(no subject)

[souffle_girlek]

When Oswin woke up the other morning, it was to the sense of something being deeply wrong - her wrist hurting hadn't done anything to help that, but she couldn't correlate it to anything. That lead to the rather uncomfortable finding that she couldn't remember exactly what she'd been up to the night before... and gaps in her memory usually aren't good things. But she tried to brush it off - it's a bar, after all, maybe James challenged her to another night of strip poker. Maybe she lost - there's a fun idea.

But the 'something wrong' feeling didn't go away, lodged persistently in her brain. It made getting things done difficult. Luckily her kitten is the noisy and persistent sort, so he's fine, if a bit miffed his petter keeps forgetting what she's doing. But most everything else was just... hard.

After a bad night of staring at the ceiling, Oswin decided to try and roust herself, and went downstairs for a good breakfast. So that's why there's an ex-junior-entertainment-officer sitting in one of the booths, in front of a rather cool and congealed plate of eggs-and-hash, staring off into space.

(no subject)

[pro_patria_mortuus]

Two young men, late of Paris 1832, are seated at a table in the middle of the room.

Enjolras has acquired a stack of several newspapers. The one he's currently reading appears to displease him; his jaw is set, his gaze fixed upon the page with a burning, outraged intensity. Nonetheless, he continues to read.

Grantaire is watching Enjolras, from behind a glass. (Is the staring weird? It's maybe a little weird.)

[OOC: Two muns, two characters! You'll get both unless you tell us you'd rather not, in which case one of them will have briefly... gone to do a thing or something.]

(no subject)

[guppy_sandhu]

Not a very restful way to spend a week, all things considered, with hindsight. But it was certainly an experience attempting to take three children under five on holiday to Spain, Guppy reckons. Even if they did have that incident with Coral informing the bullfighter of Fran's take of animal rights, Fry streaking because it was too hot, and Brooke sticking her fan into that man's eye...

He enters the bar with a bit of a tan on his usual complexion, and a pile of mail, which he plonks down on the nearest table. A waitrat brings him a note, which he reads and breathes a sigh of relief. One less thing to worry about at least.

He gets half a pint, and sits at the table, to work through the forty pieces of mail, but keeps an eye out for anyone he needs to talk to.