#seraphfled

[insinkingcities]

There is a creature walking amidst the earned calmness of the Source which people refuse to gaze upon. She wears a crown of fresh flowers, curled fittingly to golden horns that bear no chips or cracks. The facade that Reverence has chosen is befitting of her name, but one that people mistrust nonetheless. She bears no scales of an Au'ra, but the horns and the deep red of her eyes are unsettling regardless. The Lady of Haukke Manor had earned herself a bit of a reputation, though few spoke it to her face directly. Such was the way of the world.

Folded on the edge of his cot, the make of the mattress too lumpy for her tastes, Reverence waited. Waited, and watched, and mused at the pattern of breathing from the Old Magus; fixated on the thrum of his pulse in his throat. It was only when she cleared her throat and spoke that he stirred, and while he moved to conceal his hidden dagger, Reverence knew him well-enough to understand that it had been there. If he didn't have steel, he had magick. He was reliable like that.

"Your tale from two nights ago was a goose chase. I sent little birds to look into it before I committed my time. Did you think I would up and chase adventure like our dear friends so easily? I'm insulted."

Gaze dropped to the gilded polish of her nails -- sharper than a ninja's daggers and just as deadly. She inspected for nicks or dust, only pleased when there were none. A pout marked her lips, stained a deep plum as if from wine, before she returned her attentions to the disturbed Magus.

"Always hungry. Such is the bane of my ways. That you offer your aether so freely never fails to amuse, dear."

And yet, she didn't stir. Attention tracked his pulse once more, and the corners of her lips upturned only slightly. There was danger in the glittering crimson of her eyes -- but there always was.

"Having sweet dreams, I trust?"

@seraphfled // for q, from here.

[insinkingcities]

"There's something comforting about it, something good about feeling sort of numb, detached from it all." The rap tap of a cane against polished tile, the befalling silence of an underworld that bows to the ruler whose shadows crawl along these walls like icy tendrils. Yet with a clap all recedes, hushed whispers resume as the man picks up the mixer and shakes it twice in hand, The woman's presence is new here, but the reputation precedes her, yet he does not judge for judgement is the role of another.

With presence that enthrals he watches, waits to see what is spoken even as a drink not ordered is laid before her. It is a contract, unspoken, a binding agreement that no business will occur within these walls lest she wish for this place to become unavailable to her. With a smirk he watches, waits to see if it is accepted even as he speaks to knowledge that should not be his and yet is. "Wouldn't you agree... Felicia Hardy?"

Loose tendrils of hair pinned to the back of her head tickle at her bare shoulders. Felicia had never been one to complain about the temperature of a room -- call her a little hot-blooded for one reason or another -- but the chill that stole the room was noteworthy. Tongue traced the back of her teeth while dark eyes scoured the shadows for an indication of what the fuck was happening, before they fell onto the caned figure. Maybe this was some Sorcerer's magic. Wouldn't be the first time she had been dragged into their bullshit for one reason or another ... maybe Strange was still irked about her breaking into his archives so long ago.

Her stance shifted to reflect the notion of wholly unimpressed: arms crossed beneath her chest and all of her weight fell to one leg over the other. She remembered dwelling in some hole in the wall in the City for the night, her crew blessed with a good chunk of time off for lack of work, painted as a vacation well-needed and well-earned. Back up was good to have, but in this place she was alone, save for shaded figures she couldn't quite make out having conversations she couldn't quite understand. Felicia hummed one note, a disapproval, before turning attention to the bar.

Now, how did the bartender know what her favorite drink was? Mmn, no, not a Sorcerer. Maybe one of the mutants? She'd have to have a chat with Logan. She'd heard about these sorts of things with Azazel and Nightcrawler. It was only a matter of time before one sought her out, right?

Arms unfurled, she accepted the drink with a sniff, then took a sip. The tart sweetness of the Midori Sour hit her tongue in a pleasant mix before she set the drink back down and wet her lips.

"You have me at a loss, handsome. You know my name, and apparently my reputation, but I don't have the fortune of knowing yours. Clue a girl in, for the sake of even ground?"

[angerworn]

------@seraphfled: ‘ I noticed you already 'borrowed' most of my whiskey ’ (here.)

------THERE WAS SOMETHING deeply twisted about the way she danced around quantis rhea . she didn't trust him as far as she could throw him ( and she was sure he was skinny under those fancy fucking suits ( and fancy suits always made her scoff , anyway )) yet found herself coming back for the tasks he doled out for her . it didn't hurt that the pay was good ... but perhaps she was growing bored in her aging days .

there was a short shelf - life for hunters , after all . if she wasn't taken out by something that she chased ( she could only pray so fucking hard to her gods ) her body would eventually give out .

somehow , rotting away within herself like kevin had was more terrifying that being mercilessly broken like alex .

so here she was , in the sanctuary of neutral ground after hours , aware that the alarm had given her away . she'd tripped it on purpose , after all ... waited for the proprietor of the establishment to waltz in with his well - tailored coattails and the cane that he definitely didn't need . she greeted him from behind the bar - having climbed atop the back counter and claimed the bottle of top shelf whiskey for her own . two glasses were set , the expectation of his arrival well - met , and she already began her tasting by the time he appeared .

" took your sweet time , though . add it to my tab . " and she gestured for her usual seat , waiting for him to claim it so she could pour him for once .

[angerworn]

------SERAPHFLED (QUANTIS): A puff of smoke from his lips, watching the woman, the phantasmal huntress, stalk through the bar's worn wooden doors like a woman on a mission. How aptly the term hell in high heels fit the brown haired lady who saw fit to walk into his bar in such delectable attire. "Morgan, darling, it's been far too long. Am I to assume you're here for business? Or pleasure."

------SHE DESPISED DRESSES . they always rode up , they made fighting a bitch and a half , and at the end of the day there simply was no aesthetic tied to morgan sanders where they were concerned . if she was going to wear one it was with purpose ... and it might as well have been in true morgan fashion .

she was all too familiar with this particular bar . markus had turned her attention to it back when she first let him dip his pen in the ink of her business ( figuratively ... literally ) , and since then it had become a regular haunt . which meant that the bartender ... the owner was a regular face . usually she came here for contracts . occasionally she came to mess with the very same devils whose lives she ended when they stepped out of line .

the smile didn't quite reach her eyes , but a fire entirely other was lit behind near-black hues . elbows came to rest on the bar counter and the way she leaned was nothing short of flirtatious . " quantis . " ( somehow his name was both a greeting and an insult coming from her lips , where every word was sincerely nothing short of venomous at the best of times ) . " what do you have for me ? " straight to work . so why the dress ? @seraphfled