First Entrance
A tiny poof of ... smoke? mist? ... appears on the bartop. It resolves into a perfect three-inch-tall replica of one of the Milliways tables, with two chairs to scale.
In one of said chairs comes an even smaller poof of white cloud, dissipating to reveal a tiny white-robed figure with little feathery white wings, a halo, and a golden harp roughly the size of a Sacajawea dollar (circa early 21st century America).
In the other, almost simultaneously, comes a poof of flame, dissipating to reveal ... a tiny red-jumpsuited figure with little spiky red wings, horns, and a pitchfork that an ordinary human-sized patron might easily mistake for a salad fork if it weren't barbed.
Both of them are looking around in startlement. The red-clad one gives a short, dry laugh.
"What are the odds?"
In one of said chairs comes an even smaller poof of white cloud, dissipating to reveal a tiny white-robed figure with little feathery white wings, a halo, and a golden harp roughly the size of a Sacajawea dollar (circa early 21st century America).
In the other, almost simultaneously, comes a poof of flame, dissipating to reveal ... a tiny red-jumpsuited figure with little spiky red wings, horns, and a pitchfork that an ordinary human-sized patron might easily mistake for a salad fork if it weren't barbed.
Both of them are looking around in startlement. The red-clad one gives a short, dry laugh.
"What are the odds?"