Owner	Pose
Daimon Hellstrom	Daimon Hellstrom strolls along the boardwalk along the edge of the shore. He's a bit stylized, as he's prone to be, not afraid to be garish. He wears a red leather longcoat, dark maroon like dried blood, that reaches down to his back. He has a white shirt underneath but unbuttoned enough to leave him essentially barechested, showing off the brand of the pentagram in his chest. His hair is on the dark side, longish, and he's showing a bit of point to the ear, a bit of fang to the canine. He puts his hands in the pockets of his trousers and looks out at the sunset and almost feels something like wonder. Strange, perhaps, that he still could. "Oh well. Fuck it," he says, lighting a clove cigarette.
Ivory	Why does a whitehead with a cat jacket come to a shoreline? Well, they stare out of course, the ponytail carried up by the wind and tussled around as the hands clench to the pockets of the jacket. Lad? Gal? Hard to tell, their scarf joining the playful movement of the wind. "Tobacco and cloves... Kretek," they mutter under their breath when some of the smoke wafts their way.
Daimon Hellstrom	Daimon Hellstrom is most certainly the type to pry on occasion, but he also respects privacy. The gender, sex or identity of the individual matter little to Daimon Hellstrom, who sees souls first of all, souls for which he hungers. But which he never takes, for which reason he must find other ways to expend his infernal energies. "I've found the local pigs tend to frown on open smoking of cannabis, still, in spite of changes in societal norms. Pigs will be pigs. Still," he says, casually flexing his fingers, the cigarette vanishing as if it never existed, but for the wisp of smoke floating and slowly dissolving above.
Ivory	Ivory shrugs a moment at the comment on pigs. "I wouldn't worry about swine if the neighboring town's bat problem would work here too. Though then you should especially keep your fingers of anything that's not from a dispensery. Yould be Jokerized or from Scarecrow..." There's an almost catlike stare as they answer it rather matter of factly.
Daimon Hellstrom	Daimon Hellstrom laughs softly, "I love those names. The Joker. The Scarecrow. So vivid. Like monsters from a fairy tale, but flesh and blood. Coming to Gotham is a little like going into a fairy land. Which makes me wonder if there are fairies about here. I always enjoy their company. You look like you could be one of them, even," he says, "I hope you don't find that judgment insulting. I only mean that there is something of cunning and of mystery about you, much like the fae I have met.
Ivory	"Fairy tale? Ask again after you saw them or had a run in with the literal Batman. They're like... that Ripper guy on steroids? I prefer my Gothamites catty over those three. But aint seen no fairy around here ever." They shrug a moment, the head tilting at the inquisitive notion. "Cunning and mystery arn't really something exclusive to fae. I'd say it's something people attribute to foxes, cats, pretty women or young men, witches and even the occasional serial killer..."
Daimon Hellstrom	Daimon Hellstrom smiles, "Catty, eh? I've heard of that legend around here, too. Quite a handful, she seems. Favors the whip. I have some experience with the lash myself upon occasion. But that's neither here nor there," he grins. "I've been friends with all of those, now and again. Some who were more than one of those at once. I judge none. That's someone else's job."
Ivory	Ivory says, "There's at least two. One's whippy, one not." Ivory remarks, chuckling a tad. "As for leash, that would require a collar. Are you the wearer or the holder type?" "Not a judge, hm? What then?""