milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

There is a fireball, dancing around the bar. It continuously flashes red and green, dancing merrily, carefully setting nothing on fire.

One Opener is directing this fire ball witha finger, concentrating quite a lot on keeping it under control. It's not an illusion this time, and he's making sure he can keep control.

Have at!

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"Oui, Death and Destruction. They do, so often, go hand in hand."
Hopefully not too often, however. Incest is icky.

He eyes the pellet almost as warily as he had the fireball. "What is that, monsieur?"

"Destiny, Dream, Death, Destruction, Despair, Desire and Delerium."

Tim dances the pellet across his knuckles.

'This? It's a prepackaged spell."

He just stares in response to the names?

Then narrows his eyes at the answer to his own question.

"A spell, eh? What does this one do?" All he knows is that the answer better not be fire. Again.

"Watch."

Tim crushes the pellet in his hand. Immediately, his hand is sheathed in a billowing current of white clouds. The clouds are mainly there to demonstrate the fact that the element of air has been invoked.

That's something along the lines of what he expected.

He sits back in his seat and blinks, however, because...clouds?

"Is this part of the holiday tradition around here?" He asks wryly. "Fire and water were strange enough, but what does one do with clouds?"

Tim gestures with his hand. The clouds launch themselves from his hand, striking a hanging decorations...and shattering it quite nicely.

"Air."

A pause.

"Fire and Water?"

"Yeah, like those. They were quite a shock, I must say."
And because Cypher is not here, Tim receives the obligatory glare.

"I take it you are responsible?"

"I'm not sure I know what you're referring to."

But he's afraid he doesn't want to know.

"A boy, about ten years old, had a few of these the other day, and conned my friend into using one." And myself, the other. Of course he wont admit that last part.

Tim grows interested.

"Do you know this boys name?"

"Oui, monsieur. One Jack Dawkins if I remember correctly. Little English runt."

Yeah, he knows what he's saying. It is, perhaps, why.

"Dodger?"

Tims is not pleased.

"That is what he calls himself." He says wryly.

"Not so good at it, to be honest. A little thief... You did not give them to him, did you?"

"No."

Tim stands, a scowl on his face.

'Excuse me."

And he stalks off.

He snorts and watches him walk off.

"Yeah, you're welcome."

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