Ryder was more or less at loose ends. He'd recently gone back to 'work' for a few weeks (and had brought home some interesting souveniers), and as a result had wound up somewhat out of the loop so far as his human soap opera went. That Shaun friend of Susan's had mentioned that she was seeing someone--someone Ryder ought to pay a Call on, just to be sure the man knew to watch his manners--but just now he had little to do but wander down in search of a beer.
He'd never been in the Little Green Apple, but it sounded like a nice change from the Ravenclaw bar. When he arrived it was quite lightly populated, and he easily spotted Wednesday at the bar. Ryder had gotten over being thoroughly weirded out by their resemblance (even if it really was a little bizarre), and pulled up a stool beside Wednesday.
"Hey," he said, nabbing a beer. (He was Ryder. He liked beer. Anything else was too damn fancy.)
Ah, it was his lookalike. Wednesday still thought Ryder's bosses had to have a damn twisted sense of humor, to make their demon henchman wear Odin's face. That, or they were bargaining on the resemblance coming in handy sometime. The entire Judeo-Christian pantheon, including its ancillary organizations, had some serious Issues.
"Ryder." He nodded back amiably. It wasn't Ryder's fault his overlords had given him this face. "What's your poison there?" To Wednesday, beer was really more of a nutritional supplement than a proper drink.
"Pabst Blue Ribbon," Ryder said, quite unabashed. What could he say? He liked hick beer. "It's the beer equivalent of moose piss, but I like it."
There were peanuts on the bar, which he eyed but didn't grab. "Anything interesting happen lately? I've been away for a few weeks--had to go back to work for a while, and now I think I'm out of the loop."
"The answer to that question may hang on your definition of interesting, which you'll have to share. How was 'work'?" Wednesday knew damn well what Ryder's 'work' entailed.
As the gallows god, Wednesday didn't find said 'work' offputting in the least. Wasteful, sure. But not offputting. Now, if Ryder were to toss in the occasional muttered I dedicate this death to Odin before the victim expired, it wouldn't be near so much of a waste. Too bad the man was spoken for. Poaching other gods' henchmen wasn't the best of policies.
After considerable effort, Jezz had managed to teach the raven he'd acquired in December not to pull out his hair for nesting. Instead she had eventually come to the conclusion that trying to do so was a waste of time when his hair made a perfectly fine nest where it was.
Jezz decided he needed a break and a stretch before embarking on the next go-round, and so it was that he returned to the Little Green Apple with a young raven perched on his head, a spell to detect magic at the ready (there might be undetectables mixed in, he knew. Even back home there were spells to conceal magic, and this was a different brand of it altogether. But considering it overmuch was a path to madness), and a perhaps-healthy amount of trepidation.
Once he reached the bar, he nodded briefly at the other man nearby before muttering the spell and starting to look over the various bottles.
"We were going to work on that next," Jezz informed him, continuing to concentrate on the various auras in the area sorting themselves out. The magic in the school itself was complicating things somewhat.
She was a very young raven, Wednesday noted. Swiveling on his barstool, he addressed her directly: "Hair or no hair, a person's head isn't a stable perch, little girl. You'll only dig furrows in your friend's scalp and that's seldom appreciated." To Jezz he said: "You'll have to make sure she doesn't take a shit on your head, too."
Kal Skirata was not an alcoholic--at least, not since Kamino. Which was why he wasn't heading to the Ravenclaw bar. But he figured there was nothing wrong with heading to a cafe and sampling some of the liquor that Earth had to offer. So here he was, looking over what was available and frowning. "I don't suppose anyone'd know how the whiskey here compares to Whyren's Reserve?"
"Afraid not," answered Wednesday, looking over from his own glass. "Not familiar with Whyren's Reserve. Is it top-shelf stuff you're looking for?" Wednesday generally contented himself with more common fare. He had to. Pickings were lean, this century.
"Best whiskey in the galaxy. Started making those kaminiise bastards on Kamino import it and I developed a taste for it. Smooth woody stuff, went down like a dream."
"Damned if I wouldn't like to try some." Wednesday tossed back the rest of his own modest drink. "You might give The Macallan a go. They age it in oak casks." Wednesday himself was partial to all things oaken.
Maia has been quite the customer of anywhere with alcohol. She generally gets there, causes chaos and robs it blind. Occasionally, though, she just can't be bothered. Tonight, for example, she's slunk down to the the Corniest Named Bar in the universe. She sits a seat away from Wednesay, slaps the bartop, and gets the strongest beer she can.
Mel has been training. She has been getting stronger and more resilient. And Maia? Has been sitting on her very fine ass. Beer is needed. She finishes it in a matter of three gulps, and gets another.
"Something wicked this way comes," he murmurs, amused. Then, speaking up so she can definitely hear him: "That swill won't get you far, young lady. Do you like the taste?"
'It gets you drunk, which is the effect I'm aiming for,' Maia replies, not looking at him, more looking into the alcohol. (It looks like the eye of a duck.) 'And, please, I'm not about to launch into a fight with someone like you. Plus, your grammar was off. I'm here already.'
Now she swivels to give him a once-over. Unimpressed, she cradles the beer. 'It's not American piss, you know. Better'n the swill you normally get.' It's much easier to take over American bars; they don't have 24-hour licensing laws.
"There are much faster ways to get drunk, and tastier too if you've a mind for it."
Why, yes, Wednesday will happily mix up a Long Island ice tea for the lady. It's not corruption of a minor if she's really a demon. He's not out to impress her, really -- like her angelic double, Maia isn't anywhere close to his type -- but she amuses him.
I'm not about to launch into a fight with someone like you. Smart girl, if she means what he thinks she means by 'someone like you'. Fighting isn't in it.
"What sorrows might a demon need to drown?" He's sliding off his barstool, now, and making his way behind the bar.
Sansa, passing through the common room (and its bar), spotted Wednesday and made a point of greeting him. She'd only seen him at his Sorting, but he'd been courteous to her. And it was curious, to her at least, when a Ravenclaw abandoned the apparently-extensive Ravenclaw bar for the one in Slytherin. "Good evening, my lord."
While it had its appeal to be called my lord after centuries of growing informality and lack of respect, Wednesday decided that on the whole it set the wrong tone. "Call me Wednesday, m'dear. Mr. Wednesday, if you must. And a very good evening it is, to see you again."
Sansa smiled at the... flattery? It had to be. She hardly spoke to anyone enough that her presence would improve someone's night. "I would hope it would be a good evening in any case, but I thank you. What brings you here tonight?"
"I wanted a change of scenery. It would seem I chose well." Flattery? Oh, naturally. Wednesday was past master of flattery. "Would you care for a drink?"
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He'd never been in the Little Green Apple, but it sounded like a nice change from the Ravenclaw bar. When he arrived it was quite lightly populated, and he easily spotted Wednesday at the bar. Ryder had gotten over being thoroughly weirded out by their resemblance (even if it really was a little bizarre), and pulled up a stool beside Wednesday.
"Hey," he said, nabbing a beer. (He was Ryder. He liked beer. Anything else was too damn fancy.)
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"Ryder." He nodded back amiably. It wasn't Ryder's fault his overlords had given him this face. "What's your poison there?" To Wednesday, beer was really more of a nutritional supplement than a proper drink.
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There were peanuts on the bar, which he eyed but didn't grab. "Anything interesting happen lately? I've been away for a few weeks--had to go back to work for a while, and now I think I'm out of the loop."
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As the gallows god, Wednesday didn't find said 'work' offputting in the least. Wasteful, sure. But not offputting. Now, if Ryder were to toss in the occasional muttered I dedicate this death to Odin before the victim expired, it wouldn't be near so much of a waste. Too bad the man was spoken for. Poaching other gods' henchmen wasn't the best of policies.
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Jezz decided he needed a break and a stretch before embarking on the next go-round, and so it was that he returned to the Little Green Apple with a young raven perched on his head, a spell to detect magic at the ready (there might be undetectables mixed in, he knew. Even back home there were spells to conceal magic, and this was a different brand of it altogether. But considering it overmuch was a path to madness), and a perhaps-healthy amount of trepidation.
Once he reached the bar, he nodded briefly at the other man nearby before muttering the spell and starting to look over the various bottles.
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"You know, it's more comfortable for everyone if you let a bird like that perch on your shoulder," Wednesday remarked cheerily.
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Mel has been training. She has been getting stronger and more resilient. And Maia? Has been sitting on her very fine ass. Beer is needed. She finishes it in a matter of three gulps, and gets another.
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"Something wicked this way comes," he murmurs, amused. Then, speaking up so she can definitely hear him: "That swill won't get you far, young lady. Do you like the taste?"
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Now she swivels to give him a once-over. Unimpressed, she cradles the beer. 'It's not American piss, you know. Better'n the swill you normally get.' It's much easier to take over American bars; they don't have 24-hour licensing laws.
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Why, yes, Wednesday will happily mix up a Long Island ice tea for the lady. It's not corruption of a minor if she's really a demon. He's not out to impress her, really -- like her angelic double, Maia isn't anywhere close to his type -- but she amuses him.
I'm not about to launch into a fight with someone like you. Smart girl, if she means what he thinks she means by 'someone like you'. Fighting isn't in it.
"What sorrows might a demon need to drown?" He's sliding off his barstool, now, and making his way behind the bar.
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