[Barring the ominous nature of the meeting altogether, Eridanus was somewhat hopeful to put a stranger's name on the screen to a face. He was always the type to get a leg up on things, and he saw this matter as simply an extension of that.
Plus, he was getting very tired of the slabs of meat Traejan kept pulling from the freezer.
He had yet to attend a public bar since arriving in Ryslig, why would he, when he already had all he needed at home? In fact, it wasn't until the "Fat Lady" was in view that the thought occurred to him that he had never been to a public bar. All of his public drinking had been done in attendance of upscale brunches and soirรฉes. There was an amused quirk that captured one side of his mouth as he thought about it, about how Ryslig was giving him the opportunity for many firsts.
Eridanus entered the bar, his tufted ears poised upwards as he keenly searched about the room for his midnight rendezvous. Even without his long ears to give him away, he easily stood at least a head above the average human, and after a moment, he reasoned that it would be easier for the other to find him; considering he seemed to have some concept of elven physiognomy.
He made amends with the thought and instead of continuing his search, pushed past drunken patrons to get to the bar. He smoothed his hands over his muted, black suit before leaning against the counter. Long, claw-tipped fingers flagged down the tender with haste, and as the apprehensive human approached, his lips parted and bared sharpening teeth.]
( Slade is going to have to stop meeting random people from the internet. You know, eventually. Back home, it was the most reliable way to approach business โ though using the dark web and reliable in the same thought might be a bit oxymoronic. The layout of RSDOS isn't too far removed from the fabled, red-lit webpages asking for murder in change for any number of zeroes after the dollar sign. Assassin work got easier when encryption became common knowledge; long gone were the days of word of mouth and assignments taken on solely based on the request of others. With the dark web, he's able to find marks straight at their source.
Not that his date for the evening would know anything about that.
Still, he's used to meeting strange people at strange hours of the night. The main difference here is that in Ryslig, both parties tend to leave the encounter alive. There are other differences, like how 'strange people' has taken on the working definition of 'strange monsters with extra arms where their ribs should be'. That was a doctor. He's met another doctor with empty spaces that took the place of wrists, and yet another doctor who wore a box on his head for undisclosed reasons.
Re: Strange.
But Eridanus' strategy worked. It's a little hard to miss the buff, towering, shiny elf, and that's coming from a buff, towering nephilim who smells of strawberries and brown sugar oatmeal. It's a good thing the two of them are on good terms; it would be hard to avoid each other. )
Not Santa's variety of elf, then. Looks like less Legolas and more Bane. ( He pauses, any fascination in watching a skittish human do his best to fix a drink falling away. ) Which century are you from, again? It'll help me to tailor my references accordingly.
[When suddenly there's a voice next to him, deep and graveled, Eridanus turns to see just who has saddled up next to him. He leans a bit away at the sight of wings, something you get used to doing when you live with a gargoyle, but overall, his rendezvous is probably more on the normal side of looks when it comes to strangers he's met off the internet. His long ears remain perked, adding to his towering height, just so he can hear those breathy words against the cacophony of conversations within the bar.
A small grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, the bottom half of his jaw slowly being consumed by iridescent, black jewels that glitter under the low lights above them.] I am guessing this is another one of your human jokes. [He responds wryly, but he doesn't seem unamused by the words.
His train of thought is briefly interrupted as the bartender presents his brandy, though he wastes no time delicately wrapping knife-tipped claws around the base of the snifter. As he brings the drink to his mouth, those same long claws mock his date. While all monsters were deadly in their own right, Eridanus is still getting used to just how obvious his dangers present. He is much more used to a subtle threat, after all.]
Day 46 of Autumn, year 15,832. I doubt our calendars transition across time and space though, so you can just call me Eridanus, and who are you? I didn't know Valkyr came in "handsome male." [He sets his glass down, and while his words may seem flirty, the expression on his visage is one of seriousness, as if he's waiting for this nephilim to give him a reason to fight.]
Another joke from Earth-That-Was, yeah. [ Or is it Earth-Prime now? The Justice League has caused so many global catastrophes that Slade's stopped counting which reality they've entered. His job is the same in all of them.
It's not often that he meets people that can challenge his height, though it's been more of a common occurrence since arriving here. He hasn't decided on how he feels about it. Back home, Slade was the one taller than Batman of all people, but even that point of reference falls flat here. Unlike Eridanus, Slade is able to mention the shortcomings of life back home and have it resonate with the general population. Slade, for one, still isn't sure what separates an elf from a gremlin in Eridanus' world.
The odd look and the even odder compliment he gets from his new companion isn't enough to scare him away. A juxtaposition between his words and his expressionm it only makes Slade raise an eyebrow before he offers his name: ] Slade Wilson. Colonel if you're feeling fancy.
Before either of us forget. [ If this guy wants to brawl, he's going to have to wait until after Slade tucks two fingers into his breast pocket and produces a small, neatly folded piece of paper. He sets the sheet down against the bar and slides it over to Eridanus as if it's some elicit, high-end set of instructions on murder instead of a humble recipe for stew jotted in Handsome Jack's tight, surprisingly natural scrawl. ] From my guy. Can't say I've tried the recipe out myself. I'm not that type.
[ When he waves the bartender over, he orders himself a White Russian and frowns at the bartender's confusion. Still too new, apparently, despite being a cocktail seven decades old. Changing that order to a whiskey sour seems to do the trick. ]
[Eridanus eyes the folded note, and whatever defensive hostility he had been holding onto fades away. His shoulders relax, and he takes another sip of his brandy before running his thumb over the rim. His free hand takes the note, pressing the opalite pads of his fore and middle fingers against the paper and sliding it towards himself. As he unfolds it, his head tilts back to get a better look at the scrawl through his glasses.]
Not the type to cook, or not the type to enjoy a stew? [He asks, and there's a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice.
His eyes follow the bartender as the drink is poured, his attention momentarily drawn to what Slade had ordered. He'd never heard of either of the drinks the man asked after, and he considers himself a connoisseur.]
And how did you come to work for this "guy". You seem to be guarding his identity, but I assure you, I'm really only interested in the food. It would be nice to meet someone who's got the recipes already written downโrather than buying a meal off of him, perhaps he can teach me the skills himself.
Not the type to eat a person. [ And just in case Eridanus is sensitive about his diet: ] No offense. 'm sure your Chef Boyarde tastes great.
I'm not one of the ones holding off, either. I get it. I respect it. Got more concerns about the ones that don't hold off than the ones that do. Can't trust a guy who accepts cannibalism overnight.
[ Sure, there's the distinction between the humans and the monsters. Slade may not look very human these days, but he's a far cry from seeing the others as somehow beneath him because of it. ]
And how does anyone meet anyone around here? I found him on Monster Craigslist and offered to buy him a drink, same as you. Works for everyone... You mean you haven't been making friends with the locals yet? [ It's a bit off-topic, but he manages to circle back around before the conversation gets ahead of itself. ] I'll pass the word along.
[ Chances are a guy who openly talks about his meat shack on the network doesn't have many reservations about his identity. That's more of a Slade thing. Thirty years working in the shadows and you learn how to deal in few details. ]
[There's a moment of stillness to Eridanus at Slade's words, where he takes in the man's features, once sharp but weathered with age and no doubt the wisdom that came with it. There is a familiarity to the way his flesh wrinkles and creases around words and emotions, as if almost gazing into a mirror. Dull eyes that have seen things better left unsaid, and roughened hands that could tell more tales than words could ever express. Eridanus tips his brandy to his lips, relishing the acrid taste of the liquor as it coats his tongue and throat, a suitable replacement for the venom he could have unleashed upon the monster at his side.
He is fully aware that not everyone will walk in his shoes, understand his reasons, nor justify his desires. But the idea that their differences would make Slade even a fraction of a better person is a laughable one at best. Even Eridanus knew there are times when stubbornness in refusal of fate was foolhardy, and in the end, humans would be a food source for all monsterkind, whether they liked it or not.]
I don't meet with strangers off of the network often, not unless they have something I want. [Eridanus corrects him, because it is a very important distinction that needs to be outlinedโthat he is cautious too, and that should anything happen to him, others would know.] Considering there are monsters more powerful than I am, it would be foolish to meet with just anyone. That is how you get yourself killed if there's even a hint of betrayal in the air.
[Gaurded is a word that could describe Eridanus, but it's not without merit. The way his shoulders remain slightly stiffened, as if ready to pounce away at the slightly spark of tension, is a practiced one. His hands that are coated in glittering opal with pointed dagger-ends, were once smooth and dainty, unlike the roughened paws of a warrior. Even his size, large as it may be now, is akin to an animal that puffs itself to appear intimidating, rather than the trained physique of a practiced fighter. The air around the elf-troll is dubious at best, as if every word and twitch of the body that passes between them, was being cataloged strategiously within his mind. ]
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no subject
Plus, he was getting very tired of the slabs of meat Traejan kept pulling from the freezer.
He had yet to attend a public bar since arriving in Ryslig, why would he, when he already had all he needed at home? In fact, it wasn't until the "Fat Lady" was in view that the thought occurred to him that he had never been to a public bar. All of his public drinking had been done in attendance of upscale brunches and soirรฉes. There was an amused quirk that captured one side of his mouth as he thought about it, about how Ryslig was giving him the opportunity for many firsts.
Eridanus entered the bar, his tufted ears poised upwards as he keenly searched about the room for his midnight rendezvous. Even without his long ears to give him away, he easily stood at least a head above the average human, and after a moment, he reasoned that it would be easier for the other to find him; considering he seemed to have some concept of elven physiognomy.
He made amends with the thought and instead of continuing his search, pushed past drunken patrons to get to the bar. He smoothed his hands over his muted, black suit before leaning against the counter. Long, claw-tipped fingers flagged down the tender with haste, and as the apprehensive human approached, his lips parted and bared sharpening teeth.]
Brandy, neat please.
no subject
Not that his date for the evening would know anything about that.
Still, he's used to meeting strange people at strange hours of the night. The main difference here is that in Ryslig, both parties tend to leave the encounter alive. There are other differences, like how 'strange people' has taken on the working definition of 'strange monsters with extra arms where their ribs should be'. That was a doctor. He's met another doctor with empty spaces that took the place of wrists, and yet another doctor who wore a box on his head for undisclosed reasons.
Re: Strange.
But Eridanus' strategy worked. It's a little hard to miss the buff, towering, shiny elf, and that's coming from a buff, towering nephilim who smells of strawberries and brown sugar oatmeal. It's a good thing the two of them are on good terms; it would be hard to avoid each other. )
Not Santa's variety of elf, then. Looks like less Legolas and more Bane. ( He pauses, any fascination in watching a skittish human do his best to fix a drink falling away. ) Which century are you from, again? It'll help me to tailor my references accordingly.
no subject
A small grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, the bottom half of his jaw slowly being consumed by iridescent, black jewels that glitter under the low lights above them.] I am guessing this is another one of your human jokes. [He responds wryly, but he doesn't seem unamused by the words.
His train of thought is briefly interrupted as the bartender presents his brandy, though he wastes no time delicately wrapping knife-tipped claws around the base of the snifter. As he brings the drink to his mouth, those same long claws mock his date. While all monsters were deadly in their own right, Eridanus is still getting used to just how obvious his dangers present. He is much more used to a subtle threat, after all.]
Day 46 of Autumn, year 15,832. I doubt our calendars transition across time and space though, so you can just call me Eridanus, and who are you? I didn't know Valkyr came in "handsome male." [He sets his glass down, and while his words may seem flirty, the expression on his visage is one of seriousness, as if he's waiting for this nephilim to give him a reason to fight.]
no subject
It's not often that he meets people that can challenge his height, though it's been more of a common occurrence since arriving here. He hasn't decided on how he feels about it. Back home, Slade was the one taller than Batman of all people, but even that point of reference falls flat here. Unlike Eridanus, Slade is able to mention the shortcomings of life back home and have it resonate with the general population. Slade, for one, still isn't sure what separates an elf from a gremlin in Eridanus' world.
The odd look and the even odder compliment he gets from his new companion isn't enough to scare him away. A juxtaposition between his words and his expressionm it only makes Slade raise an eyebrow before he offers his name: ] Slade Wilson. Colonel if you're feeling fancy.
Before either of us forget. [ If this guy wants to brawl, he's going to have to wait until after Slade tucks two fingers into his breast pocket and produces a small, neatly folded piece of paper. He sets the sheet down against the bar and slides it over to Eridanus as if it's some elicit, high-end set of instructions on murder instead of a humble recipe for stew jotted in Handsome Jack's tight, surprisingly natural scrawl. ] From my guy. Can't say I've tried the recipe out myself. I'm not that type.
[ When he waves the bartender over, he orders himself a White Russian and frowns at the bartender's confusion. Still too new, apparently, despite being a cocktail seven decades old. Changing that order to a whiskey sour seems to do the trick. ]
no subject
Not the type to cook, or not the type to enjoy a stew? [He asks, and there's a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice.
His eyes follow the bartender as the drink is poured, his attention momentarily drawn to what Slade had ordered. He'd never heard of either of the drinks the man asked after, and he considers himself a connoisseur.]
And how did you come to work for this "guy". You seem to be guarding his identity, but I assure you, I'm really only interested in the food. It would be nice to meet someone who's got the recipes already written downโrather than buying a meal off of him, perhaps he can teach me the skills himself.
no subject
I'm not one of the ones holding off, either. I get it. I respect it. Got more concerns about the ones that don't hold off than the ones that do. Can't trust a guy who accepts cannibalism overnight.
[ Sure, there's the distinction between the humans and the monsters. Slade may not look very human these days, but he's a far cry from seeing the others as somehow beneath him because of it. ]
And how does anyone meet anyone around here? I found him on Monster Craigslist and offered to buy him a drink, same as you. Works for everyone... You mean you haven't been making friends with the locals yet? [ It's a bit off-topic, but he manages to circle back around before the conversation gets ahead of itself. ] I'll pass the word along.
[ Chances are a guy who openly talks about his meat shack on the network doesn't have many reservations about his identity. That's more of a Slade thing. Thirty years working in the shadows and you learn how to deal in few details. ]
no subject
He is fully aware that not everyone will walk in his shoes, understand his reasons, nor justify his desires. But the idea that their differences would make Slade even a fraction of a better person is a laughable one at best. Even Eridanus knew there are times when stubbornness in refusal of fate was foolhardy, and in the end, humans would be a food source for all monsterkind, whether they liked it or not.]
I don't meet with strangers off of the network often, not unless they have something I want. [Eridanus corrects him, because it is a very important distinction that needs to be outlinedโthat he is cautious too, and that should anything happen to him, others would know.] Considering there are monsters more powerful than I am, it would be foolish to meet with just anyone. That is how you get yourself killed if there's even a hint of betrayal in the air.
[Gaurded is a word that could describe Eridanus, but it's not without merit. The way his shoulders remain slightly stiffened, as if ready to pounce away at the slightly spark of tension, is a practiced one. His hands that are coated in glittering opal with pointed dagger-ends, were once smooth and dainty, unlike the roughened paws of a warrior. Even his size, large as it may be now, is akin to an animal that puffs itself to appear intimidating, rather than the trained physique of a practiced fighter. The air around the elf-troll is dubious at best, as if every word and twitch of the body that passes between them, was being cataloged strategiously within his mind. ]