(no subject)

[gredya]

((Warning for (non-gory) dead animals!))

Busy day today for Gredya.

First she's in the kitchen, putting up one more freezer bag of meat. That's enough for now, she thinks: she's filled one shelf, a cache for the hardest times of winter. She has another bag, marked again with a note like last time: Ganibal Leckter. You see this before? Gredya. It'll wait for him at one end of the bar if he doesn't happen to show up. Inside--if anyone cares to snoop on Lecter's mail!--is a smallish dog-like creature (deceased) with a forked tail-tip and oddly squared-off ears.

Once she's taken care of that, she heads outside with a stack of books. It's not just her adult-literacy text now. She's expanding her reading material.

(And she's botherable in either location!)

(no subject)

[not_his_pa]

William's figured out that if he rests his wrist on a rolled up towel, it doesn't hurt as much and if he has books that can open flat, he can be comfortable.

That's how he's set himself up at a table with coffee, a plate of ham and biscuits and a collection of short stories by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Every once in a while, he looks over to where Autor is sitting to make certain he hasn't hurt himself, but he's not hovering as he knows that would annoy Autor.

(no subject)

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Out of Milliways: "Lemme try again. Like where the Wasteland Survival Guide comes from- that Capital Wasteland?"

(no subject)

[halfemptyglasses]

If Milliways has done one thing very well already, it has taught Mirai the value of resources. So tonight, she pours over some ancient technology (a phone book) while taking the opportunity to eat a nice tonkatsu with curry rice. She sticks transparent post notes in it to collect her thoughts, flipping between doctors (both general practitioners and optometrists) and jewelers.

She might need some help finding ways to pay for those services, but she will worry about that when they become a more pressing matter.

(no subject)

[lambs_become_lions]

Robin staggers into the bar rather than walks, blood down one side from hair to thigh, and his bow tight in his other hand. The door closes on the sound of a full-scale battle. To him, the sudden quiet is disconcerting, but he doesn't look bothered to be here. On the contrary, he wipes absently at his face, straightens up and nods in the direction of the bar. 

Evidently, someone was just wishing for a drink. Well done, Bar.

She provides a damp cloth with his jug of beer. He thanks her and heads to a sofa by the fire - displaying no sign of injury as he walks - and promptly sprawls out with no thought to the upholstery. Only after he's managed to smear blood all over the place does he put the cloth to use and start cleaning his face off.