The Montefaire Hotel is located in southwest LA, a short distance from Los Angeles International Airport and (more importantly) fairly convenient to Phoenix's apartment. Forty stories tall, the Montefaire towers over most of the surrounding buildings, and at only a few months old the stone of its facade is still an elegant, unmarred white. By seven o' clock the building will be dramatically up-lit against the full dark that's settled over the city, with particular accent paid to the massive multi-story columns that frame the main entrance.

Once inside, guests will find a luxurious lobby, three dining establishments (two five star restaurants, and a more casual cafe serving light meals and cold or hot beverages twenty four hours a day), a world-class spa, a gym, and ballrooms and conference rooms ready to be reserved for almost any occasion. Elevators are situated in niches on either side of the lobby, ready take guests to their rooms and the balconies on the upper floors. Every inch of the building's interior is spotless and scrupulously maintained by the staff members, most of whom flitter around the hotel, almost invisible until they're needed.




( OOC notes. )

Edgeworth opened his apartment door slowly, standing halfway behind it and peering around at the hall. He hadn't been expecting anyone (though nowadays unexpected visitors were less of a rarity than before he joined that community) and the attack the night before had left him wary.

Not too wary, though. The pain relievers he'd resorted back to were making sure of that. The benefit to his arm had begun to fade over an hour ago but the effect on his personality still lingered. It was evidenced by the very slight smile that turned the corners of his lips at the sight of his visitor, a smile that was almost immediately repressed.

"Wright. What are you doing here?"

((OOC: Taking place at about 2a tonight.))

( No longer mere hallucinations. )

((OOC: Backdating to 1-27-08.))

It was almost a minute before Edgeworth answered the door. He'd missed the first knocks, too distracted by his conversations to notice them (that Kvasir was a strange pers- being, but at least he was more god-like than the Greeks), and when he finally started to the foyer he walked slowly, languidly. As he opened the door he peered around it cautiously, but nodded as he confirmed the visitor's identity. "Wright."

((OOC: Taking place Christmas Eve night.))

The apartment was mercifully quiet that late at night. If he listened carefully he could hear Sigi's soft breathing from his place on the floor (stretched out between the ottoman and the armchair, below the bridge of Miles' legs). The air was warm and suffused with patchouli, comfortable without being thick, and Ten Little Indians lay open in his left hand. The tableau should have been a relaxed one, and indeed on any other night it might have been.

Being that it was Christmas Eve, however, the book was held loosely, carelessly, his eyes moving across the pages only every once in a while. The half-empty cup of tea sitting on the table beside him had long ago cooled, forgotten in favor of the wine beside it (filled twice and also half-empty), and the patchouli was mingling with the smokey scent of a neighbor's wood-burning fireplace (yet another memory - sweet, sharp, and raw).

Sigi raised his head and stared at the door. Edgeworth ignored the reaction (just neighbors in the hall, returning from a holiday party) until Sigi shot to his feet, suddenly enough to bump Edgeworth's legs nearly off the ottoman. "Sigi, nein!" The dog quailed, his tail dropping and ears swiveling back, but he turned his attention to the door after glancing only briefly at his master.

Miles hadn't made it to his feet before the knock sounded through the room, and he crossed the foyer quickly. A frown tugged at his lips: it was well past the hours in which errant party guests might be expected to come knocking at the wrong doors. His brows furrowed in confusion as he swung open the door.