This sort of thing must happen every day.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

It's not the first time Bossuet has wandered into a bar after getting hit on the head. And it's probably not the first time someone has wandered into this bar after getting hit on the head. But here we are.

He had been walking towards the sound of gunfire. The unfamiliarity of that particular experience--or perhaps the still-tender lump on the back of his head--had given everything a dizzy dreamlike feel. Terribly exciting, but a bit nauseating as well. The sort of sensation that can get a person lost in a half-familiar set of streets and alleys, and make a person think it might be wise to step indoors just for a minute. Just to ask directions, just to get out of the July evening heat. Of course most doors were shut. There was a riot on, possibly even a revolution. But this particular door had opened and--right, here we are.

The new arrival is a dusty young man with a dented hat in his hand and a green-and-gold cravat wound around his head. His coat might have been fashionable in Europe of the early 1820s, back when it had its full set of matching buttons. His tricolor cockade, at least, is new and clean: a festive splash of blue-white-red pinned over his heart. Vive la République. And hello?

((OOC - new player, new character! Bossuet/Lesgle is coming in from the beginning of France's July Revolution in 1830; his friends might remember that he fell to friendly fire (...someone dropped something on him from a second-story window, good work) and went missing for a bit at the time.))

((--and I'm out for the night, will try to get back to the threads tomorrow. Back for slow-times but I don't think I can juggle any new threads unless we've talked about it already? Thank you all!))

Comments

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Bossuet tucks into the bread like someone who could really use the meal. "--Very nice. I won't begin to ask how you have this ready so quickly. I will simply marvel. If Persephone had had fish chowder sitting by her instead of pomegranates, we would have winter all year."

He cocks an eyebrow consideringly at his host. "You're not about to tell me this is the underworld, are you?"

[cook_the_rude]

"No," Dr. Lecter says, starting to eat his soup rather more slowly, "only for some people. Not you."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

That's unsettling. Bossuet slows down, for the sake of manners and for the sake of thought. "For you?"

[cook_the_rude]

"Oh no, not for me, either," Dr. Lecter says. "I come here freely from my home in Baltimore. But there are some."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

He shakes his head ruefully (and regrets it, ow). "I have tried to believe in a variety of heavens and hells. Heroic drinking-halls, pearly gates, all of them. This precise combination of features has never occurred to me." Bossuet gestures to a passing rat, and then to the (excellent) soup.

[cook_the_rude]

Dr. Lecter eats his soup.

"I can imagine much worse," he says. "It's never boring."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"No," he says, dabbing tidily with his napkin. "I can't imagine that it would be. Not with such irregular regulars."

((Ah, dang, I'm really sorry to flake--but I'm kind of fading on this thread, and I keep getting hit by RL interruptions. Do you mind if we handwave the rest of the meal and hope they run into one another again soon?))

[cook_the_rude]

[[OOC: Absolutely no problem! They met each other now. To Bossuet's next EP, I might send somebody else...]]