OPEN;

[primrosella]

When; Saturday, June 30, evening
Rating; Individual threads may vary!
Characters; Everyone is welcome! This is an open log for Polyites and 4th Wallers alike, so just specify if it's an open thread or if you have 4th walling rules in the comment or subject line!
Summary; Whether you're a regular or a first-timer, here to stay or just passing through, the Blue Light is the place to be for good music, good food, and a sea of friendly faces to encounter.
Log;

Rosella's been to the Blue Light on nights like this before, but this is the first time she's ever been here behind the bar instead of in front of it, managing things as best she can as opposed to simply enjoying the festivities. She's still not skilled enough with bartending to dare try taking drink orders (unless, of course, they come at very special request from very special people), but she's overseeing her staff, checking up on her supplies, and just generally making sure everything runs smoothly.

The music is merry and there's the chatter of conversation in the air as the booths and tables fill with people; nearby, a space on the floor has been cleared for dancing, should any guests (local or visitor alike) find themselves with the urge to cut loose.

It's looking like it's going to be a busy night. But really, that's quite all right with her.

Comments

open;

[and_warrior_arise]

There are pressing matters. For one, his wife (his, his, his) has abandoned him for Crystalglass, a daymonth ago, and Irrylath has sought counsel from the greatest minds in the world but none have magics to undo what Ravenna had done to her, to Aeriel. So when he finds himself once more in this City, in this place where day and night are mere fractions of moments, where a fortnight is a day and a night passing smoothly, dancing around each other, he goes to the place where they met last.

Where they met last.

Irrylath hates the sound of that, hates the heart beating in his chest that is his own. He is no longer the keeper of his wife's heart, and he had squandered the time he was. But he is more royal, more regal, than ever before.

[lone_must_stand]

She has not slept in Crystalglass, in all this time, or she might believe this a dream; but the streets of the City are all too solid. And, after a moment of orientation, its strangeness is dimly familiar, and she finds herself walking.

Not Oceanus, her blood murmurs, but very like it. Like what once it was. The whisper of inherited memory-- her prime companion this daymonth, much louder than her loving shadow-- is for the first time unwelcome. Irrylath, her heart whispers. My husband has been here. Irrylath may be here yet.

Pushing open the door of the tavern-- she knows it is the same one, as surely as though it were written in beads of flame upon the door-- Aeriel cannot allow herself the luxury of hope. Still, her hand rests unconsciously against her breast, where there is no mark but that of memory. Adamant's edge is too keen to leave a trace.

Holding a breath, she searches the crowd for a familiar face.

[and_warrior_arise]

He turns to see her standing, her breath held. He would know her figure anywhere, although it was only once that his fingers traced the outlines of it, only once that he was allowed so close -

No, that's wrong. Only once that he allowed himself. She would have, for two years, allowed him all the rights of a husband to a wife, but his thoughts were consumed, and surely that is no fault upon him except that it is. Although the tavern is crowded, pulsing with people, he pushes past them.

There is no world beyond this, beyond her in the doorway, her green eyes looking for her.

"Wife." He takes a breath, he does not weep, although he knows if she were to vanish, if this were to be a dream, that he would wake and weep and that none would be fit to console him. "Aeriel."

[lone_must_stand]

Two years wasted, though in truth now she treasures every moment of it-- the disappointment of his distance, at least, meant he was within sight, if out of reach. As certain as her words were when they parted-- as proud as she had seemed, retreating on her task-- she cannot forget him. His name will be on her lips until the moment world winds down to nothingness.

For a moment, as he moves, she lets her eyes fall shut; beyond the star-marked lids people sway and move, the dull roar of conversation muted by the focus of her concentration. If she looked, she knows, she could read the tale of their lives through their movements; relations spun like tenuous threads, cause and effect, their next moments spilling certainly before them like liquor from hornblossoms, inevitable and bright.

But for her there is only her husband, his steps steady, path as keen as though cut by his shining blade.

"Irrylath," she answers quietly, a smile twitching her lips at the word wife. She had not truly expected he'd put her aside for his sharp-eyed bandit, but she had feared it. "My husband," she answers, and takes the final step to bring them together. "My heart."

[and_warrior_arise]

Two years squandered and Irrylath cannot hold back another moment, because he takes up the space she does not fill, his arms around her in another moment. "No longer your heart, you've taken yours back." Why, why would you take something so precious away from me he wants to ask, but he knows the answer as he presses his face into her yellow hair. There are spots of heat there where he breathes her in, as though he can hold the world together through the sheer force of this.

He is not a demonstrative man. People move around them because they take space, but he does not speak at first, although there are so many things to say. To affirm. To remind her that his cousin is not in his heart, that she was sent away to Bern to help rule there and Avaric is a cold place without a woman to lead, how the people think he is a cold man (but fair, always fair).

"I knew you would not come back," he says, "But I wished it, nonetheless."

[lone_must_stand]

They are bound, each, by oaths of necessity-- and though she is a princess by birth, a sorceress by circumstance, Aeriel is not a proud woman. To stay with him would be to doom the world; to bring him to her would betray the Equustel. She knows, without considering, that she is not worth that.

"I gave you your own, husband. If you love me, you love of your own free will," she murmurs into his neck, lips curving in an unseen smile. She twists her hand to rest upon his chest, to feel the steady beat of the heart she carried so long-- once gilded in lead by the water-witch, now strong and proud as befits a king. Of him, she is fiercely proud; that Irrylath could love her, that he has become this. She is proud, even, that he has kept his distance, rather than shirk his duty. It is all dearly won, but worth it.

"Nothing would please me more, than to stand by your side." But there is not a choice; there never has been.

Open!

[catnapped]

[Alexander doesn't do well with crowds.

Part of it is simply his nature--he's a quiet young man, whose interests inherently run toward scholarly pursuits rather than social ones--but part of it is more notably that when one spends nearly eighteen years as the slave of an evil wizard, imprisoned high atop a mountain where the punishment for venturing down the treacherous footpath is death, one doesn't tend to get a whole lot of practice at meeting people and talking with them in general (outside of the occasional "git, boy" and "fetch me my supper").

He's also not particularly fond of taverns, largely because the last time he was in one he rather ran afoul of a band of pirates, but tonight it's his sister fussing around behind the bar, and it's taken so much just to track her down this far that he's not about to let her out of her sight now.

So instead, he'll occupy his own little corner of the bar, tucked away near the wall where he can see the whole room ("boys should be seen and not heard, Gwydion"), and watch as the crowds pass and the music fills the air.]

Open!

[want_to_talk_about_it]

[Hide in the corner all you want; it won't put off everyone, especially not the visitors who're looking to talk (and, more importantly, listen) instead of drink. Just such a visitor takes a seat next to Alexander. The kid--and he's most definitely a kid, and the suit jacket he's wearing isn't fooling anyone--smiles warmly and holds out a hand.]

My name's Charlie Bartlett and you look like you're having the worst time anyone can ever possibly have in a bar.

Open!

[catnapped]

[Good lord, save him, it's an extrovert, WHAT DOES HE DO.]

Charlie Bartlett, it's...nice to meet you. I'm afraid I'm not much for, um, taverns.

[...Oh, wait.]

I'm Alexander. Of Daventry.

Open!

[want_to_talk_about_it]

[He could always try running, but Charlie's pretty fast.]

It's nice to meet you, Alexander.

[And now, Alexander, Charlie will give you The Most Sincere Look Ever and attempt to help you. Ready?]

Do you want to talk about it? Like, is it taverns in general, or anywhere with a bunch of people?

Open

[practicingforhell]

[Any and all fun, merriment, and chatter manage to stay far away from the disheveled-looking young men parked at the bar. There's an air of uneasiness about him that has absolutely nothing to do with the slumped shoulders and distant stare. For all the attention he pays the rest of the building's patrons, he may as well be in his own world.

He's not closed to conversation, though. Maybe he's not the best company, but he'll talk if someone else gets the ball rolling.]

[and_identity]

Hello, handsome.

[Why, look who it is. Remember this lady, Henry? She comes bearing bottles. Of beer, naturally.]

Got room for me?

[practicingforhell]

Hey.

[His memory's a little hazy, but yeah, this is ringing bells. It's not like pretty blondes show up with beer all the time. He moves aside to make room for her.]

This seat's not taken.

[and_identity]

It is now.

[She sits down and passes one of the beers over. It's the good, classy shit, because Life ain't cheap.]

Having a good night?

[practicingforhell]

[He won't turn a free beer down, and it's not like the City always sends him on his way with money when he visits. Plus, a girl like Life? She can probably afford it.

Henry forces a smile.] Company's good. I can't complain.

How 'bout you?

OPEN; come to meeee

[nephite]

It is no strange excursion to him, to leave his home and his Hill for business. He has accompanied his father down from the mountains often, has taken his truck alone just as often. There is a time for hiding amongst the trees and the mist, but this is not it. His family, dark-eyed and dark-haired and dark-hearted, is in sprawl, gathering strength atop their mound of bones and blood. They need to be fed, not just on flesh, there is plenty enough of that to be culled from the slaves that ring their crooked home in corrugated shacks, the hovels of animals. There is a need to hoard, to amass, and Lehi is a fine trader in dark things. A fine hunter.

He is a fine man, with strong shoulders and a steady gaze. A fine husband, an onyx ring around his wedding finger. Today he is a quiet visitor in a strange land, watching the room around himself with black eyes. A fine hunter, wondering what treasures could be reaped from here.

The son of a witch, fifteenth generation, Lehi Morrison has a presence of dirt and blood and barbed wire. There are invisible threads cast all around him: one a thick noose that binds him to the Hill, thirteen more hang from his heart, thin but strong, black and dripping tar. And one which bears thorns, but pulses unlike any of the others with something sweet and warm. The son of a witch: reeking of charms and spells.

[depaysement]

"Looking for someone?"

An innocent enough question, and one Juliet feels no hesitation in asking. If he is not the type to talk, she'll find another, but if he is, she'll talk. Something in his eyes reminds her of someone she left behind, and it draws her.

And if she recalls, she met him the exact same way-a lively bar, her confidence high, him with something she cannot put words to in his look. Oh, memory.

Besides. He feels different than the usual crowd, and she loves the unusual so much, even if it kills her (twice) to examine it for herself.

[nephite]

His eyes lift silently and his expression is unmoved. He is a man beyond stolid, an exterior of granite and marble. That is the role he has always played, a steel backbone to a twisted family. There are laws to be followed and he sees that they are, regardless of any hurt it may cause him. He has signed his name to atrocities, enacted upon his own brothers and sisters, because it was best for the family, because it would bring them power. He is a good son. He is a better husband.

"No one in particular, merely looking." He says this simply, hand curling around his drink. "It is a day with strange sights."

[depaysement]

"Indeed. Places crossing over, strangers on both sides of the curtain-it's almost calamity. Which leads one to ask, do you belong to here or elsewhere?"

Without even flinching. Even better, she loves it when she has to work at reading responses, when she has an excuse to stare and try to see what information she can ferret out.

[nephite]

His eyebrows elevate just so, a response to her dramatic way of speaking more than anything else.

"Elsewhere. Crossroads are for the aimless, I have a home."

open

[depaysement]

A long walk out brought her here, and she bears no concern over it. To travel was her way, and she adapted no matter who or what she found. This city is no different. Three years old(er, if you really were specific), yet ageless, and she exudes a charm of her own-or maybe it's just the red hair and dress being such a classic colour for attention. However it happens, she has a table where she can see the dance floor, and her eyes are more on the people around her than her drink.

Those that catch her eyes looking get her smile. She invites all to talk, to dance, anything else, because she came out to enjoy herself. If they are strangers now, they won't be when the night's done.

[jemerite]

"Grell?"

A soft voice from nearby, somewhat hoarse but not quite so timid as it might have been if she had not already spent her year in the garden's cradle. Another ageless thing, this one all in black.

[depaysement]

She twitches, she always does at the name, but she turns towards the voice and gives the woman a smile.

"Hello, dear."

[jemerite]

Her head tilts. Reanimates are, naturally, silent creatures who communicate between themselves with the most subtle of body languages. She notices the distaste, but doesn't understand why. She has not, however, been refused, so she comes closer.

"You're here too." A relief, really, and something telltale, taking comfort in the familiarity from the wild places, rather than the cities she'd spent so long in.

[depaysement]

"Strange how that works. And all I intended was to take a simple walk out."

But there is nothing simple in her walks, not when she drifts close to shattered glass and possibility. A temporary guest, always, unless she was in the centre. One deep breath, and a slow exhale. She is calm, calmer than the Grell Zinc knows. Juliet folds her hands and looks at Zinc with curious eyes.

"Why not have a seat for now?"