milliways_bar | Entries tagged with mordred

Bran Davies rarely finds doors to Milliways these days. He doesn't miss them, really; there is plenty of work to be done. He is in his second year of medical school, and when he is not in class or studying, he can be found in crowded Cardiff bars, discussing British politics in two languages.

When the door does open, he is glad enough to come to Milliways.

white_flowers

She has kept track of the days well enough, oh goodness yes, for it is a surety that the woman who had once been the White Rider of the Dark has absolutely no intention of setting foot in Milliways on Midsummer.

Ever again.

But now the time is past, she thinks, or close enough that the longest day should be over, and so it is that she opens the door from the little shop on Stavin Five and comes in, smiling warmly.

A pity it is that she has no idea, truly.

ladysilverwheel.livejournal.com

[ooc: Arianrhod is a goddess of Things. Many Things. See this back room post for details!]

Twilight turns to dusk and dusk to night, and as the stars begin to twinkle into view as they ceaselessly do each time the sun slips away, something Strange happens. The stars that make up the constellation Corona Borealis begin to shine a little brighter than usual, and they twinkle in what any observer will notice to be a pattern - twinkle, shimmer, blink, twinkle, twinkle, shimmer, blink, twinkle - and then, a star, the largest star in the constellation blinks out from the Northern Crown, leaving a dark spot in the sky.

The constellation, then, returns to its normal state.

And in the middle of the grass stands a woman - a goddess - who was not there a second ago, smiling brightly as she turns her head up toward the sky.

Finally, she thinks, beginning to glance at her new surroundings, I have found a way!

It's amazing, really, what lengths those who reside in the heavens will go to just to get a taste of what life on the ground is like.

But there is something very, very different about this place that Arianrhod notices almost immediately. It is not a Good Thing, not good at all, and she wrinkles her nose as she eyes the building nearby.

theravenboy

A week ago, Bran Davies packed up his clothes, his textbooks and the collection of political pamphlets he's begun to accumulate during his first year at university. He carried his old leather suitcase, full nearly to the bursting point, on one train east to Shrewsbury and a second train west to Machynlleth. Owen Davies met Bran in the LandRover at Machynlleth station and drove him, silently, back to the Dysynni Valley and Clwyd Farm.

It wasn't a bad term, really. Bran found a circle of friends in Cardiff. His exam scores were strong, although not perfect. He was distracted at the end of fall term and the beginning of spring term, and in any case he's finally gotten to a school where many of his classmates are as intelligent and hard-working as he is. The fact that Bran's been able to reach Milliways only once since he returned from the Summer Country, and hasn't been able to go to the bar on purpose at all, hasn't concerned Bran very much.

When Bran finally returned to his old bedroom at the farm, pulled the harp from under his bed and began to play it, he still couldn't reach Milliways.

By now, several days later, he's certain he's lost whatever gift brought him to the bar of his own will. Therefore, Bran's surprised and delighted when one of the barn doors opens, for no reason Bran can determine, on the end of the universe.

ahogarse.livejournal.com

Sunset is turning the water the colour of blood.

Or perhaps that's Santi's reflection.

The little thing is perched on an out-of-the-way rock by the lake bank. He's full of memories, moreso than usual for some reason. He has the steel quality to him he did... back then. When he needed it.

The malevolent dead walk tonight. At least, this one does.

ahogarse.livejournal.com

A boy, delighted looking and half-frightened boy bursts in with a wild laugh, and looks about.

Just for a moment, just this moment, this once, he's been given this. Santi, looking flesh-and-blood alive, is in the bar.

It's a question of who he's going to run and tell first.

maydaybrat.livejournal.com

[OoM: Meg finds Mordred outside, and they have a long conversation which ultimately just leaves her worried.

There is also talk of using ketchup as false blood]

wolflord_andain

Galadan has not yet left Milliways since his recent return, though he has not bothered renting a room, either. The outskirts of the forest are fine enough for him, whichever shape he wears.

Then, too, there is the necessity of waiting for Gabriel Tam, because events in that one's world would seem to be moving swiftly enough to require careful monitoring.

And if they are not yet at that point, they soon will be. Some things do not vary overmuch with their world.

Politics is, sadly, most likely one of these.

And so it is that Galadan is settled at a table, a half-eaten platter of venison resting to one side.

He will eat more later, perhaps after he's indulged in something that is not related to computer schematics or diagrams of political systems.

maydaybrat.livejournal.com

[OOM: There is a saying about letting sleeping dogs lie...

It works for the dead, too.

Warning: Contains some violence and possibly (probably?) disturbing imagery at the end.]

masterofritual

[OOM: In the bowels of the castle, there is a kitchen.]

You would be forgiven for wondering what the thing that half-flies, half-tumbles in through the Door and comes to a rest cowering behind a chair, before skittering across to hide under a table that provided better cover. Steerpike resembles a bag of long sticks more than he resembles a 17 year old boy. A bag of sticks with dark red eyes that darted about looking to see where the next blow might come from.

[11.47pm BST edit: Time for bed for me. Happy to slowtime any tags or pick them up tomorrow though. :)]

Current Mood: anxious

ahogarse.livejournal.com

[pre-milliways]

We all are told from when we're little that it's not good to believe in ghosts.
This holds more true in some worlds than in others. In Milliways, for example, it makes no sense, because half the patrons are deceased, or in various stages of it. Mostly, that's a pretty death. A clean death. An 'oh, I've died, how odd, I think I feel like some tea' sort of death.

Out by the lake, there's now living a ghost. He's there, quietly, the half hidden form in the shadows of the tree. You see the white slashes of his bones standing out first, the rest of him sort of fades back. Maybe you smell a bit of blood in the air if you get too close. Maybe you hear the sighing in the wind. If you look too hard from far away, he's not there, like a mirage back in the desert surrounding the orphanage in Spain.

If you come closer... well, that's up to you, isn't it?

cheevy.livejournal.com

Ah so, here is the recovering alcoholic hippie, in the bar, at a booth, with real food. Yeah, totally. He's eating it very, very slowly, but he does have what appears to be a ham sandwich. And tea.

And a really big, really old book, compliments of ~~Nearly Wristless Rod~~ Roderick Usher.

He is also playing with a spoon, twirling it in one hand lazily.

Please annoy.

callitavesper.livejournal.com

Fun nights lead into fun mornings, and you can bet your bottom dollar that James had a fun morning indeed. This may explain why he is slouched in a booth, pointedly avoiding happy hour. He's entertaining himself with a game of solitaire, very glad that his head doesn't hurt half as much as it did in the morning. Otherwise, he might just be building a house of cards.

[ ooc: speaking of fun, mun has just been struck with a bout of sleepy/dizzy and has to take a break from rping. possibly needs to go to sleep. slowtime pls. ]

maydaybrat.livejournal.com

You spend too much time in the space between tick and tock, and this is what happens; you lose track of the other time. You know, that other time. Where you talk and breathe and think.

And maybe Mordred's spent too much time in the time where you don't do that, you just exist. Maybe.

Or maybe he's just been avoiding people.

Whatever it is, he's in the Bar now. Hair short, jacket black leather (naturally), lounging at his normal table with his boots on the table-top and watching the Bar and the bar with golden eyes.

maydaybrat.livejournal.com

[OOM: At some point, maybe last week, maybe a couple of days ago, maybe the week before that, Bran lets Mordred know about the upcoming fighting against the Dark.

It's hard to tell what Mordred thinks, really]

balletrat

*Meg's seated at a booth in the bar.

She's not fidgeting. Nor is she looking at the not-a-door. No, she's perfectly comfortably settled; reading a book that she acquired from the bar about dance techniques of the twentieth century, with great interest, and sipping a mug of coffee from the bar.

It's just occasionally your eyes get tired, is all, and then you have to look up.*

last_adam

He's not yelling at the edge of the shore tonight, it's not a night for that.

It hasn't been a night for that in a while, actually, as evidenced by the peaceful grin on Adam's face.

Instead, he's whistlingly lightly as he skips stones over the surface of the lake.

one-two-three-four-five-ten-twenty

Not half bad.

cywyllog

It is a relaxed and peaceful Cywyllog in the bar this evening. She's curled up in a chair with a good view of the bar as a whole - or as much of the bar as she could find - simply watching the goings on.

No tea, no wine, just an odd smile.

maydaybrat.livejournal.com

Shock, horror, Mordred is outside. Outside and reading.

Reading..."The Top 100 Things I'd Do If I Ever Became An Evil Overlord", as a matter of fact. With all appearances of being utterly absorbed in the list. Of course, his sniggering when he gets to Number 34 (I will not turn into a snake. It never helps.) half ruins the image of serious contemplation.

[ooc: and the mun has to go and eat - threads can either be slowtimed, or faded.]

maydaybrat.livejournal.com

So, Mordred walks into the Bar one day, and stops dead, no pun intended. His eyes focus on one little girl reading a certain book and his jaw clenches. Glaring at the cover, he turns around and marches over to the Bar.

He then walks over to the noticeboard, pins the very large piece of paper up and begins to write.

And this is what it says, in large letters:

To All Who Read Malory, Know This:

The Man Was A Complete WANKER

Not To Mention The Prick NEVER Checked His Facts.

- Mordred Ambrosius

Smiling a little, the ghost prince strolls off again.

mistressmaryquitecontrary

Mary Lennox is sitting on a stool in the bar, with a milkshake at her elbow.

Her thin face is set in a small frown, as she turns pages in her copy of Le Morte D'Arthur. Some of the archaic words are a little perplexing - not that she'd ever admit it.

silver_flecks

Del loves her family.

Since coming to Milliways two years ago--by one set of time, anyway--Del's family has Grown.

Sometimes Del thinks her family Missed Out on important things, though.

Like Destruction and Desire on their daughters babyhoods.

Perhaps that is why, when Kitty and Meg look up to see their aunt, she smiles.

And makes a ( tiny change )

"...Adieu, Tante Del!"

"Want JUICE."

Meglet and Kitten are sitting at their very own table, now.

Looking like they need attention.

Yours, possibly.

maydaybrat.livejournal.com

And in the bar there is a Mordred. Walking in from outside, jacket and shirt unbottoned and feet bare and the sword in the sheathe at this hip should explain why he is breathing heavily.

There is a Mordred. Not for long, but have at.

latino_menace

OOM: ...and it's someone else who suffers.

Ramon enters the bar quietly tonight, with a face that gives new meaning to the phrase 'closed book'. No mood whatsoever is discernable on his features, which may well say something in itself.

Outwardly, he's tanned and impeccable. Nothing different or out of order. The bottle of tequila and newspaper are the same as ever, cold and Portuguese respectively. So everything's fine.

song_tra_bong

Mary Anne's down in the bar and, to use an expression of her mother's, "wound up like an eight day clock." She has a glass of wine, but she's barely touched it. She's content to people watch and generally grin like an idiot.

Pull up a chair at her table. She's in the mood for company.