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Who: Balthazar (or Mirror!Balthazar), and OPEN
Where: the gardens
When: Wednesday-ish
Rating: PG-13-ish?
Summary: Balthazar is just having a nice little booze picnic. The Mirror version is looking for information.

Armed with a blanket from his room, a cooler of beer and bourbon, and a set of sidewalk chalk he retrieved from his closet, Balthazar has found a place to settle, amidst the garden he first stumbled through when he arrived. Now he's in a better state to appreciate the beauty. They may all be in a prison, but at least it's a pretty prison, and well-stocked with comforts.

Anyone who comes upon him will be offered a drink, of course. The later in the day he's found, the more elaborate will be the chalk design he's sketching onto the brick path. It's not recognizable as any specific person or item, just a tangle of color and repeating patterns. Maybe it means something to him.

Leviazar is not interested in alcohol, except as a tool to lubricate social interactions and get others' guards down. He's even less interested in chalk art. Today, he's stayed inside, despite having seen his real depart for the open air. There are other people to watch, on both sides of the mirrors. But a close observer on the realside may catch him tracing Enochian sigils in steamed-up glass, with the tip of one finger.

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Ah, but that's the thing: Balthazar doesn't think he's making art at all, but wishes he were. In fact, if someone were to ask him if there's one mortal gift he'd give his Grace for, the ability to create art, real art, is the only thing he'd think to name. Of course, he's comfortable painting and sketching sigils and rituals circles. A lot of angels do that. It didn't seem like a huge step from there to coloring in the bricks, and from there a few patterns emerged...

He glances up in surprise at the question, looks the stranger over thoughtfully, then smiles and shrugs. "A way to pass the time. I just started with the pink-striped brick over there, and it sort of grew. It's not a likeness of anything."

"Oh," Susan responded in the traditional manner. It wasn't as if she'd been expecting some high minded answer full of poetry, but she had been prepared to listen to one. That she didn't have to was both a kindness and, admittedly, somewhat disappointing.

"Well, it's quite nice," Susan added after a moment of consideration. Given that she was dressed, head to toe, in black with bits of white and her most adventurous accessory was a striped shirt of a similar pallet, "quite nice" was a high compliment.

She walked around the perimeter of his work, staring and tilting her head here and there, until she came back to where she'd began. She hadn't really needed to examine it just to remember it, but art always had this funny way of changing depending on how you looked at it. Susan had this counterproductive way of wanting to look at everything right.

Somehow, astonishingly, those two features weren't completely at odds.

"It's very..." Susan paused as she sought out the word she wanted. She was as adept with poetry as she was with art. "Honest." Yes, that would do...so long as she wasn't expected to explain how pattern and line and color could manage honesty.

"Do you always draw on the ground?"

He could probably come up with something, given enough time, but BSing something that sounds artistic or academic might ruin the experience for him. "I suppose I was thinking about sunrises when I did the orange and gray part in the corner, and lightning along the far side. Other than that, it was just a matter of enjoying myself."

He smiles at the compliment. Honesty is a compliment, right? "I'm not sure I'd know how to lie in full color. This is the first time I've played with chalk on the ground like this. I've seen people who were good at it, though."

Nodding his head toward the blanket, he offers, "Feel free to sit if you want to. There's not much bourbon left, but the beer should still be cold."

Susan considered his offer and weighed it as she regarded the chalk on the ground. She hadn't been headed to anything particularly imperative and this was a feature of this Wonder Land that wouldn't remain for long. Also, if she were perfectly honest about it, there was something unfailingly Normal about picnics in sunshine and casual outdoorish activities; when held up against the last day or so, something as mundane and pleasant as this was very appealing.

She didn't often do things just because she might enjoy them, but this seemed like a reasonable exception.

"I think I will, thank you," Susan said after a moment of thought.

She drank neither bourbon nor beer, but she wouldn't refuse something to occupy her hands while she watched. She retrieved one from the cooler and gingerly wiped it off as she took a seat. She'd never encountered a bottle quite like this, or bottled beer at all for that matter, but it didn't take much to figure out how it worked. She removed the cap and turned her attention back to the bricks.

Then, as all people generally are when faced with artistic materials, Susan felt compelled to keep the conversation up.

"It's refreshing to see a drawing that doesn't involve rivers, trees, and a square house...though, the chalk doesn't appear to be any neater than the alternatives."

Truly, if he'd known so many interesting residents would wander by, he'd have brought something lighter to drink, and possibly something to eat, as well. Maybe he'll try this another day, better prepared. He watches her settle, mild and friendly, then returns to his current task, coloring green curlicues on a white background. "My name is Balthazar, by the way. I'd shake your hand, but I'm covered in pigments at this point."

That, and her outfit seems very tidy. "Rivers and trees and houses are perfectly nice things to draw, I suppose. Generally I prefer abstract design, or else portraiture."

"Pleased to meet you, my name is Susan and...that's quite alright. Shaking hands isn't strictly necessary, given the circumstances," Susan replied and watched him as he continued scrawling colorful shapes onto the brick.

She inclined her head in general acknowledgment of his drawing preferences, but she wasn't invested enough in art to have many opinions about subject matter. She watched him draw for a time, and then watched him. After a few minutes of that, a stretch that most normal people would have found quite unnerving, Susan took a drink off her beer.

The flavor of it was not what she'd expected but, unfortunately, wasn't odd or bracing enough to distract her from the silent question lodged in her mind. She'd gotten completely hung up on it and it would bother her relentlessly until she asked it. She considered how best to phrase it but, finally, just decided to ask outright:

"Forgive me, I've not seen many independent muses with wings. Is there a god of...well, artistic business, here?"

It was terribly rude, of course, to go asking people about their fundamental shape, but he was the first mythical thing she'd come across and he was quite an anomaly. He wasn't the first angel Susan had ever met, but he was very unusual. For instance, she'd never met any Holy Messengers who would be caught anywhere without an appropriately dramatic Holy Tablet to decree unto the masses off of.¹ The idea of any of them maneuvering around the word of the gods to sketch little green spirally things onto the ground...well, it was very singular and, also, very hard to let pass without comment.

"Or are you an avatar?"

¹This made any given holiday gathering into quite an ordeal, honestly, but they all got so huffy and indignant if you asked them to put the blasted things down anywhere. It was like they were worried they'd all get mixed up and they'd leave with the word of the wrong god tucked into their togas.

It's unusual, he thinks, for a person to be able to sit and watch him so patiently for so long. He can tell she's not your average human, of course, but even at that rate he's impressed rather than unnerved. His type of angel, the ofanim, were created for watching, as well, although he always tended to be less genteel about it, and more exuberant.

So he doesn't mind her studying him, but he's a bit taken aback by how easily, and how matter-of-factly, she sees the bits of trueform that leak through his vessel. His wings tend to hover at the edge of corporeal space, usually invisible, but still present and sometimes expressive. Right now, he mantles them, both surprised and deeply flattered to be accused of being a muse. "Good heavens. Most people can't see those, you know."

Putting the chalk down, he turns toward her further. "It might be easier if I were one of those, but I'm actually an angel. I'm not a very good one these days, I suppose. I consider myself retired." Also dead, but there's no need to go into that yet.

In Susan's experience there were quite a lot of thing that most people couldn't see and, usually, it was for lack of trying. She didn't say as much, though, because she'd already seemed to have ruffled his feathers a bit. Metaphorically speaking.

"I wasn't aware that being an angel and being a muse were mutually exclusive," Susan replied evenly. After all, both professions required similar dress...or lack thereof, depending on how you felt about togas. "But, I didn't know that Mythical messengers could retire, either, so I'll take your word on it."

Susan adjusted her hold on her beer and shot him some approximation of an apologetic look.

"I hope you'll excuse me catching you out like this. I was told there were other non-humans but you're the first I've actually come across in the flesh--As it were."

There was something off about his physical form, but it was hard to put her finger on. However, considering that all the angels she'd ever met were formed by pure Belief and, thus, varied wildly in everything from size to voice to construction, being just a little off meant he was closer to Normal than most. Close to Normal was the highest praise Susan could think of, so she let it pass for now.

"Honestly, I was expecting to find a lot of Tooth Faries, or something. Finding someone Religious, well--I had to ask."

"Depends. Where I come from, the cosmology is a bit...segmented. Muses would hang about with the little-g gods, I think. Not my department." He's recovering from the surprise now, and finds himself intrigued rather than upset. "I don't mind. I haven't been hiding, exactly, but more people seem to assume I'm human than not."

"I'm an angel. An ofan by birth, and one of the youngest of my kind. There are others here. I'm probably one of the more cordial ones." He smiles. "But you've given yourself away as a bit unusual, now, too."

Susan listened to him explain with casual attentiveness. Angels varied so much from instance to instance on the Disc that, perhaps fittingly, she took his word as gospel. The term youngest was a bit general for her preferences, as was the distinction between gods and Gods, but those were questions best reserved for another time. She was, however, curious as to what his division had been. She intended to ask, but then she was diverted to a more personal topic.

"Have I?"

Susan prompted and both her brows lifted. She was relatively accustomed to regular people not knowing who or what she was, it was something she treasured, but most things magical and all things mythic tended to beat her to the punch. That he hadn't, or had been cordial enough to refrain from mentioning it, was somewhat surprising.

"Oh, of course," Susan said and inclined her head. He was polite, and Mythical, and had implied that she was merely a bit unusual, so she found she didn't mind the idea of explaining as much as she usually did. "I apologize, I'm not used to...needing to explain. I haven't had to for years, you understand."

She took a deep breath and then continued.

"I'm mostly human," Susan stressed this part heavily, "but not entirely. My family tree has a very mythic branch to it."

If, indeed, the trunk could be called a branch.

"Most people, particularly humans, can't perceive my wings. In fact, it can be risky to look too close, but since you already have and aren't having any eye trouble, I assume you're made of sterner stuff than most."

He looks down at his rainbow-stained hands, brushing them together to remove a layer of dust. "You don't have to tell me the details, but I admit I'm curious. What kind of mythos are we talking about?"

When he looks up again, his expression is mild and polite, but thoughtful.

Between the brightly colored chalk dust and the easy expression, Susan was having a hard time maintaining her reluctance. Absolutely everything about this fellow was easy going and, to her mild chagrin, it proved somewhat infectious. She let out a short sigh and indulged him.

"The universal variety, I'm afraid," Susan answered. "My Grandfather is Death."

It was a statement that demanded all variety of elaboration and Susan knew it. She took a moment and had a causal sip off of the bottle in her hands. After she'd given him a second to process she offered up an apologetic sort of look.

"Sterner wouldn't be the adjective I'd choose, specifically, but I suppose it's not inaccurate. If it's any consolation, of all the various winged, mythical persons I've seen, yours are probably the most...ethereal."

Balthazar may be one of the few angels with any kind of knack for putting people at ease. He likes to think it's his charm, but ultimately it may have more to do with his relative indifference to the kind of cosmic-scale events that most of his brethren are forced to attend to and fret about just by virtue of what they are. He'd rather talk about the difference between a merlot and a shiraz than the questions of fate versus free will.

Usually.

When Susan looks up after dropping that little bomb, he's regarding her with a quizzical expression. He's spoken to the Death from his own world. Not long ago, in fact. Obviously they're from different places, but it's still hard to picture Death with a family. He's not sure where to begin with questions. "Well, you're beyond my realm of experience now, but you seem quite lively to me. And...thank you, I suppose? They can be bright enough to burn out the eyes of living things. I'd feel guilty if I were walking around doing that here, unintentionally."

"I can imagine," Susan replied and politely ignored his curious expression. "I'm glad I've never had to worry about something like that, even if the idea of unassisted flight is somewhat tempting."

Generally, Susan wasn't one to just provide personal information. Truth be told, she generally loathed discussing any aspect of herself that might label her abnormal...but she had never had to discuss it with anyone non-human. Everyone non-human on the Disc already knew who she was, and anyone who didn't generally figured it out very quickly, she was the opposite of a mystery. Non-humans, oddly enough, had always been a strange exception to the rule, she never minded talking about anything with them. Whether this was because they couldn't judge her as anything less than Normal or because she quietly considered them as such, it was impossible to say, but they were a definite loophole in her reluctance.

"If you're wondering: Yes, I am alive," Susan assured him, finally. "Not undead, or displaced, or anything of that sort and, as I said, mostly human. I'm just...partly...not."

That last word was like pulling teeth and Susan took a deep breath after she was out with it. Admittedly, awkward as it was, it was mildly pleasant to have someone non-human who knew. She was used to dealing with any number of mythical people who knew and, despite herself, their absence was something of a burden.

"Mostly the whole thing just results in awkward holiday dinners and a truly tacky family crest, really, when you get down to the bare bones." She paused and then idly motioned to him. "That and I can see, well, everything. It's really less appealing than it sounds."

"Assisted flight is more fun, if you ask me. Easier to look around and enjoy it." He manages to put the curious stare under wraps, going for another drink as she explains.

"That wasn't what I was thinking, actually. I was just trying to see a resemblance, and failing. My apologies, I didn't intend to be rude." He takes a thoughtful gulp of beer, then smiles and shakes his head. "Awkward holiday dinners, hm? That I can sympathize with. If I ever learn to cook, I'll roast you a turkey and attempt to make up for the deficiency in cheer."

Now that he's aware she can see his wings, he seems to be a bit more careful with them, keeping them folded loosely but neatly behind him, where before they were sprawled out everywhere. When she motions at him again, they flick and stretch, almost an unconscious acknowledgement of the gesture.

"Oh, he's never lacked cheer," Susan said after an appropriate pause, her expression just a touch exasperated by the memory. It was like fondly recalling, well, a doddering relative...more than like, in fact, that was rather the whole of it. "He just never gets the hang of it, it's all too Human for him."

She laments the careful folding of his wings, somewhat, but she'd stared long enough as it was.

"However, if you learn to cook, I will take you up on that offer. It's not an activity I'm particularly fond of, myself," Susan added and gradually pulled the conversation toward slightly more Normal topics. She'd nearly finished her drink but, pleasant as this all was, she probably wouldn't remain around for another.

"Is that how you spend retirement, then? Picking up various creative endeavors?" Susan asked and her voice was laced with a tacit sort of approval. Learning was a sensible goal, especially for people who weren't generally mortal.

"Hm. There are some factions within my family that court an active contempt for humanity. I see what they're driving at, but the longer I've lived on earth, the more comfortable I get with the mortal set. Don't spread that around; I have a reputation to uphold." A reputation for calling the Winchesters by the names of various primates, at least.

"I can cook pancakes and omelets," he says. "And I can make extremely mediocre pasta. I don't actually have to eat, so I haven't had much practice."

Taking another gulp of drink, he shrugs. "I didn't expect to last this long, to be honest. But...yes. That, drinking, and partying are the main things I've been up to. Long-term, I'm sure the artwork is healthier."

"It is less likely to result in a violent death.... Well, in theory, at least," Susan agreed casually. She'd seen enough art-related parties to know better than all that, though, but it was usually safer than the regular sort of carousing. She shifted the topic as she finished her drink.

"Shape defines a lot about a person," Susan said after a beat. "I know quite a few of the Myffic sort who would disagree, but being human shaped is enough. Eventually, if you stay human shaped, you start being human."

That was utterly true, in all its possible facets and interpretations, but she felt the need to defend it after a moment of silence.

"It's not all that bad, honestly," she added. "Nothing else seems to live with quite the same fervor."

"In theory!" He laughs appreciatively. "Most of my lot were well-enough adjusted, but I know what you mean."

He frowns a little, pausing to think about what she says. It makes some sense, and he can't help wonder if it holds even truer for angels. Not only are they mimicking humans, they're living within their bodies, however temporarily. What does that say about him? Castiel? Gabriel? Anna?

"I wouldn't want to lose my power. My perception." He purses his lips, and nods. "But you're right. I think I understand why my Father favors them so."

Susan really tried to reign in her skeptical look, honestly she did, but it was reflexive. Hearing people talk about how their gods favored humanity was like hearing about how intelligent their pets were: you understood that they had deep and abiding love for the subject matter but you just couldn't bring yourself to give half a whit about the tricks they could do or how especially they liked something or another. Still, Balthazar had been very pleasant, so Susan hid her expression as best she could by finishing her drink.

"Of course, I can't imagine that would change," Susan assured him and firmly moved back a point in the conversation. "It just seems that they start thinking more like humans. Rationalizing, lying, tricking, loving, that sort of business. It can be quite dramatic if a thing's not used to Life on whole...."

Susan halted herself, here, because that particular experience wasn't one she felt like recounting any part of. Just pondering the Auditors was enough to ruin any given day and this one, magic aside, had been shaping up quite nicely.

"...But, this, I think, is a topic for a day with less pleasantness and general creativity."

Susan inclined her head toward him.

"And, I should really be going," she added after a beat. "Thank you for the drink and conversation."

"No...no, you're right, there." He smiles wryly, although to be fair a certain degree of rationalizing, lying, tricking, and loving seem to be native to angels themselves.

But it's not the most pleasant topic for him, either, so he stands and offers her a hand up gallantly. "Of course. I wouldn't want to keep you from other entertainments, either. But I'd be happy to chat again sometime. I'm on the fifth floor, if you're ever looking for me."

Susan hadn't been expecting assistance, but when he rose and offered, she accepted it. It didn't occur to her until after she'd taken his hand and stood that they were standing in the middle of a very large, very colorful piece of chalk artwork. Chalk artwork that he had done. The kind that involved same sort of chalk that was liberally coating his hands...and now partially coating her own.

She stared at the appendages for a second (it was that dry, resigned sort of stare that asks 'why did I do that?' with the knowledge that the outcome is merely inconvenient and, besides, there's no help for it now) and then turned her attention back to Balthazar.

"Thank you, I shall keep it in mind," Susan answered politely. "And to you as well, though I've taken up residence on the fourth." She gently extricated her hand and, very pointedly, didn't look at it as she moved it back to her side. There was no sense harping on it, after all, it was only chalk. "It's been a pleasure, I hope the rest of the afternoon is as...productive for you."

Oops. He wasn't thinking, there. Hopefully the dust comes out of fabric and off skin easily. He looks sheepish, but since she's moving off he doesn't offer to fix that for her. "Indeed! I hope to see you again. Possibly even indoors."

He gives a slight bow, by way of farewell, and shoves his dusty hands in his pockets.

"Indoors, how novel," Susan remarked in her best attempt at passing, friendly banter. To say she was inexpert at it was to do everyone who had ever engaged in the activity a considerable disservice. Rather than continue with her attempt, she returned his previous gesture and bowed. While the whole action wasn't much deeper than his own had been, it was done with the surety of someone who came from a place where such things were still done.

"Good day," she wished him finally, politely dismissed herself, carefully picked her way around the artwork, and left by way of the path.

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I hope this is okay. c:

of course!

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