milliways_bar | Entries tagged with wisakedjak

ironside-pixie.livejournal.com

It's a beautiful night. Fresh clear air, the kind that only comes after rain. The wild scent of it makes her grin. Kaye is half sprawled on the damp grass by the lake, with a bottle of vodka. It would surprise you how many people leave their alcohol unattended, or perhaps it wouldn't. It's disgusting, she thinks, lacking the dignity of bourbon, or the sheer headiness of faerie wine. But she drinks it anyway, because she's past caring and it seems like the thing to do.

And if she tilts her head just right the stars spin pleasantly; almost like a dream.

[OOC: I realize there may be various ramifications with a sixteen year old drunk, my only phrase and excuse for this post is: Bring it. :p No srsly. BRING IT.]

Current Mood: drunk

necessary_child

A young man - at least, he looks young - all in scruffy black enters the bar from a crowded, dusty London street, a rolled newspaper under his arm. He's licking a large chocolate ice cream with a chocolate stick in it and grinning cheerfully with the half-smirky, boyish grin of someone who knows he's won something highly important. It's an attractive grin. He looks surprised to enter the bar, but not at all unhappy.

He leans against the bar, happily eating and people-watching. If it weren't for the ice cream, he'd be whistling. Albeit very off-key.

tragic_mask

Melpomene has spent the weekend dancing, being horribly drunk, and subsequently falling asleep and having really trippy dreams. And then she woke up with no voice.

She has her voice back now, but she's not using it at the moment - she's in an armchair by the fire, feet propped up and dozing.

thisfatefulhour

Outside, there's a brief rush of wind.

A few minutes later, one of the tables has a blonde young man at it, reading. Occasionally he reads aloud, though under his breath; it sounds like poetry, from what can be heard.

tragic_mask

Melpomene sits in a dusky corner of the bar, watching the shouting, laughing people as they pass by. She looks restless, though her boots are crossed on the coffee table and her hands are calm as on each arm of the chair—like she's waiting for something.

In her right hand she holds a smouldering cigarette loosely, as she always does.

On the coffee table before her is a round container made of wood, deep black and shiny, like leather. It's not menacing in the least. Melpomene looks at it for a while, then leans forward to pick it up through a cloud of gently dissipating cigarette fumes.

There's a faint noise from inside the cup as her fingers settle around it. If you're not listening, you won't notice—

It's almost like the sound of rattling dice.

She shakes it back and forth softly, close to her ear. There's a small smile on her face, barely discernible. Melpomene looks up, sharply, at the rest of the bar, and raises her voice to cut through the noise.

"Anyone for a game of chance?"

[ooc: see this backroom post before tagging. grazi!]

http://users.livejournal.com/_pale_ghost_/

[Out of Milliways, Ghost wakes up, and has a conversation with a visitor.]

not-ho-chunk.livejournal.com

Gray Jay comes in from outside, with a day or two's healing behind him but still limping and leaning on his stick, and heads for the Bar with a purpose in mind.

He stops only long enough to leave a package for Coyote - her tomahawk, cleaned and wrapped in a piece of leather - and a note that reads simply, "One less weapon for her", before he turns back towards the door.

There's a little time to catch him, though, should anyone want to.

white_flowers

[OOM: As her plans coalesce and a certain date ticks closer, the White Rider may not have been as visible in the bar -- but that doesn't mean that those of the Dark have not been busy.

First, millitimed to this past weekend: When something stirs in the forest outside Milliways, an intrepid team of investigators goes in pursuit.

And then, millitimed to Monday evening, the White Rider (the Lady of the Green Kirtle) attempts to ensure that Caspian Seafarer will no longer be able to interfere with her plans. Her efforts do not go unnoticed, however.]

http://users.livejournal.com/_estsanatlehi_/

She'd had a sneaking sense of Dread all day the day before, strong enough that her concentration was off and she hadn't been able to get into the bar until just now.

It was worse here, and not as bad all at the same time. She didn't like it, not at all.

Something was very, very wrong.

She just couldn't pinpoint what yet.

(Reposted from yesterday, if someone could fill her in on the Coyote situation I'd appreciate it.
If this is plot that I've missed signing up for or something, please let me know that too, but, yeah, it's that whole family in trouble thing, she's freaking out in my head a little. I blame her for my migraine last night.)

not-ho-chunk.livejournal.com

There is a burned circle on the ground out by the lake.

And there is an old man standing at the edge of it, leaning heavily on his stick.

Birds can't shed tears. But he's singing words few here will recognise, voice creaky, singing for Coyote.

Later, there will be cold calm and dangerous intent. But for now, there is mourning for what is lost. All in its own time.

fat-charlie.livejournal.com

[oom: pre-milliways]

With no answer, Fat Charlie walked further into the room--the space he recognized as a bar--and looked about, hoping to recognize his brother somewhere. This was odd indeed, he thought. He'd never imagined Grahame Coats would turn his office into a bar, or that...well, what was he thinking anyway? This wasn't Grahame Coats' office anymore! And Spider was no where to be found.

So, worried that he'd definitely lost his mind, Fat Charlie turned to go back in the direction he came from and...sort things out in his own flat, only to find that the door he'd come through was no longer there. He turned back to the main space of the bar, wondering if anyone had seen the door--'yes,' he thought, 'I am looking for my door, have you seen it?'--but no one seemed bothered in the least.

"Right. Well, I'll just have a look around, then," he mumbled to himself.

[ooc: possible slow-timing will be in session...]

necessary_child

Sam in the bar. He's got coffee at his elbow and pink fluffy slippers (UK size 12, just purchased from Bar) in a bag at his feet.

...Yes, the mun is feeling uninspired tonight.

not-ho-chunk.livejournal.com

There's an old man, sitting at the Bar with a jar of applemash.

He's keeping one eye, almost casually, on the door to the office.

not-ho-chunk.livejournal.com

Bird in the bar, on the move.

Maybe he'll visit your table.

not-ho-chunk.livejournal.com

Gray Jay is inside the bar in human form, today, sitting by the fire with a cigarette and a Budweiser.

He's in a relatively friendly mood, so come say hi.

die-tician.livejournal.com

A painfully thin man in black comes in - by the door, for once - and takes a seat at the bar. He opens his razor-thin laptop and pokes a few keys, apparently at random.

In the meantime, Bar offers up a no-cal, carbonated water, flavored with twelve different kinds of chemical sweeteners. Sable smiles, pats her surface with an appreciation he probably doesn't feel, and settles in.

soweroflife.livejournal.com

[OOM: Wisakedjak visits Kokopelli in his Garen]

almost-arabian.livejournal.com

One does not often wander into a familiar bar to find ... well, a less familiar bar. A completely alien bar would perhaps be more accurate a statement, but Lawrence preferred not to think that he could get lost in the rather small stop-over town that he'd stepped into only a few days ago.

He'd left France the week before last and had been coming to the bar nearly daily. His exit stemmed from the fact he was irritated with the constant flow of reporters that followed his every step...and now that he'd found himself alone again, there was little tying him to the country. The plan, he had decided, was to drive to somewhere far more secluded in the British countryside where he could alter his appearance and identity enough to at least escape the plague of his own name.

But that is another matter entirely. The fact of the matter was that he was now in a strange place that he'd not seen before when he'd been expecting to find a half-bald tender and a dirty glass of whiskey. But of course, it wouldn't be proper to panic. So instead of flailing madly or anything of the sort, he simply takes a quiet seat at the bar and draws his notebook from his pocket, nibbling thoughtfully at the end of a pen while he thinks of what would be most beneficial to write about.

soweroflife.livejournal.com

[OOM: Earlier today, Gray Jay goes to Arizona to stop the destruction of Ko's village.]

not-ho-chunk.livejournal.com

There's a bird in the bar, on the mantelpiece.

He's looking out for anyone he knows is associated with Kokopelli.

not-ho-chunk.livejournal.com

Wisakedjak is in the bar, but not sitting placidly with a drink as he usually is.

He's in bird form, fluttering, agitated, and sometimes perched on the mantel, feathers ruffled.

This is a worried Trickster. And also angry.

soweroflife.livejournal.com

Kokopelli is outside. It's spring, back home, and he's restless as he always is in spring, unable to remain still. He wanders the grounds, smiling as he touches this tree, bends to examine that fern, every now and then finding a plant that needs a little help and retrieving a handful of something from his Bag, whispering softly as he tends to them.

For a moment, he straightens up, frowning a little and sniffing the air; he thinks for a moment that he smells smoke, and then dismisses it as his imagination, continuing on.

For a moment, he can dismiss it as imagination. And then, no longer.

Kokopelli doesn't scream, as the flames in Arizona burn brighter. The Bag drops from suddenly nerveless fingers, spilling dark loam and seeds, and he looks down at his hands, wordless, before dropping to his knees and collecting the spilled earth, retrieving a shirt from the Bag and shrugging it on before going inside.

This time, he finds a booth and curls up against the wall, braced against the table, hugging his Bag close to his chest.

not-ho-chunk.livejournal.com

Gray Jay is sitting by the Bar with a jar full of applemash, watching the room and the patrons.

http://users.livejournal.com/_pale_ghost_/

A young-old face that was serene-melancholy. So thin, so colorless, as if he'd had to give the very substance of himself to stay alive, curled up on one end of a couch. His smooth cheek pressed against his bent arm, showing pale blue moon eyes set back in gray hollows of bone. His voice was torn silk and night-blooming jasmine, and it more than made up for the rest of him, singin'. . .

"Like a bird onna wire, Like a drunk inna midnigh' choir,
I have tried in m'way to be free.
Like a fish onna hook Like a knigh' from an old fashion book
I have saved all my ribbons w' thee."

He tried hard not to start wishin' for an old six-string, or a set of fingers that would strum the song to life. He tried, and wasn't doin' so good at it.

finds-it.livejournal.com

Yeah.

I'm staring at the teddybear.

And the door.

And the teddybear.

And my drink.

...screw you, it is not to early for a drink. It's never too early for a drink. Sometimes I hate being in a place that's actually got a daytime.

But yeah, considering if I want to go home now or not. I know the Nightside needs this thing, and I know that Jessica really wants this thing, but as long as no time is passing and nothing's going to be on my conscience, I'm just finding it hard to want to walk out that door. No one's tried to kill me here, after all, and the bar snacks here are actually edible.

But it's not the Nightside. And I'm starting to itch for it again, like those five years in London. I'm starting to itch for it and there's no telling how long I've got till my feet decide I need to go Home.

But for now, I'm staring at a teddybear and drinking my drink.