First entrance

[bet_on_the_river]

This ain't the Bowery, that's for sure.

One minute, Booker was on his way up the steps of a tenement to go visit one of his bosses' constituents, a widowed mother who's been sick and unable to work--he's got money, for rent and food and medicine. She has three young sons, and they'll remember this when they're old enough to vote.

The Columbian Order. The Society of St. Tammany. Friend to the common people.

Well, but when he opens the door--it's not her building. It's not any building he knows. It's not where he is supposed to be--another hole in reality, another portal between worlds--

Which could mean that preacher's here, that self-proclaimed prophet. If he gets his hands on him, why--

The preacher, or the girl. She could be here too. If she even remembers--

He takes a step back, but the door is gone, and all that remains is a solid wall.

Deep breath, DeWitt. This don't look like the kind of place you want to start trouble.

Comments

[not_his_pa]

William steps through the door, its been a long day but Decoration Day always is.

Milliways is a nice surprise but then stops and stares at the confused man, "Sir, you alright?"

[bet_on_the_river]

This ought to be the same place.

But it doesn't look like the room he'd seen on the other side of the wall.

"I'm looking for a preacher," he says. "Bearded, Old Testament type--calls himself Father Comstock. Pretty hard to miss."

He's got to be here. He has to.

[not_his_pa]

Behind William, there's a glimpse of a barn,

"I don't think I know of anyone like that, sir. We don't get that many preachers out our way in Bisbee though I think one of the mine's foreman's might be called Comstock."

[bet_on_the_river]

Booker may have lived in the city for the past twenty years or so, but he grew up in Nebraska and served in Kansas.

It's been a long time since he's seen a barn.

"This one says he's a prophet. Says he gets visions straight from an angel. But he's a liar."

He's looking from William to the scenery behind him and back again. This isn't right, whatever's going on here.

[not_his_pa]

He starts to close the door and notices Booker's gaze, "That's outside Bisbee," Then he mentions a year in the early 1870s as he considers closing it,

"Are you new to Milliways, sir?"

[bet_on_the_river]

"I was born in '74."

There's only so much his poor brain can take at a time, and he's very close to his limit.

It's hard enough imagining portals to other places, but to other times too? What if Comstock will be here, but not yet? He can't wait another twenty years.

"What's going on?"

[not_his_pa]

"Oh, hell, look come sit down and have a drink, sir and I'll do my best to explain. This place don't make a whole lot of sense but its pretty safe,"

This isn't the kind of talk he's ever been good at doing but he'll manage and gestures to a table.

//asdkskdjhf BOOKER :DDDD

[lifethatisscratched]

There is a boy seated next to you, Booker.

The Kanien'kehá:ka dress much differently than the Lakota - but their complexions are similar, are they not? Except this one - he is lighter-skinned than the others, and he knows it, but it is not a concern for him. Not yet.

He looks up, eyes flickering over the tall man who was not there a moment ago.

"Are you new?"

He offers his most reassuring smile.

"Don't worry. When I first came here, I was scared, too."

^______^

[bet_on_the_river]

Well, some people are just lighter-skinned. Look at Booker's mother, or... a lot of the girls who lived in the camps that seemed to sprout up outside all the frontier posts.

And certainly their children... like Booker.

Don't mind his staring. He's just having a bit of a post-traumatic moment right now.

"New?" he asks.

[lifethatisscratched]

Ratonhnhaké:ton nods. "To this place. You have not heard of it?"

He gestures to the entirety of the bar. In the background, a waitrat scurries away with an order.

"They call it Milliways."

[bet_on_the_river]

A rat. Maybe he's finally losing it for good--he's seen it happen to people. It doesn't usually seem to involve rats, but there's a first time for everything, right?

"I know every bar in my ward, and this isn't one of them," he says. "It's too clean, for one thing, and the lights..."

And the way the people are dressed.

"What's going on here?"

[witchfinder_general]

There is a priest here, but not a fire-and-brimstone preacher. This one is clean-shave, middle-aged and wears black, not full clericals; he's a bit pale and has a cup of tea in his hand.

"Good morning," he says, politely, in a very British accent.

[bet_on_the_river]

It's not that Booker has anything in particular against religion, he just... can't see that it's ever done anything positive for him.

Wrong place, wrong time.

"Morning?"

It was just after dinner, back home. What do these doors do?

[witchfinder_general]

"At least for me," the tea-drinking priest says. "Can I help you with anything? You look slightly lost."

[bet_on_the_river]

His instinct is to say you're the one who seems out of place, because for Booker's neighborhood, he would be.

But just look around. This whole place is out of place.

That's just not right.

"I was on my way to visit somebody," he says. "This isn't her building."

[witchfinder_general]

"No, it's not," the priest says. "The door took you somewhere else than where you were going."

[bet_on_the_river]

"...huh."

There has to be a reason, some sort of explanation--but nobody ever pays him to think, do they? This is out of his pay grade.

"I need to find her building. Her kids are gonna go hungry."

[witchfinder_general]

"You're no longer in your world," the priest says. "Can you see the door you came in through?"

[equal_of_any_man]

There's a young crusader sitting at a nearby table, sorting herbs and preparing tinctures. He looks up with a smile. "Welcome, sir."

[bet_on_the_river]

...okay, now that...

That's just not something you see every day. Sure, there are the little old ladies who can sell you herbs for different things, but this guy doesn't look like any of them. He's dressed more like... like somebody from an opera poster he saw once.

"What's going on here?" he asks.

[equal_of_any_man]

"You are new here?" Olivier puts down his work. "This is a tavern between the worlds. People come here from all places and all times. It is a haven, a place of respite and peace. And you are welcomed here."

He stands to present himself, a handsome young man in his early twenties with the dusky complexion of the east. "I am Olivier de Bretagne, son of Miriam of Syria." He bows deeply.

[bet_on_the_river]

Welcomed. That's new.

It can't hurt anything to play along though, can it?

"Booker DeWitt," he says, meeting the bow with a salute. Late thirties, none too pale himself, handle of a Colt SAA faintly visible beneath his jacket.

"I'm looking for a preacher. The bearded, fanatic kind. Calls himself Comstock. Or a girl, about your age, dark hair and blue eyes. Have you seen them?"

[equal_of_any_man]

"A pleasure, sir. But I fear I don't know the people you are seeking. The only man of the church here is Father Harman but his dress is of the Norman style," He gestures to his chin. "Clean-shaven and neat of hair. There are many ladies here of my age but I know not which if them you speak."

[bet_on_the_river]

"Yeah, no, this guy, you'd know him if you saw him."

Pretty distinctive. And also not terribly modest--Comstock likes people to know who he is, recognize his name.

Unlike Booker.

"The girl, I don't know more about her than that."

Just what she'd looked like years ago. He doesn't even know what name she uses these days.

[equal_of_any_man]

"Then I fear there's little I can do to help you." Olivier answers with regret. "But perhaps others can. A message left at the bar may reach those you seek? Or speak to Teja of the forge, he is one of the protectors of this place."