There is a sign on a rusty brick wall that has scrawled on it in neat, flowing cursive, “Private party in progress. Please do not disturb.” Underneath this in smaller bold print is, “Gods can bring +1.” Several people stop to puzzle over this sign, some even knock on the brick before rubbing their knuckles ruefully. One man even tries to pry the wood sign from the wall (disturbed as he is by the alliteration), but is unable to and eventually gives up.

Up rickety stairs, beyond a dim enclosure, in a private room set to the side, Pan hums because he can. He hums deep in his throat and hums with his entire body, the air surrounding him vibrating steadily. He doesn’t dance around to set things up, but his step is fluid. He moves like mercury. Sometimes he stops to click his fingernails on the table, just for a little beat, just to fix the music playing in the background. The strain of music is old, as old as its existence. The man playing looks distinctly out of place, as if he was plucked straight from a history book and placed in the corner. He is heartbreakingly beautiful, with soft black hair and pale, pale eyes that defies genetics. Pan had run into him on the street, felt the inclination towards music, and had been impressed. He showed his appreciation by unleashing the man’s full potential and then dragging him into the Triskele club to play ancient music on old, old stringed instruments. His lovely eyes now are blank, dulled with the constant feeling of music. Pan supposes this must not be very nice for the boy, but it gives the atmosphere a great feel.

He goes through the mundane motions of setting up house because he thinks it’s interesting for a moment, before getting hopelessly bored and sitting down, eclectically tapping his foot. He presses his thumb against the surface of the table for a second and the wood shakes with his vibrations, before lifting it up to reveal a Monopoly figurine of a laptop. Stupid little party favors. A heart, Napoleon, a large open book, a scythe, a bunch of grapes & etc. He thinks they’re cute, but shuffles them away into his pocket anyway. He moves constantly, tapping his nails on the wood and it isn’t annoying because the sound is brassy, beautiful. He fidgets because he exists partially in a realm of sonar energy, and the sound waves pulse at him from every direction until he has to get up and move again. He wants to dance while he waits. He wishes Di would dance with him, but Di is off somewhere and he is left to jitter alone. He is impatient.

Dionis was here; went to get beer.

Not that Dionis couldn't conjure it. Not like he couldn't cut open a vein and wave his fingertips and go 'voila, cask-aged port! tastes like wood!', or summon some centuries-past wine-makers to stand about and crush grapes. Not that Pan couldn't do it, although Pan never remembers the twisty straws and doesn't get the glasses that change color.

Therefore, it falls to Dionis. Or, fell; Dionis has successfully completed a run of the local liquor stores and private collections, and is now cajolingly nudging the mostly-blank brick wall with one shoulder, arms loaded with bags of bottles and cans and straws and sparkly napkins and the crinkling plastic of chip bags and Ho-Ho's wrappers.

"Open - um," and the bag he'd been carrying in his teeth shifts dangerously, and he clenches his molars around the chewed-on brown paper handles. Possibly there had been a better way to do this. If he drops something on his foot he's probably going to break something, as much as anything in him actually breaks - he's only wearing Jesus sandals, the ones they custom-tailor to your feet, though they weren't tailored to his. They match the ill-fitting cargo shorts and the slightly overly tight mesh shirt, which itches uncomfortably when the bags grind against it.

"Pnnn." The vowel gets lost in the cardboard and whining. If any unlucky mortal passerby is staring at him in bewilderment, he's too used to it to notice.

Amor had considered manifesting in his form of Chou Wang, Chinese God of Sodomy, pretty much just for fun. But then he figured no one really needed that; they were all pretty into sodomy anyway. It was one of the things he liked about them.

So instead he'd manifested in his form of probably-an-Italian-model. You know, one of those guys with the lean muscles and the really intense stare and dark hair tousled all to hell. The kind of handsome that if you stick around long enough someone is eventually bound to call 'devastatingly.'

He's wearing a black cotton tee-shirt that's ridiculously thin and soft from being worn and washed for years and years, and dark jeans sort of low-slung on his hips. Sunglasses, too, and snakeskin boots, because, why not. He actually looks a little dangerous, in an old-school bad-boy kind of way. Which is funny, really, when you think about it.

And so of course he's immediately right up against Di, one hand already on the small of the poor guy's back and the other reaching for some of the stuff he's holding, mouth a little too close to his ear when he offers "Can I help you with that?"

Moira, though not a god, has this really convenient way of circumventing conventional procedure. Under normal circumstances this just makes her kind of eccentric; under other circumstances it means she can walk out of the coatroom without first having entered it. She left her coat in it and everything, a totally appropriately expansive white fur, and strolls out wearing something black and minimal, both in terms of the cut and the amount of fabric used to make it, and bright red pumps.

Aside from that she's all tangled red hair and tattoos and a long brown cigarette, grey eyes painted with a sleek sixties black line.

"Pan!" And because he's the only one inside the building yet and because she's Moira, she greets him with a kiss on the cheek, which is apparently standard for her now I guess? "You're all jittery."

Apoth didn't bother with walking, or even popping out of a coat closet, no. Apoth went for the showier subtle approach. Walking was not his style. Well, not in this case anyway.

To begin with, he was not there. Gradually, he was. It was a minute long transition from nothing to something, like a painting. Blank canvas slowly turned into a work of art. He was dressed in a casual 70s type pale green paisley suit, shirt and tie to match. He wore his pince nez clipped severely to the end of his nose.

After manifesting fully (he loved that word, manifesting, it brought back such memories of the old days when a good manifestation was all you needed to get things done), he scanned the room. Hooligans. Hedonists. He crossed his arms and fixed his best noble and godly glare on the world at large.

"Maybe he's cold."

The voice appears before the physical form, but Azrael’s presence is already there—and tangible, of course, to his fellow gods. Still, these things must be done properly, and his most recent favourite form swirls into chilly existence at Moira’s side. Even before he’s entirely finished forming, he’s crooking an elbow to her and smiling at Tympan.

This could be interpreted as possessive, but Azrael’s not that stupid. He’s just gesturally multitasking.

He’s dressed for the party in a ribbed mock-turtleneck tee shirt made of fine, thin fabric, a pair of jeans washed until the blue has faded completely to white, a white leather jacket only as long as his waist, and no shoes or socks whatsoever. He’s wearing three silver toe-rings of different types (coiled, smooth, etched), three silver rings of the same general design, and some kind of silver wire in his ears. As usual, he has multiple ear piercings, but the single wire is cirled through all of them, finishing at the top and bottom with a small silver spiral. On the left eat, the bottom-most hole has been left free of wire and through it has been inserted a little dangly death’s-head earring, just in case you weren’t getting the point. His fingernails and toenails are painted with opaque white polish, and his eyes are smeared in black liner and a hint of red shadow. This mostly serves to show off his eyes; they could be considered his pass to the party.

He grins, and his teeth are very shiny under his sharp features.

”Pan. Rose." A glance across the room, then back. "Apoth. Anyone else here yet?”

If Dionis ever had anything resembling a personal space bubble when in physical form, Amor has long since been granted access. Di leans back, not enough to overbalance but enough to get skin contact through the mesh, because Amor might not vibrate, but it's Amor, and cranes his head around enough to catch a quick glimpse of Amor's (his) current form. Sunglasses! Dionis always forgets sunglasses.

"Thnks." Quick flash of bright teeth under green gloss, the kind that would match his hair if his hair were a slightly more appealing shade of green. The handles of the bag he's gnawing on are a bit wet, at this point, and a little glittery. Everything Dionis owns or touches or fucks or eats gets glittery eventually, and Amor might want to grab one of the bags off Dionis's arm if he doesn't want to get myrrh-smelling saliva on his hands.

"Nce 'oots."

Does a little eyebrow-waggle move, with mostly-matching green eyebrows stabbed through with a handful of bars and rings. Di's dressed to impress, or possibly set off metal detectors.

And then he isn't so alone anymore. His smile manages to include anyone who just sort of appeared, and he gives Moira a quick, jangly hug. He's wearing tight black Dickies-like pants, complete with a red logo on the back with an octave clef replacing the logo. His shirt was long sleeved and white and had a large, black quaver on the back. His shoes looked like ballerina slippers, but what the hell. They were comfortable. He slinks over to Apoth's side and smiles. Though he would never go so far as to hug Apoth, the air around him practically shimmers in its vibrations.

"Apoth! So good to see you." Yeah, he is a hedonist, but fuck is it fun. Besides, he likes Apoth. Well, he likes everyone, but whatever! So he stands next to Apoth while smiling at Moira and Azrael. "Some of the others are outside. Di and Amor are, at least. I heard Di call me earlier." He hears a lot of stuff.

Moira automatically holds her arm at the proper distance from herself for taking, and leans gently into the god. "Sweetheart," she acknowledges (and it's probably basically completely ridiculous to call the God of Death 'sweetheart'), and then winks at Apoth, whom she basically likes.

He definitely needs to loosen up, though. Maybe she'll help Pan work on that later. That would be fairly appropriate, aside from the whole 'inappropriate' thing.

"Somebody better go check on them downstairs," she adds, almost a little smugly, "they might get stuck on the stairs."

Amor gets all grin-y at the contact and turns his hands-all-over-Di into what's basically a full out cuddle and only one step away from frottage. Little kisses on his neck and everything, which is a perfectly nice way to say hello, in Amor's opinion. And he's not often wrong; one of the nice things about being Amor is you have chemistry with everybody.

"Thanks," he breaths hotly into Di's ear; he likes these boots. He bought them, too! With real money.

He wasn't lying about helping or anything, but instead of taking his hands off from wherever they ended up on Di's body, he manifests some new ones. About eight of them, in fact; they're pretty things, wearing rings with brightly colored stones stacked on a few fingers each. They all have a pair of wings, white and fluffy like everyone's drawings of Cupid, and they'd probably be pretty cute, if it weren't for the wrists. They look pretty much how you'd expect a severed wrist to look.

The hands take the bags of stuff and fly them up the stairs, dumping them unceremoniously in a corner before breaking formation to fondle people.

One lands on Moira's ass to get a good grope in, another one gently traces the lines of Az's ears, as if admiring the cool wire earring. One of them is going after Apoth's buttons, and at least four of them are fluttering around Pan, landing briefly and taking off again, enjoying the vibrations and trying to wriggle into his pants. (Stupid tight pants. Whose idea was that?)

One lone hand is poking around the booze, trying to open a drink for Amor.

Amor himself is looking satisfied and all tangly with Di, and is pretty much trying to follow his hands upstairs without actually ceasing the cuddle. The result is probably an extremely awkward shuffle, although it's sort of hard for Amor to look really awkward, but unless Di is dead-set against it, he probably makes up into the room eventually.

"Hello, hello," he says to Pan, giving a slight nod. Then the hand shows up and he has to fight it off. He grabs the hand firmly and kisses it, gentleman-like. he refuses to let go however, instead holding it like he was talking to an old friend.

Apoth's not sure when the last mass gathering of gods was. One part of him wonders what will happen to the area and another part of him starts taking measurements recording data. The main part of him, this part of him, smiles at Moira. She's always been nice enough.

Still holding the hand, Apoth gravitates towards a table that may be intended for snacks. There's something on there that may be edible by certain dumber animals who are in the habit of eating and re-eating their food, but not something fit for the gods. Instead, he reaches out and grabs a snack cracker from nothing, a plate full of them following quickly behind, arranged rather poshly. next, he grabs a knife and slices into midair, which becomes a wheel of cheese. He spreads the cheese on the cracker and takes a bite. All of this may or may not have taken more than two hands to accomplish, which he may or may not have had.

Arches a little into Amor, happily, with the kind of full comfort that is easily managed when being manhandled by Love. Dionis isn't, say, dead-set against movement upstairs (he does want to see that his bottles and twisty-straws landed safely, after all), but he is perfectly willing to linger a bit and watch the severed wrists make their way through the door-that-isn't-quite. He misses the days when wings were more in vogue.

"We could go find a bed," Dionis offers, even as he allows himself to be pulled along, trying to figure out how to scratch his fingernails lightly against Amor's spine and not fall over himself at the same time. Amor might have innate powers of not-looking-ridiculous, but Dionis has no guarantee he can make it up the stairs without falling back down. He wishes a bit that there were, perhaps, a landing, but spins Amor a bit before reaching the coat closet (one can never trust the coat closet to be empty, or to properly exist at all), properly biting just off-center to his adam's apple, and then kissing his temple gently. It's - not something Dionis would do to any of the others, probably, and his wicked (and possibly more glitter-heavy) grin afterward doesn't entirely offset that. He's managed not to leave much green behind, but there's still a bit of gloss where there hadn't been before.

Dionis doesn't have anything to strip off in the coatroom (or nothing that Az wouldn't get on his case for not leaving on), but he does linger a bit to let Amor do whatever strange rites of fashion Amor might need to do before peeking out into the room at large. There appear to be more snacks than before he left, which is always a good sign. He waves to Pan, still mostly behind the door and watching the hands with interest for a last moment before making his proper re-entrance.

Pan waved in response to Di and grinned at the hands fluttering over his body. He humored Amor by pulsing a bit which could possibly be reminscent of sexual arousal, before heading to the bags to investigate the goodies Di brought. He thoroughly approved of the sparkly napkins but scrunched his nose a bit at the hohos. He tucked one of the napkins into his pocket because it looked nice, and folded them over the chains that hooked one of his front pockets to his back pockets because he loved the way they clinked together when he moved. He sighed and pulled out a bottle of beer from the bag, which might not have been a Stella Artois when Di bought it, but certainly was now. He used a silver fingernail to pop off the cap, and he pocketed it because it was metal and thus had some use to him. He somehow managed to pile all of the bags onto the table at once, all while sipping from the smooth alcohol that felt like honey going down. Yes, beer was made for gulping and chugging and pounding back, but this beer was made to be sipped.

He pulled a celery stick from the bag of hohos and crunched into it, swaying towards Amor and Di because, well, hedonism. Besides, the position they were in was extremely interesting. Pan momentarily imagined Amor as a one-man band, all of those hands doing glorious things to glorious instruments. It was almost as erotic as the idea of being carressed by all of those fingers.

Near Di, his smile got a little wilder. He wasn't so sure if it was Di himself that affected him so, but for some reason being around the god of revelry threw the ongoing beat pounding in the back of his mind into a frenzied tempo, making him crave quick blinking lights and sweaty bodies. And with Amor near by the frenzy was accompanied by a touch of fast, hard lust. Love alone would bring about beautiful duets of longing lovers, but next to Dionis, well. It wasn't that Pan was particularly empathetic to the gods, but the sounds he associated with them affected his own moods. Basically, he wouldn't object to the idea of a threesome. He wonders if others feel this way if approached by Amor and Dionis together.

"Di. Amor." His voice is lilting in his greeting. The air around him thrummed.

Linked at the elbow with Moira, Azrael surveys the room. Music, Knowledge, Moira, and a bunch of Love’s hands—he brushes it away from his ear—and now Revelry. They’re missing Azrael’s old friend Violence, and the meteoric Technology.

Suffice it to say that Azrael’s mind (or consciousness or personality or whatever part of a god does the thinking/being) is strongly inclined towards lists. There’s a sort of subconscious knowledge that everyone gets checked off eventually.

He salutes sardonically to Apoth, and offers Moira a drink that had a minute ago been on the drinks table. It has a swirly orange straw in it, and is rather more icy than it was a moment ago. It is blessedly free of mysterious eyeballs. Leaning down, he murmurs, “Ten to one Thoth creates a kitchen to stand in.”

Amor doesn't actually take anything off for the coatroom, but it was so thoughtful of Di to stop there for him that he manifests a coat inside it, in case he wants it later. Why not, right? Speaking of why not--

"We should find a bed--" there's a party to attend. Amor is loathe to quit making out in the hallway, really. And it's not like he's ever minded lipstick on his collar. Or his throat, or his temple. Even if it is green. But: party. So he shakes his head on an exhale; an extremely reluctant refusal.

He wouldn't abject to a threesome either, though, so he winks at Pan. He's almost magnetically attracted towards him-- that thrumming!-- so he extends an arm toward him, welcoming him into the tangle. A real arm; the flying hands, no longer needed here, flutter off towards other targets. Amor has a rather unsurprising matchmaking complex, though, so he'll probably do what he can to supercharge them with lust and then extricate himself. As appealing as a threesome was, he'd probably tutted at for doing that so early in the evening, and he approved even more highly of a Di-Pan twosome.

(Pan's image of the one-man band isn't at all impossible, by the way. Due to his nature, Amor has been gifted with no little amount of musical talent, and an incredible capacity for multitasking.)

Of the four hands no longer needed to grope Pan, three of them become reinforcements for the one Apoth is holding. Amor thinks the hand-holding is incredibly sweet-- in fact, he's grinning about it, all pleasure and sincerity-- but he's not to be thwarted that easily. Now, even if Apoth chooses to hold two of them, two more are still available to attack his buttons. (Amor actually never quite got the hang of working buttons one-handed, as embarrassing as that is.)

The fourth hand goes to join its partner in bothering Az. Amor's a bit nervous about this, but he'd had a bit of a chat with Moira about it, and has decided that it needs doing. The two hands together are trying to remove his jacket, graciously, like an old-fashioned valet. The hand chillin' on Moira's ass is still chilin' on Moira's ass, and insofar as a disembodied hand can have opinions, is pleased about this.

The final hand has found Amor a nice cabernet, but can't figure out how to get the cork out. Eventually, it carries the thing over to the hedonist huddle, and waves it beseechingly at Di.

"Could you--?"

Although he might not know it, Viol is an old friend of Moira's as well.

She chuckles, leaning in and accepting the drink and murmuring, "I believe it-" and although she does look along her eyelashes at Amor, all tangled up and preoccupied, she does swat gently at the hand.

"Look, they like you," she adds, to Azrael.

They are a bit away from punctual, this couple—the queerly pale girl whose face would be doll-like if it wasn’t quite so pointy or foxish, and the man she leads along at the elbow, who looks to be some years her senior (appearances deceive). Lynx can always devise a method of excusing herself, such as reasoning that she has arrived according to when she got here and that sounds on time to her.

When she sees the sign, she calls it, “Convenient.”

One hand goes to pass briskly over his face, and the god sneaks in an electrical impulse that scurries quick-smart to his brain and instructs it to snick his eyes shut until further notice. “Don’t peek.” The other gropes the brick, probing for a seam or weak spot. In snazzy synchrony, she has rendered him temporarily blind and they have phased through the wall together, Lynx ferrying him along as she falls through mortar and catches herself on the stairs.

She has had a change of outfit, and while her hair is still that pitch black that must have come straight out of a bottle, the tangled mass of it is stuffed under a pilot’s cap. The vine of lights creeps down around her spindly shoulders, and the blue throb deep in her throat is partially obscured by a ferociously pink ascot that matches her fuchsia lipstick.

Tight-bloused, prim-skirted and uniformly navy, she could be impersonating an off-her-rocker flight attendant. Her heels are also boots, laced up with little, silver D-clasps, long legs too lank to be ‘leggy’. There are ladders in her stockings and snakiness in how she licks her lips.

Her grip on Torrance’s arm is unrelenting, and like a Chinese finger trap, tightens the more he moves.

The first order of business is, obviously, alphabetising the coat room, but since the gods have so many names she sorts the coats by size instead, from smallest to largest, which puts the white fur at the back.

In the tradition of the average adolescent, Lynx lacks manners and greets Moira before her fellow deities, flourishing her companion like a magic trick. “This is Torrance Stevenson. He was almost a rabbit. Have you met?” She turns her hollow smile on Azrael, if only because he is wearing a nice amount of metal, and tugs on the brim of her hat in an old how-do-you-do.

The man in Lynx's tow, is, in a word, unfortunate.

There are likely many people who would be completely flattered to meet a god, overjoyed to be graced with an immortal's presence, or simply awed and bedazzled. And probably most mortals dream of living forever, or getting a second chance. Torrance Stevenson, 135 years old, has gotten both within the week, but can make neither heads or tails of the situation, and thereby is very delayed in expressing gratitude, if there's any to be had.

Sneaking along the sidewalk as though it will be pulled from under him at any moment, the man looks both ways at all times, ogling passing cars with great distaste and then blinking at Lynx, cyclically. His age is difficult to discern, simply because his face and body and everything have evaded time and his clothing is very dirty, and very worn, hobo-esque. He has no idea where he is going, but has been lured with a name, and shuts his eyes like an obedient child. What he doesn't know is that his eyes are staying shut, and he stumbles forwards and trips right up the stairs. Okay, he wasn't peeking, he wasn't peeking. He might have grabbed for a banister, but there's a tan suit in his arms, identical to the one he's wearing, except one has little holes and is so filthy it's hard to imagine how he got it that way.

He hovers in the coat room, patiently, used to giving preference to ladies and rocking on his heels to pass the time. He's trying to smell what's going on, or hear, but there's only distant conversation that the coat room devours and muffles. Only when dragged out and introduced does Torrance finally attempt to open his eyes.

And he can't.

Utterly ignorant of his company and distressed to the point of yelling, he begins to thrash, struggling to escape Lynx's grip, "Unhand me, woman! What have you done! I've gone blind, you filthy trickster!" He would call for help, but he's reasoned he's in a den of thieves -- he is inclined to distrust any and all of Lynx's ilk.

As the cavalry arrives, Apoth brings reinforcements of his own. Never letting go of the hand in his grip, he manifests a finger trap and takes two out of commission. The remaining one he traps in a box, which he then wraps in gift paper to match his suit and tops it with a sickly sweet pink bow.

Now holding the first hand at his side, like a lover, he takes the gift wrapped hand over to Amor, a smile on his face that doesn't quite reach the eyes. Halfway, he manifests a box of chocolates as well, balanced on the gift box.

"Darling," he says in his best socialite voice, "how good to see you here. I brought you a gift and some chocolates. I know how much you love them."

Time to play along.

A pair of hands hovers on fluffy Botticellian wings near Azrael’s ears. He ignores them for the most part; we could make some quip about him being used to things buzzing around him like moths drawn to a flame.

”I’m just irresistible,” he murmurs to Moira as they begin to try and remove his jacket. He lets them take it, the leather of the thing thin and butter-soft like the best of well-loved garments. It’s a complete fiction, of course; a seeming of a thing.

The youngest god makes an entrance just as the jacket’s sleeves slip off Azrael’s arms, leaving him in a tee-shirt turtleneck. He has included the detail of fine white arm-hair along his too-skinny forearms, and it sticks up a little with the friction of the coat’s passing.

Azrael nods to the youngest god, his gaze cool but not unfriendly. He doesn’t quite know how to treat Lynx; human imaginations don’t have a lot to say on the interactions of death and electronics (bar the occasional toaster in the bathtub). He reaches up a hand to his head to dip to her an imaginary hat, and it appears briefly as his hand closes around its possible space—white fedora, broad brim. It disappears again when he releases it and his attention switches to Torrance.

Moira isn’t terribly out of place at a Godly social gathering, but Az is getting nothing but mortal vibes from Torrance, so he drops his eyes (and Attention, which is something else completely) to the man tagging along blindly on Technology’s arm.

Okay... maybe not completely boring.

"Mister Stevenson,” he murmurs, ignoring the man’s fit about being unable to see (honestly, it’s in such bad taste to question the gods). His voice is ice in summer: wrong and out of place but difficult to pin down or explain. If the world is woven of weft and warp, it lies at a diagonal to all of that, out of the usual order of things. He’s smiling, and it’s with a kind of interested curiosity that is probably not a very good sign at all.

”Back to life, I see.”

"Of course," she tells the god almost humouringly, pressing up against him for a brief moment before withdrawing again. Then Technology enters with her guest, and she smiles brilliantly- looking suddenly, faintly, more like his wife again. It's a subtle difference, and not at all physical.

"Why, Torrance! What a surprise." Moira does not sound surprised at all. "How are you holding up?"

((Sorry! There was a mad rush of packing and traveling for a while there. I'm back, mostly.))

Dionis gravitates, as one might expect, toward the wine - his wine, wine and vodka, a haphazard stack of various fermented plantstuffs stacked up next to the boxes of solidified corn syrup, left where Amor's hands had dropped them. It's just habit, this gravitation; there's something in him, buried in the generations of lore and mythkeeping, about providing, about offering, and that goes both ways.

Pan's in the way, and not holding glittery napkins, but - it's Pan, and Dionis steps forward, swooping him into a hug, as if Di hadn't just come from here. Pan's internal buzz is mashed up with everyone's elses vibes, and Dionis likes that, finds it fascinating, and doesn't let go as quickly as would be convenient. The bottle of cabernet comes up before he's really done, but Dionis is - well, not quite a gentleman, but willing and able to uncork things, even when he doesn't have two hands free, which he does. (Amor has a lot more hands than Dionis has manifested in generations, but they seem occupied.) The uncorking is simpler than it could be (a flick, a pop, some fizzing, a polite return to the hand), partly because Dionis is distracted, mostly because he isn't sure a disembodied hand would appreciate the theatrics, even if it's Amor's.

"We didn't get the disco ball?"

This isn't addressed to anyone specifically, though he's squinting past Pan at the ceiling as he asks it and Pan is, probably, the only one who would have thought to indulge Dionis with a disco ball. (It's also entirely possibly Dionis never expressed his desire for one out loud, but when has Dionis not wanted glittery, light-refracting things attached to all possible surfaces?)

Dionis isn't actually doing the introductory rounds. He grins at Az and Moira, and those in their vicinity, but mostly stands where he is, not particularly wanting to move away from Amor and Pan. With Lynx's entrance there's yelling and accusations of filthy trickstering, and Dionis swivels partly out of curiosity and partly because, well, that's often been an apt descriptor for his activities. Lynx is - well, Lynx has breasts, and Dionis still finds Lynx enough of a novelty that the breasts distract him utterly.

After watching Torrance flail for a full minute, varnished nails (tin flecks swimming in the clear glaze) biting through his suit jacket, Lynx releases him with an unbalancing suddenness and takes a step back. Her cap is tipped to Azrael a second time to mirror his response, and if it was up to her they could be there all day, stuck in a continuous loop of acknowledged greetings.

Alas, there is a panicked mortal to deal with. “Of course you haven’t gone blind. The blackness you are seeing,” ‘seeing’ being the keyword, “is the insides of your eyelids. Calm down, and open them.” As simple as that. To give the man a fighting chance, she eases off on the suggestive impulse that’s stapling them closed, and then it’s appointed to him to do the rest. Torrance isn’t going to make headway if he expects gods to do everything for him—shutting his eyes, unshutting his eyes. Really now.

This is as helpful as a beguiling Lynx gets, and she is already wandering off to amuse herself with the vacant-eyed brunet on the strings, leaning in his corner with one knee bent through the tear in her nylons and a heel against the wall behind her. What a lavish music box he is, wired just right for a specific purpose; it’s something she can appreciate, so she voices it, with a predictable absence of enthusiasm, “My commendations to you, Pan.” She would sound sincere, if she could.

Dionis’s question of the missing disco ball reads as a plaintive request to her, or else she is feeling especially obliging today, because without warning she glows. Not the healthy glow of pregnancy or the sickly shine of ailing, but that of a thousand points of light milling beneath her hardly opaque skin. “How’s that?” The other lights in the room have subsequently fizzled out, though the string around her shoulders and the sparks in her throat are brighter. Actually, those distracting breasts of hers have lit up too, as she isn’t particular about where the glow goes.

Pan looped his arms around Dionis for a moment, air around him humming pleasantly, and smiled indulgently. "I must have forgotten." His tone was apologetic, but distant. Pan always seemed to be listening to something else.

Pan liked Lynx. In this day and age, electronics played such an important role in music. Amps and mixers and techno and all that jazz. When he was around Lynx, a song somewhat similar to Salt N Pepa’s “Push It” went on loop in his mind, and it always made him laugh. He smiled at her and snagged a ziplock baggy strawberries dipped in dark chocolate from Di’s groceries. They had been hoho’s before, but Pan really didn’t like the idea of processed food. It sort of grossed him out.

“Thank you, dear,” Pan called back to Lynx. He was also pleased with the lovely boy in the corner. Sure, Pan felt a little bad for him, but the music sounded nice and that was what mattered.

And then Lynx lit up like a big fucking Christmas tree and Pan turned to Di with a lopsided grin. “Well, there you go.” He had been about to create a disco ball that sounded like wind chimes when it spun, but Lynx beat him to it, and she was dazzling. Especially her tits. Nice.

Amor's hand-- well, one of them. you know-- sloshes appreciatively at Di and hows the bottle up to Amor's lips. He doesn't feel bad about drinking from the bottle, because he intends to finish it, and because he doesn't tend to feel bad, ever.

Then he smirks at Apoth, because worse things can happen to a hand than being trapped, and because he thinks that's clever and funny and very good playing-along. "I do love them," he says sincerely, and accepts them. At this rate, Apoth shall have only himself to blame if he's ravished before the end of the night.

The box of chocolates receives the attention of Amor's genuine attached-to-the-arm hands, and he's got a truffle halfway to his mouth when he sees Lynx and freezes. Her presence really shouldn't surprise him, and it didn't, exactly-- it just got his attention. She had breasts! And a young man! Amor narrowed his eyes at Torrance, resentful, and the guy doesn't burst into flame as a result of this act for the simple reason that Amor doesn't want to give him an excuse to make more stupid noise. He's taken an bit of a dislike to this person, but then, he would have done to anyone who showed up with Lynx.

He realizes he's staring, and looks back at Apoth with a distracted smile, before popping the truffle into his mouth.

Then Lynx lights up.

Amor looks back at her, startled, and then his eyes widen, and without really thinking about it, he tosses a truffle at her. This action, while perhaps not the most mature way of getting someone's attention, isn't meant to be malicious; he's genuinely curious whether Lynx is as hot as she looks, if the chocolate would stick, and melt.

Torrance is still blind for a bit, and flails accordingly. He continues to shout, "Unhand me!" Until Death starts talking to him, and as the god mentions his resurrection, the man's voice goes and he freezes. He swallows, and sort of shuffles his feet, and mutters, "Yes." But then Moira is talking, and it's as though he feels that wifely shimmer, and turns towards her voice like a flower to the sun. "I'm terribly confused, Moira. Where am I?" There's a certain level of trust that he extends, because this relative stranger has been rather kind. Lynx has teased and confused him. The man with the strange, strange voice is unnerving.

But then, his eyes spring open, like jacks in boxes, and he stumbles back a few steps and, if only because of his extreme manners, his jaw remains shut. He was a mortal among gods, and the exact sensations that each gave off were mingling and making Torrance a bit nauseous. And then that man is /glaring/ at him, and he starts inching back towards the coat room and the stairs. He doesn't talk anymore; he'll start screaming bloody murder when he's outside. Lynx was glowing, good God in heaven, she was not human, and probably none of these people -- things -- were, and he was. Right? There had to be a door, doors led out, and he could /hide/. Still holding that new suit though.

He promised himself that he'd never, ever, ever talk to strangers in parks again. Torrance wasn't a bad liar, but he didn't have to open his mouth to feign muteness.