25 August 2017 @ 09:04 pm
 
 
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]
 
 
11 August 2017 @ 10:10 am
 
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.]
 
 
29 May 2017 @ 10:56 am
 
[OOM: In which a dead king, a Grey Warden, a Crow, and a dog fight a dragon. It goes swimmingly!]
 
 
22 May 2017 @ 09:37 am
 
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.
 
 
 
12 April 2017 @ 03:40 pm
 
[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 :)]
 
 
07 April 2017 @ 12:24 pm
EP  
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.
 
 
05 April 2017 @ 11:55 am
 
((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.))
 
 
29 March 2017 @ 11:00 am
 
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...
 
 
17 March 2017 @ 06:40 pm
 
[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.]
 
 
15 March 2017 @ 06:39 am
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.
 
 
14 March 2017 @ 11:01 am
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.
 
 
11 March 2017 @ 10:27 am
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.))
 
 
06 March 2017 @ 09:41 am
 
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.
 
 
01 March 2017 @ 03:57 pm
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.
 
 
22 September 2016 @ 12:39 pm
 
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.
 
 
02 September 2016 @ 08:52 am
 
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.))
 
 
01 July 2016 @ 06:08 pm
"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.
 
 
29 June 2016 @ 12:49 pm
 
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.)