one.
[Ariadne had shown up in the middle of an order. Well, two orders, very technically speaking. Left standing in the middle of a room - an ostentatious affair that brought to mind Cole Porter and the clattering of long string-pearls - with a shaker full of Big Apples (Fucking tourists.) in one hand and another of Cocksucking Cowboys (Fucking regulars.) in the hand opposite. The situation was neither delightful, delicious, nor delovely, but the tune was catchy and she honestly had nothing against butterscotch schnapps.
This, she supposed, was just what someone got for contemplating the use of social networking. Which, fine, not an overly logical explanation for why she had been unceremoniously stolen from her workplace, but as that had been the only deviance from her normal routine, she was blaming it all on that.
It was a pretty place to be abducted to, all things considered, and she'd been relatively content to wander - endlessly, it seemed, considering the fact that despite a good sense of direction she was fairly certain that she'd passed by the same painting far too many times to count before giving up and flopping artlessly across one of those récamiers that made her feel remarkably fancy for someone casually sipping shots out of a metal canister.
But enough time had passed and the atmosphere had gone from charmingly old-fashioned to dark and creepy in enough of a degree for her to contemplate some degree of social contact. Couldn't hurt to talk to people.]
From the distinct lack of surprise going around, I'm assuming this sort of thing happens somewhat regularly?
This, she supposed, was just what someone got for contemplating the use of social networking. Which, fine, not an overly logical explanation for why she had been unceremoniously stolen from her workplace, but as that had been the only deviance from her normal routine, she was blaming it all on that.
It was a pretty place to be abducted to, all things considered, and she'd been relatively content to wander - endlessly, it seemed, considering the fact that despite a good sense of direction she was fairly certain that she'd passed by the same painting far too many times to count before giving up and flopping artlessly across one of those récamiers that made her feel remarkably fancy for someone casually sipping shots out of a metal canister.
But enough time had passed and the atmosphere had gone from charmingly old-fashioned to dark and creepy in enough of a degree for her to contemplate some degree of social contact. Couldn't hurt to talk to people.]
From the distinct lack of surprise going around, I'm assuming this sort of thing happens somewhat regularly?