Fashionably Late

[clayforthedevil]

((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.

Comments

[clayforthedevil]

Bahorel does notice that slight shadow, and it stings. He's got no immediate antidote for it yet, and Courfeyrac seems uninclined to admit to it- but he keeps the knowledge of it for later.

For now, he puts his legs up on another chair, tilts his back to near-tipping, and grins. "Interesting people, indeed! You know, I believe I nearly got stabbed again after arriving, by a charming woman with a pencil and a most serious expression. Gavroche swears there are werewolves; I am refusing to believe him until proper introductions have been made. So far, I can speak to every one I meet, which is more than I can say for France, and certainly opens up many options for keeping things lively."

[le_centre]

He laughs at this, and the second of melancholy passes.

'I fear the serious expression would be more deadly to you than the pencil, my friend. I do hope you made her smile.'

No, he is not being lascivious. Much.

'As to werewolves I cannot say, but I have been told the same thing. Do you know, you can visit other worlds from here? I have not, but Bossuet has - and nothing much even landed on his head; it is something we should all remember, if some opportunity arises. But forgive me, I bombard you with information and you are only just here. Do you feel alright? There is no pain? Have another drink.'

[clayforthedevil]

He laughs too. "Alas, she objected to my status-- or possibly my current presentation. She acted like she'd never spoken to a dead man before, can you imagine? And yet here other worlds open up; surely the occasional resurrection must be accepted." He takes the drink, but shakes his head. "I feel fine-- I've felt worse after smaller brawls. Was it the same for you?"

[le_centre]

'Yes. It's very strange - no pain at all.'

He reflects on this as he drinks, eyeing Bahorel's waistcoat. Such a shame, even if his friend is more daring than he in his apparel.

'Though perhaps it would be more strange to be exactly as we were, and that would be a sorry thing. Rude, to bleed all over the place and need doctors! And how should we know we were dead at all? No, it is better this way; I admire this place for making it so, even if I do not understand it at all.'

[clayforthedevil]

Bahorel catches the look and puts a hand over his stricken waistcoats. "I suppose this is meant to be our ticket-stub, to show we've paid our fare to get in-- or else we're now to endure all those things we said we'd sooner die than do. In which case I'm glad to have renounced so little while alive; I shall remain free to choose my own entertainments and not, say, find myself unwillingly chasing a llama through the cemetery in the early morning hours." A horrible prospect arises before him.

"But it does allow that I might find myself infernally cursed to be a lawyer." He shudders at the thought.