A Couple of Demigods Walk into a Bar...

[Spectre of the Fade]

The two men walking down the street looked...well, out of place. One, who would irritatedly identify himself as Michael if asked, was around six feet tall and very well-kempt with short, carefully styled blond hair, clear blue eyes, and one hell of a bitchface. The other, who would smile and introduce himself as James if asked, was around the same height and also blond, but his messy hair hung to his shoulders and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses. Michael was in a darkwashed pair of jeans and a gray button up, both clean and some sort of name brand. James was in a black tee and a leather jacket, the edges of his back tattoo poking above the low collar of his shirt, and his own jeans were ripped at the knees. It was clear the pair were opposites, in everything from resting expression to gait. Seeing them walking next to one another was an interesting display of contrast.​

Their destination was even more interesting. Some sort of bar for nonhumans. James was intrigued by the place and trusted the recommendation he'd gotten from a friend. Michael didn't trust anything to do with James or his so called 'friends' and disliked anything that involved interacting with people. This would certainly be an interesting evening. Maybe not to Michael, but it would be interesting.​

"Why are we here, James?" Michael had to ask as they approached the entrance of the bar place James had named. His accent was defintely American, maybe from California or somewhere like it. As for their destination, he was thoroughly unimpressed. The place looked small. Unassuming. Not exactly the sort of place the boisterous James would visit. Definitely not the sort of place Michael would visit voluntarily. And he wasn't going voluntarily this time, as James was dragging him along as a 'wingman', whatever that was. "I cannot get drunk. I have no idea what being a 'wingman' means. I hate people. So I ask again, why are we here?"​

"Pull that stick out of your ass, for once, Mikey," James reprimanded, punching Michael lightly in the arm and opening the door to the place. His accent wasn't American, or British, or anything common. No, James was raised in South Africa and he had the accent to match. The bar being so unassuming from the outside didn't dampen his curiosity about the place. He didn't judge places, especially places that served alcohol, by their outside. "A friend recommended this place to me. Non-humans only, so you probably aren't going to be the only weirdo with future visions." He paused, then tried and failed to imitate a 'surfer voice' for the next two words. "Chillax, bro."​

Michael slowly rubbed his temples with his thumbs, wondering not for the first time how he let James drag him anywhere, not to mention how they were even friends in the first place. "You suck at an American accent," he snapped before walking into the bar. James followed after, a smile on his face. He didn't remove his sunglasses, even after entering the building.​

Michael

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James

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[Vivaldi]

Spoiler

Q U O R R A​

Dark curls bounced over pale and exposed shoulders as the owner of the tavern danced across the tables, giving out orders and speaking with some of the customers. She tried to console a weeping wailer as she continuously cried over her lost child, the young tavern owner magically moving her fingers in a circle before a handkerchief appeared and she dabbed the woman’s cheeks. “There there...Quorra understands the pain, but do not worry for the woman’s child is resting peacefully” She gave the wailer a compassionate smile before the ragged looking woman wailed once more and sobbed into the tavern owners bosom. Quorra stayed there for a minute or two before motioning for one of her waitresses to take over, the young woman untangling herself and letting the wailer fall on her server, who gave Quorra a look of distress. “Quorra will tip you well ~<3” Said the tavern owner as she tried to make up for abandoning her employee and took graceful steps towards the counter, where she turned behind it to see her son sitting and reading a book.

Quorra placed a hand on her waist as she looked down at the young boy. God, he might have her eyes, but he was his father. “What is Quorra’s treasure up to?” She asked in a soft tone, moving to sit with him and look over the book, almost letting out a soft grumble as it was not a magical tomb, but instead a book called “The little prince”. Not that Quorra did not like her son learning about everything he wanted or even having other interests aside from her own. But gosh! Would it kill him to study magic a bit more. “Arthur knows, Mother would like him to complete his training...No?” She asked quietly, her son giving her a look and the woman simply sighing. “Arthur should learn more magic. He would be stronger than his mother” She offered, before the boy simply answered with “Magic is troublesome”, earning him a stern look before the woman sighed, hearing the door and feeling a shift in the room as two new clients entered her establishment, her son telling her to go take care of them, as if he was the adult telling his unruly child to behave and go greet the guests. “Well, while Quorra goes to do so, Arthur should go help Noah, since he is behind the counter and not on stage today.”

She said as a quiet command as she quickly stood and smoothed her skirt before walking out from behind the counter and towards the two young men. “Welcome! Would the guests like a seat at the bar or maybe a booth?” She watched them both, eyebrow raised in curiosity. Her red lips pulled back into a smile, revealing her pearly whites.

 

[Vivaldi]

Spoiler

A R T H U R ​

The young boy had been sitting behind the counter, taking a break from helping out in the tavern, by sitting and reading a his new book, the little prince. He had been immersed in it when he felt the presence of his mother, her eyes on him, always watching. He hid his small smile as she took the moment from her busy schedule to sit with him, calling him her treasure. It was no secret that he loved and idolized his mother, but as all children his age, a mother could easily get on their nerves. Specially when it was about studying magic.

Sure, it was cool to be able to do such great things...But he had his reasons to hate it and keep from it. Most of them had to do with his absent father. Not that he would admit it. Not that he cared. “Magic is troublesome, mother…” Was his answer to Quorra and her mild insistence of him paying more attention to his magic training, his head lifting and his eyes fixing on his mother’s ever youthful face. “I have other things I want to do, Mom…” He said quietly before noticing the two new presences inside the tavern, turning back to his book and taking this chance to shoo his mother away. “Mom, don’t keep them waiting…” He said before his mother quipped back to him that he should help Noah, something he was not against, but the order made him roll his eyes a bit as his mother left and he placed his book back inside his bag. “As if Noah needs help…” He said in a quiet tone, before walking towards the young man who was like his uncle. “Mother says I have to help you. What do you need, uncle Noah?” He asked as he leaned against the counter, Smiling as the man twirled bottles of tonics and liquors in his hands.

 

[Vivaldi]

[spoili]

[/spoili]

N O A H​

Noah had been working for Quorra for a couple of years now. He covered the stage with music or his illusions and occasionally assumed the bartender role, when it wasn’t time for his act or when the bartender was out. Today was one of those days where he was needed behind the counter, to send out the drinks and of course, some of the quick trays of food he got from behind the kitchen. His shift had been mostly spent flirting with some of the newcomers, mostly being his silly self. That is until he heard Quorra and Arthur speaking. He had to admit they were heartwarming, even when arguing. They had become his family in the past few years, as he used to be a vagrant up until the woman found him and gave him a home.

His mind had almost wandered back to thoughts of those days when all he would do was travel without any real place to settle down, but the appearance of two young men caught his attention. His eyes on both of them, wondering what they were, as only beings that knew of the supernatural and powers that were not of the humans could enter here. His eyes went from the one that resembled a business man, with his well kept self and bitchface, to the other who resembled a biker with an amused expression and sunglasses. Both were handsome and intriguing and Noah wanted to speak to them. He always liked hearing the life stories of people.

“Huh…?” Noah said as the young son of his boss appeared next to him. Had he been so lost in thought he had not felt him approach? “Mmm? Oh, you wanna help me kid?” He asked with a grin as he grabbed a few bottles and twirled them in his hands and in the air. “How’bout you bring me those glasses and line them up?” He asked of Arthur, whom quickly stood and did as told, before he threw all the bottles in the air and with his power of illusions he made it seem as if they all slowly descended until they were about a foot from the counter, the necks facing down but not letting out the liquids. “Ok kid. Let’s make some scotch and a few gin and tonics.” He said as he grabbed the glasses and held them under the bottles, the liquid slipping out, just enough for each glass to make the drinks. Once done, he waved the bottles away and they fixed themselves on top of the counter. “Ok, that’s done. How about you go to the back and cut up some cheese for the platters.” He ruffled the kid’s hair before continuing his work, his eyes back to the newcomers, his lips smirking a bit as he turned back to his work.

 

[Spectre of the Fade]

"See?" James announced after walking in and getting a good look at the place, a smile stretching across his lips. It was even better on the inside than his friend had claimed it would be. The friend being a werewolf he had a casual arrangement with, but he wasn't going to tell Michael that part. He tended to judge people. Especially people James had had sex with. "Big! Beautiful! The staff is pretty, the food smells good," he added, his line of thought trailing off right along with his voice when he noticed the hostess walking toward them.
He pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, baring both his eyes and his ears. Both were odd in their own ways. His eyes were a shade of blue that was far more suited to a cat than a human, and the irises in them were shaped in an odd fashion. Just a little too large, maybe? His were also catlike, but more lion-esque than triangular. It was likely they were the reason he grew his hair out. "My friend and I would like seats at the bar, if it pleases the beautiful lady," he responded after Quorra had asked her question, bright smile turning into a more charming one.

♤

The bar was less gross than Michael had assumed it would be, he'd give it that. No ear-splittingly loud music, no vomiting, no tiny cramped space. It was even clean. But then, he didn't know how well this place did when compared to other drinking establishments. He'd only ever been in one before this one, and that was the club his mother insisted on dragging him to for his twenty first birthday. He'd had a migraine that day, and the music helped exactly none. His mother drank til she was sick. He discovered he could not get drunk. It was not a pleasant night.
James called it 'beautiful', but James had questionable taste in drinking establishments, so his opinion was invalid.
He made a noise of disgust when he realized James was trying to hit on the hostess while he was preoccupied with looking around. Was that what a wingman did? Sit and watch and drink awkwardly while the person who brought them failed at flirting with everyone in the bar? That sounded miserable and boring. It was hard to imagine why James even bothered trying to drag him out to be around people anymore. "The bar will be fine, I suppose. Could I possibly get something to eat?" he asked after James had finished, arms crossing over his chest.​