Teja son of Tagila (
ostro_goth) wrote in
milliways_bar2015-02-22 07:17 pm
Entry tags:
Everybody having Sunday dinner
This Sunday evening, there are many patrons in the bar, having dinner. among them are:
[[OOC: Katrina, albeit in the icon, isn't there; everybody else is. Say in your tag whom you want, or you might get any of them, barring Hannibal.]]
- Teja, having a roast and bread, with greens, and a clay cup of well-watered red wine. Under and around the table, all four of his cats are waiting whether something will happen to fall down for them.
- Madame Thénardier, who is eating brioches with jam in her favourite nook by the fireplace while reading a paperback novel with Egyptian hieroglyphs on the cover.
- Father Pearse Harman, who has a fish pie and a salad, this being a Sunday in Lent. He's not reading anything, for once.
- Lady Margolotta, with her usual tea and knitting. It's not exactly dinner, but she's sipping something while giving people friendly, closed-slipped smiles.
- Dorian Gray, who is watching something on a small device with only one ear-bud plugged in while nibbling on Japanese rice crackers and sipping green tea. More food is, presumably, forthcoming.
- And finally, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, who isn't in the bar room itself at the moment, but in the kitchen, most of his formidable attention firmly fixed on the dinner he's cooking for himself. It involves lamb.
[[OOC: Katrina, albeit in the icon, isn't there; everybody else is. Say in your tag whom you want, or you might get any of them, barring Hannibal.]]

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She descends the stairs poised and confident, and catches Margolotta's eye. Alana smiles back. "I've never learned how to do that, so it's a skill I envy," she says, gesturing to the knitting.
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She glances down at her tea. "I've admit I've been staying up in my room entirely too much. I need to start making friends."
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He doesn't say anything, for the moment, but stops near the counter.
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He's picking small potatoes, both yellow and purple, from a large basket of them. On the counter sits a fillet of lamb, seasoned with pepper and salt, but as yet uncooked. One of the ovens is turned on, and a skillet with oil is heating up on the cooker.
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He glances over the ingredients, but doesn't say anything else.
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"It's so good to see you, Will," he says. "Would you like a glass of wine while I'm cooking?"
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"Let me get it."
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"Rae's not in here today," he says, as he folds the coat neatly over the back of a chair.
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Pause.
"I hope you'll share this meal with me."
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"How symbolic."
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"I am eating innocence itself?" he then says, smiling at Ganymede.
He reaches up onto a shelf and gets down a bottle of grape seed oil.
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"You decide, I suppose. So long as you're not dusting it with bitter herbs, you can skate by on that. But the symbolism isn't so easily erased. Wine?" he asks, holding out the glass.
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"The sacrifice of innocence to our sophistication, perhaps," he muses.
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He takes another sip of wine, puts the glass down, and then puts a skillet on the cooker, turns on the gas, and pours some oil into the skillet.
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