Yrael, the Eighth Bright Shiner (
mogget_cat) wrote2016-06-20 03:00 pm
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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."
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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"What sort of resurrection would you be interested in?"
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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.
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"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."
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'...what?'
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"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."
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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?'
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Chaos is not evil. The breaking down of order is not evil. Entropy is not evil. It just is.
That Free Magic is the natural magic of the world, the magic from which the Charter was woven, tends to be forgotten.
"We might speak more about it over supper, perhaps," he suggests, glancing at the nearby tower of the St. Louis cathedral by Jackson Square, ostensibly to check the time on the clock there. "We should probably begin making our way that direction, in any case. The restaurant is a few blocks east of here, and we'll have the crowd to contend with between here and there."
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All his very favourite things.
Jim taps his fingertips on his leg in a rhythm that's by now second nature and nods, glad he's wearing shades. Then he allows his focus to be distracted by a particularly beautiful mutant boy dancing by, whom he smirks at and receives a grin from in return.
'Good idea,' he says absently, and pulls his focus back.
'I could definitely do with a drink.'
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Yes, drinks will be nice. So will the luxury of space, when they are no longer threading their way through the crush of people.
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He pickpockets a couple of people just for the hell of it; one a guy who spills a few drops of his beer on his arm - this wallet gets tossed in the first trashcan he passes; the next from a man of his general height, colouring and build, who's ID he steals before dropping the wallet on the floor. You never know, it might come in handy.
And the music's good, people chuck leis around his neck, a girl kisses him on the cheek. It's fine. It's New Orleans.
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He cheerfully thanks everybody who gives him a lei, beads, or a kiss; but when somebody reaches into his pocket, the wrist in question gets slapped sharply.
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As Yrael is trying to urge a particularly recalcitrant parade-goer to step forward and thus clear them a path, a dancer in a lime-green wig, sparkly green make-up, dark blue opera gloves, purple corset and silvery, splintery skirt seemingly made of tinsel and silver ribbons catches Yrael's wrist and tries to tug him out into the dance.
But the Bright Shiner doesn't exactly want to be pulled into the whirling mass of colorful dancers while trying to escort his guests to dinner, and pulls his hand back sharply to free it. The dancer holds on tight and is pulled forward, stumbling awkwardly - but purposefully - into Yrael.
Who then laughs in surprise. "Well done. Full marks," Yrael says cheerfully, placing a light kiss on the dancer's cheek before gripping their hand and twirling them back out into the passing group of their fellow dancers. The dancer has no choice but to go on with the parade or risk blowing their cover.
"We're almost there," Yrael assures Jim and Hannibal, folding shut and pocketing the confiscated knife. Thankfully his shirt and vest were cut only slightly, and in a place on his side where it wouldn't show very much.
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If you're going to be so blatant, have the decency to be good enough not to get caught.
'Good,' he says to Yrael, simply because when his mood dips crowds are the last place he wants to be. But food should bounce him back up again, and if it doesn't then music certainly will.
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He follows the other two, smoothly sliding through the remaining dancers.
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Yrael gently insists that a couple - very much enamored of one another and not inclined to pay attention to the outside world - take a slight step to the side, and leads Jim and Hannibal through the resulting gap.
"They could be reasonably certain I would be somewhere enjoying the festival, though I was expecting an attempt from the usual places - rooftops, deserted alleys, the cathedral tower. They came from an unexpected quarter, in an attempt that relied upon being an expected part of the parade experience. And I respect that. Had I been human, their attempt may have succeeded. The blade is only big enough to nick or wound unless applied with specific precision; it was treated with some sort of venom, I expect, that would only come to bear some time after the blade was used. Long enough for the assassin to continue on with their part in the parade before making their getaway."
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The costumes and make-up would help, too. He can't help thinking that Sherlock would enjoy solving such a murder and makes a mental note to consider setting one up for him back in London, if there's time.
He brushes off a woman approaching with yet another lei - bored of them now - and says, 'will you let that one pass?' to Yrael.
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He leads them on, to the edges of the crowd near the row of buildings. The smells of spices and good creole cooking mingle with the smells of the city.
"They would know that I am hard to kill, at the very least, and that I am fully capable of retaliating to failed attacks. They knew I would be participating in the festival, as well, and utilized the public space and the crowd to both mask their approach and prevent any immediate retaliation from me. They knew that someone being so obviously killed in a parade crowd by someone so colorfully attired would be both bad form for an assassin and would make their escape difficult, so they chose a smaller blade, and I presume a venom that would take some time to fully manifest."
"It did not work, of course, but the attempt was well made. I should like to see them complete their studies." Yrael smiles, opening an etched glass door of a 19th century French-Creole style building with a gentle gust of cool, spiced air. The etching on the glass declares this to be Restaurant August. He gestures for his guests to enter, for they have arrived.
Within, all is golden. Through a door to their left is one of the main dining room, three walls a golden damask and the last unfinished brick, with crystal chandeliers hanging down from the high ceilings. To their right is a richly wood-paneled bar, and in front of them is another dining room, paneled in warm mahogany. A wrought-iron railing edges the stairs and balcony, behind which intricately-carved wooden screens shield private dining spaces from view.
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'Setting a trainee loose on you is a steep learning curve.'
He approves.
'Can I get anyone a drink?'
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"Drinks would be nice, thank you," he says. "I do like the contrasts of this place.
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"We have a little while before our reservation time. A drink would be much appreciated, yes, thank you," Yrael steps into the bar area with them. "A Sazerac for me, I think."
He likes to taste individual establishments' takes on the local classic.
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