lion / lamb

It was crystal clear that the snowman had next to no idea how to actually speak with someone belonging to loyalty. The children who made him didn't consider bringing it up to him, nor anyone in the North Pole. Not even his partners brought attention to it, so he had no basis on what to actually do and what to actually say. Oh, but there was no right way of speaking to someone if they had some sort of title, right? Every king was different, and there was nobody else like Lucifer Morningstar. A blessing to the unbeknownst deity of pride, a curse to the overly friendly, overly cautious Frosty. He looked both left and right when Lucifer brought up one of the intended activities visitors should (or could, because how did he even get here anyways?) indulge in. To the left, he spotted a lot of red spilled on the ground. On the everything, actually, Frosty noticed when he looked up and around that general vicinity. He slowly blinked, seeing if that would render his vision, but it hadn't. There was actually someone bleeding out that way, now. Frosty tried the other way, which was met with a bunch of Hell's inhabitants looking out of it. They stumbled around each other, bumped into each other, yelled at each other... Frosty looked for any signs of a bar, but nothing down that way was marked. What he saw instead was a syringe roll close to his feet from that area. He had a hand on his pipe as he stared at it silently. Frosty was more than aware of that was, alongside the other substances weren't related to alcohol. That would probably surprise Lucifer, given how quick to assuming he was about his intelligence. Frosty eventually put his coal eyes back onto the aforementioned king, hand still holding the piece of corncob from his mouth. His expression brightened, but not too much due to feeling unwelcome and not wanting to make Lucifer think or feel worse because of his behavior. The snowman's head tilted.

"You know what? Fuck it, why not! You're the exact kind'a weirdo my little girl likes to play with." He starts walking without waiting for an answer; Frosty better act now, or lose this opportunity forever! Not that he thinks it would do all that much for him other than provide some (hopefully very temporary) shelter. Alas, despite all his progress, Lucifer still doesn't treat the whole hotel thing all that seriously. A part of him hopes that this is just a game Charlie's playing. Something she'll lose interest in before the real danger comes knocking. Each and every day, that part of him grows quieter, and his flippant façade becomes more and more difficult to maintain. She's always been so much like him, and he never could leave well enough alone. Before he can think himself into an inescapable spiral of doom, Lucifer whirls around to face Frosty again. He's playing a dangerous game, walking backwards like that.

"Hey, you got ice powers in that fatass body?" Man, what the Hell? "I haven't seen real snow in eons. Don't think Charlie ever has." Maybe he can at least get a nice wintery, wonderlandy show out of this whole ordeal. The 'snow' in Hell is about as close to real snow as its rain is to real rain. Like, okay, yeah, it's definitely real, but it's all fucked up and evil and full of radiation or asbestos or something. Not the sort of substance he wants to have around his kid, even if she is an adult now.

THE POUT ON HIS FACE is replaced by surprise when someone speaks behind him. “Ah!” Luke startles, jumping in place. He turns on his heel to admonish the rude stranger only to pause at his appearance. His not-human appearance, his not-anything-Luke-has-ever-seen appearance. What’s more striking is his choice of words.

"Never heard of it." Sounds pretty stupid if you ask him. He takes slightly too long to decide how to respond, unsure of how to proceed from here if he can't describe his experiences in terms of how much they do or do not piss him off. He may be a rude star creature, but he doesn't fancy upsetting a human kid with his language. Surely there must be a way...? Think, star thing, think!

“In Dutch Protestant paintings of the 15th and 16th centuries, meat often referred to ‘the weak flesh.’ In my paintings, the beauty of the flesh is shown, and the ornate frames emphasize the non-Puritanical content. People call the frames ‘over the top’ or excessive. They’re often painted to match the meat. When viewing the paintings, some say they have a gag reflex while thinking at the same time they’re beautiful.” 

HER HUNCHES WERE UNRELIABLE BEFORE, but since she shed her Targent mindset, Emmy’s learned to trust her honed instincts. She could befriend Flora, assuming all goes well. Why not! Free as she may be, Emmy hasn’t truly connected with anybody in quite some time. Again, the professor finds his ilk naturally. Emmy does not. Reinvigorated with purpose, she smiles wide.

“To be fair, most people wouldn’t think to combine food and puzzles. You’re not suppose to play with your food, but I believe all rules have exceptions.” Emmy says, then hums in contemplation. “I’ve been traveling the world for a couple years now, and I see puzzles everywhere. All kinds, too. I find myself distracted trying to solve every single one of them instead of doing my job, sometimes.” She laughs a little at her own expense.

"The World Times?" Flora echoes, tilting her head slightly to the side and placing a thoughtful finger against her cheek. "Isn't that a rather prestigious paper?" It's hard to imagine such a publication would be all that interested in her little shop for any reason, but then again, puzzles are all the rage these days... But all thoughts of marketing potential are derailed the moment Emmy pulls out that camera. Flora's eyes widen, genuine excitement immediately replacing anything else she may have been feeling.

Layton began quick, almost lightning-speed deductions about Alastor's description of the club's patrons. He wouldn't be surprised that people deemed as a threat wouldn't be allowed here, especially once their true nature had been exposed to the keepers of this safe space. Not so safe it would be if there were snakes and other fiends that only intended to harm and strike for the kill. The professor picked up the notion that Alastor was somebody who at least assisted in the disposal of these remnants. It was commendable, but then begged the question of how they were taken care of. What had his eyes seen, what has his hands had to do, and was that ever-so-persistent smile always there to shine upon the fiends who burnt to a crisp under its glimmer? He would've considered the assumptions he currently made about Alastor to be quite rude, but he felt it necessary in order to keep himself in his good graces. To not overstep and find out what happens to those that don't see their return to the club. He had to think about what that meant for his actual investigation, too. The professor came up with two theories. One, was that he had been purposely mislead. It was the least ideal scenario, but in a place where his face belonged to that of an out-of-states stranger, he wouldn't be terribly shocked. Then again, no one had pulled him to the side and tried to terrify him or put him in a box going back to London. Had his persona as Honey kept him out of harm's way? He hoped not, considering that would imply this display was a disguise, which it most certainly was not. Honey was handed the olive branch to express herself in a city -- a whole country even -- where any other faces or names had no reputation. He had been requested here, not the other way around. Despite the walls around him being very thick, it was easier to breathe down in New Orleans. Her eyes searched around the club as she danced along with Alastor. No one eyed her back; no one else wished to steal the air from her lungs. Then that meant that this patron had to be one of the aforementioned problematic people who could never see themselves in with the desire of coming back out. Honey's gaze lowered from Alastor's, brows furrowing and eyes eventually closing. Alastor was closely connected to this club and would otherwise know whoever was on the unspoken blacklist. Her eyes opened and matched with the radio host's again, something sparkling behind the small, black beads. Still, the two of them still had some of the night remaining to put the investigation on pause. Layton may have realized that Alastor would be an important asset in his current affairs, but Honey still wished to be herself. Honey wanted to have fun for once and be allowed a dance or two more before this side of the professor would have to be put away for who knew how long. There was clearly no work to be done here, so that meant that this could be her night. The stage was garbed in the red of her dress.

"So I've been told," Honey replied with a smile that was almost curved into a smirk. "Someone can tell you how to do something surely, but what good does it do if you have no way to do it? You prime your technique through practice alone, which is especially true for dance like this." She clicked her tongue and grinned. "Though, I wouldn't be anywhere near to where I am now without you. You've been such a sweetheart, taking your time to teach me the right way to dance. I'd debate on taking it home with me, but I'll have no one else to dance with!" Could you picture Professor Layton breaking out in dance that was completely foreign and somewhat revealing in its nature? Ha. The two of them danced along to two more songs, Honey finding herself more and more into the flow of the dance floor, the song, and Alastor's movements. She was beginning to pant slightly; she was used to physical exertion but not of the dancing variety. Honey sheepishly chuckled at her dance partner when she did so, but she carried on as if nothing bothered her. Nothing did bother her, until the end of the second song, and when she would have to retreat for the time being. The night was long, but it was only growing shorter. Honey's voice dipped again.

Alastor smiles--genuinely, this time--at the compliment to his dancing skills. It's one of few things he takes truly innocent pride in, and for a moment, it shows. "I must say I have enjoyed being your teacher, even if only for a single lesson! I hope you won't forget once you've returned to your home!" Though Honey may never learn any new steps, there's no reason she can't continue to enjoy what she already has. Though Alastor is a future-oriented individual to a fault, living in the moment and reveling in things past are not beyond him. He wonders how his ancestors would feel seeing him dance with such skill and freedom, even if only in a precious few places.

In contrast to Honey's growing exertion, Alastor is no worse for wear than when the dancing started. His small frame may lead one to assume that he is weak, but decades of hunting, foraging, and farming have made him much stronger and more full of stamina than he looks. He's almost disappointed to end this part of his night so soon, but he can hardly fault a beginner for needing a rest, nor a curious investigator for wanting to move things along. Alastor follows her lead, placing himself at her side to give the impression of casual conversation between two friends.

"You feel correctly!" No reason to hide his connections here; he's implied more than enough for the conclusion to be obvious. "There is always someone trying to cause trouble for us, though most often those people are on the 'right' side of the law. They don't take kindly to the gathering of our sorts, even if fun is the only item on our agenda." Naive about this city as Layton may be, Alastor is sure that he has at least some experience with the ways in which the authorities typically deal with those whose identities and politics they don't support. "For reasons I'm sure you understand, we don't keep a guest list here. But I never forget a face, nor a name."

Alastor smiles sweetly. An implicit agreement to help, but also a reminder of what he might do if it turns out that his tentative trust is misplaced.

"If your suspect has been here on my watch, I can guarantee you they won't be repeating whatever it is they've done. I gather it must be more than some petty crime. You don't strike me as the sort to go chasing small-time thieves and vandals." It's definitely something more sinister. He can sense it. All the more reason for a change of venue. "I know of a spot not far from here. Small, quiet, open late... And they serve tea! I'm sure you will appreciate that!" A cheeky jab at his obvious Britishness, but a sincere offer nonetheless. Or, no, not quite an offer--Alastor has already taken hold of Layton's arm and began tugging him along toward the exit.

Eh. Should he really care though? This guy was just a star looking thing with legs. It wasn't that serious.