Suzi slipped in from the supply closet in San Francisco (confused, and holding a box of coffee filters) and blinked around for a moment before getting summarily begged to run happy hour and dumped behind Bar ( Read more... )

It's just about that time of year, isn't it? No one's told Judas, who doesn't especially know what day it is, but he's found himself feeling weak; he descends to the bar today, pulling at his collar with long fingers, and orders wine.

There's something in the air, he thinks.

Shakes his head: he must be imagining things.

A door opens to Milliways from the still warm hours of a very late St. Roch, Louisiana night; there is the smell of Arabian jasmine - a Maid of Orleans, to be precise - and stagnant river water, overlayed with a patina reflecting the accumulated detritus of 21st century urban life. Through the doorway, one can see a warmly lit long hallway with a ( Read more... )

*The back door opens, and Thom drifts in. He looks terrible: wet through with snow, wearing last week's thin black clothes. He goes on bare feet to a table, sits down, and rests his chin in his hands; closes his eyes.

After a few minutes, he shivers, opens them, and orders Atlantean.*

Raguel's at the bar. He looks surprisingly... rested. He might even have shaved.

Be wary, patrons.

Suzi has a basket of knitting and a basket of puppy. The puppy's basket is going squeak! as the puppy asserts her dominance over a toy shaped like a steak.

The knitting fails to make any sort of noise at all, although Suzi's left leg says jingle-jingle-jingle every thirty seconds. Her hands are writing up (in Genlang English, not Braille) a list ( Read more... )

She was ready to go and seek humans. She was. She was ready to seek other humans ( Read more... )

He's still not really comfortable with the Bar after all that's happened, but there are people about that Whistler needs to talk to. So he's in the Bar again, and he's ordered dinner for himself. Suzi, he figures, will find him on her own.

Oh, and he asked the rats to bring the food from the kitchen, not the Bar.

Sometimes, everyone needs a break. Tonight, Ace is curled up in her comfy chair by the fire with a book she scrouged out of the mid-twenty-first century Earth, when she stopped in for a bit of shopping and lunch a few weeks ago ( Read more... )

Xas steps in through the front door, snow dusting his eyelashes and hair. And, of course, the shoulders of his shirt.

He is, it would appear, wearing neither coat nor scarf nor gloves.

He does, however, have shoes.

And soon a glass of wine, as Bar is a very obliging creature.

Now--where to sit?