[The mirrored wall of bottles and booze melds with his movement; reflecting him back in amorphous shapes that flow into one another as he walks. Faintest hints of terrible red and charcoal catch in mismatched forms of glass. Bulging out and thinning again in the wide collection of liquor.]
[He runs an index and a middle across the bar when he rounds to the side-entrance, the tips of his nails creating a pitch. Meeting the battered top, they jump and glide; tuning the surface with a deep hum.] No, can't imagine I'd be the only one. That's a little naive to think. But most here tend to have the same story - being human once. I'd imagine this would be pretty difficult to get used to. Not that I can blame them, but it seems to me it's better this way, right? [Maybe, maybe not. The Sin's muscle oozes when he walks; as he sways and runs the curve of the bar with a practiced knowledge.] Gunna guess you were human before all this? Or did I get that wrong, lovely?
[The small door to the side swings open and bangs deaf against the back of the bar. For a second, it stays pinned to the surface. Until the shadowy form of his tail jerks away, unplugging itself similar to a lodged-in spear.] Fair enough, though you can drop that. This isn't military position, sweetheart. Don't get the wrong idea.
[With the door free, it sways and wafts behind him for a few seconds. Slowing down as it finds itself again and the latch snaps closed with a soft click. Greed reaches across the bar, shelling out a barely-smoked butt from one of the ashtrays. The tip of his thumb cleans it off, plucking away ash with a pleasant kind of grin that's more like a shark on its best behavior.]
[Still just as deadly and just as predatory as the next.] That's fine, but in case you change your mind - [His hand reaches underneath the bar-face, disappearing into one of many compartments to find just what he's looking for. A ring of keys rattles and he pries it open, flipping through the collection until he finds the right one. Silver, old; flecked with rust and a number reading in a crooked "4". Greed tears it out from the set, sending the piece of metal tumbling over his knuckles and onto the bar.]
[A pinch and a slide sends it her way.] - that one's yours. [Lips pull aside and his grin is nakedly wanton; all that need, all that desire - it coils in the fire in his throat, hisses with the words on his tongue:]
holy shit i just noticed that vomiting of letters in the text above
[He runs an index and a middle across the bar when he rounds to the side-entrance, the tips of his nails creating a pitch. Meeting the battered top, they jump and glide; tuning the surface with a deep hum.] No, can't imagine I'd be the only one. That's a little naive to think. But most here tend to have the same story - being human once. I'd imagine this would be pretty difficult to get used to. Not that I can blame them, but it seems to me it's better this way, right? [Maybe, maybe not. The Sin's muscle oozes when he walks; as he sways and runs the curve of the bar with a practiced knowledge.] Gunna guess you were human before all this? Or did I get that wrong, lovely?
[The small door to the side swings open and bangs deaf against the back of the bar. For a second, it stays pinned to the surface. Until the shadowy form of his tail jerks away, unplugging itself similar to a lodged-in spear.] Fair enough, though you can drop that. This isn't military position, sweetheart. Don't get the wrong idea.
[With the door free, it sways and wafts behind him for a few seconds. Slowing down as it finds itself again and the latch snaps closed with a soft click. Greed reaches across the bar, shelling out a barely-smoked butt from one of the ashtrays. The tip of his thumb cleans it off, plucking away ash with a pleasant kind of grin that's more like a shark on its best behavior.]
[Still just as deadly and just as predatory as the next.] That's fine, but in case you change your mind - [His hand reaches underneath the bar-face, disappearing into one of many compartments to find just what he's looking for. A ring of keys rattles and he pries it open, flipping through the collection until he finds the right one. Silver, old; flecked with rust and a number reading in a crooked "4". Greed tears it out from the set, sending the piece of metal tumbling over his knuckles and onto the bar.]
[A pinch and a slide sends it her way.] - that one's yours. [Lips pull aside and his grin is nakedly wanton; all that need, all that desire - it coils in the fire in his throat, hisses with the words on his tongue:]
Welcome to The Devil's Nest.