<strong>Carol Neathawk<br/>Gehenna bar, at the bar<br/>With Berenger Zarkhov</strong><br/><br/><em>Well don't that beat all.</em>Carol sincerely hoped she kept her dismay from showing.<em>And that was partly true, dammit.</em>Well, if he wasn't buying her cover, he wasn't buying it.  And the way he was looking at her... he didn't want to fuck her up, just to fuck her.<br/><br/>"I"m Carol Neathawk.  I'm a runner, a messenger mostly." That mask was more intricate than she had thought, and gave very little hint as to what was under it.  The eyes were clear and cold, no lie.  Something about the eyelids when he blinked, maybe.  "I got a message at one of my drops, telling me to come here, and how to find where here was."  She glanced around the room, but didn't let him out of her line of sight.  "A very odd mix.  What the hell is an Angel doing here?"  She tilted her head, gave him a lazy once over.  "I'm the most mundane thing here, by a long stretch."  She took a shot in the dark.  "I wonder what that says about our host?  An off-kilter lot like us has to be here for a reason."<br/>