(no subject)

[the_cupbearer]

Out back of the bar, early in the morning--the sun hasn't properly risen yet, only the tint of a lighter sky flirting with the horizon--Ganymede is dancing. It's a strange dance, one performed without a partner: he holds a long baton in one hand as he twists and whirls gracefully. His feet step and shift and brace with a terrible ease, not missing a motion in the soft sand as fading starlight glimmers off the lake's surface.

It would be entertaining, peaceful even, if one didn't look carefully at the sweeping motions of that baton and could see the similarity to a reaper's scythe and the deadly motions thereof. The short sword lying a few steps away might reinforce that idea.

Mind you watch your ankles.

(no subject)

[holdingacat]

Cecil wanders in distractedly, his ear pressed to his phone.

"Dana? Dana, can you... Dana? Yes, I can... Dana? Da - - yeowch!" He yalps as he crosses the threshold, pulling the phone away and glaring at it. Absently, he rubs at his abused ear, which now has a neat set of teeth marks in the lobe, reddening rapidly.

Call Lost.

"Bar, could I..." He's interrupted again, somewhat less rudely, by a post-it.

"Oh, I mean, I could, but..." There's another post-it, with heavier writing.

"It's... what? What is an Ireeeeenadia?" There's a third post-it, and a set of books, from which Cecil recoils slightly.

"No call to be rude, fine, fine, I'll do it." he sighs, tucking his phone in his back pocket and circling the bar to go find the chalk. It takes him a while to write up the specials, as he has to keep checking his spelling - he's never seen any of this before.

St. Patrick's Day Specials
Irish Coffee
Baileys
Smithwick's Red
Guinness

Shamrock Shake (with or without Baileys)