1965-01-22 - Light and Dark
Summary: Morbius runs into Khorshid, the two monstrous creatures bonding over one similarity and a world of differences. Fascinating!
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
khorshid morbius 


The times are changing for the Lower East Side, but as much as things change, they very much stay the same for some. Night falls early in winter, and earlier even still with the high buildings blocking out the coastal views from some of the further out boroughs. Finally, the bright hate star has set and Morbius can finally roam without feeling like his eyes are being assaulted. His posture relaxes as he walks from street to street rather than ducking between subway entrances; hat in place with his elongated ears tucked up into it, the collar of his jacket down, and though it's ragged around the edges, the man doesn't seem much like a tired street dweller ready to dig through dumpsters for snacks.

The pale figure stands in front of a repair shop on the Yiddish side of the street where the Spanish hasn't quite taken over entirely yet. Hands shoved into his pockets, there's a stalking instinct which seems to be at play here while he lurks in the open with a single-mindedness signature of a predator.

Across the street from the repair shop is a con that was old even a thousand years ago - the shell game. A couple of late-teenage boys with too-slicked back hair sit at a table, calling out bets, while one of their number pretends to eagerly play and win. Every so often, they call out lewdly to a half-naked woman of arabic descent, who stands under a nearby streetlamp. She's wearing heavy jewlery, so large and old as to be fake to the untrained eye - they apparently are assuming she's a prostitute. Or crazy. Its easy to assume; as she's currently talking to the empty air beside her, in an old dialect of Farsi, called Middle Persian. They continue lewdly catcalling her, but she stays firmly under the bright light of the streetlamp, until one begins to approach her. She's not tall; quite short actually, with long dark hair, and ratty clothes at best. The woman says something angry - to the air next to her, again - then turns her gaze to the boy.

Her voice, when she speaks, is strongly accented, and has a hesitant, thoughtful quality that her words in Farsi lacked a few moments ago. "You know, boys, you should avoid talking to strangers at night. It might be, what is the word? I think…dangerous?" The boys laugh, and the nearby one makes another lewd joke at her barely-clad form. The laughing doesn't last long, however - as the woman steps out from underneath the streetlamp, her beautiful visage abruptly fades, and turns into that of a dessicated, ancient corpse, skin cleaving to a long-dead skull, visibly protruding ribs and bones, and hair long-turned white in death. A dessicated, well preserved corpse without wrappings.

"Am I rubbing syrup on your head now?" the corpse asks, its voice suddenly far less pretty.

Barely clothed figures in winter are an oddity all on their own. Prostitutes aside, so really, Michael can hardly expect otherwise from the small-minded boys for their neanderthal-like behavior. The token 'boys will be boys' hasn't been discarded as mysogenistic claptrap yet, so the voices don't immediately strike a chord within Morbius. A tingle, perhaps. A tug of danger looming—not for him, but for someone else.

Waiting outside the repair shop, Morbius turns his consideration away from the window, pulling his bloody gaze slowly across the street to the rowdy young men. In time, the woman as well. Settled comfortably in the dark, most of his distinguished markings hidden by that broad cloak, it's with a heavy sigh that he watches the encounter from across the street. He doesn't necessarily /want/ to intercept, but at the same time, the remnants of his conscience really couldn't allow for anything aside.

Slow steps draw him off the curb and across the street, taking his time when the partially-clothed woman steps out from the tent of light and…

Pale lips part in surprise, though not likely as much as those two young men's might. In an instant, Morbius' mind tries to categorize: zombie? Well, yes, somewhat. But there were all manner of such things. Corpse, definitely. Reanimation wasn't out of the question, but origins seemed, well, arabic, though he didn't immediately recognize the language.

In a whippy flash of fabric, Morbius bolted forward quick enough to practically vanish in a swirl of turbulent wind, only to stop just behind the two young men. Grabbing one by the collar with a spindly, clawed hand, he yanks the man backward roughly, away from the woman/corpse he was harassing. Spinning around on him, a sickly red glow begins to emanate from beneath the brim of Morbius' hat, swallowing all remnant of his pupil until his eyes are awash with that bloody color, casting sharp shadows across his face.

"/Go/," advising in a clipped tongue, sonorous and growling.

The boy doesn't need told twice; his reaction to being yanked backwards by the collar is more of a squeal, the sort of sound an animal would make, then any cry of alarm or protest a human might utter. The other teenage boy is shouting and cussing in alarm, and in a moment there is an upturned table and several young men running for their lives. So much for the foolhardy bravery of the young. The corpse, for its part, rears back slightly as if momentarily surprised, then tilts its head to the side. Its eye sockets are empty; filled not with eyes but salt-calcified deposits. Whatever this thing is, it did not die recently. Its not even decomposed in the sense a rotting corpse would be. Its mostly there, just…dry, calcified and preserved. It looks towards its side, and asks a question - again in Farsi. After a moment, it nods and looks forward again. "I thought not." it rasps. "Are you an alchemist?"

Assailants easily taken care of without a fight, well that was certainly the preferred situation. Satisfied with the outcome, aggression ebbs slowly, draining through his feet at a slow drip while Morbius pulls back on his own reins hard, dipping his head momentarily, eyes closed while he grounds. When he turns, the glow is diffusing fast, leaving only the inhuman gaze of his blackened pupil swimming in a sea of red while it fades.

Calculating and quick, the papery and wasted appearance of the corpse in front of him doesn't seem to repulse but rather intrigue, trying to get a read on precisely /what/ or /who/ is standing in front of him. Much like the woman is undoubtedly doing. Two oddities circling one another.

"The answer to that question is somewhat complicated," his words click, delicately with a Mediterranean accent from barely-moving lips. Cultured and intelligent phrasing. "Physician and scientist first, alchemist second." He squints, marveling over the in tact nature of her skin. "…you're preserved."

The dessicated corpse remains still, hands at its side as if unused to movement. After the preserved comment, it lets loose a repeated wheezing however, raspy and hoarse. Repetetive, even. It sounds something like, 'whaah, whaaah, whaaah, whaaah', though it doesn't eminate from the throat, so much as it does rattle around in what little remains of a mouth. "If this is preserved, I'd hate to see what I'd have looked like left outside." it says, its voice tinged with amusement. "I was a healer, once. And an alchemist. If I had known better, I'd have summoned up the ghost of the first Chineese Emperor instead. What did you do to yourself?"

Is that…is that a growl? No. Not a growl. Good lord, is that laughter? The dry commentary seems to angle in that direction and only manages to bemuse and endear the fresher-dead-looking man. A small smile curling upon the bow of his lips, corners pulled tight so they do not split; slightly bulging over what must seem like a slightly over-stuffed mouth.

"Once? But no longer," Morbius queries as politely as he can find means to. The question on what he did to himself has him lifting his chin, salvaging a bit of his bruised ego on the matter. It isn't easy to admit to these spectacular blunders. "In an effort to correct a medical imbalance, I fused myself with the essence of another animal in order to offset it. It worked, more or less. There were…complications." Clearly. "What is it you've done here? If I may presume."

The dry corpse attempts a smile. It doesn't work; papery flesh doesn't really bend, and there arn't lips to manage it. The teeth splay a bit wider, and some skin cracks. "Once. No longer." it repeats. "I wanted to avoid death, and in so doing, ended my own life. You might call it an experiment, but if it had been an experiment, I would have been better off. Instead, I simply died. And went on dead. There are worse things then dying, as it turned out. Being dead is worse. I thought I understood, but I had no idea. I was a young, stupid girl." The corpse walks over, and looks around the table. It glances to its side. "The green stuff?" it asks the seemingly empty air. "Fine. And yes, I'll tell her. You know I understand." It reaches over, and picks up the abandoned and discarded money. "Forgive me if I don't seem very hospitable. I'm not in my best condition." it says, still in that dry raspy voice. "Its difficult, at night. I thought I would live forever, as promised. But instead I died. When I woke up, I thought…at last, I shall join the treacherous Pharoah on his boat of a million years. And then that night, I died again. It was worse, the second time. One single day of life, then ripped away. Oh, I would make a fine poltergist, if he were still around to haunt."

An appreciation for the follies of experimentation gone bad, still, the phrasing is troubling and Morbius finds himself squinting slightly beneath the brim of his hat. TUrning to follow her progress, but no approach made while she goes about cleaning up after the con men. An event which didn't bother him any, actually. "The capriciousness of youth makes for interesting tales later in life. Though, that is remarkably rose-colored." Slowly, his steps begin to follow, giving the corpse a comfortable distance to work around. "No, please, by all means do what you must." Waving away the apology with a gesture of spindled fingers and sharpened, talon-like fingernails. "Pharaoh…yes, of course. I didn't wish to assume but," he begins, haltingly, weighing his words carefully. Terribly concerned with politeness still. "You're a mummy. This is how you exist now, then? Might I offer any possible assistance? Sanctuary of a sort, perhaps." Morbius pauses, then remembering just where they were. His attention flicking, paranoid, down the street, then back toward the corpse, shucking off his long coat to offer out to the clearly rotted woman. "You're very conspicuous out in the open."

"Dirt on my head, I never thought of that." the mummy says dryly. "I'm given by my friend here to understand…" She nods towards the empty air. "That alchemists are no longer common. He says you have millions of people in this city, and as far as he knows, I'm the only mummy, and you the only alchemist, he's encountered. Forgive me if I don't say the same to you." The mummy walks back off, its movements still stiff; more from being unused to movement then from being dead, par se - and walks under the electric light, whereupon…. the dead monstrosity turns back into the figure of a beautiful young woman; persian in feature, with raven-dark hair down to her waist, big brown eyes, and a petite, but not unattractive physique.

The voice suddenly feminine, she says, "Apparently, just as the light brings me back to life each morning, it makes me seem alive, even should I be…otherwise. Now, if you'll pardon my manners, you can call me Anoushak. Yes, I believe I am a mummy. That was not my intent however, I assure you. I was given some nonsense story about an elixer of immortality fueled by the sun. I think everything was technically true, simply in the worst way. What was your name again?" She still -smells- dead, however. Under the electric light, at least, its just an illusion.

Friend? Red eyes swim around the area as gestured to, seeing nothing, but none the less follows the gesture before falling back onto the corpse. The line between hallucinations and something he simply couldn't see had become increasingly thin. Impossibly thin, in fact. Morbius disregards either option for the moment and instead follows toward the transformative beam of light. "Your friends seem very helpful, if elusive, but I'm afraid their understanding is not quite correct. I am familiar with another pair of souls who use alchemy. Sorcerers and an exorcist among" He pauses and there's a peculiar, hard to read flutter of his lashes in a somewhat exasperated expression. "other things."

Striding back to the light, watching the transformation is amazingly curious to Morbius as he puts his jacket back on and extends that wicked looking hand out "No, please, I've forgotten all of my manners." It all seems almost comically civil as he takes her hand rather than wrist. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Anoushak," the Greek man's accent plays delicately along the consonants of her name. "No assurance necessary, believe me. I did not intend to make myself a vampire, so I am quite familiar with how these things happen." Oh yes, of COURSE these things happen. Accidentally making yourself an immortal monster is terrible chic these days. "Morbius. Doctor Michael Morbius. Elixer of immortality fueled by the sun. Fascinating." And it is. The analytical side of the dichotomous man all alight.

"Judging from your friends' assessment, am I to understand this time or place is new to you? Are you keeping quite safe?" His concern seeming genuine, dark brows dipping together in consternation. "This city is a hot bed of over-concern with those who are different or out of time and place. It can be dangerous."

Khorshid returns the shake, looking only mildly confused. "I've been haunting a museum for several years. Its how I know your language. I'm unfamiliar with your time, and nation - though I've at least heard thousands of you comment on my boring exhibit, if nothing else. The other spirits were gracious enough to teach me your language while I floated about my corpse. Not much else for them to do, really, being dead. You wouldn't believe how boring it is after the first few days without sensation or pleasure, let alone the first year. They'd die of boredom…if they could." She glances up at the light. "So far, my tactic has been to wait under a light until my energy runs out. I'm not entirely sure yet what controlls it; but at some point, my body dies again during the night. It wakes up at dawn. I'm assuming, judging from what was apparently over a thousand years inside a cave, that if dawn does not touch me, I remain a corpse. It does seem needlessly troublesome, but I've yet to find a good alternative. I'm reluctant to summon up a skeleton or a demon to drag around my body."

Peacefully, red eyes slide shut as dawning awareness touches Morbius' austere features. "The museum, of course," he sounds terribly relieved actually. Breathing a bit easier, his regard falls back to Khorshid. "I read that there was a mummy stolen from the museum. Clearly they did not consider that their exhibit walked out of the place of her own volition. Well done. You were disembodied for a time, then? Floating, non-corporeal, with other spirits to guide you? /Fascinating/," the last word murmured under his breath. The idea of dying of boredom seems to draw another flush of amusement to him, lips curved, but no human shine of warmth to his eyes where there likely should have been. "I can only imagine how jarring it would be to suddenly not /feel/ anything. Sensation is such an impossibly important part of the conscious experience. It could easily draw a soul to madness. You must have a very strong resolve to have made it through that." Easily complimentary. Factually so, in fact. No errant flattery here. "How is it that you reinhabit your body if I may ask?"

"Death and rebirth in a vicious cycle," Morbius sums up, then rolls his eyes at himself, twirling one of his wicked looking fingers around in a circular gesture as he chastises himself. "Yes, of course, elixir of immortality fueled by the sun. When the sun or light vanishes…Ah, now I see."

"That all sounds terribly inconvenient for you. If you would be amenable to it, I could introduce you to the other mystics I'm aware of in the city," Morbius offers, easily. "Perhaps a shift of perspective would be helpful. it is the first thing I began to do when I arrived here as well, seeking a solution to my situation." Of course she's not the only self-made monster who doesn't /wish/ to remain that way. "Also, should you require it, I know of a place where a number of should who do not…/fit in/ above ground stay. Safe and secured from those who would possibly react violently toward us." He glances down the petite arabic woman's half naked form. "At the very least we could find someone who would give you proper clothing. You cannot continue to walk around the city like this, though I'm sure it was quite fashionable when you were from."

Khorshid is silent for a long time as she listens. She's not a patient person by inclination - but she's had a long time to learn it by route, so to speak. "Yes, the sun. Brought my body right back to life - and in I went. I was confused at first, honestly. After a certain time without sensation, even the memory of it begins to dull. Your mind drifts and wanders, and everything seems…" A pause, while she considers. "Distant." she finally decides. "Yes, I had gathered that. I also gathered that walking into a store and grabbing items in broad daylight was liable to create a stir. Perhaps moreso then a corpse in an alleyway in the middle of the night, in fact. I am amenable, certainly to meeting others and accepting aide. Especially as you have been so kind. As I mentioned, I am as of yet uncertain as to all of the details of my new condition, or how to manage it. I've been around for some time, but mostly as a ghost, as I said."

It's with a natural incline of his head, dutiful nearly, that Morbius seems to thank Khorshid, nonverbally. It doesn't seem to be ladled with the gravy of flirtation or ulterior motivation, but it may also be the somewhat muted way his expressions play across his exaggerated features. Genuinely attempting to be helpful to one of /his/ people. A monster. A mad scientist, or rather, mad alchemist. "Your experiences sound…absolutely singular. Amazing. Clinically speaking. I apologize, I don't mean to make light of your personal experiences." Recalling some sense of empathy and humanity after his analytical bits.

"Excellent. I remember vividly the struggle of discovering the newness of my own body," the vampyric man nods slowly, gesturing to one side with a half pivot, his eyes dropping for a flash of no uncertain shame, "There was a very steep learning curve. The least I can do is offer a safe place where you can discover these things about yourself."

"I don't know if its singular or not." Khorshid replies. "I do know that if I ever find the spirit of that Pharoah, I'm going to make him regret his little joke for a very long time." she says, her voice dark. "But yes, I do appreciate the offer of a haven. Please, lead on." She takes a step out of the light, and her lifelike vitality fades, leaving her a wizened, undead corpse again.

Inclining his head generously, watching the life fade quickly from her body with open fascination though not a hint of repulsionhe'd worked very closely with corpses in life and in deathMorbius pauses however when he realizes the business of a corpse walking the streets. "I apologize if this seems very forward, but your appearance right now would draw quite a lot of attention. I don't know how delicate you are, but would it be acceptable for me to expedite the trip?" He offers, hesitant. "I can move very quickly and the nearest entrance is a half mile away, I'm afraid. Otherwise we risk going into territory that isn't our own and I try to be polite of our neighbors."

"The worst that can happen is that my head falls off." Khorshid says dryly. "I wouldn't worry too much about it if it does. Just make sure I get plenty of sunlight afterwords." She waves a hand. "Grab away. I understand."

Head. Falls. Off. Huh.

Morbius consider this a lengthy moment, then nods. Carefully, the pale man picks Khorshid in a bridal carry, treating the papery skin with care as he scoops the decaying body up. The smell is…well yes that's strong, breathing carefully. "Place your head against my shoulder if you can. I'm used to transporting humans, who are rather delicate themselves. Cross your ankles together and keep your arms crossed. We shall see how this goes, hm?"

And with that warning, they are off in a blur. Not his top speed simply out of caution for his package, but the world blurs on either side of them, cold January air whipping past them while Morbius attempts to keep the sharp turns to a minimum. The confusing identity of the lower east side giving away to the balmy heat and smells of chinatown's narrow alleyways, which manage to smell rancid and hot even in the winter.

New York has a…unique way of burying its past and forgetting about it. When Morbius slows to a stop, it is before it seems to be down an oddly shaped alleyway. Once upon a time, however, it was a subway entrance. This particularly closed station was closed due to another opening up nearby and becoming instantly more popular, leaving it worthless. The railings removed above ground, buildings placed around it blocking the path of least resistance, the sidewalk hole that was once a staircase simply covered up by a heavy metal door, welded in place to secure it, far too heavy for most mortal men to lift without assitance. The street that runs nearby is more of a delivery route between buildings than anything, hardly a busy road.

Delicately setting Khorshid back to her feet. "Have you lost anything along the way?"

Khorshid doesn't bother brushing herself off, but does take a moment to steady her body. Its been awhile since she was used to moving it, after-all. "No." she rasps. "You were actually quite gentle. I guess we won't have to worry about any stray parts lying about the city come morning. Thank you." She takes a look around. "Reminds me of some stories I've heard. Hmm. I guess no matter how much things change, its nothing new."

"Oh, no," Morbius agrees with a cast off feeling of natural dismissal. "Americans like to tote themselves as the reinventors of an era, but honestly it's a rarity to see any of their ideas as truly original, I don't think." . kneeling down, Morbius slides elongated fingers along the seam between metal and concrete, pries his fingers beneath one side, and lifts. He doesn't need to break anything, they are not the first people to use this entrance to the underground, though the cleverly hidden hinges on the inside of the door are rusty and protest with a whine as he lifts it up and gestures.

A narrow stairway, leads below into the dark. Tiled! But cracked and showing signs of neglect. The white and blue colors faded and grayed, showing their age in decay. Morbius pauses and looks speculatively to Khorshid. "It's quite dark below. Please take care, it shouldn't be damp down there, but you never know," Morbius advises lightly. The walls are warm toward the surface and are chipped away concrete, though as she would go down into the abandoned subway, the wall becomes tiled and cool to the touch. "If you would please wait at the bottom. I will be just behind you."

Khorshid goes down the steps, not having any trouble in the dark. She puts her papery, skeletal hands on the wall, feeling it at several places on the way down, her form shivering slightly. She's spent a lot of time behind stone and, later, marble facades. She waits patiently at the bottom.

Just as promised, Morbius stood by the door, holding the heavy metal sheet for the lady up over his head with a single hand until it fell shut with a resonating clang, engulfing Khorshid in stark darkness. Far darker than the city ever got. "Don't start…" Morbius warns as a hand touches the center of the corpse's back. "It is only me. I have a lighter, but I'd be afraid to light it and do some damage to your body. Can you see in the dark any? It doesn't matter if you cannot, I can guide the way." The shift of the air around her subtly notes as Morbius shifts to beside Khor. There's a pause. The sound of echoing shifting down a tunnel long forgotten by the world above. Not unlike a crypt. A tomb.

Another hand rests on Khorshid's forearm lightly. "There will be light ahead. Only the entrance is properly dark to discourage others from going too far." Earthen and cool, the smell of dirt and dust is prevalent, but there is blissfully a lack of decay or bodily fluids. At least they keep it cleanish. "We share this space with a subterranean race, splitting the tangle of forgotten areas that the city above has forgotten. Their leader is, ah, not a particularly friendly neighbor, but we're not far from here. This way. Watch your feet." How she's supposed to do that is anyone's guess as Morbius leads through the abandoned tunnel.

"I can see this world, and the next." says Khorshid in response. "I see with the eyes of the living and the dead. Many people walked here, once, waiting to go home. Something of them yet lingers, a memory in the walls." She continues following. "Tell me of this subterranian race. Are they a danger?" She certainly seems to follow easily enough, at least.

"The memory of them…" Morbius doesn't question, not in the least. Far be it for him to be cynical of a woman with such distinctive powers and abilities. "The impressions of them still linger. Some speck of their energy or imprint. That's amazing," effortlessly complimentary. "I have a" A what? Morbius stumbles over the consideration. "a friend who has a similar gift, though not quite as constant. Yes, this was a subway, once used by many people. Another opened up nearby and made it obsolete. Where we are going, they did not travel, however. Come." Gently leading the way.

"Our neighbors are somewhat complicated. They aren't hunted below here, but they can be rather violent toward those on the surface and bring attention to themselves. The last leader kidnapped some people of notice recently. It was incredibly unfortunate." Explaining rather clinically. "We try to leave them in peace so as not to be associated. They are mostly composed of the most severely mutated mutants who do not do well above, not even in the Mutant Town borough. They call themselves the Morlocks, I can only imagine they named themselves after these awful creatures in book that was written about 70 years ago." How /trite/.

there seems to be a dim, resonant light source somewhere ahead, alluding to a gradual turn as the smell of the space changes subtly. Iron. Iron and brick and water rather than cold tile and dry, dusty air. The light itself tinged amber and still quite faint, allowing just enough for shadows to be seen. "The city is just ahead." The city? No, the city was above them.

"I've heard this word, mutant, but I don't understand it." She tilts her head to the side. "You've been dead for half as long as I was stuck in the museum, it doesn't matter what you think." she says to the air, before paying attention to Morbius again. "A city?" There were some underground cities in her time; cities built into mountains or hills. But the most famous were crypts, cities of the dead, long-lost but not forgotten in her time. Or legend, really. History as fact hadn't really been invented yet. Perhaps he has found a gate to the underworld?

Again, talking to herself, or rather, the spirits which surround her. It's a fascinating practice, though ultimately one of those things that will dig a hole in Morbius' curiosity until he goes mad from it until he can sit down and ask a million and a half questions. So, he explains what he can readily quantify:

"Mutant is a word that a group of people have adopted to describe themselves," Morbius begins while they walk. "They were born to humans, often times they lived as humans until puberty hit, then they developed phenomenal powers. Sometimes these include extra limbs or physical oddities. Here in surface city, they have by and large taken over a small, ill-kept neighborhood known as 'Mutant Town'. There are many different groups of powered individuals here. You will undoubtedly see many of them." Morbius explains in that delicate, Greecian accent. "Below the city, there are the Morlocks, and ourselves. Some of us have taken to calling ourselves 'monsters' in jest, as many of our types are creatures found in myths or stories, and our city the Monster Metropolis."

Indeed, city. Though whether or not he has found a gate to the underworld, Morbius does not say. Wouldn't be the first time a hellmouth was found under New York. It's brighter here, but clearly an old sewer way, or at least not a sub way in the conventional sense. The tunnel they're in round and composed of brick and limestone. There are old worn waterlines all up and down the sides of the large tunnel, showing where over the years water once flowed, and though the brick sweats with moisture and one can smell the mineral deposits, it smells more like a cave than a sewer. The source of the light comes from behind a 'door' of sorts. Someone has erected a slatted wall in their way with a rough door cut out into it, currently closed, though light still shines through all of the slats and the outline of the door.

"Children of the gods." Khorshid mummers. "There have always been stories of such. I've never met one, nor known anyone who has. Perhaps when this age harnessed the lightning and bred like hares it opened a door, if it is happening so much." She continues walking, her feet rustling against the ground as she follows. The sheer size of the city astounds her. Not so for its young age; she's been dead long enough that even the age of New York City feels like an eternity to her, every moment one of disembodied longing and suffering. But the sheer accomplishment of it, compared to her age. She toyed in alchemy, and destroyed her life. Apparently, she was born an age too soon.

They come to the door, and she looks it up and down, paying particular attention to the light, and running an arm underneath it, watching parts of it temporarily seem to be alive. She turns to Morbius, and looks patiently, silently, with her dead eye sockets. Waiting.

"Children of the gods?" Morbius repeats softly, speculative. "I cannot say with any certainty of that, though I do know of a restaurant owned by a man who is the grandchild of a demi-god of sorts. Do you know of the Greek dieties? No, I don't suppose you would, as you came from Egypt." This could be problematic. "Well, the man is a quarter saytr, who hosted a party wherein the nordic god of tricks attended, and an angel of the abrahamic God." The vampire considers and leans a hand against the door. "They were quite nice. You will find many children of gods here."

Just a door. No lock. No magic. No traps. It truly is as mundane as one would imagine as Morbius presses it open. Hey, if you've made it this far, you deserve it. However, what lurks behind that door is an odd mixture of marvel and mundane. A central hub with a reservoir pool in the center that at one point must've lead out toward any number of tunnels, large and small, which span out toward the rest of the city underground. A pool of water has developed in that central area, though it doesn't look to be the cleanest, it doesn't smell like sewage or some mystery liquid.

Cobbled together bridges from grates and rails and tiles reach from one side to the other, leading to other paths and around the outskirts of the circular dome, carved in brick and limestone. The surroundings look to be a shanty town of sorts, but rather than the mobile homeless homes from above, made from cardboard and tents, it's tin. It's brick. It's cement and clear scraps from above, but they seem permanent. Recognizable structures, lit through a sequence of gas lamps and dim electric, probably run by generators or someone's tapped into the electrical grid. Still in the primal stages of growth, but people /live/ here. Many people. In fact, the moment they step inside the dome, there's a gathering of…teenagers? Maybe? It's hard to tell. They're short and gangly and…reptilian? Lord, yes, they do seem to have scales and at least three of the five have tails. One with a snout. And across the pond seems to be a second decaying shambling corpse, though this one is in a state of decay which seems fresh and less preserved. A zombie. A zombie in a loose necktie.

"I am not from Egypt." Khorshid corrects. "And I know of the Greek deities. The Empire of the Greeks survived the death of the Empire of the Romans which spawned it, and in my time it yet flourished, though it was under siege from the Umayyads. I am also aquainted with the followers of Zoraster, and the Middle Kingdom. But that is a discussion for another time." She looks around, at the pool, the lights, the tin and brick. At the children. Her skin flickers back towards a semblance of life; depending on how bright it is. Only illusion, in this artificial light. But more, perhaps, then the seeming of mere dead flesh. "Mmmm." she says. "I see what you mean. You did this for them?" She gestures towards the teenagers, and then the other corpse. "Can you introduce me?"

"My apologies," Morbius hums to the correction, though he does listen closely over the following explanation. The sheer amount of information. It's overwhelming and delightful. "History was not my focus in my studies. I'm woefully ignorant in things that you must be very astute in by merit of being present." Impressed, dark brows loft upward softly, then fall again when Khorshid's attention sways back toward the cityscape itself and the inhabitants.

Michael follows quietly, allowing her to get her fill of the entry, he shuts the door behind him securely. Hands fold behind his back. The light bright enough to see clearly, as many species do not have very good dark eyesight. Undoubtedly those that are light sensitive tend to live down darkened tunnels in clusters. Morbius steps up again when she speaks to him. "Not me alone, no. I am not as skilled a builder as I am scientist, for example. I do often bring new-comers here when we hear rumors and the like. I'm easier to pass above than many of my fellows, rousing less suspicion. We have a minotaur who builds most of our bridges—I don't know if it's from their historic origins in labrynths or what it is, but he's very handy. Robert is his name, if you see him around. Though he's likely on guard duty in the tunnels right now."

"Introductions? It would be my pleasure. The fellow across the lake is Simon. He's from Alabama, I believe." walking toward the teenagers at first, throughout the small city it's not just those she can immediately see. Figures move throughout the buildings. Some huddled, some wrapped, some just about naked due to various oddities. The group of reptilian teens turn to each other, a series of high-pitched clicks between eachother as they quickly seem to communicate before the vampire and zombie reach them. Two of their thick, alligator-like tails swish along the floor. "Jeremy," Morbius addresses one in particular, a larger man with an adapted leather jacket over his bulky, scaled arms. His head seems to be malformed in some way, and hands clawed, giving him the general look of an alligator. Well, that would give some creedance to the myth that there are alligators under New York City! "This is Khorshid. Khorshid, this is Jeremy, Slick, Mary and Chet." You're fuckin' kidding me.

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