968/No Refunds

No Refunds
Date of Scene:	15 June 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Ysabelle returns to the scene of the Art Galleria where Ares had escorted her, to discuss the 'little issue' of a hostile enchantment on her new purchase.
Cast of Characters:	Athenaeum, Lucifer

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Athenaeum has posed:
It had been less than pleasant to realise there was a curse on her new gemstone painting. Upon it's arrival, several alarms on her home had gone off inside her head causing the old Magus to /really/ look at the piece. She had had to admit, the enchantment was a work of art in itself, delicate and subtle. Had her home's wards not alerted her, it might have been some time until she'd noticed it. And goodness knows what would have happened in the meantime!

The painting had been returned (after she'd picked apart the curse, something that had taken several days of research and a rather intricate ritual), a short note commenting on an issue with the object and a desire to speak to the gallery owner. Shortly after, an answering letter had come, a date and a time mainly. Which had now come to pass.

Ysabelle is dressed in a gown of a purple so dark as to seem almost black, the rich velvet only giving up it's hue when the light hits it just so. As usual it covers her from neck to floor, and as usual it hugs her form to the hips before straight skirts fall from her hips in loose folds.

Her hood is down, a silver chain with a deep sapphire hangs twined into her hair, causing the stone to rest delicately on her forehead. Secreted about her person are various reagents, should her normal array of spells prove insufficient. But as of yet, despite the way her turqoise eyes glint like stone, she is still hoping it's all a mistake and the owner knows nothing of it...

Lucifer has posed:
Ysabelle is met with all the pomp and ceremony one would expect entering the penthouse suites at the Bellagio. White-gloved attendants help move the delivered artifact up via cargo elevator to the manager's offices, while Ysabelle takes the posh private elevator up to the very top floor of the high-rise.

Upon exiting the elevator, a woman wearing a smartly provocative secretary's attire stands to meet her, with a single flute of something orange and frothy on a silver platter.

"Welcome back, Miss Ysabella," the secretary says, bobbing her head and tilting one knee in a small curtsey. "It's so nice to have you again. Mister Haborym is waiting for you in his offices-- this way, please," she says, with a sweeping gesture of her palm.

Ysabella is led to the door and it's opened to admit her. "Miss Ysabella, sir," the secretary says.

"Thank you, Janet, that'll be all for now," Mr. Haboryn remarks. He's studying the mosaic painting Ysabella had returned, displayed on a portable stand, and he turns to look at her when she arrives. He's tall, broad shouldered but a little leaner through his core than Ares. His blonde hair is trimmed short but curls at his bangs and ears, and his high, striking features can best be described as 'regal'.

He smiles at Ysabella, and invites her in with an open hand. "Miss Ysabella, how nice to meet you. Come in. I'm Mister Haborym," he says, by way of introduction. "I understand you're hoping to return the painting you purchased. Is there an issue with it?" he inquires, drifting towards her and inviting the woman to take one of the seats at a small four-point seating area in one corner. The office is quite spartan; a minimalist desk with a single glass pane, artwork scattered on walls and pedastals, and four low, comfortabe chairs around a round coffee table.

Athenaeum has posed:
"It's Miss Orion, or Ysabelle." The young looking woman corrects in her odd accent, though gentle in tone the edges of the words are clipped. Her gaze isn't for the room or the painting for the moment though, it's locked onto this Mister Harborym and his rather interesting aura. Of course it /is/ rude to stare, so after a few moments (and having completely ignored the offered drink) she takes a pew on one of the seats her hands resting in her lap.

"I'm interested in where this object came from. Who sold it to you, and at what point it was released into the gallery for purchasing." All very good questions, and certainly ways of diverting her attention. But then there's that /aura/ all subterfuge and... /something/. There was more to this place than meets the eye. And she intended to find out what.

Lucifer has posed:
"Miss Orion," Haboryn confirms, nodding slightly. He moves to take a seat adjacent to hers, crossing his legs at the knee and listening to her questions with an uplifted brow. His fingers interlace on his lap, neatly self-contained and utterly reposed. If he's uneased by her sudden questions, it doesn't show.

"Let's see. This is a fairly new painting," the owner remarks, contemplatively. "I believe it came to us via a subsidiary galleria in ... Chelsea?" he hazards, frowning in thought. "Part of a larger patch of stone and gemstone based artwork. One piece stayed with us and the rest are going to other branches around the country," he explains, shrugging at her.

"I would offer you access to others in the collection, but my secretary remarked that you were upset with the artwork and wished to return it?" he inquires. "It's been less than a week, so if there's something else in the gallery you wish to exchange it for, I think we can be accomodating. Else, there will be a restocking fee," he says, with an apologetic spread of his fingers.

Athenaeum has posed:
"Return might be a strong word, the piece itself is lovely. It was the added bonus I didn't approve of." Her voice is calm, a pool of serenity in a world of chaos. "I am sure you're aware of the various people with gifts that have been cropping up of late? Of the heroes and villians that use more than mortal ken?" She pauses only a fraction, of course he knows, it's not like he's sitting there with his head in a hole.

"Well this painting, and I'm going to assume the rest of the batch, held a rather insidious curse. Possibly created by such a being." The infintescimal fraction of a raised eyebrow adds the unspoken line; 'Someone like you.'

Lucifer has posed:
"Indeed? A /curse/?" Haboryn's brows lift, and he rises to walk to the painting, giving it a scrutizing once over. He rolls his index finger over the point of his chin, jaw on his palm, and examines it rather thoroughly for a few long seconds.

"That's odd, I'm afraid I don't see ... /any/ curse on this work," he concludes finally, shaking his head. "Perhaps I'm simply not as astute as you are," he apologizes. "But if there's something amiss with this painting, I don't see it. Just a lovely work of art with nothing remarkable about it, save for an artist's pride in their work," he tells Ysabella. He smiles at her, a little blandly.

Athenaeum has posed:
"And yet oddly, you thought you /would/ see if it if it was there." Ysabelle comments without losing that outward serenity. "I'm interested to know that you could tell I've removed the curse before bringing it back as well. But I'm guessing you knew that before going over there didn't you?" She smiles softly, just a woman having a discussion about art with another admirer of the medium.

"So that leads to my next question Mister Haboryn, which is, did you know it had it before it left your premises. Which, if we put together with your apparent ability to /see/ curses, would have to be a yes. It would be a very remiss gallery owner indeed who did not at least gaze upon every piece that comes through his hands." It's a logical argument, very little conjecture but still some wiggle room perhaps.

Lucifer has posed:
"Sound logic," the gallery owner acknowledges, smiling at Ysabella with good humor. "I'm not without my talents, but that's not to say that I'm omniscient," he tells her. "It's equally possible that-- busy as I am-- this particular piece slipped through the cracks, so to speak," he tells Ysabella, his voice smooth and urbane. There's /definitely/ a low glamour pushing against her senses now; were she not on the lookout for it, it's so subtle that it'd be easily missed. A compulsion that emanates from this man, making him more persuasive and agreeable to the eyes than one might otherwise feel inclined.

"But would it not also be a foolish business practice to release tainted goods into the river, as they say? Particularly for a client not just with your discriminating taste, but your ... clear affinity for the mystic arts," he tells her, with a courteous little bow.

"Unfortunately, we're still at the stage of conjecture. There is no curse on this painting that /I/ can see, so I'm afraid that you put me in the position of trusting you to prove a negative."

Athenaeum has posed:
Ysabelle smiles gently, noting the suble impulses being pushed against her psyche. Of course now she's aware of them, it's a simple mental trick to allow it to roll over and around her, skimming off the mages mental defences. How could she have been so foolish as to miss it last time!?

"That's quite alright Mister Haboryn, I had thought we could take a walk around your gallery, see if any more 'tainted goods' as you call them. There's a particular bronze statue that I think we might have an interest in seeing..." The woman could play politics with the best of them, her tone is helpful not accusing. Her gaze calm and self assured, but not arrogant. She awaits his answering repost with cool resolve, and that small, helpful smile gracing her lips.

Lucifer has posed:
"But of course, my dear," Haboryn says, grinning at Ysabelle's suggestion. "You want to see the entirety of the gallery, I take it?" he inquires, gesturing at the elevators. "Come along, I'll take you there myself. You can peruse the collection for as long as you like and let me know if you see anything else that stands out as suspect, in your expert eye," he suggests.

He summons the elevator with a press of a button and the door goes *ding*, sliding open. Haboryn invites Izzy to precede him inside, then follows.

Athenaeum has posed:
Ysabelle's smile turn's mildly triumphant, if only for a fraction of a second before the calm serenity is firmly settled in place. She stands with a nod of encouragement, following the gentleman to the lift, in and down. As they stand there, the heavy silence builds, only broken by the soft pan-pipe muzak from the lift speakers. Some terribly bastardised version of 'Don't fear the reaper'.

When they step out onto the main floor, a single glance tell's the Magician that what she expected is reality. And once again, a small voice in her head is berrating her for such a novice mistake. Although... The magic in use /is/ subtle, and ever so intricate. A hand comes up from a pocket of her skirts, crystaline dust blown out in a cloud of glittering particles. Rich red lips speak words of an ancient civilisation, and the dust moves of it's own accord, flecks aligting on each object that holds a detrimental enchantment, causing the whole object to glow in a sickly green glow. By the time she turns to face Mister Harboryn again, the entire room is bathed in the vitriolic light. She doesn't say anything, just tilts her head a fraction, expectation written on her face.

Lucifer has posed:
Ysabelle's plan has several flaws. Firstly, not just one, or two objects are radiating that strong suggestion of malicious magic. Nearly /all/ of them do. Possibly, they're all corrupt; or there's an even stronger abjuration in effect that's interfering with Ysabelle's magical perceptions.

Second, the gallery is not the same on she visited days prior. This one has high, vaulted ceilings, no windows... just dozens of square feet of display space, and through several open doors, /more/ displays. And more artwork. At least a hundred yards in one direction, far more than should be contained inside the building.

"Miss Orion, do you mind?" comes a voice-- and Haboryn gestures at himself vaguely. Coated head to toe in the crystalline dust, he looks mildly piqued but otherwise unruffled by being caught in the periphery of her spellweaving.

And again, either her magic is being subverted somehow-- or nothing in the room radiates magic more strongly than the man standing next to her.

The elevator door *dings* shut...and then vanishes, leaving only a blank wall.

Athenaeum has posed:
Well that was unexpected. A magical being, not a user of magic. A quick few syllables resonating on the air and the dust falls to the floor, the cystaline nature now gone as only earth remains. She fights down a giggle at the man now of course, having his suit and hair coated with the stuff. Though she does nothing to remove that as well.

"I suppose I could have saved us both a lot of time by doing that upstairs then." She opines softly, her eyes have flicked around the room noting the lack of exits, though her magic did /feel/ like it went off without a hitch. When you've removed the impossible...

"So it is you that's setting these traps." It isn't a question now, though that damnable calm still hasn't cracked. Not yet at least, other than that moment of mirth in her eyes. "And that would mean all of this is done a-purpose. But then what exactly do you gain?" A pause, a thinning of her lips. "Or do you just want to watch the world suffer?"

Lucifer has posed:
Haboryn snaps his fingers and the dust on him vanishes. Not falls away-- gone. Her magic undoes itself like a thread yanked from a seam, unravelling towards nothingness just as quickly. "An interesting logical leap, if a fallacious one," comes his urbane reply. He smiles at Ysabelle encouragingly, and for a moment something around the edges of that glamour shimmers. He's got the sort of smile-- real and sincere, for a moment-- that can change the temperature of a room. A little rush of warmth on the skin, like rolling in freshly laundered sheets on a lazy, warm afternoon.

"You conclude that these are all cursed. It's equally possible that your magics are simply run awry," he says, walking away from Izzy and spreading his hands to the side to indicate the whole of the collection. "Your faith in your talents is admirable, but I wonder if it's not subverting your good judgement," he says, clucking his tongue at the elegant magician.

"We're only as accurate as the rulers we measure by," he adds, in the manner of a man quoting a deeply held axiom.

Athenaeum has posed:
A hint, a tickle at the edge of memory, but then the smile is over and he's talking. Attempting to make her doubt herself. The cool calm shifts a little, allowing a small smirk. "You speak in shifts and tones, and you may have the young subverted and worrying about themselves, but I've been at this a little longer than most." A little longer, humility or mis-direction, it's impossible to tell just by the look on her face. Unless he's started digging into her history of course, the Father of Lies can probably find out anything, given long enough.

But for now, he's going to have to deal with the subtlty of Magicians. Never use a spade, with a trowel will do. An axiom of her own perhaps. All the while he's been walking away, eyes off her as he gestures, Ysabelle has been preparing a surprise of her own.

A needle thin flow of power, enhanced with a few carefully chosen runes slips from an open palm, still held at her side. Words whispered under her breath direct the flow, a pin flicking forward to pop the bubble of Lucifer's glamour. Aloud she says; "I've always preferred 'Honest is the best policy' myself."

Lucifer has posed:
"Hm?"

The man watches with mild surprise as that lance of power strikes his glamour. It starts unravelling by inches, and he makes no effort to restore the concealment or disguise his features as his illusory disguse rolls away.

"That was not a wholly amateur effort," he applauds Ysabelle, his voice modulating and changing weirdly. That all-white suit turns to all-black, burning away in a line line. His physique shifts, becoming a little differently proportioned. He gains extra height, several inches of it, and his eyes turn a glorious blue that contains all the shades of a summy sky.

And as the waves of the glamour ripple down his back, a pair of tremendous and angelic wings unfurl with a span of at least twenty feet, shaking and stretching. He adjusts a cuff and regards Ysabelle with a knowing smirk, until the last of his mighty pinions are revealed.

A light comes on -- no, a light comes /from/ him. Even though his skin isn't illuminated, radiance spills around him. It drives away shadows and dust, the air growing sweet and strong and sharp in his presence. That hint of approval from his smile rolls over Izzy like a wave of summer warmth, full of the promise of comfort and cozy security amidst all the memories of a happy childhood. Warm cotton sheets and sunshine and fresh breezes all rolled into that smile.

"I've probably been at this a /bit/ longer."

Athenaeum has posed:
A slight widening of the eyes is all that betrays the surprise the magician experiences at the rather dramatic unravelling of the glamour. The wings do warrant a second look too, but it's that aura that finally does it. At least now her marker spell clinging to him made perfect sense. And he'd tried to convince her she hadn't known what she was doing. The nerve.

"I do not think I can argue with that statement..." A pause. "And I doubt I'd want to try anyway." To her credit, the magus refuses to take a step back, despite that small animal instinct inside of her screaming for her to run away and hide like the small mammal that in comparison, she is.

"Is this where I am to hazard a guess at your moniker? Or are you ready to introduce yourself in actuality, rather than the persona you showed me earlier?" Her voice is level, calm and neutral. Inside she gives herself a little gold star for the effort.

Lucifer has posed:
"Please allow me to introduce myself," the angelic being says, grinning at Ysabelle. "I'm a man of wealth and taste. I've been around a long long year, and stolen many a man's soul and faith."

"I was 'round when Jesus Christ had his moment of doubt and pain. I made damn sure that Pilate washed his hands, and sealed his fate."

He grins floridly and walks into the next room, humming under his breath. There's not a speaker system to be seen in the room, but it's impossible to ignore the possibility that the Rolling Stones are performing one of their greatest hits in an adjacent area.

The other rooms proves to contain a rather lavishly appointed lounge area, with low back sofas arranged in a circle, a wet bar in the corner, and several marble statues replicating Green and Roman artistic inclinations.

Scratch that-- they /are/ Greco-Roman, exquisitely preserved against time and the elements.

The angelic being sits in one of the low chairs in a posture of supreme relaxation, one leg crossed over the other and a drink resting on his knee. "So, Miss Orion-- what do you think of the collection so far?"

Athenaeum has posed:
She doesn't answer straight away, moving after him after a few moments pause - as it became obvious that he'd left this room for good. She shouldn't really /expect/ manners from the likes of The Lightbringer, but for some reason she had. It was likely that damnable aura, the woman would do better going forward. No time to be an apprentice panicking, that was for sure.

By the time she moved into the other room, serenity is worn as a second skin. Her steps are as graceful as a dancers, her movement as effortless. Her skirts glide over the floor as she approaches the sitting area, resting a hand on the back of one, but not taking it.

"It's a little after my time, but still a lovely collection. A shame you've taken such pains to make sure almost every piece is marred. But I suppose if you can't find a flaw in art, you'll just create one hmm?"

Lucifer has posed:
"Marred?" One of the archangels' brows hike up at the jab. "The artistic sensibility of every piece has been perfectly preserved against the ravages of time and weather," he assures her. "You might not find the curses /aesthetically/ pleasing, but I doubt you'd lodge the same criticism against an art gallery for laying arsenic on the floorboards to deter rodents," he suggests to her, smiling tolerantly. "It'd be reckless in the extreme to have such a fine collection and leave it unguarded."

"Or," he says, taking a sip of his drink, "to leave bait in a mousetrap without arming it."

Athenaeum has posed:
"Actually, leaving any kind of poison about is highly irresponsible. So I'm afraid your anaolgy is a little flawed..." She advises softly, there's no admonishment in her voice. Simply stating fact as she continues to move around the room, no object is left out, but none is given more than an apparently cursury glance.

"But I understand the implication... To a Deity and His chosen, I imagine the short lived, scurrying humans might well seem like a pest. It's a shame that you look on them with such disdain though."

The magus finishes her circuit of this new room, having made a note of any features out of the ordinary. Her feet bringing her back before the fallen Angel. "Personally I consider myself the one responsible for my interaction with wildlife. Which is why I make sure there's sufficent produce away from my home, rather than just attempting to kill them." And if she uses a simple charm that keeps the pests to their own places, well at least it doesn't harm any of them in the process.

Lucifer has posed:
Lucifer smiles easily at Ysabelle, watching her course, and when she moves to stand in front of him he regards her with an expectant lift of his brows. "Please! Sit," he invites, waving her at a nearby chair.

"I don't presume to speak for the Creator of All," Lucifer assures Ysabelle. "But yes, your kind can be pestersome. Imagine," he suggests, "attempting to enjoy the sunset and a particularly insoucient ant begins offering commentary about your choice of fashion. Or preparing a fine meal in your home and a mouse begins chiding you about the quality of your larder."

He taks another sip of the drink in his hand and tilts the glass at her inquiringly. "Would you care for a drink, my dear? Wine, or perhaps some spirits?" he offers.

Athenaeum has posed:
Ysabelle takes a seat, arranging her skirts carefully before letting her hands rest lightly in her lap. She shakes her head at the offer of drink though, a small smile on her lips. "I am fine, thank you. And I'm sure you'll understand after your last attempt, how I'd be reticent to accept any gifts from you now." Plain truth, plainly spoken.

She opens her mouth, closes it. For a moment a look of consternation crosses her face, soon shifted back to her small smile. "I'm sorry, but you've yet to tell me a preference. Do you prefer Lucifer, or the older Helel? Or a title, such as you held before? I'm sorry, but you didn't finish your song." His song, has she really not heard it elsewhere? Or as it's a song all about him, maybe she's just decided that that grants ownership, either way the Magician continues; "I would hate to be considered just another bothersome mouse."

Lucifer has posed:
"Lucifer is perfectly adequate," the Archangel tells her, nodding his head with an approving smile. "And contrary to the reputation I'm assigned, you're hardly in Persephone's shoes here. The fae and the Greeks will trap you with food and drink. I'm merely being hospitable."

And-- even though intellectually Ysabelle has no reason to trust him whatsoever-- something in his voice suggests that Lucifer is telling the plain, and unvarnished, truth.

"The song's a good one. Rolling Stones, from their album Beggar's Banquet. 1968. The nicest thing anyone's written about me since Milton," he says, before laughing merrily. "I can email you the MP3 if you'd like. It's on YouTube as well, but the quality..." he wiggles a hand in the air, shakily. "For my money, there's nothing better than a live concert."

It's a little surreal how blaise he is about using modern conveniences.

Athenaeum has posed:
"I have the vinyl." Ysabelle enlightens her conversation partner with that same small knowing smile. "But it's very sweet of you to offer. I agree that nothing beats live music, but so long as it was traditionally made, then vinyl seems to come closest." She pauses, then adds; "Obviously the new digitally produced records don't seem to have that same depth, I think you required the analogue method. Some things shouldn't change just because they can I suppose..." And some things can't change even though they should, but that's another conversation in and of itself.

"So you gallery is a trap. One I have sprung, wittingly or no. So it is time to discuss the elephant in the room is it not?" She gestures, an open palm indicating left, then right. "No doors, no windows. It is obvious that you didn't want me leaving before something has happened... The query I have, is whether you plan on it at all."