milliways_bar | Entries tagged with ganymede

It has been a very long time since Ganymede has been back in the bar. This time he's not surrounded by glasses or drink bottles or...oddly, any real accoutrements of the bar life. He's instead surrounded by a short stack of open books nested into each other, a slim laptop open to some other text, and a paper notebook he's writing in with elegant script handwriting.

He's frankly surprised he's never thought of anything like teaching before: he knows history, and he's certainly lived through enough to know what information is biased, or omitting something, or just plain wrong. Maybe it will be a good endeavor.

the_cupbearer

Ganymede steps through the bar door backwards, pushing it open with his hip as he balances two crates heavy with glass bottles on his other side. He carries it easily even if they weigh eighty-odd pounds. He smiles at the bar when he realizes this isn't his own establishment, and the smile turns into a laugh as he sets the crates down on the bar top.

"That ought to be enough to cover me for a drink or two, don't you think so?" he asks the bar, rubbing the polished surface with gentle fingertips. "It's been a while." Years, he knows, though he still looks the same as ever, long hair plaited back, freckles sprayed across his nose and cheekbones, young and beautiful and...frankly, desirable. He knows that too.

Find him at the bar with a glass in hand, sweet-smelling alcohol making the ice in the glass swirl and clink. Welcome back to Milliways.

starrydome

He is restless, the Lord of Rivendell. There is a heaviness in the air, an unease spreading through the trees and in the water.

The world is holding its breath it seems and every little thing seems heavy and full of meaning.

He is relieved when he opens the door to his study and finds himself in Milliways.

He heads first outside, to the shooting range, to see if the cold air and having to focus completely on a physical task, will have an effect, having borrowed a bow and a quiver from Bar.

Later, he sits at the fireplace, with a cup of mulled wine.

Later still, wrapped up against the cold, he stands in the porch, watching the unknown stars.

{I had to - post and run}

the_cupbearer

On the darkest, longest night of the year, Ganymede rarely sleeps. He mostly waits, patiently anticipating the return of the sun, admittedly weak but bringing life-giving warmth nonetheless. There used to be parties for this, loud and raucous ones with music and drinking and merriment to chase away the cold night, full of the terrifying unknown. There will be one later: even when he came through the bar things were being made ready for the merriment of spirits, the celebration of having turned in the year's cycle, ready to begin again.

But right now, in the icy, inky pre-dawn dark, there is just Ganymede. Alone, hands in his coat pockets as he watches the multiverse of stars blink and shine.

He whistles a low, gently crooning and faintly haunting song, as if to push back the darkness for another year.

magic_by_accident

If it is possible to play darts pensively, then John Constantine is playing darts pensively.

Or perhaps he's pensive as he plays darts.

His mind isn't on the darts, anyway, which is why only most of them fly true.

star_bespangled

No.

Urania storms in, clad in an Elizabethan period dress, scowling, barely noticing that she’s in Milliways.

How can this idiot John Milton, whoever he is, invoke her to inspire an epic poem? That’s Calliope’s job. And a poem about the Christian God, no less?

The first time she’s been invoked by name in years, and it’s for a gods-damned poem.

A bar rat, seeming to understand, comes over with a glass of wine. Urania takes it without a second thought.

the_cupbearer

Ganymede is seated outside under one of the tree slowly shedding its leaves, comfortable in the grass with several tools spread around him: a set of small, sharp chisels and an awl, along with several tack-cloths and two lengths of bleach-white bone.

Though they lack any connecting ends, they're each about the right length for a human femur.

He's humming as he works, a snatch of song he remembers from somewhere, but can't remember where. He'll play it sometime, when he finishes setting and drilling the holes in these.

the_cupbearer

Ganymede is in the bar today with a cigarette and a book open on the table in front of him, a square scrap of muslin lined with embroidery stitches, and a thin, sharp needle looped with cream-colored thread.

The shirt on his lap, into which the needle is currently stuck, is old. The linen is yellowed and soft and patched, but it's one he's very fond of. But this is the downside of being his age; sometimes the techniques used to repair things are so old nobody uses them anymore.

Hence the practicing.

librarian_errant

Books and libraries are things which Alustin is quite familiar. He is also quite wary around them, knowing they are some of the most fascinating and dangerous places. He also knows this is not his library, which is not entirely unexpected. Kanderon--head librarian and planar mage--did in fact warn him he'd be going to another world to deliver a book. But she had also said that world had a lower ambient magic threshold than theirs and so to be cautious with his use of magic.

Alustin can feel the strong ambient magic of this library and so is getting the feeling he is in the wrong place.

Distracted by his thoughts (always a dangerous thing to do in any library), he doesn't realize he's nearly stumbled into a pair of nesting books until they rise into the air and attack him. He dodges the first few dives in time before turning heel and running, yelling warnings for any to here. He's hoping that if he gets far enough away the books will break off their attack.

So far he has not been lucky.

[ting tag: Alustin Haber]

magnus_archivist

The door opens, nudged slowly by a foot in sensible and (somewhat) fashionable leather loafers. A man who clearly at some point knew what 'upper management' office wear in a fairly image-conscious facility was supposed to wear but who had to buy both on a budget and in a bit of a hurry backs through the door, balancing a large stack of paper files in his arms, topped by a tape recorder.

"No I... look, it's fine, I'll just... no, no, Martin, don't, I don't need... no it's... yes, a cup of tea would be fine, thank you." He huffs, teetering on the edge of trying to be polite and utterly exasperated as he retreats through the door.

It's only when it closes that he realizes that this isn't his office.

Welcome to Milliways, Jonathan Sims.

the_cupbearer

Out back of the bar, early in the morning--the sun hasn't properly risen yet, only the tint of a lighter sky flirting with the horizon--Ganymede is dancing. It's a strange dance, one performed without a partner: he holds a long baton in one hand as he twists and whirls gracefully. His feet step and shift and brace with a terrible ease, not missing a motion in the soft sand as fading starlight glimmers off the lake's surface.

It would be entertaining, peaceful even, if one didn't look carefully at the sweeping motions of that baton and could see the similarity to a reaper's scythe and the deadly motions thereof. The short sword lying a few steps away might reinforce that idea.

Mind you watch your ankles.

i_am_your_host

Everyone who has come into the bar during the past week or so has received an invitation on a little white card along with whatever they ordered. Some may know who sent it; some, perhaps, even after all this time, may not. Either way, all are welcome. It reads:

Join me, one and all
For a most fabulous and fantastic farewell
New Year's Eve Celebration!

Food - Drinks - Music - Karaoke
Come as you are
Take the stairs or the lift to the 2nd floor
And follow the trail of glitter - you can't miss it!

(All-Night Dance Party begins at Midnight)

Yours always,
The Master of Ceremonies

Won't you join him in ringing in the New Year?

The trail of glitter snakes down the hallway and leads to a pair of black double doors, a WILLKOMMEN - BIENVENUE - WELCOME sign posted on the left hand side. Once you step into the wide, expansive room, you are transported to what seems like an era between eras, a past that has blended with the present.

In the warmly lit interior, classic cabaret tables -- adorned with little lamps with red satin shades -- cluster around a hardwood dance floor, above which several beautiful orbs and mirror balls slowly rotate, casting sparkles of light like snowflakes.

Emcee will be flitting around like the social dragonfly that he is, wearing a black leather bow tie choker, and a white tank top festooned with kisses made out of red sequins. His makeup is, of course, impeccable.

[OOC: Millitimed to December 31. OPEN FOREVER]

the_cupbearer

Out back of the bar, Ganymede is dancing. It's a strange dance, one performed without a partner: he holds a long baton in one hand as he twists and whirls gracefully. His feet step and shift and brace with a terrible ease, not missing a step in the soft grass as late summer sun glints off the lake's surface.

It would be entertaining, peaceful even, if one didn't look carefully at the sweeping motions of that baton and could see the similarity to a reaper's scythe and the deadly motions thereof.

Despite the soundbox giving the music to his motions, he's quite easily interrupted. He may even try to teach you the dance if you ask.

i_am_your_host

Is Milliways weather finally getting hot enough for milkshakes?

Does it really matter?

Because after getting the Bar's call of duty on a napkin, Emcee sets up a boozy milkshakes happy hour for which he had been industriously preparing. With a mixer ready to go, a supply of mixing cups at hand, and all the required ingredients chilling in the refrigerator, he writes the menu on the board.

Boozy Milkshakes Happy Hour!

Devil's Ecstasy
lots of chocolate; whiskey

Peach Gobbler
lots of peach; brandy

Morning Glory
lots of coffee; Guinness & Irish cream

Cunning Linguist
it's very pink; cherry schnapps & rum

Missionary
so vanilla; vodka

Boozy Sundaes

Deep Throat
banana with hazelnut, peanut butter, whiskey caramel, rum syrup

69 Split
above ingredients but with the banana artfully arranged

(all can be made non-boozy)

Emcee is not responsible for explaining these names to children who ask about them.

the_cupbearer

When Ganymede crosses the threshold of the bar today, he looks like he might have just rolled out of bed--and not in the artfully-tousled presentable way. He only stops by the bar long enough to collect a small cosmetics case and a mirror, and all but fall into a chair with a drink courtesy the rats. He's clean-shaven, which would greatly aid in him passing for feminine were he not shirtless and also not possessed of breasts.

The makeup would help, if it were the glamorous kind: as it is, it's only foundation and setting powder currently being gently applied to a number of bruises around his face and shoulders.

The whiskey glass on the table by his mirror and the cigarette held delicately between two fingers aren't really helping yet, no.

i_am_your_host

The last thing Dr. Dylan Reinhart remembers, at least vaguely so, is going to his room to sleep off an oncoming cold.

When he wakes up, he feels worse. Ugh.

Groggy and miserable, he changes out of his pajamas and into the tailored suit that's been laid out. Shirt, tie, sweater vest. None of the patterns or colors match, but oddly enough he makes it work in an elegantly offbeat way. Italian leather oxfords round out the ensemble.

He comes downstairs into the main bar, adjusting his pocket handkerchief (he has a feeling he'll be needing it as the sniffles, sneezing, and coughing persist). After ordering some tea and chicken soup, he tucks a cloth napkin into the collar of his vest, and settles down to eat.

As demure as he is, as engrossed in his meal as he is, and even as ill as he is, he still keeps his wits about him, observing who is in the room and where, the exits and windows (including the really Big Window). He can't exactly recall why he's like this. His memory is rather muddled at the moment. Which is annoying. And it's making him feel more ill than necessary.

[OOC: Have Emcee thinking he's Dylan Reinhart from Instinct.]

golden_lyre

There's a musician in the bar today near the Observation Window. He has a snifter of pear brandy to hand, but at the moment, he's settled with his guitar in his lap, playing a song of endings and the relief of lying down after a very long day.

It's not so much hopeful as aspirational.

feed_the_lost

Will sits at the back of the bar, back to the wall. He has a copy of the bar explanation pamphlet in hand, tapping it rhythmic on the scarred wood of the table.

He's watching the comings and goings from behind hooded eyes. He may not be good company but he's still trying to understand the place.

{ooc: new mun/new Will.}

chambermusicandtenpins

There is a middle-aged man in an old-fashioned suit walking around the bar that has never been there before. He doesn't seem confused or uneasy, however, and wanders about as if he were perfectly comfortable being there -- and, even more so, as if everything about him was simply fascinating. He spends a great deal of time at the observation window, peering out at the stars collapsing outside, but he also seems keen to look at the trappings of the bar itself.

When he does eventually take a seat at the bar itself, he seems to quickly get into a short, pleased conversation with the bar itself, seeming delighted when his ever sentence is answered by a cocktail napkin with scribbled words.

the_cupbearer

Ganymede is at the bar.

With a glass. It has yet to stay empty for very long (bless the sentience of a magic bar that understands ridiculously high alcohol tolerances) and it probably won't be put aside for a long while yet. But while the glass occupies one hand, in the other is a hair clasp--a honeybee, made of gold and citrine and quartz--that he seems to be pondering over, rubbing his thumb against one of the glittery studded wings contemplatively.

There's also a napkin, miraculously dry, under his glass that's steadily matching his number of drinks with tiny tally marks on the paper, drawn as if by an unseen hand. Who knows, he might even be amused at the inevitable outcome of someone pointing out how many he's had.

thewidewideworld

Note left at the bar for Security -

( message reads... )

{ooc: plot locked for now. Warnings, lots of warnings - discussions of violence, threatened sexual violence, Greek gods being dicks.}

the_cupbearer

It's been a long while since Ganymede has come into the bar injured without his consent. But today he comes inside from the lake cradling one arm to his chest, wrist and hand obviously broken. The other hand has some issues too, dislocated fingers by the look of it, but they're easier to handle.

It has not been a good day, and he's going to need the infirmary before he comes back to the bar for a drink. He's going to need the drink too.

Catch him sitting cradling a half-full glass of alcohol on the couch, wearing a compression glove on one hand and a long wrist brace on the other. He kinda looks like shit, yes.

quick_clean_pure

At some point after the wasp's effects wear off, expect to see a piece of sunbleached newspaper stapled to the wall, right next to Graverobber's similar previous flyer.

FOR THE RECORD, I AM STILL SELLING DRUGS.

I HAVE DRUGS THAT I AM WILLING TO TRADE FOR MONEY, GOODS, AND BAR TABS.

WHATEVER THE HELL HAPPENED LAST WEEK WAS TEMPORARY AND THE OPPOSITE OF MY ACTUAL FEELINGS ON THE SUBJECT OF SELLING DRUGS.

YOU CAN FIND ME HANGING AROUND THE BAR DRINKING BEER IF YOU ARE INTERESTED. ALTERNATELY, LEAVE ME A NOTE.

Also, for clarity for anyone looking to purchase, I am the tall goth-looking guy with multicolored hair and a coat that looks like I pulled it out of a pile of garbage.

Graverobber can, indeed, be found sitting at the bar drinking beer and looking very annoyed.

the_cupbearer

Ganymede is in the bar today with a good length of thin paracord rope and a steel ball, weaving a design that will withstand a significant amount of force when swung. It's a sap, essentially, but light enough to carry on a keychain or in a pocket without being obvious.

Every so often as he's weaving he tests it by swinging it rapidly around and around, hearing it whirr through the air before it slaps into his palm, ensuring the steel ball at the end won't slip out of its harness. The other end is done already, there being a stiff handle only slightly longer than his palm is wide with an offset finger ring at the end. So far, so good: he feels sure the thing is sturdy enough to be useful.

Feel free to bother him as he works on that, or the much more delicate wire ring taking shape around his thumb.

the_cupbearer

Ganymede spins into the bar with an accompaniment of loud, chest-thrumming music and the noise that comes with thousands of bodies all crushed together in the same space. He's smiling, too, as he brushes fingers through his hair and happily accepts the intrusion and sudden relative quiet of the bar: he definitely needs a drink, and probably more than water. He's dressed a little more gender-fluid than normal in skintight jeans that give him the illusion of wider hips, and a long fringed shirt that exposes skin up to his ribs.

Occasionally he needs to be wild.