Logs:Birthday Presence
| Birthday Presence | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-10-20 "Want a game?" |
| Location
<AZ> Sharp Shooters - Tucson | |
This bar is not as packed on a Sunday afternoon as it will be later in the night. There are a couple of people playing darts at the back, one of the pool tables has a very serious looking game underway, two men looking already fairly hammered up at the bar. Joshua is not yet drunk and is not yet playing any pool. He's slouched at a booth nearby the pool tables, his cue case on the bench beside himself and a mostly-empty pitcher of beer in front of him -- judging by the other cases on the bench opposite, the other glasses, the familiar-interested way he's intermittently watching the game in play in between scrolling through his phone, he at least has not been drinking this all alone. He is blandly dressed, jeans and an old FDNY tee shirt, black-flag-embroidered red kippah on his shaggy hair. He's slouched low in the bench, grimacing at the news and then flicking away from it to grimace at a half-finished crossword puzzle. Damien might look a little bit lost, as he slips into the bar. His outfit -- a faintly pearlescent white shirt with generous sleeves, its collar cinched with a a crimson cravat, a shiny metallic black waistcoat, a red sash belt holding a silver chatelaine bag whose intricate maille work appears to shift and turn, leather trousers tucked into knee-high red boots with polished silver hardware -- doesn't exactly fit the casual vibe. He is breezy enough with the greeting he offers the bartender, and before long is striding over to Joshua's table with a refreshed pitcher of beer. "Want a game?" Joshua has tabbed over from his crossword puzzle to a dictionary, flipping back over once he is done to insert IRE into one of the answers. He has slouched further into the bench, and somewhere between this and his complete lack of reaction it's clear he's long since clocked Damien's arrival. He scrolls through several clues without even bothering to really consider them but then stops with a grimace to add EULOGY. "{Need something?}" "{Oh so very many things. I imagine when I run out of needs I will simply have perished -- though perhaps not even after then. Hard to predict, these days.}" Damien sets the pitcher down in front of Joshua, and does not sit. He flicks at the ornate clasp on his bag, reaching into it -- the first thing he pulls out is a small handful of coins, that he frowns at and then tips back, but the next thing is a seashell, or looks like a seashell, jet-black and banded with slightly a iridescent blue spiraling pattern, its inside a shimmering oilslick of colors. He sets it face-down in front of Joshua. "{I have come to understand that gifts are a custom of your kind, on the occasion of your successful survival for another rotation around your sun.}" This does pull Joshua's gaze up, eyes wider with a sudden surprise. He flips his phone face-down on the table and draws the seashell closer. He's running a finger against the spiral, and his mouth twitches. A little too tired to be really amused, but he's working up to it. "{Real accomplishment, some years.}" He's almost picking up the seashell, but pulls his hand abruptly back. He eyes the gift -- and then the gifter -- suspiciously. "S'this going to eat me?" "Would you like one that eats you?" There's a hopeful upward lilt on this question. "Your friends do mourn so very enthusiastically, it could be quite flattering to die for a time." Damien drops his hand to the table; a nimble flick of motion sends the shell spinning coin-like up between his fingers until he settles it pincered lightly between two fingertips. "{You seem so viciously committed to this life of yours, I thought...}" He's hesitating a moment, before continuing. "I know our names can give your human tongues some difficulty. I thought perhaps if you found yourself in undergoing some interdimensional trials again and were in need of --" He lowers his eyes, then brings the shell up near his mouth. Whatever he whispers to it is barely audible, but when he holds the shell closer to Joshua's ear it is echoing, not with the expected sea-roar but some otherworldly melody. "You can have the rest of your year back. And if you need aid in future, you will know how to call." Joshua blinks slow. His brows lift. He just stares at Damien in flat silence for a few seconds, until some anxiety prompted by Damien's Entire Existence spurs him to clarify explicitly: "Rather not die, th--" The thanks of this, sardonic as it was, gutters out at the sound. His head tips closer, enough so that his shaggy dark hair spills down over Damien's fingertips as he listens. He lifts his hand, plucking the shell from Damien and cupping it close. His fingers close around it very delicately, knuckles slightly trembling as he drops his forehead to rest on his fist. "Thanks." Another silence follows. He doesn't lift his head for a while. When he does, his hand is empty, freed up to pour another beer. He picks it up as he stands, head jerking to an empty table. "I'll take that game." Damien's fingers have curled, too, albeit on nothing, his empty hand drawing back to rest lightly over his chest. His head inclines, deep. His smile is soft when he looks back up, but sharpened somewhat by the mischievous glint of his eyes. "This time you can pick the wager." | |
