Fate - First Reply Sale On Ale

[Mathalla]

The Biting Pony

It wasn't a name that she would have chosen, but the sign was at least funny. One of those strange four-legged beasts the mortals enjoyed hopping onto so much chomping it's mouth onto the bottom of a particularly buxom elven woman. At least Mathalla guessed that she was supposed to be an Elf, she found it rather difficult to tell the mortals apart at times. It helped that some of them were green and different colors at times, but from what she could tell the only distinction elves had were their pointy ears.

Which didn't make much sense to her, because why were they pointy in the first place?

Some centuries ago she had made a deal with a man who had claimed all life 'evolved' in some way, adapting themselves to better suit their purpose. The notion was utterly ridiculous, obviously. Mathalla had been spawned from the depths of depravity, sin, and the temptations of mortals. She hadn't evolved in millenia! Ridiculous notion, besides, what purpose would pointy ears serve anyway?

Could they stab someone with them?

Unfortunately, Mathalla hadn't yet had the chance to ask. Strangely enough, the elf folk tended to avoid her, though she had no idea why. "Ah well."

The Devil said, shaking her head and turning away from the sign as she stepped inside her newly acquired tavern.

It was empty, of course, since she intended on serving only one customer at a time. The man who had named the place was now gone, having found the terms of his deal more than acceptable. He'd been a cute little thing, apparently madly in love with some foreign mortal who had once traipsed across his dance floor. Her hand and heart were all that he had asked for, and the poor wretch had given far too much for something of so little worth.

Not that it bothered Mathalla; she had more deals to make, and now the perfect place to make them in.

She only hoped her first customer was a more interesting one.

 

[Rhenn Willowood]

He certainly hoped the ale in this shithole was more tasteful than the ugly sign above the door. It was unfortunate that he wasn't afforded much of a choice tonight: The sheets of rain cascading down overhead in the waning light of dusk didn't encourage him to wander about to seek an alternative, and the only thing that was going to dull this hellish ache in his skull was a pint. Perhaps two or three, if the brew was tolerable.

As the doors swung open, one would have been forgiven for thinking the figure walking through them was a shadow come to life, a figure in black, discernable as a mortal only by the blue of one of his single eye that was uncovered by the pitch-black hood and mask ensemble that covered his head and face, cascading down his body like a curtain of the night.

That eye scanned the empty tavern, narrowing at the lack of life within the walls. He wouldn't complain about having the place to himself, less chance he'd end up having to introduce an unruly drunk to the edge of his knife. It didn't inspire confidence about the product here, though.

It was too strenuous to worry much, however. The moment he paid a thought to the oddity of it all that awful ache returned, and his hand raised to the side of his face with a muffled growl of frustration.

A drink, it could have been the filthiest of grog at this point. Anything to numb him.

If Rhenn Willowood noticed the unusual proprietor of the establishment, he didn't show it. If he did, her unusual appearance didn't seem to faze him. He walked, limping slightly, to the bar, before rapping his fist on the wooden surface with a rather authoritative bark. "A pint of your finest, before I die of thirst, preferably."

Mathalla

 

[Mathalla]

Mathalla whipped around in an instant, one hand holding a large stein like glass while the other rubbed the outside of it with a rag.

She had seen bartenders in many taverns do this over the years, though she had absolutely no idea why they did it. As far as she could tell, it didn't make the glasses any sharper, nor did it really seem to help with anything else.

Mortals were very strange though, and enjoyed their rituals. Mathalla assumed this was simply another one of those. "Well, we can certainly do that for you!"

The Devil said cheerily, taking a step over to the side and frowning for a moment as she stared at the strange sticks that had been set up behind the bar. They were each labeled with a name; 'Godricks Ale', 'Laughin Larry's Lager', and something called an "ipa?" How did you even pronounce that?

Mathalla frowned for a moment, staring at the stick in confusion and trying her best to remember how the tavern keepers made the liquid come out of them. For a moment more she puzzled, and then shook her horned head. Instead simply placing the glass she'd been holding in front of her customer. A loud snap of her fingers ringing out a second later.

The glass shone for a brief moment, an odd fire rushing through it's inside and then suddenly began to fill with ice cold beer.

"There." The Devil said, quite pleased with herself as she leaned over the bar. "Best brew in the house."

Mathalla insisted, pushing the glass towards the man as she leaned onto the bar. Planting her chin in the palm of her hand as her eyes danced over the stranger. "You're a little different than the mortals I've seen."

She mused, making no effort to hide her nature.

 

[Rhenn Willowood]

There was no way a place with a name and sign so juvenile as this one didn't have an experienced barkeep on hand, regardless of how business was going. Normal people looking for a job would steer well clear of an establishment like this. So why was it this woman didn't seem to have a clue what the hell she was doing?

She only took a couple extra seconds to fiddle around with the taps in a vain attempt to draw liquor from them, but in a bar with only one patron, those few seconds may as well have been an eternity. By the time she gave up and presented him with an empty glass and a paltry display of magic, Willowood's attention was directed more towards her than the fire that had formed beer in his cup.

"Really?" His icy blue stare narrowed, as though her lack of experience on the tap was more suspicious than her words, or Ancients forbid, her appearance. "You're just the same as every other bright red, horned woman I've ever met." Rhenn deadpanned, lifting his glass with one hand as his other lowered the mask covering him up to the bridge of his nose.

As Willowood brought the rim of the glass to his exposed lips, one could now see the odd scaring on the right side of his face, lines of distorted flesh, twisting in on itself like the knot of a tree and shimmering with a strange, blue glow.

"Mm." A hum left his mouth as he set his drink back down and swirled the beer around in his cheeks for a second, before swallowing. "Figures, the first good brew I have in a while, and it's magically conjured by some..." His attention returns to Mathalla, "...What are you then? A Demon?"

Mathalla

 

[Mathalla]

Mathalla let out a bright, chirpy laugh at the human's jest. Her smile breaking into a wide grin, sharp canines threatening to pierce into her lower lip as she chuckled. ”Well, my sisters do get around.”

The devil mused, her tone filled with a cryptic mirth. As though she had told some great joke herself.

She seemed to perk up even more as she contemplated the beer. Mathalla smiling as she drew back from the bar and glanced over towards the taps, making a face at the sticks as though she were gloating over them with her success.

Human taste buds were so strange. She didn't quite understand the reason they drank anything at all.

”A demon?” Mathalla echoed, drawing her attention back to her customer. Face twisting with no small amount of disgust. ”Ew.”

She tried not to blame the little human. Most mortals lacked for knowledge, something she found infinitely adorable. ”No. Demons are disgusting, wretched little chaotic things.”

Scholars still debated, of course, whether she and her kind were the same as though discordant beasts of the Abyss. But Mathalla and her sisters more than knew the truth of the matter. A demon was out only for frenzy, blood, and disruption. They were anarchy made manifest. Sure, some had greater designs, but by and large even the Lords of the Nether were too thick to understand a truly delectable scheme.

”I'm a Devil, Sweetheart.” She explained quite happily. Unaware that declaring herself so to the wrong person would have been like sending up a beacon to a thousand different Templars, Knightly Orders, and Witch Hunters.

”We're much more sophisticated.” She aggrandized, placing her hands behind her back as she leaned against the shelf of liquor bottles behind her. ”Not to mention capable of spelling.”

Mathalla said, as suddenly her hand withdrew out from the small of her back. A small coin now cradled within her palm. It shifted slightly as she turned her hand, drawing between her index and thumb before slipping into the back of her knuckles. It rolled over them slowly, drawing the eye. The Devil letting the coin dance, knowing that a single glance from her guest was all that it would need.

One look, and he would hear the whisper of his own desires.

 

[Rhenn Willowood]

Not a Demon, but a Devil. Funny, he'd always figured there just the one. If there wasn't such a pounding pain in Rhenn's temple, he might have choked out a laugh at the idea there was much of a difference between the two. Instead, all she got was the slightest smirk on his scarred lips.

"Duly noted. If you being a Devil is why I got my beer, I'll count my blessings. Pardon my choice of phrase." Willowood closed his eyes and brought the glass to his lips for another long drink. "I'll admit I didn't come here for a crash course on which creature of the unholy does what."

Rhenn finished his drink and tapped his finger on the surface of the bar next to it, signaling for another. While his cup was empty, though Mathalla finally had his full and undivided attention. "And I find it hard to believe a Devil is serving drinks to mortals just to educate them and serve up some crimson eye candy."

Willowood had been the Guardian of Disease, one of only Sixteen capable of wielding a core component of existence itself. He'd dealt with almost every kind of creature of the night one could think of. That included a few run-ins with succubi, vampires and even a few lesser demons.

Granted, this was the first devil on his punch card, but if she was anything like the other highly intelligent breeds of predator, he was being baited into something.

Unfortunately, it was just his nature to take the bait.

So when he saw her arms move to retrieve something from behind her, he didn't look down to see what it was immediately. Instead, his gaze lingered on Mathalla's own. A defiance roared behind his pupil like a restless flame, his brow knitting tight as he accepted her challenge without a word.

Rhenn allowed himself to look down at the coin, glimmering in the dim light of the tavern. In less than a second a hand shot back up to his temple as a voice echoed in his head.

No, not you! You can't be he--

Wait... this voice... it wasn't the whispers of the Disease Stone, beckoning him to madness again after he'd endured nine years of suffering its tempting calls. This was another voice, sultry and seductive. The words it spoke into his ear were sweet reminders, pleas to himself, from himself.

Willowood scowled up at the Devil.

"Have a lot of experience dealing with whispers in my head, lady." He continued to press a hand to one side of his face. "Not used to having them try and kiss my ass."

Mathalla

 

[Mathalla]

A toothy smile pulled upon her lips.

”Well we all have our purposes, don't we, darling?” Mathalla cooed in answer to his accusation. Though, he was right of course, she did not take this bar to serve drinks and flash her skin. There was something fun about it, but she could no more pull away from her purpose as he could stop sucking breath into his lungs.

Despite her curiosity of mortal kind, Mathalla would always need to make a deal.

It was her anchor within this world, and without a bargain she could not exist. At least not for long. Right now the tavern was her waypoint, but that would change as she collected the soul on which it was weighed against. ”Mine is to give you the chance to get what you want.”

She purred as the coin continued to roll across the back of her knuckles. Her gaze flickering down to the slip of metal for just a brief moment, musing, before her eyes pulled back to him.

”So you see, the whispers aren't me.” Mathalla contended as she flipped the coin.

The Devil said as the coin clanked down onto the counter, slowly rolling until it stopped and fell in front of him.

It's face only familiar to him. ”They're you.”