There was a play coming to town, a brilliant macabre romance about a dead girl and a man who'd been sleeping for one hundred and forty years. The man longed for his young, beautiful bride while she, being dead, didn't care one way or another. Oh, how sorrow it is. But there's a twist, there's always a twist, the man holds a 'wicked' seyonce and braught his beloved back to him.
That's what the script notes said, of course Adonis just skimmed and figure he had sex with a dead girl(played by an alive one) on stage. He was cool with that, except the 'director' wanted hours of commiment, and theatre companionship. That's why our protagonist is on this shack of a stage, to the best of his knowledge alone.

He'd already slid down the railings that seperated the seats from the hallway, eld a private puppet show with his Invader Zim socks (now lyeing beside him) and broken the lights that lit the audiance chairs. And with all that activity, you can't blame the guy for getting hungry. So that's why he's eating in the orchestra pit, cold is his 'costume' which consists of a green plaid kilt, leather sash and black vintage pacman t-shirt, a white oxford unbottoned and draped over his shoulders. Kind of lame, but attractive on him because, well, he's got nice legs. The same nice, but pale, legs that are perched on a violin case.

(reserved for |||...I think))

((Yuh-huh. *dibs it*))

Azrael likes the theatre. Perhaps it's the dreams side of him, but to be honest, it's probably just the him side of him, the personality that develops over millenia. He likes places where edges meet. Stages have a certain attraction.

So does Bayfield.

This is why, sometime while the muse gone actor is eating his meal, the doors to the theatre open to admit a slim but startingly tall form-- the God of Death and Dreaming, in a typically human guise. He enters as one would when going to a play, at the back of the theatre, in the dark. His clothing, all a pristine white, stands out like a candle in the darkness. Ironic, really.

He's wearing his white trenchcoat again. It cuts in around his gaunt form and billows around the ankles. Added to this are white slacks, a white sleeveless mock turtleneck, and a white scarf that's more for show than anything else. Added to his white skin, hair and eyes, he looks like something drawn by a person with no coloured inks.

He's grinning, already aware of who (and what) is in the theatre.

Then again, he tends to grin anyways, even when apparently alone.

((Wow. Sorry for the crap intro.))

Crap. Director alert.

He dropped his ice cream, sadly, and hopped on stage, holding his hand up in a mock-to be or not kind of pose. "Have I really slept a lifetime away? Slumbered away love--" The muse turned his head, smiling his tooth paste ad smile that quivered slightly, but pretty much stayed the same once he saw it wasn't teh director.
"I'm sorry the show doesn't start 'till tommorow"

His ice cream was ruined for nothing.

Azrael pauses and crosses his arms loosely over his chest, grinning up at the muse.

"Are you sure I can't stay to watch the practice? Or the meal. I'm not quite sure which I interrupted."

The god takes another few steps forwards and seats himself in the second row from the front, folding like a lawn chair into position.

He grinned guiltily, rubbing the back of his hair and falling into his nonchalant slouch.
"It wasn't really a meal, just an ice cream break..." A four hour ice cream brake.
The stage light flickered slightly, incredible since it was being held on by a fast food soda cup, and finally held on dimmed and almost spot-lighting him.

"I'm sure you can make a meal out of ice cream, if you try."

Azrael leans forwards in his seat, grinning and resting his arms on the seat in front of him.

"So, Adonis, is this what you do with your spare time?"

He's curious. His first real encounter with the muse was when he'd saved him from becoming a handy meal. Muses weren't usually Azrael's thing. They tended to associate more with Dionis and Tympan and the like.

Actually, he often made meals out of ice cream. Ice cream, or cake, candy, alchohal, even marshmellows.

Adonis sat down on the edge of the stage, beating his legs against the side boredly, like a kid does when waiting for something interesting to happen, or possibly more ice cream.

The god raises his white-haired eyebrows, obviously waiting for an answer.

Dealing with the muse is interesting. Rather different, on a whole, than dealing with a human.

Yep, he's still waiting for a answer.

Oh yeah, there were words, he'd forgotten about that.

"I do this, and that Jeans billboard and photo shoots." Something had to pay for his sweet tooth, and sometimes it was even him. There wasn't always a rich man willing to buy him food and shoes, or a well-off spoiled girl making him dinner.

"Put your talents to good uses." Azrael nods, perhaps approvingly.

He pauses for a moment.

Apparently muses aren't as amusing to taunt as normal human-bred mortals. Which is vaguely disconcerting, insofar as anything can be disconcerting for his kind.

"What play are you planning on running?"

"Uhm, I think it's called 'Eternity for Love' or some crap like that" He mumbled 'I get to have sex in it' and cast a wayward glance at his ice cream.

His black hair was stuck to his forhead, saturated with sweat and probably some hair-gell he found back stage in a zebra print bottle.

Azrael's pale eyes follow the muse's glance to the fallen ice cream.

Ah, what the hell.

He gestures, and the ice cream re-assembles itself, un-melts, and lifts to float about four feet above the stage.

Those pretty purple eyes get wide and the muse lets out a sorta half screech thing.
"Ice cream!"

Adonis jumped off the stage and hugged the god of death, a kiddie hug with the arms around the neck, tight and quick, before jumping back up to grab his ice cream-reborn.

((Wow, this is going nowhere. -_- sorry, my fault.))

"Well," azrael says, standing and grinning at the contented muse, "I should be leaving. Souls to take, dreams to give, that sort of thing."

((Heh, more so mine...but i thought you had some sorta plot idea since you asked...))

He nodded and licked his ice cream, settling back in the orchestra pit to finish 'rehersing'