Happy Hour

[clayforthedevil]

Bahorel grins when he finds the napkin waiting for him. "Why, Madame Bar, I thought you'd never ask."

He grins even more when he reads some of what it actually says. There seem to be so many excellent holidays here. He jumps over the bar and in neat calligraphy writes on the Specials board:

 

Happy Holiday Survival Hour
 

First Drink free with Confession of a Complaint

Any drink that gets set on fire 1/2 off

The bar's extremely open, folks.

((ooc: open until the next Happy Hour goes up!))

Comments

[morethanprops]

"A confession? Are you interested are you in any particular kind of confession?"

Moist is wearing his traveling suit of tweed that's a little worn at the edges and leans against the counter with a smirk.

[clayforthedevil]

Bahorel returns the smirk with a grin, and a wave at the board. "We're doing complaints today- I'm told 'tis the season. But certainly feel free to share any sordid tale that might be weighing on your soul, though I make no claims to offer absolution or confidentiality; my business today is in the more tangible sort of spirit."

[morethanprops]

"I see. I've just never heard of a confession of a complaint and I find confessions far more fun than complaints. After all a confession usually means that something happened before."

[clayforthedevil]

"Ah, but a complaint may also come from something that has happened, or be a warning of something that might happen. And they are often treated as almost a sin-- at least the good ones."

[morethanprops]

"Oh yes, now I get it. You do have a way with words. Then I wish to complain that I don't know your name."

[lark_in_flight]

Cosette isn't sure whether the Specials board is more confusing or more amusing, but it's certainly both in some proportion or other.

While she hasn't approached the bartender yet, the amount of sleeves and petticoats happening nearby is probably... noticeable.

[clayforthedevil]

Bahorel tends to notice being noticed. He smiles brightly and bows to the...unfortunately a bit fluffily- dressed young woman. "Greetings, Mademoiselle!"

She's definitely a mademoiselle, definitely of his world and time--or something incredible close to it. Those sleeves leave no doubt. He can name a few men who deserve to have their noses broken for inflicting those sleeves on the unsuspecting female population of France.

[lark_in_flight]

"Good evening, Monsieur."

Well, it's evening at home, and she thinks it's evening here.

"It looks as if I should wish you a happy Christmas, as well."

He's familiar in a way very few people are at Milliways; she doesn't know him at all, but his clothing, his manner of speech, his bow and even the smaller gestures, all familiar. Cosette hungers for excitement more than familiarity, since she's not stuck here, but all the same that gets a smile.

[clayforthedevil]

"You certainly might, Mademoiselle- the day itself is past here, but Epiphany awaits us still, for those who keep the holiday in full. I take it you're visiting; you could hardly have missed the event otherwise." And cliché as he knows it would be to say it, it's a fact that he would have noticed a woman in the costume of his exact time before now, if she were a resident. "Still, we have some punch to hand, and other food of the season, if you're looking for it. Is your visit one of celebration?"

[halfemptyglasses]

"Confession of a complaint?" asks the rather pink-haired girl near the bar.

[clayforthedevil]

"Indeed, Mademoiselle! You may voice any complaints you have at the moment, at any length,without fear of criticism." He smiles. "Even of myself, if you like, though we've hardly met."

[halfemptyglasses]

"Ah, you're from France?" she guesses. "And that's true, we've only just met."

She gives a little shrug.

"Any complaints? That... that would probably turn out unpleasant. Like, unpleasant about me."

[clayforthedevil]

"From France, indeed; Paris, 1832. I'm Bahorel; you've perhaps met some friends of mine?" And perhaps other French people who are decidedly not his friends.
"As for the complaints, why, of course they may be unpleasant; that is the nature of complaints. What of it?" He's sincerely listening now, even if he is still smiling.

[wings_of_a_swan]

"Confession of a complaint, Bahorel? This would imply that you believe in confession, that you believe in sin, and that you believe complaint is a sin to be confessed, rather than a thing to be proclaimed and celebrated at great volume."

Combeferre's not much of a drinker, since it interferes with the accurate depiction of moths, but he could have some wine. He might even secretly feel like setting something on fire. Though he won't say as much to Bahorel, who would get much too much satisfaction from that admission.

[clayforthedevil]

"Ah, but to him who thinks it is a sin, it is a sin; and so many poor souls seem to feel that giving proper voice to their opinions is a crime worthy of great shame, when in fact only the professional claques should feel so burdened, and they, alas, do not. -- Come, a complaint, or help me light a fire in this cold season." Or pay the full price of nothing at all, but that's no fun!

[wings_of_a_swan]

"A complaint, very well. You know I have many." Bahorel already knows Combeferre's most serious and painful complaints; repeating them here will do no good.

Flippancy, then. "My robot dinosaur bit my finger. It was a gift from an acquaintance of mine. A very sober, God-fearing fellow with the heart and clothes of a lawyer. Also, I had a long conversation with a murderer who eats his victims before realizing he was such."

Well, that last part's not so light-hearted. Oops. Combeferre has trouble maintaining the proper insouciance for long.

[clayforthedevil]

Bahorel clutches his heart in dramatic offense at the first part of the complaint (and very nearly real offense over the lawyer comment). But at the second complaint, he smiles in sympathy. "Ah, you've met Monsieur Lecter then. You do need a drink. Choose, or I'll make something up." It's an offer and a danger!

[onceaviking]

The man approaching the bar is very tall, very pale (though otherwise a perfect picture of male health and strength), blond, and dressed in clothing that is both black and very form-fitting.

"A complaint? Well, quite often, I am refused service here. Would that do?"

[clayforthedevil]

"That will do, indeed!" And also get a fascinated grin. "Name your drink! And expound, elaborate, if you like- What horrible crimes have you committed that they refuse you service here? And who has passed such judgement?"

[onceaviking]

The corner of Eric's mouth twitches into a tiny smile.
"The drink of choice seems to be the cause more times than not, I'd say. And I should add, that the Bar herself has never refused."

He nods at a fridge. "You will find bags in there filled with donated blood. One of those, in a glass, heated to room temperature, if you please."

[clayforthedevil]

That only gets a grin. "And it is of course human blood, I take it?" He's already getting the bag out and warming it up carefully; the question is curiosity without any chastisement. "Or is it some other creature that nonetheless shocks and offends some of our bartenders?"

[sunbaked_baker]

"...Winter is terribly grey and dreary and cold and dark, and it is not yet Spring," offers Sunshine with a wry, tired smile. While surely kept warm by her yellow and orange fuzzy sweater, she still can bemoan the season. "Does that count as a valid complaint?"

[clayforthedevil]

"The oppression of the higher circle over the lower, be it royalty or weather, is always a fair complaint." His smile is much more exuberant, still full of holiday excitement. "Name your drink?"

[sunbaked_baker]

"For the sake of the weather theme," Rae smiles, settling onto a bar stool, "I'll have a Dark and Stormy."

...

"There may be a recipe in one of the drinks books back there, I think." In case he's not familiar with it. "Rum and ginger beer at about a 2-to-3 ratio, with a squeeze of lime."

[clayforthedevil]

It takes very little time to put together. "Is it winter for much longer on your Earth?"