Happy Hour: How do you like them apples?

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

When Lesgle receives the bar's happy hour notification he walks to the garden door and leans out looking at the sky, seeking inspiration. Some sort of bartender's omens? Can one judge the correct daily special from the flight of Milliways birds?

Maybe not, but he at least comes back to the bar with an idea.

CIDER
31.4% off

He starts setting out cups. There's hard cider, bottled; there's ordinary innocuous child-friendly cider; and in the corner he soon has a pot bubbling and steaming away with a strong smell of cinnamon and cloves.



((I need to move to slowtime for a bit, but the thread's still plenty open!))

Comments

[a1enzo]

It takes Enzo less than half a second upon seeing the Specials board to burst out laughing.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Lesgle grins back at him. "That's a good start to a happy hour shift!"

[a1enzo]

"Well, it's a good pun!"

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"It does work, then? It's nothing in French, but an English-speaking friend worked it into conversation once." He looks pleased. "And I expect the bar can produce pies as needed, if you'd like."

[a1enzo]

"Well," he admits, "it works for me. It might not be as good for humans. Probably depends who."

[hecu_marine]

"Huh," says Shephard, considering the sign. "Been a while since we had much luck with cider back home. Don't see why not."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"It struck me like a vision when I put my head out the door just now: today is a day for cider. What can I get you?" He gestures at the spread. "It ranges from wholly innocuous to...well, I think the strongest thing here would still be suitable for the lightest drinker. I thought I might break with brandy for a bit."

[hecu_marine]

"I ain't in need of nothin' too strong today," says Shephard, "so let's go with the hard cider this time. How you been, anyways?"

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

He opens up a bottle of French cider: who knows what the English might put into theirs? "Oh, I've been worse. And you? --I had that word with Security, as you recommended, by the way. They confirmed what you'd told me."

[hecu_marine]

"Been doin' all right. Still ain't quite used to stalkin' the woods back home'n not findin' deer sign," Shephard admits. "I got to see if we c'n git a couple of red deer from here somehow. Folks used to farm 'em back on my world, and there'd be a hell of a market for good red meat like venison, wild or farm-raised."

"That so? Good to know. Hope it didn't hit you too hard, folks don't take findin' that kind of thing out real well."

[starrydome]

Elrond walks up to the bar, looking up at the specials board. Smiling.

He is dressed in long flowing robes in lavender and burgundy. There is a thin, silver circlet resting on his brow. His hair, long and dark, is adorned with braids and small, silver pins.

"I think I would like a glass of the spiced cider," he says, his voice rich and warm like a sunny autumn's day.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Lesgle gives a little bow. "Excellent. You'll want to let it cool..." There's a ladle in the pot, and he quickly fixes up a fragrant cup. "Tell me what you think? You're the first to try it."

[starrydome]

Elrond accepts the cup and blows gently on the surface, whisps off steam trailing up along his dark tresses.
His hands are elegant, his fingers long. And unadorned.

He breathes in the scents wafting from the cup in his hands and smiles. "This smells like Fall and Harvest at home," he says to Lesgle, before taking a small, cautious sip.

As he lifts his hands, the long sleeves of his outer robe falls back and revealed the next layer of clothing. Narrow sleeves in dusk-colored linen, embroidered with twining vines.

"Very good. A little sweet, but very good."

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"Ah? I'll mix in less honey in the next batch. --It's hard to keep track of seasons here, but I think it must be nearing autumn."

They're very nice sleeves. Poetic. Some medievalist artists of his acquaintance in Paris would be suffering the worst envy.

[starrydome]

"The air certainly feels that way," Elrond agrees. "And I do not think you need to change the recipie. Many things sold here are more sweet than what I am used to, so it must appeal to others. But perhaps change the honey used. One made on heather perhaps."

There are also the ears of course.
Peeking out from the hair. Gently leaf shaped.

[pro_patria_mortuus]

What a peculiarly precise number. Doubtless there's a joke in it, but Enjolras has no idea what that joke might be.

Anyway, aside from a bemused glance at the Specials board, it's Lègle he's paying attention to when he approaches the bar and settles down on a stool. He's been outside, walking and thinking and failing to notice nature in the slightest; he looks attractively slightly windblown.

[OOC: Tagging in a slow moment at work and going to vanish for the evening shortly, but HI BOSSUET HI JANE.]

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

It's not that good a joke anyway. At least Grantaire's not here to complain about math.

"Enjolras! Drink this, it's warming and you've been outside." The Drink This is just a cup of hot mulled cider; Lesgle hands it over carefully. It goes with the windblown look. (Some people have all the luck. When Lesgle's been outside, he has no hair for the elements to play with, and it's his nose rather than his cheeks that turn red.)

((HALLO THERE))

[pro_patria_mortuus]

Enjolras accepts it with a smile, wrapping long fingers around the cup. He's not overly chilled -- it's early yet in autumn, and Enjolras is a man who runs hot -- but all the same the warmth sinking into his hands feels good. The warmth of the cup, and, as always, the warmth of friendship. Less tangible, but far longer lasting.

(Yes, Enjolras thinks like this all the time.)

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Bossuet bustles about setting up a few other drinks and clearing away empties, giving Enjolras time to muse; but in a quiet moment when they're the only ones at the bar, he returns. "By the way--something I wanted to speak with you about. If you have a minute?"

[pro_patria_mortuus]

"Of course." He has Enjolras's full attention now.

In truth, of course, at Milliways Enjolras has plenty of minutes to spare, and very little to fill the rest. But in any case -- for Bossuet, always.

[athelstanthescribe]

"Your hot cider smells delicious", Athelstan says, approaching quietly.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

"A cup for you, then, sir!" He says it automatically before he notices who's come up; but his face softens as he hands the cider over. Father Harman has told him a bit about the monk's recent life. "And something to eat?"

[athelstanthescribe]

"What would you suggest?" He doesn't look starved, but he is hungry.

[tire_moi_mes_bottes]

Laigle considers this. "...Galettes. Hot, and stuffed with ham and cheese and egg." They're not a cure for the world's ills, but they're a damned comforting food. Go well with cider, too. "I'll order up a plate for you? It's on me."

[athelstanthescribe]

He looks up quickly at that, surprised and touched.

"Thank you, friend. I would like to try your galettes."