Well. Margo was still scaly and speaking in "woo"s. Eliot was pretty sure the Fairy Queen would murder them both if he brought her back in such a condition.

Also, he had no idea yet how to actually get them back to Fillory. He maybe hadn't thought this part of the plan all the way through.

Anyway, after last night's drinking, he needed coffee. Fortunately, there appeared to be a perfectly respectable coffee shop not far from where Margo seemed to have set up base camp. Or, well, it'd seemed respectable before he'd spotted that monstrosity the man with otherwise impeccable taste in suits was consuming.

"I suppose I can't fault you on decadence," he mused.

"Well, by all means. Live your best life, sir."

Eliot eyed the man's suit again, with clear appreciation. He himself was still wearing his royal Fillorian garb, freshened this morning with a few handy little spells, though his crown was still tucked away safely. Maybe he'd ask about the man's tailor. But first:

"I don't suppose they put as much art into their lattes as their . . . whatever that is?"

"I suppose I've faced worse odds," Eliot said, then strode to the counter to place his order. A quick look around the shop confirmed that this guy was the interesting looking person to talk to, so while he waited for the baristas to determine his fate, he turned to cock his head at the man again. "I'm Eliot. And yes, I am new here."

Eliot noted the flask with a raised eyebrow and tiny smirk. This guy was definitely some sort of kindred spirit.

"I've been informed that there's whimsy," he said. "That may or may not reach a lethal level. Also something something time travel, I didn't really try for details on that one. It always just gives me a headache."

Eliot shuddered theatrically. Mostly to cover the amount of shuddering he was doing untheatrically. "Well now. That's just cruel."

Truly, this man was a kindred spirit.

"See, and if my actual teenagerhood had ended that way. . . . At least anywhere but on the internet. . . ."

He shook his head.

"I didn't catch your name?"

"Ah. But the bartender was absolutely lovely. If a touch inexperienced."

Eliot tilted his head. "Quick question, though: is the name a coincidence, a self-chosen thing, or are you actually, like . . . Satan?"

He did not seem too terribly dismayed by the possibility that he was talking to the Devil, no.

Eliot nodded. So long as said career change didn't involve turning people into rats or destroying a whole world, who was he to judge?

"I was, yes. She tried to pass of 'beer' as a signature cocktail at first, but eventually mixed up a couple perfectly passable jack roses."

The baristas had Eliot’s drink ready, so he turned to accept it and, with a small, approving nod, drop a tip into their tip jar. Then turned back to Lucifer.

“Well, she’s lovely. But yes, please do. She could do with a bit of flair.”

"They added a lovely little crown," Eliot said, holding the mug out to show him. It didn't look anything like his crown, but at least they'd picked up on his nobility. He lifted it and took a sip, closing his eyes with a little sigh. "Excellent. I suppose this little faux-French burb passes muster."

Eliot noticed. And offered the cat a small, dignified nod.

What? One of his advisors in Fillory was a sloth. He'd shared drinks with a bulldog. He'd robbed a bank while technically possessing a magical doll of himself. A mobile, sentient-looking stuffed cat? Wearing a crown? The least he could do was give it a modicum of respect. For all he knew, this actually was fellow royalty, here.

Eliot had dealt with a fair share of thick accents and silly voices, between the magical community on his Earth and just Fillory in general, but that still took him a few moment to parse.

“I came to find a friend of mine,” he said finally. “So I suspect we’ll be on our way soon enough.”

Oh sweet summer child.

That whole 'if the island lets you' thing went right on by Eliot in favor of "Stoatin'? Mukker? I must say I've met -- and blown -- a fair few Scottish men in my time, and I don't think I've ever heard any of them say 'mukker'."