Shadowcthuhlu
Posts: 1557
1/3/2018
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The Museum of Mistakes Gift Shop
A well-known pub on the edges of Veilgarden, catering mostly to writers, and to those that writers would find interesting. It’s scandalous enough to fashionable, and respectable enough that anyone who is (or simply wants) to be anyone pokes their nose in.
A devil tends the bar, with a flock of equal black and white ravens to help serve orders and provide a friendly ear. The napkins here are generous and stiff enough for good notes – and every table has a cup with pens on it.
Upstairs, there are books not yet written, never to be written, and merely forgotten. But those require a special password to the bartender. To everyone else, the booze is cheap and strong, the food filling and even cheaper, and the words plentiful. The cuckoo clock on the wall boings out an obtuse angle, two minutes before the opening time at five o clock.
(OOC: This is location for characters to wander in and get to meet each other. So far there are only two rules: Don’t tell the decency evaluators about what happens here, and don’t break the furniture.)
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Dirae%20Erinyes. Closed to calling cards, but open for all other social action. I also love to roleplay.
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Reinol von Lorica
Posts: 102
1/5/2018
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The particular sinister air surrounding the duo vanished in an instant at the woman's query. Instead of thinking what sort of person she may be in any scheme or how much potential she possessed, they instead ha one singular thought running through their minds.
She's on to us.
Eleison cast a glance at Sebastien, only to find his cheeky Suave Henchman ducking under the mug of fungal beer as he took a massive draught. And he kept on drinking.
Clever b_stard. But now it was he who had to answer the question.
It wasn't his fault the plant ended up on his doorstep. It wasn't his fault that said plant got rooted to the parlour, which caused many a stir at the Embassy. And it definitely wasn't his fault that said plant required oddities in order to be sustained, goldfish amongst them.
He found it weary to purchase more goldfish at the Bazaar just to feed the plant. So he decided to simply gather up as much as possible and stuff them in a tank. Sadly, the passed away in not a day. The backyard served to be a suitable storage/graveyard.
Starvation kills.
So with a roll of his eye, Eleison answered her question. "Yes. We have slain, inadvertently mind you, many a goldfish. And many a goldfish now lie in the backyard."
Using the short interval between his answer and her follow up, he simply decided to ponder one thing about his life. Why hasn't he sold the d_mn plant already? It's more trouble than its worth anyways.
edited by Reinol von Lorica on 1/5/2018
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Reinol%20von%20Lorica
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Addis Rook
Posts: 125
1/14/2018
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A tomb colonist marvels at the sprig of fragrant rosemary in their hands, like a miracle plucked from beyond the false stars above just seconds ago, and a promise of miracles still to come. They look up from the impossible herb to the woman sitting before them, as though begging for the answer to an unspoken question.
She produces from her green cloak a small bottle wrapped in twine, and gives it to them, with a whisper.
"We found them. All of them. They called to us, and now they call to you. They're home."
The tomb colonist takes the bottle into their hands, and gazes at it through tear-stained bandages. The woman smiles with genuine warmth as they tightly clasp her hands and thank her, then make their way out of the shop quickly. She sighs contentedly, and orders a glass of chanterelle Chartreuse at the table.
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Senforza
Posts: 20
1/18/2018
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A table down, bloodshot eyes quirk upward at the mention of fallen cities.
"Just another bottle of the 1882, if you please," she murmurs, sufficiently distracted. The raven by her elbow squawks, reproachful, as the woman's scarf prods questioningly at its wings before acquiescing in a smattering of dusty feathers.
As the woman absentmindedly waves the ensuing cloud away and shushes the discontent whispering of her overcoat, she finds her attention wandering again towards the back door. Her lips quirk upward ruefully. Just when one finally sets it out of mind. Damnably loud strangers. Her eyes flicker over them quickly; she keeps her vision sweeping back and forth over her novel as she thinks. The lady...a singer? Bohemian, perhaps. Forthright--transparently so--so either naively optimistic or a new arrival. And the man...a quill? Who uses a quill, in this day and age?!
She hitches her book upward so it covers her face, ears picking out the two new voices from the usual murmur of the pub. They may be of interest yet.
edited by Senforza on 1/18/2018
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Professor F. L. Senforza, The Bloodied Philonoist: an Extraordinary Mind and the Director of Benthic's Department of the Correspondence.
Andrew Barnes, The High-Born Sharpshooter: "If you're not getting shot at at least once a week, what the hell are you doin' with your life?"
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Reinol von Lorica
Posts: 102
1/20/2018
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Crimson eyes swept between the two. Eleison leaned back as he pondered on the recent developments. Sebastien paid no heed to what was happening. It was not his business to make an opinion. Eleison's will was his will. And it was so that Richard Eleison was to act now.
"Not at all." He waved away at the newcomer. "Sit down and drink. Feel free to speak of your will." Having said his part, he fixed his attention to Dione. "Such words from someone such as yourself. Presumptuous. Far from foolish though. But very curious indeed. And down here, curiosity can easily spell one's doom. On the other hand, it can spell out one's fortune."
He stares at her, eyes brimming with an unknown light. "Tell me, how do you plan on gaining access. I have my plans. Do you?" It was said in a bored drawl, yet it failed to betray his fascination. Never has he encountered someone like her. Such a fine specimen must be given the required attention.
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Reinol%20von%20Lorica
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Reinol von Lorica
Posts: 102
1/4/2018
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"Are you sure this is a pub?"
A small chuckle. Red orbs glanced at the humble sign of oak. Its owner's wrapped his dark travelling coat around his slim figure, the crimson waistcoat beneath it seeming glaringly obvious in the lamplight of Fallen London.
"Yes. I'm sure this is a pub. A rather silly name but its reputation surpasses such trivial matters."
The speaker tilted his fedora, casting a shadow over his smooth features, jet black bangs of unruly hair covered his eyes, which gleamed with amusement. 'Let's go Sebastien."
His Suave Henchman sighed before going inside. 'You go it gov'nor." The man smiled. He was a good boy. If only he had more people like him. Good workers were hard to come by nowadays.
Richard Eleison, the Conniving Scholar, walked into the misappropriately titled pub.
It was still a jolly place after all.
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"A mug of the strongest, if may." Eleison asked as he took his seat at a corner table. "Absinthe for me. And a pint of ink! And a quill. Fetch me a quill. Never liked pens."
The black raven simply ruffled their feathers in slight annoyance before flying off to tend to his needs. Sebastien dusted off the imaginary dust on his brown suit before turning to his boss. "So...why are here?"
Indeed. That was a good question. What business did two gentlemen of shady practice have in a little pub in the streets of Veilgarden? Criminal networking? Anarchist plotting? Rubbery murdering? Truth be told...
"I haven't the foggiest idea." Eleison shrugged. He just heard of the pub's fame and decided to pay a visit. Nothing too serious. His bearded henchman said no word of complaint, though he couldn't help but notice the slightest twitch of his jaw.
Their order arrive in the form of a miniature flock of ravens ferrying a tray to the duo. The beer was gladly accepted by the Suave Henchman. The absinthe was quite satisfactory in the Conniving Scholar's opinion. The ink more so.
Deft hands jotted down bits and bobs of ideas and plans, criminal networking and such. The stuff mentioned earlier. His eyes never left the door of the pub. What wondrous individual may pass through that small frame?
Richard Eleison's signature smile flashed once again as he thought of the possibilities, it's gleam outshining the sinister glow of the Crooked Cross. My my. This will certainly be a delectable evening.
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https://www.fallenlondon.com/profile/Reinol%20von%20Lorica
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