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milliways_bar2010-12-15 04:26 pm
flawlines.livejournal.com) wrote in milliways_bar2010-12-15 04:26 pm
Entry tags:
first entrance.
It's snowing in London.
Cold air comes in through the door before an actual figure does — so does snow, fluttering in the air for a moment longer before it falls to the ground.
The figure itself is lean, for lack of a better word. (His robes seem a little too big for his frame.) 'Beleaguered' is probably the best term to put to his appearance; his clothes fall solely in the grey or brown color categories, and, darned and patched in several places, they do nothing to help his pale complexion. Scars dot his skin, those on his forehead only partially obscured by light brown hair that is already greying.
Initially, he doesn't seem to realize that he isn't where he intended to be. (It's been that kind of day.) He's rifling through one of his pockets, looking for something that he never actually gets around to finding. Two steps in, he stops cold. For the briefest of moments, there is something very, very sharp about the look that he casts about the bar. It doesn't go away, per se, but it does quickly get shuffled behind his usual mild-mannered persona.
(For those who keep an eye on such things, his right hand almost immediately forms a fist, wrist twisted so that his thumb points directly down towards the ground.)
Alright, he thinks, alright.
He can figure it out, one way or another.
Cold air comes in through the door before an actual figure does — so does snow, fluttering in the air for a moment longer before it falls to the ground.
The figure itself is lean, for lack of a better word. (His robes seem a little too big for his frame.) 'Beleaguered' is probably the best term to put to his appearance; his clothes fall solely in the grey or brown color categories, and, darned and patched in several places, they do nothing to help his pale complexion. Scars dot his skin, those on his forehead only partially obscured by light brown hair that is already greying.
Initially, he doesn't seem to realize that he isn't where he intended to be. (It's been that kind of day.) He's rifling through one of his pockets, looking for something that he never actually gets around to finding. Two steps in, he stops cold. For the briefest of moments, there is something very, very sharp about the look that he casts about the bar. It doesn't go away, per se, but it does quickly get shuffled behind his usual mild-mannered persona.
(For those who keep an eye on such things, his right hand almost immediately forms a fist, wrist twisted so that his thumb points directly down towards the ground.)
Alright, he thinks, alright.
He can figure it out, one way or another.
no subject
"I hope you'll pardon me when I say that I'd rather not until I've a clear idea of where I seem to have landed."
no subject
"Oh, a newbie. Yeah, okay, that changes things. You might be better not closin' the door right away." Axel relaxes a little, but... Well, the air around him gets warmer, as he starts spending the magic to keep the cold off.
"You're at The End Of The Universe," he explains. "In an establishment called Milliways. Got it memorised?"