we can steal this car if your folks don't mind

[nojudge.livejournal.com]

Who: Statler and Waldorf Balthier and Martel.
What: Catching up, shooting the shit, talk of houses, etc and soforth. Life in Baedal.
Where: A cafe in Brock Marsh.
When: Some time after Balthier and Jack's recent log but before... now. THESE ARE NOT THE DROIDS YOU ARE LOOKING FOR
Notes: I got nothin'.
Warnings: Sarcasm?

On the third floor of a wide building there is cafe reached by a narrow winding set of stairs, whose insides are wooden with colored glass windows and lights, and that has a large semi-circle of an outdoor patio that sits atop whatever shop is below, looking out over the bustling district. Balthier, dressed a bit simpler than usual but no less unEarthly, lounges on a chair on said patio, people-watching. This, he thinks, feels a bit more familiar. (He's not sure he likes the thought. It's deceptive.) All traces of his injuries attained during his recent expedition are gone - there are some bits on his shoulder that scarred, left too long without healing, but his shirt's covering all of that - and he looks for all the world like he hasn't got a care in it.

the lights are going out all over television

[beiteverso.livejournal.com]

Who: Dorothy Gale, Cap'n Jack Harkness, a certain grumpybutt Coordinator of the CIA
What: Adventures with Creepy Monster Attacks!
Where: Near Queequeg's in Mog Hill
When: After the ~creatures~ begin popping up to creep on people.
Notes: Probably gonna be slow tags all 'round, so no stressing. :3
Warnings: Violence! Language! Angry Time Lords! Barking dogs! Spilled coffee!


Househunting is a new adventure for Dorothy. When you've lived in the same farmhouse for the largest portion of your life the way she has (and in a magical city full of sorceresses and talking animals the rest of the time), needing a new place to live never really enters into the situation. But when transplanted into a new place, it becomes a necessity.

So Dorothy's taken to wandering around various places in the city, looking for places for rent, trying to find somewhere in her price range that allows dogs and has plumbing that doesn't turn the water brown and smelly. It is more difficult than she had anticipated. Still, she's learned a lot about the city itself, like there's a pretty nice coffeehouse that makes quite frankly some of the best damn coffee she's ever had in her life, and that's saying something. And that there seems to be a biblical plague level of black birds swarming all over it.

Disturbing as that is, it doesn't seem to be a problem. There's a lot of them, sure, but all they do is stare! It's not like they're attacking! ...Yet! Even by Queequeg's, they gather in huge numbers, peering down from rooftops and gables, watching as she leaves sipping her coffee and unties Rex's leash from the bike rack outside. She can feel their eyes on her, and she'd shudder, if she didn't think they'd see that too. For some reason, she thinks it'd be a good idea if they didn't know how she feels about them.

But it's alright. She's got her dog, she's got her (frankly spectacular) coffee, and now she's back to looking for a place to call her own. What could possibly go wrong?

go and tell that midnight rider

[suninhades]

Who: Integra Hellsing & Sam Winchester.
What: STUFF.
Where: Hellsing's residential mansion and surrounding areas.
When: This evening.
Notes: Assumed prior meeting, etc. TIME HAS NO MEANING.
Warnings: TBA.

It would be fantastic, Integra thinks, if she could ever get more than four hour's sleep - just sometimes. Perhaps even on a weekend. Usually it's less than that; the idea of something ludicrous as five strikes her as almost gluttonous, at this point, and perhaps it's with that vindictive thought that her tone with the man she's speaking to goes from flatly irritated to obviously angry. She's very aware that there are a number of councilpersons and lobbyists who are aggressively pushing to tighten guild regulations, and that Hellsing is the prime target for such legislation. But the idea that she should parlay and shell out money and favors to get this to go away - when Hellsing is frequently hurting for funding to begin with - makes her positively livid. It's an opinion she makes known - very loudly.

Heaven forbid there's anyone else about at this hour; if her screaming on the phone didn't disturb any other residents, the fact that she slams her bedroom door in a fit of violent pique and all but storms down stairs to the kitchen certainly will. When she yanks open the refrigerator and hisses "Bastards", it's almost reserved, in comparison.