clayforthedevil (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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milliways_bar2014-11-12 03:49 am
clayforthedevil) wrote in milliways_bar2014-11-12 03:49 am
Entry tags:
Fashionably Late
((warning for mentions of injury and death and other doomed revolt issues))
The first guard through falls to the only shot in his rifle, a first explosion that seems to set off a chorus. He tries to block the next soldier's bayonet thrust with his empty gun and only feels the slide of metal along metal and a shock through his ribs too sudden to hurt. Bahorel leans his weight onto the soldier's gun, grinning, trying to force him back for another second, fist raised for a last swing, and then there's a dark flicker as his foot slips and his balance fails him completely.
---
His foot comes down on a rather nice bar floor. The weight of his own swing moves him forward a bit, but he's used to punching moving targets and recovers quickly. The noise and air of the place are unmistakeably a bar; voices, glasses clinking, the sound of a door swinging shut behind him. He is, very definitely, in a bar.
Bahorel blinks. It's not the first time he's come out of a fight in a strange place with no memory of what happened in between, but really now--
and then he sees the window.
Either he's having a fairly impressive opium dream-- not his best, but not bad-- or Lesgle really hadn't been talking out of a cracked skull two years ago. A bar at the end of the world is a more interesting idea, almost mythic, really, so Bahorel chooses to believe it for now. He walks to the Bar proper and tries an order, in the way he's been told it works.
"Madame, or Mademoiselle, Bar, whiskey, if you please?" The request is wholly formal, complete with elaborate bow. And up pops a bottle of whiskey and a glass, so it seems to work. He thanks the Bar with equal flourish and pours his first drink. He's quite enjoying himself when he thinks of his apparently not-last moments, and lets his hand stray to his waistcoat.
Which has an enormous hole right over the heart. And is sticky with blood. He immediately takes it off to examine the damage, loudly cursing every king ever born when he sees the whole in the back, too.
So: here is a man in very good (but progressively less--and devil take them all, the undervest's even worse) bloody 1830s formalwear, expounding creatively on the heritage of the kings of Europe. He could be interrupted, and probably should be.
The first guard through falls to the only shot in his rifle, a first explosion that seems to set off a chorus. He tries to block the next soldier's bayonet thrust with his empty gun and only feels the slide of metal along metal and a shock through his ribs too sudden to hurt. Bahorel leans his weight onto the soldier's gun, grinning, trying to force him back for another second, fist raised for a last swing, and then there's a dark flicker as his foot slips and his balance fails him completely.
---
His foot comes down on a rather nice bar floor. The weight of his own swing moves him forward a bit, but he's used to punching moving targets and recovers quickly. The noise and air of the place are unmistakeably a bar; voices, glasses clinking, the sound of a door swinging shut behind him. He is, very definitely, in a bar.
Bahorel blinks. It's not the first time he's come out of a fight in a strange place with no memory of what happened in between, but really now--
and then he sees the window.
Either he's having a fairly impressive opium dream-- not his best, but not bad-- or Lesgle really hadn't been talking out of a cracked skull two years ago. A bar at the end of the world is a more interesting idea, almost mythic, really, so Bahorel chooses to believe it for now. He walks to the Bar proper and tries an order, in the way he's been told it works.
"Madame, or Mademoiselle, Bar, whiskey, if you please?" The request is wholly formal, complete with elaborate bow. And up pops a bottle of whiskey and a glass, so it seems to work. He thanks the Bar with equal flourish and pours his first drink. He's quite enjoying himself when he thinks of his apparently not-last moments, and lets his hand stray to his waistcoat.
Which has an enormous hole right over the heart. And is sticky with blood. He immediately takes it off to examine the damage, loudly cursing every king ever born when he sees the whole in the back, too.
So: here is a man in very good (but progressively less--and devil take them all, the undervest's even worse) bloody 1830s formalwear, expounding creatively on the heritage of the kings of Europe. He could be interrupted, and probably should be.
no subject
"Some of them are just little ones", he says with a grin. "I taught them to use a boomerang the other week. And a frisbee, but that sort of got chewed."
no subject
((ooc: want to wrap about here? He'll be back later, when he's not such a mess.))
no subject
[ooc: looks good! Gavroche will tag along to the room and stay until he's chased out]