milliways_bar | Jul. 17th, 2015

Jul. 17th, 2015

Walking down the stairs is Amanda, but not the Amanda that Milliways usually knows. Even her walk is different, predatory.

Walking up to the bar she takes a seat and orders a latte. Then she survey's the bar. Perhaps looking for prey, or maybe just assessing threats.

When her latte arrives it comes with a note. A stream of profanities uttered in a stream in french escape her mouth as she starts writing down a list on the chalk board that came with it.

Happy Hour Specials

  White Spider
  Black Widow
  Brain Hemorrhage
  Blood Drip Vampire Style Martini
Bloody Apple Cranberry
A “Killer” Whiskey

With a resigned sigh she takes her place behind the bar. At least enjoying her theme. A venomous smile on her face as she waits for her first customer.

[OOC: Happy Hour Thread being posted because it is almost happy hour in GMT time.]

[OOC: This is my AU Amanda, whose write-up is Here . She's here for the week. ]

lifethatisscratched

At the end of days, the seven seals will be broken, and four horsemen will be sent to roam the Earth: one on a white horse, with a bow with which to conquer. One on a red horse, with a great sword to take peace from the land. One on a black horse, with a pair of balances in his hand. And on a pale horse - Death, and Hell follows him. It is in this manner that the day of judgement begins.

That is what the colonists' holy books say.

What they fail to mention is this: sometimes, God does not wait to punish the wicked. Sometimes, He sends a rider of His own.

And Hell does not follow him.

Hell is in him.

His mount is similarly endowed - blue flames lick up its sides as he comes in from the forest at a trot, perusing all there is to be seen.

It is a strange place, to be sure. But there is an aura of wickedness about it, all the same - an aura that must be purged.

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck."

So the defensemen for the Red Wings were harder than they looked. How was he supposed to know?

Okay, so Voodoo might've let his temper get the better of him - again - and picked a fight he shouldn't have - again.

(And he might've gotten put in the penalty box. Again.)

But cross-checking the center? Those pricks totally deserved it.

He's long since changed out of his gear and is holding a napkin to a bloody nose. (Is it broken? Christ, it better not be. The team was supposed to go bar-crawling through Detroit tonight.)

If all goes well, they should be in the Fire Nation's capital city by the day after tomorrow.

If you ask Mako, it can't come soon enough. The boiler room is a cauldron on the best of days, but as summer approaches, it's turning into something scorching.

(It's days like this he envies Bolin. Firebenders are always slotted into something to do with the engine.)

For now, he's using Bar to extend his break, loosening his overalls just a touch as he leans back in a booth, hand on a cold glass of water.

[OOC: The gang's all here! See this post for their writeups. For this AU, Connor will be coming in for the first time, but for Voodoo and Mako, assume that if their canonical incarnations know you, these AU versions will as well.]

thewidewideworld

OOM: Since the attack, Sinric's good days have been few and far between. But after a conversation in the sun with Ragnar, he felt strong enough to want more than just the protective company of the Earl and his steward.

The bar provided Sinric with a picnic and they went upstairs to distract Athelstan from his studies.

In the warm afterglow of healing intimacy, Sinric made up mind about something that has been troubling him, a seed of an idea Hannibal Lecter planted.

He slipped out of the Vikings' rooms, and made his way back to his world to confront his attacker.

{ooc: warnings for the physical and emotional after-effects of sexual assault, E-rated threesome sex in the second oom and Vikings generally being fluffy and protective. See Hannibal Lecter link for psychological manipulation warnings.}

road_to_calvary

...this isn't his bedroom. Jean Valjean - dressed in shorts and a muscle T, covered in sweat - rubs a towel over his face, and blinks quite a lot. Then he sticks his head back through the door, and yells, 'Javert!'

'What?'

'Come look.'

Javert - mussed hair, jeans, sullen expression, a scar around his neck - slopes through the door. He also blinks a lot, and doesn't stop the door closing behind them. While Valjean spends his time staring about, his eyes fall on the leaflets nearby. He picks one up, reads it, then touches Valjean's arm to get his attention.

'Here.'

A couple of minutes later, they're staring at each other. Javert shakes his head. Valjean nods, and stretches for the door handle...which won't open. His eyes go wide as he tugs on it, and Javert has to take his wrist to stop him trying to wrench his way out.

'It's OK. We'll just get a drink and wait for it to open. It says here that it will. OK?'

'...OK.'

And so there's two wary young guys at the bar, eyeing drinks suspiciously. Well, Valjean is. Javert is eyeing Valjean, because...well. Just because.

[OOC: AU guys, obviously! Write-up on their background here. You can pretty much do what you want with them, they're only here for a week. This is open until whenever, and they'll each get an independent EP at some point. \o/]

the_force_abides

A very tiny Front Door opens to emit a tiny figure which runs through. Skidding to a halt, it pauses to look about at the large chamber it finds itself, before returning to looking for the Sith he had been chasing. Not spying him, Quinlan Vos Force Leaps to one of the colossal structures (the back of a booth) to gain a better vantage.

"You can't escape me, Sith!" He declares as he looks about. The life forms here are very strange, but the Dark Side can't hide forever.

[OOC: And here is Lego Quin. I'm going to go with this being his first time and he is coming in from during the Clone Wars of his reality. Expect crack of the finest Lego tradition.]

cook_the_rude

One of the bar's resident or semi-resident vampires is sitting by the fireplace tonight, legs crossed and stretched out, maroon eyes idly watching the fish in the fireplace dance their aqueous ballet. Some hand-written sheet music is dangling from his hand, half-forgotten.

The deep red liquid in the long-stemmed glass he occasionally sips from is opaque and slightly viscous, and definitely not wine.

[[OOC: Actual!Vampire Hannibal Lecter, rather than the metaphorical or psychic vampire that we ordinarily know. Please indicate in your tag whether our charries know each other already; he will react accordingly. By default/unless otherwise requested, he'll know whoever regular!Hannibal knows as well.]]

street_sparrow

The young man propping up the bar could be anywhere from seventeen to 25, though it has to be said, his eyes make him look closer to forty. He shows the signs of childhood malnutrition in his (lack of) height, and there's an odd lighter streak in his hair, where an old scar crosses his forehead and disappears under it.

If you tell him a good story, he might buy you a drink.

[ooc: This is my AU Gavroche, whose write-up is here. Despite being different actors, please assume this is what regular Gavroche would look like if he'd reached the same age without the comfortable life in the House of Arch.]

sunbaked_baker

The young woman who enters the bar is dressed for an event. An evening event, from her dress. She gets why her father insists on her accompanying him to these business receptions, but she doesn't have to like it. They're as boring as any number of hells and full of people so assured of their own importance that it seems to ooze off them in gobs.

Raven always feels the need for soap after shaking hands with them. Which she will have to do, because her father insists on introducing them to her. Or rather, introducing her to them. The flaming row that erupted when Raven pointed out to her father that he might as well have been hanging giant FOR SALE signs around her neck since she started nearing the end of her apprenticeship was not one of their best father-daughter moments.

She looks around with faint surprise at the bar's appearance - Milliways certainly is a change from the foyer of the Art Institute, and it just so happens that not at the Art Institute is exactly where she wants to be.

Perfect.

(ooc: Sunshine's AU write-up is here.)

last_kallig

A small, too thin, girl child blinks at the sudden influx of light as the door to Milliways opens.

She's somewhere between seven and ten, her clothes near rags, and she's wearing a slave's shock collar around her neck.

She shivers with a fever that's approaching dangerous levels as she creeps along the wall. She's too tired, too desperate to wonder much about how a place like *THIS* is connected to the mines in Ilum. Maybe, if she's very quiet, she can steal some food and water.

(OOC: AU week! This is this version of Ibani's first entrance to the Bar, and she's currently a child slave on Ilum. She doesn't know about the Force, and she's never met anyone with the Force or other magic type stuff.)

wings_of_a_swan

Hotspur meets yet another dead Frenchman.

At least it doesn't devolve into a fist-fight? :D?

makesthings

Sam stops when he realizes the ground isn't moving, this isn't the Shatterdome floor, but its Milliways which means actual food. New Zealand hasn't done as badly as other places but there's a point where its possible to get sick of anything.

With a grin, he pulls off his work gloves and stuffs them into his belt as he walks towards the counter to order some actual tea and a scone with dates in it with lots of butter.

(OOC: Sam is from a Pacific Rim AU with a write up here and he's dressed close to the image.)

moonandstar

Nerevar Redoran enters in triumph and in silence. His fine armor is marked by filth and blood, fresh from a battle newly won: the last battle of the war.

King Helseth had seen through his plan, and started the House war that Nerevar had hoped to avert in favor of ritual assassination. With the Imperial Legion and House Hlaalu behind him, Helseth had good reason to believe that he would win. He was clever. He deserved that much acknowledgement, at least.

But now Helseth hangs and rots outside his balcony in Mournhold. His army is destroyed, and the great Imperial force that was sent to relieve him has been ambushed and routed before it ever reached Septim's Gate. Proof that one should never underestimate the cleverness of an assassin.

The battle had been bloody, one-sided, and short. A few thousand more people had to die than Nerevar would have liked, but the cost was more than acceptable. The surrender terms of the few Imperials who remained were addressed to "the King of the Dunmer."

He removes his helmet and walks to the Bar.

"One jug of your finest mazte. And forty kegs to haul back when I leave. The men deserve it."

The King of the Dunmer. He likes how that sounds.

[[OOC: Garyn enters from a future AU, with two points of divergence - one future, one past. Suffice it to say that this Garyn is ruthless and wields vast political power. AU or non-AU characters are welcome to react as they wish.]]

have_no_mercy

Tess is still very much herself. Perhaps this place has taken pity on her for being so new and left her alone. Not that she would be aware of such feelings, but appreciates them nonetheless. The other versions of herself she knows of were not terribly impressive.

For the time being she's seated at the bar, a scotch - neat - close by. A notebook is in front of her and she busies herself jotting down ideas now and then as they come to her.

thekidfrombrooklyn

The door opens to the sound of a chanteuse singing sultrily above the noise of a casino. The young man who steps through is small, well-dressed, and instantly at ease at the sight of Milliways. He swaggers to the bar and takes a stool. "Whiskey, doll," he says and has a sip of his order as he looks out at who's who tonight.

"Stevie Blue" Rogers is in the bar.

[Steve's AU writeup is here. Entry is open all through AU Week.]

is_the_motion

[AUOOM1]

The door opens and Bonnie enters, in full roller derby attire, except the skates slung over her shoulder.

By her side is a little girl of about four wearing a matching shirt, minus the second name, and albeit a little big for her. As they reach the bar, Bonnie scoops the girl up and sits her on top of the bar, before the two of them exchange a few ASL signs:

"Drink?"
"Please. Sweaty derby hug?"

Bonnie grins and gives her a hug, before getting two glasses of juice from the bar. Alice is right. You can't beat a sweaty derby hug.

[AU Write-up: TW fertility, infant mortality, childhood disability, alcoholism]

fry_sandhu

Fry is sitting at the bar, with a piece of paper.

His teacher mentioned something today called a 'report'. When he asked what this meant, she said that it's something your parents get at the end of the year to show how you're doing at school.

Fry thought this was quite a good idea, so he's now industriously writing.

'Dear parent or gardian of Mrs Pink
Mrs Pink's behaver is quite good and she does not wear the smell to school any more. She calls people dear too much.
I don't think she has lernt much from me but maybe she tried to a bit.'

[ooc: Fry is NOT AUed. 10 1/2 years of Holby is far too complicated to start mucking around with. Feel free to tag him with either though.]

2goodarms

Eighteen years of tight quarters led to some changes in basic biology. Everybody below the age of thirty settled as something small, compact, easy to keep close. People around Curtis’ age usually had something a little bigger: malleable enough to re-settle, just hardened enough not to venture too far from their original shape. A few people who were too old — too set in their ways, even after what the train did to them — ended up dying from the stress, unable to keep their outsize daemon from being touched so many times a day. Nobody had anything much bigger than a dog anymore.

And nobody’s daemon could ever get more than a foot or two away from them without feeling the strain of separation.

But, like Dejah’s fond of telling Curtis, he’s not on the train anymore. He remembers people whose links could extend almost the full width of a car. Joanna thinks it’s a shitty idea, but it’s just a test, he keeps reassuring her. It’s just another muscle to build up.

So, by the fire, Curtis hunches in an armchair with his eyes fixed on the honey badger next to his feet. Slowly, Joanna places one clawed foot in front of other other, inching forward against the pressure of their link.

They can do this. They’ve endured worse hurts.

[ooc: keeping it simple for AU week: daemons! Everything else about Curtis' background remains the same. Mun will be sporadic until about 10 PM ET, then around solidly until 11:30ish; post is open until I say it's not.]

clayforthedevil

Bahorel is sitting on the ground in front of the fireplace, books open around him, quietly writing His coat is off, his shirtsleeves rolled up, possibly because of the one arms still tightly bandaged. Aside from this relatively careless state of his attire, he's focused, even calm; a student reviewing for an exam in a subject they know well.

His daemon Thalia is not calm. She's shredding apart a heavy knotted rope, talking nonstop about kings and traitors and cowardice. Now and again she flies up to batter against the rafters or ceiling before settling back down to her rope.

Both of them are entirely ready for a distraction.

(OOC: Daemonverse AU for AU week! Bahorel's daemon is a female Eclectus parrot, for those who'd like visuals. I'll be around all evening, but slowtimes may occur because of dinner-making time and whatnot.Post open all weekend. )

never_shall_yield

OOM:

You saw my pain washed out in the rain

Broken glass, saw the blood run from my veins

But you saw no fault, no cracks in my heart

And you knelt beside my hope torn apart

thewidewideworld

Sinric walks in on slightly higher heeled than average motorcycle boots, a leather jacket draped over his shoulder. He stops for a moment to a freshen up his lipstick in the bar mirror, his thin white top riding up to stop of the tight, low slung jeans.

It's hard to tell if he is a he or a she and that's exactly the way Sinric likes it. "So, who do I have to blow to get a drink around here?"

{ooc: Drag queen biker Sinric in his mid-30s. As he's older than his last bar appearance, happy to play as first introductions for most people. PM me otherwise and we'll plot!}

bigarmy_strangepants

The door opens on a dark road, with a number of serious motorbikes parked outside, and a huge number of huge bikers walks in on huge boots, loud and raucous.

Actually, it's only three bikers -- a tall gangly one with eye-liner and a tool belt, a tall broad one with his long blond hair in a undercut with a ponytail, and a large dark-haired one that lags behind and keeps a bit to himself.

And there is one non-biker, a sweet little guy with dark curls looking as bewildered as an alien abductee. The tall blond is pulling him along, laughing, and hugging him willy-nilly for a moment, his long, strong arm thrown affectionately around the small frame.

"Now, drinks!" he declares.

The door falls closed behind them.

[[OOC: The Vikings are all bikers! And while this post is a joint entrance post, each Viking will have his party-style sub-thread that you can tag if you just want to talk to one of them. Otherwise you might get overrun with the lot!]]