Demons (Damirae)

Chapter Forty-Six

Clink.

Gold liquid sloshed about, a wave of amber crashing against an invisible barrier, an icebergs floating in the alcoholic ocean. With one elbow resting on the same counter as the whiskey, and the other on the glass' other side, Damian trailed a lazy finger over its circular rim, his steely eyes fixated on the ice cube bobbing up and down in the drink: though, naturally, his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Perched on one of the counter's many stools, every cell of his oozed with nonchalance. One shoe (a simple, black oxford) rested its lace against the stool's lone rung; the other swung a hair's breadth away from the floor. Leaning over his glass of whiskey -still undrained- a rebellious dark lock broke free, springing above Damian's nose, a shade akin to that of the coat aiding him in his achieving a cavalier air.
The trench coat in question, a formidable leather number (which the part-demon had exchanged for his uniform long ago, much like the dress-suit he donned) hung by his right leg, a few inches off dusting the floor.

Clink.

Damian's impassive nature persisted as the waiter set a half-pint of beer in front of the vacant seat to his left; rather, the occupied seat to his left. Impertinently bright lights ashine above the part-demon, he spared the man besides his not a single curious glance. That would be far too interested when he cared not a smidgen.

Over the lulls of dark Elvish music-a stark contrast to human 'nightclubs' the man's baritone rumbling found Damian's ears, teasingly soft, "Your majesty."

Savouring the thick atmosphere like a sweet lump of cream(or a blood clot- to each their own) Damian paused his circling of the glass' top to rub a finger of the tip of his collar -crisp and porcelain, a powerful edge to his otherwise raven ensemble. Harnessing a meat cleaver not dissimilar to one of Solomon Grundy's, Damian carved the tension between them, honing it in a method he deemed passable.

Challenge slipping in to his voice like second nature (perhaps first nature, were people caustic at birth?) the ex-assassin cast his eyes upon the man's, unblinking, "Your majesty yourself."

"Formalities are tiring."

"Indeed."

"What is it you're in search of, brother?"

"Information. You are entirely aware of that, of course."

Once more, the slender, calloused finger ran over the glass' edge, applying no pressure to make the contents spill. On Damian's right, Tyrone grinned, drumming a song with his fingertips on the side of his mug, pale froth dribbling over his caramel skin. Almond eyes the same shade as his neighbour's whiskey, the man left his glass alone to roll back his sleeves, showcasing masses of inky black painting his skin in swirling masses.

Not a show of strength, or pomp, but a simple gesture indicating his ease besides the part-demon. Damian had spent enough time with Tyrone to be aware of that.

"Naturally, brother, naturally. Lahra and the others have been noting all goods in and out of the market."

On cue, another clink.

Rather, a thud.

A glass more than twice the size of Tyrone's smacked on Damian's other side as a newcomer took their seat, elbows thunking on the counter, hunched forwards, legs splayed with brown-stained combat boots dripping something on the already tainted floor. With another thud, the person slung an assault rifle radiating dark magic on to the counter: one so badass, Jason would be torn to pieces at the mere sight of it-the Red Hood had to have the most gangster weapons, he was the Red Hood for fuck's sake!

As though the person were a Brit who had noticed their tea was lukewarm, they hefted the beer mug up, froth splashing over the counter, and chugged. The. Entire. Thing.