Mikhainon loved humans. To be more specific, Mikhainon loved the sensations humans so frequently indulged on. He had never settled for anything less than the best quality products — the finest paintings for his eyes, the finest music for his ears, the finest cologne for his nose, the finest whiskey for his tongue, and, for his skin, the richest fabric and tailoring money could buy.
Perhaps Manta Carlos' bars weren't the best bars he could stumble upon. That was fine. When you dine with Marie Antoinette in the Palace of Versailles during the most decadent time in France, other experiences tended to get watered down. Mikhainon would've gotten bored already if it weren't for his sixth sense.
As a creature not born of tangible flesh, Mikhainon relied primarily on his 'sixth sense': sensing energies. It was an ability most mortals couldn't even conceive of. Mikhainon could enter a place and feel, almost immediately, the layers upon layers of energy built upon years of emotion. Hospitals would often feel heavy, its aura plagued with the negativity that came with the weak, sick and desperate. In contrast, clubs would feel light, often elated by the joy and simplicity of emotions fluttering like soft notes in the blinding dance floor.
Bars were a unique experience. Bars were always pulled into two directions: heavy because of desperation, light because of conquest, and void because of emotional dissatisfaction. While touching the fine, varnished hardwood of the counter, he unveiled stories of a man now long gone, hunched over and spilling his secrets to the kind bartender. As his fingers stopped at an etched carving "J + K", he felt the overwhelming passion that led to its creation.
In Hell, nothing stayed. Everything seemed to flow and History could be re-written with thought and magic. On Earth, everything came into contact with one another and stayed and stuck forever.
For his sixth sense, the finest bars Earth had to offer.
At eleven, Mikhainon sat at the farthest table of the bar counter, handsome, overdressed and ready for the sins night always brought, whether they be souls or sex, or just a simple scotch on the rocks.
Perhaps Manta Carlos' bars weren't the best bars he could stumble upon. That was fine. When you dine with Marie Antoinette in the Palace of Versailles during the most decadent time in France, other experiences tended to get watered down. Mikhainon would've gotten bored already if it weren't for his sixth sense.
As a creature not born of tangible flesh, Mikhainon relied primarily on his 'sixth sense': sensing energies. It was an ability most mortals couldn't even conceive of. Mikhainon could enter a place and feel, almost immediately, the layers upon layers of energy built upon years of emotion. Hospitals would often feel heavy, its aura plagued with the negativity that came with the weak, sick and desperate. In contrast, clubs would feel light, often elated by the joy and simplicity of emotions fluttering like soft notes in the blinding dance floor.
Bars were a unique experience. Bars were always pulled into two directions: heavy because of desperation, light because of conquest, and void because of emotional dissatisfaction. While touching the fine, varnished hardwood of the counter, he unveiled stories of a man now long gone, hunched over and spilling his secrets to the kind bartender. As his fingers stopped at an etched carving "J + K", he felt the overwhelming passion that led to its creation.
In Hell, nothing stayed. Everything seemed to flow and History could be re-written with thought and magic. On Earth, everything came into contact with one another and stayed and stuck forever.
For his sixth sense, the finest bars Earth had to offer.
At eleven, Mikhainon sat at the farthest table of the bar counter, handsome, overdressed and ready for the sins night always brought, whether they be souls or sex, or just a simple scotch on the rocks.
