03-17-2023, 09:55 PM
[[ there was no singing except for Mist (Persephone) lamenting in this scene it's all musical. Nox does not sing, he knows his limits ]]
Zef knew better -- she knew the boy god was mocking the gods. He was born and raised Atharim -- American Atharim but still Atharim. He had been taught everything like she had -- but yet he'd chosen to survive. Would she do the same? Why did his parents let him live? That was a question she might delve into -- did he kill his own parents to save himself from death? But she didn't contract the reborn god, he was pretty proud of his own insights. And he was right, the likely hood the boy could sing as well as dance was small. He was awkward, stumbled a time or two but his eyes glazed over and he looked lost in thought not here and now.
The man, Jaxen, ordered the typical thing a rich Russian might. Flaunting his extravagant taste? Maybe. But it didn't matter she hadn't stipulated and it would be paid for none-the-less. The girl returned with their drinks, her own rum and coke slipped on the table on to the napkin. It was mostly coke -- she was here to observe, but he didn't need to know that. Zef smiled at his introduction. "I know who you are Jaxen. There aren't many in my circle who don't know of you at least. Your own Cabaret was better than this I expect. I didn't get a chance to see it." Jaxen was an escaped god -- he'd eluded their grasp with some strange magics -- naga magic if the retellings were true. But let him think it was different circles in which she spoke.
Zef reached her hand behind her as she said her own. "Zephyr. Tell me Jaxen, does your light do more than this?" She waved towards the stage where the sequence was moving on. Poor Persephone, stuck in underworld with her husband. There were worse fates for a god.
Zef knew better -- she knew the boy god was mocking the gods. He was born and raised Atharim -- American Atharim but still Atharim. He had been taught everything like she had -- but yet he'd chosen to survive. Would she do the same? Why did his parents let him live? That was a question she might delve into -- did he kill his own parents to save himself from death? But she didn't contract the reborn god, he was pretty proud of his own insights. And he was right, the likely hood the boy could sing as well as dance was small. He was awkward, stumbled a time or two but his eyes glazed over and he looked lost in thought not here and now.
The man, Jaxen, ordered the typical thing a rich Russian might. Flaunting his extravagant taste? Maybe. But it didn't matter she hadn't stipulated and it would be paid for none-the-less. The girl returned with their drinks, her own rum and coke slipped on the table on to the napkin. It was mostly coke -- she was here to observe, but he didn't need to know that. Zef smiled at his introduction. "I know who you are Jaxen. There aren't many in my circle who don't know of you at least. Your own Cabaret was better than this I expect. I didn't get a chance to see it." Jaxen was an escaped god -- he'd eluded their grasp with some strange magics -- naga magic if the retellings were true. But let him think it was different circles in which she spoke.
Zef reached her hand behind her as she said her own. "Zephyr. Tell me Jaxen, does your light do more than this?" She waved towards the stage where the sequence was moving on. Poor Persephone, stuck in underworld with her husband. There were worse fates for a god.