At close to eleven the pub was only beginning to fill up. The tourists were all gone, having left quite a bit earlier in the evening to wash up and head out for dinner somewhere swanky and expensive. In that past, Gary was often present at those swanky dinners, trying to acquire more clientele for his father's very large and over-bearing company. The cooperate world was boring at times, especially at shmooze sessions in facy restaurants.

One of the many reasons why Gary preferred The Twa Corbies.

He sat at the bar, alone, his pint of Guinness grasped tightly in one hand as he turned over a shining bronze brooch in the other. Gary's already squinty green eyes were slitted as he scrutinized the craftsmanship of the brooch. It was a traditional celtic knot, perhaps even a little cliche in its repetition on nearly everything trying to appear irish. The brooch was another reason Gary decided to hit The Twa Corbies.

"To think; I paid a nice sum for this and it's probably another fake," he murmured quietly, his voice deep and slightly nasal. With an exasperated sort of grunt, he lifted his Guinness and downed nearly half of it, slamming the glass back on the table. The dark liquid sloshed around wildly nearly going over onto the bar, but Gary failed to notice. His gaze was back on the brooch, wondering if there was any way to test it, to see if it was indeed what he was looking for.

The door to The Twa Corbies opened once again, but Gary was too occupied to notice anyone walking in or out.

A exceedingly pale hand grasps the back of the chair across from Gary.

"Mind if I sit here?"

The bony white fingers are attached to a bony white wrist which, in turn, is attached to an arm and, eventually, to a tall, lanky young man. His attire is a bit at odds with the old-world atmosphere of the pub-- heavy combat boots, tight black bellbottoms, a similarly tight black tank top covered by a slightly ragged fishnet shirt. His skin is so white he might as well have been wearing pancake makeup, if it weren't so clear that it is his actual skin. His hair is bleached white as well, gelled up in loose, slightly curled tufts. His eyes are odd, and the subject of at least one or two historical mage texts... white whites, white iris with a black ring separating the two.

The God of Death and Dreaming grins, inviting a positive answer.

"Not quite," Gary replied slowly without looking up from the brooch he was so keen on figuring out. Book titles whirled about in his mind as he tried to figure out where he had read about this particular symbol and how to prove its power. The brilliance of the 'young man's' hand on the back of the dark wood of the chair was caught in the thirty-two year old's periphery which could only stimulate his curiosity. Gareth looked up and followed the abnormally pale hand to the wrist, up the arm, to the white iris' that could not be human unless this was just some kid trying out his new contacts.

Gary sort of hoped that was the case at first, but something from a book or two he had memorized some years ago prevented him from realizing such hopes. He stared openly and it was a wonder that his mouth had not yet fallen open in astonishment.

The grin blossoms like some strange nocturnal flower. Azrael likes to be recognized.

He sits himself, folding his spidery limbs into the chair and draping an elbow over the back of it, watching Gary's face and soaking his his reaction.

he doesn't speak. yet.

Gary continued to stare for a few more minutes before deciding to perhaps, take advantage of his luck? He wasn't sure if you could actually call it luck, but it isn't everyday a mere human gets the chance to share a bar table with a God. No, most definitely not. Gary gave his overly large nose a rub as if he couldn't seem to find anything else to do with his hands. Dropping the brooch beside his own pint of Guinness, he cleared his throat and gave his head a tiny shake.

"So, ah, can I, ah, buy you something?" He asked hesitantly, wondering for a brief moment if regular alcohol was enough for a God. Apparently they hadn't covered such things in the books he had been looking at.

Grin.

He shakes his head. "No, that's fine. I'm not thirsty."

If the voice hasn't been described yet, it's worth describing. There's something about it that's just slightly off, just slightly out of tune with the rest of reality-- like one wrong note in a symphony. You don't even hear the instrument until it makes dischord.

Gary gave a nod. His dull, green eyes wandered quickly to the several other people sitting at the surrounding tables, almost as if he was trying to see if anyone else noticed who he was sitting across from. He let his hand wander along his side of the small, round table and let it close almost defensively around the brooch he had let go of only minutes before. He gave his Guiness a long stare before looking up again to meet Azrael's unnerving, white gaze. Gary nearly cringed at the God's eery tone, but caught himself, wondering just what he was supposed to do now.

And so he decided to do the first thing that came into his head.

"Ahem! I'm Gary Rosencratz," he introduced and then, after a moment or two, slowly held out his hand and found himself wondering if Azrael's hands were cold or perhaps even... felt like bone?

Both cold and felt like bone. His grip is strong as he shakes gary's hand-- once, twice, release.

"You already know who I am." He wonders, idly, which name the mortal knows him under. There are so many.

"Ah, of course. So, what brings you to a pub?" This time Gary did cringe, though it was rather small and unnoticeable in the dim light of the Twa Corbies. He had actually meant to say this pub. Truly, he did.

Gary fought the urge to wipe his hand on his black, dress pants. The chilled, bony feeling of Azrael's hand made his skin crawl.

Azrael smiles. interesting how much of a different effect he has on one who knows who he is.

"Socialization. not business, if that's what worries you." He gives the mortal something best described as a 'predatory smile,' and leans back in his seat.

Gary leaned back in his seat as well, relaxing considerably. It wasn't always the greatest thing in the world to receive company from the God of Death. Gary reached for his glass and lifted it, moving it around and around lightly, watching as the nearly black liquid within spun against the cool glass.

"Socialization, huh?" Gary repeated quietly, raising his eyes to meet the God's once again. He brought the glass of Guinness to his lips and nearly gulped down the rest of it. Placing the glass back down on the table, he leaned forward, regarding Azrael with what could possibly have been scrutiny, but it was hard to tell in the dim light and the squint of his eyes.

"I've never really read about you socializing with mortals much," he informed calmly, though he kept his voice low so that only Azrael could possibly hear him. And Gary had no doubt the God could hear him no matter how low he spoke.

"Most of the dry types who write about me don't get to actually enjoy my company until it's too late to write it down," Azrael says, leaning forwards. His white eyes rest on Gary's darker ones. All eyes are darker than his.

One elbow on the smooth, dark wood of the table. His hands rests under his chin.

"A valid point," Gary remarked, nodding his head once more in agreement. There was something about the God that he seemed to like. It was most probably not his cold, bony hands, nor the eery white almost phosphorescence of his eyes, but there was definitely something. Gary could have laughed at the strangeness of it all; warming up to the God of Death and Dreaming. Then again, things of the innish variety tended to be more than just unbelievable.

"Y'know, you could probably write your own book... You'd make a killing I'm sure, no pun intended," Gary informed, dropping the brooch once again beside his nearly empty glass of Guinness and lacing his fingers together while resting his own elbows on the table.

Azrael shakes his head and waves this idea off with a hand in the air.

"I don't think writing is for me." He pauses, then gives Gareth a conspiratorial looks. "Besides, I enjoy reading what others write about me."

Gary scoffed and lifted his Guinness to lips, draining it completely. He glanced around for a brief moment before catching the bartender's eyes and signalling for another pint.

"I'd hate to have people write about me, unless I wouldn't be able to read it of course... The only person--sorry, thing--that could possibly get the whole story straight is that thing," he implored, starting to gesture with his hands more animatedly, something that was more natural to Gareth Rosencratz instead of sitting stifly wondering what was taboo to talk about in front of a God.

"What if you wanted to imbelish something about your life, huh? I mean, not like you'd need to, but... Nah, I wouldn't like it," Gary finished with a final shake of his head as a plump looking waitress dropped off his next round of Guinness. He gave the waitress a smile and watched her rear end for a brief moment as she sauntered off toward the bar.


((How do you reply so fast?!))

((Maaaaagic.))

"People don't always get it right, of course..." he smiles. "But it's interesting what they say."

He tilts his head to one side, studying the mortal.

His expression isn't unpleasant, but being studied by the eyes of Death can't be fully comfortable.

And to avoid the cold, white stare of Death, Gary started examining the brooch once again. He wondered if Azrael might be willing to tell him a thing or two about it, but decided against asking. Instead he remained silent, something unnusual for him since he takes pleasure in hearing his own voice and often talks to himself.

After a moment, Azrael's gaze follows Gary's line of sight and alights on the brooch.

"What's that? If you don't mind me asking." Nosy, nosy god.

"It appears to be an ordinary, bronze brooch. It's a simple celtic knot design, probably quite hold, can't seem to date it yet and... Well, I'm hoping it's really none of those things," Gary told Azrael simply, shrugging as he held out the brooch for the God to get a better look.

"Its condition isn't too bad. I've seen better and worse."

The god reaches out and plucks the brooch from Gary's fingers. His cold flesh brushes against the mortal's warmer for a moment.

He turns it over in his hands, an inquisitive look playing over his features.

((Anything in particular you had in mind for the brooch?))

Gary watches closely, his attention completely focused on the God's hands as they handle the brooch. Honestly, he can hardly contain his excitement that Azrael might know something.

((Not really, but the whole idea is Gary wants to cast spells and he can't... So he's read about magical artifacts that can help casting and such so maybe the brooch has some sort of power to be 'unlocked' per se... Kind of cheesy, but I can't really think of anything else... Lol.))

The brooch is spin slowly in the spindly fingers. once. twice. Three times.
And then he stops, and catches the minimal light with the jewel.

"Ahh, that's interesting..."

((I'll make something up, then.))

"Isn't it? Usually a trinket like that would be bargain basement--flea market wares, if you will, but that over-used knot was once a very well-known symbol of power," Gary explained quietly, leaning forward further and looking rather eager as the God held the brooch. When Gareth had woken that morning with the thought of abandoning his studies and search for his own magic, he had never believed he'd cross paths with one of the most powerful deities out there. What an advantageous coincidence, he thought with a vague sort of smirk.

The god taps the jewel with his finger. It seems to get brighter, just by a bit... possibly it's the way the light is catching it.

"Yes, this is definitely an enchanted piece of jewellery," Azrael continues. He looks slightly... amused?

Gary watched closely, green eyes shifting between Azrael's face and the celtic brooch in the God's snowy, white fingers. The man pursed his lips in contemplation as he caught the slight increase in light upon the brooch's jewelled center. Strange... He thought, rubbing his chin in the same way one would stroke their beard. After a moment or two of this, he dropped his hand from his face and grasped the cold glass of Guinness he had been ignoring up until now.

"You don't say," Gary said, sounding somewhat distracted. "Enchanted how, precisely? Elemental power to the wearer? Ability to be rendered invisible? A curse to whoever gets stabbed in the ass with its pin?"

"No."

The god sets the brooch down on the table and looks up, meeting Gary's gaze with a grin.

"It relieves heartburn."

"Heartburn?" Gary echoed, raising both eyebrows in clear disbelief. He lifted his glass and down the entire thing, slamming the empty pint on the table loudly.

"So Death's got a sense of humour! Imagine that!" Gary stated with a loud, booming laugh as he slammed his hand on the table, mimicking the sound of the glass. "You are joking... Right?"

The god shakes his head.

"I'm dead serious... if you'll pardon the expression."

He pushes the brooch over to gary's side of the table and spins it around.

"You tap here," he taps the center of the jewel, "Three times to activate it. You have to be wearing it at the time. Instant relief from heartburn and general acid reflux. Very handy."

"Instand relief... Yeah, real handy, right," Gary murmured, rubbing his forehead and furrowing his brow. Another waste of money, he thought irritatedly, giving a long and exasperated sigh.

"Thank you for the info," Gary said plainly.

"You don't seem too pleased with never having to buy Tums again," the god comments, in that special tone of voice which means 'so why is that?''

He neglects to mention that he could probably enchant it up to do something more powerful than relieve heartburn. Surely Gareth can figure it out on his own, if he deserves to know.

Gary peered through the glass that was once full of Guinness, staring aimlessly at the distorted image of Azrael's pasty white hands. Unfurrowing his brow, he let his green eyes travel back to the brooch which the God had pushed back to his side of the table.

"Is there anyway that I can get this peice of shit to do anything other than relieve heartburn?" He inquired, raising his gaze back to the face of Death. He wasn't about to give up on it, not just yet anyway.

"Well, I suppose you could use it to pin your cloak closed..."

A grin. He's being purposefully contrary.

"...or you could get it re-enchanted. Or re-enchant it yourself."

"Re-enchant it? Hmm..." Gary brought his hand to his chin again, stroking the imaginary beard thoughtfully as he eyed the currently useless brooch. He knew very well that there was no way he could possibly re-enchant the damn thing himself. He had spent too many years trying to learn magecraft in the first place and had not yet succeeded in doing very much.

Suddenly, Gary caught on.

"You don't think you could, ah, help me out with the re-enchanting, do you?"

"Well, I'm sure I could reccomend a few names to you..."

Yes, he's being deliberately contrary... and he's not bothering to hide it.

Gary stared, dumbfounded. Either the God wasn't too bright or he was pulling Gary's leg. That was one thing the thirty-two year old could not stand; getting his leg pulled. Figuratively speaking, anyway.

"What about you? I mean, you're right here, it would save a lot of time and even more effort... Don't you think?"

"Me? Oh, I suppose I could do something to it..." he sstrokes his chin thoughtfully, in an (probably) unconscious mimic of Gary's earlier movements.

"Of course, it would ahve to be something to do with death.... dreams... sleep, maybe?"

Gary thought about it for a moment. He decided he might want to stay away from the 'death' possibility since the whole notion gave him an ominous feeling which he didn't much appreciate. Something to do with dreaming and sleep seemed more useful as well as more obtainable.

"How about..." Gary's words trailed as he turned different ideas over in his mind. He chanced a glance around the Twa Corbies and found that it had filled up quite nicely in the time he had been there. Turning back to Azrael, an idea had finally struck him.

"How about it places the wearer in a deep sleep from which they can't be awakened unless the brooch is removed?" He suggested, starting to grin widely, proud of his innovative suggestion.

"Interesting idea."

He does, in fact, seem to be pondering it. One long, spidery hand reaches out and snatches up the brooch again. The thin, white-skinned fingers turn it over and over.

He's thinking.

Gary beamed because he just couldn't help himself. For a God to think an idea of yours was interesting was a decently significant compliment. The man leaned forward on the table once again, watching with unwavering attention and extreme curiosity.

"Okay."

As suddenly as he'd decided, he sets the brooch down on the table again and taps it with one finger. I think we've described the fingers enough that you know, by now, that they are long and thing and bony and white.

Frost creeps over the gemstone on the brooch from where his finger touched. The colour leeches out of the stone in its wake, turning white-- not clear, but white, like that special kind of ice.

The brooch chudders, once, as frost covers the whole thing and the crakles, falling off in flakes. It shines like new, and maybe with a faint internal light of its own.

"Here you are."

Azrael has, of course, added his own quirk that he doesn't deign to tell Gary about. Basically, this-- the owner of the brooch will share dreams with anyone under its spell. Gary is now the owner. You don't stop being the owner just by giving it away, either.