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Rielle: -makes a face at Ishtar- “don’t touch that.”

Ishtar: “Without gloves? Fuck no. He’s all yours, honey.”

Without a reply, Damien's envisioned apocalypse scooped the whiskey right from his fingers and slung a chunk of it back with perturbing grace. Pandora deposited the near empty glass back in his bruised fingers with a lipstick red mark shining like the black dots curse on a sailor's palm. "You look like you've had plenty of hooch and then a few," the woman replied evenly. "You won't get to any of the real goods if you keep that up, sweet cheeks." That'd be all kinds of disagreeable.

“Hey--!” There was a sharp snap of protest from the magician with the bookkeeping prowess beyond enchanted compare that was further punctuated by his swipe of dismay through the air that ended in obtaining absolutely nothing. He tossed the glass aside with a scowl when it was finally returned to him, shooting the woman a withering stare that usually made the most toughened gangsters shrivel up.

But she was so much worse than the worst of them. He really ought to have known better.

“I’m quite fine with the regular goods, like my whiskey and my quiet time,” Damien groused, making a petulant motion at the bartender to bring him a new drink (which was met with a wry look until the petulant motion turned green with dough). “Besides--anything ‘real’ or ‘good’ about you seems questionable, if you’ll excuse my saying so,” he added snidely.

It was almost as if he didn’t notice himself signing his own death certificate.

#rielle-tow

The bartender winced as the woman in red snubbed her third cigarette against the bar, the still burning embers carving dark marks in the wake of ethereal fingers. Then, the destructive beauty let her lips turn to a semblance of a smile and the barkeep quickly turned his gaze. Everyone knew what messing with that sort of dame would cost you, especially one with a name like Pandora. Her namesake had given her destructive habits and as many myths. "Another whiskey sour, peaches. Chop Chop."

Half-sprawled against the bar and looking comparatively down on his luck where looks were concerned was a gangster who’d seen better days, his face half-concealed by a thick glass of whiskey and quite a few shiners. Topped with rumpled dark hair with a pinched expression, the man who was known to work magic for even the shadiest of people eyed the woman who thought she ruled the roost with a dour stare. She wasn’t one to be trifled with.

“If I’m still,” he muttered into his glass decisively, taking another swig and offering the empty remnants to the overworked and arguably-annoyed-looking bartender with a nod, “perhaps she won’t notice me.” Like any other natural disaster or feral animal, though the lady Pandora was definitely more dangerous than both put together.

#rielle-tow