When Nikola enters the bar this evening, his usually immaculate appearance is somewhat marred by the blood splattered on his clothes (and his face and his hands and his--gasp--hair ( Read more... )

Posner is curled up by the fire reading (for fun!) a book of Thomas Hardy poems. He has a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits and looks very cozy indeed.

***
In a corner a ways away from him, Orpheus is strumming his guitar, carefully picking out a wintery tune, lamenting the shortened days, the frosty nights. It's a bit colder in that area ( Read more... )

You know, one of these decades, Nikola is going to learn how to say no to Helen. He really is.

Not this decade, though.

First it was the anti-virus. He wasted months on that. (And the fuzzy butler still won't take it. Hairy, little brat ( Read more... )

There is a man in Milliways tonight that looks...a little tired. He's occupying a chair too far from the fireplace to be affected by it, hand resting over his eyes and pressing gently on his temples. His waistcoat is unbuttoned, as are the top few buttons of his shirt, and he looks like he has a headache, though probably less actually painful and ( Read more... )

Over the ebb and flow of conversations, the endless background static of the bar room, there is the soft sound of a violin being played. Its tone is is sweet, nearly to the point of pain: that ancient, deep yearning for something forever out of reach. The slow, winding half-tune insinuates itself among the sounds of the bar, as subtle and ( Read more... )

Yrael sighs when he sees the napkin appear instead of the plate of fresh fish he'd ordered.

"I see the price of a meal has gone up considerably."

An answering napkin appears.

"No need to get snippy," he replies, wry, resting a hand on the bar top. "I didn't say I wouldn't do it. Go get some rest ( Read more... )

"Really ( Read more... )

When Nikola takes a seat at the bar today, before he even has a chance to order, a small, chocolate cake pops up on the counter. It's decorated with lightning bolts and a blue 153.

"Wasn't I 153 the last time you did this?"

The only response is a glass of Atlantean.

"Yes, all right. No questions about time here."

The man who comes through the door today is, unfortunately, not watching where he is going. There are a good many things anyone watching could tell about him in the space between when his fingers curl around the edge of the door to push it out of his way, and when his shoe hits the floor and he stops, looking up sharply. His dress is a giveaway, ( Read more... )

There seem to be napkins piling up on the bar in front of Yrael, who argues without the least bit of self-consciousness for the seemingly one-sided discussion.

"... no, I will not wear an sombrero." Another napkin.

"Yes, I know it's a celebration, but I have my own hat." And another.

"But I like my fedora." And another ( Read more... )