mogget_cat | OOM: New Orleans with Hannibal and Jim

An optimist might say the day upon the other side of the door is balmy, but only because it's a little too early in the afternoon for it to be called sultry.

And only a little too early. Already halfway down its trek across the sky, the sun's great heat is partially mitigated by the sea-scented breeze off the Gulf and the shade of decorated balconies. Groups of people walk along Bourbon Street in front of the small alleyway in which the door from Milliways appears. The alley entrance is somewhat sheltered from the street by a fire-escape so none notice three dapper gentlemen arriving from nowhere. Faint conversations and laughter and the mingling strains of lively music reach them, and the varied smells of a port city known for its cuisine.

Yrael's green eyes glance up at the roof-edges for a moment as they enter, a half-smile on his face, before he turns to his guests. "Welcome to New Orleans."

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Jim slips his shades on, and surveys the scene. New Orleans. It's been a couple of years since he was last in his home version of it, but this one doesn't look much different. He's always liked this city. It's a dirty place, but undeniably alive.

Hannibal closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

The city's vitality is what Yrael loves most, from the divine heights of its music and culture to its seamy underbelly, patchwork past and checkered present. It is a city ever on a knife's edge, squeezed between Lake Pontchartrain and the mighty Mississippi, with the depths of the mercurial Gulf a scant few miles away. The city's fierce living soul, awash with sound and color and smells, has death as a constant companion. The ever-present threat of it, the people's defiance of it, and their simultaneous respect for it are woven into the fabric of the city in a way that Yrael has not encountered elsewhere. It almost reminds him of the Old Kingdom.

Almost. In the Old Kingdom, the people would not be so foolish as to bury their dead.

"I forget what festival this afternoon's parade is for," he admits, cheerfully, as he leads them from the alley and into the busier street. "There are too many of them to keep up with, really. But it should begin shortly."

Their arrival from Milliways seems not to have gathered any notice from the street or the roofs, but one of the street musicians down the block notices Yrael while packing up his trombone in preparation for the parade. He pauses for a moment and raises a hand in a slight wave. Just a quiet greeting, an acknowledgement given with a wary smile. Yrael returns the wave with far more ease.

Jim likes it because people here are brought up on tales of dark magic, retribution, souls bought and sold with blood. Because it's all rubbish, but they believe it - or at least, don't wholly disbelieve it - and people with that as part of their DNA will believe anything. And less prosaically, the murder rate is high, the drug use is off the scale, and the rest of the world thinks it's a party town...it's made for people like Jim, who trade in the solid facts of money and murder, but don't mind weaving a tale through them at the same time.

His eyes scan the street as they walk, always moving behind his glasses. A whole new world, where his name means nothing at all. It's a gift.

'As long as the music's good, they can celebrate anything they like.'

"They might celebrate celebration itself," Hannibal says, walking along in a much more easier pose than his usual poise. He doesn't stand out, for once, no more than either of his companions.

"The music tends to be quite good here. The competition makes sure of it," Yrael grins at Jim as he leads the way towards the end of the block. "Even the Big Easy is subject to supply and demand, so to speak." Musicians flock to the city's promise, and so must do better to make themselves noticed in the crowd.

Yrael exchanges a brief nod with another musician hurrying by in the opposite direction. The three of them pass a postage-stamp cemetery squashed among the tall buildings bedecked with streamers and rainbow bunting, a pocket of fenced grass with three obscured gravestones. The fence has been hung with rainbow ribbons, but the gravestones sport a a less colorful variety of offerings: two spent tea-lights, a rusty key, a pebble with a hole through it, small bleached bones of indeterminate origin, a faded origami crane damaged by rain.

The dark magic that this city knows, the tales of blood and resurrection and the Dead that walk by night may or may not be rubbish, but the belief remains. It may have been washed away from the city's bright face, but it still lingers and grows in the corners and under the surface. And Yrael knows the power of belief.

Ahead of them, the parade is starting. Face-painted people on colorful floats throw candy and trinkets to the crowds. A group walks by holding a banner and signs advocating for their cause. The sounds of up-beat jazz grow closer. Some members of the crowd are beginning to dance.

Jim grins back - he has no doubt the competition has a way to go to keep up with Yrael - and then his face sets when someone barges past and knocks his shoulder. Inevitable, of course, but still rude.

'That's all it takes for some people,' he says to Hannibal. 'They haven't got anything better to do.'

Whatever. No one here needs the inadequacy of normal people pointed out to them. He listens to the music instead, a corner of his mouth turning up. He prefers blues to jazz, but New Orleans knows how to do both well.

"Please be careful," Hannibal says, silky smooth, to the person who has knocked Jim's shoulder and afterwards slides by him.

"Of course, in this city, we can't expect to not be bumped into. Distance isn't what we came for. But some people should use their eyes."

"Sometimes the celebration is all they have." The music fills the air as the first band rides by, playing up a storm while dancers with frilly parasols pluck willing members of the crowd to join them. Yrael manages to secure the three of them a good position from which to view the parade, close to the front. Just in case either of them would like to dance, of course.

"New Orleans is an up-close and personal city, it's true," Yrael grins. "It does nothing by halves."

That goes for everything from the delicious food, divine music and art to the dirt and drugs and blood. He loves it.

"I did mean it when I said it was festival season. I think there is some celebration or another every week from now until the autumn equinox."

A few more colorful floats and people riding cars approach, the riders waving and cheering, tossing leis and strings of beads to the crowd. It may not be Mardi Gras, but when you have beads left over, you might as well use them. A small but spirited marching band follows, their conductor dancing to the beat. Beyond the band streams a long banner like the American flag with the red and white stripes replaced with the colors of the rainbow, held up by numerous people. Others carry signs of remembrance and dedication.

"They revel in life, aware of the proximity of death," Yrael murmurs, watching the crowd with almost a proprietary air. "Keeping afloat in the roil of chaos as best they can."

Jim thinks people who just keep afloat in chaos are pointless. He also thinks people are never really aware of the proximity of death - but if a city was made to make people think about it, it would be this one.

Thinking about stuff like this is conducive to having a good time, but usually at the expense of someone else's life. He's not about to insult Yrael's hospitality by hating people too pointedly this evening. Unless things happen that way naturally. Sooooo, he just sticks his hand up and catches a lei out of the air, which he promptly puts around Hannibal's neck.

'It's Pride, then?'

Ugh. Pride.

'Or just because of this shooting you mentioned?'

"Thank you," Hannibal says. "It's the season for Pride, at least. I hope there won't be haters on the margin, you know, young men considering themselves edgy and provocative, marinated in whiskey and cola."

"The shooting may have something to do with the particularly heightened pitch of the festival, but it isn't the reason for all of it. It is Pride, and there is a Cajun music festival being held, and I think down in the markets there is even a festival for tomatoes, of all things," Yrael chuckles, grinning at Jim.

Humans celebrate some weird things.

"If there are haters on the margins, they hopefully will be aware enough to keep themselves to themselves. They may provoke more than they wish to face," Yrael remarks, waving with a smile for the next small but varied group of individuals to come along the parade. They all are bedecked with the bright colors of Pride, waving and handing out strings of beads (Yrael gets shiny green beads of his own), but their banner is specific. Mutant Pride.

Whiskey and cola. Heh. Adorable.

'For God's sake. Tomatoes?'

Whhhhhhhy. But his attention is caught by the Mutant Pride banner, and he tilts his head at it.

'Are they proud of being mutants, or of being gay mutants?'

"Both?" Hannibal says, smiling. "And tomatoes are very well worth celebrating. They might go well with that marinade, too."

He accepts a string of blood-red beads from a pretty young mutant of indeterminate gender and green hair.

"Any marinade, even with tomatoes worth renown, would have its work cut out for it to counteract that amount of bile and hate, but I defer to the doctor's culinary expertise," Yrael says, amused.

He leans to catch a golden-yellow lei tossed by a dancer in white and gold, with white face-paint and a frilly white parasol, and with a smooth movement drops it over Jim's head. He mustn't be the only one without.

The next brass band is decked out in black and gold, playing what sounds like a jazzy funeral march. They are lead by a tall man outfitted in Baron Samedi's costume and paint, smoking a thick cigar whose smoke ruffles the cockerel feathers adorning his black top-hat as he dances.

"Baron Samedi, loa of the Dead," Yrael says, smiling. When the bright eyes behind the skull-like face paint meet his gaze, he mimes tipping an invisible hat in the Baron's direction.

'Yeah, I've seen Live and Let Die.'

Ooooh, a lie. Thanks, Yrael. Classy stuff.

But fine, he's fitting in and at least the colour doesn't clash with his shirt. He likes jazzy funeral marches too. Killer brass.

'I don't suppose there's a real Baron on this world? I could use his skills at resurrection.'

"That's always useful if somebody dies even though you still have questions," Hannibal agrees.

"I genuinely do not know if the loa truly exist in this world, but I do believe in being polite to one's hosts, just in case," Yrael replies, as the dancing Baron flicks a sign against the evil eye in his direction before dancing on.

"What sort of resurrection would you be interested in?"

'Or if you want to win a bet,' he says to Hannibal.

And to Yrael, 'a friend - for want of a better word - doesn't like being dead. I'm scoping out options for him.'

His eyes follow the fake Baron, as if wanting him to be real could make it happen.

And also to keep the mention casual, because c'mon, he was always going to sound out Yrael on this front.

Edited Date: 2016-06-23 09:11 pm (UTC)

"Yes, there is a number of dead people in the bar who might like a change," Hannibal agrees.

"Death often puts a damper on things, when you've still got plans," Yrael admits, grinning at the next float coming along the parade way. A band plays the blues while a woman in a deep blue dress croons soulfully to the crowd about how the world has done her wrong.

"I'm sure there are entities in the bar whose skills would be of use to you in resurrecting your friend," he says, shrugging slightly. "But if you're not interested in waiting on them, convincing them, or paying their prices, you could always cultivate the skill yourself."

Jim is lighting a cigarette - Sherlock is being a bad influence - and his hand falters slightly as he snaps his Zippo shut. He glances at Yrael, then Hannibal, then back to Yrael.

'...what?'

"Many people can learn magic, at least in Milliways," Hannibal says. "I haven't, yet, but I might."

"As Hannibal says," Yrael nods. "There are many different types of magic to be found in Milliways, as you know. Some kinds are only available to those born into the ability, yes, but there are other kinds that are accessible to anyone who wishes to learn."

"Magic like the Charter may only be accessible to those baptized into the Charter, like Prince Sameth, for example, but anyone with the will to learn and strength of mind can wield Free Magic. And a common use of Free Magic is raising the Dead."

'Sameth never mentioned that.'

Hmm.

He doesn't know what to make of that. Of course part of him yearns towards the idea of learning something, anything, completely new. The rest of him...he's got this plan, and it has an inevitable outcome unless something drastic changes.

'Maybe this isn't the time to be discussing it.'

There's no rush. But he does glance at Hannibal, and asks, 'you'd really learn magic?'