The air inside the Twa Corbies is hushed, silent, and cold-- as though someone had turned the air conditioner up too far, and everyone had left.

Despite this quiet atmosphere, the bar is not empty. Rather, it's about as full as it usually is this time of night, with groups of students and other regulars clumped here and there, lining the bar and claiming the tables.

One or two are on the floor. Everyone else is slumped over, a few in positions that are no doubt rather awkward. Bodies litter the darkened bar-- not dead, but asleep. The faint noises of many people breathing softly can almost be ignored.

Frost glazes beer bottles and tales throughout the bar, touching shirt sleeves and chair backs with delicate, icy patterns. The frost gets thicker as it approaches the one person who seems to still be awake.

Sitting in his own little garden of ice crystals, Morpheus looks like a snow sculpture himself. Geometric whorls of ice encase the glass in his pale hand, radiating out from his, for want of a better word, skin. In all, the God is pale, gaunt, and tall even though seated. He's dressed simply enough in a rough cotton dress shirt, bleached blinding white, and a pair of white cotton slacks-- bohemian, today. His hair is paper-white and a rather mussy inch or two long, left artfully to its own devices. As ever, his eyes are pale white.

One might be curious how long it will be until someone else enters to find the entire pub making like Sleeping Beauty. One might also wonder what this god will do to that person.

Person? Hardly. Where there's a bar, there is drink, and where there is drink, there is (drumroll) Di! Well. There wasn't before, but there is now - Di himself seems a little disconcerted with the sudden appearance, legs thrown over the edge of the bar and the seat of his boardshorts freezing fast to the counter. There's a long moment of concentration at his own forearm - the little beads of sweat are freezing in distracting patterns down his wrist - before he gives the rest of the place a good look.

Little wave at one of the sleeping girls, and another at Death.

"Heat wave getting to you too?"

The words are clear, if a little slow - drawn out and warm, stretchy. Melted saltwater taffy or caramel, something really terribly sweet but without much content. Broad smile, lips blue (thick gloss and a little liner), hair freezing off his scalp in sharp, straight angles.

As he smiles he tries to concentrate a little more - Mr. Broody looks nice, all covered in ice, and he has some desire to bring him to the beach and hug him when it gets really muggy. Grey eyes wander, then, off towards the left - the bar, and his reflection in it. The Revelry God's Hawaiian shirt is easily loud enough to drown out the collective breathing, and possibly several commuter trains.

Cold.

This sort of cold brings back memories. No when-I-was-a-lads, no great-blizzard-of-seventy-eights, though, but memories of real cold. Real cold.

Really damn cold.

She shakes the thought off with the frost as she shuts the door behind her, nudging an inert form out of the way with a booted toe. Work your way up from there, suppose- blue jeans (ragged at the hems), gray teeshirt (not, for once, painted-upon), a surprisingly apple-green cardigan (unbuttoned, with a small button-pin depicting a small, rather angry cartoon of a piglet pinned to the lapel).

Habits are hard to break, though, and she pulls her hair out of its ponytail simply for the modicum of warmth it might give to the back of her neck. Unruly, not-quite-dreaded curls- if the truth were known, the woman's stylishly tousled, tangled locks are due solely to the fact that she hasn't brushed it in several days. Aside from that, she looks remarkably collected, physically and mentally, as she flops herself onto the empty stool beside the god.

"'Evening, Az, Di. Good heavens, it looks like a regular opium den the morning after in here. Or a plague of narcolepsy." A slight smile tugs at her mouth, and Moira glances from the God of Death and Dreams to the God of Revelry with amusement in her grey eyes.

Humanity can do that to a girl.

Okay, not so alone, then.

"Not really," Mr. Broody says in his usual suck-the-warmth-from-your-hearing-organs voice, and turns to look at the door as it opens.

"More like a plague of narcolepsy," he muses, and turns back to his drink.

Pause.

"Nice shirt. Di."

((I just wrote 'eyes' instead of 'usual.' I think there's something wrong with my brain.))

A little frown at the opium den remark - not displeasure, but the sort of dredged-up remembering that comes with most intoxication. He doesn't remember the dens being so cold, but then, he doesn't remember very much of them.

"Hiya, Moira."

Di mispronounces her name terribly, and without any apparent shame. He's gotten distracted again with the frost on the counter, making little snow-angels with his fingers.

Angel, angel, flying angel, copulating angel, angel exploded into a pile of limbs and wings, two more copulating angels..

"Shirt?"

A blinking stare down at the red, awful thing. The buttons at the bottom haven't come out even, and he begins to tinker with them, red polish chipping off on the cheap plastic.

"You shouldn't make people sleep all the time."

Pick, pick. Tinker. He doesn't offer an explanation as to why Az shouldn't, but manages to get button out of its little hole.

"It's his job, dear," Moira reminds, head canted to one side sympathetically as she watches Di fumble with his buttons. She sits that way for a quiet moment, then slides off the stool to duck behind the bar.

"Az, do warm up a bit, my hands are sticking to the bottles," she mutters, in a consternation of iceburnt fingers, and remedies the problem by breaking the glass. "Oh, hell- oh well. Want anything?" she inquires as an afterthought, fixing up a mint julep for herself- O! for the pointless Southern decadence of days long past. It's not like they actually happened, but Miss Hekas always was one up for a good game of Let's Pretend.

Azrael shrugs, and in a flash the frost melts, like Spring invaded the Twa Corbies, guns blazing.

The glass in the God's hand remains more or less frozen to his bony fingers.

"No, I'm good," he says. "It's a safe bet Di will want something, though."

His snowy white teeth flash at the younger god. It's a smile, really it is.

Tug, fumble. Frown.

"Anyone 'member Pan's 'voking thing?"

Something tears, and he manages a little frown. He really does like the shirt, even if the back's a bit soggy from melted ice.

"He's good with buttons.. oh, eh?"

Drink? Drinks were good.

"Straight vod-AAH! NAIL!"

Flails his hand at nothing in particular, showing off (at high speed) a small hangnail on his pinky.

Moira's hand shoots out- long thin hands, strong white callused working-pianist's hands- and grabs Di's flailing arm by the wrist before he hits someone with it, such as her, or himself, and inserts a glass of vodka into it before releasing him.

"You invoke Pan to button your shirts? Sweets, we need to find you... some sort of... buttoning spell, or something. Or automatically buttoning shirts." We lubs the mindless drivel, and so, at the moment, does Moira.

Wordlessly, Azrael snaps his fingers, and the buttons on Di's shirt melt into a zipper front. Just as wordlessly, he turns back and takes a sip from his drink.

And that's all.