lifeaftr | [OPEN]

Entry tags:

[OPEN]

Who: Crowley & YOU
What: Post-arrival, exploring Ensō
When: Early November
Where: Various locations around the island.
Warnings: Crowley

Storytellers Temple

It wasn't long after his and Aziraphale's arrival that they decided to split up and investigate this new world separately. While neither of them seemed too keen on being separated, they agreed it would make for a quicker search of things. Crowley headed north immediately, seeking anything that looked like a structure that may be inhabited by people.

The building was very obviously built as a temple. A place to pay proper respects to someone or something. He had no reason to tred on holy ground for many years, but the sight of the stuffed rabbit out front drew him in, and he was surprised to find the ground not white-hot on the bottom of his feet. Something about this rabbit drew forth memories of a dream he was sure he had. At least, he thought it was a dream. His memory did seem a bit fuzzy.

"Curiouser and curiouser..." he muttered, squatting in front of the rabbit and staring down his nose at it over his sunglasses. Crowley wasn't one for books, but once he'd seen a made-for-TV adaptation of Alice in Wonderland and felt like Alice herself following the rabbit down its hole.

Monkey Compound

By no means was it Mayfair, but these seemed to be residences. Let's be honest, it wasn't posh or upscale, but it was the only thing he'd come across since the temple that looked inhabitable. Crowley was particularly taken by the garden. His little plantcare hobby may be of some use on a deserted island yet, depending on how stubborn the greenery is in this world. Perhaps all they need is for someone like Crowley to knock them down a peg or two, show them what's what.

He's encircling the garden when he notices a particularly well-growing plant. Proud little thing, he looks it up and down and scoffs. "Don't be so cocky..." he hisses as if it can hear him, not realizing anyone might be listening to him.

Denny

Finally, something normal, or at least as close to normal as one might find on a strange island. Come to think of it, finding a bar/restaurant isn't very normal at all given the situation. Crowley won't complain, of course, and take comfort in the small things.

He takes a seat on an open bench, waiting patiently for a server to reach him. "A glass of whatevers drinkable." he requests, open to recommendations. He's surprised to notice that he feels tired after a day of searching. He's never really felt tired before, at least, not like this. He tries to shake it off, must be in his head.

Wildcard

[OOC NOTE: Feel free to tag Crowley anywhere on the island in between his trips or come up with another prompt. If you'd like to discuss something special with me, I can be reached at

dukevendetta or on Discord at trashwitch666#9299]

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Jules doesn't live very far from the garden and can be found nearby relatively often. He's never been one to venture off to the other islands. He learned his lesson on that, thanks. Just not freaking worth it in his mind. The monkey nests aren't an overly popular destination for people to choose to live or even come by - it's why he lives there - so a new voice draws his attention. Something about it seems oddly familiar, though he can't place why.

"I wouldn't start calling the plants cocky if I were you. Just asking for them to rise up and try to kill us again. This minsid place has turned the vegetation against us more than once. Then again, watching you try to keep yourself from being eaten by a plant might be entertaining, so please go for it."

She's not really a server, so much as a blight upon this establishment who doesn't leave for hours at a time. She has no problems going back and forth around the counter, helping herself as she sees fit. Tim's around somewhere-it's fine.

But then there's some guy she doesn't recognize asking for a glass and-

Well, she stares at the cup of water beside her. One that she's clearly already drank from and-

Slowly pushes it towards him. Boom, water. She's helping.

"You can have that. It's very good."

"What."

Crowley was certain that cup belongs to someone else. Even if it didn't, that isn't quite what he was looking for. For a moment he's truly not sure if this is normal for the island or not.

"Do you even work here?"

Turning to face the other man, Crowley gives him a once-over. The man's monologue sounds to Crowley like ramblings of a crazy person. Take away the fact that the demon has found himself some place entirely new and out of his element, the idea of a vegetable rising up and attacking him makes him scoff.

"Are you taking a piss?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow at the stranger. "This your garden?"

"Just pissing in your orange juice and ruining your day with the truth. You must be new here. Welcome to the minsid fun, and yes, I say that with as much sarcasm as can be fit into five words."

Seriously, anyone who has been here more than a month would realize that stuff that sounds completely insane is totally possible here. Still insane, sure, but that doesn't mean it isn't happening.

"No. Belongs to a wolf. Sort of."

Both for the belonging part and the wolf part. He'd promised to keep that secret and he has no intention of sharing without good reason.

"Mate, you can't make my day any worse than it already is." he groans, but the 'new here' part is almost more upsetting than it should be. It makes 'here' a very established place... and as much as he enjoyed the series LOST, he is very not interested in being a character on it.

"A wolf." he repeats as deadpan as possible, almost as if he's given up completely. "Does anything in this place make sense?"

"Stick around long enough and you'll realize there's always a worse. Unless you like unknown beings screwing around with your free will."

The throwing things out there to try and kill them all doesn't bother Jules nearly as much as basically becoming a full puppet to their games by losing some aspect of his personality or ability.

Honestly, he might as well just give up.

"Gravity does, though since that's variable in other places I'm sure they'll eventually start playing with that too. Otherwise you might want to start broadening your categorization of the word "sense.""

"No, I don't work anywhere. I'm just here."

It's an honest answer. Unfortunately, she seems to be the only one around and that doesn't bode well for the poor demon.

"Do you want a different drink?"

"If that's the case, I'm happy to serve myself." he groans, pushing the cup of water back to her. "You can keep that."

He glances around, looking for some sort of signage, anything to clue him into how this place works.

"If I were to ask you for anything else, are you only capable of monkeys-paw results?"

"Hard pass." he mutters, looking about. Broadening his categorization of the word 'sense' was good advice, but Crowley wasn't sure where to start. A standard human light made sense to Crowley. Magic made sense to Crowley (celestial magic, the universe as he helped create it, that is). He could even get down with different scifi or fantasy rules, having seen just about every film there was to see that's made it to theaters... but that was fairly broad.

"What can you tell me that's crucial for a newcomer, then? What are the rules?" he shook his head, realizing his own rudeness. "Ah, sorry; Let me try this again. I'm Crowley."

Michael, strictly speaking, does not work here. He's spoken to Tim often enough, but never about that. But his time spent as a human bartender was a fun lark, and he enjoys playing the same role here from time to time. Not like it's hard - you give maybe three people a drink and snacks, and then you get to chat for a while! It's fun!

He can tell Crowley is another demon, of course, and Crowley can probably tell the same about him. But as far as Michael is concerned, all that's been hashed out already. No threats to humanity; no problems.

"Your options are water and tea. Decent tea selection, actually. No urine, no antimatter." Both of those are common drinks in Michael's version of Hell. Is it the same in Crowley's? He has no idea, he's just spitballing here.

Crowley smells it before he realizes where it's come from, and is immediately on edge. It's a very good thing he has a decent poker-face, otherwise the conversation might be rather awkward. His eyebrows shoot up almost past his hairline at the response. But make no mistake, he is still watching Michael very closely behind dark glasses.

"No urine at all? What is this, The Ritz?" he asks, leaning on the bar with both elbows. "Tea it is."

"You're talking to the wrong Andarian if you want politeness, but whatever. I'm Dagger."

Now he knows why Crowley looked so familiar at least. They've met before, though something tells Jules it might have been a different Crowley.

"Generally? Trust nothing. Not the plants, not the animals, not the tiny little rock you kick out of your way with your big toe. I'd avoid the other islands too. Not that I'm going to say this one is safe or anything, but generally the things attempting to kill us here aren't on the same scale as the ones on the other islands that crop up."

Rules. Right. Because those exist. Not.

"There aren't any rules, except perhaps if this place or the storyteller or whoever is running the storyteller can screw you, they will."

"I could go for some antimatter," is Michael's only comment on the matter.

He moves to a shelf a few feet away, on the other side of the bar, to consult the tea canisters neatly lined up there. They aren't all always full, but it's quick work to check which ones are. "We've got chamomile, coconut, bluescythe, and candleflower." From his tone, it's clear that he doesn't know exactly what the latter two are. "Anything else, and you'll probably have to go talk to the tea guy."

"Chamomile is fine." he replies, watching the other man curiously. Surely, another demon wouldn't attempt to pretend he isn't one when they can sense each other this way? And since that's not the case, what is the point of playing nice? For starters, there are no nice demons (save Crowley), and all of Hell wishes him dead. Either this one's never heard of him or he's too afraid to act otherwise.

Crowley finally works up the courage to say something else, but decides to play it safe and keep it vague. "Do you... work in this place?"

Crowley had no real need for politeness, it was just something people did. He liked people. In some circles, however, people likely found him rude as well.

"What a lovely holiday." he mutters in response to Dagger's list. It's about all he can muster, it's a lot to take in. If he isn't to trust a thing in this realm, he's going to have a hard time settling in for the long haul. Paranoia isn't his color, it isn't even his season.

Crowley exhales a long sigh and rubs at the bridge of his nose just above where his glasses sit. "Lovely, lovely, lovely." he repeats, under his breath, sorting through things in his mind. "I suppose it's not worth asking if there's any safe place here, then." he motions to the huts in their general vicinity, "Is this your only means of shelter?"

"Sure."

Back home, he could have just snapped his fingers and manifested a perfect cup of tea. Here - well, he could still do that, but he's much more limited. Far easier to just do it by hand. He even uses the flint near the bar to knock out a spark, though at least he's certainly experienced in the business of making fire.

With the water on to boil, he turns back to the conversation, leaning against the back wall. "Nah. Not sure anybody does, officially - it's more of a community project." It's not as though they have money, anyway.

Jules lives and breathes paranoia. Of course he would point out that by definition he isn't paranoid. You can't count it as paranoia when everything he's afraid of and persecuted for is actually happening.

He shrugs. If there is a safe place somewhere, he certainly hasn't found it. What's safe one moment can be under siege the next.

"Some say the Storyteller's temple is safe, but I don't trust that piece of shit even as far as I can throw them."

Everyone else does, but they aren't going to be convincing Jules of that one.

"Most people don't live in the monkey nests. They take a cottage on the islets. I just don't tolerate beings of any species, which is why I'm out here. Less pains in the ass."

He leans awkwardly on the bar, shifting his weight like a serpent that sways before it strikes. Not that Crowley had any intention of striking, he just often forgets himself and moves in less-than-human ways.

"How long have you been a part of this community?" he asks, a question that serves two purposes. One, it'll give him more context about this plane of existence, and two, it'll answer his questions about this man's knowlege of Crowley and his deeds.

"Six months or so." That part's easy enough, though Michael frowns for a moment over the rest of it. Is he a part of the community? Sure, technically, he guesses so. It's just a little weird to think about; the most he's ever been part of before is either a department, or a small friend group.

More to the point - they haven't talked about that before, but it seems like a slightly odd question from someone who's been around for a few months. He already knows a new version of Aziraphale has showed up, so the subject's on his mind. "Did you just get here?" he asks, cocking his head at Crowley and studying him thoughtfully. He doesn't look as though he's been living on a deserted island. But then, Michael doesn't really either; a demon can at least keep themselves clean.

Six months. Well, for starters, six months meant that this entity didn't know Crowley from any other demon in hell. He hadn't been there to see or hear of his traitorous acts, which worked in Crowley's benefit. But it also meant that he had been in this dimension for six months without a way out, and that didn't bode well for Crowley, either.

"Erk-- yes, sort of." he replies, mirroring the man's gaze on him. "Were you expecting me sooner?"

"Oh, you were here before," Michael replies, a little off-handedly. This time, he won't make the mistake of offering a Time Knife-related explanation; that really went over poorly with Aziraphale. But it's true, and Crowley ought to know.

The water's boiling, and he turns to remove the pot from the fire and pour it into the nearest cup. "You and Aziraphale," he continues with his back to Crowley. "You two really stick together, don't you?" He still finds the friendship between the two slightly bemusing. How long has it been since demons and angels in his universe even had contact? But really, right now, it's just...

...jealousy. It's jealousy. Twice now they've shown up together, and where are any of Michael's friends? It isn't their fault, he knows that, but that doesn't make the feeling go away.

Hey, he remembers you. Vaguely. But the total lack of recognition is a bad sign. Tim, for the moment, doesn't acknowledge it - just does a brief double-take as he processes that, yes, he does remember this guy from a while back, and now he's back to his pseudo-bartending. "Pseudo," because he doesn't exactly do much in the way of serving anything.

"Well, you're in luck. We got water, tea, and blackberry liquor." He has his money, personally, on the last option being the one that Crowley springs for.

"The storyteller? You mean the rabbit, right?" he asks, remembering a dream and a funny little statue outside of the temple he had explored earlier.

Crowley hates being that guy who asks too many questions--wait no, he loves being that guy. It's what got him kicked out of heaven to begin with, after all.

"Where are these islets?" he continues asking, assuming he was standing amidst the monkey nests. Crowley likes people, but he often doesn't get very close to them. They tend to die on you, not worth the trouble.

Crowley's eyebrows shoot so far up into his hairline they almost disappear. So introductions aren't necessary afterall, yet what bothers Crowley more is that he says they've been here before. All Crowley remembers is The Ritz.

"I'm-- ngk-- What?"

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Monkey Compound

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