The Bar at the End of the Universe

It's been a year. A whole year (and more, and less, as time in Milliways goes) of sitting in a place that,interesting as it is, is definitely not Paris. 

It's time to do something--anything-- besides sit and wait for news.  

If there's been a very little more smoke in the woods this week, and a little more noise and cursing than usual, anyone would have had to be very deep in the woods to notice. It was probably more noticeable when he was carrying most of a tree trunk to the beach at the inlet that sometimes exists, but then that's where life is easier for having tinkering friends with antigrav devices .

Still,it's very  late afternoon before he makes his way to the unlikely beach, but here he is, with a good-sized log stripped bare and its bark in a neat roll to the side.  He sings cheerfully to himself as he sketches what might be the curves of a boat against the log. 

The door from the yard crashes open under the assault of a boy shouting with cheerful indignation, "Peace  don't you dare--" before the sight of Milliways sinks in and, in a rare occurence, strikes him silent. 

Jean-Pierre L'Opinion Bahorel looks warily around the bar for a few moments; it is very obviously not a farmer's home in the south of France. Anyone looking at him might guess that's the place he belongs, an already-tall boy  carrying a large bundle of kindling over his back, clearly healthy and well looked-after despite all the scrapes and bruises of a wild childhood, his smock and trousers and bright sash and wooden shoes clearly well-made-- even a little decorated-- for all they're muddy and made for work.

He gives Milliways a look of serious assessment,  before popping out and back in the door a few times in quick succession. 

His last trip out takes a while; when he returns he's still damp from rather obviously cleaning himself off in the lake. His clothes are cleaner, too, except for his shoes-- cleaner, and inside-out.   He puts a hand on Bar as he looks around the room this time, and is answered with a greeting pamphlet and a bowl of potatoes and bacon that he looks at seriously before pulling several sticks out of his bundle and sliding them across the counter. "I'm paying for it, though, with things from home.  I don't owe you.  That's how it works."  So there, mysterious, forces. 

And then he goes to sit near the window, attention divided between the door, his meal, and what is, to judge by his expression, an extremely complicated piece of paper. 

Bahorel is sitting against a tree at the edge of the woods, jacket folded neatly beside him. He's facing the mountains, sketching the late-day shadows-- or what they might be if the mountains had a very odd city sprouting out of them. That the lighting is earlier in the day than it was when he went into the woods doesn't especially bother him; it only makes an interesting study.

His sleeves are rolled up and his arms are covered with scrapes that look like he's been arguing rather enthusiastically with the trees, but he's singing cheerfully bloody songs and in a very good mood.




((ooc: probably insta-slows, but open until morning!))