Azrael opens his eyes, still smiling like the cat the swallowed the canary-- tight-lipped, secretive and infinitely smug.

"I never forget."

He sets a cold hand on Sanguis' leg.

"This form you've taken is interesting."

((Reserved for Taodear.))

Bony-pale fingers drum along the black countertop.

The Mango at Night is a small club on the third floor of a building in a trendy part of the city, situated above a coffee shop and an expensive hair salon. The sign is in black and orange and lights up at night, but its really the club's reputation that acts as a draw.

Thin white lips pull into a wide, dead grin.

Inside, the club is small and dark, painted black with fluorescent orange highlights. The music is low and throbbing, and the Mango at Night is infamous for its underlife-- for the drugs, the unwanted pregnancies and, of course, the bar fights.

Azrael leans back against the counter and smiles out at the crowd as it ignores him. In the heat of the moment, in the passion of the night, the mortals don't want to see him-- don't want to acknowledge death when they are so caught up in experiencing life.

He tugs at his shirt-- black fishnet, nothing else, showing dark against the pale of his skin. His pants are the typical tight black bellbottoms, his boots the usual black combats. His head semms almost completely shaved-- on closer inspection, the hair is white and has simply been cut quite short. a small, plastic flourescent orange star hangs on a chain around his nect, the only spark of colour in his attire.

His white eyes scan the dark room.

He had taken his time. Well, why not? All he had was time, to begin with. The Mango was chock full and just the way San liked it- Pushy, hot, and stiffling. He smiled his usual toothy grin as he pushed through the bustling and warping bodies around him, the music filling his ears to the brink. He smelled the scent of heated blood, of perfumed women, of testosterone, of drugs, and of thick desire.

He knew exactly where he was headed.

He barely needed to tap people on the shoulders, they all seemed to know him by sight and move away respectfully. Well, everyone new him. Everyone saw him. A woman wrapped her arms around his neck and simply began begging 'please, please, please' without specifying exactly what it was she wanted. San took her arms off from around his neck, whispered in her ear, and then led her to the man standing next to him. She began begging anew with this man, but then a large biker came up. An onslaught of curses and words followed, she was his woman, no she was his, and eventually...

Ah....Bliss...

Violence made his way to the pale thin figure smiling at the bar, the one everyone walked away from or avoided. He smiled in return, his blood eyes skimming over Death's digs. Eventually he sat down, looking absolutely luscious in tight black leather pants, oxblood red sleeveless shirt, biker boots, and a long black leather coat. He wore a simple chain around his neck and as he sat down in the conveniently vacant seat next to Azrael, he grinned.

Meanwhile behind them the whole crowd was pushing and shoving with new merciless intentions, the cruelest wishes for one another's blood in one large, beautiful fight.

"You do like to make an entrance, Viol," Azrael says, his voice quiet and cold-calm against the heated background noise. He turns the grin to the God of War and inclines his head, slightly-- one peer to another.

"Not that I can blame you, myself," he continues, crossing his legs almost effeminately. The black jeans pull tight.

"An entrance?" San asked, looking over his shoulder, his grin changing shape in to a smile of specific triumph. "Hm...I hardly noticed..." He said as he turned back to face Azrael, a roguish smile still stretching his generous lips. Without any subtlety his blood eyes went from Azrael's head to foot, examining his clothing and utterly human position. San himself was seated sideways in his seat, in order to face Azrael were he to turn his head. One arm was placed on the bar, the other on the back of his stool. When his head was tilted downwards, ending his once over of Azrael, it didn't move. His eyes looked up and he licked his lower lip thoughtfully.

"I trust you're well?" What a question...

The grin pulls sideways-- almost a smirk.

"You place your trust well, then," he responds, hooking his long elbows behind him to rest on the counter as he faces the crowd.

"What have you been up to lately, San? other than, of course, lounging in the middle east."

San's husky and warm voice brought out a vague groan, which could have meant anything. The fight behind them was quenched as all the bouncers had been called inside to stop it, which they had done rather successfully. San looked as if he hadn't even noticed...But he did. "Hmm...Lounging...yes I've had my hands full. But then, I've always liked it that way," Another classic toothy grin. He chuckled for a bit, at nothing in particular. "I've been walking. Watching. Seems everyone here worships you, Azrael...You must be proud," San's consonants seemed to have a sharpness to them, as if he wanted to excersise his tongue.

"Everyone worships me, eventually," Azrael says, simply. He provides a bony shrug.

"But here, yes... they're flirting along the edges of death. They think it's exciting." his teeth show-- maybe a grin, maybe not. his dangling fingers drum on the side of the counter.

"Oh yeah..." San chuckled dryly again, looking around the room and the many busy looking bodies. "And when they flirt with you..." San's breathing deepened, a sinister grin appearing on his face, "They fuck with me." Another warm tumbling of laughter. He banged his fist loudly on the bar, suddenly, and the bar tender finally seemed to notice. San smiled to him slowly, the bar tender looking slightly irritated. "I'll have vodka shots..." He didn't bother to ask if Azrael wanted anything, "Oh and-" San's index finger beckoned for the Tender to lean closer, which he did. San leaned up and whispered something in the man's ear, who immeditaely walked down to the other side of the bar without another word.

San turned back to Azrael. "Did you miss me?"

"You're never far, Viol," Death says, sliding his flat white eyes to look at the other god.

"Or rather, I'm never far." He nods out into the crowd, to where a few friends have gathered around a bleeding figure slumped on a chair, trying to hold his cut closed with his hands.

San watched the blood gush between the man's fingers. He watched as the man's eyes started going blank, and then, suddenly, turn on Azrael. Hm, yes. They always turned to Azrael. Well, he was the first and was the last. San was merely the beginning. He turned back to see a shot glass and a vodka bottle placed in front of him. Usually this is quite unorthodox, but it seems the bar tender has left, and many angry hands were hitting the bar top. Soon they would climb over and steal whole bottles, and then fight over who should get what. Materialism made his job that much more fun.

San filled the shot glass to the brim, and simply watched it. He smiled slowly, shaking his head. "Azrael...I want to see you bleed..." San would never see Azrael bleed, but he would see others bleed, others cut and gashed and wounded through drug wars and gang fights and police chasing. But Azrael would remain, thin and pale. Unbled.

"I don't bleed, Sanguis," Death replies, levelly. He taps the shot glass and a skim of frost appears on its surface, little ice crystals floating over the greater alcoholic whole.

"Hmm...I know...And that's why..." San replied, his deep husky voice seductive in his whispers. He watched the cold crystals dance overtop of his shot glass and smiled, which eventually turned in to a smirk. "Always showing off, Azreal..." He looked over at him, grinning smugly, as if he'd already won, "No need to impress me, I know what you're capable of, sweetheart."

Death glances up from the glass, his head tilted just slightly down, white eyes darkened by his lashes.

And then he closes his eyes like a satisfied cat and reaches up. The same finger strokes down San's face, leaving a trail of frost down the god's pseudo-skin.

"Oh, you do, do you?"

San smiled and made no move to push away Azrael's touch. The frost remained for just a moment, but soon it melted under San's constantly hot skin. He brought the shot to his lips and tossed it back, and didn't grimace as it burned down his throat. He set the shot glass down and faced Azrael full on, turning from his previous position of facing the bar.

Slowly he reached out and placed his left hand on the back of Azrael's neck, applying a fair amount of pressure. San wasn't gentle. Never gentle. He brought Azrael closer to him, and leaned forward until his lips reached his ear. First he said nothing, the cold skin beneath his fingers feeling distant but familiar. A slow exhale of warm odorless breath escaped before he smiled softly. "I, of all people, Azrael. Do you not remember?"

Just as soon as San's gesture had come it was gone. He released Azrael's neck and straightened back up, again, not making a gesture that he didn't like the cold hand that rested on his leg. He filled the shot glass.

"I thought you might like it... " He said, a small smile only at the corners of his lips "I know I do."

Azrael nods and leans back on the bar, eying Violence.

"Would you perhaps be interested in a little... entertainment tonight?" one thin hand gestures vaguely as he speaks, though the suggestive grin gives a fairly clear picture of just what the nature of this entertainment might be.

San grinned showing a full set of perfect teeth. "Entertainment?..." He repeated retorically, smile still in full blast. "And what, exactly, would this entertainment be?" Oh he wasn't going to make this easy...He never liked to make anything easy. Of course, Azrael wouldn't even have to put on that suggestive smile of his on to jumpstart the images already clearly branded in San's mind.

Azrael uncrosses his leg, crosses them over the other way.

"Exactly?" he asks. "Well, I was wondering if you wanted to go fuck this mortal body that I inhabit on occasion." This is said in a level tone, playful almost, in contrast to the blunt words.

((Hah! Said it, Tao.))

San shrugged lightly. "All right," he replied, standing up slowly and then, at his full height of 6'0, taking his last shot of vodka. The bar tender was still missing, but as of yet no riots had sprung out. Shame. He looked over at Az as he straightened his own leather jacket.

"Who exactly does this mortal body belong to?" Did he care?

"Someone dead," Azrael states, lifting his brows at Sanguine. Standing, he's taller than Violence, and together the tower over the majority of mortals. ironic, almost.

"He's not using it anymore."

Azrael waves a hand. To mortal eyes, nothing happens. To a God's...

It's hard to describe. Basically, the wave of the hand highlights a point in space/time, just as if you'd taken a great big highlighter and coloured it fluorescent yellow. It says, here. We're going here. The highlighted point is an apartment, off in a different part of the city, by the University-- an apartment fairly high up. The room where he stores the mortal body, in stasis, in waiting for when he'll use it next.