And so it begins.

[Papa Aristide]

Aristide sat in his large corner booth, smoking a cigar and simply crowd-watching.  There was a reason for his decision to sit and watch, but the elemental he was bound to hadn't yet made it clear to him.  Or perhaps he hadn't asked.  He knew what he was looking for, though.

Or perhaps 'who' was a better word for it?  He was scanning for a particular aura, really.  One that had the slightest bit of static to it, though he was no expert regarding auras.  No, he'd found someone else with that skill.

[Nikolai Kassle]

"Static" was a good word for it.  It was a particular quality in auras belonging to geniuses and madmen.  Where Melchior fell on that line was sort of fuzzy, but he had plenty of static.  

Speaking of whom, the witch strolled into the jazz club with a detachedly curious expression.  He did not look directly at anybody, but he glanced over everyone in the room before taking a seat in a booth near the back wall, as far from the other patrons as possible.  When a cocktail waitress approached him, he cringed back into the seat and mumbled something quickly so that she would go away.

Drawing his knees up to his chest, he sat with his feet on the booth in a sort of lanky crouch.  The waitress returned with-- sadly, no muffin-- but some kind of sweet, fruity drink.  He thanked her uncomfortably, not looking directly at her, and curled into himself even more.  Sipping morosely at the beverage, he wondered why he had bothered to come into this place.  It wasn't like he could afford the food.  As it was, he was scraping together enough change to pay for this one drink.  So why had he come?

Sometimes, not even Melchior understood Melchior.

[Papa Aristide]

Aristide knew him the instant he walked in the door, and watched his interaction with the waitress before calling one of the bus boys over.  He wanted to invite Melchior to come sit with him.  They needed to talk.

He slipped the boy a twenty and watched him head off in Melchior's direction with sharp dark eyes.  He paid his boys well when he gave them tasks that could potentially be dangerous, like approaching twitchy witches.  The message wasn't terribly threatening, though.  Just an offer of company, and food.  Aristide would certainly cover the cost of his meal if he'd come talk.

[Nikolai Kassle]

The bus boy was greeted with the same wary look, but the witch seemed less nervous around him.  "You don't have muffins here," Melchior lamented, almost accusingly.

Blinking, the boy stammered, "Ah... no.  We don't.  Ahem, the owner of this establishment would like to have a word with you."  He gestured in the direction of Aristide's booth.  

"Good, because I'd like to have a word with him, too," the witch replied primly, getting to his feet and taking his fruity drink with him.  He strode purposefully over to the indicated booth and sat down across from the voodoo man.  

"Have you seen the muffin man?" he greeted.  "Obviously not, or you'd have some for me."

[Papa Aristide]

Aristide gave the man an odd look, tilting his head to the side, at the comment regarding muffins.  Yes, this was quite obviously the one he was looking for, though he wasn't quite aware as to why he was the one he needed.  He just knew it.  His magic never lied, nor did the elemental that enhanced it.  Never.

"Mah 'pologies, den.  Muffins don' tend t' be in high demand in a place like dis," he said softly, his voice rumbling like thunder in the distance.  He spoke properly, but his accent was still overly pronounced, despite his attempt at enunciating.  'This' came out sounding more like 'deece'.  It somehow sounded right, though.  

"Wha's yo'r name, boy?"

((Excuse my poor attempts at the accent. Haven't written it in a LONG time.  <_< ))

[Nikolai Kassle]

Melchior stared at Aristide as though he were crazy for suggesting that everyone didn't love muffins.  What a strange place, and a strange man.  This man's aura was the color of a midnight sky, and it prickled over him with power.  It didn't make him itch, though, so he was no vampire.  Another witch?  Not... quite.

"Melchior," he stated, leaving off his surname in case this man was familiar with witch clans.  "Some people call me Mel.  You can, if you like.  I might answer to it.  Who are you?  You're very dark."  He wasn't talking about the man's skin, either.