multiversallogs | It's like paradise, spread out with a butter knife

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

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.

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Sonja arrives, lured by the promise of alcohol and possibly stirring up some trouble; she's becoming a fixture in the night scene, quite often dragging some fool home with her, and she's more than willing to venture out on a more packed night. She's dressed in her usual abdomen-baring fashion (http://www.polyvore.com/everything_big_bad_wolf_could/set?id=31158857), and declines to participate in any door prize contests, unsurprisingly. She nonchalantly shoves her way through the crowd, heading for the bar.

In a favourite pair of shoes and a short skirt, Ilde is (predictably) not far behind her, hiding the bandage on her thigh with a glamour and not hiding the tattoo on the opposite. Just to reinforce their dynamic as best described by late-90s fantasy Greeks, she does linger back in the door to buy a ticket for the prize, but she's winding her way back through the crowd to meet Sonja by the bar shortly thereafter, keeping an eye out for any of the various others she expects to see this evening on her way.

Earlier in the day, she'd pretty much invited the entire cohort to come drink with her. Rachel figures she'd best be prepared.

She arrives not long after the party starts so she can commandeer a prime spot, a stool down at one end of the bar. This is a proper party, her first since she arrived; she's covered the purple remnants of her quest-earned black eye with makeup, as best she can (it's still there, just not OH WOW OBVIOUS) and she's even forsaken her standard jeans and t-shirt for a little black dress.

The place is filling up fast. She keeps an idle eye on the growing crowd, waiting for any familiar faces, as she gets a shot of Jack down her and waits for a beer.

As Njoki and Pickman arrive, she seems at first surprised by the crowd of people and then pleased by their presence. It's been a while since she's had the chance to get out and get lost in the crowd, but it's something she always enjoys doing.

Breathing in deeply to get a feel for the scents in the room, Njoki turns to Pickman and looks down at his new hooves. "You should've let me put a coat of glitter polish on 'em, Applejack."

When Pickman had told Rachel he had new feet to test out, he really hadn't been making shit up. No, after his return from the tunnels, Njoki, the bestest fucking roommate ever, had worked a little of her craft on the mess that had been his feet, and now he was sporting some recently acquired (in a completely legitimate manner!) and rather hairy satyr hooves, instead of the rotting messes he'd been walking on for... far too long. They still ache a little, healing, but nothing like before. And now, a chance to dance?

Fuck. Yes.

He giggles, wiggling his hooves for her, and grins wide, one of his front teeth missing. (Tunnels are bad places for group fighting, it turns out.) "Naw, gonna go to one of those fuckin' manicure places that glue flowers an' shit on. It'll be gorgeous." His eyes dart around the room. "It's a goddamn sardine can in here. Gonna be a fuck of a party."

Normally, she might not have been able to do anything for him, but since his natural feet were so far into rotting that it had only been a matter of shaving away what was there and sliding the mess into someone else's hooves. Gross, somewhat temporary, but it should be a lot less stomach churning for everyone in Pickman's life.

"You'll be the prettiest princess at the ball."

Ivan ate before the party - he wanted to be sure of his control, for one thing, considering he'd be among his own cohort members and theoretically on good behavior.

In truth, he's mainly here on business. He's meant to find Réjean for some time, but events haven't been on his side. A party might serve the purpose. Of course, that won't prevent him from saying hello to other acquaintances or making some new ones, either.

He does a clippity-cloppity little twirl, his hand on his head. When he comes to a rest, he gives a curtsey, and steps back. "I'm gonna go make nice with some fucks. Gimme a yell if'n you need a wingman, yeah?"

Raylan seriously considered not coming, but drinking with people was probably healthier than drinking alone, and those were the two likely choices for the evening.

He's easy to spot, even once he takes his hat off; he looks out of place, though not necessarily uncomfortable. He did, at least, bother to conceal his weapon.

He spots Rachel and gives her a nod when she makes eye contact. He doesn't want to presume she's not there with more social friends, but she's probably the closest thing he has to a friend here, now that Tim's gone.

Hellboy only arrives once things have gotten fully underway, strolling in with remarkable casualness for a seven foot tall half-demon. He's dressed in his usual style, fully geared also as usual. The bandages, however, are new, around the torso and up into where the coat covers the left shoulder, but they're pretty light, especially compared to a couple of days ago. The chemical burn on his right cheek is almost gone, as are the couple visible on his legs between his shorts and boots.

On his way in, he shrugs and buys a raffle ticket, perhaps to make up for his only ordering some soda at the bar rather than anything alcoholic.

He nods, and she smiles, warm and bright, pleased to see him. She tilts her head slightly and waves him over with a look that clearly says why are you even standing all the way over there, come on, which she follows by patting the empty stool beside her.

He's definitely a friend. This is on top of being (to her thinking, anyway) the other half of her questioning-and-poking-at-things efforts by virtue of being one of the first people she met and the one she's talked to the most about them. And they're both alive after all the crap that just went down; surely this is reason to celebrate.

He comes, then, and settles next to her; he isn't going to decline a lady's invitation, nor does he really want to. "How's the evening treating you?"

"Look at you and your tits." ...that's quite the greeting, Ilde, but in her defense: it's quite a dress, too. If Rachel holds still, she's going to receive the air-kisses of someone who used to be a socialite-in-training and who is presently just tasting the whiskey she's carrying around; if she's careful, she can maintain a good buzz for the rest of the night. "You're still going to dance with me, aren't you?"

Not a really familiar face, but that one kinda greasy guy from the network, the one who had been talking about his feet, is there. And... yeah, new feet. Hooves! Go figure.

He gives Rachel a cheerful wave, from a decent distance away.

"Not bad, so far," she replies, smiling. "I haven't been here, like, all that long but it's nice so far. And I think we could all use this, after everything we've been through."

She reaches over, touching his arm, just for a second. "It's good to see you."

Parties and Verbena go together like peanutbutter and jelly, which is most of why Sol rolls up to the Apache (black shirt, black pants, diamond earring, shirtsleeves rolled up, collar unbuttoned; his neck tattoo is partly visible, and so is a scar that winds up his forearm). He has an arm slung around the other reason, one Sebastian LeMat, and Sebastian's also the reason he doesn't plan to drink too much tonight. He's acting less as designated driver than he is potential 'necessary force', but you wouldn't know it to look at him, looking for all the world like Sebastian's troublemaking, bad influence uncle.

(It makes him homesick, for a minute; he grasps that feeling as fervently as he will enjoy the rest of his night.)

There's a sitter with Liesl and he's not due back 'til 3AM. He has every intention of making it count.

He gives her a smile. "You too. You look nice," he adds, as she does and it seems polite to say so. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Sol isn't the only one faintly homesick. Sebastian has never been particularly good at socialization and party-going, but he does have at least a very little experience with trouble-making uncles (or godfathers). Entirely lacking in fashion sense, it was with a great deal of relief that Sol more or less threw a pair of jeans and a basic shirt at him and with only a little concern about wearing short-sleeves Sebastian was ready to go. Most of the scarring on his arms isn't too shocking; little nicks, burns, and a couple of oddly shaped old hex marks.

Rachel does in fact stay still for air-kisses, grinning. "Thank you. They don't get out as much as they need to."

...Okay, so someone else has a good buzz right now.

"And of course I am."

It's a busy night for Réjean. Throughout the evening, he can easily be found sitting up at the bar and chatting with newcomers, wandering through the crowd and checking-up on old friends, visiting the men's room and offering gentle threat to old enemies.

He's dressed poorly, in a Hawaiian shirt covered with blue flames and hula dancers, which makes him easy to spot among the assembled crowd.

The face is familiar enough! Rachel returns the wave, a greeting at first, which then sort of shifts into a beckoning. There's an empty stool beside her and she did invite people to come have a drink with her, did she not?

Ilde leans against the bar beside where Rachel's sitting - she'll probably flit off in some other direction soon enough, parties bring out the social butterfly in her - and beams at her, apparently all in favour of airing out the girls. "Good. Réjean mentioned he was throwing this- I think he should dance, too."

The fashion choices aren't terribly reassuring, but on the other hand, Ivan knows everyone who lives as long as they do is prone to develop their own peculiarities.

Besides. This is mostly a business call, even if he does have a drink in hand. "Mr. Sept-Heure?"

"Ouais?" The shirt, hideous as it is, is useful. It means he's easy to spot anywhere in the bar and if he needs to vanish, people will be looking for the shirt in the crowd and not him.

"How can I help you?"

Next up on the hoof parade, Hellboy swings by the bar to drop off his empty glass and get a new one. While he waits for the barkeep to show up, he looks over and spots Rachel.

"Oh, hey. How it going?"

He's still bandaged, under the coat, but less so, and his burns are almost entirely gone.

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

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