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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"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?'

"Of course," Hannibal says. "Some aspects might come in handy eventually."

Yrael snorts lightly. "I'm not surprised the princeling didn't mention it. Free Magic is not the benign, socially-acceptable magic of the Charter. It is chaotic, and often misrepresented as evil by those who do not understand it."

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."

Non-benign. Not socially acceptable. Misrepresented (?) as evil. Chaos.

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.'

Hannibal looks up at the highest floats, smiling at the colourful display. "Yes," he says. "Let's."

"Drinks will be most welcome in this heat." Yrael grins at them, and turns to begin leading the way through the crowd. He is good at insinuating himself through gaps in the crowd, moving with unconscious, catlike grace even in this form. He is aware that he is leading two humans who may have more difficulty making their way through, however, and makes sure they do not lose him in the ever-shifting rush of people. His occasional "excuse me" and "pardon me"s are perfectly polite, but their tone has an edge of insistence to them that helps encourage people to step aside.

Yes, drinks will be nice. So will the luxury of space, when they are no longer threading their way through the crush of people.

Jim hates or loves crowds like this depending on his mood, and the part he's playing. If he were in a good suit on a London street, he'd ice his way through people who are used to stepping aside as a matter of course. But he's not, he's in a New Orleans carnival in casual clothes, so he grins and becomes part of it, melting into bodies like he's always been one of them.

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.

Hannibal follows third, slipping smoothly through the crowd while it is still parted from Yrael and Jim.

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.

Leis and beads and kisses are in greater supply than thieves, but sheer, generic people are in greater supply than either. The going isn't always easy, however skilled Yrael is at weaving between living obstacles. At one point, a thick, impenetrable knot of tourists all in the same lurid orange shirts block the trio's way forward, so Yrael is forced to lead them along to the side of it, to the very edges of the parade way as a large group of brilliantly-colorful, corseted dancers are passing.

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.

Jim's eyes are hard behind his shades, and he fingers the knife in his own pocket. He wouldn't have been so charitable to such a person, and it angers him that they'd try such a thing.

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.

"One of those," Hannibal says. "You once told me you informally train them at times. Did they know you'd be here?"

He follows the other two, smoothly sliding through the remaining dancers.

"Belladonna sets me as a test for those students of her guild who may or may not be worth further training," Yrael grins over his shoulder at his guests. "If they show promise, I may let them pass. If not, they don't."

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."