milliways_bar | Milli-timed to Tuesday the 28th

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Milli-timed to Tuesday the 28th - New Orleans Mardi Gras

The bar room of Milliways is always full of sound - the clatter of dishes and clink of glasses, chairs being scooted back or further in, footsteps upon the floor, rats squeaking, the background murmur of conversations overlapping one another.

But tonight the main door to the bar opens to the mouth of an city alleyway, to a caucophony of noise and music, full of seething crowds and colorful parade floats, the smells of food and sweat and smoke and beer and those colorful fruity drinks sold in yard-long plastic glasses with umbrellas in them. Mardi Gras is in full swing and New Orleans has outdone itself this time.

Yrael enters, trailing laughter from a section of the crowd on the other side. His white hair is decorated with purple, gold and green feathers, his pale face partially hidden by a sharp, glittery cat mask of gold, behind which his green eyes are bright. Over his white shirt this evening he wears a shiny waistcoat of purple, gold, green, and black. It's clearly party time, big time, show time -

"And then some!" he grins, seeing Milliways. "Fat Tuesday is upon us, Milliways! Welcome to Mardi Gras! Come, dance, explore! Laissez les bons temps rouler!"

Yrael will make sure the door stays open for any party-goer who would like to partake in the joie de vivre, and the Bar can certainly provide a change of costume...

(ooc: The post will be open all weekend and into next week as needed! Usual party-thread guidelines apply! Tag in! Threadhop! Meet new people and get into trouble! :D Yrael will be around, but his mun will not be able to tag much until Monday evening. <333333)

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Poirot, he never made it to New Orleans in his life. He is not quite sure how he is here now, in fact. But he knows of its connection to France and to the French language, and long wondered if he would feel at home here. So he must explore. Somehow, magically, he has American money in his pockets, and seeks out the famous cuisine.

A scantily clad individual drifts along the street, equally fascinated by all the food stalls. Said individual tries to ask what a particular food is but their French is archaic and a little unsure. The stallholder doesn't seem to understand and Sinric looks around, hoping for help.

Poirot thinks he recognizes the man - assuming that this is a man - from the Bar. The clothes are outlandish, but no more so than anyone else's. And a person in need is a person in need.

"May I help," he asks in English.

Mostly a man. Not that he looks it tonight. But that's half the fun, isn't it?

Sinric smile warmly at the offer of help. "Thank you, sir. My future English is far better than my Frankish. I wondered what they might be?" He gesture to a machine making beignets.

Poirot is fairly certain he knows what a beignet looks like. But as they are not common in Belgium, he asks. In a glorious Belgian French.

"That, my friend, is a beignet. A kind of fried dough, akin to, and superior to, a doughnut."

"They sounds wonderful." Sinric smiles warmly. "Will you share some with me, sir?"

"I think that would be fine." Though he does hope that the man has no expectations. Poirot does not judge, but he also has no interests in that direction. "I do not think we have been introduced. I am Hercule Poirot."

He orders a plate to share is slow and careful French and brings it over to a table for them. "A pleasure, sir. I'm Sinric. I believe I've seen you around the bar. Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier."

"The Bar, it is a big place sometimes." At least big enough that you can go weeks without meeting people.

"Your French, it is not terrible, though your accent is atrocious." As if his doesn't put Parisian teeth on edge.

Sinric laughs warmly, not at all offended. "I suspect my accent is simply a thousand years out of place." He shrugs, smoothing out a misplaced feather. "But I'm a fast learner."

"When are you from?" Poirot signals back to the counter and orders a coffee.

"By the Georgian calendar most in the bar, the year of our lord 792." He answers with a slight shrug.

Poirot looks a bit impressed. "Such a long time ago. Before there was a France, or the true French language. Or, I believe, Mardi Gras. And yet you take to this as if you were native to it."

"Frankia was a strong and noble kingdom in my time. Not an empire, even if the King would style it so."

He smiles. "I belonged to the last true Roman empire -the Empire of Byzantium. We traded with the Franks, wine mostly. I learnt their language to entertain their envoys."

"I have been to what was the capital of your home in my own time. I doubt you would recognize it." Even the name has changed, of course. "It remains a lovely city."

"So I have read and heard." He says with a note of sadness. "Even in my own lifetime, it has changed. I returned for the first time in a decade only a year ago and already parts were no longer familiar."

He shakes his head, causing the gold tresses to dance. "But Constantine's city is strong and bold. And endures through change."

"As do most cities. My home endured two wars, two invasions, but when I passed on, it was rebuilding again." Not that he returned there in the last fifteen or so years of his life.

"Great cities are living things, I often think. Like us, they can be hurt, scarred, weakened. But they heal, find love anew and grow again." He smiles romantically.

"May I ask where you sure from, sir?"

"I was born in Belgium, and lived some years in Brussels. When the first invasion occurred, I left for England, and that is where I stayed. But Brussels still had a hold on me." He cringed every time he read of what the Nazis did there.

"Gallia Belgica?" He asks, trying to remember the Roman provinces he was taught as a boy. "I believe it is held by the Merovingian kings in my time. Although I recall hearing word the Franks converted it's rich lands."

He smiles softly. "I've yet to travel to England. But I will. Someday."

"And has the Bar afforded you the chance to see it in other times? This is, I will admit, my first time outside the Bar. It is a bit daunting." And not just because he is in America without papers. All the people, of all races and colors, all playing with what seem to be some sort of magic gadget. It is very odd!

"Only this. I've been here once before but not during this festival." He looks around, watching the world around them dance. "But I am a wanderer, and the world is mine to explore."

"I traveled a good deal, but I think, even if there were not limits on what I could do, that I would leave the world as it is now to others." Death should mean something, should mean that you let the future alone.

"You have begun the next stage of your travels?" Sinric asks, sympathetically.

"I have left life behind. It is a wonder that I can be here, no matter how briefly, but I accept that my days as a traveler are over."

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