MAY 1ST - 3RD | AFTER THE ACCIDENT |
There was an accident. The details are hazy and obscure, but it's still the first thing you remember. Maybe a car wreck — metal and broken glass everywhere, and the sirens and the
screaming. Maybe your bike hit a rock and you careened uncontrollably off a mountain path. Maybe something less mundane, even impossible seems to have happened to you. You can't quite make out the details, not who was at fault or why. Try as you might, the chaos is all you can truly remember.
It's also the
last thing you remember from before waking up.
When you open your eyes, the accident is gone, replaced with white sterility. Perhaps somewhat alarming at first, until you blink at your surroundings and realize that you're in a hospital bed. You try to move but are sluggish, covered in a scattering of minor injuries you only vaguely remember receiving, not to mention the possibility of the partially healed remnants of other, seemingly older wounds.
It's a shame you won't be able to tell the difference between the two. Your memories are an indiscernible fog where they're not absent altogether, only a few standing out in your mind with any kind of certainty.
If the room happens to be empty when you wake, it's not for long. Nurses bustle in, taking your vitals and asking your name and anything else you might remember. Don't worry, they tell you. You'll make a full recovery here. Much of what you say (especially anything unusual, anything about monsters or magic or outlandish technology) will earn placating speculation of head trauma from the accident. You'll be told to stay put, not to push yourself, and to wait for the doctor to clear you before you leave.
Then you'll be left alone. Or maybe you'll find yourself visited by loved ones: family, or friends. You've lived here much or all of your life, so of course you have those things. Of course they already remember you being here, and may remember visiting you in the hospital while you were still unconscious.
Either way, the hospital's population is quadruple the usual, and you get the impression the nurses are working themselves ragged just running damage control. You might hear talk around the hospital of other small population spikes over the past few days, though many patients appeared to be well enough to be released the same day, and the same might be said of you. Or at least the staff doesn't seem to be too concerned. You can even leave your room without much fuss, any doctor or nurse that might try to intercept you getting called away almost immediately to deal with something even more pressing.
Of course, it's not so unusual to settle in until you're discharged, either. You may choose to wait for loved ones to come pick you up, even speak to your fellow patients, whether roommates or others wandering the halls. The more enterprising and suspicious might even consider it an opportunity to poke around for a few basic answers.
MAY 1ST - 4TH | GETTING USED TO HOME AGAIN |
However you get there, outside the birds sing a joyful song, and though the air is just a bit crisp, the sky's as sunny as you've ever seen it. It's bright enough to make you squint for a moment before you feast your eyes on the quaint little mountain town of Wayward Pines, though that might just be some sort of side effect from your accident. Trees line the street at regular intervals, carefully manicured and slightly waterlogged from the recent flood. Cars cruise by at a safe and respectable speed. Fellow pedestrians spare you glances, some wary, others concerned or just friendly. It probably depends on how clothed you were when you left the hospital.
This isn't even the picturesque city center, though a colorful nearby sign reads "
Main Street" with an arrow pointing due south, followed in smaller font by a list of businesses you don't recognize (could be a good direction to head in, though — maybe it'll jog your memory), and one that you might: Wayward Pines Sheriff's Department. You've likely caught wind by now that any clothing or other items you had on you at the time of your accident are being held by the Sheriff until you're well enough to claim them. Not to mention the keys to your home, kept locked and safe at the station for you. That should probably be your next stop, though if anything's missing in what they hand over you'd be the last to know.
It's time to get home, to recover from your ordeal and try to sort through your memories. Do you remember this house, the pictures of family on the walls and how to navigate to the bathroom in the middle of the night? Maybe it's easier with loved ones living with you, helping you get settled, or maybe you're on your own. Either way, over the next few days it's a good idea to try to remember your routines, to get out and finally visit Main Street if you haven't already. Maybe you even remembered that you work in one of the more familiar sounding shops, or elsewhere in town. Makes sense they'd give you some time off to recover and get reacclimated to your life here, but eventually you should probably get back to work. You haven't seen your co-workers in a few days, and besides, you have to be able to put bread on the table.
Or at the very least some of the delicious treats at the school bake sale you're seeing flyers for all over town!
MAY 5TH | ANNUAL BAKE SALE, PRESENTED BY THE PTA! |
It's that time of year again. The time when everyone digs into their wallet, ignores their diet, and spends a little time supporting the local school bake fair. You know, for the good of the children. Or, in this particular case, the hospital. There's no denying the hospital has had a hard time of it lately, between the steady influx of accident victims at the start of each month and the recent outbreak scare, and the Wayward Pines Academy PTA has come up with the perfect solution to show their support to the hard working hospital staff by vowing to donate half of the proceeds for the sale today. Maybe the hospital can see about finally getting the staff breakroom a decent coffee machine!
And it doesn't hurt that Linda's Blondie recipe is honestly to die for. The PTA has pulled out all the stops this year in the hopes of encouraging a good community turn out, posters advertising the sale plastering every street corner and flyers stuffed into every mailbox for a solid week leading up to the event, and today is finally the day.
There's at least two dozen different tables set up with all manner of delectable treats, even one or two offering vegan alternatives for those inclined. Not to mention a few others catering to some of the townspeople's more... unique palates.
Maybe you've got your own table set up with your wares, or were simply lured to the park today by the appetizing scents wafting through the air. Either way it seems like the whole town has come out to show their support today, and why wouldn't they? Children are our future, after all. Or maybe it's just Linda's Blondie recipe.
Yeah, that's probably it.
MOD NOTES
Welcome to our fourth mingle log for newbies and oldbies alike!
This log is meant to cover characters' first five days in Wayward Pines. Characters for this round will appear staggered in the hospital between the
1st and the
3rd, and a CR building event will occur on the
5th, after everyone has had a suitable amount of time to get settled in town. For the most part, only the five memories detailed in your character's application are remembered throughout the duration of this log, although their false Wayward Pines memories may also begin to surface (in those who've opted to utilize this mechanic) as the week wears on. These memories, as noted in the FAQ, feel very real and are accompanied by as much emotion or sentiment as a real memory would be.
PLEASE INCLUDE IN SUBJECT LINE:
Character Name,
date,
location, and
Open or
Closed, to help keep things organized and make your character easy to find.
If you have any questions regarding this intro log, feel free to ask them on the FAQ or the relevant plurk.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
officialnotice) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
pineslog2017-04-30 08:52 pm
INTRODUCTION LOG
eliot waugh | some closed starters some open prompts! | y'all and your fancy formatting
Mel & el (open AND closed, isn't it incredible):1A: OPEN }
Via delightful curriculum of frequently unpleasant lessons, Eliot has learned that when persons in Authority are murmuring things in calm voices at you, it's best just to do what they want until they go away. Then you plot your escape. Or in Eliot's case just wait it out until he's officially discharged, then discover via sheriff's office he has A) fabulous taste (this here getup) B) possibly an alcohol problem (a flask that doesn't seem to empty?? ever????) and C) ....more possibly cosplay as a hobby (because why else would he have a crown).
Maybe it's for roleplay. Sexy roleplay. That sounds like much more his speed, he's pretty sure. Of course, he's also pretty sure he can do magic, and equally sure he remembers killing a guy with a bus - not on purpose! though no less viscerally, viciously satisfying - which. Would sound perfectly normal, if not a bit um, murdery, except he also definitely, for really truly definitely, remembers moving the bus with his brain.
So. That's been his week so far, some catastrophe just out of reach of his mind's eye, one that despite what he's been told seems too laden with pathos to have been anything as mundane as an accident, a headache that doesn't quit until he's downed a few swigs from the flask, and apparently, his very own house?? Or not, considering his name is engraved on the key, and that seems unnecessary if he lives alone. But such deductive reasoning can wait until he confirms this house business, which as the internet would say sounds fake etc, and so he sets out: a crane-like creature with lustrous curls meandering gently upward as if they are perhaps trying to escape from his head, carrying his coat by two fingers crooked over one shoulder.
Occasionally, tiny coincidental things may happen around him. Things that were probably caused by the wind! A stop sign whanging a little bit, a low hanging branch dropping from a tree...nothing all that inexplicable. Feel free not to comment on this, since we are in a perfectly normal little town here.*
1B. ELEANOR }
Eventually he finds this mystery domicile, just bearably not a suburban cutout horror enough that he'll deign to step across the threshold (why he has such a problem with the idea he doesn't know, but--honestly), wherein he is greeted by GOOD) a bar that makes his burgeoning little addiction demon dance in delight BAD) an absolute surfeit of clowns. Actually, Eliot reflects, in stalking from painting to painting to a lamp shaped like a barber pole, complete with quartet of clowns at the base, is there a word for a venery of clown?
A shitshow, possibly. Aloud: "What the everloving, all encompassing fuck..."
He's peering at a painting of a clown gardener watering a cabbage patch where the heads of the cabbages appear to be babies in clown makeup. And wondering if he's going insane. Crown, coat, and house keys all remain on the coffee table where he draped them and promptly forgot in favor of like, all this.
* that's a lie, totally comment on them
4th may; weaver's (ALSO both open and closed because damn i'm versatile.)
2a. LANTAR }
At 11 in the morning or so on the 4th, Eliot bestrides out the door of his and the lovely Eleanor's house to find ...something. He's really not sure what, but he'll know it when he sees it! Maybe it will be something that makes all of this make sense, or it will be a place that sells vintage ties! Either seems like it would make a fine addition to his morning.
As it turns out, it's a bar.
That actually shouldn't come as much of a surprise, given that since he woke up he's come to realize his continued physical survival - at least a survival that doesn't involve clawing anyone to death - triangulates between cigarettes, coffee and alcohol, but then he's not sure he drinks here even if the memories are flying by like bullets. It takes a palpable couple of seconds where he just stands on the sidewalk, shading his eyes to stare the building down like an explanation will materialize in the air, and then--that's it. All his memories are from the wrong side of the bar, so he's ...that can only mean--
Oh no.
It means--
"Ex...cuse me," he manages, approaching the first person he finds inside the bar, still floppy haired and vesterly begarbed, stupidly tall, "this may be the silliest question I've had to ask since yesterday when a very nice nurse explained why I wasn't wearing pants, but--erm. Do I." Gulp. "Work here?"
He has a job. How did this happen.
2B. OPEN }
So. Apparently he has, indeed, fallen into the sticky sticky web of gainful employment, which is frankly more confusing than anything else he's remembered so far, and he just made a glass fly to him from across the room. That is the scale he is working on, and it is annoying. Yet it turns out, as he familiarizes himself with the space behind the bar, the more he pokes around the more he knows. What regulars like. Where to find bottles and stirrers and maraschino cherries he eats several of, mostly out of spite. Spite which turns out to be sort of great, since he discovers he can tie a knot with his tongue. A useful skill if ever he's learned one!
Not that he remembers what skills he's learned, really, besides apparently telefuckingkinesis and functional alcoholism.
What this amounts to is that he can be found behind the bar for the duration of the evening. Do you have like, so many memories of drinking here? Has Eliot ever sympathetically cleaned a glass while listening to your woes? (Less out of actual sympathy and more because he's imagining himself in Casablanca or something, but.) What about terrible advice, ever get any of that? Did you follow it? Are you here to throw a drink in his face as a result?
The delicious possibilities are both endless and terrifying.
2B.
As the glass fills, he spots someone -- familiar. But, not. From the back, it's someone else behind the bar, which he knows is frowned upon, but then Eliot turns and vague things click into place. Overly-flirtatious.. Dirty jokes. Barely knows when to quit. Pain in the ass, but he's good at his job. He has reservations about how much the kid has to drink, but he's not the boss. Just an off-night bartender.
He nods to Eliot before handing the patron his beer. They have a tab, so he turns back tapping the addition to his tab in. Finally, he's finished with that, he sidles up to his shift-mate. Is he his shift-mate?
"How's it been?"
He hasn't checked the schedule outside of his hours, so Eliot could've been there all day and he could be taking over from happy hour. Or, there's someone else in the back. He's open to anything, including a distraction from the woman he loves and her BFF who's probably badmouthing him right about now.
no subject
Anyway. He turns, slowly, and--golly, hi there. It's not like him to miss such exalted company (uh, at least, he doesn't think so); he must be losing his touch. Or he just doesn't care about cheekbones and nice shoulders and a general air of roguish charm? Surely....oh. Well. Totally forgetting he's slept with someone until being abruptly reminded seems pretty familiar, meaning Eliot now has a whole new set of assumptions from which to make associations as to who he apparently is. Further meaning he kind of wants to high five himself? All of which runs through his head in a matter of seconds, and doesn't show much on his face save maybe a beat of uncertainty. Confusing, he refrains from saying, since no one shall ever know he's not totally on top of everything at all times!
Instead, with enough drama for three people: "Endlessly tedious," he sighs, eyeing a shelf of bottles like he's considering partaking of it, which he is. "Please tell me you've brought gossip."
A beat. "Preferably of an escaped prisoner transport."
Because that would mean excitement, and possibly a bunch of brawny new bar denizens! Eliot sees no potential downsides to this.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
2B!
And his real memories... The last ones to return to him came back raw and fresh, as if he'd only just met Priscilla, just lost her, just held Grace for the first time, just spoke with her for the last, all at once. Needless to say, he spent a week or so being an even bigger mess than usual.
It doesn't help that on top of everything, he's been wanting to race through the town telling everyone he comes across the good news: He's not insane! The delusions of tea parties and magic and portals and fairy tales were just memories!
...
Right, like that wouldn't end with him in a padded cell for real.
Anyway. It's peculiar how, despite regaining the memories of his true life, Jefferson isn't free from the false life he never actually lived in this town. Even now, new recollections come to him, shifting other fake memories aside to make room for them, and it's impossible not to absorb every feeling associated with them.
Which is why, as he steps into Weaver's for a rare night of drinking, he has to stop and stare at the bartender. Jefferson hasn't seen him before, until he remembers that he has, in fact, seen him before. Many times. In various, often intimate ways.
That's Eliot. Your ex, his mind supplies. So helpful. So... awkward.
no subject
............................. just kidding. It's still about like trying to stand straight up in a whirlpool, so what actually happens is that Eliot feels the universal, unmistakeable sensation of someone else's stare and glances up from pouring a pitcher of something that looks deceptively like Koolaid, making sort of absently fond, curious eye contact. Which then slants into a barrage of question marks, memory and history and meaning all waltzing across the back of his eyes without so much as a by-your-leave, as is basically Eliot's relationship with experiencing any kind of emotion stronger than, say, a yawn. Being affronted by its audacity.
Fortunately, he can obscure all of that with handing off this pitcher to a slightly baffled looking patron; by the time he can look at Jefferson again he's more or less regained his equilibrium, even if it does include like. Casual devouring with his eyes.
"He wanted beer," Eliot informs him, elaborate shudder starting at the top of his head and careening wildly down. Apparently he's testing out the theory that if they do know each other (and his brain seems quite convinced they do, or at least have, Biblically), greetings are for other people. Speaking of Biblical, because that's apparently the volume of seriousness Eliot is ascribing to the encounter he just had:
"I can only hope I've done my small part in showing him the light." Hand over heart. He's actually wondering what kind of day Jefferson has had if he's deigning to spend his evening with alcohol, and being incredibly disconcerted that he both knows and is wondering about this. Help.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
1A
Aloy has been trying to watch, trying to get her bearings or her memory or something along those lines, and she watches this man, and she sees the strange phenomenon around him. She doesn't have an explanation for that.
So after he's passed, Aloy is on her feet and sprinting to catch up to him; she falls into step beside him. "The sign moved in the wind when you passed," she says, "but there isn't any wind today." Her expression is stern. Explain, it says.
no subject
Meanwhile: something almost stops him, sticks in his head like a bur-- does he talk about this? The very nice hospital staff had said...well, nothing; Eliot didn't tell them. It's not really to do with his surroundings or even a good sense of self-preservation (what with the idea that Eliot has one of those being laughable), just somewhere, the idea of a weight riveted in place, immutable.
Then again even if he's convinced he's what is shaking up the bones of the world, he doesn't seem to be actually controlling it with any real efficacy. Like with the bus. I barely thought the thought, specific phrasing briefly solid and then mist again. Just to give himself time to recenter he pushes back the tumble of dark curls falling into his eyes, where they, you know, instantly flop back down, and instinctively slows down his seven league strides to match hers.
"Maybe it wants me to stop," he contends, in an excess of flippancy. "But I won't be tamed by anything so pedestrian."
Pshh. How you like that pun, person said pun is probably meaningless to?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
2a!
He's on his knees, trying to get the angle with the lighting right so that he could see where the next bit of dust was about to land when Eliot comes in. The meek excusing, garners a bemused look. The damp hairstyle garners another- and then he's squinting up at the guy as he keeps talking.
"Eliot, you've worked here for a fucking year."
...
Wait.
What?
You can just about hear the mental record scratch there as Lantar abruptly backtracks through his words and stares up at the human he's never seen before in his life. Except he has seen him. He has seen Eliot Waugh before.
He'd hired the man.
no subject
This is very slow, dry as sand in a food dehydrator, and accompanied by an extensive pan of the bar, whereupon he discovers he does know it like he's worked here for a fucking year. That subtle way things change when they no longer look new to the eye. A year? Eliot isn't sure he's ever had the personal conviction to do anything for an entire year, except maybe make sure he didn't repeat the same outfit twice in a week.
None of that puts a dam in the flood of memories, though; sure, there's some familiarity breeds contempt, the way he suspects it is with any job, but he--he kind of likes it, he thinks. Likes Lantar, even, likes and is at the same time wary of just how alike they might be, in ways no one wants to talk about, and so of course they don't. They don't, but Eliot remembers that blue hanging in the air, like the smoke Lantar never lets him have in the bar.
:(
Thus: "Am I still regulated to the balcony? Or are we a civilized society now?"
Because civilized societies smoke inside, I guess. Like. Shut up, Eliot.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
1A
Shit.
You okay?!
no subject
Fine, fine. [ Look at this thousand watt smile. ] The concern is appreciated, but I think in this case I've escaped the cruel whims of gravity.
[ Eliot brushes non-existent debris out of tumbled curls. See? Fine! Like, so fine, look at him. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
2b
(The rest of the baked goods are staying at the tea shop, for now, until setup for tomorrow's bake sale in the morning.)
So he sets the cupcakes on the bar, pulls up a stool, glances at Eliot - and is hit with a barrage of information.
It is one thing to run into a 'cousin' and have details of his life-that-was intersect and continue with one's own life-that-was; it's quite another to run into someone that is not only the ex-boyfriend of your friend and employer, but someone you occasionally sleep with.
Cassian, preemptively, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Cupcake?"
no subject
.....................uh. "Hi. I'm Eliot." As he figures Cassian probably knows, what with. That thing. A thing that apparently still goes on sometimes? In a friendly and fulfilling way, though!
Frankly as boring as it is here Eliot is starting to think he never wants to leave, especially since there's this unshakeable sense of impending doom at the back of his neck, everything swept white when he tries to bring it into focus. But it's only if he tries to cast his mind there; while the white picket fences in Wayward Pines seem to be crafted entirely from skeletons dragged out of closets, whatever it is--it doesn't extend here.
Also, this is more than enough familiarity for him to take a cupcake, he decides, as he does just that, biting into it delicately, mercifully refraining from doing anything deeply pornographic with the icing. Possibly just because he needs a minute alone with precious, precious sugar. Delicious.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
(What's a zillow, you ask? How would she know? The word is there and then, poof, gone as soon as she tries to grasp it. Kind of like the word on the piece of paper tucked into her bra. She's pretty sure chidi isn't a real word, but it still nags at her, which feels appropriate somehow.)
Her arms are already way past starting to feel like noodles though — painting balanced on her other side by the plant, arm wrapped protectively around the pot — and so she makes her awkward way to the front door, squeezing the painting between her boob and her armpit and nearly dropping it anyway as she tries to twist open the doorknob. She slams her elbow back against the painting, and the overcompensation makes the plant — all just one big stick with a bush on top, practically a friggin' tree — start to tip. "No!" she cries preemptively, managing to get a handle on both of her incongruous belongings, her butt keeping the door propped open as she breathes a sigh of relief. Even as she's still not entirely sure why it feels important to keep it safe when she can't even remember the name of the Amazonian goddess who gave it to her (she thinks that's how she got it, anyway).
It only occurs to her to wonder about that after she angles her way inside, sees a dandy beanstalk in the middle of the living room, and realizes she hadn't even needed to use her key. Her eyebrows scrunch together in suspicion before she squats down awkwardly to set down both plant and painting, speaking through the effort as she goes. "If you're some kind of burglar who, like, cases houses belonging to amnesiacs, that's—" She straightens, a little flushed. "Well, weirdly specific but actually a pretty solid angle in this town." The red cast to her cheeks hasn't dissipated any, and she unties the sweatshirt from around her waist, flinching a little as she gets a look at the decor. "Also, you can have it. But we are gonna throw down over the TV." Come at her, bro.
no subject
As opposed to living in clowny decoupage torment. He finally manages to yank his eyeline over to really take her in, at first sussing out only the edges, gamine little face, awkward in this brilliant kind of way he is virtually compelled to bond with, but then--something shifts. Turns over the engine of his thoughts, the roar of memories streaming by faster than he can sort them.
Eliot's whole bearing changes from the top down; where his body language was distant it's warm, eyes softer, smile genuine and lopsided. "Soooooo," playfully demanding, "whose atrocious ideas were these? Don't say mine, I've been sober all day and it's killing me."
Sober except for like, the times he was gently encountering his flask. That doesn't count!! (It absolutely counts, Eliot.)
2B!
Still, she walks like she's been there a thousand times (it's easy to do and hard to tell where performance ends and familiarity begins). Half-remembered evenings blur into habit. She's usually here later. It's usually nearly empty or just after close, and it's always with--
With Eliot. Shooting the shit or gossiping, or playing dumb games. There he is, rubbing down a glass like he's trying to show it a good time, probably imagining himself in black and white.
Sharon touches her temple lightly, head aching, and decides to submit to instinct. Let autopilot take the lead on this one, break off a piece of her focus and let it observe and analyze for later.
It's why she walks up to the bar when there are perfectly good tables open against the wall, and why she lets the first words that come to mind spill out.
"Hey, Herr Klitzeklien." She gestures lightly to his companion pint glass and lowers her voice, all sincerity. "Would you two like to be alone."
no subject
(That kind of feels like home too, but he'd rather lose a finger than dwell on it.)
"I'd say one of these days I'm going to look that up, but I'm never, ever going to." This is apparently something he has staunchly stuck to for ages? What. "I refuse to give you the satisfaction."
This is where we handwave if Sharon has a fake favorite, he's making it, because. Fake muscle memory.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
i stg i will be faster with her this month
look i will cross oceans of time for you, it's all good
(no subject)
(no subject)
2B.
Wearing shorts to work, too, Malia, really? Lantar doesn't run a strict set of regulation when it comes to dress code, or much else. Which is nice. The rules that humans go around setting for everyone get pretty taxing at times; not that she always adheres. Not out of rebellion, but she simply does what makes sense to her.
She spots someone already at the bar. Not Damon. Definitely not Lantar. Her brows furrow, frown lines constant. But, wait, he looks...familiar. But she knows she hasn't seen him. Lately. Since she ~arrived~ herself, got into that 'accident.' Has he made eye contact with a teenager who probably looks out of place? Bro, no, she works there.
Up to the bar she goes, standing in front of it, palms of her hands resting on its top, across from Eliot. "Eliot -- right? Lantar didn't tell me you were here." Again? She only recently got a job there. Due to needing cash and seeing a 'Help Wanted' sign. She doesn't sound surprised to have a new employee sprung up on her.
As he starts to answer, she starts moving to go behind the bar, looking out over the...lack of customers. It's still early! What a nice time to chat, huh? Apparently she's short on the words, too, coming around to stand in front of the register, pulling her stylish jacket off.
no subject
All of which is to say: he remembers her, just like ...... all these other people. Apparently he was quite social before this accident, which feels right, even if he can't quite place the dissonance that brings (that he's close to anyone, is the friction he's feeling, unknowingly; Brakebills!Eliot has friendly acquaintances by the dozen, by design approximately one and three-quarters real friends).
"The one and only," he intones, silkily, "King Eliot, surveying his lands as befits a monarch of his stature."
This is an absurd flight of whimsy, so there really shouldn't be a moment where something gets a hook in the back of his head and tugs, reels lightly toward an idea, an awareness he can almost see, but--not quite. Not before it blows away like sand and he's back to being casually nonsensical. "Let's be frank, shall we? Lantar may not even know I'm here, and we had a nice chat when I came in."
Lantar is like, the best boss Eliot has ever had, btw.
2B.
Regroup and regather these false tickles of memories -- that's the best priority.
"Hi, Eliot." She eyes the glass in his hand, leaning forward so the curls of her hair cascade over her shoulders, elbows resting on the bar's top. "Remember me?" It's a pretty straight forward question! Why not be blunt? What has anyone ever gained by skirting around when there's something in front of them that looks interesting. Selective subtlety has its place: now isn't the time. "Oh! We could play a game. You could try to make the last drink you said I'd think was just to die," a playful, exaggerated, quick roll of her eyes, "for?" Why not.
If she keeps getting 'memories' of friends, or entertaining acquaintances, that'll be dynamite. Instead of familial bonds.
no subject
Is that Grandmama thing real--no. "Until that beautiful day my ships sails in, full of humanely sourced diamonds and oiled nymphs." The corners of his eyes and mouth get all mischievous, like he'd know what the hell to do with an oiled nymph except maybe exchange skin care tips. Apparently this answers the question of whether or not he remembers her - of course he does, as if he'd tone down his nonsense for a complete stranger - but! There is nothing to cut him a clear path more quickly than a demand for interesting alcohol.
As such he eyes her speculatively, like he's planning to coordinate a to-die-for drink with her general aesthetic, and honestly he may well be. Absolutely glossing over whether or not any of this would be available in the bar due to how Eliot is unfettered by such concerns as "reality," (what else is being a Magician for, thank you), he starts poking around for the ingredients to this incredible thing, curly mass of hair disappearing under the bartop for a second. "Let's do Disney," he announces upon reappearance.
Blah blah time passes, he makes the thing, look, it's perfect! And pretty. :3
2B
The fact that there's now an attractive bartender behind the counter who, Nyx realizes as he recognizes him, he's been intimately familiar with is probably a bonus. ...or a curse. His new/old memories don't offer much beyond the taste of his skin and alcohol on his tongue, and oh...that was the other person he was with when he slept(?) with Jefferson.
Nyx falters in the doorway for a moment. Wonders if this is a connection really worth pursuing, but ultimately shrugs it off. He's had his share of one night stands before. Just because Eliot was more like a continuous series of one nights doesn't make it any different. Although he never really remained friends with any of the others...
He shakes his head and claims a barstool, leaning against the counter.]
I don't suppose you'll give me a beer if I asked for it, would you?
no subject
So. That Nyx actually decides to meander up to the bar is sort of something he doesn't know he wants until he gets it, kind of like the threesome was! Ah.
Then of course he is obliged to appear as deeply put upon as possible, because why. "I am honor-bound by the timeless profession of barkeep to suggest anything else, but for you? I suppose I can tell all my better instincts to shove off straight to hell."
Don't make him do this, Nyx. Has he ever been anything but a spectacular lay? Surely that doesn't deserve beer.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
2b. who can pass up a drink served by a bartender who doesn't have to lift a finger to make it?
Taking up a seat along the bar, he taps his fingers against the counter absentmindedly but not impatiently. It's early enough that there aren't many other patrons, but there also appears to only be one bartender to serve those who have wandered in. As soon as Magnus gets his attention, though, he perks up to order. "I'll have... well, I'm not sure what I'm in the mood for. I'll take whatever your best concoction is.
and set it on fire by snapping his fingers, hey
He's briefly stalled by a request for his best concoction, however; ordinarily he'd narrow that down with a barrage of questions, some more friendly invasive than other, but! With unsure mood on the table he'll just wing it. Meaning: the perfect balance of sweet and punchy, as strong as it's possible to make anything with alcohol under 40 proof, and absolutely an umbrella.
"I say this in the best possible way," he ruminates, possibly attempting to suss out and memorize what exactly the suit is made of, "but compared to everyone else in here you look kind of like a very fashionable alien."
This is a compliment! Like, a high one. Meanwhile he's busying his hands with this nonsense, which since it's beautifully quick to make he is then sliding down the bar in relatively little time.
"My best varies." He says, modestly. "Tomorrow it could be liquid rainbows! I like to keep my options open."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)