First Entrance

[path-that-rocks.livejournal.com]

A tiny poof of ... smoke? mist? ... appears on the bartop. It resolves into a perfect three-inch-tall replica of one of the Milliways tables, with two chairs to scale.

In one of said chairs comes an even smaller poof of white cloud, dissipating to reveal a tiny white-robed figure with little feathery white wings, a halo, and a golden harp roughly the size of a Sacajawea dollar (circa early 21st century America).

In the other, almost simultaneously, comes a poof of flame, dissipating to reveal ... a tiny red-jumpsuited figure with little spiky red wings, horns, and a pitchfork that an ordinary human-sized patron might easily mistake for a salad fork if it weren't barbed.

Both of them are looking around in startlement. The red-clad one gives a short, dry laugh.

"What are the odds?"

Comments

[its-a-robe.livejournal.com]

"Elbow -- ankle -- feet -- ow -- "

The white one finally catches himself and joins in the sprint, dodging glasses and plates as they go.

[redsnout.livejournal.com]

Scribble screeches again, diving after the pair. Running is even better than jumping, when it comes to toys. Especially toys where she can't help but wonder if they're edible or not.

She's slower than the pair is-being larger than them, it's harder for her to dodge-but she's still quite determined.

[path-that-rocks.livejournal.com]

"help, help, help, helphelphelphelphelp --"

The two running tiny figures somehow manage to speed up, dodging around beer mugs and bottles and assorted other items.

[redsnout.livejournal.com]

Scribble keeps up, but just as she's starting to gain on them, she fails to notice the puddle left behind by someone's spilled drink. The raptor scrabbles to keep her purchase on the bar's surface, but it's no use and she slips off the bar.

"Yeeee!" She lands with a grunt, shaking her head as she gets back to her feet. For a moment, she hisses at the bar, then turns to trot off. She didn't get them this time-but that doesn't mean she can't wait for another opportunity.

[its-a-robe.livejournal.com]

And once they're safely esconsed at the other end of the bar behind some poor, confused patron's dinner, the white one fixes his halo, scowls, and shakes his harp at the retreating dinosaur.

It ruined his hair. There is so going to be a smiting for this.