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multiversallogs2011-11-13 08:29 am
molotovmartinis.livejournal.com) wrote in multiversallogs2011-11-13 08:29 am
Entry tags:
open log: mOuOm
Who: Balthazar and anybody
What: creeping, most likely
Where: here and there, hither and thither
When: whenever is convenient
Notes: Balthazar's permissions! If you don't have yours done, please do them before tagging me, so that I don't godmode anyone.
Warnings: Senator Ickyface is Chairman of Creepery, and generally unpleasant. Grossness could happen! ... it's kind of always a possibility with him.
His room at the Valhalla Inn stays, for the most part, empty and unused. Sometimes he puts things there just in case anyone is checking, and he drops by every few days to pester Fish at night. He's come no closer to figuring out what exactly Fish is, but he's wary of using magic in Baedal; nothing feels right, or rather, the way he's used to, and besides, it's more fun this way.
Day and night he wanders Baedal. He's been in most of the city by now, sometimes shielded from the general view by his illusory powers, sometimes layered in illusion, and sometimes, as he is now, out in the open. Adaptation of his image is absolutely necessary, which he is accustomed to due to his many years on earth; Baedal lacks the sheer volume of material greed that an industrialized society supports and maintains, but gold is still a motivator. He has not entirely abandoned the suit, but today it is less obnoxious. The tie, however, is still horrendous.
Today he moves among people, gently sowing casual chaos. Occasionally he utilizes his powers to pick a pocket, but only to transfer the money to someone else's. He looks at people hard, trying to learn the subtleties and nuances of their nature to determine what exactly they are. At home, he used four basic categories: celestial, infernal, human, and non-human. These are entirely inadequate even just out on the street. And, too, he knows that probably some of them can see him the same way he's seeing them — but he's hardly that weird in comparison to many xenians, so the reaction is muted. It's interesting and novel to him, and he's looking out for those slight and small tells.
What: creeping, most likely
Where: here and there, hither and thither
When: whenever is convenient
Notes: Balthazar's permissions! If you don't have yours done, please do them before tagging me, so that I don't godmode anyone.
Warnings: Senator Ickyface is Chairman of Creepery, and generally unpleasant. Grossness could happen! ... it's kind of always a possibility with him.
His room at the Valhalla Inn stays, for the most part, empty and unused. Sometimes he puts things there just in case anyone is checking, and he drops by every few days to pester Fish at night. He's come no closer to figuring out what exactly Fish is, but he's wary of using magic in Baedal; nothing feels right, or rather, the way he's used to, and besides, it's more fun this way.
Day and night he wanders Baedal. He's been in most of the city by now, sometimes shielded from the general view by his illusory powers, sometimes layered in illusion, and sometimes, as he is now, out in the open. Adaptation of his image is absolutely necessary, which he is accustomed to due to his many years on earth; Baedal lacks the sheer volume of material greed that an industrialized society supports and maintains, but gold is still a motivator. He has not entirely abandoned the suit, but today it is less obnoxious. The tie, however, is still horrendous.
Today he moves among people, gently sowing casual chaos. Occasionally he utilizes his powers to pick a pocket, but only to transfer the money to someone else's. He looks at people hard, trying to learn the subtleties and nuances of their nature to determine what exactly they are. At home, he used four basic categories: celestial, infernal, human, and non-human. These are entirely inadequate even just out on the street. And, too, he knows that probably some of them can see him the same way he's seeing them — but he's hardly that weird in comparison to many xenians, so the reaction is muted. It's interesting and novel to him, and he's looking out for those slight and small tells.
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Probably the biggest indicator that she isn't, though, is that after a quick beat, she drops her pseudo-hot dog and starts running towards him like her life depends on it.
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Or maybe she was, because her expression morphs into one of determination, pain, anger, a lifetime of repressed negativity just pouring out of her eyes. And then she slaps him.
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He'll take that slap, and pause with his head turned away before very cautiously turning back toward Penelope. At the last moment, he remembers he should probably touch his face, and does so. That look — he's sure she sees what he is now even if she didn't before, but the act is for the people watching, because when a lady runs up to a dude in the bazaar and slaps him, that's free entertainment. His expression is still that perfectly puzzled one, but she's probably close and sensitive enough to see the brief glitter of red in his eyes.
"Gosh," he says first, a quiet parody of surprise. "You know, I think you may have mistaken me for someone else... but let me just say, I don't mind that much."
The smile remains a disgusting potential without quite making it onto his face.
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"What are you," she hisses at him, her normally-apathetic voice dripping with hate. It's rather like when an animal puffs itself up to try to fool bigger badder predators. "What have you done to him?"
He has her father's face; ergo, he took it from him.
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"I'm sorry to say that could refer to so many people," he finally says, the mildness a sugarcoating for the spiky amusement in his voice. His tie does not need straightening, but he does it anyway, and with careful slowness, reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket to retrieve a business card, which he will offer to Penelope if that doesn't make her react violently. The card has his name — Blake Angler, that is — and CiD number.
"Do you possibly mean John?" Because that's the last person he did anything to, and it wouldn't be weird for Constantine to be consorting with witches, even if he would almost certainly know of Penelope were that the case. But who knows how long he's been in Hell.
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This is not her father. This person, if he is in fact a person, does not even know who her father is. If he knew, he would have recognized her right away. (She has been told that she looks just like him.) She wouldn't have the first clue who John is, either, and she opens her mouth to say so, but the words don't come, because who cares? Something deep in her primordial brain tells her Run, and she does.
She makes sure to kick him in the shin first, though.