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 can use all the warnings there are. "I'll trail a ball of thread behind me as I go, like Theseus. In fact, I should really be doing that everywhere..." He stands up, wincing a bit at he jolt to his head. "Show me?"

He's been trying not to think about the rats.

[pro_patria_mortuus]

"A tripping hazard," points out Enjolras, placid and straightfaced, as he rises from his chair. (Sorry, Gavroche; he's still had only a swallow or two of the perfectly decent wine.)

He would like to say there are no minotaurs here, but it seems a rash statement.

He links arms with Bossuet, a gesture as much of physical support and steering as of affection. It seems warranted on all counts -- but particularly the former.

[street_sparrow]

Gavroche finishes his wine and appropriates Enjolras' glass, picking up the bottle as he trails after them.

"And don't go down to the - carriage-house. It stretches for miles, my friend Jay's started mapping it."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"The carriage-house. Requires mapping. Are we going to get lost between here and the bar?" Enjolras is right about tripping hazards: Enjolras and Gavroche are probably right about most things. Bossuet happily lets himself be steered.

[pro_patria_mortuus]

"No."

Enjolras remains both bad at witty repartee and excellent at steering. They make it to the bar without incident, whether or not Bossuet is distracted by some of the other patrons' appearances along the way.

"Sometimes there are servers behind the bar," he tells Bossuet. "Sometimes not. The owner seems to be an absentee landlord, but there's a manager named Mike." Enjolras, who isn't much familiar with English language nicknames, assumes this is the fellow's last name. He hasn't met Sallie, and the person who mentioned Mike forgot to add her name. "In any case, the bar is a mechanism created by someone far beyond our day. I don't understand it, but it can produce whatever's directly requested, or communicate with short notes."

To the bartop, when they reach it: "A room for this man, please. And perhaps a roll of bandaging and something to eat."

The items will appear on the bartop, including a small key with a number stamped on it.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"Monsieur Mike. Very good." Monsieur Mike and his magical bar. Which, as advertised, produces a small tray bearing a key, a roll of cloth, and a substantial ham sandwich. It's unfortunate that the number on the key is so hard to read but it won't be the first time Bossuet's had to try a few doors before finding the right one.

The revolution already feels oddly remote.

[street_sparrow]

"She likes you already", Gavroche says, amused. "Or decided you need feeding."

[pro_patria_mortuus]

Enjolras leaves any banter about Bar's affections and discernment to the other two. For his part, he's going to steer Bossuet towards the stairs.

"My room is number 89."

No need to wonder whether Bossuet will remember that number, concussed or drunk or otherwise.

"You know it's always open to you."

Metaphorically speaking. Literally speaking, Enjolras would gladly give him a key if he wants it, but it seems a little pointless when precedent suggests it's likely to be lost in the first day.

[street_sparrow]

"And so is the House of Arch", Gavroche puts in. "But I'll tell you more about that later."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"House of Arch." Yes, it's probably just as well to wait on the rest of the explanations. Bossuet's pretty well saturated at this point. For a moment he's tempted to ask to stay with Enjolras for the night just on the grounds of not having to find a strange room--but no, the uncommon quiet of a place to himself might be what he needs after all.

"--Thank you. Both."

((And shall we say we've got this guy squared away for the night?)

[pro_patria_mortuus]

Enjolras smiles faintly, as if to say, no need. He doesn't pull his arm free once they reach the stairs; he'll see Bossuet to his room, no matter how many tries it takes to find the right one.

There isn't any need, after all. Not between friends.

And it's very, very good to see him.

[OOC: Works for me! :D YAY BOSSUET YAY.]

[street_sparrow]

[ooc: I'm good with that as a wrap! And seconding Gen's :D]