Alderman Museum's C Wing is hosting an exhibit of central american artifacts. Posters dominate the building's front, advertisements run on classical radio stations, fliers for the mueseum bear some new photos... and no one attends.

Well, not no one. Small groups of small children, lead by tired teachers and watchful tour guides traipse through once in a Monday morning or so. A couple stragglers ostensibly attracted by the radio segment straggle through. Janitors mop the floors.

On a whole, though, the entire exhibit has been a flop. This may be due to the fact that what was advertised as an exiting archaeological look into Aztec history consists mainly of a few broken pottery pieces, and displays with two-dimentional National Geographic spreads of the magnificent temples you aren't seeing.


It's Monday, but the day's gaggle of goggling toddlers has already passed through, clinging to each other's hands as per Teacher's orders. The exhibit is mostly empty, costing the museum untold bankloads of money for very little purpse at all.

There is, however, one visitor.

He is tall, and his skin is a rich, reminiscent dark brown. He's wearing a white sweater and white jeans that offset his skin and blue-black hair in a most lovely manner. By the unconsciously proud manner in which he holds himself, this was obviously a deliberate choice.

His eyes are completely incongruous-- a shade of white we last saw on the highly polished and freezing cold marble floors in the Alderman's lobby.

At the moment, they're locked on a few shards of shattered brownish pottery. Perhaps he has seen this exhibit before, because his features (thin and sharp) are arranged in an expression of... remembrance. Reminiscance. He's recalling something, and it's with a certain fondness.

The average passerby probably would not guess that he's thinking about human sacrifice. But then again, the average passerby would not realise that this is in fact the God of Death, in this time and place best known as Azrael.

OOC: May I?

"Funny," says a low voice, thick with youth and cigarettes and boozing and also estrogen. "Funny how the last time I saw those pieces of bowl they were being used to catch the brains of virgins and other such and sundry."

Moira is the perfect art-student complement to Azrael's carefully unconcious elegance. A little shorter than usual but very much playing up the busty bohemian red-head with a piece of old silk scarf in her half-dreadlocked curls, too much gold in her ears, too much ink in her arms, the carefully tacky housewife-sundress and the cracked black frames of a pair of deteriorating reading glasses. She stands squarely, feet apart, the toes of her point-toed black flats turned in slightly, arms crossed over her notebook.

"Well- you know what they say- what goes around, comes around..."

((Goth: Make you another board?))

"And yet, according to the little plaque here," Azrael traces a finger along it, "It was used for corn."

He turns and gives Moira a smile, not bothering to take in her appearance but going right for the eyes. His teeth, white-bright, seem more predatory in contrast to the warm brown skin he's currently wearing.

"Good to see you again, Rose. You've been almost off my radar, lately."

"Oh, what do they know? A lot of stuffier archaeologists I have not seen since the British Empire was top of its game in Egypt, their heads all full of pretty buxom tribeswomen who go about their water-carrying and corn-picking barebreasted without shame, and all the quaint little comforts of life in a native city run by priests to rival our very own Inquisition."

...the eyes being, of course, the permanent feature, as in almost anything which is older than a thousand years or so. Moira's, the flat liquid gray of a tray of evenly diffused water and india ink with indeterminate black pupils, are smiling, and she greets the god of Death and Dreams with a kiss on each cheek.

"Hello, love. I have been spending some quality time with off-the-radar. Spent some time in Heldon. I swear, every time I leave that place Arocan gets some harebrained idea that he can get something done which doesn't involve females."

"That's pretty far off the radar, indeed," he murmurs, smiling down on the... er... the Moira.

"It's been pretty lonely around here. No interesting new curses, really. No one interesting has died. No one's been calling me up. Did I ever tell you about that one fellow-- Zed something, with the wings?"

"Nothing? I can't believe it."

Moira arches an eyebrow, shifts her weight to one hip. "Zed? No, I don't think so."

"Something angel-y. Zachariel. Summon-spelled me in order to have sex. Now that, I could do with happening for often."

He grins, sliding his eyes almost coyly back to the shards of ancient pottery, their whiteness shuttered by the thick lashes his current form boasts.

"Hey, score." She grins, showing small sharp white teeth, and punches him lightly on the arm.

"That's funny. People are so funny. When Kits was young she used to flip out about boys or girls and there was just no way to convince her that most boys and also most girls are grateful for a little hormonal interest. And it really doesn't get any different when they get older, they just still don't believe it's true."

"Snhhm," he says, which is something of a noise of amused agreement.

He'd ask where Kristopher is but, well... she's stuck in a consistant dream. He knows where she is.

He'd been holding a ponderous expression for a moment, but now smiles mischeviously. With a look to Moira, to make sure she's looking, he sets his hand on the broken-pottery-shard case.

Inside, in the suddenly frosty air, the slivers shiver and re-arrange. New slivers appear (out of the ground in central america) (out of a museum in England) (out of a storage room in California), melding together with the ones there. In a moment, the bowl is whole again.

Like a kid with a toy. Honestly.

"Oh, honestly," she murmurs, jabbing him lightly in the ribs with her elbow. "They'll notice." She shakes her head in exasperation. Kid with a toy- try kid in an empty candy shop and big pockets, and then you'll be closer to the truth. That boy needs every ounce of social interaction he can get, reflects Moira, possibly the only entity in this universe who thinks of Azrael as "that boy."