evilbeej | Legion of Super-Horrors Prelude (Reply)

Descs:

Infernis/Morgan:

Tall, broad-shouldered, very well-muscled and devastatingly handsome, the Incubus Infernis is the sort of creature who could scandalize prim old ladies just by flashing them a smile. His face is boyish in a way that utterly fails to be innocent, with clean-cut and well-defined features. His hair is a mane of untamed red curls that fall down onto his shoulders, thick and lush and red like fire. His eyes are a deep, dark blue, almost hypnotic. The Incubus' skin is a healthy, lustrous bronze, and there's a palpable aura of warmth that follows him everywhere he goes.

But if you've got the sight, or he's simply in the mood, the demon shines forth - the clawed fingers, the curling horns that jut out of his temples and back along the sides of his head; the gleaming white fangs and burning red eyes.

His clothing is simple, understated and elegant; a white silk shirt, left unbuttoned, showing off his chest; white slacks perfectly pressed and creased, and white wingtips, immaculately clean and buffed to a high gloss.

The Leader:

What's with today, today? Dressed all in black - black turtleneck, black trousers, black boots, black suit jacket - the Leader looks like a favoured godson of La Famiglia. Even his hair is, yes, jet black. The only not-black thing he's wearing is a gold ring with an 'L' on it. All that black lends an air of subdued dignity to the young man who carries it; the dignity is heightened by the gravity of his expression.

His build is on the lean and 'slightly tall' side of average, not particularly towering but rather hard to tower over; his back is always straight and his movements always careful; when the suit-jacket is off, it's apparent that his musculature is well-defined.

The Leader's stark, monochromatic colorscheme is broken up by one thing: his intensely brilliant winter-blue eyes. As far as the rest of his face goes - well, it can be described as almost impossibly ideally heroic. He's got a subtly rounded angular jaw, even features, well-defined cheekbones, a straight nose, very expressive eyebrows; his hair is cut neatly in a classic 'respectable' style: short in back and on the sides, rather longer on top.

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It's a lush, Victorian-style study; there are books everywhere, obscure and arcane trinkets in glass cases and on shelves; ancient maps and star charts on the walls. It breathes of a scholarly wealth, it feels like dignified age and power. The desk is a behemoth: a large mahogany affair with a well-polished surface, intricate carvings on the outside panels, room enough to work and to hold the standard tools of a well-connected and busy man.

The chair in front of the desk looks comfortable enough; it's carved wood and red velvet upholstery.

The chair behind the desk is of wood alone -- it's the only thing out-of-place in the room, as it looks like it belongs to a private detective from the nineteen-forties. Solid and worn.

Right now, it's supporting its owner, who dominates the room with his presence alone. Black-haired and fair-skinned, dressed all in black, he's looking over a sheaf of papers when the demon Infernis enters the room. "My apologies for the wait," says the man, ice-blue eyes glancing up; he places the papers carefully on the desk. His hands fold there. "It's been brought to my attention that you're in need of assistance. I'm glad you came to the Legion. Please," he says, gesturing, "have a seat; tell me how you'd prefer to be called."

"In need of assistance!?" The handsome man in white says from his spot in the middle of the room, "You must be joking!" He's all pent up fury and fire as he stalks back and forth across the study. "You're the one who called me here!" He looks up and for a moment his eyes flash with that barely restrained fury. "So cut the crap." He stalks to a chair and sits, heavily, before he crosses his legs in an aristocratic manner. "You can call me Morgan."

"Morgan," repeats the black-clad man. The way he says it sounds like a test, like he's trying the name out for flavor. It's not at all comfortable, even if the chair is. Those wintry eyes glitter with amusement as he regards the demon in human form. "Very well, Morgan. I understand you're at something of a disadvantage, trapped in this plane, if you will, without resources or backing. If that is indeed the case, I *do* have the means to remedy the situation in such a manner as to preserve your dignity and your position. Have I been misinformed?"

Morgan actually has the good grace to look surprised for a moment, before he gets up and storms over to the desk, slapping both hands down on it to lean down and look his mysterious "Benefactor" in the eye. "I don't know how you found out about me, but I don't like strangers prying too closely into my business." He squints, and then says, under his breath, "And don't think I can't tell what YOU are just by looking at you..." He takes a deep breath and seems to compose himself. "...No. No, you're correct."

Said 'Benefactor' doesn't flinch, doesn't move a muscle, doesn't look away. He meets the gaze dead on, waiting. When Morgan composes himself, the waiting is complete; the Legion's Leader lifts an eyebrow. "Then you're interested in hearing my offer," he states, as if there were no question. "Excellent. At a specific time and place each year, conditions permitting, one of my Legionnaires has access to an open gate to your native realm. I will allow you passage through it, in return for services rendered." He hasn't looked away yet; his face is a mask of gracious civility.

This makes Morgan raise an eyebrow, before he snarls. "Sorry, but you can't buy me that way." He walks away from the desk to look out the window, hands folded together behind his back. "There are other ways back; it's simply a matter of finding them. Though I admit I am curious as to how YOU found one when all my searching's amounted to jack-" He turns, watching the other man in the room from the corner of his eye. "Of course, you might be lying."

"I might," laughs the blue-eyed man, sitting back. He really looks honestly amused, now. "But you're curious, and you're immortal. Since you're wary of my intentions, I'll sweeten it further: if, after one year from this day, my Legion has not seen you home, you're free to go. I won't keep you in my service." Nothing more than that; it's clear by the vampire's face, by his eyes, that he considers this more than fair. "If even that fails to suit you, you may leave. The offer will stand."

There's a long, long silence from Morgan. He turns to look out the window again, and then says, voice low, "...You know what kind of creature I am, and what services I traditionally provide, of course." That particular line of thought cast aside, he goes on. "...So what do you want me to do? Mind you, you don't get traditional service without the standard contract."

"Of course," says the Leader dismissively, waving a hand. "As you'll find if you *do* enter into a contract with me, I expect my people to perform to the best of their abilities in *all* of their fields. I don't require your specialised services for *me*--" In fact, he looks entertained at that idea, as well. "--but if they serve you well in the duties you'll have, then by all means, employ them."

The head of the Legion opens a desk drawer, then, and delicately lifts a small jewelry box. He opens it and holds it up, over the desk, facing the incubus. There's a ring inside -- a ring that matches the vampire's own. "For the duration of your wait, you'll be a Legionnaire, answerable to me."

"You are aware," Morgan asks, as he reaches out to take the box in the palm of one hand, "That unless I'm carrying out a contract on behalf of the Dark Powers, my abilities are /sorely/ limited?"

"Your physical and magical abilities, yes," agrees the dark man pleasantly, still watching Morgan's face, even while he's taking the ring. "What you're left with is enough. If you'd like, I can provide you with a copy of your file; it may help you in determining what *will* be expected of you. I take it you agree to these terms, and will sign a binding contract?"

Morgan carefully slips the ring on his finger, admiring the way it shines in the moonlight. "Of course. I wouldn't dream of committing to any endeavor without putting all the terms down on paper. It simply *isn't done*." He clenches his hand into a fist and then unclenches it, and then he adds, "I believe I would like to see that file."

TBC