It's like paradise, spread out with a butter knife :: [OPEN]

[bonhomme7h.livejournal.com]

Who: EVERYONE
What: Réjean has decided that more people ought to celebrate and help raise a bit of dosh for one of his favourite bars. See: flyer.
Where: The Apache.
When: Misdi night and into the wee hours of the morning.
Warnings: Discussion of Pickman's manky feet.

The Apache is much the same as it always is: dimly lit, with the jukebox playing in the background, and the bartender serving whatever's on tap. Tonight, the bar is packed with people from all across the city, different cantons and cohorts, all out to celebrate surviving the fungal plague. Patrons are encouraged to buy tickets for a door prize with the proceeds going to repair the damage tunnelling ants made to the cellar.

Comments

[fuckyouboots.livejournal.com]

"Neither." There's technically nothing to hide from nor is there anything to misdirect. Okay, that's a complete lie, but it's not one Ilde needs to worry about. Cindy will never admit to being a spy. That is just something she wouldn't give up even if her life depended on it. Everything else, however, is free game. Nobody but her gets hurt if it got out.

"It's short for Cinderella." She just leaves that hanging in the air for Ilde put two and two together as she stretches out her legs, eyeing the leather and steel studded boots on her feet. It all makes sense now, or it should.

[rhinemaid]

It both does and does not, even slightly - the memory it evokes is oddly vivid, Prisca warm and smelling not unpleasantly of the wine she'd been drinking, putting a tiara on Ilde's head and tucking her into bed with her, leafing through the variety of storybooks that had been previously deemed acceptable. It's not the story that she remembers as well as the moment it was told, and she's momentarily distracted by it, trying to remember the name of Prisca's perfume or the shape of its bottle.

Shaking that off, she smiles, suddenly, almost out of no where.

"A fairy and a fairytale." It's a little funny.

[fuckyouboots.livejournal.com]

"We're one fucked up pair," Cindy mutters just under the breath of a laugh. Technically, they're a fairy and a Fable, but details schmetails. She doesn't need to tell Ilde to keep her mouth shut; that much was clear when she asked about the cover name in public. This all oddly feels somewhat cathartic now that something personal and real about her is out there. Keeping up with the rules sometimes gets tiring after the first three or four centuries.

Pulling another cigarette from her rapidly emptying pack, Cindy takes a moment to light it and puff on it slowly a couple times. "Want to go back in?"

[rhinemaid]

(She can still hear Prisca laughing into her hair, if she concentrates-)

"Yes," she says, after a moment, glancing away from Cindy to the dimness at the edges of the street-lamp's reach - she isn't much worried about what she'll find in the darkness, it's just sort of interesting. It's bright fluorescent lights one need concern oneself with...

"Yes- going in, I mean, as well as being fucked up." How conscientiously correct of you, Ilde.

[fuckyouboots.livejournal.com]

Cindy should do the polite thing and finish her smoke before going back in but who actually does polite in this place? Ah well. She gives Ilde's leg another slap before getting up. "Come on then, bitch."

And she means that in the most loving and endearing way ever. Seriously. No jokes this time.