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All around her, people were bitching and joking and whining and drinking, and Daisy was looking at the interior of a bright-ass postcard, just waiting for Bambi's mom to get shot. Metaphorically. But also real-life-ically, since apparently their new and equally unseemly (though much less attractive) tour guide was part deer or some shit. 

There was sort of this unspoken rule in Death -- well, there were several, but this was a biggie -- the more tranquil something appeared, the less trustworthy it was. In other words, if something appeared all coy and saccharine sweet, it was only because it wouldn't have to break a sweat to rip you to actual, candy-coated sprinkle-sized pieces. 

The sixth plane of Death was a prime example -- all warm water, ankle-deep wading. Just enough serenity to trick you into relaxing. It was easier to pull your entire fucking spinal column out through your neck that way. 

Not that they would be so easy with Daisy when they finally caught up, but that was neither here nor there. Or There. Whatever. The point was things never went from doom and gloom to lollipops and literal sunshine, at least not for this bunch, so while everyone else fretted over the wounded (one of which, Daisy noted smugly, included the elf, so bully for her), Daisy turned her attention to the bear-cat-doe-man standing in the center of the insidious paradise. 

And maybe did just the [i]teensiest[/i] amount of her own sort of fretting, which generally involved putting down everyone around her. Artie's wound was nothing more than superficial and some, but she was still pissed that stony bitch of a guard dog outside had manage to land so much as a grain of sand against her hellhound. The hound in question waited until it seemed danger was out of the way for the moment -- rookie move -- and shrank once more into something resembling a vulpine ferret. Daisy stooped absently to scoop him into her arms, ignoring the quiet sizzle of his blood on her skin to glare at the giant stone man whose fault this almost definitely was. 

And now the fucker was offering this cloven-hooved dickhead some keys or some shit. Daisy rolled her eyes and grunted under her breath. She had to make a trip into Death to heal Artie anyway -- hell if anyone thought they were so much as [i]looking[/i] at him the wrong way and getting away with it -- so she might as well make it count. 

She strode forward, Artie half dozing in her arms, petulance written all over her face as she planted herself somewhere between Veti and C3PO. She turned first to the latter and smiled sweetly, having so not even kind of forgotten his stupid cookie remark. 

"Hi," she said, putting out a hand to push the one that offered fucking useless house keys out of the way, all without breaking eye contact. "Could you maybe just...not? Like, ever again? Because while I'm sure we'd all appreciate the invitation to your weird robot-statue-Transfomer orgy, this is actually not the time. Thanks."

Then she turned and craned her neck to peer up at the rainbow-deer. 

"Dunno if you noticed, but we're down one demonic leader today. We've only got the sub," the jerked a thumb over her shoulder at Veti. "So, if we could get a hint about this key, we'll go get it and be right back, lickety-split, deal?"

Artie was injured, but it didn't make his other-worldly tracking skill any less impressive. Besides, this place was just a little too bright and shiny for her tastes. And she'd been avoiding the other side for far too long.