[center][color=8493ca]{ This post serves as a collab between Baphomini and CorviDoggo as a means to cover the encounter in a cleaner flow }[/color][/center]

The figure which entered the coffee shop was tall and slender, dressed all in black from head to toe. A hood pulled up over their head, meeting with the stark contrast of white in the form of an emotionless mask, completely hiding all features this person could have. They stood there, straight yet calm. Too calm. Their head tilted a bit to one side as they looked over the lonely barista, and their white-gloved hands lifted to hold a simple, shining blue object between their fingers. Too tiny to be seen from far.

In a moment, the object was tossed, and it bounced and clattered across the floor of the Quarter-Moon Cafe before eventually coming to a stop in front of Ipomea.

[ [color=fff200]8[/color] ]

A hum escaped the figure, before slowly they started to step toward the other individual, "Eight," they spoke, voice a mingling a various octaves and tunes, a crowd speaking as a whole, "Seems luck may not be on your side, tonight, little hero... You're preparing for work-- The Graveyard Shift --eagerly awaiting the arrival of a beloved regular. Just as the clock strikes for the hour, however, it is not your friend whose face you find, but rather the sight of the devil himself...how do you react, little hero?"

The thin brows on Ipomoea’s face furrowed, tilting his head in confusion. The short, low ponytail peeked out over his shoulders, a tiny fluff like raven feathers contrasting with the cream colored ribbon he used to keep it out of the way. 
“Uh…” the cogs in his head started turning. This was strange, definitely not normal by this city’s standards… could it be someone bringing him back to the tiny village in the middle of nowhere?! Almost on instinct, Ipomoea took a step back as his sunshine-yellow eyes widened. 
No, no— they don’t like magick of any sort over there, what was he thinking?! Maybe this… [i]thing[/i] was the devil as it claims? There were so many devils, though… each demon had its own ritual and banishment, he knew. 
No light, no plague, no wings, no horns… how could he tell? 
With a chuckle, Ipomoea replied with “luck never was on my side, don’t worry about it. Do you want to order or do you want to keep blocking the doorway?” Maybe, just maybe, if he got this thing to talk, he could find something in his mental library to get rid of it. 
Maybe it was some demon from the Ars Goetia, angry with how its kind of magick was disrespected taken as a gimmick here? Which ones would be insulted… was this Amdusias or  Beleth, with that chaotic choir of a voice? Was this Paimon who felt the cafe disrespected his philosophies and secrets? Was it Bathin, insulted over the plastic trinkets labeled as precious stones?

Continuing forward, the figure stooped by where the die had come to rest, and picked it up in a delicate pinch. They chuckled at the barista's words, a cacophony of wicked amusement, and straightened back to their full, remarkable height, and looked at the little trinket in their grasp as they spoke, "You attempt to make conversation with the devil, hoping to find a means as to be rid of the being if but only you could learn something about them," they dropped the die on a table, letting it roll once more.

[ [color=fff200]3[/color] ]

"Sadly," they spoke once the number was revealed, "Your social skills fail you as always. The devil refuses to speak with you, and merely advances without a word. No hint. No clue. Nothing at all that could possibly help you."

After the cloaked figure finished speaking, Ipomoea raised a finger as if to ask something of this strange, malicious spirit. “First of all, you are currently speaking. So technically, [i]technically[/i] you’re still speaking with me, right? Second, what do you mean ‘as always’?! I’d say I’m a great person to talk to, I have— uh.” 
He had what, exactly? The verses of each testament in the Bible? The book of Solomon? Dante’s Inferno? Martin Luther’s critiques of the catholic church, or perhaps the orders of heaven and the types of angels? Well… he sure found it interesting! People always asked him of strange mystical things, and he could always pull out magick knowledge or Christian lore or anything else he could lay his fingers on. True, he… might not be capable of talking about sports or game shows, he didn’t read too far beyond this niche interest instilled in him, but he was sure he was great at conversation! Great at— at talking? Interaction with people? Was this a person? 
Ipomoea scooted closer to the countertop he had just cleaned, the bottle of vinegar and water sitting half-full next to a dirty rag. Maybe if this thing had a reaction to water— wait, wouldn’t he have to make the water holy or something like that? Maybe water in general could help if it was some lesser being? 
“I uh. Need to clean, still, so please— please take your order, or leave?” Spray bottle in hand, be pointed it to the cloaked creature staring him down. His calloused hands shook, but he kept what courage was left in that strong face of his. Maybe, if he managed to get behind the counter, he could pull out some salt, dangerous as it could be, and make some barrier, or maybe do a generic dispelling chant… or maybe one of the useless trinkets in this god-forsaken cafe was something of spiritual value that could stop this madness.

Though their gaze could not be seen, the figure looked at the spray bottle, head tilting in a way that seemed question if the barista was being serious. Shaking their after a moment, however, they swept up the die and slipped their hands into their pockets as they continued forward, ever-approaching the working man.

"Still, you prompt the being, despite having failed once already. Still, too, the devil refuses to respond. They approach you despite your plea, and give no care to the threat you make in a desperate attempt to stall. They can see right through your shell of courage, and know full well of the fear that lies in your core. You are no match for this wicked fiend, and you know this without question. Still you fight, and it shows true strength, but will this be enough to challenge your foe?" their hands pulled out from their pockets then, but rather than the die being in hand, they now held only a simple coin, which they showed to the barista in a grand display as they continued, "Simple odds, no game to play. Who acts first, we shall see. Heads the hero, and tails the fiend."

With that, they flicked the coin high into the air with an embellished movement, and caught it fast as soon as it fell, slapping it down onto the back of a white-gloved hand.

They peeked.
Then they chuckled.

"A stroke of luck, it would seem," they said, though didn't speak or show the result as they tucked the coin away and stepped back. Spreading their arms, they laughed once more as they lowered their head, "Take your best shot, hero."

That.. just made it all the more confusing for the poor barista. He hesitated, his spray bottle lowered at his side as he stared. Well, if a coin saves him, then a coin saves him. He’ll just have to see how far he can push his luck. 
“Don’t… you think a little too highly of yourself?” Ipomoea mumbled as he glared over his shoulder to the cloaked figure. For once, his height made him feel a little bit better— sure, he was still a bumbling mess, but he was a bumbling mess that could reach for a shallow tub of salt from the counter. 
His eyes stayed glued on this strange target as he gingerly held the tub with the very tips of his fingers. “I-I mean, I think everything has some kind of— you know, weakness? Wouldn’t it make most sense to just leave me alone? This is— this is your last chance for a coffee, or something, I-I’m sure there are people waiting outside the door. They might— they might really want to know about how technically angels didn’t have white wings—“
Ipomoea was about to gather the salt in his own hand, but hesitated, and instead flung the entire tub at the specter, cutting his palm on the cheap aluminum of the salt tub. As the hero he was, he yelped when his hand stung from added salt and proceeded to run into the empty kitchen. Maybe he could get to the back door? Maybe he could glean just a LITTLE more information, like if this thing was actually a demon of some sort or not.

A somewhat horrific yell sounded from the tall being, causing the voice modifier behind the mask to crackle and pop at the sheer volume.

"Son of a [i]bitch[/i]!" the entity spat angrily as the metal bin bounced off of them with a painful sounding [i]clong[/i] before clattering to the ground in a deafening crash and rattle.

With an animalistic growl, the figure clenched their hands into fists before taking off after the barista, using one hand to propel their lanky form over the counter as though it were nothing. They shot into the kitchen, hot in their pursuit of the runaway hero and quickly caught up to the taller individual, grabbing him by his shoulder and throwing him roughly to the ground, "You make a mediocre attack before taking to flee," they growled, "but you fail to account for the speed of the fiend. In one fell swoop, you are laid prone, your enemy standing above you with burning violence."

Slipping a hand back into their pocket, they pulled out the die once more and tossed it unceremoniously on top of the barista, not even letting it roll as the object hit Ipomea's check and immediate fell still.

[ [color=fff200]18[/color] ]

The fiend snarled at the number, hands clenching tighter before they kicked Ipomea harshly in the side, causing the die to jump and land on another side.

The calla lily.

More pleased with that result, the being began to laugh, "Your luck continues to do you foul, poor hero," they spoke coldly, "Thus brings an end to this hunter's prowl," and with that, he stooped, pulling a new object from a pocket and taking no hesitance to jam the needle into the barista's neck, "Sweet dreams, flower boy, for the nightmare is soon to come."

Ipomoea fought against the dark tendrils swirling at the edges of his vision. He wondered again if, for a moment, this demon was here because of the family he left behind. 
“Fuck you.” 
Those were the last words Ipomoea pushed out of his lips before everything faded to a sea of black.