The Bear and Barnacle

Gaav has come into the pub, leaving two bikers on the street throwing punches at one another for something even they aren't sure about in his wake. His smile is as satisfied and wicked as a cat's with a struggling mouse in its paws. Out of his pocket he pulls out a large tankard and sets it on the bar counter with an order to fill it before he takes up a chair and plunks his booted feet onto another across from him.

His fingers tap idly on the table top as he waits for his drink to be brought to him and has he drinks in the rage from the streetfight, its a small snack but appealing for its burning violence. After a moment he looks down at the table top and there, singed into the table top is something very familiar.



Its part of the tribal style tattoo that covers the entire back of his body from nape of his neck to bottom of his calfs, this from just over his left shoulder, one of the three heads of the dragon that sweeps up his back. The rest of it is a network of flames and weapons that shimmer black to red like living hot embers. Each of his generals had carried similar flame tattoos somewhere on their body: Rigo along his left thigh and hip, Tulizi circling out from her always bare navel, others on upper arms, wrapped around shins, spanning their shoulders. Even his priest before Valgaav had one, ironically around his neck where Gaav's sword would later cut through ending Jorlis's service and life when he could not longer serve his master well enough to be allowed to live.

He huffs in amusement at the table's new decoration and wonders just what the pub owner will say about this. At least it wasn't pub owner or one of his patrons who found themselsves abruptly decorated.

This month the topic is jokes! What type of jokes do you like? What do you think is funny? Tell us your favourite one or make up a new one!

*stage-whispers* You can even tell the naughty ones! I promise not to tell Iago if you say bad words in front of me.


Appropriate to the season, we think! Unsurprisingly the tag is jokes.

Rincewind had been sent to clean the bathrooms; on the theory that there wasn’t much in there he could break. He had however, been informed in no uncertain terms, that if he broke the mirror, seven years bad luck would be just the beginning of his troubles. He trundled the mop and bucket into the dank room and looked around with a scowl. “Call this a bathroom?” he muttered as he savagely swilled the mop in the bucket. “This isn’t a patch on Johnson’s Patent ‘Typhoon’ Superior Indoor Ablutorium with Automatic Soap Dish (Rubber Duck Optional but Recommended), a sanitary poem in mahogany, rosewood and copper.” Rincewind sighed, wrung out the mop and started to work by the door. “It had boilers and tanks and pipes!” he muttered, carefully moving around the sinks. “Brass taps that looked like mermaids and shells,” he moved the bin out of the way, picking up a few wadded pieces of paper towels as he did. “An amazing bathroom,” Rincewind went on, trying not to look at the urinals as he mopped up around them. He had to do it twice. “It had a whole wardrobe for dressing gowns and a big blower thingy so you got bubbly water without eating starchy food.” Rincewind tried mopping the graffiti off the walls, after spending some moments trying to work out the anatomy. It didn’t work, so he shrugged and moved on. “It even had a special pot for your toenail clippings so they didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Not a thing like this!” He looked around the pub’s bathroom, then sighed again as he realised he’d mopped himself into a corner. “Of course, it was a Johnson,” he said as he waited for the floor to dry so he could leave. “He did the University Organ as well and to him, pipes were pipes. I wonder what really happened when the Archchancellor was taking a shower while the Librarian was playing Bubbla’s Catastrophe Suite? He never said.”

Each of Margate's less mundane residents wakes up, one otherwise normal morning (which should be a warning in itself), and finds themselves possessed of a craving, an addiction even, that overpowers all else. They wake with a sudden, sinisterly irresistible urge ... to doodle.

This month, your character will be idly drawing on the nearest flat surface whenever there's an implement in reach. Describe to us (or show us!) what they produce. The tag is, of course, "doodling."

Lucius could feel Mr. Gibbons eyes on him as he moved quill over parchment. The irritating weasel of a man was a good campaign manager, but still a Muggle, and entirely too nosy of late. Finally, Lucius lowered the quill and glanced up. "Is there something you needed, Mr. Gibbons?"

The man shuffled slightly, eyes darting to the spot where Lucius' cane rested against the side of the desk, before darting back to Lucius face. However, he quickly lowered his eyes, faced with the steely gaze of the man behind the desk. "Well, sir, Mr. Malfoy...I mean...you're using a quill."

Lucius arched an elegant eyebrow. "Yes. I always do."

Mr. Gibbons continued. "An actual feather quill, and an inkwell."

Lucius sighed. "Yes. Your point?"

"It's a bit odd, isn't it, using a quill? There's not even a computer in here, I've noticed. You write all your correspondence." Lucius just continued staring at him, so he coughed and continued, "And you have an owl. I know rich people have exotic pets sometimes, but an owl seems an odd choice. And not many men your age still wear their hair long."

Lucius began to drum his fingers along the wood of the desk. "You've become quite observant, haven't you Mr. Gibbons? Do tell me, what is the point of all this?"

"People like you, and seem to trust you, but there's just something...that is...it's all a bit..." Mr. Gibbons eyes darted to the cane again, very quickly, but Lucius did not miss it, and reached for it.

"Do you like my walking stick, Mr. Gibbons? Or is that also one of the odd things you've suddenly taken notice of, when you've been blind to everything for months now, you narrow-minded fool..." He slowly pulled the snake head away from the cane, revealing the wand within. Mr. Gibbons started to open his mouth to make a comment, but Lucius continued, "It's a pity, really, that you didn't stay blind. Do your job, line your pockets with my generous supply of money. Now it will be that much more effort on my part...though it will save my accounts." Pointing the wand at the wide-eyed, open mouthed, and confused face of Mr. Gibbons, he said one word.

"Imperio!"

 
She's beautiful and he just... Can't. Get her. Out. Of. His. Head.
Oh, hell, not again.

Shit. Shit. Shit.
You're a pervert. Pervert, Ed. Per. Vert.
No. It's fine. It's really fine. It's just-
Shut up. Shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup.

Oh, fuck.


The wall is cool against his cheek, damp with condensation from the shower.
The breath is still hitching in his chest and he really wants to just slam his forehead into the wall over and over and over. It wouldn't help. He knows that. Even if he knocked himself out, it still wouldn't help, so instead he wipes a hand over his face and - shakily - finishes dressing.

The second he makes unexpected eye contact with Zelgadis in the hallway, he goes scarlet and bolts into his room, muttering incoherently about having forgotten shoes. It's anyone's guess as to what Ed is on about as he is very clearly already wearing his boots.
 

This month's topic is bathrooms. Tell us what yours looks like, your dream bath, things you done in them, the contents of your shower, bathing habits, sharing a bathroom, etc! If it involves bathrooms, baths, or showers, it's fair game!


Yeah, I'm sure everyone's glad that the 6 year old is back to picking topics. :P And yes, the tag for this month is bathrooms. We do encourage memories, art, plots, and random explanations!

Late at night, the Joker sits cross-legged on the floor of the warehouse, looking for all intents like a child at a slumber party. Or he would, if not for the blood on the floor, and the body that is doing much more than sleeping beside him, a metal spoon sticking out of his neck. The Joker looks down, makes a "tsk" noise, and yanks the spoon out, sending another gurgle of blood onto the floor.

"Oh, not done yet? My whole FLOOR will be red soon, Steve." The Joker regards the spoon in his hand solemnly. "It's a very, very serious matter, choosing one's weapon. Oh, you might THINK I've just grabbed whatever was, ah, handy...but really, even when it happens quickly, it's done with very careful calculation. For example, while yes, I often prefer knives for their...art, sometimes a nice Uzi is just more appropriate to the situation, you know?" He chuckles as he continues, scar stretching upward. "And sometimes, more creative measures are called for. When you want it to hurt more. Or be more surprising for the victim. Hell, you probably EXPECTED a knife, didn't you, Steve?" The man does not respond, having passed over quite a few minutes ago. As such, he can't respond that his name isn't Steve. Not that it matters. "But sometimes it's better to go for the unexpected! The spoons, like this one, and the pencils, the pool cues, the barbecue tongs...oh, there WAS that one time with the tv antenna..." he continues smiling.

"But you know what my absolute favorite weapon is, Steve?" He waits, then frowns. "Oh come on, at least TRY to guess." He waits a moment longer, then shrugs. "My very special favorite? It's the mind! Not MINE, but yours! Well, ah, any persons. Use their OWN BRAIN against them, make them second guess, make them jump, make them anticipate. So by the time we even GET to the knives, or the whatever else, they're already half broken before I've so much as laid a FINGER on them!" He laughs loudly at his joke, slapping his hand down on the ground for emphasis. It makes a squelching noise as it hits the puddle of blood.

He grins down again at the body. "I like you, Steve...you're a good listener. It's, uh, a quality I admire."

Faramir was given his first sword so long ago he doesn't remember not owning one and while he was at first much more interested in his books than in weaponry it was not long before the influence of his adored brother began to set in. Boromir is ten years his senior and Faramir has spent the entirety of his sixteen years thinking his brother a god.

In some ways the two could not seem more different even though they look so much alike. Even as children it was so. As Boromir sat beside their father Denethor in court and eagerly learned from the citadel guard all he could discover and some things he shouldn't have repeated, Faramir spent his time following the keeper of Gondor's ancient library and doing odd jobs for the Wardens of the Houses of Healing. He was at his father's knee only to ask for answers and stories rather than to absorb and adopt the ways of the ruler. By the time the brothers were eight and eighteen Boromir had picked up many mannerisms of their father and commanded his first expeditions with a tone and mind very familiar to the men in his service. Faramir was said to resemble his mother or neither parent in his shy nature and his willingness to listen to any snippet of lore or history that someone would tell him.

So it startled a few of his tutors and the servants of the house when at thirteen quiet, bookish Faramir began challenging Boromir to practice swordsmanship with him. Boromir indulged him and Faramir always lost.

But he persevered and refused when Boromir kept offering to go easy on him. He learned more from the losing than he would have from a swordsman of his own ability and soon that ability was greatly expanded. Their illmatched practice never seemed to draw more than half curious glances from Denethor, but Boromir's laughter and the rough hand ruffling Faramir's hair – those gave the boy a warm, steady glow that no other's praise and no other's touch could equal.

Now that he is uprooted from home and far from the warmth of his brother's love and the long-held hope of his father's approval, Faramir carries his sword close by him even though he's already noticed that very few in this place go armed. Its weight at his side is comforting as he pushes into the Pub having come on Mina's recommendation. Here in this strange and frightening place it is a touch of home and a memory of his brother that he cannot imagine doing without.

Jack is on very good terms with the neighbors … even after Val's thieving of their post, Val's inventive torment of the little dog belonging to the Fitzwilliams in the next house on the right, and the time they let Val give Moira Brown, the girl from the family that lives on the other side, the flu.

The Fitzwilliams are an older couple and Jack doesn't know if they've caught on, or if they, like some of his older customers, have somehow gotten the idea that he and Zel are brothers – but the Browns definitely know that Zel and Jack are … together (he's never quite sure what their shared adjective should be, though he's pretty much settled on “partner” for a noun). They don't seem to mind, as Jack still tends to half-expect. Zel is still tutoring Thomas in maths, anyway, though that might be less a matter of tolerance and more a matter of the difficulty of finding someone else who can do parabolic equations in his head.

More strange is the fact that none of the neighbors have ever asked which one of them Val belongs to, ( but today ... )

“There are guns, knives of all sorts, spears, bows and arrows, and of course, your wand,” Rodolphus says, slowly getting to his feet and making his way to the bar. “But I want to remind you that anything, anything! can be used as a weapon, either for offense or defense. Even rocks, though their range and accuracy is limited. This for example.” He picks up a chopstick from the bar and holds it up, examining it. “Even this can be used as a weapon.” He saunters back to his table, where two people are seated, immobile, staring at nothing. “Don’t believe me?” he grins around. “Watch!” And he places the chopstick at the eye of the bushy-haired girl and pushes slowly, with steady pressure. There isn’t an audible sound, but the end of the chopstick disappears. The girl doesn’t react at all; she just continues sitting and staring, a half-centimeter of chopstick embedded in her eye. “You have to be careful not to go too far, too fast,” Rodolphus explains, a professor delivering a lecture. “Or you’ll penetrate the brain case before you’re ready.” He withdraws the chopstick, its end now glistening with eyeball jelly. “There aren’t many things worse than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick,” Rodolphus chuckles. “But there are things just as bad.” And he takes the chopstick and jams it into the ear of the gangly red-headed boy at the table. The chopstick goes in a bit farther this time. Again, there is no reaction to the assault. Rodolphus pulls out the now-sticky chopstick. “Have to see if the Bertie Bott’s people might want this,” he says, appraising the goo. “So you see,” he goes on, propping his elbow on the head of the girl, who now has a shiny trail running down her face. “Just about anything you can put your hands on can be used as a weapon.” He tosses the chopstick on the table. “As for my favourite,” he shrugs, “whatever does the most damage.”

He'd woken late, and was therefore almost late to work at the Pub. Not that Ivonka would say anything to him. They'd come to some sort of mutual understanding, though they'd never be what you'd call friends. He wasn't sure Ivonka had friends, or that he'd ever want to meet them if she did. In any case, noticing his general moodiness, she'd wordlessly begun greeting him at work with both a shot of vodka (something really good, something they didn't keep at the bar) and a mug of fresh blood.

He was just pulling his phone out to check the time as he stepped into the Pub, when he noticed the blinking light that meant he had a text. It was short and simple, reading only "We're back."

With a suddenly renewed work ethic, he spent the next hour of his shift tidying the pub, making sure everything is as it should be. This includes making sure Dora's table has fresh paper and crayons waiting. He won't let on to anyone but the bit herself how much he's missed her. He's done the best he could in Iago's absence, but he never thought he'd be working this much. Not usually one to be employee of the month material. It'll be good to have someone who is at least a little more of a people person back behind the bar. He really belongs sitting AT it, drinking from the bottle, not serving from it.

A short time later, he takes even greater pleasure telling the frat boys at table three that they can "damn well order off the existing menu or get the bloody hell out". He's not sure, but he thinks he catches Ivonka's lip quirk up when she hears it.

The below is an IM continuation (of sorts) from Ed's arrival post, wherein Ed is kindly offered a place to sleep by Jack and (in a slightly less enthusiastic manner) Zelgadis. Players involved in the IM convo will, in all hopes, be able to continue the thread this way without so much reliance on coordinated schedules. :D Even so, others can feel free to comment and/or threadcrash about Ed's living situation, or whatever strikes their fancy!


Jack: *pushes open the Pub door and pulls his jacket around him* It's not a long walk ( -- just a few blocks. )

One of the conveniences of Margate – perhaps in order to balance out the minor inconveniences like being trapped in a random tourist city far from home and family for an indefinite period – is that the natives don't notice anything out of the ordinary. Let the imports walk down the street in period dress or flasher raincoats or drag, let them have horns and tails and a suspicious lack of birth certificate – somehow the ordinary townspeople just fail to realize that something massively strange is going on.

This month, someone's going to notice “something odd about you.”

Choose any one “normal” your character associates with and have them detect something odd about your character. The degree and kind of oddity they detect are entirely up to you, as is, naturally, your character's response thereto. Is thereto a word?

The tag is “noticing" and this brings us back to our regular posting schedule. Have fun!

It was Dora's insistence that returns them to Margate with such a specific deadline. She's not going to miss spending Valentine's Day with Val, but not in the way most people would expect, unless they saw the two children last year, dressed in black and passing out black paper hearts labeled "Death".

She doesn't know when they got in, having fallen asleep draped over Iago's shoulder on the train from France and barely stirring as Iago hefted her and their backpacks, Teddy securely fastened to Dora's. She slept on through the car ride and even through Iago and Jack's hushed exchange at the door of the latter's house.

But she wakes up hot, and tangled with Val and his wings. Probably deafening Val with her squeal of joy, she latched onto him, heedless at first of the unseasonable heat.

Breakfast at the very full Harkness-Grayweir house on Valentine's Day was filled with Jack's pancakes and Dora rambling, and rambling, and rambling at length about all the places they visited, the lack of being arrested or put into a brothel in Morocco, the sisters they met in the Alps but the lack of goats to chase there, and the weeks spent in Venice where Dora talked Paulo the gondolier into letting her steer, resulting-- unsurprisingly-- in a fall into a canal and a subsequent-- potentially unrelated-- illness.

She's still babbling when Zel is volunteered to take Val and her-- both matching and dressed in black, Dora with fake black wings-- out into the sweltering heat of Margate to pass out their "anti-valentines"-- upgraded to include "agony", "putrescence", "sorrow", and "loneliness" this year-- to the unsuspecting populace. And she only stops talking when her voice gives out.

First of all, I want to give a welcome to our two new players who have joined us in the last couple of months, Ed's player and as of yesterday, Faramir's. Welcome, lovelies!

A few other notes:

1) Thanks for keeping up on your post tagging, just don't forget include threadtags.

2) Iago and Dora will be returning in the next few days so the topics return to their control and will be less... well, terrifying and less Ivonka-like. :P

3) From this point on, Iago and Xellos will be working at the Pub on separate days (even and odd days respectively) rather than having overlapping schedules- so just keep this in mind in your play.
New 3. Iago and the NPC Ivonka are running the pub now, since we regretfully have been forced to ban Xellos and his player for the sake of the game and its collection of lovely players.

4) Just in case you've not looked at them recently (though they've not changed), check out the Rules and remember that this game is meant as low stress FUN! Email if you have questions or concerns.

5) You can always suggest topics and events to us! Be responsible for your characters' fates. I'll be screening comments to this post so you can just provide them here for us to surprise everyone with. The post really is screened. The now deleted comment below, which many of you emailed complaints about, was deliberately unscreened by its poster while she still had mod-access.

He is only circumstantially a soldier but he is well trained and the first thing he does when he realizes he is not in his own bed is reach for his sword. Yet he does not draw. He only gives his surroundings an intent, searching look.

He is alone on a sandy strip beside a sea. This in itself would not be strange for in the past he and his brother have travelled together south to the Bay of Beleriand, but it is most strange because he would not have slept there in the open. Stranger still because the last he knew he was in Minas Tirith in his bed, losing himself in a book. The strangest of all for the unfamiliarity of the bright town that lies before him past the shadowy sand.

After his surroundings he thinks to examine himself. His grey-green wool cloak is spotted with fine beach sand. To his left he sees a travelling pack of the type he carries on his saddle and when he draws it close and opens it he finds it contains his own clothing, precisely folded, and a thick book. It is the book he was reading but if he were to bring a book on a journey to lands unknown he thinks he would choose a less fragile and more relevant work than this poetic Elvish history.

Again he looks up and around and tries to reconcile what he sees with any detail of the maps he has memorized in his studies. Is it just after dusk or just before dawn? He cannot tell and the stars are all wrong for the season. Is it not still winter?

He decides to wait for one hour for some memory to return or failing that for some inquisitive local who will direct a 16yearold boy who is very clearly lost. One hour and then he will go into this strange, bright, populous city, much though the idea makes him nervous and try to ascertain where he is and how he came there.

Hello to the world. Faramir and I are glad to have arrived or at any rate I am glad and he is confused. I have placed some basic info on his journal if anyone wants to see it and I am eager to play.

With a sigh, Albus regards the surprisingly crowded shore. Well, it's not surprising with the current weather, but it is surprising for the time of year, as is the heat itself. It's entirely too hot for any of his robes, so he has instead resorted to wearing the tie-die t-shirt and khaki shorts he had bought on a whim shortly after arriving.

Trudging through the sand and rocks along the shore, he continues his hunt for shells and interesting stones, adding them as he finds them to the large canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He hasn't a care in the world, and though part of him itches to solve the mysteries of this place, he can push that urge down and just enjoy it for now. He smiles as Fawkes lands nearby, regarding him (and all the other people) with a tilted head, before rising again to the sky to continue making lazy circles over their heads, much to the delight of a small group of children.

All in all, retirement is going well.

A little something different for an elegant Valentine’s Day (or anytime!) dessert, this jelly literally melts in your mouth. Use an inexpensive Champagne or Proseco, a sparkling Italian wine.

( Champagne Jelly )

Now this is the way it should be, Dynast be damned. This is his weather, his heat, even if it's not his normal locale. Val told him of the darkness last year, the heavy rain, and now this. Balance in Her world, he supposes, and he expects this means next their will be blankets of snow. Or perhaps an eruption of flowers everywhere.

But now it's his and he's going to glory in it. So he's changed out of his normal yellow trench coat and trousers and heavy boots. Instead he's wearing a yellow Hawaiian print shirt, tan shorts, and leather sandals, his long red hair caught on a summer wind, as he walks down the beach front road.