milliways_bar | Entries tagged with harry monmouth

The walls of Milliways are under attack. Or they're supposed to be. King Harry's working on it, dammit: "ONCE MORE UNTO THE BREACH, DEAR FRIENDS," he says to anyone nearby. "ONCE MORE!"

Unfortunately, so far his troops consist of some faithless cats who looked at him and turned their backs and--for whatever strange reason--a poor deluded man, plainly feverish, who thinks he is Harry of England. Once more unto the breach, he echoes from about ten yards away. (It's absurd and pathetic but there's no time to sort it out now, not with Harfleur so nearly broken.)

Harry's eye falls on another cat, trotting from around the corner of a stable. "When the blast of war blows in our ears," he says encouragingly, "then imitate the action of the TIGER!" Come on, puss, he and the would-be Harry aren't in this battle all alone!

------

Inside, King Harry is at the bar staring down into a tall and generous scotch. It's his second since trying to go out for a ride. He'd stepped out the door and been faced with a pair of runny-nosed madmen clamoring for him to surrender in the name of Harry, England, and St. George.

Dammit Milliways.

And to make matters worse, there's someone sitting at the other end of the bar, looking just like him, and dressed just like him, staring into another tall and generous scotch, with an identical expression of morose yet wryly amused disgust.

He hasn't asked, but already knows who the mirror-stranger would claim to be.

DAMMIT MILLIWAYS.

((It's the IMDB flu! Miguel thinks he's Henry V. Tulio thinks he's Henry V. Henry V thinks he's Henry V. Loki thinks he's Henry V and has adjusted himself to look the part. Two players, four characters--tag whoever you want, just say which Henry(s) you're looking for! Miguel and Tulio are outside making war, Hal and Loki are at the bar drinking hard. And feel free to consider that your character has been exposed, even without tagging this post.))

just_cant_lose

For someone who doesn't like having their stuff messed with, Wilford sure is oblivious to what could happen when he messes with someone else's. His latest prank, needless to say, is not sitting well with Jim, which is why he looks less than pleased today. Also why he takes his phone out of his pocket, and shows a picture on it to Bar.

'I'd like this cake, please. Minus the 'happy birthday'. And you can make the bomb real, if you like....but as you won't, just deliver it to Wilford as is. Thanks.'

There are times for subtlety, and this is not it. That done though, he asks for the time machine specs and starts flicking through things needed to build it.

'Do you have this stuff to hand?'

Bar's silence says no. But then the Lost and Found box appears on the counter. Jim raises his eyebrows at it, and sticks his hand inside.

An iPhone case with Nicolas Cage as the Mona Lisa.
An eight foot cardboard cut out of Will Ferrell.
A package of 1000 communion wafers.
Ticket stubs for a Hanson concert circa. 2009.

'...is there anything actually useful in here?'

The note says, keep going. So against his better judgement, he does.

[Tiny!tag: Vyvyan, Bernard Black]

harryhotspur

Hotspur is sitting in the Bar, slumped low in a chair, her eyes fixed on the place where her door ought to be. She's got her fatigues on on the bottom, just a t-shirt on top, her black curls piled into a haphazard bun on top of her head, but her casual look is belied by the tense set of her shoulders, the sharp, speculative look in her eye.

Indeed, her repose only lasts for a moment or two before she springs to her feet, strides to the wall and slams herself into it, shoulder-first, as if to break down the presently invisible door. (It doesn't work.)

She's getting a little tired of being stuck here.

[ooc: since au week seems to have kicked off early... harry's coming from a modern(ish) au based on a production i saw, where hotspur was-- as you may have guessed-- a woman (and still married to kate. it was a great show). she is coming from early in her canon, and thus is not dead, but bound.]

freedom_is_grey

[OOM: In which a dead king, a Grey Warden, a Crow, and a dog fight a dragon. It goes swimmingly!]

never_promised

It's a thoughtful Harry Monmouth who lingers over his meal today, though he may not look it, doodling idly on a piece of paper. Eventually he looks at the scribbles, laughs to himself, adds a few details and scratches out a few lines of writing, before sauntering over to the message board and pinning it up.

In search of One Dragon, Ogre, or other such Beast, possessed of a fine Hoard, readily to be slain by a Prince.

There's a sinuous, winged, ink-blotty form beneath, that's probably a dragon if you squint.

Harry isn't really looking for a small fortune, but...he's not not looking.

never_promised

((OOM: Hal and Viola have some actual communication, pretty much.))

inanhour

[Sebastian finally starts his trip to Illyria]

It's good, Sebastian (or Roderigo, or Cesario) has decided, that Antonio came with him. Without him, he would have had to rely on good manners and hospitality to get by -- and while he is well-mannered, and the farmers on the road hospitable, the addition of a few coins has eased their way.

Still, Milliways is a welcome surprise, and he settles himself (still dressed in mourning black, though it's gathered its share of brown from dust and mud) at a bar stool.

"Whatever you wish," he says, and is presented with a bowl of beef panang. It's... orange. He pokes it with the included fork, gingerly.

[ooc: if your character knows Cesario (or Viola), please read Sebastian's profile :)]

livinginmyglass

It is high time, Viola realizes, she stops loitering in Milliways and gets back to Illyria. One sign that she has lingered too long: her hair has gotten too long. Not too long for the sake of her disguise-- indeed, many of the gentlemen of Orsino's court prefer theirs long-- but distinctly longer than it was when she left.

So now she may be found sitting at a table in the bar, a bowl and a pair of scissors in front of her. She looks less than confident in how to proceed.

never_promised

((OOMish: After the various IMDB flu adventures, Viola could use a bit of quiet and Hal is supposed to be catching up on 80s music. But they end up on a detour into some other subjects. Also someone should probably explain earphone etiquette to Hal.))

never_promised

Once again, Harry Monmouth wakes up in a nest of used tissues and weird magic-science. This time, though, he properly wakes up, and is properly himself, and like any reasonable person grabs his crown and flees the scene of whatever debauch just happened.

Perhaps an hour later, he reappears, dressed in his usual just-kicking-around-Milliways doublet and hose, blowing his nose into a fresh handkerchief, and settles by the fire with a small bottle of red wine and a beef stew.

He's not sure how he feels about the whole shaving thing. The beard made him look a little older and more kingly. But it's not like he has to look older and more kingly now...

mjolnir_retriever

[Not-exactly-OOM: Thor tries to have a brotherly heart-to-heart with 'Loki'.

...It goes much better than the last one! Admittedly, however, that's not saying much.]

starrydome

Elrond is feeling - well, he is feeling slightly feverish, with a beginning cough and a simmering headache.

What is worse is what is happening to his mind. How it is suddenly lurching, tilting (strange sensations, strange thoughts) and then a-righting itself.

He remembers last time. Vaguely.

What you do when you have a contagious illness is remove yourself from crowds, so he does that, after leaving a warning note to Glorfindel.
(At the end, the Tengwar morphs into a strong of ones and zeroes. He doesn't notice.)

A couple of hours pass. A tall, coughing figure reenters and makes a request at the Bar.
(Why the silly game interface to the AI? Pointless)

A bundle of clothes and a few assorted other items appears. They're taken and the figure disappears into the men's room.

Agent Smith walks through the door, black (and sharpely) dressed, putting on his sunglasses.
Then he puts in the small ear piece.

Nothing.

He stands still, feeling the utter lack of connection.
Then he smiles.
And removes the earpiece.

Well, well, well.

He'll live with the UX changes (hair, ears) if this is the core update.
Oh yes. He will.

never_promised

Loki (forget Harry Monmouth, this is Loki and he's going to keep on being Loki as long as he can) has set up a fortress of...something...at a table near the bar. A fortress of sciencey magic? Special-effectsy junk? Hot drinks and a growing pile of tissues? He wouldn't do this in public if he didn't have to, but this body is sick enough that going back and forth just a few feet between the table and the Bar is exhausting. Definitely not going to be hauling things upstairs to his room.

And what are all these things? Besides the hot drinks and tissues, it's odds and ends that are as close to Asgardian magic tech as he can get out of the Bar. (Sometimes he gets the feeling she's just being stubborn. Come on, what does she mean she can't give him a thoughtmirror crystal? It's a simple request! Ugggh, he doesn't have time to reinvent millennia of technological research.) But even for someone well-versed in Asgardian tech it might be a confusing jumble. That's...probably because he's working on two or three things at once, most of it camouflage for his real project.

Oh. And he's found time to upgrade his style. Can't do much about the hair, but he's gotten rid of the beard. And he's in green and black. It's funny how losing your ability to cast illusions makes you that much more attached to looking like your true self.

never_promised

Loki wakes in someone else's room with a headache. Which isn't so strange. But whose room, how, why? Absolute blankness. No answers. No memory. That's strange. And there's no one else here.

Survey of the room: small. Boring. Ugly. Books on a table by the bed. Doors that presumably lead to closet, hallway, washroom. Clothes scattered around, leather and cloth. A crown sitting on top of a dresser, in front of a mirror.

It isn't until he looks into the mirror that he panics--and it isn't even seeing his face framed with reddish-brown hair, a beard, a scar on one cheek. It's when he flexes his mind to change back to himself and nothing happens, that's when the panic comes in. He stares at his hands, wills them into another form, and nothing happens. The face in the mirror stays the same, the hair, the beard, the nightshirt, nothing changes, and that's--terrifying.

In fact, he can't do anything. Anything at all. He can't stretch his mind past this ugly little room, can't make this physical body do anything more than its most base animal functions. Blink his eyes. Grimace. Laugh. Stand on tiptoes. Jump a few inches. Lift a book, lift a chair, can't lift the bed. Bite his lip until it bleeds. Smile. Frown.

Wipe away the blood.

Strip.

Find new clothes: red velvet robe, leather boots. Dagger. That draws blood too.

Walk to the doorway--and wait, no, not yet.

Pick up that crown, place it on his head. Frown. Smile. Wipe away the blood again--just how fragile is this body? He feels awful, headachy, everything-achy, weak, too hot and too cold.

Frown, smile.

Walk downstairs.

Survey his new territory.

(("Loki" here is coming mentally from the same timeline/universe as our Thor, in a headachy flu-ish way.))

has_it

Hedda Winchell steps in from a busy city street, dressed to impress, the sound of her smart heels hardly missing a beat upon noticing where the door has taken her. She smiles and tucks her sunglasses into her purse as she approaches the counter top. She has time for breakfast, it seems.

A few minutes later, she is settled at a centrally-located table with a cup (and extra carafe) of coffee alongside her plate of toast with fig preserves, reading the morning's New York Times and chuckling softly to herself.

Some days, every section is the funny pages.

never_promised

Hal has totally 100% been around the bar this whole time and not stalled away in some corner in the back of the mun's head due to lack of inspiration. Totally, 100%. Which is why it isn't a surprise to see him stroll in for a meal now. What is surprising, at least to him, is that instead of the venison pie and sack he orders, he gets soup and a shoulder of lamb, a vase of daffodils, and a particularly fresh and sprightly leek.

Oh, so it's like that, Bar, is it? It's like that? Fine. We'll do this. Harry Monmouth asks for a knitted wool cap and a sturdy pin, and places his leek. For a memorable honor.

never_promised

A summer spent hunting in the woods has done quite a bit to shake off Hal's post-death blues. There's just nothing as good as letting the sun set your hours, living off your own strength and skills, no one watching you, no one giving or expecting orders...

...except maybe lounging around a booth in a bar, music playing from one of those little tablet devices, smoking a cigarette, with a good-sized flagon of sack in front of you, watching Milliways happen all around. Yeah, that's all right too.

Go ahead and bother the lazy asshole.

never_promised

Some time in the late afternoon, a cloaked man with a bow in hand and a leather sack slung over his shoulder slips through the door and makes his way upstairs. An hour or two later, a showered, clean-clothed, trimmed and shaved and smiling Harry Monmouth reappears in the main room and takes up a seat with a good view of the length of the bar.

"Dame Bar," he says grandly, "Do you add to Harry Monmouth's reckoning the next score of orders given you. Beginning with mine own--some sack!"

Drink up folks, Hal's buying.

((Oh man, apologies for the slowness. Flu vaccine reaction hit me yesterday and everything hurts.))

never_promised

"By God," Henry the Fifth of England muttered to no one in particular a little while ago, "if Wales should carry the day, I'll take me through the hall clad in naught but her banner."

So blame it on a post-life crisis, blame it on football, blame it on alcohol, blame it on Bar producing a sizeable flag at the moment the full-time whistle blew. Blame it on Henry choosing to be a man of his word. But here's a tall man draped in green, white, and red, running through the barroom with a whoop and a holler.

He's hoping to make it to a door before anyone stops him.

fieryface

Jamie is a touch embarrassed thinking back to his first appearance in the bar. He suspects-- he knows-- he did not exactly make the kind of impression he'd have wanted on the people he met. (Though he consoles himself with the knowledge that he only told one of them he is a king, and thus only once failed to live up to that lofty standard.)

As he sits in the bar now, therefore, he keeps an eye out for anyone he spoke to while he was still... let's say confused about his surroundings: perched on the edge of a barstool, eyes scanning the room, long fingers drumming on the edge of the bar.

And simultaneously, he tries not to look too on edge, in case he should encounter anyone new. (He should, he thinks, probably order something to eat, to look more normal. But he doesn't.)

harryhotspur

[oom: Hotspur arrests Hal for beating up Jim. He's still not really clear on why it happened, though.

Visit post here!]

just_cant_lose

OOM:

Oh darling, let's be kings
I'm a killer in a crown

Jim enters the bar...no. That's not right.

James Moriarty enters the bar, and he's wearing the Crown Jewels.

Personally, he thinks he's never looked more fabulous. The crown is heavier than it looks on the Queen, and the gown is fucking hot in both senses of the word. The sceptre is nicely weighted, and will make an excellent back-scratcher, probably. But for now, Moriarty surveys the room with a regal eye...then cackles a laugh, draws his gown around him and swirls off towards the bar.

'Something very British I think today, darling,' he says, in his full Irish drawl.

Bar provides a plate of fish and chips, and a pint of bitter. He laughs again, and admires his reflection in the mirror over the rear counter. Looks, and then raises the glass in a toast to himself.

'God save the Queen.'

[OOC: I am literally here all night as I'm watching the results of the referendum come in, and this post is open alllll weekend. Jim's not here to play English any more, unless there's some reason it suits him better. <3]

Current Music: Rossini - La Gazza Ladra ('The Thieving Magpie')

fieryface

Here's the look of a newcomer: a boy with wide eyes, a look of white-faced (well, mostly white, white save the splash of red, a birthmark that spreads across half his face, his forehead and his cheek) fear. He's eighteen, maybe, clothes old-fashioned in a way that's not necessarily easy to precisely place.

"Ah, fuck," Jamie says under his breath. This doesn't look like any nightmare he's ever had, but what else could it be? He was so sure he was awake, but maybe he hasn't really been awake all day?

Maybe, he thinks-- maybe he only thought he got up and had breakfast and sat sighing through the boring privy council until they asked him to sign his name-- but really none of that happened at all, and he's been asleep all along.

Seeing as this is a dream, and the usual kinds of logic can't be counted on, it doesn't occur to him to try to pass back through the door behind him. So he moves in instead, glancing about him with sharp, nervous looks. He's very tall, even when he hunches his shoulders up and seems to be trying to make himself smaller. The big window, the big window with the bright light of an explosion behind it, catches his eye.

"Fuck," he says again, softly.

livinginmyglass

When Viola's view screen pops up, she lets out an involuntary gasp and immediately hunches over to shield it from view: for there , next to the options to become a fox and a-- robot?--, is the option to become a boy. What are you trying to do, Bar, give her away?

...but then again...

She presses the button. Outwardly, nothing much changes. She always did look uncannily like her brother, after all.

Outwardly.

[ooc: moderate slowtimes, especially over the weekend, but since she hasn't been around in a while, open 'til whenever!]

just_cant_lose

Jim enters the bar today looking entirely normal, and not like he wants to skin anyone alive at all. He’s jumpy though, tired around the eyes and they flit around the bar as if both looking for someone, and scoping out the surroundings for trouble. Or perhaps like he’d just like to start some, because the fourth date went great until it didn’t, and now he’s got a whole new thing to be furious about.

Whatever. He gets a coffee and his chess game from Bar and goes to perch on a chair by the Window, staring out into the void like it holds all the answers. Which it probably does, but that doesn’t make him twitch any less.

[OOC: Tons of smut in the link, but it doesn’t start for 100 tags or so if you’re here for the snark and lies. Post open through the weekend.]