Final Preparations [ OPEN ]
who ; Ladon Ceto and anyone who wants to visit!
what ; Ladon's been working on his speakeasy and it's almost ready for its big debut. He's still fussing about the final details, though. Drop by to say hello, maybe lend a hand, or just sample the booze.
where ; The Silver Apple in downtown Jardin.
when ; Any time between the end of the AM event and the start of the musical event. :) Backtags are of course welcome and encouraged.
warning(s) ; Ladon likes to cuss and swear.
Furniture dusted, booze organized, supplies stored, robots armed. The speakeasy was almost ready to go. Almost, because Ladon was a stickler for details.
He had a checklist on his clipboard, hung on a hook beside the bar which he'd use for inventory once the place opened. The squiggles there were more memory prompts than actual words-- reading and writing weren't exactly Ladon's forte. He had things crossed off, things underlined, things circled, even emphasized in blue ink. He'd chewed up the end of the pen he'd used in contemplation, wound up needing to replace it when it bled all over his gloves.
He had yet to "acquire" some drapery for the walls and windows, shades for the lights so they didn't look so cold and mechanical. Real, honest, goddamn lamps would be nice, too, instead of whatever glowy thingie-ma-bobs the place had come with. Then there was the matter of the music-- finagling the sound system to work would be a task in of itself, and Ladon hoped he could pass it off to someone with the know-how.
The wards needed casting on the windows and doors. He'd have to get his hands on some rice paper. He'd have to draw his own blood, because he trusted no one with the knowledge of how... different his was.
So much still to do. He wanted to get the place open before some massive catastrophe reared its head as they seemed to do on the station, but he doubted that would be possible. As he did most days before he got going, he mulled the list over with a stout glass of scotch and a few cigarettes, sitting at one of the wooden tables he'd lifted from a nice restaurant a few blocks away.
It was one of those days-- he was having trouble wrapping his brain around what needed to be done. Much as he needed to keep busy, he could use a distraction or two.
what ; Ladon's been working on his speakeasy and it's almost ready for its big debut. He's still fussing about the final details, though. Drop by to say hello, maybe lend a hand, or just sample the booze.
where ; The Silver Apple in downtown Jardin.
when ; Any time between the end of the AM event and the start of the musical event. :) Backtags are of course welcome and encouraged.
warning(s) ; Ladon likes to cuss and swear.
Furniture dusted, booze organized, supplies stored, robots armed. The speakeasy was almost ready to go. Almost, because Ladon was a stickler for details.
He had a checklist on his clipboard, hung on a hook beside the bar which he'd use for inventory once the place opened. The squiggles there were more memory prompts than actual words-- reading and writing weren't exactly Ladon's forte. He had things crossed off, things underlined, things circled, even emphasized in blue ink. He'd chewed up the end of the pen he'd used in contemplation, wound up needing to replace it when it bled all over his gloves.
He had yet to "acquire" some drapery for the walls and windows, shades for the lights so they didn't look so cold and mechanical. Real, honest, goddamn lamps would be nice, too, instead of whatever glowy thingie-ma-bobs the place had come with. Then there was the matter of the music-- finagling the sound system to work would be a task in of itself, and Ladon hoped he could pass it off to someone with the know-how.
The wards needed casting on the windows and doors. He'd have to get his hands on some rice paper. He'd have to draw his own blood, because he trusted no one with the knowledge of how... different his was.
So much still to do. He wanted to get the place open before some massive catastrophe reared its head as they seemed to do on the station, but he doubted that would be possible. As he did most days before he got going, he mulled the list over with a stout glass of scotch and a few cigarettes, sitting at one of the wooden tables he'd lifted from a nice restaurant a few blocks away.
It was one of those days-- he was having trouble wrapping his brain around what needed to be done. Much as he needed to keep busy, he could use a distraction or two.