The Triskele Club. Sometimes known as 13 Elm Street. A heavy old wood door in a brick wall with the number '13' in gold letters on the front, and nothing more. From the outside.

Inside, rickety old stairs in dark, ancient, heavy oakwood.

Upstairs, a dim room furnished in green plush and heavy, polishes oak. The lighting is a mix of candleabra and more modern lighting. Drinks are always avaiable. And, off to one side, another door, which leads to a private conference room.

It is in this room that Azrael waits for his fellow gods, sprawled across a dignified and slightly worn old green-plush couch in all his dark glory. His clothing is typical of him-- tight black jeans that emphasize the thinness of his long legs, chains strewn about. A black tanktop, also tight to his skin. A long-sleeved fishnet shirt. Combat boots.

He's holding a drink in one hand, though he's mostly ignoring it, and inspecting the dim light that manages to come in through the dusted-over window and the heavy green drapes.

He did say, ‘after dark’ and it was, the in fact after dark, though it was barely. She had decided to what she had lovingly dubbed, ‘poofle’ and had, for some reason, brought her goat. She couldn’t leave it at home, it was too adorable for that, besides, it would probably have chewed on all of her clothing, and that would mean having to go shopping, and shopping was lousy if you didn’t have a partner.

So she was just, there, sitting in a chair next to Az, like the chair belonged to her and she belonged to the chair and she had never not been in it. The goat was just laying on the ground somewhere.

”Hi Azzy!” Maybe she should start the game, but she somehow feels like she shouldn’t. She’s dressed rather similar to Az, in mostly black, save for the red plaid skirt. Fishnet stockings and shirt are wondrous things.

The goat was still a bit frightened about previous events. It had been stolen off a small ranch from its family by Death and Love and hadn't really had a lot of time to settle in. And the leash was plain annoying. The kid was lying on the floor, chewing contently on the end of the leash, black eyes wide and a chill running through it. Death, Love and Discord. Shudder.

Quite drunk.

Mind, he's almost always quite drunk. And a bit wasted. You can see it around the edges of his eyes, all bared veins between the glowing white. Not so much poetic as messy.

Messy hair. Green, as usual. Longer than some days, skidding about his ears, crimped along the temples. Probably an unintentional willing. Grey-green eyes, flat and a bit dazed, pale skin sloshed with green.

Dionis doesn't seem to remember why he's here. Or if he's here yet. Standing outside the conference room door, staring quite intently at a wall. He forgets if he can see through walls, but it's a lovely wallpaper.

"Knock?", he offers the wall. It remains stoic.

"Knock.. knock?"

A deep frown and he kicks at the paneling like a disappointed six-year-old, leaving a largish dent in the wall.

Coming here gave a sort of feeling of returning home after vacation, which was, to an extent, what Abbalon was doing.

He runs his hand over a countertop, only to recive a handful of dust.
"Eck..." He can help but mutter to himself as he brushes the dust off his fingers and onto his honey-gold trenchcoat.

He glances at Dionis for a moment, deciding it would be best not to make a coment, and enters the conference room where Az Grace, and the goat are.

He makes a nod to the two other gods as a greeting before setting himself down on a loveseat acrost from the two, and pulling out and begining to read a book about the American civil war.

And so the population of the building raises to three Gods and a goat.

Tym, in his normal rocker gear, walked up to his old buddy Dionis. "Ey Di! Need a hand, mate? I think the wall 'ad enough. They don't cower as much as other things do. I'd leave ya here and all but we got some honky tonk of a meeting on the other side of that." Tym points to the wall that Di was kicking. He puts an arm around Di's shoulder. "Eh, hows about we go this way." He points to the door and pushes Di towards it.

San appeared next to Abbalon, sitting nonchalantly in a casual manner, perhaps a bit too close for comfort. It wasn't really anything flashy...Just a bit of red dust and he was there, the great God of war. Yes...Great. He dusted off his own oxblood button down shirt, which was untucked from normal and well-tailored black pants. Over this he wore a black leather coat that reached to his ankles and had curious red stitching as opposed to leather's usually seamless existance. He was wearing black biker boots, which were resting comfortably on the low coffee table between the love seat he and Abbalon shared and the seats of Death and Love. Interesting how those two kept close. Well, interesting to others....San himself didn't really care.

His arm was over the spine of the seat itself, and indirectly over Abbalon's shoulder. He reached out with the opposite hand and lowered the book, before taking it out of the other God's hands entirely. He examined the cover for a moment before tossing it back carelessly.

"Wasn't all that much fun...Honestly. It could've been much better. Not my best work."

Well, nobody said that the people in this meeting had to be major gods... Metel-ddur thought to himself, as his steel knuckles clacked on the wall. Today he had chosen to leave his typical leather garb at home and carry only the impressive hammer he was known for. "Good day, fellows. I do realise I've been lacking in all these meetings... but if you were replaced in domain, wouldn't you recluse?" His usual grumbling about Raijin was, of course, unsurprising.

He sat heavily in a chair, occupying and taking it over completely. "And it makes it worse that my domains fall completely within that little..." he muttered, near-inaudibly.