1965-02-04 - Book of Raziel: Come Morning
Summary: The Prince of the East is a highly knowledgeable information source… but first, he has to be convinced. JP has his work cut out for him.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
lambert jp lucian 

.~{:----------: features=+views :-:}~.

JP was directed back to… Lux of all places by Michael?! Woah. You cna't run through New York without tripping on angels these days. The leather clad greaser looked out of place by a lot and was absolutely keen on seeing if that bartender was there. Everyone's got their bad life choices and stalking her would certainly be a bad one. Still, today? Today he was there on business and looked around for the plinith of style, Lucien. "A guy named Michael sent me? Lucien in?" He had to ask, maybe to assure he guy at the door he had legit business there.

Michael might not seem the regular patron of Lux. To be fair, Lux appeals to a rather peculiar set of clients, from the supernatural to the discerning. Musical acts discovered months before they ever create a ripple in the general community come here, and there's much to be said about the eclectic selection of drinks too. A greaser has money good as anyone else, right? So it is that Mazikeen, burning-eyed and ever watchful, probably tolerates JP trying to slink his way through. Everyone to enter or leave must pass that terrifying gauntlet 'ere they reach paradise or the nearest equivalent.

She is the one to block JP's path while Lucian enjoys a tipple of some kind or another, one that features blackberry leaf extract and odder equivalents. The Mephistopheles of Manhattan he is not, primarily because the former answered to him, and Manhattan deserves better. In this case, a proper devil sipping a drink and reading the latest in a posh London magazien about comings and goings. Dull night? Hardly, what with the living, bright atmosphere.

JP was stopped up short warming an earnest, and impish, grin to Mazikeen. "Ya know you wan' detain me for questions, I can spare out a couple hours, chere." Oh if only that wandering Catholic boy knew what his tongue was trying to get him into. He paused and looked cofused and had no idea how the elements were related, but said in all honesty, "Some guy tol me to come talk to him. Say is about his brother." The truth though there was a pause as dark brown eyes shift back to Lucian, and then to Mazikeen, "Though you get off in an hour or somethin' you lemme know."

"I get my answers directly," says Mazikeen in a flat tone brooking no interruption. Nothing about her signals warmth or understanding. Welcome of this sort might as well be addressed as a haunted house in the middle of a battlefield behind barbed wire and Los Angeles rush hour. Her unimpressed expression carries that take no shit angular edge that cuts if she stares too long. "Come talk to Lucian," she repeats. Moms use that tone of voice when their idiot offspring say something especially foolish. No escape from that. "I don't get off with men washed up from who knows where."

There might be a look of veiled amusement in the summer-dark eyes and the pale, iridescent golden presence that is Lucian. He huffs a breath to conceal the laugh underneath. Like anyone needs to question his affinity for Maze. She stands up for his privacy and he shrugs slightly, holding up his drink. "Some guy said find me. That sounds like a positive prospect. Someone say I owed them a debt?" Mind the smile.

|ROLL| JP +rolls 1d20 for: 1

|ROLL| Lucian +rolls 1d20 for: 6

JP waded over and was just… stricken with danger. No roof too high to leap from as they say. Gotta give the Cajun the admiration for persistance and not missing a beat as he offered to her, "Good news, after work I can show you exactly where. Hell of a spot too." He might not walk out of here alive…worth it. Still at the persistance he sat as bade and let his forearms rest leather on the edge of the table. Because when you discuss dealings it was politite protocol to leave one's hands where they could be seen. His eyes followed Mazikeen for a moment longer. Holy shit that kid was smitten with her. Looking to Lucien he cleared his throat he said, "This guy named Michael." He shook his head glancing aorund and back to Lucien with a squint. "Say t' me to come tell you what I know about something that was found. WHy he don' tell you? I dunno."

Not worth it surely. Mazikeen invalidates all norms about beauty and proper behaviour as Sixties America defines a good little woman. She brushes past without making contact to take up her gargoyle sentry duty near the auroral glass walls enclosing the descending staircase, silhouetting all who walk.

"I think you have something of a death wish," Lucian observes from his spot in a horseshoe-shaped booth opposite the Steinway piano. He has a commanding view of everything on the main floor, from the bar to the archways of the mezzanine above. Protocols be damned, though he might appreciate the effort anyways. His drink is languidly rolled, left to right. Right to left. Good stuff, all in all. "Michael said that. Did he also send a carrier pigeon? One is outside on a power line." Idiot bird all puffed up and smitten with his golden-haired brother too.

JP was just…taken with this woman. The observation came with a chuckle, "Yeaaaah maybe. But what a way to go." The grease drummed his thumbs togehter idly pulling his attention back keeping the business short and succinct. "Man, That I dunno. What I do know is I was hired for a job down in N'awlins to' steal something no one needs to have. Now I know things I shouldn' know and Michael said you'd be a really interested party on why things that's teachin some angel's true name is floatin aorund down here." JP looked… very uneasy about that but hey, Michael SAID this was part of being absolved for his transgressions in being involved so… here we were.

Nawlins. It needs a proper name, New Orleans, as from Orleans, the great city in France. Where Jeanne d'Arc saw the flames and the English army was routed, the name means something to a man such as he. Not that Lucifer's expression changes much to let on. He draws one of those short, keen smirks that holds secrets and amusement at the world's cares. "Ah." The drink is lowered to the table, page marked. He really could care less about dogearing a page, terrible considering Rosemarie would probably be apopleptic at the sight. Naughty! "Michael has a different kind of education than I do. My brother…" He knocks aside the possibilities, and states simply, "His practical experience is accomplished, and sometimes, he displays the wisdom of a golden retriever. Which is to say someone is flouting true names? They're likely to end up very swiftly dead. Or possibly chastised in the worst ways. Which one is it?"

Jeanne d'Arc was parked out side and was a stunning 1964 GTO. JP sat with his jaw set and looked at the table. Dammit. Literally! Oh if he only knew the worst of it. He picked his words very carefully. "Let's jsut say that person really ain't keen on known what they know. And mike's… eager to go looking for the source of that information and wan' know what that sourse is there. More so He wantin' to know who in their right mind wan' such a thing and what 'they plannin on doin with it. So, you wan' shoot the messenger? Fine, but I'd offer is a hell of a way to not know somethin pretty fast." He took a deep breath and mulled that one over a bit looking back up to Lucien across from him in the booth quietly. "I'm takin him on a trip to go check it out later this week. I guess he wanted me t'tell you myself? Idunno."

Long fingers stray through the shock of tawny golden hair that brushes over his forehead. "Of course Michael would." So speaks the elder brother, Firstborn, used to such antics. Whilst Michael may have lain waste to entire civilisations in the past, he still wants to go find trouble. "Few in their right mind would, and those in their right mind willing to are problem enough." He tastes the flavour of the alcohol still on his lips, the air ripe with the sounds of music and the blackberry leaf extract he used in the first place to mix up whatever odd liqueur amuses him. Ana, a strawberry blonde girl next door, watches the bar; the rest of the club is lively but not rushed, as befits a Sunday evening in the winter. Hiding more than not. "Shooting is such a tawdry business, all in all. But one must admit invoking any power by forcing it to answer a call tends to be brutally bad for one's life expectancy. Ask the post office or the IRS." He taps his finger on the magazine, Tatler if anyone cares. "Of course, Michael never would pursue this without a reason. The name is not bound to be a putti in the sky."

Lambert comes bouncing in, expression bright and wry, mood high. As usual. He tends to be a confident, easily amused type when not yelling his head off at hapless waitstaff in the restaurant he runs. He is dressed in more relaxed clothes than his chef's whites - in this case, stretch denim and a very fashionable mohair sweater that may well have been knitted from a relative. By. BY a relative. Nevermind. He is soon going up to Ana, and asking for one of the mixed drinks available at the bar, a cap pushed back on his head. The caprine features are hidden enough to get by without too much trouble walking here outdoors.

JP didn't have that thin and evident threat lost on him. Fingers on his left hand traced the top of the table thoughtfully. In a quiet defense of his part in this he offered, "Not that it's makin' much a difference, but I didn't ask or wan' t'know what I know. And that thing everyone' lookin for? I put it back where I found it. I dunno what it was, but I know no one need be havin it." There was movement, and JP looked up hoping it was his hostile beauty returned but lo' it was not, and Lambert could scarse be called hostile by anyone that didn't work in that kitchen, right? Right?

Thin threat? Please. When Lucifer wants to threaten someone, he usually displays about as much subtlety as a toddler in a ball pit. Threat doesn't imply his opinion of matters. "The one trying to call up the powers that be is bound to warrant their ire. By the sounds of it, you are very much over your head." He watches all who come in and out. As does Ana, mixing up drinks, supported by a waitstaff of both male and female nature for all the former sometimes lack names. (Hey, it's hard to come up with lots of names.) Lambert is one of a broad cross-section of society and a goodly number of them aren't human in any fashion, only wearing the likeness thereof to keep the regulars happy. Then again, in the supernatural community, Lux's standing as neutral ground is no secret. The whispers about the proprietor being fully capable of backing up his threats? Those are another matter altogether. "How did Michael come to be involved by all of this, anyways?"

JP is the one with his hands bare, and Lucian at the horseshoe shaped booth in the middle of the room, opposite that grand Steinway piano and the bar proper.

Right indeed. Lambert has a sort of brilliant goodwill beaming from him, underscored with a sort of cheery lecherousness. His foot is already tapping to the music, his attention passing lasciviously across the various dancers. What is visible of the tail is ready to twitch as he watches someone swinging her hips. His own body is starting to respond to the beat, with ease. He grins, and his teeth are sharp inside his lips, a row of them, but then he notes JP's glance. His own hand lifts up happily and he waves immediately, before staring hard at Lucian. Huh. Wow.

JP slouched into his seat and murmured, with that thick, honeyed accent, "Well, I might be tha' asshole what accidently call em." Well at least he had the balls to be honest about it. There was that. He didn' say why or how. He looked away from Lambert and back to teh table looking slightly uncomfortable in all of this. "This ain' somethin I asked t' be involved with, but I knew enough not t'ake it. Michael said I help y'all get it back to do I-don'-wanna-know with I get forgiven f'my part in it so, tha's why I'm here. No more. No less."

Cheery lecherousness is a hard thing to find in East Village. Closer to Times Square, that kind of attitude abounds. Whatever happens, Lucian keeps a fairly close eye over his surroundings. He rests his forearms on the polished tabletop and stretches out his fingers a little, balanced some. Music churning up through the excellent sound system is bound to keep the crowd here for the good beats and mellifluous company content. Most of the acts are far ahead of their time, or just a few notches beyond what the zeitgeist prefers.

Golden-haired Prince of the East, he takes in a breath he does not — never has — need to sample all the variations therein. The taste of people. The moods taking them over. Make of it whatever he will. "You called them. That changes matters a little. They cannot always be deterred, but sometimes a conversation helps." So does a big sword, but the sword is damn well inconvenient right now. "You want forgiveness then."

Admittedly, a grumpy Lambert would be something resulting from injury, and this is not likely to happen here unless one goes looking for it. As the music switches briefly to something more from the Swing era - but with a heavy modern soda pop influence - he makes his way out to the dance floor. Satyr are athletic and good at dancing as nature intended, and Lambert is no exception. Eyes flick sideways back to JP and Lucian easily - Lambert's pupils are designed for better view out the sides, and poorer vision at night, so he keeps half an eye on the two. Partly because of the way Lucian is dressed and carries himself. Partly because JP seems uncomfortable, and while Lambert is no wise as mischievous as someone like Loki, he leans that way himself. He offers a hand to someone, happy to spin them around the floor with great energy while taking in the atmosphere.

A grumpy Lambert would be a sin against nature. He is a happy soul and deserves to be treated as such. The strawberry blonde publican(ess) sways as she shakes up liquids in a metal container, pouring out libations to be swept off to the patrons who ordered them. Her talent for dancing to the beat is considerable, but that should be little surprise given the epicenter for the American songbook literally lies within a quadrant drawn three miles by three miles in the ragged heart of Manhattan island proper.

He does have little trouble picking the fellow out. A nod given to Lambert may not be the most effusive of greetings, but the satyr is no stranger to Lux and Lucian is no stranger to satyrs either. Whatever fear he might show is absent; hardly worth worrying over. "I believe you've found someone approving of your style," he tells JP easily.

JP arched an eyebrow and just could not undig himself from this hole completely enough for his own comfort. "Yeah. I called em. I dunno how. I don' even know why I know it. Just read somethin I can't not read and now m'head is screamin things I don' need it knowin. BUt tha' thing? Hmmmmm There's no good that can come of any people havin it. I don' know what it is, but I know tha's someone no one should have. But yeah. I wan' absolution for this one."

JP's jaw set and he looked around- shit, goat was good on his feet. There was a quizzical assessment with a slight nod. Well done man. Looking back to Lucian he summed, "Whatever reasons I got don' really matter beyond I have my reasons for wantin t'do right by this one. An' trust me it woulda paid out enough for me t'solve most of my problems."

"Let me find my brother and see what he has to say. You convinced me enough this was not intentional." Human idiocy has achieved a great deal in the past, that subtext might say, if someone read things naturally in Mazikeen's dialect. But this is Lucian talking, so he might just be honest about what he says. Ninety-nine point nine nine percent of the time, he is. Grabbing the magazine, he slides out of the booth, slinking up to his full height with an ease that Mick Jagger would probably love to copy if he can manage. He slips around the spot that JP himself occupies and nods to Lambert again. "Try not to say anything here. We could have a bit of a difficult situation. On the other hand, they're not likely to beat the doors down." A fine smile there is enough to blow away any illusions, beautiful and terrible in the same instant, even humanly diminished. The mask holds, as it must. "Time to make a call." Poor Michael.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License