The witching hour--sort of. - Strangefellows, dang it!
{{OOC: Please see here for notes on Strangefellows.}}
Settled in one of the back booths of the bar are two British witches. Their hair doesn't at all look the same, but they share enough facial features that it wouldn't be difficult for most people to realize they are in fact related. They are sharing a bottle of wine, although their conversation seems awkward and tense rather than familial in tone. Both women are tired, although they come from different sides of the same finished war.
They would probably appreciate someone coming to split up the uncomfortable silence.
Not too far away from the other set of witches, Morrigan (still looking very pregnant) is sitting in a booth, alone. She is glancing now and again at the barsnacks, convinced they are going to flinch or move in some way or another. Really, she's sure those should be the least of her worries ... but they are the most pressing concern at the moment. Last but not least, a girl dressed in nothing more than a tight skirt and a black bra steps into the bar, looking bewildered for a moment before collecting herself and letting her lips slide into a grin. She reaches into her purse (thank God she'd been carrying it), shrugs on her back-up lace tank top, and sidles over to the bar to get a drink. Lily doesn't remember dropping anything today, but that doesn't mean she hasn't. Hell, this bar could be just its own fantastic dream.
Settled in one of the back booths of the bar are two British witches. Their hair doesn't at all look the same, but they share enough facial features that it wouldn't be difficult for most people to realize they are in fact related. They are sharing a bottle of wine, although their conversation seems awkward and tense rather than familial in tone. Both women are tired, although they come from different sides of the same finished war.
They would probably appreciate someone coming to split up the uncomfortable silence.
Not too far away from the other set of witches, Morrigan (still looking very pregnant) is sitting in a booth, alone. She is glancing now and again at the barsnacks, convinced they are going to flinch or move in some way or another. Really, she's sure those should be the least of her worries ... but they are the most pressing concern at the moment. Last but not least, a girl dressed in nothing more than a tight skirt and a black bra steps into the bar, looking bewildered for a moment before collecting herself and letting her lips slide into a grin. She reaches into her purse (thank God she'd been carrying it), shrugs on her back-up lace tank top, and sidles over to the bar to get a drink. Lily doesn't remember dropping anything today, but that doesn't mean she hasn't. Hell, this bar could be just its own fantastic dream.