The Scent of Times Gone By
12th of January 2007 A.D.
If Lash's attempts to get to talk had been effortlessly elegant, your own attempt at recruiting him is harrowing. He does not fight back, not even with words, he doubts and wonders which of the powers of the city you represent, or what use you may have for such seeming fantastical lies. But Mutt had seen fantastical lives before, they glitter on billboards and call over from tables covered in sour smoke and broken dreams. In the end one is left to darkly wonder if he had agreed to come with the four of you not because because he believes you, but because he believes nothing and this at least promises him a more interesting end than playing the part of Cerberus to one narrow, squalid slice of hell.
So, trailing a shadow you make your way to the Strip. It's everything you could have imagined and some things you could not, a canvas painted clashing colours, each bolder than the last: blood red and icy blue, decadent purple, sizzling gold, a cauldron of humanity from all walks of life, all directions of the compass stewing in booze and cigarettes, but most of all in that ever intoxicant of substances, hope. There aren't any big casinos around just an assortment souvenir shops to mark your triumphs and strip malls for the cheap booze to drown your sorrows into but their advertisements falls across every way, luminous shadows of fortunes unmade, the customers all too willing seducees.
"Exciting isn't it?" Tiffany asks. Her tone is even, her cheeks are flushed. "So much roiling passion it feels like you're at sea, the peaks and vales writ in the lines of the human soul. Wanting to play just to see the emotions dance and flicker."
You open your mouth to say 'no', but that's not what comes out. "Can't really gamble and mean it though. Don't care about the money."
"Oh, but we are gambling," the demon offers with a knowing smile. Just with things far more precious than dollars. She motions ahead and as if my magic your destination reveals itself behind a stand of date trees. It's a nightclub in the 'ultralounge' style which Lash explains had become very popular less than ten years ago, offering as it does the a mix of the casual and the exclusive with VIP "bottle service" for an exorbitant
amount of money—this provides one with a reserved seating area one's whole party and, as the name suggests, bottles of alcohol. To this cocktail the Hanging Gardens adds one more thing, an air of the exotic columns in polished limestone set in a style older the the invention of dome and arch reveal nooks filled with the animal headed gods, some merely statues, others drinking fountains and snack dispensers, the courtiers of Ishtar's court. There the goddess is unwinding one of her veils upon the bass relief, an eight-pointed star upon her brow, and there gentling a lion with but a warning touch of her hand, alabaster bathed in neon lights.
"It smells like strong wine, like flour and... ash?" Lydia looks to Lash. "There's definitely something there, something more than mortal magic."
"
Kamān tumri, pure cakes of unleavened flour baked in the ash from the day's of fire as she was born anew in the depths of the underworld, of the forms of the Ishtar far from the grandest, but the most lasting."
"I'm going to stop you right there," Harry interjects. "Cake's great and all, but compared to all this..." he motions at the entryway, the temple not really hiding what it is.
"Statues left in darkness, altars buried in the sands are no more forms of the gods than a skeleton in a tomb is a man," the once-demon recounts. "But what does a man know what his wife bakes in the privacy of her own domain in the dark hours before dawn? This is a mark I had not expected to find. Arlene Ghorbani it seems is no mere explorer of old faiths, but an heir to unbroken legacy now walking in the light, as much as anything in this city is at least."
As you try to enter a pair of guards in crimson and yellow bar your way, the look in their eyes troubled but undeterred as they move from your face to Lydia's, lingering on her earrings, to Harry's staff, to Tiffany where they kind of stutter to a halt at her beauty.
Soo unfair. A small but all too lively part of you sighs
Mutt's scornful laughter startles them back to their senses. The one on the left stutters out: "Do you have a reservation?"
How do you handle introductions?
[] Let Tiffany handle it, she seems to have things... under control (Manipulation + Empathy)
[] Ask to speak to Arlene about a business proposition (Charisma + Leadership)
[] Lydia formally seeks entrance into the House of Ishtar for herself and her companions (Manipulation + Etiquette)
[] Harry, speaking as a Warden of the White Council (Charisma + Intimidation)
[] Write in
OOC: Hope this isn't going too slow, but I really do need to know what approach you are taking this and it made sense to ask this after I'd given you a roll to sense the presence in the temple.