He sighs softly, and stops thinking for a moment, so his hand rests on Lambert's hip. Briefly! Oh god, briefly, then he snatches his hand away and says, "I think I'm done drinking tonight. Um, you two are, ah. So have you tried any of these flaming desserts?" So smooth.

Michael favors them both with a long look, considering. "No, we're angels. Of the Presence. What most of the mortals here call the Lord. Creator of a universe, if not all of them." Apparently he can somehow handle polytheism. "Lucian is the eldest, and the most beautiful. I'm the second child, but there are legions more. Lu and I are the ones with the most leeway, though, which is whey I'm down here visiting him. And no, I haven't," he says, with interest.

"I don't think I could survive eating them," mourns Lambert a litlte, and then he wrinkles his nose "Angels," he ponders, though he grins a lot when that hand touches his hip "Oh, huh! Well, I guess…thanks for the world?" He offers his hand across, and then he says "Yeah, he's pretty, but he's a bit of a snot. Older brothers always are. Ahaha."

"He is kind of arrogant," Lindon agrees. "He's easy on the eyes, but…" But Lindon likes people he can talk to. He relaxes around Michael and Lambert. "So how did you turn out so nice?" He winces as soon as he says it. "Sorry, I didn't mean to imply that he's not, or that you two shouldn't have turned out nice, or…"

"He is very proud," Michael explains, though there's no real attempt to excuse. Lucian is what he is. "I've never felt the urge to rebel, to be first. And….I am less experienced than he is. This is my first real foray into material creation on my own. I've liked it, so far."

Lambert laughs despite himself at Lindon's comment, and then he says "I dunno, I always thought the Creator was supposed to be a bit remote?" He tilts his head "Rebel? Wait. Wait. You don't have a body normally?!"

"He's Lucifer?" Lindon says, glancing toward the door Lucian left through. "All right, all things considered he's pretty toned down from what I'd've thought." He shakes his head, then promptly reaches for the drink he handed off to Lambert. So much for being done drinking.

"He is," Michael assents, with a smile. They understand. "No, I don't have ap hysical body unless Ic hoose to manifest it."

"What, really? Should we not be in here or something?" says Lambert, who is not entirely certain if he has an immortal soul or not. He then hands the drink back "Yeah, a lot less, like, uh. Cackling and torture." Then he blinks at Michael "Is that true? I could teach you a lot." Grrriinnn.

Lindon goes home.

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