Not the best set-up for a joke, but they're not quite at the bar just yet. Honestly, Astaroth doesn't know if he can even convince Uriel to accompany him there — well, perhaps tempt is a more appropriate term, loaded as it may be — but he's not going to get off without trying. He's much more entertaining with at least a few shots in him, after all.]
[The problem with temptation was that the company Uriel kept was far too good at it. For being an archangel of judgement, this was not the better of his calls. Then again, Uriel had walked a fine line between being "good" and being "just good enough" for the better part of the last 1,500 years. No matter what his mortal vessel was, the body always leaned towards his former brother without thought. A good show of being unreceptive and judgemental was the best counter-agent he had for Astaroth's poison.
After all, if he didn't cross his arms and throw scathingly coated remarks, no matter how much out of fondness they were said, he'd fall for the lesser of Astaroth's ploys.
So the angel leaned against the rail of the elevator, pulling his fingers through the mop of blonde hair atop it with mock complacency. Slightly crumpled slacks. A crinkle-nosed look towards his fallen brother.]
You always take me to the best places. [A half-grin. It's half-mocking, only because it's true. Astaroth always picks the better places. The joke would be that Uriel far preferred the seedier locales.]
[Honestly, if Astaroth didn't feel like he was already pushing his luck, he would hardly have hesitated to try pushing the angel into some neater clothes. Wrinkles, really? But no, he'd just have to bank on his own put-togetherness making up for the both of them.]
I imagine it's not hard to beat whatever places you've been frequenting. [A sharp smile accompanies that, though it's sharp only because of Astaroth's usual manner; the only fondness to it is what he's reserved for his angelic brethren, even if only this member of them in particular.] And there aren't any card tables in heaven, last I recall.
You know I'm not a betting man, brother. I always see the favour in things.
[A bad habit. Or perhaps righteous was a better way to call that penchant of his to relate the unrelated to his duty as an archangel. There was just something about Vegas that made him itch. The sinliness that was basked in eagerly by the people here was worth more than a sigh and a stiff drink. It made his job seem... something akin to ineffectual. Impotent. Compulsory yet superfluous. Vegas brought to the forefront of Uriel's mind the things the angel contemplated privately. Just what could one bloody archangel do, particularly a forgotten one, in a city like this?]
I always end up watching, though, don't I?
[There's almost a laugh in that, but he doesn't look at Astaroth. He's eyeing the panel of buttons wondering what floor they're supposed to be going to.]
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Not the best set-up for a joke, but they're not quite at the bar just yet. Honestly, Astaroth doesn't know if he can even convince Uriel to accompany him there — well, perhaps tempt is a more appropriate term, loaded as it may be — but he's not going to get off without trying. He's much more entertaining with at least a few shots in him, after all.]
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After all, if he didn't cross his arms and throw scathingly coated remarks, no matter how much out of fondness they were said, he'd fall for the lesser of Astaroth's ploys.
So the angel leaned against the rail of the elevator, pulling his fingers through the mop of blonde hair atop it with mock complacency. Slightly crumpled slacks. A crinkle-nosed look towards his fallen brother.]
You always take me to the best places. [A half-grin. It's half-mocking, only because it's true. Astaroth always picks the better places. The joke would be that Uriel far preferred the seedier locales.]
no subject
I imagine it's not hard to beat whatever places you've been frequenting. [A sharp smile accompanies that, though it's sharp only because of Astaroth's usual manner; the only fondness to it is what he's reserved for his angelic brethren, even if only this member of them in particular.] And there aren't any card tables in heaven, last I recall.
apparently I have a tl;dr problem recently
[A bad habit. Or perhaps righteous was a better way to call that penchant of his to relate the unrelated to his duty as an archangel. There was just something about Vegas that made him itch. The sinliness that was basked in eagerly by the people here was worth more than a sigh and a stiff drink. It made his job seem... something akin to ineffectual. Impotent. Compulsory yet superfluous. Vegas brought to the forefront of Uriel's mind the things the angel contemplated privately. Just what could one bloody archangel do, particularly a forgotten one, in a city like this?]
I always end up watching, though, don't I?
[There's almost a laugh in that, but he doesn't look at Astaroth. He's eyeing the panel of buttons wondering what floor they're supposed to be going to.]