milliways_bar | Entries tagged with bergelmir

Bergelmir figures bartending is as good a way to keep his mind off the door that seems to be mocking him as anything, so he doesn't hesitate to agree when he's asked.

"Of course, sweeting. Take all the time you need."

He scrawls out a quick specials board:

Surprise me!

Any requests the bartender is unfamiliar with will be given at a reduced rate.

my_brothers_humor

Bergelmir has been contemplating his door...well, for a very long time now. Days, in fact. He generally does very well at looking like he's not contemplating the door, though.

Tonight, not so much. He's glaring at it from the bar, swirling mead in an earthenware mug.

Eventually, he gives up and asks the bar for a sheet of paper and a writing instrument. Once he has them, he scribbles out a notice and posts it:

Skilled smith (of all kinds, but specialized in silver) looking for commissions. Magical or otherwise. Cost to be negotiated upon interview. Refer all questions to Bergelmir.

He asks Bar to send any queries in his direction and takes his drink to a table by the window, sitting with his back determinedly toward the door.

my_brothers_humor

Bergelmir is positively gleeful when he receives the napkin asking him to tend bar this evening.

“For you, sweeting, anything. I will tend to your every need.”

He peruses the stores a few moments before scribbling out a quick list of specials

Freya’s Gold

Vikingfjord vodka

Mead of Suttungr

He should probably leave a note of warning next to the last one, but he decides to let the buyer beware.

[ooc: Warning! Drinking the Mead of Suttungr may (and probably will) lead to breaking out in poetry. ~~Open until I crash.~~ And I'm crashing. Slowtimes all around!]

waysthingsare.livejournal.com

Barty, after taking advantage of the vast(er than his own backyard) outside of the bar for little while, comes back inside and informs the bar itself that he is bored.

The response he gets is an algebra textbook, circa 1960 (just to avoid any temporal disturbances).

He settles with it by the fireplace. Yes, being a two-year-old, he looks a little silly sitting in a comparatively giant armchair with a comparatively huge book open in his lap.

He is, however, perfectly entertained (for the moment, at least) by working the problems in his head and checking his work in the back.

[ooc: car keys for

piesordeath, open to all.]

agnes_nitt

The first thing that alerts Agnes that this is apparently one of those 'special' days in the bar is when she feels a draft across her stomach.

"What, this again?" she asks, looking down at the naughty schoolgirl outfit she's now wearing. Unlike the last time she was in this costume, though, she's not immediately looking for something to throw on over it. Agnes has come a long way in accepting her size, so she just shrugs, adjusts the glasses that have appeared on her face, twirls a pigtail thoughtfully, and heads over to the bar for a drink.

[car keys bait for Barty Lampion, but open to anyone, as always.]

student_of_impossibility

Ten years and more from now, in Tavi's world, a Canim Warmaster will observe that books are more dangerous than they appear--not unlike the small Roman-looking boy currently lying on his stomach in a booth, eyes fixed on the page.

Admittedly, it's not a book on tactics, or anything really overtly dangerous. It's just a storybook. Where by a 'storybook' we mean a novel, of the fantasy persuasion--although Tavi mostly knows it as a history of the world one of the new friends he's made here is from.

There's also a plate of steaming cookies next to him, with a small, carefully written sign:
'Ask me if you want one!
-- Tavi'

He's asking for bothering, clearly

waysthingsare.livejournal.com

There's a toddler crawling around the bar.

Not because he can't walk yet--no, he's got full mastery of his motor skills. He's on a safari. Therefore, he has to stay down in order to stay out of sight of the ~animals~ he might find.

He might bump into a leg here or there, but he'd appreciate it if he didn't get kicked or stepped on. (He'd really appreciate running into a real animal! How exciting!)

hoorayfor-me.livejournal.com

For the moment that Freya's Door is open, a bedroom can be glimpsed beyond it, sheets rumpled from a night of sleep. Freya has only seen it the once and isn't particularly attached.

Speaking of Freya, she doesn't look too surprised by the bar in the house. Antipsychotics and the sedative from the hospital are still working their way out of her system; if anything, this seems to follow logically to her at the moment. She woke up in perfect silence; wandered through the door into cacophany.

She's clad in a worn light pink sleeping shirt, grey flannel pants, and socks. Her hair is tangled, not that she's particularly bothered by that, and her attention is... scattered.

Tiny telepathic tag: Freya McAllister

{Plz to read this post before tagging.}

hell_in_highheels

Dr. River Song is holed up in a corner of the bar, her notebook spread before her, and surrounded by a formidable stack of books. Biology, genetics, advanced gene therapy, chaos theory in genetic mutation, and a myriad more. There is one very lonely book sitting at the edge of her table, ostensibly being ignored. Very pointedly ignored. En Historae et Veritas de Therianthropae.

Which is nonsense, it's just a book.

Her tea has gone cold at her elbow and she's still poring over her notes, as if the data can drown out the conclusion she's very rapidly coming to. If the lycanthropy is magic, and not science, she is completely lost at sea. Off the map, she can handle, but this?

This is just not acceptable.

[[ooc: Open till it scrolls, with much appreciation for slowtimes. Apologies for the faux Latin. I blame the monks.]]

[ tiny all in black tag: Tanya Adams ]

isaysimplewords

Someone got complacent after surviving Mardi Gras unscathed, and decided to venture downstairs today in spite of months of declaring that he would not, thank you very much.

Someone is now four years old.

It's okay, though, because as far as he knows, he's always been four years old in Milliways.

Also, right now he has an apple that tastes like candy, which is clearly the best thing that has ever happened.

janebecomes

[OOM:In a game of wits a good opponent is key.]

Jane enters the Bar with a sweep of her rather plain cotton dress and is taking off her bonnet and finishing a grin before she looks forward and stops. This is not the Longminster Post Office and she turns over her shoulder to the elegantly man behind her,

"Mister Lefroy, I hope you have an explanation."

Tiny tag: Jane Austen, Charles Monroe, Barty Lampion

Two muns, two pups, tag and you'll probably get both. And at 1:20 am, both muns fall over, thank you so much for the great threading and we'll try and pick everyone up later.

isaysimplewords

Cal is keenly aware of the fact that today marks six months since he came to Milliways. Or, looked at a little differently, six months since he died.

Sure, he got better, but. That doesn't change what happened.

Cal is honoring the occasion by ignoring it entirely in favor of watching a movie from his world for the first time in six months. (Cal is from a musical world. There's a difference. Ask Enzo about the musical edition of Die Hard Cal gave him for Christmas.) He asked Bar, on a whim, to load his iPod with the Academy Award winner for 1997, the year it was when he - left home.

He told her he was sure. Twice.

She gave in. So now Cal is watching . . . okay, here's a hint: the ship sinks at the end.

Bother him. Seriously. Go right ahead.

Just please wait till Kate Winslet is done being naked first.

[tinytag: billy kaplan]

scurlock

Doc walks in from outside, coming in the back door of the bar, boots and the bottom of his jeans covered in mud. He's probably leaving a trail of muddy slush behind him as he walks, but he's not really paying attention to that. He looks like he's been out all day in the cold, and that's because he has.

It felt good to get out of the bar (away from the people, away from the noise) and out on his horse. Nova needed the workout, anyway, as much as he needed the time to think. He's got a rifle slung over his shoulder, and he's planning on having a cup of coffee while he comes down off the adrenaline high of riding all afternoon.

Eventually he'll end up at a table, cleaning the rifle, and drinking a cup of coffee (which most definitely has been 'Irished', minus the cream) while keeping an eye on the front door. He's completely up for being bothered, if you don't mind the unloaded gun on the table.

[tiny pair of tags: Mr. C & Mr. V]
[tiny mathematically-inclined tag: Kate Warner]
[tiny cowboy tag: Barty Lampion]

empath-wiggin.livejournal.com

Valentine walks up to the front of the space she has prepared in the corner of the bar. She has no notes, just herself, in a green sweater and long black skirt. There is a determination on her face, and eyes. She looks out over the assembled croud for what she hopes is the only time tonight. Biting her lip at everyone there, she takes a deep breath, and starts to explain herself.

"I thank you all for attending this Speaking. What you are about to hear is the story of the life of Anakin Skywalker. It is without embellishment or change, simply the truth."

And with that, and another long pause, she begins.

( Anakin Skywalker. Darth Vader.... )

tea-and-honor.livejournal.com

Once again, enter the oriental lady of indeterminate, and unpredictable, age. She is still in Kimono, and looks down at her hidden feet with an expression of amusement before shaking her head and making her way toward the bar.

He steps click when she walks.

spectral-skin.livejournal.com

Angelo comes in with his guitar, props it against the bar ready for the night's performance in an hour or two, gets a drink and sits down.

He scans the room for anyone he knows.

mockingbird-law.livejournal.com

Gentle footsteps into the bar, eyes behind glasses reading over an article in the old-fashioned news paper he's reading. The sound of his environment changes, he realizes he's not in his room, as he was planning on, but the bar instead. He smiles faintly, and folds up the paper to slip into an inner pocket of his coat as he heads for the bar.

A speculative glance at the counter top, and he pulls a bit of money from a pocket, and sets it carefully down on the surface. "Just a cup of coffee, please. Black." Its not quite taken in stride just yet, when the money disappears and the coffee appears. He takes a deep breath, picking up the cup. "Thank you."

He takes a sip, and glances around the place. Mostly quite, a few people enjoying quite drinks, and a musician skillfully playing on a guitar. His eyes alight on the windows to the end of the universe, and with a curious raised brow, he walks over.

The main lights from the bar area fade by the windows, where the destruction of the stars provide a more fitful glow. He doesn't take a seat, but stands, setting his cup down on a convenient table. The light from dying stars and universes flicker across his face and reflect off his glasses. Hands clasped loosely behind his back, the image of a captain of a ship, from sailing to star, watching the night sky. His thoughts and feelings of the end of the universe are unknown, but the light-clad figure watches in the dimness.

((not on for long, but just feeling artistic, and Atticus tends to cooperate with me for posts like these!))

Current Mood: pensive

mockingbird-law.livejournal.com

And the southern lawyer is back. He's almost getting used to this, entering when not paying that much attention. Another glance around, there's only one or two familiar faces. Horrible luck, he spots one, and heads over towards Dream and his companions.

((clothes? I'd guess- socks, shoes, pants, ... boxers, undershirt, shirt, tie, coat. And glasses.))

mockingbird-law.livejournal.com

With a distracted glance at his pocketwatch, checking the time, and now wondering why the golden watch seems to be broken, he enters. The change of tone in the air, the ground, and the gathering of voices causes him to look up. One brow raised slightly, and with a resigned air, he puts the watch back into a pocket. Though now he's wondering why the bar seems to be missing "today".

lord-of-dreams.livejournal.com

Like a slowly developing photograph he appears. Aside from the flames and faces at the hem of his tattered black robes which continue to fade in and out like half-remembered wisps of memory, he is a study in black and white.

As usual he has his throne, it suits him with its ever-changing facade. Chin on his hand, he watches the patrons.

mockingbird-law.livejournal.com

Out Of Milliways

mockingbird-law.livejournal.com

His glasses off, held in one hand, as he rubs the bridge his nose with the other, stepping in through the entrance. He had been heading to his room this evening. However, a few steps in soon alerts him that no, he's not in Alabama anymore. He glances up, and slips his glasses back on. A faint, wryly twisted grin, and a nod to himself.

"After today, I wouldn't quite be surprised."

And, being all what he's believing this is, he steps over toward the bar.

mockingbird-law.livejournal.com

He was glancing down at an article in a newspaper, folded in his hand, as he stepped through the door. So there was a couple of steps in until he noticed. A glance up, measuring, across the room. The paper is somewhat tucked into the pocket of his coat, and he reaches up to slip off his glasses. One clean, white handkerchief is pulled from the inner pocket of his coat, and he calmly polishes the lenses. The white scrap of fabric is put back, and he slips his glasses back on.

Well.