Owner	Pose
Opal Moirai	The Corral is a honky-tonk bar just outside of Yonkers, on the way out of town to the Big Apple. There's a three-color neon cowgirl on the sign outside, and the music is loud even with the doors closed. Inside there's a dance floor, a mechanical bull in a pen with plenty of sawdust on the floor, and a long bar. There's also a small stage, but tonight the jukebox is doing the work. It's just after sunset and the place hasn't started to fill up yet. All the servers are dressed in boots, tight jeans, cowboy hats, and plaid shirts. There's a blonde at the bar who is dressed similarly, at least at first glance. The boots are a little nicer, as are the jeans and the hat. She also wears a leather vest over her shirt, and a pair of mirrored aviators cover her eyes.
Daimon Hellstrom	No tight jeans, no plaid shirt, no cowboy hat. Daimon Hellstrom flouts the genre conventions by wearing a tailored black three-piece suit, with a red shirt left unbuttoned at the collar, no necktie. He glides into the Corral like a shadow, not calling attention to himself until he's at the bar. One hand adorned with several rings rests on the bar top to signal his readiness to order. When the woman in sunglasses approaches, Daimon fixes her with a crooked smile. "You know, Moirai, in all the letters we've exchanged, never once would I have guessed that /this/ is your music of choice."
Opal Moirai	Opal Moirai feels hackles rise on the back of her neck the moment that the man in the suit steps into her bar. She approaches him at a lazy saunter, boot heels scuffing softly on the hardwood. Her gaze shifts to the rings for a moment, hidden behind the mirrored lenses. "Opal, please, unless you prefer Mr. Hellstrom. And it's a phase we're going through." We? She and her sisters, of course. "I owned a dance hall in Berlin back in the 30's, believe it or not. Makes this place look like a daycare." She tips up the brim of her hat, then. "So what are you drinking tonight? Something from the tap, or from the top shelf?"
Daimon Hellstrom	Daimon's aura is unmistakable. Being the Son of Satan in a painfully literal sense has that effect on people. Even when he's 'blending in' amongst the regular folk, those who can perceive beyond the five senses are treated to a tiny taste of Hell. "I would say 'Mr. Hellstrom is my father,' but we both know that's not true." His crooked smile widens just a bit. "I believe it," he says about the dance hall. "A shame I missed out on the fun. As for the drink... I'm at your mercy, Opal. You know me. What do you think I'd like...?"
Opal Moirai	Opal Moirai grins at the 'father' reference, her lipstick bright red and tasteful, like the manicured nails. She looks him over, then, even peering over the lenses to show her gemstone eye. "Something refined, yet complex." she replies, turning to get a step stool. Top shelf, indeed. That's where the good bourbon is kept, after all. And somehow the Corral has a bottle of Pappy's. Taking a glass, she splashes a good 3 fingers into it and adds just a drop or two of water before sliding it across to him. "You're on my tab tonight."
Daimon Hellstrom	"I'm grateful," Daimon says as he sits down on an available stool. He takes the glass of bourbon and has a sip. His expression is calm and neutral as he considers the taste, then his smile returns, and he nods to Opal. "Well chosen. Can I persuade you to join me, or is that against some kind of regulation you're sworn to uphold?" His tone is wry and very gentle in its teasing, despite the dry humor.
Opal Moirai	Opal Moirai pushes the glasses back up again, taking another glass for herself before walking around the bar to his side. "It's my place." she declares. Easing up onto a stool beside him, she pours herself a drink of the same and keeps the bottle handy. "To first meetings." she offers, lifting her glass for a toast.
Daimon Hellstrom	"And to old friends," Daimon adds, lifting his own glass. When Opal moves to sit beside Daimon, he makes no secret of the fact that he's sizing her up, tight jeans, plaid shirt, and all. It probably comes across as a bit rude, but... if Opal hasn't figured out that the child of the devil marches to the beat of his own drum, as far as social graces, then she might as well not have read any of his letters. "Interesting choice with the mirrored glasses," Daimon says, shifting on his stool so that he can more easily converse with Opal. "If I didn't know about the eye, I'd probably guess that you're perpetually covering up for a previous night's coke bender."
Opal Moirai	Opal Moirai laughs softly at that. "How do you that I'm not?" she replies with a playful grin. She swirls her glass a little, then takes a sip. "Nice suit, by the way. I wouldn't have pictured that choice, but you make it work." She crosses one leg over the other, booted foot bobbing a little. "So dare I ask whether this is purely a social call, or did you come to discuss business?" Which, considering their 'infernal' connection, could be almost anything.
Daimon Hellstrom	"Old habits from the Weimar Republic die hard, hmm?" Daimon says, deadpan, about the cocaine. He's joking, and drives it home with a little lift of his eyebrow before he sips his bourbon. "Social. For now," Daimon teases. "I was in the neighborhood and I knew that I'd kick myself if I missed out on the chance to see the Corral in person. Not to mention its proprietor. Or, co-proprietor, I suppose. I don't want to leave your poor sisters out."
Opal Moirai	Opal Moirai clucks her tongue at the mention of her sisters, and does she bristle a bit? "My sisters each have their own place, on different continents. That was the arrangement." she replies, losing a little of her humor. "The Corral is all mine, thank you, bought and paid for." She relaxes a little, then takes a slower sip... savoring the taste. "You really should stop by when you have more time, Daimon." Yes, she caught his roaming gaze. "We could share a bottle, among other things. Provided there aren't any *contracts* involved." Yes, Opal knows all about deals with the devil, so to speak. Reaching over, she takes her business card from a holder on the bar. She takes a pen from a collection of them in a mug and scribbles a phone number on the back before handing it to him. "This is my personal number."
Daimon Hellstrom	"So noted," Daimon replies to the lesson about who owns the bar. When Opal mentions contracts, he shakes his head. "Oh, please, Opal. I've got better things to do with my life than spend it running around trying to trap people in infernal legalese." He takes the business card and slips it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket... and from that same pocket, he produces a card of his own. It simply has a phone number on it, no name, no occupation, no identifying information otherwise. "And if you ever want to give me a call," he says, "I'd more than welcome it. As for when we both have more time -- consider it a date, Opal." He grins.
Opal Moirai	Opal Moirai chuckles softly at the mention of a date, uncrossing and recrossing her long legs. She takes the card and casually tucks it into her cleavage, making sure that he notices. "I'll just put this somewhere safe." she replies. "And I will certainly call, Daimon. I've made something of a hobby, knowing people of influence like yourself." A good hobby for a spy. "Next time wear something more appropriate. Maybe I'll get you out on the dance floor?" she offers, the smile returning.
Daimon Hellstrom	"Sure," Daimon says, keeping his dry deadpan tone, "if next time /you/ wear something more /in/appropriate."