milliways_bar | Entries tagged with zevran arainai

Gilderoy sits at a table with a copy of

The Tales of Beedle the Bard

. When his mind was wiped with that backfiring spell, it took more than just his personal memories. He can't read most of the words, although he can find letters and little words on the pages.

Mostly he enjoys watching the lively moving pictures.

"Oh Babbitty Rabbitty, you're too much," he giggles, and takes a sip of his butter beer.

hadyougoing

If Ava were to star in a Nancy Drew novel about this exact moment in her afterlife, that novel would be called The Mystery of the Missing Angel.

But that's only because Nancy Drew novels tend not to have words like freaking and stupid in their titles.

Having scoured the library as far as seemed a) productive and b) wise, Ava decided to forget the whole thing. But she hasn't seen the angel around since, and considering Ava runs into Ambriel when she's not looking for her, this absence when she is looking for her is ... not great.

She picks a table by the Observation Window that affords her a decent strategic view of the bar at large, orders a coffee with cream and sugar, and puts on her very best poker face.

Demongirl last seen in the company of an angel? What?

She has no idea what you're talking about.

spaceblasterchic

Barbarella (where'd she come from? Where'd she GO?) is seated at a large table, several small pieces of plastic and metal scattered around her glass of something sparkly.

She twirls a bit of hair around her finger as she squints at a metal cartridge. Letting go of her hair, she picks up an oily rag and begins to scrub out the inside of the cartridge.

"Honestly," she tells the space blaster parts good naturally, "you are sometimes more trouble than you're worth."

"Oh, who am I kidding? You are entirely worth it." She kisses the cartridge and moves on to the next part.

What can she say? She loves her loyal guns!

igetthatalot

Specials:

Ale
Red wine

Tell the bartender a sufficiently entertaining story
and everything is half off

Varric pulls up a box to stand on so he can be seen over the human-height bar and sets up the specials board for Happy Hour.

janebecomes

Jane has found herself in a position where she can be of great help to her family by relinquishing her hope of marrying for love.

To marry Mr. Wisley would not be a hardship as they are friends but it would not give her the happiness that marrying Tom would. Yet without Cassandra's future secured, the shape of her responsibilities changes and Jane cannot write herself a happy ending.

She opens the door expecting to find her room and briefly smiles before finding a table and ordering some tea as well as a few sheets of paper.

Her aim was to consider how to phrase an invitation to speak with Mr. Wisley and that can be done here. Perhaps Milliways will provide some distraction to her and even a reminder that some day, the world will change.

(OOC: Open until it scrolls.)

hadyougoing

So there's this song that's topping the charts in Arashmaharr.

... Yes, even demons listen to pop music. Who knew? Ava thinks most of it sucks, but most demons she's met find humans totally disgusting, so clearly there are some areas of disagreement here.

The real trouble: trying to hum along sounds mostly like going "AAAAAAAAH" under your breath.

Ava catches herself doing this several times as she sidles up to the Bar for a foamy iced coffee thing.

[ooc: rp, get it while it's hot! love love. <3]

jack_f_twist

Lureen, she hates it when Jack rolls his own smokes. Considers it cheap, the kinda thing he used to do as a rodeo cowboy when he didn't have two cents to rub together, and what Lureen says, boy, that's what goes.

Not here, though.

Here, she can't smell the tobacco left on his fingers after he packs it carefully into the paper, and she can't find the little twisted ends left ashed in the trays, so he allows himself this one little pleasure, sitting low on the couch by the fire with his bootheels up on a table, hat (mercifully returned to its non-floral, non-bonnet, all black dusty beat-up Resistol self) tipped low over his face, workshirt rolled up at the sleeves and unbuttoned at the collar, rolling himself a nice smoke.

Gotta be better that way, anyhow. He never did manage to get used to the filtered kind.

[One cowboy, recently turned back into a fella, inna bar! I may have to leave suddenly tonight, but will be back in the AM to tag all slows and pick right back up again.]

sky_child

Some have difficulty attuning themselves to the fine details of skydiving, such as noticing other things that aren't "oh man oh man I'm falling at a high speed from an airplane and I don't have a parachute oh man oh man". Such people are hindered by their inexperience in the fine art of skydiving, an act which, to some, is as commonplace as exiting a car. Indeed, skydiving is akin to exiting a car for such people, who reside in a certain land called Skyloft.

So if the destination of such a person suddenly changes upon descent--say, if his destination changed from Skyloft to the exterior of a certain multiversal bar--it is quite likely--indeed, I daresay there is a 97% possibility--that he would notice and react accordingly. Unfortunately, as this young lad will never acquire the power to manipulate space, and is still some distance away from acquiring the Sailcloth, the only response he has at his disposal is to scream until he lands face-forward on the ground. And by "land" the narration here means "splat unceremoniously like a slab of meat thrown on the counter".

He's quite all right, though! You see, now he is pushing himself up, and rubbing his head, and thinking two things: one, if such a thing as a Sailcloth is in his future, he cannot wait to acquire it, as arriving on land via skydiving without one is rather painful. Two: just how in the blue blazes did he wind up in Milliways? Or outside of it, anyway.

hadyougoing

Who is that humming atonally?

Why it's Ava Wilson! Your friendly neighborhood demonatrix. She's curled up on a couch by the fire, reading a fashion magazine that is probably not from her home universe and sipping lemonade through a straw.

She mostly picked up the magazine to see if it contained any stories on Tentacles of Our Waves, as there is a squid wearing sunglasses on the cover. Truth be told, she isn't focusing on it all that well.

She has kind of a lot on her mind.

fullofmercy

There's a rusty, stuttered rumble from the elevator shaft.

It sounds a little a motorcycle engine turning over in reluctant life before finally shutting off, echoing a little in the shaft and the garage.

The DOWN button blinks green. The lit 1 flickers, changes to GL, then changes again as gears turn and a low whirrrr sounds from behind the close doors before they open with a cheerful ding! that makes the man behind them wince and shoot the control panel a suspicious look.

He hates electronics.

Worse, he has to duck, so the top of the door doesn't clip the edge of the six-foot, cloth-wrapped cross he's carrying on his back, one hand slipped through one of a dozen or more black leather belts strapped around the thing, keeping the cloth in place. "Ahhhh..." he complains, slipping a pair of sunglasses off his face and giving the room a bemused glance. "I knew that caravan leader gave me the wrong directions. But what sort of man lies to a priest? Still, Mei doesn't lie to the east, Wolfwood, you moron. You should have trusted your instincts. After all, look where you've ended up!"

This monologue delivered as he walks into the room, and slouches onto a seat at the bar. The cross lands beside him, with a distinctly metallic thump as its foot hits the floor. Dust is settled thickly into the folds of his dark suit, and when he collapses with a petulant slump into his seat, it rises in a faint, disappointed cloud. The cigarette he taps moodily out of a battered pack is crumpled, but lights just fine, and he breathes in deep of the biting smoke, lets it out again in a hazy sigh.

It's anybody's guess whether he's actually noticed anything other than the fact that this is clearly not Mei City.

[OOC: Wolfwood is inna bar! However, he is not the same Wolfwood who was here before, nor is this the same player. If you recognize him and you aren't from Gunsmoke, he's going to be really confused. /warning.]

[ETA: All threads millitimed to after Zevran's.]

pickledtribute

After getting drunk with Red (and mocking her outfit cheerfully the whole time) Haymitch went back to the Capitol. The next day the trains took the mentors home - only one train had two living victors.

That was not the train to Twelve. The train to Twelve ended in a solemn and mostly-sober presentation of the caskets to the grieving families, accepting their thanks (somehow without making a painfully snarky comment in return) and their poorly hidden looks of derision (also somehow managing to not make a snarky comment in return).

And then he was alone.

For a whole year. No doors, no break from the unrelenting grim reality of the Twelfth District.

Today, all of the children between the ages of twelve and eighteen were herded into pens. Two names were chosen. No one volunteered. The unrelenting cheer of the handler was almost painful to the point of making him want to snarl. Can't do that, not on camera, not if he wants to avoid Snow's attention.

So he visits the bar car before going to take a closer look at what the Reaping balls have brought him this year.

Actually, it seems he'll be visiting the bar, period. He eyes the room, warily. A whole year. A whole year. He isn't entirely sure this isn't a hallucination. A particularly unkind one.

whoiwasmeant2be

A boy stands awkwardly at the top of the stairs. His breathing comes a bit too fast, and his eyes are a bit too wide to convince anyone that he’s perfectly calm, or that he’s looking forward to what he’s about to do.

Still, he takes a deep breath. Then another. And another. This actually goes on for a while until he finally admits to himself that he’s just stalling, at which point he allows himself one more breath before trudging purposefully down the stairs.

Then he just has to make it through the crowds between the foot of the stairs and the bar, during which his breathing speeds up again and his eyes start darting around nervously. He makes it before he can really panic, and settles onto a barstool as far away from everyone as he can get. Considering that this is Milliways, and that he’s at the bar, that’s not really very far, but he tries anyway. He takes a couple of seconds to calm down, and to look down and make sure that he’s sitting properly. It’s actually kind of a relief, when using a stool, it’s actually kind of appropriate to perch, so it’s not as uncomfortable as it could be.

Leaning forward slightly, the boy speaks softly, the cadence of his words a bit odd, as if he hasn’t used his voice in a while. “Could I have a calendar?” He pauses, then remembers. “Please?” And something else... Oh! “And... a sandwich?”

The calendar appears alone, causing the boy to frown slightly. But then he remembers. “Oh. Um... peanut butter and jelly?” He has fond memories of that one. He thinks.

[If you can see this note, the post is still open!]

antivan_rogue

Oh, but the past few days have indeed been interesting. There is little luxury associated with traveling alongside the Grey Wardens, not that luxury is something he has been expecting. No, death is what he's been expecting, although that is not, apparently, on his personal agenda. He has dealt it out to many others, however, and has cleaned blood both Darkspawn and human from his weapons and armor countless times. Tonight, though, is a night for the fine art of poison-crafting and it is with the acquisition of certain ingredients in mind (he is in possession of the toxin extract and the deathroot, but he is in need of several amounts of distillation agent and as many flasks as he can find) that he steps into the nearest tavern.

Aha. This place. Again? Apparently so. Perhaps he will find what he needs here just as he would anywhere in Thedas. And if not, then, his time will not be wasted. It is far too precious a commodity, and he finds himself under no illusion that he has any of it to spare. But for the grace of the Warden go I, he mutters beneath his breath. It is not a prayer.

It has been years since he prayed. He will, however, have a drink, although he insists on a seat with an excellent and unobscured view of the door.

hadyougoing

Ava may have some intense and relevant threads in progress, but Milliways has never allowed itself to be impeded by such trifling considerations as "mutually exclusive events that are technically happening all at the same time."

Therefore: Ava, freshly showered, silver headband, behind the bar.

tonight's specials!

MAKE UP A DRINK, I WILL MIX IT

(but you can't be mad if it's unoriginal)

alternately: gin + tonic

Don't forget to tip your waitstaff!

[ooc: ~~here! i feel mildly like death, but taggable and generally sanguine. possibly also loopy.~~ sleeping! back on the morrow. new tags welcome.]

the_cupbearer

Outside there is a young man whittling a forked branch to form a sort of flute, careful with his knife to leave room enough to embellish the instrument when it's done; he's got all the things he needs spread out in the grass around his bare feet; an awl, a sharp rasp to fine down the cuts he makes, a sanding block with sheets of progressively finer paper.

He's humming to himself as he works, enjoying the pretty day and the drone of bees and insects around him, and watching the sunlight glare off the lake surface. It almost looks tempting enough to swim.

igetthatalot

Very little in life is more satisfying than getting the better of people who richly deserve it, in Varric's opinion. "Messere Bar?" he says as he swaggers up to the furniture in question. "There's one particularly enterprising young fellow in the Carta who won't be enterprising towards anyone any more, and I, for one, would like to celebrate that fact. Something Antivan and expensive, I think. Surprise me."

You never know what kind of vintages they have here, after all.

antivan_rogue

Everyone's heard this one before: an elf walks into a bar...

It is a joke with, as they say, very little class and as such does not bear repeating. He steps in, dusts off his armor, looks around, and shrugs.

Ferelden is a very strange country indeed. But, this is of little concern to him. The room is ripe for conversation, pockets ripe for picking, and drinks ripe for consuming. Where is the harm in any of these things? It makes for a thirsty day's work, almost getting killed over and over, and even assassins (and especially those sworn to serve their former enemies) deserve their fun.

It might take a moment or two before he appreciates that this is not, in fact, the tavern he was expecting.

[OOC: Rebooted character, different player. If you have questions, see this post.]

whipped_weapon

Under other circumstances, (that didn't involve maidservants who were too noisy for their own good), Zak would have begun to despair of being taken back to the Bar before discorporation set in. Fortunately, the Bar proved him wrong.

Better late than never, right?

The drow had opened the screen door wide open, intending to take in the sight of the garden, only to find the Bar there instead of the garden. He took one step back, then another, to see if the door would vanish. It did not. It remained.

The drow smiled, called loudly for assistance, and, when the curious maidservants (who were finally useful for something) arrived, had them'packing' the silk clothes and the tightly tied reams of paper together into a large bundle wrapped in a coverlet, tied up tightly and tossed into the Bar. The maidservants look at the Bar with open curiosity, and then quickly call for assistance, for some male servants to push some of the small chests in the room over the slim boundary separating their home from the Bar. None of them want to enter the strange world. It's a fairly quick shove. There's not much distance between Bar and room.

The drow himself has stuffed the seed-packets tightly into his money pouch, tied the three sheathed blades together and tied them slung across his back, and then grabbed the last two small chests, and walked straight over.

The door vanished behind him. He dropped the chests, unslung the swords and sat down to rest.

There is a drow, sitting on a pair of chests, surrounded by three other chests, a very large bundle of cloth tied together with string, and with three sheathed blades by his feet. He is pleased to be back home. He wonders if his friends are here.

(OOC:Infinitely Botherable, Slowtimes are loved, am off to a WEDDING, OMGYAY! OOMS will be on my journal and Mara's. HAVE TO GO NOW, WILL POST LINKS TO THEM LATER.)

whipped_weapon

It's some time later, after his talk with Tyler, that the strange magic window that's found everyone else finds Zak.

< Today, Milliways marks the Cybertronian holiday of Cubefall, the anniversary of the day upon which the Allspark first landed on the rocky world that would become Cybertron. Would you like to sample some possible reconfigurations? (y/n) >

The drow eyes it warily. "Are the' reconfigurations' permanent, or are they temporary?" he asks, looking at it like a live cobra.

< Temporary.>

"I'd like to see the reconfigurations, please." He says and pokes the y.

A few moments later, 5 choices make themselves known in the magic window.

Choice 2

The drow gives it a curious look, for a while, making a face at some of the strange choices, before he makes his decision impulsively.

5 minutes later, there is a very curious black griffon in the Bar.

"I don't suppose I'd still be able to eat my meals, like this?" He mutters and then starts in shock. He wasn't expecting to be able to talk. This is quite a bonus!

< You may still make an order or two, and the cost will be taken from your tab..>

"Thank you." Zaknafein says, and then makes his way to lazily lay down on a soft, thick rug.

antivan-leather.livejournal.com

[OOMs: Both timed to a month ago (we are slow, yes):

Zevran helps Zaknafein get settled in, during which they talk shop and Zev teaches his guest that offers of alcohol are not necessarily made because someone wants to bend you over the bed and give you the, er, benefit of experience.

The following morning, Zev has breakfast in bed. Zak, on the other hand, has problems.

I don't think we posted these in yet, but if they're repeats, sorry.]

tiny!tag: Zaknafein Do'Urden

wheatencrown

Demeter had entered Milliways in a very good mood, she has plans and Felix is smiling. Somehow she ended up in the corner with the karaoke machine and its rather compelling.

Apparently even a goddess can't bargain her way out of it and soon she's singing with a look of horror and then laughter as she just enjoys the vulgarity of the song,

"I like that-
my body rocks a rhythm
you beat my drum hard
I might just kick it kick it
you wanna lick it lick it
I love to stick it stick it
from London to LA
yeah that’s the ticket ticket
come on and kiss it kiss it
I like that-"

Join her, save her, dance with her, the karaoke machine is awake.

(OOC: Consider this a party post. Your pup can tag Demeter and try to save her from the karaoke and get taken up themselves or they can just get sucked in all on their own. Open for ages, have fun! Since I put this up rather late, I forget to explain the karaoke machine, its karaoke without the choice. So pick a song that will embarrass your pup and just go for it.)

whipped_weapon

The faint sound of chanting that is in the background has a frantic note to it and there is the scent of blood, sulfur and musty sickly-sweet incense that fades into nothingness when the sound dissipates. Somewhere out there, four priestesses assume that their offering was accepted; and a dark goddess assumes her traitorous prey is in the hands of a god of the dead who will stick him into a wall, to be used as a brick or some similar task.

They're all very wrong.

There is a drow, laid out on the floor of the bar, unconscious. He's fully clothed, armored in the way of his kind, pwiwafwi, hidden weapons and all. His two blades are scattered on the floor, both sheathed.

It takes him a few minutes to wake up and the first thing he does is to bring his arm to cover his eyes and moan in pain. The lights of the Bar are blinding to eyes used to the dim faerie fire lights of Menzoberranzan and the darkness of the UnderDark.

It probably doesn't help that he has a horrible ache in his chest, and the last thing he remembers was his Matron as she ripped out his heart with a dagger.

"Vith. Is this the hells?"

antivan-leather.livejournal.com

The idea of a leisurely morning is one that Zevran has never been accustomed to. It's yet another of the surprises that Milliways has had in store for him, and it's difficult not to indulge in. He's rented a small room upstairs, similar to his simple apartment in Antiva although considerably cleaner. The assassin appreciates the finer things in life, but there is also simple joy to be found in having a dry place to sleep, with a soft bed and sheets that are always clean.

There's also the convenience of a modern bathtub. The first night he stayed at Milliways, the elf had soaked in the hot water for hours, a luxury that's difficult to afford when you're heating your own water one bucket at a time.

At the moment, he's sprawled comfortably on a sofa and picking at his breakfast -- sliced fruit, a hard roll with butter -- while he pages through a small book. He's out of his armor and instead dressed in a simple tunic, green with gold trim, knee-length and belted at the waist. His legs and feet are bare, but a pair of sandals with calf wrappings is lying nearby. He's also not visibly armed, though one would be foolish to assume that he isn't armed period.

Zevran hums softly to himself as he turns a page and takes a sip of what looks like thin mud from a delicate little cup. It's actually chocolate, and there's an almost full pot of it sitting with the rest of his food. He may be inclined to share.

[Tiny tag: Zevran]

antivan-leather.livejournal.com

The door opens, curiously enough, onto another bar. No one immediately comes through; however, there is a great deal of shouting and protesting, accompanied by the sound of shattering crockery and possibly some small furniture.

"I am neither a thief nor a cheat! Well, I have stolen lives and a fair few hearts, perhaps, and cheated Death once or twice, but that is different. You are an assassin of character, that is what you are. Ha! You see, it's funny, because I am an actual assassin and you are just a scraped-from-the-barrel street thug with less sense than brains, and that should be impossible."

There's the sound of sudden scuffling, followed by a yowl of protest and more heavily accented squabbling.

"Take your hands off of me! I know your type, I can guess at where they've be- HEY!"

A blond, tan personage suddenly comes through the door. He's airborne, which is not the natural means of locomotion for his species, and he hits the floor roughly, though bounces to his feet almost immediately. Short, lithe, with a tattooed face, pointed ears, and clad in a light set of leather armor, he gives a sigh and shakes his head as the door closes behind him and he gets a good look at where he's ended up.

"Ah. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as they say?"

Zevran Arainai, meet the bar. Bar, Zevran.

(Hello! I have an early night tonight, but should be around for a couple hours, though I'll be a bit slow with homework. Post is open indefinitely for those that want it and slowtimes are welcome, so feel free to tag and I'll grab them in the morning.)

[tinytag: zevran]

mommywitch.livejournal.com

Piper walks into the bar with three things:
A wiggling toddler on her hip, an older toddler holding her other hand and a big smile.

Once through the door Piper leads the two little ones by the fire.

She's looking for Prue. She wants her sons to know their other aunt.