Apoth was a lover of fine theatre. Always had been, always will be. When the story is good, the actors are superb, Apoth is content for that period of time.

Too bad tonight's wasn't fine theatre.

It was after the show and Apoth was in the lobby, watching people. He was hoping to see an actor in hopes of cursing them somehow, but so far he'd seen none. Hands were shoved in brown slacks, a white dress shirt and darker brown vest completing the ensemble.

As it was too painful to think of the performance, he occupied himself with mumbling and grumbling about it.

"...people can't even act their way out of a wet paper bag... should be round up and shot... hungry..."

Stupid humanity.

Azrael had, in fact, enjoyed the show. Azrael is one of those personality types who heartily enjoys a good B-movie and the general idiocy thereof. And throws popcorn.

The God wanders out of the thatre, a head taller than pretty much anyone else in the crowd, like a Swede in Tokyo. He's looking 'classical' today-- that is to say, his hair is white and curled like a statue's. His skin is marble-pale. His eyes are marble-white. His clothing follows the white theme, and he has a long,t hin scarf wrapped around his neck, mainly for effect. He's grinning like a skeleton.

Apoth feels him before he actually sees him. Az has that kind of effect on people. Gods. Just this one. Bah.

He turned, looking for him. He didn't want to be caught unaware. Once spotted, Apoth doesn't take his eyes off of Death, watching for... what? Nothing in particular. With a small shrug, he walks over to do what he does best.

Research.

When close enough, Apoth blurts out, "What happened to Amor?"

Ah, Apoth. Azrael ignores his presence until the question is actually blurted at him, at which point he turns as if surprised to see the God of Knowledge.

"Oh, hello, Abbie," he says-- and the use of the human name is certainly deliberate. He grins widely, like a glamourous movie star about to be accosted by a gust of wind.

"What are you doing here?" All innocence.

"Amor? Why do you ask?"

Apoth ignored the name for now. "I was here to see the play, but I'm not sure what it was that I did see." He grimaced, the memory of the performance resurfacing.

"As for Amor, I'd like to know. It's what I do."

It bugs him that Azrael may know something he doesn't.

It pisses him off, to be frank.

"You mean you don't already?" Azrael asks, lifting what appears to be an artificially whitened eyebrow.

"I know that a lot of our mutual friends," the other gods, he's implying, "Were thinking to ask you about it, once you got out of your little human phrase."

And he grins. Congenially.

"Bah," he replied. "I've been a bit occupied."

Apoth ran his hand through his hair in frustration, finishing the gesture by rubbing his eyes. After contemplating for a few moments, he looked at Azrael again.

"So, no one knows, huh? Shame. Makes it that much harder." Now that he had something to do, Apoth was a bit happier.

Still hungry, though.

"I'm sure you'll find out eventually. You always do, don't you? Well..." He pauses, and this is obviously a taunt, though his face is still perfectly innocent and friendly, I'm sure.

Neither Death nor Dreams are things easily revealed, and Azrael has managed to keep a number of his secrets... secret.

"Well, almost always."

"With luck, yes." Luck, sure. Maybe Apoth was being sarcastic. Maybe he was just being preoccupied.

The God of Information has managed to keep a few secrets as well, but his consist more of the meaning of life and when the next intergalatical convention will be.

"What happened to my body? My shell, I mean?"

Bah, stupid stupid stupid...

"Oh, that old thing?" Azrael shrugs. "A vampire broke it."

"How... specific." Apoth rubbed the bridge of his nose, fingers passing through the glasses. He didn't feel like taking them off.

Something in him, probably the Abbie part, blurted, "Was I -- it buried?"

Azrael shrugs.

"How should I know? Presumably."

Apoth scowled. "I didn't mean for that to come out." He didn't like having to say that. He was a god, he should be in control.

But no. How do humans manage?

Once again, the non-existant stomach stuck. It gurgled, grabbing him and mentally (nearly physically) dragging him in the direction he smelled popcorn.

With a dignified sniff, Apoth adjusted his vest and shirt. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be leaving now."

With that, he turned and allowed his stomach to drag him.