The cleric smirked as Jazrael departed with her tail betwixt her legs. The smirk formed a broad grin when the woman at last introduced herself, a glimmer of recognition playing across his strange and fiery eyes. He took her hand firmly, and shook it with a leisured ease.
His mind seemed to be wrapping around the significance of meeting the goddess, but the flawless armor of his composure was not dented in the least.
"You know, I had a hunch that's who you might be, but I'm not one to hastily jump to conclusions…or anything else, for that matter. You're correct on that last count."

Lazarus took several more puffs, and characteristically let the blunt hang once more, whilst looking at the Reaper unwaveringly.  "You're just as lovely as I've been led to believe. Several other details were right on the mark too…"
He trailed off, and his grin broadened even further, twice more at the things she had to say.
"Had a glass myself not long before now, back in town. As much as I'd like to carry a flask, I've got to keep my wits about me. I don't reckon you've got that to worry about. Probably no different than drinking sour water."

He paused at the second detail, about himself and why he had been chatting with one of her demons. "I'm also fond of moonlit walks on the beach, and poking dead things with a stick," he mused at her coyly. It was a popular humorous take on the old adage, but the latter part was particularly and deliciously ironic, given who he was.

"I'm surprised someone like you isn't well-familiar with the old legends. These eyes used to be a lot more common. Particularly in times of plague, or of vampiric and draconic rule in some lands. 'Beware the men with starfire in their eyes. The October Folk. They were born dead, and were groomed for the hunt.' Many other versions of that, as well. Mostly started by necromancers, vampires and the like to start witch hunts of people with the mark, for fear of their own well-being."

Stroking his beard, Lazarus chortled strangely. "I believe I'm the last for a great while. There was one other, but he wasn't brought into this life in a traditional way. From what I understand, he lives a mostly normal life now, the 'contact' of the realm having been severed. Ah, speaking of that happy place. Funny that we should meet…"

Lazarus unwound the scabbard of the sword on his belt and held it up to Dalanesca, continuing to finish his smoke casually. It had features of both a sabre and a katana, with intricate runes etched into the bronzed gold on the sheath. "I acquired this there. It was meant for me, but instinct tells me that you might cherish it a mighty bit more than I."

Dalanesca eyed Lazarus as he grinned at her, his charming comment not going unnoticed.  There was something about him that seemed vaguely familiar, though she was entirely sure she had never laid eyes on him before.  "So you've actually heard good things about me?  I find that hard to believe," she said, letting out a quiet laugh.  She glanced down at her flask as he commented on it, shaking her head.  "Actually, this stuff will knock me on my ass if I'm not careful.  It's a… special blend, crafted specifically for me.  The Mother makes it for me," she said, fondly commenting on her friend.  "A flask full lets me have a real good time - one sip would send you reeling," she said offhandedly.

"The October Folk," she repeated, listening to his explanation.  It struck a chord with her, of course, as she had heard much of the same tales from Story during their time together.  "I would not go as far to say as I am familiar with them, but I've heard a bit, at least," she said, her voice taking on a slight tone of sadness.  Though Story's departure from her life had partially been her own fault, at least in a way, his memory still stung.  "Believe it or not, I think I have a vague idea of who and what you speak of," she added, giving Lazarus a knowledge of her understanding.

Her eyes fell on the sword he held out to her, her heart immediately dropping to her stomach.  Her demeanor shifted to that of a vulnerable woman with a broken heart as she tucked her flask back against her thigh, reaching out and taking the sheathed blade from him, holding it gingerly in her hands.  "Oh," she softly exclaimed, and for a moment it seemed though she had entirely forgotten the stranger standing in front of her who she had just met.  Moments ago she had been entirely intrigued by who he was and why he was so calm in the presence of one such as Jazrael leading to herself, and now those were the last things on her mind.

For a moment, both of her hands clenched tightly around the weapon, until her grip loosened slightly and she shifted her gaze from the blade back up to Lazarus.  "I can't," she said, holding it back out towards him.  Tears which had been welling in her icy blue gaze threatened to fall, and with one blink of her heavily charcoaled eyelids they did, sliding down her pale cheeks in a barrage of emotion.  Her lower lip quivered slightly and she drew in a shaky breath. "It's a beautiful weapon, and while I appreciate the sentiment behind your offer, I can't take it."  Her words carried the same shakiness as her breath.

"It would only serve as a reminder of what I lost," she said, her words followed by a gentle sob as she lost control of her emotions.  She did not begin to cry uncontrollably, but it was clear that for that particular moment, the sadness of the situation had overtaken her need to prove herself as a powerful deity- so it was there she stood, in the middle of a blizzard, holding the sword of her former lover and crying in front of a complete stranger.  "You ever have that thing, Lazarus?  That thing that you think is the most perfect thing you'll ever find in your life?  And then you fuck up, and it's gone?" she asked, another sob breaking her words.

Lazarus watched the Goddess carefully, taking the sword with the sort of ceremonial reverence that he'd expected, but also handling it as though it were a viper that would lash out and bite her. He could only stretch to imagine the emotions playing through Dalanesca's mind as she looked upon the weapon. She no doubt had thoughts of its previous owner. The reaction to the weapon itself, as it were, was fairly accurate. It was a gorgeous, but highly dangerous artifact.
"Forgive my assumptions, good miss," the cleric apologized with a bow of his head. He took the sword back from her, quickly fastening it to his belt and concealing it with his coat so that she would not have to look upon it any longer than she could bear.

As hastily as he had put the sword away, Lazarus withdrew a kerchief from his inner jacket pocket, handing it to Dalanesca. It was black, with a small amateur stitch of an unknown orange exotic flower at the center. It smelled of lavender and warm spices. It seemed that the man had a peculiar knowledge of herbs. The scents that the handkerchief was doused in her well-known to calm the nerves. The smoke that still rose from his cigarette possessed many notes aside from the pleasant foremost aromas when examined with greater sensory attention. There were ingredients there that were traditionally burned by mystics for dousing, smudging, and entering transcendental states of consciousness.

"I've had good things come and go in my life, for sure," Lazarus assured her. Dalanesca was vulnerable enough before him to show this side to her, but he wasn't entirely sure how she would accept comforting from someone that was still mostly a stranger. Rather than embrace her, as he was want to do by default to a woman in tears, he soothingly ran a rough hand along her back.
"I suppose it goes without saying you know where I had heard about you from. I get around. Maybe he does too. We were pretty mutually surprised to see each other in the October Country. We'd never met before, but I knew what he was, and he knew what I was."

Despite the chill wind not bothering the Goddess of Deathin the least, Lazarus had unthinkingly blocked her from it as best he could. He took off his hat momentarily to brush off the accumulated snow, shaking out and tousling his wavy warm black hair.

"If it's any comfort to you, in my opinion, there ain't such a thing as perfect when it comes to matters of the heart," Lazarus stated confidently. "Some things may feel right as rain for a time, but not everyone that walks into our lives is there to stay. Being Divine, you most suredly know nothing happens without a reason. Some people are only meant to serve as lessons to us…or we were the lesson for them. Maybe both."
He smiled broadly.
"I know for certain things always turn out as they should be in the end. If you're still wallowing in dark times, keep your chin up. The pieces of the puzzle are still fixin' to fall where they belong."

She made a dismissive motion with her hand as Lazarus apologized, hiding the sword away so she would no longer have to see it. “No need for apologies,” she said, her shoulder shaking slightly as she fought off the wave of sobs that threatened her typically cool and calm demeanor. She hesitantly accepted his handkerchief as he offered it to her, bringing it to dab underneath her eyes at the few tears that had managed to escape. As the fabric passed over her nose, she drew in a deep breath, rather enjoying the scent of spices that it carried.

She tensed up slightly as he spoke and ran a hand along her back, such an action towards her being wholly unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome. Genuine contact with another being was something her existence had lacked for the most part since Story’s departure from her life. “If you heard about me from Story, I can’t imagine it was anything good,” she added, a bitter laugh sneaking forth from her lips.

She glanced at him with an unreadable expression when he had finished speaking, remaining silent for a bit before eventually speaking once more. “Being one of the Divine might make me know there exists a reason for everything that happens, but it does not necessarily make me agree with those reasons. It’s a pretty lonely life, to be honest. I thought that I had found someone who understood my spheres, understood what type of dominion I held and what was required of me… but the chain of events proved that I was mistaken. Maybe you’re right - maybe it was just a lesson.”

Curiosity replaced the sadness in her gaze as she held his handkerchief back out to him. “Thank you, that was a kind gesture,” she said. “But I now find myself ever more curious about you. You’re not afraid of a demon, not even the Reaper herself… in fact, you stood by as the Goddess of Death cried and lamented a lost love in front of you, offering a pat on the back and a handkerchief.” She paused, her eyes squinting slightly and her brow furrowing as though she were analyzing him - which she was.

“I’d be lying if I said you didn’t intrigue me. Believe it or not, Inferos is rather dull for me the majority of the time I’m there - and you seem like the type for interesting conversation. I’d be curious to know a bit more about who - and what - you are, if you’d be so polite as to indulge me,” she began.  "You mentioned that you’re a fan of whiskey? I’ve got some of the best batches you’ll ever taste - and no, they’re not as volatile as what I myself tend to imbibe. I’d ask that you accompany back to Inferos, to Domus Tenebris specifically, and let me repay your kindness with a decent meal, a few drinks, and a bit of conversation - no strings attached, and with my word with the Voice as my witness, you will be free to leave at any point and no harm will come to you,” she added, giving him a half grin. “Do you accept?” she asked, half expecting him to turn down her invitation, but sincerely hoping he would accept. He was a curious fellow, and she was interested to know more about him.

"It was mostly positive," Lazarus assured with a shrug. "I haven't made any judgements about you as of yet. I won't of him, either; save that it seemed to me the poor masochistic creature was punishing himself for some old, forgotten sins. The properties of the gift he gave me, which I still don't rightly understand, was evidence enough of that."
The cleric shivered, presumably from thoughts of the blade at his side moreso than from the biting cold winds.

Lazarus let a broad, genuine grin gradually splay across his features. "I see no reason to be afeared of anything that's sentient. Everything and everyone's got different leanings and prerogatives, but we're all more or less the same at the core. Being plunged into an underworld considered bizarre by most has taught me that."

For the first time, the cleric's strange gaze seemed cynical, but in a playful sort of way. "I suppose I could let you pick my brain for awhile. Especially if you're offering an open bar," he offered, but then frowned. "I don't rightly belong there though, in your realm. I was telling your….associate…as much before you arrived. You're correct in there not being many things I fear. Things that are known to me usually don't get under my skin. I don't know how your realm will react to my presence within it. I'm an anomaly from a long line of anomalies."

Eyes studying the goddess carefully still, he continued. "I can take you at your word about the no harm bit. I'm not one for boasting, but I think that curiosity may grow into quite a bit more than that over the course of dinner. My line's been used by the Divine before. Sometimes forcefully. There were times, when others ruled over your sphere, that we and Death did not see eye-to-eye."

Lazarus looked about the empty space around with a sort of amused sarcasm to his body language. "I'm not doing anything at the moment, darlin'. Did you intend to sweep me off my feet at this moment, or would you rather I entered your realm in the traditional manner? Either way, the cold's getting to be a bit much for these mortal bones."