scorpions, frogs and teamwork: a true story

[fuckin_thirsty]

Who: Deacon Frost and Remy Lebeau
What: Because there's no 'I' in 'team'.
Where: Eliandre's temple in Griss Twist.
When: Two days after this.

They don't lock the doors, here, after dark. One of those places that understands its clientele and the needs of Baedal's citizenry. The dead don't have to worship death, necessarily, but they should at least feel at home.

Wooden doors engraved with justice scales are tested and pushed open by white hands. Inside, the light is kept with fire and electrical lamps that hang from bare rafters, and the space is wide, stone and wood, and there's the scent of dust and preserved hunting trophies - the heads of boars, deer, and even one dusty looking lion with glass eyes mount the walls. Wide windows, set with glass in defiance of the old world sensibilities, show in the nightlife city light, the artificial ambiance beamed off a cloudy sky in ghosting light pollution as opposed to genuine moonshine.

But that's alright too.

It's well after sunset, by now, and Deacon possibly seems out of place in expensively cut and fitted clothes, too much a businessman to be considered a hunter welcomed in this environment, or so appearances would have it seem. He doesn't light a cigarette, but he does absently toy with a silver lighter in jacket pocket as he roams in further, shiny shoes obtrusively sounding against the hard floor.

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[bangyoudead.livejournal.com]

Two days after murdering six men and destroying a building, Gambit is here, dressed as himself and not some underworld alter ego; he knows, dealing with the kind of people he'll be dealing with in this venture, that it might be safer to put up a wall between work and his 'civilian' identity, but - are any of them really civilians anymore? Can he ever pass as one, genuinely, with all he's done?

Probably not. And neither can the collection of children staying in his home, whether he likes the reality of that or not.

Wearing a leather jacket and jeans, Remy slips into the temple - also refraining from smoking - but makes no effort to hide himself as he walks through. He's conspicuous for the way he holds himself (careless with savvy versus stupidity) over the way he looks; this city is too diverse for all of that to stand out over-much, but the set of his shoulders and the ease of his gait says he fears no predator.

For any beings who can smell blood and sense flesh, pulse, and heat: mutants, from a purely taste-based perspective, are similar enough to humans that the unpracticed palate wouldn't be able to distinguish without some serious sommelier dedication. In Remy's case specifically, however, the bio-kinetic energy that thrums through his every molecule puts out a very unique, very strange signature. He's over-heated and strangely-powered ionized, and he's got eyes like the devil.

At the altar, he leaves a slightly battered pack of playing cards, wordless.