milliways_bar | Twelfth Night Party, Pontmercy style!

Entry tags:

Twelfth Night Party, Pontmercy style!

You -- yes, you, whoever you are -- got an invitation to the party. All of Milliways is welcome!

If you choose to come, you'll find Bar directing you to a big round tent that went up this afternoon on the lawn outside the bar. Marius and Cosette and various friends spent a lot of time this morning ferrying decorations in, and the waitrats spent a lot of time in the afternoon ferrying food in, but the doors won't officially open until close to sunset.

But this isn't a cheap white plastic tent, oh no. It's warm and domed and made of thick fabric, something like a very large yurt. A bit of magic keeps out the drafts, making everything extra cozy.

There's a fire in the middle of the floor, with a low screen encircling it but also magic meaning that this fire puts of warmth but will not actually burn anything, even if you step right into it. The floor is wood -- great for dancing, if you feel like it! There's a piano over against the wall for anyone who wants to make some music.

Everywhere there are garlands of European evergreen branches and herbs, studded with bright dried fruit and sparkling ornaments. (Mistletoe might very well be among them, though the Pontmercies haven't thought to supply that as an intentional party game.) There are candles and lanterns everywhere, and a big chandelier. There are no electric lights at all -- it's all fire -- but a good number of them are magical, so that nothing's going to get set on fire or covered with smoke. The general intended impression is of genteel, welcoming festivity, in a very French and very early 19th century European way.

There are food and drinks galore. Come in and enjoy the party!

[OOC: Party-style post! Subthreads for various categories and activities, etc. Open from now until whenever!

Edit: As of Joly's arrival, Cosette now has a mini-polaroid camera. Fear, Milliways. Feel free to assume that she's popped up to take a candid picture of your character(s) at any point, as long as they're not doing or wearing anything scandalous! She will happily give the resulting picture to your character if they want; it probably won't be a very good picture, in terms of composition or focus, but it will be cheerfully enthusiastic.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Poirot, in his tuxedo of course, studies the food. It is the sort of food that he recalls from his long ago youth in the far reaches of Belguim, food far richer and yet less heavy than that he subsisted on in London for thirty years. He fills a plate with pâté and the sort of bread the English never did figure out how to make, and looks about.

A small green nautilus flies past. So that's a thing.

Poirot looks up for a second and wonders what that is.

"Minus, get back here! Heel!" calls a tall young man, of similar coloration, in dress uniform, pursuing the nautilus. He is brandishing a small, gold bow, of the sort normally stuck to gifts.

Poirot tries not to stare.

"Monsieur, are you green?"

"Last I checked. Minus, treat?"

This seems to have more of an effect. At least, the nautilus comes to a halt and looks as interested as a cephalopod can look.

"How are you green?" That doesn't seem possible. And yet...

"How are you beige?" Enzo counters. "I'm a sprite, we come in all colours. Minus, treat! Lots of treats here! C'mere!"

The nautilus, considering this amenable, floats back their way.

"A sprite? A little woodland creature?" That...that almost makes sense, since there is supposedly magic here.

"Nope, an even littler computer creature."

...says the kid almost a foot taller than Poirot.

"Gotcha!" He seizes the nautilus gently but firmly in one hand, and sticks the bow on its shell. "Now you're properly dressed," he tells it in a mock-serious tone.

Poirot stares blankly. He might have been privy to many secrets during the war, but Turing's bombes and the like were not among them.

"I get that a lot." He offers a hand. "Enzo Matrix, data sprite. Not the fairy kind. Same name, different thing."

The handshake is rather gingerly. "Hercule Poirot. I do not understand at all."

"Do you know anything about computers?"

"Someone who computes? Who does math?" That, unlike the rest of Bletchley Park, was not classified.

"Oh, right, that was the old definition. In my time, it's something that computes. A machine."

"A machine. Like what Babbage constructed?" Poirot is well read, if not educated that well in the sciences.

Enzo brightens. "Exactly! They're a lot more complicated, but Babbage and Lovelace pretty much started it all."

"But you are not a mathematical computation. You are real. I just shook your hand." This still makes no sense.

"That's actually exactly what I am. But we wouldn't be able to physically interact if this weren't Milliways. I usually exist on a different level of reality from matter."

There's a slight stress on 'reality'. He doesn't like being called not real. Differently real, absolutely.

Poirot tries to think it through. It does little good, but he must accept what his eyes see, what his hand touched. "There are more things in heaven and earth than I have dreamed of, Monsieur Matrix."

"True that. If it helps, my world's pretty unique. Most worlds' computers don't have sprites. Just... computations."

Minus is tugging at his sleeve.

"Just a nano. I did promise." He grabs a few nibbles from a platter marked with an electrical hazard symbol and tosses one to Minus.

"And what is the entity hovering about you?" An entity that seems to have some sort appetite.

An entity which is now turning somersaults while wrestling with its food.

"That's Minus, my pet. He's a messaging program."

"He is a courier?" And a pet?

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!

Re: Food!