This bit was old hat to Daimon. Him being what he was pretty much nixed any chance of a real relationship, but he still needed companionship from time to time. Trouble was, most women didn’t particularly take well to the big inverted pentagram birthmark on his chest when they were sober. That meant, as despicable as it was, the ol’ drinking contest bit was one he’d had to use more than once in his life when the need to feel another human body next to him overcame his need to not be a flaming douchebag. He knew it made him a gigantic dick, and on his good days he felt crushing guilt for it, but he’d been in one sort of exile or another for so long that sometimes the need to feel the fire of another human being was too much for him to resist. So when Trish mentioned prizes, Daimon was all set to work his charm routine, something he’d become decent with even when drunk. He would pretend to think for a minute, and then put on the flirty smile and say that the best prize such a pretty girl could give him was a kiss.
He was all set to launch into the routine, but he was cut off at the pass by hysterical laughter. Giving her the overexagerated, big eyed curious look that he could only muster when drunk, he listened while Trish suggested tattoos and couldn’t help but break out into laughter himself. Sure, it wasn’t what he’d planned, but the loser ending up with a tattoo was too damn funny to pass up. “S’a good idée-uh! Tattoosh…tattoos an’ somethin’ ellsss, too!” Now he put on the smarmy, flirty grin, which he even managed to mostly pull off even with the booze in his system. Just because the plan was altered didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try and stick with part of it. “Ink anna kiss, pretty lady.” He even managed a halfway decent wink. “Gots ta haff high stakes!”
But slowly something managed to pierce the haze of booze clouding Daimon’s mind. Something about what Trish was saying. Death? The horseman? Oh crap, the horseman of Death was here and that was bad news, that was really bad news, except a second later he realized she wasn’t talking about the horseman and boy was that a close call. Daimon was nowhere near as ready to deal with the whole apocalypse thing as he was pretending to be, but if he didn’t present a front of being gung-ho against it he was pretty sure people would get a little overly worried about him being the Son of Satan and where his allegiances might actually rest. But Trish wasn’t talking about Death the horseman. He had to focus, had to try and think through the booze. His face screwed up in concentration as he squinted and tried to focus and mentally repeat each word Trish was saying. It didn’t make for the quickest reactions, but he did manage to get every word. It was why he ignored the comments about his appearance and instead focused on the death stuff. “Hey. Heeeeeey. Noooooo dying.” Images of the Ultimatum Wave, the tidal wave Magneto had flooded New York City with, flashed in front of his eyes. So many people died that day. Daimon hadn’t exactly had many friends, but even a loner like him could feel the weight of a tragedy like that. “Thass ‘gainst the rules,” he muttered, clearly more subdued now. “You gotta live to get th’ prizes!” After a second he joined in her laughing, unable to keep serious for long while this trashed. “An’ ‘ur waaaaaaaaay too pretty t’die!”
(OOC: Sorry this took so long! There was some stuff and work and blaaaaaaah.)