Unce. Unce. Unce. Unce.

Good Lord, did mortals really call this music? Xandra lifted a dainty hand from the sticky countertop and rested it against her temple, swirling her electric-blue margarita in a slow circle. This was ridiculous. She was a chaos demon, damn it! Not some mortal drunk infatuated with the rave scene! But truth be told, it had been a long, long time since Xaephestos had been called...anywhere. And she was being proactive. Taking the highroad. Making something happen instead of waiting for it to fall into her nicely-shaped lap.

Right. Proactive. She glanced up at the bartender. Human and oblivious. No good. She glanced to her left. Some kid, barely old enough to be here, and he looked as if he might puke at any given moment. She edged slightly to the right side of her chair and glanced at the sea of squirming, writhing, sweating mortals. Her headache came flaring back and it was all she could do to keep from falling out of her chair or flat-out screaming a collective netherworldish curse over all of them. There was entirely too much noise here, and not the good kind. There were no screams of pain, no malicious laughter, and no tears of loss. Could mortals be any less entertaining?

"How long am I going to be stuck here?" She moaned, swiveling back around to face the bar.

The kid to her left was leaning towards her, a rather baffled smile on his face. He reached out a quaky hand to touch her leg.

"Heyyy, bab--"

"Drop dead, impotent fool!"

Nothing. No violent choking sound. No rolling eyes and foaming mouth. Her eyes didn't even glow with malice. The kid laughed once and slumped back against the bar, quite completely unconscious. And even that wasn't her doing. Xandra slouched against the counter and continued to swirl her drink, a magnificent pout on her face.

To her right, a different kid.

This one actually looks old enough to be there, old enough even that she might qualify as a woman. She certainly has womanly proportions, her waist pinched by a thinly boned black lace corset that's cut low enough to present the top curves of powdered white breasts. Her skirt is slinky and black and it hugs some definite hips . An arcane looking pendant - black polished stone set in silver - rests between her breasts and her hair is as dark as the stone, a rich, shiny black that's partially caught back with a silver band. Stray strands fall into an immaculately made up face - pale skin, flaws artfully concealed, and stone green eyes framed by long dark lashes and the slightest smudges of kohl. Her lips are a bright red.

Tonight, Diane is going for class. She's even doing pretty well, for her. Not too much make-up, not too cheap looking. The laughter and the cheap perfume that surrounds her like an aura is undermining her, of course - so too are her scuffed combat boots. But still, she can't help that. And she's not doing too bad, for Diane.

She is drinking a small glass of some golden liquid that looks strong, but not half as vile as the windex blue margarita of the woman she's sitting next to.

Tonight, Diane is just another girl on the town - bored, lonely, and looking for a good time. She is kind of sort of watching the bartender (who is kind of sort of cute) and not really noticing what's going on two seats down from her. One hand, fingernails black and unchipped, is tapping on the countertop in time to the music.

She didn't notice the young woman at first. In fact, it took her several minutes to notice her. Admittedly, Xandra had been on the lookout for someone a bit more...well, masculine. If she wasn't to be called anytime soon--and things certainly hadn't been looking that way--there was no point in not having a bit of fun. Of course, she'd forgotten how cranky big, obnoxious crowds made her. That made the whole seduction thing a little harder, hence her attachment to the bar.

When at last she finally made the effort to glance Diane's way, she did a discreet double-take. Black and silver. That was promising, considering she was looking for the Wicca type. Pale, dramatic makeup--tastefully done--and an interesting choice of drink, from the looks of it. She almost looked bored. The problem: Xandra was not exactly the Queen of Subtle. How could she know if 'Little Miss Goth' here was really a witch, and if she'd be willing to summon a hellish, vengeance-minded demon?

It struck her. Every human had problems, right? Who knew? Maybe she was out looking for a distraction from a broken heart. Maybe she had a thing with a guy and would want a little revenge. So that led Xandra to the next big obstacle: small talk, or socializing in general. Quite frankly, she was out of practice. But she wasn't getting any younger.

"Like your outfit," she tried a smile, not sure how it would end up looking on her face as it was an intentionally "toned down" one. God, she hoped she appeared normal. And straight. Was she coming on too strong? Not strong enough? How could she tell? She glanced at her own uneventful ensemble. Long black skirt that hugged her shapely legs tight and had a nice, revealing cut winding up the side. An equally form-fitting halter top, dark blue and with a plunging neckline. Skanky, obviously, but certainly not her worst. "What does your necklace mean?"

Diane starts slightly at the sound of the woman's voice, but the surprised expression that crosses her face is quickly replaced by a huge, friendly grin that cracks her cheap lipstick slightly. She unconsciously rubs her lips together to even it out.

"Thanks," she says, hurriedly taking a sip of her drink. She rolls it on her tongue for a minute, feeling the warm burn of the alcohol. "This?"

She takes the stone between her fingers - it's a piece of jet. Well, she thinks it might be. She's not entirely sure. The silver fittings are worn and a little tarnished, and if you examine the stone closely its scratched. It's been bashed around a fair bit in its life. She doesn't know its history, doesn't know what caused the deep nick in the left corner. Most of the lighter scratches are from her teeth, though. Perhaps she has a slight oral fixation.

"It was a present from someone," she confides, keeping her voice casual. The woman's question is a little weird. 'What does it mean,' as opposed to 'where did you get it,' or, 'what's it made of'.

Still, she doesn't think much of it.

What does it mean?

"I guess you could say it didn't really have a meaning. Not one I know."

She guesses it could be hope, or despair. Possibly eternal love. Or maybe it's just a pretty rock that happens to match her monochromatic wardrobe.

"Oh. Well...it's nice."

Another attempted "nice-girl" smile. But Xandra was feeling reasonably put off. Not only did humans enjoy terrible music not unlike the sound of someone bashing their head against a metal wall, but apparently they had a thing for wearing rocks around their necks. That was bizarre. Apparently she'd been floating around in the netherworld for a little too long. Though in truth, the necklace didn't quite strike Xandra as just a rock. There was certainly something about it that made her skin feel sort of funny, almost tingly.

Whatever. Enough about the rock. She'd effectively engaged the human in conversation. Now it was time for phase two. She had to actually not get distracted and stay focused, at least long enough to figure out of the young woman could help her or not.

"You been in Bayfield long? I'm...well, I'm new," the corners of her eyes folded into tiny crinkles as she flashed a genuine smile. It wasn't entirely untrue. "I came up here to get kind of lost for awhile and sort of succeeded. It's a pretty big city."

She tucked a stray wisp of hair back behind her ear and smiled gratefully up at the bartender as he brought her another drink on which she immediately began to work. She liked alcohol. It tingled. It was nice. Xandra could see how it might be easy for so many people to get so drunk. Could she get drunk, she wondered? She turned her glass in a slow, pensive circle and took another long sip.

"Yeah, I like it."

This is not the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Diane in fact has mixed feelings up the pendant. It has mixed association, mixed memories. And like mixed drinks, mixed memories are frequently dangerous and mostly leave you with a bitching headache.

It's easier though, just to say she likes it, and then to take another gulp of her drink. It's starting to look like one of those nights. The go-out-and-get-utterly-shit-faced nights that she can't seem to cut down on, no matter how often she tells herself she'll stick to pop.

"Everyone," Diane tells the stranger, "comes to Bayfield to get lost." She laughs, because it's sort of true, and it sounds good. "Where'd you come from, then?"

It's a direct and personal question, but that doesn't mean anything. It's just Diane trying to being friendly and make conversation. She's not particularly planning on stalking the woman or anything, no matter how luscious she is.

"I been here a while," she adds, answering the woman's question. "Maybe a couple years."

It's almost her birthday now, in fact. Ten days and she'll be twenty-one. Legal to drink in the States, not that it matters. She doesn't think she's ever gonna go back there.

"Me?" She couldn't help but look a little flustered. In her demonic wisdom, Xandra had completely forgotten to settle on a likely story she could feed to prospective callers. Right, no big deal. She'd just have to wing it. I'm from the states. I'm from, um...Kansas."

She was fairly certain Kansas was a state. One of those flat, grassy boring ones in the middle. Lots of tornadoes and something about ruby slippers.

"A really, really tiny town, actually," she beamed. Maybe a nice smile would distract from her fumbling explanation? She tucked her hair behind her ear again in what was rapidly becoming a nervous habit. "Population, like, twenty. Had to up and get out of there, you know? Go out and see the world and all that. But I got here instead and, well, you know how it goes."

She gave an easy shrug and hoped her newfound companion did indeed know how "it" went. Stirring frantically at her half-empty drink with the cute little straw, she forced herself to continue. She wasn't doing half bad after all, if she did say so herself.

"Do you like it? Bayfield, I mean? It seems...different from other cities." Still not the Queen of Subtle. But in Xandra's defense, if Diane didn't know anything about what really went on in Bayfield, then she wouldn't suspect a thing anyway.

"Wow, you don't have a Kansas accent at all," Diane remarks. She's pretty sure the girl doesn't anyway. She's not amazing with accents, but if she remembers correctly, Kansas is quite... recognisable. And she always imagines that it's black and white, even though that's ridiculous.

The woman's smile is transfixing, though, so Diane isn't really dwelling on her origin so much as the cut of her blouse. And she's not even going to make a bad joke about whether or not this woman happens to own a pair of silver slippers.

"Bayfield?" She shrugs, finishes off her drink, wonders if she can afford another or if she really should have one. "I guess it's different. Not really more different than anything else."

Montreal is a world away from Toronto, London from Glasgow, NYC from Philly... She's never been in two cities that were all that much alike. They share some things - the things that make them cities - but for the most part they're completely unique, completely their own places.

"There are worse places to be," she tells the woman, encouragingly. "How do you like it? It must be so different, living in a city and stuff."

"Oh. I'm Diane, by the way."

She doesn't offer her hand, but touches it to her chest as if to say 'this is me. This is Diane.'

"Not really more different than anything else."

Damn it, a dead end. But not necessarily! She could be pretending to be ignorant, couldn't she? That was a definite possibility. Or you could face the music, honey. She's not a witch. But the realization brought about a sneaky, albeit risky, plot to Xandra's pretty head. The woman looked the alternative type. Xandra could befriend her, perhaps, and drop a hint about how fascinating old magic was. She could even lend her a book and give her a nudge in the right direction. The only problem was...well, it'd take time. And patience. And because Xandra lacked the latter, she also lacked the former.

Lost amidst her thoughts, she barely heard Diane's question. For a moment Xandra only stared at her, but the question registered and she blinked back into action.

"Oh! Yeah, way different. Well, you know, living on a farm your whole life, you can't even compare the two lifestyles. Back home it's, um, warmer. There's a lot less people." And a lot more demons. A minor detail, and she needed to cut the comedy. Now if she could just work in an intimate detail. She leaned her elbows against the counter and consequently tilted herself just marginally closer to Diane. "But even on a totally different level, it can be really...really lonely, here. I've never had to start over from scratch before, and I don't really know anybody."

Name. Right. This one she knew.

"Xandra," she grinned, her feverish stirring of her margarita slowing to a steady and less neurotic pace. "It's nice to meet you, Diane. So," she dipped her head to sip her drink, "where was home for you, before Bayfield?"

Diane might say, if she were asked, that she wasn't alternative. The rest of the word was an alternative, she might say. Or possibly that everything was an alternative to something. She just happens to think that black was slimming, that's all.

"I can't imagine living in the country," Diane admits. She feels that this reflects poorly on her imagination, but it's true. She's a city girl and she doesn't know anything else. Not that she has anything against the country, of course. Lovely sort of place. Corn, sheep, trees, mosquitoes... It has variety, anyway. But it's not her place. "I came from Philly, I guess. Philadelphia."

In the long run, she's come from a couple places. Philadelphia is any easy enough answer to the question, though.

"Have you been through a Canadian winter yet?"

She poses the question with a friendly, albeit teasing grin. Most people manage to spend one Ontario winter in Bayfield before they remember why they liked America, or New Zealand, or wherever it was that they'd come from. She's still not hugely fond of them.

"They make you feel alive," she tells the woman, "just before you freeze to death. And heating bills are a bitch."

"Cool name. My pleasure."

She knows how lonely it can be, being somewhere new. She was lonely when she got here. Still is, really. She has friends, loads of friends - it takes her about five minutes on average to make a new one - but no one is really close.