The bar that Daemon has chosen to try and garner some information about what the Hell kind of realm he's landed himself in is the right kind of noisy and anonymous. Conversations, some louder and drunker than others, run up against the ambient music that uses instruments and chord progressions he's unfamiliar with. But it's music and people and a crowd intent on minding their own pleasure, so he's safe here, as far as safe goes, and if he conforms to the social patterns he observes in the other bar-goers, he's unlikely to be remarked upon.
Sleeves rolled up and top buttons undone, Daemon looks more relaxed than he's managed to be since he arrived, but only because he's judged himself comparatively overdressed when he's buttoned up properly and for the moment he wishes to blend in at least a little. He's lucky that this is a time and place where suits aren't clothing entirely out of the ordinary, though the cut of his own doesn't match with anything he's seen thus far during his first day in this strange new land.
The small glass of amber liquid in front him is more familiar, however, a not-entirely-awful brandy that he doesn't burn away immediately. The heat of the alcohol itself isn't unwelcome, but the brandy suits the persona he's trying to project. A man of business with his suit coat over his arm, drinking off the day's stresses.
Though he has to use body language to get people to leave him alone, rather than the subtle psychic suggestions he would prefer. There are landens everywhere--non psychic and terrifyingly vulnerable, especially to him--and none of them recognize him for what he is.
He watches the entrances, the people, the bartenders. Alert and trying not to appear to be, drinking faster than he probably should and wondering if this is some sort of trap.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
Daemon on Airy's Earth—The Set!
Date: 2019-04-29 07:00 pm (UTC)Sleeves rolled up and top buttons undone, Daemon looks more relaxed than he's managed to be since he arrived, but only because he's judged himself comparatively overdressed when he's buttoned up properly and for the moment he wishes to blend in at least a little. He's lucky that this is a time and place where suits aren't clothing entirely out of the ordinary, though the cut of his own doesn't match with anything he's seen thus far during his first day in this strange new land.
The small glass of amber liquid in front him is more familiar, however, a not-entirely-awful brandy that he doesn't burn away immediately. The heat of the alcohol itself isn't unwelcome, but the brandy suits the persona he's trying to project. A man of business with his suit coat over his arm, drinking off the day's stresses.
Though he has to use body language to get people to leave him alone, rather than the subtle psychic suggestions he would prefer. There are landens everywhere--non psychic and terrifyingly vulnerable, especially to him--and none of them recognize him for what he is.
He watches the entrances, the people, the bartenders. Alert and trying not to appear to be, drinking faster than he probably should and wondering if this is some sort of trap.