The Bear and Barnacle

Upon entering the pub, Holmes naturally noticed the cork board with its new display of pictures. Curious as always, he strolled over to examine them. Recognising Dora’s handwriting, he nodded and smiled at some, nodded and frowned at others. When he came to the one of himself, he froze for the briefest of instants.

“Oh, what place is this?” he murmured. Trumbull would have to tighten his security. Shaking his head, Holmes turned away. He decided not to tell Iago and Xellos that their ward had been visiting a funeral parlour. He did wonder how she had done it though. He was fairly sure he hadn’t been followed. Holmes knew that Dora could alter her appearance, but not to the extent that he wouldn’t recognise her. And he knew that some witches and wizards could change into animals. But he hadn’t heard anything about Dora being able to do such a thing. Still, he couldn’t rule it out. But where would she keep the camera? Unless the child could change into a kangaroo. Further investigation was called for.

Dora sneaks into the pub, but not very successfully for her obvious attempt to sneak past everyone while wearing dark glasses and a button-down white shirt ("borrowed" from Jack's laundry basket) she's belted around like a trench coat. Her hair is slicked back and pitch black, and her lips are vivid red.

She glances about then drags a chair over to the cork board on the back wall. It doesn't take long before she's pinned up a whole series of Polaroid pictures, each labeled with a name (occasionally spelled right). She's made frequent to obsessive use of the camera Iago gave her in the last few months and these are only the tip of the photographic iceberg, but they're some of her favourites.

( View Dora's... Handiwork? With Update. )

This month's event is Dora's brainchild. Your job is to take the picture (hotlinking is encouraged) and provide a post in which your character explains what they were doing when she snapped the picture. Since Dora took them, they must have occurred IN Margate at any point since this past Christmas. Feel free to post this as a Margate memory or an actual explanation to... someone? :P

We encourage everyone to play and to have fun with this distinctly silly event. However, for those who simply can't make it work or don't want to demonstrate their sense of humor or creativity, if you do not post about the picture, it does not exist. Come on, be brave! Have fun!

For those and only those characters who Dora has not yet met (including our two newest characters and Teddy), you may add in your own picture to the mix.

The tag for this is polaroids.

Credit to Mairelyn for Dumbledore's picture, jamew85 for Rincewind's, and DarkJediPrincess for Xellos'.

If he had known that tips would be this good with just a little bit of flirting thrown into his work, he might have gotten a job ages ago. Now with pay and tips, he's able to start on the list...

First up is his own phone. Can't rely on Holmes' much longer. Not if item two on the list happens. Can't make the call about the advert without a phone, anyway.

So he gets one with the works, internet and texting and all. Music and videos right on his phone. Technology is grand! He programs in the few numbers he needs, the pub, Holmes' main line, and then he pulls out the crumpled napkin that holds the number of the first person he's going to call. After all, he made a promise. He types in the number, presses send, and waits as he hears the ring on the other end.

"Hello? Looking for Dora, actually."

"Hello, Jack."

Jack turns at the familiar-but-couldn't-be voice down the alley and sees it speaker matches it. "Oh, not again."

Leaning against the brick wall in same cream-colored trenchcoat she died again in, Suzie watches him, smirking. She even has the bullet holes and blood riddling her coat, appearing black thanks to the night leeching away the reds. "You aren't happy to see me."

"Why would I be? What'd you do this time? There aren't any gloves left."

"I didn't do this, Jack."

"Like hell." He turns to walk down the sidewalk more for effect than any real intention to leave her there. If it's really her, really there, then he can't risk letting her run loose on Margate. She may not have any motivation to murder again, but then she hasn't shown she wouldn't.

Just as he thought, Suzie comes walking out of the alley to fall into step with him. It's irritating. She should be dead and in cryo, or if she did get pulled her, a corpse lying around. She shouldn't be walking and talking again. And they hadn't left her corpse dressed in that, anyway. Where was the bodybag?

"You know, I never did believe in ghosts," Suzie says. "In spite of everything we saw, I didn't believe in that. The existence of ghosts would imply some sort of life beyond this life, and we both know it's just darkness."

"What's your point?"

"Can you smell me, Jack? Can you smell the blood, the death on me?"

He looks sidelong at her and frowns. "No."

"Surely you'd smell it if I was here in any corporeal sense. I guess we were both wrong that there's only the physical life. Something's brought me back without my body."

"So you got dragged back out of the dark, whatever of you was in there. And you came after me? Go haunt someone else, if that's what this is. How about a relative you didn't get around to murdering?"

She says without malice, just matter-of-fact, "You killed me. You shot me, and told Toshiko and Ianto about destroying the gauntlet, and killed me, just like that. Like it didn't matter. I never did matter enough to you, did I? Never mattered enough to ask—"

"Spare me the pity party. In fact, why don't you spare me listening to you at all? You brought it all on yourself. You can try to blame me again for it, but it's not my fault. You could've talked to me if you wanted to."

"Could I? Nobody could talk to you then and have you care." She laughs mirthlessly.

It snaps something and Jack turns towards her, hand going out to— something, pin her against a wall and stare her down, maybe— but it just goes on through and he nearly stumbles into the wall himself. She looks almost as surprised as he feels to see that.

"That's inconvenient," she says. "I wondered if I could only physically interact with you. I guess not. Face it, Captain Jack. You can't make me leave, and I'm not going to choose to. You're stuck with me unless something else changes it."

Jack groans.

He walks into this town as he's walked into a thousand thousand towns, cities, kingdoms and battlefields at a measured saunter, long strides eating up the ground below him. There's a broadsword the size of a sapling resting casually on the shoulder of a yellow trench coat that glares like a caution sign with grudge. He surveys the misty evening, the rows of houses with televisions flickering through windows and the now empty beach. He doesn't look impressed.

He keeps walking, the strolling sightseers parting before him like pedestrians ducking an ugly exchange of words on a sidewalk.

Nearly nine feet tall with a flame-red ponytail to his knees and a face like a jagged cliff, he should be stopping traffic. But only a few people glance at him more than once. People know him, not consciously, but for those who fight or soldier, he's a familiar presence. Even though he's just walked into Margate, he was already there. Chaos Dragon Gaav is everywhere. All that changes is if he lets you know it or not.

As he walks in even strides, he tastes the astral flavors of the city: the revolting joy of families on vacation, the more satisfying bitterness of the regular inhabitants who's town has been invaded, a pleasant rolling anger from a fighting couple. These tastes grow stronger as he makes his way through the town, mixing with resentment, hunger, drunkeness and friendship. It's the oddity of many species in one place that draws him toward the pub. Not to mention a few astral signatures that are familiar.

Dora wakes slowly- as usual, though the light is streaming around the edges of her curtains. The Minister's perch is empty and she hears nothing outside her room. Everyone must still be asleep. She's about to slide out of bed and make her sleepy way to the bathroom when she sees it. The large, rangy wolf curled on the end of her bed. She starts, eyes going wide. It's not Navarre- the colouring's all wrong. This one is grey and brown. Her hand curls into Teddy's back, closing on her wand, just as the wolf's eyes open- a familiar shade of gold that makes her heart turn warm. She reaches out for him, but her hand passes through him. His head inclines at this then he lowers it in a sage nod. Her expression flickers, hair along with it, and she breathes out a single name, "Moony". They stare at one another for a moment but when his tail picks up a quiet rhythm against her bed Dora giggles and the tension dissolves.

"I'm going to the loo! But you have to stay here! And when I come back we can play," she announces as her feet hit the floor. The wolf gives a soft yap of assent and Dora slips out the door.

Val has been four for rather more than half a year when he decides enough is enough. Each year he ages is one year closer to adulthood ... or as close as he ever got, anyway. Two hundred is maybe not quite adult for a dragon.

First he quells lurking fears by having Jack measure his height and wingspan to ensure that he actually is growing. Lacking any real idea of when he was born the first time beyond "when it was warm," he chooses Midsummer Day to serve as his birthday. In the incredibly convoluted calendar of this locale that falls on the twenty-first of June.

What he didn't expect was Dora's resistance to the idea.

"I'm going to grow up," he said at last, stubbornly, to she who had been five over two birthdays now. "If you want to stay older then you have to grow up too." He added generously: "I'll share my birthday with you this year." At last she agreed.

So a compromise cake was baked, lemon with pink icing on one side and chocolate on the other. The pink side has six blue candles and the chocolate side has five. The whole vast, sticky confection, grimly but perfectly iced by Ivonka, sits proudly in the center of the bar at the Pub.

Val thinks this is an incredibly bizarre way to mark the turning of age, but he's not about to argue with tradition ... or cake.

Sherlock Holmes peered into the mirror, having to lean in close and squint a bit. His vision seemed cloudy. He ran a hand through thinning hair. “I should be grateful the whole hundred-six years weren’t dropped on me in one go,” he commented dryly to himself. He needed to go to the pub and see if he was the only one affected by this sudden onset of age. He turned, wincing as his joints protested the sudden movement. Sighing, Holmes made his was slowly downstairs, hanging onto the rail. It seemed chillier than it ought, and Holmes put on his coat and cap, having a dreadful time doing up the buttons. It appeared his fingers weren’t as nimble as they once were. Taking a cane from the stand, Holmes walked slowly of necessity, finding it amusingly ironic that he had on more than one occasion assumed the disguise of an old man. He’d gotten the pace wrong, he thought as he ambled his way along. Arriving at the pub, slightly breathless, Holmes struggled just a bit with the door and carefully negotiated the step up. He had to wait as his eyes adjusted to the dimness within. He scanned the patrons, scowling as he had to squint once more. “Ah,” Holmes murmured to himself, noting the sudden profusion of youngsters in the pub, a couple of whom he was able to identify. “Not an individualised phenomenon then.” He shuffled over to his usual table and sank gratefully into a seat.

Dora has gotten bored with the olives. No one seems to be ordering drinks that will give her the opportunity to spear them with the little plastic swords she talked Iago into getting. So for a while she tried slipping them into Iago's pockets but he caught her and sent her off to to make bugs out of the olives... He even joined her between customers to make her a caterpillar out of some toothpicks and olives. That lasted until The Minister swooped by and grabbed it, and proceeded to eat the caterpillar's olivey head.

So she drags out her box of markers and paper from behind the bar and decides it's time to draw something for Xellos. Her brow furrows as she tries to figure out what to draw him, but she can't decide on anything so she asks Iago for help. She likes his advice so she plops down at her table in the corner and draws.

When she's done, she adds a note then rolls them up and slips an elastic around the tube to hold it tight. She pulls an olive out of her pocket and throws it across the table at the back of the parrot who is still pulling olives from toothpicks. "Oi. There's post!"

The bird squawks indignantly at being pelted with food but he still obligingly turns around to stare at her while she waves the rolled up paper at him. He squawks again, "Rrrraack don't hit me, Iago!"

She giggles. "'m not Iago. And I'm not going to hit you."

He eyes her. "Traitor in the ranks!"

"I am not! You and Iago can keep fighting all on your own. I don't like wars." When the parrot says nothing, she pushes the rolled up drawing at him. "You have to take this to Xellos! And don't get it wet!"

The Minster reaches out to take it with one of his feet before taking flight. As he goes over Dora, he drops an olive onto her head. "OI!!!"

( Iago said to draw you some place warm! )

The Joker, oddly enough, is wearing dark slacks and a grey sweatshirt. Despite the fact that the weather is warming, he is wearing a beanie cap and a scarf is pulled up around the lower half of his face. His normal makeup is conspicously missing, instead heavy flesh tones are spread to try to reduce the glaring appearance of the scars. He is uncomfortable like this, visible without the mask, but a man has to eat and maybe if he's less obvious and hides in the shadow and doesn't see Ivonka face to face, she won't throw him out and he can have a warm meal.

He is sliding quietly toward a dark table when the free brownie display catches his eyes. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. How can he resist chocolate and sugar? He takes one and munches, making a contented little noise. Glancing around, he grabs several more brownies before finding a seat.

A short time and several quickly eaten brownies later, he's feeling even more cheerful than usual. The scarf slips off, forgetten, and he begins chuckling to himself at some internal joke. Oh, he knows. He tasted something different right from the start, but couldn't resist them. Maybe he should have stopped himself after 2, rather than the four he's now consumed...

A few more minutes pass, and he's lying across the table, shaking his head, laughing, and muttering under his breath. "She's good, so very good, a worthy advesary..." he should have noticed that the other patrons were acting slightly off when he came in "...hahahahehe...this is a GREAT joke, what a prank...hehahohoho...oh, you are a WONDERFUL woman, you...HAHAHehohohaHAHAHA..."

Jack walks through the pub, back to the toilets, and comes back out a few minutes later down to just his boxer-briefs simply because he can and he hasn't the slightest bit of shame about it. He tosses out a "Maybe don't look, Dora," before he strolls casually over to the board to pin up a paper as if people in underwear do that all the time.

"Bananas are good," he says. "And so's underwear, and so's what underwear covers up. Does that make it like a banana peel? Anyway, here's an easy recipe because bananas are good."

Baked Bananas
1 banana, ripe or not, either works but it's a good way to use them up

For sauce:
1/4 teaspoon cornstarch
1 tablespoon brown sugar (white works, too)
2 tablespoons water
Big ol' shake of ground nutmeg, cinnamon, or allspice, or any combination
Optional spoon of butter or margarine for more flavor

Scale as needed for more bananas.

1. Preheat oven to 175°C/350°F.
2. In a saucepan over medium-high heat, mix together cornstarch and sugar. Gradually stir in water. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Remove from heat and stir in spice (and butter/margarine if using). You can also heat it in the microwave just until boiling.
3. Place peeled banana(s) in a casserole dish. Drizzle sauce over the bananas. You might need to turn them over some to get them nice and covered.
4. Bake in the preheated oven for 8-10 minutes and serve warm.

I really don't recommend trying to skip the oven and cook this in the microwave. You'll get a totally different texture on the banana and it's almost creepy— the outside stays about the same but the inside cooks up from within and the banana splits open. The outside still holds it together, so it turns into a sort of dissected banana. Not a very appetizing presentation.

"Iaaaago?" Dora keens at him from the living room where she's been colouring while he's scrubbing the kitchen counters again.

"Yes, Tesorina?" He doesn't look up.

"Can I have a hundred pounds?"

Now he looks up at her. "What do you need a hundred pounds for?"

"For your birthday!" she reasons.

"You don't need to get me anything for my birthday and not something that big."

"But it's your birthday! And you're supposed to get gifts on your birthday."

Iago groans. "Can we pretend it's not my birthday?"

Dora puts her hands on her hips and looks at him. "Is this cause you think you're gonna be old??"

"Thirty is old, Dora."

( But McGonagall is old... and she's LOTS more than thirty! )

Dora doesn't really need long to decide what she wanted to give Mr Holmes. He was always asking her questions and investigating... everything. Or so it seemed to Dora. And The Minister agreed with her; he had a very good sense about these things, given that he was a parrot.

So she trudged off to find Professor McGonagall and ask if her idea was allowed- she had no desire to be in trouble with her. Professor McGonagall knew everything and everyone. And for a few moments Dora wondered if Mr Holmes had investigated her but couldn't decide if he must have or if she would have refused such an invasion. The internal debate came to a draw as both seemed equally likely and The Minister wasn't helping. He only squawked "Birds of a Feather" and something rather rude about cats before flying off again.

Professor McGonagall had agreed that it couldn't hurt and she would owl Dora's order for her. She had even taken the paper money that Dora brought with her for the purchase (money that Dora had earned from charging tourists 2 pounds a piece for having their picture taken with The Minister).

And now she had the two packages, wrapped up in alarmingly cheery paper with pink striped giraffes and green spotted zebras on it. She found Mr Holmes at the pub and scurried over to him.

"Here! I got your name in the gift exchange! I would have had The Minister bring them to you, but Xellos doesn't like him being in the pub and I'm already in trouble for bein' cleverer that Iago e'en though Iago's proud of me- sort of.. mostly! He says I'm sposed to be smart e'en though it was naughty to try to trick him- though I didn't. I just got my ear pierced, and he and Xellos agreed I could pierce one ear once- they just didn't say it had to be my earlobe and I got it up here!"

She points to the top curve of her ear where there is indeed a piercing through it, complete with a sparkling stud that changes between black and purple in the light. "But that's not your gift. These are your gifts!"

Dora hands over the wrapped books to him, one copy of Hogwarts: A History and one of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.

Dora finally finishes up carving her pumpkin then giggles at a stray bit of pumpkin goo that's clinging to the surface.

"Eww, Teddy has a bogey," she giggles then she wipes it off with the arm of her shirt which is already heavily stained with orange bits and blobs.

She snatches the box of matches when Jack's attention is on Val and she easily strikes a match and lights her candle. Ignoring Jack's belated protests about how he should be doing that, she blows out the match and drops the candle into her pumpkin.

When it shows off the design with a warm orange glow, she grins then hollers, "IAGO! XELLOS! I'm DONE! COME SEEEEEE!"

The blue and gold macaw sitting on the back of her chair startles at the sudden yelling and flicks some pumpkin guts from one of his wings at the back of Dora's head.

The Joker sat on the ground outside the pub, looking angry and frustrated. Several of his knives lay on a pile of orange goo & seeds. Despite his propensity for knives, and his normal skill with them, this damn Halloween Pumpkin thing seemed to be beyond him. He had hacked diligently at it for a while, cleaning out the guts (though not very well), attempting eyes, then a nose, then a smile. It had been the smile where he might have gotten carried away. He ended up slicing the pumpkin almost in half. Tried to fix it, made it worse. And then came the throwing.

Sherlock Holmes sat up and blinked in surprise. Why on earth was he on the floor? He looked around. He was in the basement laboratory, right where he should be. He frowned. Something had happened, but what? ( Read more... )

cont'd from here
cross-posted to journal

Xellos phases back to the restaurant, where he bombs through customers in a blind fury of pleasant smiles and graceful quips on his way to the cellar, grabbing several sandwiches, a pie, and two velvet bags full of pebbles (many semiprecious) on his way.

He spellcasts and chews his way through the lot, and when there are only crumbs and a pile of round-edged, polished-looking stones incised with runes and arrays left, he rests his forehead on his laced fingers and groans quietly to himself, "Why do I let him get to me?"

And considers finding more food.

It was a cloudy day, but pleasant. Cool for August and made cooler still by the steady breeze ruffling flags and tugging at hats. Weathervanes were spinning wildly all through the morning until, rather suddenly, they all pointed to the east.

The wind was shifting and folks that knew how to watch the sky would be able to tell that something, someone was coming. This was something that had happened before when the wind turned to the east.

Soon enough, a tiny dot appeared in the sky. It passed through clouds and over villages and towns before finally starting to drop down right by the seashore. Eventually, and perhaps a little sooner for those with sharp eyes, it became clear as to just what the dot was.

It was a woman holding an umbrella that was being carried along on the east wind. In her hand was a carpet bag and on her head was a smart, sharp sort of hat. On her feet were comfortably and well-shined shoes that soon touched the gritty sand of the Margate beach.

Mary Poppins had been on this beach before, as she'd been almost everywhere, but it was a long, long time ago. This time the wind had found her place for her; she hadn't planned to come here. But then it wouldn't do to lose your head at just anything.

She closed up her umbrella as she looked around at the water lapping at the shore and the wooden building just down the way. Once she had her bearings, maybe that's where she would go. Hopefully, things wouldn't be too crowded- tourists can be so trying.

"Right," she said to no one in particular as she opened her compact to check her appearance in the mirror and nodded to what she saw there. "Off you go then."

Then she closed it with a snap and took off down the beach.

( Roma, Città Leonina, Vatican Palace, 18 August 1503 )

Pardon our dust, gentle sirs and good ladies, new friends and old, but we assure you that the sounds of your voices are more welcome than your boot-prints.

To begin with, let each of you order up his drink and meal! Tonight, the chef takes requests, and your fancy is limited only by what we find in our pantry. However, all who have recipes must bring them to him, and so we shall set our menu when the time comes.

Come, then, have a seat! Here by the bar I shall keep you amused with talk and good drink, and there by the fire the room is warm, and at every table you shall find good company, and should you choose a place by the half-height walls of the kitchen you may speak with Xellos as he cooks. Come, your order?

For this very simple first topic, everyone can comment to this post with their food and drink choice. Thread-crashing is highly encouraged as otherwise there's not much in the way of interesting conversation to be had. Although Iago can and has discoursed at extreme length on polenta, but whether or not that qualifies for interesting depends on the listener's profession.

Welcome to the Bear and Barnacle!

Oh, and he means it about the recipes.