(no subject)

[i_am_your_host]

The continent of Europe is so wide, Mein Herr.
Not only up and down, but side to side, Mein Herr.
I couldn't ever cross it if I tried, Mein Herr.
So I do...
What I can...
Inch by inch...
Step by step...
Mile by mile...
Man
by
man.


The front door opens, and through a cloud of smoke from fragrant cigarillos and cheap cigarettes, with a burst of boisterous laughter mingled with discordant musical instruments, in slinks a pale, wraith-like figure wrapped up in an old leather trench coat.

He prefers the shadows and so cleaves to its edges, making his way around the room toward the far end of the bar. With a low murmur in German to Fraulein Bar, a glass of gin appears. He then swipes a match from a matchbook; the sharp tang of sulfur spikes the air; and his coal-black eyes glow with a brief flame as he lights a cigarette.

And so he will watch the room, and smoke, and drink, and drink some more.

(no subject)

[againsttherules]

[OOM: Okay, General. You've got me..]

(no subject)

[damncompass]

It's rare that a CERN scientist takes a day off, but this morning after he woke up, Joshua decided that using one of his massively accumulated sick days was in order. There was an idea niggling at the back of his brain that he just wanted to work on.

Thus, Joshua Donovan has claimed a table, and has been there all day. He has his typical epic bedhead, and is wearing a t-shirt and jeans. Around him are papers, a (drafting) compass, some various pencils, and some graph paper. The sketches on the paper look like this and this. Also on the table are a few old books in both Latin and English on old mathematicians.

He's definitely botherable, if a bit distracted by old research.

[Tiny Tag: Joshua Donovan]

(no subject)

[crabbycustomer]

There's a monster in the back yard, a huge chimerical creature with a couple of bestial heads that seem to mill around and intermittentally roar, and terrible talons that claw at the earth.

But where it claws, it doesn't leave the immense furrows in the dirt that you would expect, and the roars are tinny and somehow faraway sounds. Every few seconds, it sort of flickers, and every few minutes its paces and mannerisms seem to loop. Also--this is the big tip off--about once a minute the dragon head and the goat head intersect in their motions, and clip through each other with a spray of light. Neither head seems to notice, but someone does, and that someone curses.

(okay yeah this is a hologram.)

That someone is kneeling on the ground in its shadow, being totally ignored as he intermittently swears and fiddles with a purple laptop with legs of its own. Wires snake from the computer to plug into what looks extraordinarily like a cyberpunk bat. (A similar bat circles anxiously overhead.) The someone looks monstrous in his own way, depending on how you feel about fangs and grey skin and yellow eyes and horns.

Debugging is the worst part of programming. Feel free to ask what the hell he's doing. Or... try to save him, if you are under a gross misapprehension of what's going on here. But you're going to have a tough time interacting with it without a stat bat of your own.

(He is also available on T-Minus at chirurGeneralist, as almost always.)

Welcome to Milliways

[thelizziebennet]

 A few minutes previously, Lizzie Bennet got an official welcome to the bar. And an introduction to Bar. 

Now she's feeling - well. Not quite well-adjusted, but she's coping reasonably well. 

She has tea, cookies, and a decent perch from which to watch people. And what an assortment of people there is. 

Come say hi to an aspiring video blogger. 

(no subject)

[pickledtribute]

He's... not just a little drunk.

Not even just a lot drunk.

He is as blind drunk as he can make himself on the white liquor available in Twelve. These are the days he usually stays in Victors Village, as far away from the rest of the world as he can get.

In three weeks, Reaping for the 65th Annual Hunger Games occurs.

This is the first year that the child of someone he grew up with has a chance to be reaped.

Somehow, he just doesn't think Snow's going to let that occasion go unmarked.

So. Blind, stinking drunk. And hey, look, a bar. This is great.

(no subject)

[fireinthehole]

Boyd Crowder is standing by the bar with an envelope and a piece of strange paper in his hands. (The corners of the paper are inexplicably cut off.)

He never did ask the lieutenant what it was like, being in space. When a ship hits orbit.

(A coal mine is the absolute antithesis of space flight.)

And Boyd cannot even say I told you so: the lieutenant isn't here. And Boyd… didn't actually tell him.





Very carefully, Boyd folds the paper just as it was, and puts it back in the envelope. The envelope goes in the pocket of his shirt.

He can't drink at home. The best he can hope for is to get a fifth (which he does) and go outside (which he does). It's night. There are stars. Boyd Crowder really kind of hates them right now.

(no subject)

[golden_lyre]

This evening, the bar's friendly, neighborhood Father of Song is tucked away in a booth in a corner with a pint and his guitar, playing a song that is confused and a little hurt.

The feeling it sends out into the bar is faint, and likely doesn't reach more than a few feet from where Orpheus is sitting.