milliways_bar | Entries tagged with hotspur (harry percy)

Jim looks far more chilled than the last time he was downstairs. Okay, black leather still makes up the majority of his appearance - because it always does - but he looks far less sharp, far less strung out, and perhaps on the verge of relaxed. He's commandeered a sofa by the fire this time, lying over it and strumming an acoustic guitar, quietly singing some old blues tunes.

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.]

harryhotspur

After depositing William in the cells, Harry leaves a message at the Bar:

Friends of William Douglas may this day and night find him in the cells, where they have leave to visit him.

Harry himself can be found not far away if anyone has questions-- or just wants to chat.

likeroaringlions

"--Papal envoy! A fucking papal envoy. The fucking envoy to fucking Rome!"

It's one of those entrances where the person is so busy shouting back over his shoulder that he doesn't realize he's walked into Milliways. When he does realize it, William Douglas stares wildly around the room and shouts again: "SO YOU'D BETTER WATCH THE FUCK OUT!"

Then he stalks to the bar.

((See backroom post. Warnings for violence and homophobia in the threads.))

mjolnir_retriever

Some people, if they were in the bar when Jim Moriarty was last around, might have noticed a few events. Such as Jim getting his baseball bat smashed by a magic hammer, and Jim himself getting carted off to the cells.

(Thor is many things, but subtle is rarely one of them.)

Some time later, Thor emerges from the Security office, with a look of suppressed exasperated annoyance that makes him look rather like a very shiny and warrior-like teacher of thirteen-year-olds.

He leaves two notes with Bar. The first is a note from Jim to Sherlock, written in pink crayon: Locked up again, darling. Two nights. You don't have to visit, but can if you like. xxx

The second is one to X: My friend, I trust that you and yours are well. I wished to inform you that I have arrested Jim Moriarty for violence attempted upon an innocent creature in the bar. My sentence was two days in the cells, but if you wish to alter it to something you find more creatively fitting, I make no objection. I did not increase his sentence for being annoying, but I was sorely tempted. By my hand, Thor Odinson.

[OOC: First link goes to an EP that contains animal abuse; second link just goes to a visiting post for Moriarty in the cells. He'll be there for two days, and it's open to visitors! Edit: probably going to be at least some references to animal abuse in the Wilford thread in the comments to this post, too.]

tu_vas_triompher

((After all that IMDB flu business, Harry and Feuilly catch up with each other and decide to go out for some fresh air away from the germs. (Or to rebalance their humors.) They find the Labyrinth, and end up with some flashbacky bodyswappy strangeness: Feuilly finds himself at a point in Harry's past and Harry finds himself at a point in Feuilly's.))

just_cant_lose

As he suspected he would, Jim caught Sherlock's - heh, Rory's - stupid bloody cold. He went to bed angry, frustrated, and sick to the back teeth of this entire bloody bar.

He wakes up with a Welsh accent, a body that feels weirdly exhausted, and a whooooole lot of surprise at finding himself in a bedroom that is not wallpapered in Laura Ashley, cluttered with years' worth of books and theatre junk. Gethin has never set foot in a room so opulent, and so incomprehensible to him. He spends a good hour looking at the clothes, the books, the...frankly pornographic, yet extremely beautiful...photography on the wall of the library (the centrepiece of which involves his own face, and the blurred figure of a much taller man in the background. He doesn't look at it for long.) Everything is very, very weird.

In short, Gethin Roberts does not have a bloody clue what's going on. But at least there are clothes he recognises - comfortably 80s in style - and if the cold he's got means he can't go searching Jonathan out, at least there appears to be a...bar, downstairs?

What. The Actual. Hell.

[OOC: getting in under the wire! Open until the end of March. :)]

mjolnir_retriever

( Thor has been feeling steadily more ill. )

Kevin jogs downstairs. He's found himself a plaid shirt and skinny tie and tight jeans somewhere. His hair has grown -- which is weird -- but he's decided he rather likes the resultant ability to pull off a man-bun.

"Remodeling," he says to the room, with only mild bemusement. "Nice."

But oh man, there's a bar here, and there's no one behind it. Right, no worries. He knows what to do!

You'll find Kevin sitting behind the bar in perfect comfort, ignoring all passersby unless directly addressed, leafing through a magazine. There's a Welcome To Milliways pamphlet at his elbow, thrown carelessly on top of the office-style phone that's also appeared there, and a pair of glasses frames on his face.

Up on the Specials board, it says simply:

Drinks

not_his_pa

"But my Lady Bar, I must have a sword. How shall I defend myself or my king without one?" D'Artagnan sighs, sneezes into the handkerchief he has as he stares at the unhelpful note.

"I will drink a posset since you ask it but this isn't right," He takes up the warm drink she offers him and goes to sulk by the fire, his shirt doesn't seem as warm as it should be and he dislikes feeling so weak and unarmed. At least she provided him with clothing that suits him rather than those drab things he found in the room he awoke in.

harryhotspur

[oom: Harry loses his temper, then wakes up not quite feeling like himself.]

Smoking with the flu-- it's a stupid thing to do, and Ashley knows that, but first off, he's still pretty sure this is all a dream, and second, dream or not, the place is unsettling enough that he can do with something routine and calming. So he's standing just out back behind the bar, looking more than a little under the weather (pale and feverish, red nose, every couple drags on the cigarette punctuated by a barking cough), but perfectly alert, aware of everyone who passes by.

For all that he bears Harry Percy's face and frame (and he hasn't quite worked that one out, except as another element of the dream, why should suddenly be so much younger, and be in the kind of shape he was definitely never in, even in his twenties), he doesn't carry himself in anything like a Percy-ish manner. He leans idly against the back wall of the bar, jeans and a leather jacket, a checked shirt and a bland jumper. And the cigarettes. He has an approachable look-- not Harry's resting scowl-- he'll probably share.

[harry currently believes himself to be ashley cowgill from the TV series happy valley. i'll be on slowtimes for today, but around properly tomorrow and through the weekend]

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.))

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.

harryhotspur

Harry and Feuilly tried to go the Labyrinth. He'd been assured it was dangerous and exciting. Instead, he found-- well, a labyrinth, true, but after the fashion of his own time: a great candle-lit cathedral with a labyrinth laid in stone into the floor.

That was not what he was looking for.

So he's not necessarily in the best of moods as he sits at booth one afternoon, but it's completely within the bell curve of Harry Percy Grumpiness. He's even got his security badge on, too, for once. (Possibly it has spend several months missing in the bottom of a spare boot but listen such details are not important.)

But Bar, reliable as ever, has given him something to occupy his mind. He just has to figure out how you're meant to eat it.

lark_in_flight

You -- yes, you, whoever you are -- got an invitation to the party. All of Milliways is welcome!

If you choose to come, you'll find Bar directing you to a big round tent that went up this afternoon on the lawn outside the bar. Marius and Cosette and various friends spent a lot of time this morning ferrying decorations in, and the waitrats spent a lot of time in the afternoon ferrying food in, but the doors won't officially open until close to sunset.

But this isn't a cheap white plastic tent, oh no. It's warm and domed and made of thick fabric, something like a very large yurt. A bit of magic keeps out the drafts, making everything extra cozy.

There's a fire in the middle of the floor, with a low screen encircling it but also magic meaning that this fire puts of warmth but will not actually burn anything, even if you step right into it. The floor is wood -- great for dancing, if you feel like it! There's a piano over against the wall for anyone who wants to make some music.

Everywhere there are garlands of European evergreen branches and herbs, studded with bright dried fruit and sparkling ornaments. (Mistletoe might very well be among them, though the Pontmercies haven't thought to supply that as an intentional party game.) There are candles and lanterns everywhere, and a big chandelier. There are no electric lights at all -- it's all fire -- but a good number of them are magical, so that nothing's going to get set on fire or covered with smoke. The general intended impression is of genteel, welcoming festivity, in a very French and very early 19th century European way.

There are food and drinks galore. Come in and enjoy the party!

[OOC: Party-style post! Subthreads for various categories and activities, etc. Open from now until whenever!

Edit: As of Joly's arrival, Cosette now has a mini-polaroid camera. Fear, Milliways. Feel free to assume that she's popped up to take a candid picture of your character(s) at any point, as long as they're not doing or wearing anything scandalous! She will happily give the resulting picture to your character if they want; it probably won't be a very good picture, in terms of composition or focus, but it will be cheerfully enthusiastic.]

tire_moi_mes_bottes

[elfwarning]

It's not a properly proper Happy Hour: even though Lesgle has been practicing in the kitchen since he saw the notes about the Elf Problem, he still needs Bar's help with the cooking. But he's taken over the space behind the bar and has put up specials:

Salade niçoise
Pissaladière
Socca
Ratatouille

I recommend the ratatouille or the pissaladière, as Mme. Bar is responsible for their production; I myself am attempting the salad and the chickpea crêpes. Brace yourselves for disaster!

All meals are gratis, but donations to funds for young patrons, bound residents, or the Milliways Scouts would be welcome. A disclaimer before anyone gets the wrong impression: I am not from Nice nor have I ever set foot there. It keeps moving: one treaty or another has picked up that fine old city and relocated it variously to the Duchy of Savoy, the French Republic, the French Empire (hideous phrase!), the Kingdom of Piedmont-Sardinia, et cetera. Mirabile dictu. But I am given to understand that we have orders from on high: Be Nice. And further I am given to understand that these are Nice dishes to share. And so you have it. Soyons gentils.

While he cooks and serves up plates, he's chatting with a collection of the wretched doll things. How do you do, my you look lovely today, and how is your grand-mother, is your bunion still troubling you, what a handsome hat you have there, it really brings out the color of your eyes.

As they disappear, he rounds up more to take their place. Ugh. Nasty things, spies, but at least these ones are easy to spot and easy to send away.

((Open until whenever! Thread-hopping welcomed and encouraged!))

harryhotspur

[oom: harry percy and william douglas go to scotland, in three parts.]

Harry hardly feels like he was away at all (of course, maybe he wasn't-- it was only two days or so in Scotland, and perhaps was the same amount of time here) and now he's back. And he's, he-- he--

He doesn't know how he feels, which naturally means he soon works his way back around to grumpy. So it's a familiar sight, really: Harry Percy, sitting at the bar looking irritated.

At least he managed to keep the sword.

likeroaringlions

Well. After some galvanizing conversations with Hotspur and with Jim Moriarty, young William Douglas is all on fire to go Do a Thing. Fight a Fight. Raise some Hell. So he's packed up, and made his goodbyes to Jamie, and now he's stopping by the Bar to be sure his tab is all paid. (...And Jamie's, to cover him for some time yet.)

Hm. He should probably leave Jim a note, since he's promised his help getting stuff up the mountain and now he's leaving. On the other hand, Jim can take care of himself. So--eh, whatever. Anyway, with any luck, he'll be back in Milliways soon. There's got to be another way into this place somewhere, right?

William shoulders his bag and makes for his door.

Exit post, but feel free to catch him before he goes.

likeroaringlions

It's a cheerful William Douglas who shows up in Milliways today. A napkin-message from the Bar in answer to a question about his tab doesn't dent the mood: he siiiighs and rolls his eyes--but pulls out a purse and starts laying down coins with evident pleasure. There, that should see him paid up here, and covered for a fair bit more.

Business done, he orders a meal and a drink and settles himself expansively at the bar.

freedom_is_grey

Apprentices are exhausting. Ysalwen herself couldn't have been like this, right? She was quiet and biddable and . . . .

A fountain of repressed rage and disappointment, okay, yes.

Which means she ought to be able to work with her current apprentice fountain of badly-repressed rage and disappointment, the former saarebas who has chosen the name Meraad for herself. It's a good name, particularly for someone who now lives on the coast, and who can see the sea any time she likes. Particularly the sea crashing over rocks and pulling the unwary down with the power of its undertow.

They've been working on turning that rage in constructive directions, but it's -- difficult. Explaining hope and freedom to someone born under the Qun -- it's difficult. But at least she's letting herself feel angry now.

Which is why Ysalwen, having changed out of her recently-charred robes -- training exercises are no joke when working with someone having a particular set of skills and the will to use them -- is poring over old scrolls and tomes, looking for suggestions in how to -- well.

How to train a battlemage. Effectively. (Some heavy adaptation is likely to happen, because . . . the Chantry has never been unbiased. Nor have most of the mages serving in the Circle. Ah well.)

Liranan is napping at her feet. He has never been charred at all. Not by Meraad, anyway. It's something.

so_many_crystals

The latest arrival through the door is... uh. It sure looks like a velociraptor!

But not the kind you'd design if you had, for example, paid attention to paleontological discoveries over the past twenty-odd years. Not even the kind you'd design if you'd read the Wikipedia entry on velociraptors. This is, instead, the kind of velociraptor you'd design if you'd just watched Jurassic Park approximately a dozen times.

It's brown. It's got pebbly scales. It's got huge sharp claws. It's got beady yellow eyes. It's got extremely pointy teeth.

It's also got an assortment of miscellaneous objects (including a briefcase, a duffle bag, two small cardboard boxes, a notebook, a pencil case, and a complete set of grilling implements) strapped to its back, and a weird-looking remote control held together with duct tape clutched in one set of wicked claws. So it's probably not actually from Jurassic Park.

"HAHAHA! MY BRILLIANT PLAN HAS -- succeeded?"

"--SUCCEEDED!"

Dr. Dinosaur, meet Milliways. Milliways, meet Dr. Dinosaur.

[OOC: Okay, I yield, I yield: I must sleep. You are all wonderful. <333 This post is still open, but I probably won't be able to pick up tags until tomorrow night EST.]

harryhotspur

There's no use, is there, in trying to sort out how time works in Milliways: in how it can have been a year and not a year; how time can continue at one pace here and another out there; how Madam Bar knows to mark dates that don't quite align in the timestream of Milliways and that of the world.

Which is to say, when Henry Percy sits down at the Bar this morning, a little cupcake appears before him-- yellow cake, with a blue sugar diamond on the top. And on the napkin beneath, the date is written, very small, in the corner-- Bar perhaps having (correctly) guessed that Harry is not the type to take a careful note of the days.

But this is a date he knows well. Even before the battle, he thought to mark it-- he knew, come what may, it would be a day upon which others would turn, an occasion worth marking, for good or ill. It hadn't quite occurred to him, somehow, that he would not live through it to mark it.

It's the anniversary of the Battle of Shrewsbury.

[ooc: more or less instant slowtimes, but i wanted to get something up!]

tu_vas_triompher

((After the fair. Feuilly and Harry come to the conclusion that they are happy.))

is_the_motion

Out back, the lawn and the Scout Hut have been decked out with bunting, chairs and tables set out. There are games and stalls, and someone has even set up a doggy assault course. The sound of fairground music and the delicious scent of good food floats over the garden.

The Milliways County Fair has arrived, and everyone is welcome!

[ooc: Open forever! IC date 4-9th July, but open now to maximise people being able to take part. Threadhopping encouraged. See Back Room Post and Original Back Room Post for details.

All entries in the horticultural show must be posted by ~~9pm GMT/3pm EST Wednesday 6th July~~ Entries are closed - Judging in progress]

just_cant_lose

Augh, everything is awful. Jim has been kicking his heels around the place for days, first waiting for his face to heal up and - now that Karkat's given him healing things to eat, just as soon as he can face anything crab-juice flavoured - he's just bored. But worse, restless. ~~And waiting~~.

He spends a couple of hours playing with his new toy, but flicks aimlessly through ideas rather than focusing on anything. He takes another look at Yamato's notes, but the writing frustrates him enough to consider setting light to them. He walks around the Bar, alternating between shooting one of YT's magnetic harpoons at the Observation Window (it thunks endlessly on to the floor, of course) and staring out of the thing, his eyes focusing on two planets in an endless swirl around each other, before exploding and then looping 'round again.

4D chess doesn't help. Staring into the diamonds on the crown and sceptre he stole doesn't help. Trying to lounge on a sofa and think about things doesn't help. He eventually ends up at the piano, his cheek resting on the lower octave notes in a hopeless slump, his fingers tinkering over some of the higher notes of the music Yrael wrote for him.

God. Someone please bother him.

[OOC: ~~V. Brief slowtime in about an hour, but otherwise here for eternity~~. Catch him anywhere in his wandering.]

harryhotspur

So arresting Henry was weird.

And it has, to his faint irritation, set Hotspur into a rare contemplative mood. Of course, even a year on, having the time and space to be forced to actually think things through is still not a circumstance to which he is accustomed. But when riding, practicing, tramping through the woods, riding again, and then practicing some more do nothing to dispel his nagging thoughts, he ends up sitting at the bar, prodding moodily at a plate of leafy greens that the bar insists are meant to be eaten.

(He is skeptical.)