Mine is the night, with all her stars.

It was Remy’s first night as a bartender at Satan’s, but certainly not her first time doing this type of work. The dark-haired woman had always been one to play to her skills, and bartending seemed to combine many of them. She was skilled at reading people and had a good memory for lists of things – important for memorizing drink ingredients and combinations – and for faces. It also didn’t hurt that this line of work left her perfectly poised to scope out many of her future prey… ahem… prospects, without attracting any undue attention. Of course the bartender asks you questions about yourself, it’s only natural. Of course she flirts with you, that’s why you are sitting at the bar instead of at a table. And of course you want to tell her your innermost secrets; she’s a bartender, and that’s what bartenders are for.

It was a busy night to start off, but it seemed that Vito had designed it that way. When he told her she would be starting on a Friday night, Remy had made no gesture to indicate she was intimidated by this. It was easy to do when you didn’t have any real emotions – you got to pick and choose the ones you feigned. Still, Remy had a feeling Vito would be keeping a close watch on her tonight, and though she hadn’t seen him yet, he was sure to be somewhere around the club. This place seemed to be the closest Vito got to attachment, though if Remy had her way, he might grow attached enough to her to give her some small part of his vast fortune. But she wasn’t holding out hope. There were plenty more where he came from, and a lot of them were in the bar tonight.

The man at the end of the counter was the owner of one of the largest Dark Arts shops on Diagon Alley, and Remy had made sure to keep his glass full throughout the evening. He was already on his fourth drink and it wasn’t even 11:00 yet, so her hopes of him still being around when her shift ended at 2:30am weren’t very good. Still, if she could leave enough of an impression, she would have an automatic in if she ever saw him at a later date.

A blond woman with teased out hair and a red and black corset hailed Remy from the end of the bar closest to the club, and Remy sidestepped a case of beer on the floor that she was meaning to get into the cooler soon. This girl was making Remy’s outfit of a low cut tank top and hip hugging dark-wash jeans look way too tame. The woman, predictably, ordered a fruity concoction that was tedious to make, but Remy nodded and grabbed the shaker, pouring in the ice and liquor and shaking it until it was thoroughly mixed. The contents went into a pink glass that was enchanted to glow at the rim and base – obviously not Remy’s doing – and she handed the woman the drink with a smile.

Now go take two sips of that and pretend to be drunker than you are… Remy thought to herself as the woman disappeared back into the crowded dance floor of the club half of Satan’s, If that doesn’t get you laid, the fact that your top will come off with a single pull of a string might.

((Open, plus Damon and possibly Vito?))

Damon stood outside the club and looked up at the sign that glowed with some illumination charm in the darkness. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, but couldn't help shaking his head in slow dismissal of the place.

Satan's. Really? They hadn't even tried.

Inside, it was much as he'd expected. Excessive excess. Bright lights gleaming on glass at the bar contrasted to bodies heaving in dark corners and underneath it all, always there and never ceasing, the thready thump of pulses racing as these humans tried to convince themselves they were having a good time.

Damon kept his head down as he weaved through the dancers, if what they were doing could really be called that. Grinders? He wasn't fussed; when your only method of survival involves killing people for food, you quickly learn not to be troubled by carnality.

The woman working at the bar did not look too bright, although Damon had no doubt she could tell him all about the latest advances in mascara if he'd asked. It was a good thing he didn't intend to ask her for anything too taxing.

"Guiness, thanks love." he said.

On second thoughts, perhaps that would be too much. He watched carefully to make sure she poured it correctly. There's nothing worse than half a glass of head.

With all the current bar patrons taken care of, Remy returned to the case of beer on the floor, opening the cardboard tabs that kept it closed and pulled the bottles out six at a time and stacking them expertly in the cooler so they all stood upright and fit on the same shelf. It might not have been brain surgery, but Remy had never really aspired to any real greatness; she just needed to be able to do certain things really well, and simple tasks like those involved in bartending served her well.

The case now empty, Remy folded down the cardboard and put it in the bin beneath the bar, dusting her hands off as she stood back up to her full height. As she did, she noticed a new patron walking toward the bar. He stood out among the throngs of people not because he was particularly impressive himself, but rather because he seemed to be completely unimpressed with what was going on around him. Most everyone that Remy had seen come into Satan’s either reveled in the writhing, took on a holier-than-thou attitude about it, or at pretended the latter while stealing glances at the half-dressed women. But this man did none of these things, and instead bee-lined for the bar and made a simple request, to which Remy nodded and put a coaster down on the polished black counter of the bar as she reached for a glass.

“Coming right up,” she replied easily, taking him in for a few seconds before looking away to ensure that the beer would be poured correctly. He was tall and gangly, and had mussed brown hair that gave him the air of a washed-up professor of literature from some muggle college no one had ever heard of. His eyes, however, betrayed a kind of intelligence and wit that did not hold the same warmth that Remy would have associated with such a person. Remy wondered if her own eyes betrayed that same sharpness when she was trying to portray another emotion. She would have to think about that next time she was rehearsing her human emotions in front of the mirror.

Tilting the glass, Remy dispensed the dark beer, taking her time so as not to foam out the drink. That was one of the reasons she never drank beer; in the event she would actually have to pay for her own drink – which wasn’t often – she wasn’t about to pay for a full glass of anything that only came half full. When she righted the glass, it had a full head on it, but only about a finger or so beneath the rim of the glass, and she set it on the coaster in front of the pale-skinned man who had ordered it, looking up at him with a half smile. Her radar for powerful men hadn’t gone off at the sight of him, so Remy wasn’t going to put overmuch effort into this conversation, but her senses had been wrong before. There was no use in writing someone off completely until you were sure they had nothing to offer.

“There you are,” the dark-haired woman said, placing one hand on the bar and the other on her hip, “That’ll be one sickle, unless you’re planning to start a tab. Anything else I can get for you?”