meadowlarklogs | open

⟪ ever since stephen strange’s request for aid, melisandre had spent a startling number of hours working at red wings. it was a quick way to earn the coin necessary to trade the dingy lack of privacy the safehouse provided them with for an equally dingy one-room apartment, and she is not discontent, not in the way she would expect to be. it is not something she much voiced, of course, and it is not something she would indulge much as a thought all by herself, but the truth is: this is not the worst part of her life. ⟫

a – taste-test

⟪ in some ways, melisandre is a solitary creature. she enjoys non-activities such as staring into bright lights, she likes the graveyard shift, the one that ends at sunrise, she only ever wears red. in a word, she can seem… odd. but she makes efforts, in her way.

right now, she stirs a drink, a new concoction to be served to the patrons at the bar. ⟫

This has all the markings of an exercise in trust. 

⟪ pick your poison: either you're a coworker and she agreed to be the first victim of your alcoholic creativity, or you are a simple regular and she is the one who got creative – what she said right there is only a little ominous. ⟫

b – one too many

  ⟪ melisandre cocks her head. whether it is because you are dancing atop a table or offering a karaoke version of a song more haunting than even ‘the bear and the maiden fair’, or simply struggle to get your order out –– she must have noted that you have had a drink of five too many. ⟫

It is not in my nature to preach denial.

⟪ it is, however, somewhere in the rules of the bar. ⟫

But I believe you must be denied just about now.

c – open bar – wildcard

⟪ ooc: feel free to come up with your own scenario. red wings is a super convenient way of running into her. ⟫

Edited 2020-02-24 20:18 (UTC)

[ Clark is still new at Red Wings and working long hours, which means he is always meeting new fellow workers. Melisandre seems nice, and when he comes to introducing some of the crazy drinks he has found or made in the world of wandering, she has not yet thrown it in his face. ]

I suppose it does. So I suppose the question is, are you ready to exercise that trust, or do you want to pass it on?

He won't be bothered, either way, but he is curious if she will drink the Bermuda Black he has given her. It sounds odd, and looks a little odd, but it is really tasty in his opinion. Clocking in with two parts each light rum, dark rum, and lime juice, a little less than two parts of simple syrup, one part ginger juice, topped with beer and garnished with candied ginger and lime, it is a mouthful, but also nice.

⟪ she has found it easy to speak to her fellow workers, if only because work made for an easy shared topic when so many other things still only began to make sense to her in this new world. it’s a thing built on habit, too: in its way, it reminds her of her arrival in asshai, and then her turn in westeros.

easy does her smile come. ⟫

It would be rude to not at least try.

⟪ she takes the offered glass – won over, in a way, by the lime garnishing. ever a joy to see something she genuinely recognises. that’s another part of the exercise for her: in a world where half the foods she encounters in her day to day life are not anywhere near something she would know from ‘home’, it bears to familiarise herself.

she takes a sip, gives it a moment, then – ⟫

Oh. Rum. We had this in my world. Beer? And lime, of course, and something… spicy?

[ He grins at her, liking her willingness to try it, and to trust. Many would not, and he knows that from experience. It just adds to his estimation of her.

At her savoring of it and words, he grins wider. She has made him smile, and she has a very discerning tongue. Now that is a talent!

He nods at her words. ] Ginger juice. It lends that snap to it. I can show you how to make it, if you like? I learned it in the backwoods of Siberia, a really cold area on my Earth, a long time back.

Hey, so.

[ Tim's at work. It is extremely slow today. He's lounging against the bar, cheek on his fist, elbow in a patch of wetness that his shirtsleeve is doing a great, if slow, job of mopping up. That weird lady who wanted to know if he was giving up his toast crusts to a god is also here, so he reaches around in the recesses of his mind for a game to play to stave off the boredom. He used to do this all the time with his spotter. ]

Fuck Marry Kill. Stephen, Nate, Angela.

⟪ oh. it is the man who ate his toast crusts as though he was an infant bird fed by its mother. she offers him a smile, and half-freezes as he offers her a choice.

this must be a game of a kind? to buy herself time, she offers him the small bowl of salted nuts generally meant for customers. ⟫

I suppose I must wed Angela – my vows to the Lord of Light forbade me from marrying mortal men. Stephen suffers from frustrated tensions I fancy would be easily relieved in a single a night – ⟪ she shrugs. ⟫ And I suppose Nathan would find himself reasonably able to survive an attempt on his life.

⟪ so she'd feel less weighted down by the attempted murder. ⟫

Bed, wed, behead: Ephemera, Jon Snow, and poor Nate. ⟪ she half-hopes he won't find himself marked for death again. ⟫

[ Ah, yes, of course, the Lord of Light. Relatable as hell. He almost chokes on his own breath when she goes on to explain that apparently Stephen just needs a good fuck to calm himself down, but honestly he has to respect it. ]

That isn't how the game works, but I'll take it. Fuck Nate, marry Jon [ – dude really knows his dumplings – ] and kill Ephemera.

From whence and where I last met him, Jon was barely a man grown, and had pledged himself to never wed, nor even as much as touch another person. A vow he'd already broken.

⟪ she shrugs. it seems like a fun fact to share in the spirit of the game. ⟫

Somehow, I feel as if Ephemera would take his chances, and Nate would be glad to participate in something.

⟪ she steps behind the counter, fetching the rum. don't judge her, this game requires it. ⟫

[ it's not her first time in red wings, but she's not exactly a total regular. not yet, at any rate. she wanders in and out of many a bar in new amsterdam, looking after food and drink both. ]

[ she squints down at the drink being offered at the bar, admiring the colors of it. helena is very invested in trying new things, but the bartender has said the not-so-magic word. ]

You have not given me any reason to trust.

⟪ it's a blend of vodka, cranberry juice, and lychee liqueur – and thus comes out at a nice shade of red towards the bottom and increasingly lighter, almost a soft pink at the top. ⟫

'tis true. ⟪ she isn't one to shrug, but she does offer a warmer smile. ⟫ It was an off-colour jest, I must admit. If you'd still like to try it, you can rely on my unwillingness to lose my sole source of income.

⟪... melisandre, it might be a good idea to lean more heavily on an unwillingness to poison a random patron. ⟫

[ in complete honesty helena is very new to 90% of alcoholic content. she wants to try everything, so it's not like she's in the end going to refuse it, but she can still annoyingly drag it out. ]

[ she like the colors of this one a lot. ]

Money is very important thing in this Earth. [ she hums a considering noise. ] But if you are Displaced who works at Displaced bar, the chances of losing job seem small, yes? Perhaps you can be risky.

[ a beat. ] I do like the pink.

You can watch me make a new one, if you prefer.

⟪ she does not mention that she has enough experience in poisoning to be able to slip something in regardless – but that requires a cruel streak she does not possess, and this stranger has done no harm. ⟫

Mayhaps you have yet to meet Stephen Strange? I rather think he'd see me to justice, were I to harm a soul.

⟪ but she does take out the ingredients that would make a fresh batch of the drink, should the young woman take her offer ⟫

[ she encloses her hands around the original offering, not really believing it's poisoned and unable to say no to a free drink. (is it actually free?? she has no idea, but she hasn't been asked to pay for it yet, so that's her current train of logic.) ]

I am not knowing this man, except that he is owning bar. I suppose it would be bad business for customers to die from poison.

[ a beat. ] But I would still like to see how you make drink. I am curious.

Or desperation.

[ Desperation will drive a body to strange things. Bucky wouldn't call himself a regular, but he's in here enough. Especially since baseball season started. The game is over— a quick pitcher's duel— and now he's got nothing to keep himself occupied but drink.

And, well, apparently a redhead. ]

You know what's in it?

Rum, mostly.

⟪ red eyes focus on him. she doesn't know his name, hasn't caught or overheard it, but she's been curious. it's in her nature. ⟫

Orange liqueur, a little lemon juice. But predominantly rum.

⟪ she works with what she knows. ⟫

All right. 'Cause you asked so nicely.

[ He grins, boyish, even though his face really isn't, anymore.

He takes a sip, not just swallowing it, but obviously tasting the drink. It's not awful. ]

Could use a bit more lemon.

⟪ he is boyish, she notes, in the same way many of the soldiers had been. too young to be considered old, but aged in different ways all the same.

his grin, though, is contagious, even if her smile is gentle. truth is, she cannot recall when she last smiled broadly. it must have been some... decades, at best. ⟫

'tis a better review than I expected. ⟪ she fetches the lemon juice, and frowns – ⟫ Is it accepted to add more after the fact, or is the correction only applied next time I make it?

Well, if you don't try it, how are you gonna get it right?

[ He nods, indicating that it's alright to add more lemon juice. ]

I take it you really aren't from around here.

[ None of them are, which is why they're called the Displaced. But most of them at least have seen the flicks or flipped through enough comic books to understand the idea of a post-apocalyptic cyberfuture. Most of them don't say 'tis. ]

To put it very gently.

⟪ her tone is amused, though, rather than sad. she produces a shot glass for measuring, then adds some of the juice to the drink. ⟫

One day, I woke up and found that horses have been replaced by machinery beyond the imagination of any soul in my world. ⟪ she shrugs. ⟫ Music is more convenient, and I suppose quite soon, I must experience my first 'film'. What of you?

I have seen a talkie in my time. [ Talkies were even old hat by the time he saw the movies he can remember seeing. ]

But something similar happened to me, before I got pulled here.

[ Waking up to find decades had passed, and the whole world had changed. It was not, honestly, an experience he was looking to repeat, but he does his best to match her lightness, taking the drink back when she's done with it. ]

[Upon her return from the gates, Clarke is frazzled. Needless to say, that means she's frazzled around the bar, when she's not at the bar, and when she's near the bar. Trying to take the time to get to know people is nearly impossible: she's trying to give Stephen time off, while also trying to return to the other parts of her life.

She's juggling too much.

But then it slows down. Stephen has had his time off. Clarke is starting to get her own schedule back in order. And when it comes to other people's schedules—well, that's why she asked Melisandre to meet her.

It's Known that Melisandre proved to be a lifesaver for Red Wings while many of them up and vanished (some planned, many not). She settles in at a booth in the back waiting for Melisandre's shift to be over, a plate of french fries in front of her while she uses her neural implant interface to work out the rest of the bar's schedules. Or begins to, as much depends on their talk.]

⟪ melisandre joins her shortly, her apron neatly folded as she places it by her side of the bench. ⟫

It is good to see you, Clarke Griffin.

⟪ one of her many odd habits, that, referring to people by their full name each and every time she gets the chance. it dies hard, that one. that said, her words are genuine: she's grown fond of most of those who make up their rag tag group of bar-people. ⟫

Why did you wish to speak to me?

⟪ for a moment, she regards the plate, then her red eyes fix back on the young woman. ⟫

[The usage of her full name makes her hesitate. It's been a while since someone's taken care to use it like that. Only the grounders did it in greeting, in expectation. When other people do it, they tend to spit it out like an expletive.

They probably have a good reason for doing that, too.]

I'm setting up some schedules and I hoped to give you some time off because you came in to help Stephen while we were all gone. [One problem to the "staff with Displaced" plan: this. Primarily this.]

But I wanted to run it by you. To see when would be best for you to take that time off that you need.

⟪ well, here is something that doesn't happen a lot: melisandre genuinely does not know how to respond for this, so for a moment, in lieu of any words, she simply looks at clarke as though she'd sprouted another head. ⟫

Is this... normal?

⟪ her encounters with downtime haven't exactly been plentiful, certainly not when there was work to do. the lady selyse had tried to navigate her into some shape of the concept, but then she'd pretended and focused on her visions during her faux leisure. none of them here were nobles, so... what is it with this? ⟫

I ... think so? [Her response isn't as calculated as she'd like. The ellipsis will be felt, heavy and uncertain in the air between the two of them. She looks at Melisandre with a hint of uncertainty.

Clarke is in charge of a lot, but her society didn't work this way.]

I mean—[Pull it together.] Yes, yes it is. You've done a lot of good for us here, and you saved our asses when we needed it. It's good to take a break. [A beat.] Especially if you're asking that.

⟪ coming soon! ⟫

open | catch-all.

open: red wings

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closed | for gene

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