Yaksha stood at the Mccarran International Airport, garbed in his human guise for the first time in recent memory; he had been so used to walking around town with his body bared for inspection, so to speak. It felt remarkably good to flex muscles he hadn't used in the time he'd spent limited to two arms and two legs. The mere idea of having a tail again after so long had tickled him to no end, but even so it had been a comfortable sense of loss, like a shoe one had worn for a long time. He wondered for a few moments if some part of his brain had adjusted that quickly and easily to having a human body once more...or perhaps more accurately had never stopped seeing itself as human even when he had chosen to discard it so easily. A snake may shed its skin, but doesn't the shed remnant itself remain?
Perhaps this was just a way of his mind trying to avoid tackling the concern at hand, chiefly because he really had no way of knowing the way this meeting was about to go. He'd spent the last year trying to make various reforms to the city, and turn it into a respectable place for him to unveil to the world proper. Rumblings and rumors had reached him, and he knew that tensions were reaching a boiling point that could hardly be ignored. War on the horizons, sides to be picked, and throughout it all people were gambling away their life's savings more eagerly than ever. It said a lot about human nature that, when faced with apocalypse, they'd spend it depriving themselves of useful tools simply for comfort. Then again, could Yaksha really blame them? He'd faced down Ravan, and that had been a singularly horrifying event. It was never fun to be reminded your place in the world, or just how small you were relative to everything else.
He mused once more on the letter he'd found, poking between the many other bits of garbage he'd always get. Some various attempts to pose at reputable organizations, asking him to sign away his soul for some reason or another. People trying to convince him that he didn't know what he wanted, and that they could offer him something he'd never realized was of vital importance until it was hanging right in front of his face. Angry notes, insisting he owed them money-he'd like to see them try and take it, if it meant so much to them-, and the odd actual piece of parchment showing something interesting, some postcard or personal letter. He'd gotten used to the monotony, so when he saw a letter that started with 'Dear' he'd nearly been floored for a moment.
And so, here he stood, holding a sign that read 'Asha Nolastname'. Far be it from him to pass up a chance to make this trip a little more memorable, after all. How many people stepped off of their plane to see a soul-eating abomination?
...Actually, this -was- Vegas.