Owner	Pose
Rachel Roth	RAVEN is A DISNEY PRINCESS. No. Really, come back. Think about it! Her father? Basically, an Emperor. Her siblings? Complete dicks, all of them. She's primer white pale. She owns a cloak! And, right now, she just so happens to be surrounded by musical birds, and there is an owl in front of her who is wearing its own, little crown. ...yes, the birds *are* made of smoke. And, okay, they hold perfect formation as an inverted pentacle. And, yes, to be fair, the owl has two-foot-tall legs and is speaking in High Akkadian, a language that is, oh, six thousand or so years dead. And, fine -- Raven, in full regalia, is sitting upside down in the middle of the air, wings of shadowed smoke extended from her back. But, look, what she does in the privacy of her own, personal room is - What's that? She's poolside? Well, naturally -- you wouldn't want birds /inside/.
America Chavez	AMERICA CHAVEZ is a PRINCE CHARMING. There's really no point in debating it: facts are facts. Consider the fact that she is certifiable royalty from a fairy tale world. Or the fact that her parents tragically died. Or the fact that she's so dashing she seems to sparkle with space-time splendor. Or, consider how she comes sweeping in to save Rachel Roth from a miserable life of -- enjoying her leisure time alone. So, okay. Maybe that's not quite what a Disney Prince would do. And maybe she's traded princely garb for black shorts and a red-and-white striped tank top. And, sure, the the fact that she's sparkling is because she's emerging from a five-pointed - not inverted - star portal of fracturing space-time from parts unknown (but seem to involve a lot of thick, gurgly screaming). But look, she has a loyal steed! ... Oh. No. The steed is just a desiccated, husk of a horse-thing that looks more like a colony of squirming organisms smeared themselves together into a vague horse-shape, currently slung on her shoulders. She just sort of casually shrugs off back through the portal and into the blight-world from whence it was spawned seconds before that star portal closes after it. Some remaining droplets of its bright green blood fall off America's broad shoulder, sizzling on the poolside tiles as she stretches her arms over her head. It's only here that she notices Raven, blinks, and squints. She assesses the inverted Disney Princess. She regards the owl, speaking a dead tongue. "Hey," is America Chavez's blase greeting. "You know what a pool's for, yeah?" A true Disney moment.
Rachel Roth	"Hello." Raven - sits? - with her legs crossed demurely, elegantly holding a teacup with one finger, her pinkie extended. A matching saucer is kept beneath it as she lifts it to overdose blue lips for a just-as-elegant sip. That she is drinking while upside down, that the liquid does not spill a single drop, is by far the least unusual detail of this entire scene. That the crown-wearing owl matches her movement with one of its disturbingly long legs, cup held in its claw - well, that's perhaps less so. "No." She is so deadpan, and her affect so flat, that it is, as always, impossible to know if she's serious. The owl says something that manages to sound insulting even in a long dead language, and then makes a coughing noise that is a crude approximation of a laugh. "Stolas, that is a very rude thing to say." The magical singing birds pour tea. That's what magical singing birds do. The owl makes an insistent, shrieking noise and stamps its foot against the tile. "America, Stolas wishes to know if you are planning to eat your disgusting horse monster." The inappropriately-adorable Prince of Hell turns its head 180 degrees to stare expectantly at America.
America Chavez	'No.' Raven's deadened tones would put the ascended masters of deadpan to shame. America's response is to kick off her sneakers -- half-eaten up by the corrosive stew that is that strange, dead (hopefully--?) monstrosity's blood. "Yeah, I figured." Deadpan meets disaffection, like bone-dry tones were some sort of secret language. The Utopian's hands flops down at her sides, thumbs hooking into the waistband of her shorts as she looks sidelong at Stolas chattering out something no doubt foul as befitting out-of-touch owl royalty. She sizes up the smoky demon prince. "Tell your emu he better watch his mouth or he can find out how many dead languages he can learn in the center of the sun." This, too, is delivered very casually, seconds before America makes her way over to the pool edge. She settles down, dipping her feet into the waters and letting them wash off the bright, glowing green still clinging to her flexing toes. They'll probably want to replace the water after this. America seems like she'd be content to leave it at that, but -- Stolas - and Raven as translator - has more to say. America looks over her shoulder, considering the upside-down Raven, enjoying making a sacrilege of gravity with her tea. Then she looks back to the Disgusting Horse Monster, its component parts still kind of squirming in the way a lizard's tail will twitch and flop after it's been detached. Or like a writhing orgy of worms. That, too, works as a comparison. "What, he wants a snack?" she wonders, cocking her head in the direction of the Squirm.
Rachel Roth	"Stolas is one of the Great Princes of Hell, in command of twenty-six legions of demons." Raven makes an almost derisive sniff. This is not an especially effective show of erudition and practiced grace, due largely to the fact she is wearing feathers and rubber while talking to an owl-demon that looks, for all the world, like a stuffed animal. "And, yes," Raven says, legs uncrossing to cross in the opposite, "He would very much like to eat your horse-worm-monster." Apparently taking your disinterest for permission, the fluffy, three-foot-tall, little owl thing's neck stretches the entire distance across the pool. Its beak expands broad enough to engulf an economy car and sporting protrusions that are a nightmarish combination of fang and baleen comb. Scraping against the tile, it consumes the writhing mass of horror while its now bulbous, swollen eyes stare directly at America. Then it's just an owl again. It takes another sip of tea.
America Chavez	"Yeah? Good for him. He can add 'emu living in the center of the sun' to his pretentious list of titles if he doesn't watch it." Does being thrown into the sun even matter to adorable owl-demons? Well, America Chavez would be sure to find out one way or another. Fluffiness be damned. Bending at the waist where she's seated, the Utopian princess' dark curls spill over her shoulders in a thick veil of brown as she dips her green-smeared hands into the pool, thick forearms flexing and tensing as she washes strange fluids from between her limbs. The water's taking on kind of a murky, seething quality now. It's sort of bubbling around her hands, too. Seriously, what is that thing made of? Where did it come from?? She'll just teleport it all into the Bleed or something when no one's around. It's fine. She's considering the logistics of her impending extradimensional decontamination procedure when a once small fluffy be-crowned owl commits an act of body horror, extending its neck to impossible distances to consume America's strange wriggling abomination with a beak expanded so wide it reminds her distantly of a snake dislocating its jaw to consume prey. A distending stare fixates on her as Stolas enjoys a light snack of mystery meat (is it meat??). Shaking water from her hands, America meets that stare with a level one of her own for that entire duration. Dark brown eyes narrow but never blink. Reality seems to just sort of snap back into place and the owl is once more an owl (with ostritch-legs). America looks over her shoulder. She blows a kiss, before offering a flat: "You're welcome." She was going to have to figure out how to dispose of that thing anyway so this works out for her too, but she's not going to -say- that. Her gaze drifts back towards the cross-legged Raven. A second passes. "Good tea?"