milliways_bar | Entries tagged with michael the archangel

Grace feels like celebrating.

But, you might say, Grace often feels like celebrating. You'd be correct. However it is not often that Grace comes home and spends ten frantic minutes hunting for Gus and convinced he's been dognapped or worse by the irate drug dealer she is currently trying to take down.

(He was under the bed.)

Which is why tonight's happy hour comes with a canine companion in the (rather large) form of Gus stretched out on a dog bed at Bar's end, happily devouring a bone.

"Gus Gus," Grace calls out as she scrawls specials on the board. "You okay?"

Aaaaaruuuufff! comes back.

"Good. Bar's open, people."

Grace lights up a cigarette and settles in, only shaking a little.

Specials:

The blue one
The green one
Whatever's in that bottle with the skull and crossbones
Gus's choice

[OOC: I'm up and down, usual slowtime warnings apply unless you ping and want something quick, tag amongst yourselves, etc. :D ETA: Have to take a break for tonight. Will pick up tags in the morning!]

realmrsreynolds

Most of the time, Bar's suggestions for Sallie's dinner are pretty spectacular. This one though, she is examining a little dubiously.

"Why is my pasta sauce green, m'dear?"

Next to her plate of never-before-seen pesto linguine, an ingredients list appears.

"Exactly what culture is that in love with basil?"

heatherandsteel

Quentin's sitting at the counter with one of the brochures and a pen marking that parts that don't make sense. There are lots of questions marks and use of a few specific words; how?, contract?.

He's eating a sandwich with a soda beside him as he works, looking up sometimes to note who comes in. When he goes back home, he's going to have as much information as possible about Milliways in case he comes back again or doesn't.

His disguise is up, leaving him looking like a fifteen year old boy just one who tends to hold his back rather straight.

(OOC: All threads set before Autor's. Open until it scrolls.)
Quentin (October Daye)

mix_it_up

[OOM: "Why are you dressed up tonight?"]

"No, I think it's a good idea –"

Asami breaks off as she enters the bar. She's still in her red qipao, though she's holding her heeled shoes in her right hand, wearing instead the softer white slippers she'd put on when she entered her father's workshop.

She stops a few feet from the doorway and, once she registers where she is, immediately turns to look back to it. But the door has closed – whoever she was speaking to hasn't followed her here.

A very slight frown crosses her face, but it's brief, and she doesn't linger at the door. Asami turns again, and walks through the room, toward the Bar.

the_taxman

A gust of harsh, engulfing humidity comes in when the door opens. So does a spare, rawboned man, with an unkempt ponytail and a graying handlebar mustache.

Rust looks around, a little surprised — but the surprise vanishes off his face quickly.

His mouth twists, as though to say, isn’t this a fine joke, and he goes straight to the bar. Within a minute he’s got a Lone Star longneck and a lit Camel Blue.

Might as well drink here as anywhere.

ambriel

Ambriel is outside, examining an uprooted tree. It seems there was a very large disturbance here.

But no metaphysical damage to the structure of Milliways. Nothing to worry about, then. Just something to keep an eye out for.

The angel perches at the top of the upturned roots and looks out over the lake.

gavemea_45

Since finding out just how much more quickly time's been passing here than back in their world, Sam's been brooding over a way to make that work for him.

There has to be a way. There has to.

(And if this is more of the Trickster's BS, he swears to himself that he'll find a way to gank him for good.)

In the meantime, he's got coffee, his hunter's journal (open to a blank page on which he's doodling arcane symbols in the margin) and a table to himself -- at least for the moment.

interrogoiterum

Renee comes in from the lake door, a sarong wrapped around the lower half of her bathing suit, a towel being rubbed vigorously in her hair, and she heads straight for the Bar, where she gets a button down shirt to cover her upper body and a napkin.

"Alright, but only 'cause you're pretty."

She doesn't bother buttoning up the shirt, because she's too busy rocking the fresh-from-the-ocean Caribbean beach look.

Dry Happy Hour
Virgin Pina Colada
Fruit Punch
Papaya Milkshake

10 percent off your drink for every question you answer.

ambriel

Ambriel is sitting at the bar, apparently deeply occupied by staring at something bar provided with that cup of green tea.

Animal crackers.

They are apparently very puzzling, judging by the concentration the angel is aiming at them.

mjolnir_retriever

[OOM: Back in Asgard, morning comes.]

To judge by Thor's startled expression, Milliways is not where he intended to enter.

(Wherever he did intend to enter, or wherever he's coming from, apparently required full Asgardian shininess. Thor's in full armor, scale mail on his arms and crimson cape falling in dramatic folds down his back.)

But, after one indecisive glance back at the door, he visibly decides to stick around. He crosses the room and settles onto a barstool. He kind of dwarfs it, but that's true of most furniture.

"Miss Bar," he rumbles, "I would have a tankard of your mulled wine."

It appears, along with a a note.

dis_armed

You wouldn't know it from her face, but it must be admitted that Ilena is surprised to find herself in the middle of Milliways. (Not as surprised, admittedly, as she was when she first found herself in the bar a few months ago. Claymores learn quickly.)

She walks over to the nearest physical object -- a chair, in this case -- and puts her single hand on it, thoughtfully. A small part of her had been wondering, in a clinical sort of way, whether being cut off from her purpose for a decade had finally driven her mad. But the chair seems solid, and she trusts her own senses. They're all she has.

Her hand rests lightly on the chair. She stands there behind it, unmoving, and observes.

gavemea_45

He makes some excuse about grabbing dinner for them both and escapes almost as soon as they've checked in to the night's motel.

Sam passes up the fast food joint at the end of the block and heads to Milliways instead. He'll bring something back, just... not yet.

He was gonna use that axe. He was gonna--

He veers away from that avenue of thought and takes a seat at the bar instead.

"Jack and coke, please."

The drink appears, with a note right beside it.

"... thanks."

[ooc: slowtimes in effect as of 10:30 pm MT (Thursday). Thanks!]

the_gene_genie

The door opens.

Then

this

He walks to the bar from the stairs, straight-backed, white-faced. He orders a bottle of good whiskey, and five packets of fags, and turns for a corner booth, one that gives him a clear view of the door. He’s careful not to catch anyone’s eye.

He sits down, lays his things out, pours a drink, lights a smoke. And watches the door, like it’s the only thing that exists. Maybe he’ll get lucky. Maybe whatever’s out there, the faceless, nameless thing that let him be…this – maybe it’ll cut him a break, once in his miserable - ha! - life.

[OOC: Not at all plotlocked! Open indefinitely. But please, only people who won’t give him a hard time. And apologies if he’s not the most conversational. :\]

ambriel

The door to Milliways opens, and someone steps in, carefully shutting the door after. At first, all anyone could tell is that this...person is tall, wearing what looks like dark pants and a white shirt, and is covered with a thin rime of frost. Dark brown eyes blink, carefully taking in the surroundings.

One hand scrapes up and over face and hair, then joined by the other, slowly brushing off the ice.

Ambriel steps forward, winding through the tables and chairs to stand in front of the observation window, and places one hand against the glass. The angel stares out at the end of the universe with an indecipherable expression.

thursdays_angel

Castiel is sitting alone at the bar this evening with his small notebook and his Canadian floatie pen.

He's occupied by jotting down some notes. In Ancient Greek.

(Even for one who can read the language, though, they'd make little sense. Such is the ordering of an angel's mind.)

But though occupied, he would not object to company.

hear_the_voices

[OOM-but-not: Luke 4:10]

mogget_cat

The usual napkin-holders, salt- and pepper-shakers and stacks of coasters that normally decorate the bar top are joined today by a brown paper sack.

Strangely, the sack... moves, as though imbued with a life of its own.

And it makes a delightful crackling-crumpling sound when it does. ^_^

Current Mood: chipper
Current Location: in a sack

gavemea_45

[OOM: We can't afford for me to do the right thing.]

It's been a long time since he'd last really 'powered up,' as Ruby teases him by calling it. Sam can feel the effects twisting through him. Everything seems brighter, sharper, clearer; he feels clearer, stronger, ready for anything.

He can't sit still, and he sure as hell can't go back to the motel room until it wears off a little - Dean'll notice something's wrong in a hot second, and Sam doesn't want to lie to him unless he has to.

He pushes through the door to Milliways instead. Maybe he can walk it off there, at least a little bit.

[OOC note: Sam is currently riding a paranormal high due to the effects of ingesting demon blood. If your character would be able to detect that sort of taint, feel free to have them do so! Just don't expect him necesssarily to admit it.]

gavemea_45

Dean's changing the oil on the Impala. Sam should be in the motel room, working on gathering more background information for their next case.

He can't make himself sit still long enough to focus.

After the sixth circuit of the room, he throws his hands in the air and stalks through the door to Milliways instead.

At least there he can grab better coffee than the cheap vending machine crap, right?

howarewefortime

T H I N G S F A L L A P A R T

T H E C E N T R E C A N N O T H O L D

howarewefortime

In the beginning, it was a nice day.

This is a word which here means 'pleasing', 'agreeable', or 'delightful', so it may come as a surprise to you, dear reader, to hear the day described as such, given the situation in Milliways these past two weeks. But then, 'nice' is such a relative term, don't you agree? And certainly it would be difficult for things to get much worse.

So it is: the unnatural winter outside seems a touch less chilling today, and the blood-red sky perhaps a shade less bloody, reflecting pinkly off the glittering frost and the shallow snowbanks. The general atmosphere inside the bar is a little less oppressive - a mood helped, no doubt, by the fact that this morning, Bar got almost every coffee order right. Even the Observation Window seems to be creaking a tad less oppressively.

Maybe, just maybe, everything's going to work out okay.

[OOC: Millitimed to Thursday.]

hear_the_voices

This is unexpected.

Anna stands in the middle of the bar, looking all around.

Things feel . . . off.

But she can't quite tell how, or how much of it is just normal end-of-the-universe interference with powers she hasn't had much call to use for the last couple decades.

Interesting.

tobeclosetohim

Strike One.

The Bar is a disaster area. Bottles fallen everywhere.
Broken. In pieces. Wait rats still working everywhere.

Strike Two.

There is a green glow hologram floating over her bar.
No. Not kidding. A green glow hologram over her bar.

Strike Three.

"What do you mean we only have these ingredients? We stock several universes."

"No. Of course, I can't predict earthquakes. Last I checked you didn't have 'em."

"It's fine. I'll manage." Jo. Middle of the mess. "Go to sleep."

Glass gets kicked. Specials get written. Then, Jo's busy with the mess.

Specials
Borrowed Time
The End of the Road
The End of the World

Half-off if you help clean up any part of the bar

out_of_my_part

[A moment ago . . . ]

There is a young woman standing on the shore of the lake.

She wears a long dress, well but simply made, and of a style that could belong to a dozen times . . . or no time at all.

Both the dress and the woman's hair are wet.

She turns slowly, in a full circle, looking all around her.

"What country, friends, is this?"

Would anyone like to let her know it's not Illyria?

hopeitsworthit

Lately there are few things Dean wants less than a comfortable motel bed and some peace and quiet.

Which means that when, after a long day on the road, he and Sam walk into Milliways instead of room 49 at the Starlite Motel, he's not exactly complaining.

Plus the booze here is better than whatever rotgut he's likely to snag in the dive bar down the road.

Probably.

Though the words that come out of his mouth a second later --

"Hey, you wanna grab a pack of cards while you're up gettin' burgers and some Coke?"

They weren't quite what he was expecting himself to say.