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deaths_head"What can I get you?"
"Coffee, black."
The waitress took his order and headed away, leaving the massive biker to his thoughts as he sat in a little coffee shop just off the Strip. The neighborhood was a more or less suburban setting, and yet his motorcycle was still not altogether out of place where it was parked outside, his tattooed arms and black leather kutte earning him fewer stares than they probably should have.
The Shade was used to sticking out like a sore thumb, hence his chosen human guise...and yet it was the kind of ill fitting image that had its place--especially in a town like Las Vegas.
It was a town he always enjoyed returning to, when there were souls to be collected there. Elements of the city reminded him a bit of his day and age, a rebel outlier carving itself a memorable and powerful swath in the middle of the desert. Even now, in this modern age, it had the same frontier spirit as the people he'd been raised with out in Silverstone as a boy.
The souls he brought to the Vale from this place were always some of his favorite.
Eventually, his coffee came, and the Shade wasted no time in taking a long, scalding swallow with a grateful sigh. There were precious few things he truly missed about being among the living, but one of them was a good cup of strong, black coffee. What little he let himself remember of his human life often came back to these simplest of pleasures he was unable to let go of: a cup of strong coffee, a Sunday dinner of fried chicken and vegetables from Mamma's garden, even his motorcycle was reminiscent of the ornery stallion he'd gotten for a song from a breeder back in Santa Fe, an ornery old horse that refused to be broken--he never had been able to put tack on that beast, bless his heart.
The Shade was distracted from his thoughts by an arrival at the door of the coffee shop, a lone girl of seventeen or eighteen. She was tiny as he was massive, a blinding light of pure, living energy with dark hair and dimples--and when she looked in his direction, bore the mark of death in her eyes.
Struck him as mighty ironic that a life mage was destined to die--he recognized the power, and he wasn't happy with the notion...but at least he could give her some warning, and a second chance after the end.
So it was that, when her head spun in his direction, the teenage girl saw not a biker, but a vision of the past, wide brimmed hat sitting on the table respectfully as blood red hair spilled across his shoulders. What little was visible of his tattoos beneath his black leather longcoat glowed with an aura of purple light, and instead of steel grey eyes, sightless orbs of white watched her, sparking with the light of pure lightning.
And there was no question about it: the death god that no one else seemed to be able to see was watching her, and her alone.
"Coffee, black."
The waitress took his order and headed away, leaving the massive biker to his thoughts as he sat in a little coffee shop just off the Strip. The neighborhood was a more or less suburban setting, and yet his motorcycle was still not altogether out of place where it was parked outside, his tattooed arms and black leather kutte earning him fewer stares than they probably should have.
The Shade was used to sticking out like a sore thumb, hence his chosen human guise...and yet it was the kind of ill fitting image that had its place--especially in a town like Las Vegas.
It was a town he always enjoyed returning to, when there were souls to be collected there. Elements of the city reminded him a bit of his day and age, a rebel outlier carving itself a memorable and powerful swath in the middle of the desert. Even now, in this modern age, it had the same frontier spirit as the people he'd been raised with out in Silverstone as a boy.
The souls he brought to the Vale from this place were always some of his favorite.
Eventually, his coffee came, and the Shade wasted no time in taking a long, scalding swallow with a grateful sigh. There were precious few things he truly missed about being among the living, but one of them was a good cup of strong, black coffee. What little he let himself remember of his human life often came back to these simplest of pleasures he was unable to let go of: a cup of strong coffee, a Sunday dinner of fried chicken and vegetables from Mamma's garden, even his motorcycle was reminiscent of the ornery stallion he'd gotten for a song from a breeder back in Santa Fe, an ornery old horse that refused to be broken--he never had been able to put tack on that beast, bless his heart.
The Shade was distracted from his thoughts by an arrival at the door of the coffee shop, a lone girl of seventeen or eighteen. She was tiny as he was massive, a blinding light of pure, living energy with dark hair and dimples--and when she looked in his direction, bore the mark of death in her eyes.
Struck him as mighty ironic that a life mage was destined to die--he recognized the power, and he wasn't happy with the notion...but at least he could give her some warning, and a second chance after the end.
So it was that, when her head spun in his direction, the teenage girl saw not a biker, but a vision of the past, wide brimmed hat sitting on the table respectfully as blood red hair spilled across his shoulders. What little was visible of his tattoos beneath his black leather longcoat glowed with an aura of purple light, and instead of steel grey eyes, sightless orbs of white watched her, sparking with the light of pure lightning.
And there was no question about it: the death god that no one else seemed to be able to see was watching her, and her alone.
