The coals from the bonfire aren't even cold yet, and Fiona's still uneasy. Wakes always make her feel like she should go home, see her ma, and her brothers. But she can't go back to Dublin, not without a completely new identity. And even then, it's just not feasible.

She tried working the heavy bag for awhile, and even wearing Ramon out hadn't taken the edge off. She'd left him napping and headed down to the bar. They were out of tequila, and that would never do.

"Bar, can I get two more bottles of your Patrón Silver and two the Tres Generaciones?"

Bar obliges with four bottles and two shot glasses.

"Oh if you insist."

[ooc: plotlocked, thank you! ]

[Not out of Milliways, but under Milliways.]

Cavilo's on top of the world right now.

That's almost literal; she's in synchronous orbit around a highly industrialized planet with a single government, a primitive but enthusiastic form of star travel, and an equally primitive but enthusiastic smuggling trade. There's all kinds of potentially lucrative opportunities here for a smart woman with a clever brain, a newly acquired ship, and all the information she needs at her fingertips.

She's not expecting to step into Milliways when she leaves the ship's cockpit for the sleeping berth, but the look of brief startlement on her face morphs almost at once into a look of well, why not?, and she saunters toward the bar.

The problem with having a country whose most desirable export was it's wool was the animals that wool came from.

Of course, as part of the blend involved sheep, he'd had more than a few troubles with the various sheep farmers, their land and boundaries, and at least three problems just this season to do with specific taxes that needed to be corrected on lanolin production.

...this year, of course, was the year that the goat farmers started to cause trouble.

And it was for that reason that Garion decided to try the door that he'd ignored for some months as one "crisis" after another had taken up what time he had to give when he wasn't being a father. To be fair, it was his advisers that would call them that, as he was of a mind that anything which didn't imperil all of existence was merely "a bother", but it all took up daylight.

Not tonight, though. No, tonight, he was in for a chocolate milkshake and Nothing To Do With Farm Animals.

Rem sat reading an old leather bound book. There is no name on the spine, just the numbers used for placing it in the library.

Her table was covered in snacks and a wooden chess set.

Having established--after a long, mildly painful discussion with the Bar--a method of determining whether his timeline's gone back to normal or not, Tavi is sitting in a booth with a mug of hot chocolate and a bowl of marshmallows, as well as a few papers. (Some habits never get broken.)

He also has a shallow box, filled with sand which has--somehow--formed itself into a map which he seems to be studying. Or possibly he's more distracted by the box of Legos the Bar has decided to provide him with, and the small Lego house it's placed squarely in the middle of where he's trying to work. And thus there is a tall Roman guy with a sword and a box of brightly colored blocks in a booth near the fire.

He just groans and drops his head to the table. "Why me?" he mutters.

[open till it falls off the front--longer if I say so.]

One thing he friggin' HATES about fights is that his suit and shirt get all messed up.

HEY. No, wait, he could give a fuck about that. What he hates is gettin' his friggin' ass kicked by some random monster and it doesn't happen real often, but every now and then, just...

Actually, the worst part of all is makin' a friggin' entrance slidin' in on his ass. He ain't got much of an image, but what little he has, he kinda likes to protect. At least a little. After he's done slidin' across the floor of the bar, he stands up like he meant to do it that way. Tugs down his jacket, starts smoothin' out his shirt before he remembers he never ironed the thing a day in his life, tosses back his hair, and lets go of the knife he's been holding onto in his pocket hard enough to leave fingerprints on it. He's learned a couple valuable lessons in his life, and one of them goes like this: when you're gettin' your ass handed to you by the enemy, get the fuck out of the fight.

Enzo looks excited and satisfied as he enters Milliways this evening. He has just begun his third... let's go with 'year' at the Academy. He's already got the fundamentals of theory and basic combat under his belt; this is where the training picks up.

See sprite for details.

Carlotta has more or less recovered from the flu, apart from the point where she tried to write her English essay to pass the time and wrote Tracy as her name on it.

She's in the main bar now, rewriting it to put her own name on. Which is tedious to say the least.

When Kaidan finds Milliways in place of the ship's lift system, he's struck with sudden insparation, and, after a quick word with the bar, spends the next few hours hours traveling up and down the stairs with armloads of things.

Anyone want to see what he's up to?

Aziraphael is in the bar for once, sitting at a table with a cup of mint-scented tea and a stack of papers. They don't look as yellowed as one might expect, and he's frowning slightly as he pores over them, allowing only the occasional frustrated click of his tongue to express his displeasure.

He looks ever so slightly disheveled, as though a few threads have worked loose in some indefinable inner fabric. It's not so obvious as having circles under his eyes, but any observer would say that he looks tired. Ridiculous, of course. It isn't as though he needs sleep.

Freya's on one of the couches, near the fire. She has a cup of hot chai tea, and most of her attention seems to be focused on that, except for the every-so-often when her gaze shifts to the fish, or the window, or sometimes even the people. It doesn't land on the people for very long.

Michael wants her to go to the city. She's not sure she's ready yet.

But they don't have a choice.


{Freya and you: see her userinfo for details.}

Ianto is a coffee purist. Good coffee should taste like coffee, not like ten other flavors that are distinctly not coffee. A dash of sugar, a hint of cream, that's all a decent cup of coffee needs.

Of course, he's had experience with other kinds, which is why he has written this on the specials board:

Today's Specials
Gingerbread Latte
Peppermint Mocha
Fireside Coffee

One teaboy behind the bar, at your service.



[ooc: Bartending now closed. Wrap/fade on all threads, please.]

The door to Milliways greets Beckett first thing in the morning, before the sun's even had the chance to greet the day itself in Provence. She's already dressed for her run, hair pulled up off of her neck and dressed all in black.

She could use the change of scenery, she decides, among other things (and running, apart from the range, is just good for her to clear her head). She grabs a jacket to keep the chill out before she heads out for her usual morning run - this time, around the lake.

Feel free to catch her a) coming into the bar, b) outside during her run, or c) after she's back inside. (She'll be using the bar itself to stretch against, standing on one leg to stretch the other.)

It's a choose-your-own-adventure, Beckett-style.

Edward is in a rather amazing mood when the door opens. Enough so that he actually doesn't look too displeased that there is Milliways on this side of his bedroom door.

He's in a new change of clothes. Very nice, very dark, tailored blue jeans and a grey cable-knit sweater, with a white collar at the top and black shoes. In his hands he's carrying a brand new white and blue baseball cap and a matching shirt. In a much smaller size than he would ever be able to wear.

[Here until i have to run away to The Nutcracker at 3 and then I will return after it!]

Buffy's at the bar, staring intently into her glass of iced tea.

She looks troubled, but it's possible that was a pre-existing condition.

It was recently pointed out to Castiel that he could have his cake and eat it too (if you’ll pardon the phrasing) by turning his enjoyment of making things to the culinary arts. All the pleasure of creating something, followed by easy disposal. To this end, Castiel had a somewhat one sided conversation with Bar regarding experimenting in the Milliways kitchens.

Bar (not being a fool) had had other ideas. Best to start a total novice out slowly.

Castiel had examined the pink and white plastic box (dubbed “Easy Bake Oven”) doubtfully. But had followed the instructions, and settled down, his nose about three inches from the oven door, to await the results.

Perhaps it was a faulty mechanism. Perhaps the oven simply cannot withstand an angel’s stare. Perhaps it’s a combination of both that causes smoke to begin to curl out of the oven’s insides.

Shortly followed by flames.

The smell of carbonizing brownies and melting plastic fill the air as Castiel stares at the burning toy with a combination of confusion and reproach.

“This is not an efficient means of preparing food.”

On the beach a bonfire is burning, there's still light in the sky so its not at its fullest yet. Beside it cords of wood and driftwood are ready to be tossed on so it can go higher.

Not too far away is a table with a cask of rum, bottles of good whiskey and simple food, bread cheese and things for putting on sticks and burning in the bonfire.

Also written in the large careful handwriting of someone who hasn't been writing for too long:

Doc Scurlock: We send him off this eve.

Will is moving about with a mug of rum in hand and watching the fire grow.

(OOC: Consider this like a party post, I'll set up some subthreads below but threadhop and enjoy, this is open as long as it needs to be. Also don't worry if your pup didn't know Doc, its a bonfire on the beach so its open to anyone. Use this as a chance to get to know people and just have fun.)

Sirona walks in and orders a drink

Instead, she gets a napkin.

She shakes her head, laughs, and walks to the other side of the bar, and writes on the specials board.


Then, Sirona stands behind the bar and waits for patrons.

Pam doesn't walk so much as waddle into the bar this morning.

She's not about to complain on the subject of her size, but it literally feels like her belly sort of exploded over night. (Or, you know, some other word that sounds less gross and Alien-ish.)

She plops herself down on a couch and absently rests her hand on her pregnant stomach while attempting to flag a waitrat down to order some tea with the other.

There's a red headed witch slumped low in a big comfy chair. She has a book in her lap, though her legs are curled up so that any part of it that would hold a title is hidden from view. She's nervous enough, reading a book on what to do when dating a vampire. Yes, she'll be doing the exact opposite, and it would be more embarrassing to read this say...on the bus back home. But she's still hiding it despite the fact that she's in Milliways. She's drinking a cup of tea while she reads.

Feel free to bother her though.

[ OOM: Even in a world of magic, it's really not always flowers, hearts, and candy. ]

[oom: Shopping.]

Guppy is fiddling with his phone while he waits to see if anyone needs clinic. He has tinsel bits in his hair and his sign on the table.

FREE WALK-IN CLINIC
THE DOCTOR IS IN

(COME SEE ME IF YOU NEED HELP WITH FLU)

A gecko walks into a bar.

A six foot tall gecko, head down over a script, a pair of dark heavy framed glasses (aka BCGs) perched on his nose. So engrossed is he that he doesn't even realise he's not walking into his kitchen until a wait rat stops him by standing in his path.

"Oy, working here. What the -??"

The rat chitters and twitches its whispers rather emphatically.

"Temporary? Bar tab? What?"

The rat hands him a napkin with a note on it and shoves him behind the bar. There's a hurried little dance with the drinks book and the soda dispenser, and the rat takes off its apron and tosses it in the laundry bin.

"Fine. Just go on then, abandon me to the hordes." Gecko peers at the note again and the bar book. "S'a good thing I brought my reading glasses, innit?" Eventually he finds the specials board and scribbles a message. It's deeply strange to be able to reach everything. It's like the whole bar has been shrunk down just to fit him.

He rather likes that idea, actually.



[ooc: Open until 5:30 PST.] [ooc: Thank you all folks! Slowtime calls.]

Carlisle walks into the bar for the first time (as himself) in awhile.

With an enormous basket of fruit in each hand.

He's here to say sorry, if he sees the people he wants to apologize to.

[ooc: mostly plotlocked, but email me at milliways.mal at gmail if wanting to tag?]

[OOM, Millitimed to at least a week ago: Comprehension. Of a sort.]

OOM: It's been a while since Ingress practiced her slingshot. X-23 supervises a lesson in which old friends are remembered, and skills are sharpened for the future.

There's a story that some great artist, way back, was asked by some king or whomever to give an example to prove his skill, and the artist had simply painted a quick, perfect circle on a canvas and sent it back to the king: it takes a lot of talent to do seemingly simple things so effortlessly.

So it is with Weyland's finished commission. It may look like a simple watch, unadorned--there aren't any chimes, nor visible motion besides its hands; no fancy engraving, no particular ornamentation to the band. But it won't scuff, it won't scratch, it won't lose or gain time; its workings cannot be damaged by impact, nor by heat or cold. It's not indestructible (a nuclear blast would probably give it a bad day), but it's probably as close to it as it needs to be.

He leaves it at the Bar, in an equally austere wooden box, with a note addressing it to Kate Warner and the instructions Wind every third day.

With that accomplished, he heads back through the door to his world. A star seems to have gone missing from the sky.