I need a drink... (EVERYONE)

[Tormaigh MacRagallach]

(OOC: Everyone remaining, please join this thread, staff too. It's about time we all sat down in character and had a good drink. It's time to raise our glasses to each other in comraderie, get good and drunk, and drown our sadness in good cheer.)

Torm is in a rut. The days have dragged on and on. Nothing is going on at all. His research is meeting with deadfalls and roadblocks. Nothing is going right! Even friends seem to be more distant and absorbed these days.

Its at times like these that a man like Torm knows exactly what to do. He knows it's time for a drink.

Torm doesn't carry his ladder today. He saunters through the streets of Babylos, which are strangely empty and dull, searching for a likely place. Just short of abandoning all hope, he sees it.

The Crimson Rose is a small, dark looking pub tucked away between two larger buildings. It's not much to look at, but it doesn't have the seediness about it that characterizes trashy bars. No, it's just the right sort of place. The heavy rosewood door is set on iron hinges and is adorned with well-crafted metal tracery. The front windows are large and inviting, and reveal a cozy-looking interior of deep red/brown wood. Torm grasps the large handle in his gauntleted hand and lets himself in. Yes this was the place. Of course, knowing the management helped too.

There is no silly bell or alarm on the door, a feature which Torm immediately appreciates. This allows patrons the privacy of entering and leaving without necessarily being stared at by everyone inside. Warm, cosy, dim, but not claustophobic. Along the right wall, a long bar with a glossy black and green marble top stretches away into the dim recesses of the establishment, lined with sturdy stools. The left side of the place is occupied by tables, each of which is lit by a hanging fixture sporting a green shade and soft light. Along that wall are booths, similarly lit but slightly more private. In the back left corner is a smallish dance floor before a raised platform, which is presumably for a band.

There are few patrons, despite the hour. This would be surprising, but after leaving the equally deserted streets outside, Torm is hardly surprised. An air of decay had fallen on the city, that was what the feeling was. However, he doesn't take a good look around and the place is dim, so he doesn't really notice much about even what little is going on.

Torm seats himself on a stool whose neighbors are not occupied; one near the center of the bar. The young woman tending the bar, whom Torm happens to know quite well, appears busy and has not yet noticed Torm's arrival, so he doesn't bother her at the moment. With a sigh, he takes off his hat and places it on the counter, whose marble surface draws his eye. He stares at it for a few moments and spaces out a bit, waiting for the 'tender to head his way.

[Grey]

Nothing was going on this night, nothing what so ever, and it bothered Grey. He was bored, more bored than he had been in months. No matter where he was, there was almost always something to do; Beat up some ass-holes, explore new areas of his surroundings or simply look at the moon, marvelling at its unbridled beauty, and the feeling of power it gave him. Oh, how Grey loved the moon. But there was no moon to be seen on this night, it was covered behind heavy clouds, clouds people said had been there all day, but Grey would not be one to know. What would a vampire know about the weather at day?

He was wearing a pair of heavily worn, black denim trousers and a grey hooded jumper that had once been soft, but had long ago taken to the filth of the streets Grey usually prowled, though thankfully it had left the stench behind. If it had not, Grey's company would have been unbearable. His hair was red and his eyes yellow, staring out from under the hood like a wolf's when he was hunting, but he was not hunting now. No, he was bored, bored enough to settle down with some non-violent activity. But what should he do?

The Black Rose? He had never seen it before, but then again he did not frequent this part of town often. But boredom had let him here, and he saw no harm in trying out a new pub, as long as they served his kind too. He would soon find out. Grey gently spushed the door open, expecting the annoying ringing noise of a bell but nothing came, and for some reason it soothed him. Peace and quiet. "Sorry love" He adressed the barmaid as he approached the counter "Would you happen to serve 'Bloody Mist' here?" 'Bloody Mist' was a potent combination of magically preserved blood and alcohol, the mixture of the two resulting in the red of blood mingling with the white of fog or thick smoke. Typically, peopel would tell him that they did not serve his kind, and call the bouncers, not to cast him out but to intimidate him. Grey was secretly praying this was not one such establishment

[Arche]

"Sorry, love."

Arche turns around from where she had been cleaning glasses, and her green gaze settles on the newcomer. His clothes are a bit dirty, but striking yellow eyes peering from beneath the sweatshirt's hood hints that he isn't just some bum. Judging people by immediate appearances was disadvantageous at best in this city, Arche had learned that early on. She spies Torm out of the corner of her eye further down the bar. That great oaf would ask for drink soon, and plenty of it, but now he seemed mercifully silent and intent on not being intent on anything.

"Would you happen to serve 'Bloody Mist' here?" he asks. Arche raises an eyebrow at that one; she had only ever made one for one other customer. "A Bloody Mist? Aye, I'll mix one up right away," she replies in a warm but business-like tone. A Bloody Mist, go figure! It explained a little bit more about this mysterious customer, but made just as many new questions.

A Bloody Mist, despite similarities in name, is not a bit like a Bloody Mary. For starters, a Bloody Mary is traditionally not served after 6:00 pm. Such a tradition would pretty much defeat the purpose of a Bloody Mist, now wouldn't it? Customers that request such a drink are usually members of the night crowd, as you might imagine.

Arche settles a fine metal mixing container on the bar, which comes to rest on the marble surface with a faint musical 'toonk,' and then turns around to search through the nearly infinite myriad of bottles and decanters that line the shelves behind the bar. A hand floats up and snatches a bottle of good vodka from a middle shelf. The other drifts up, hesitates, and then grasps one of whiskey. The Bloody Mist, like the Bloody Mary, is usually a strictly vodka-based drink, but this particular customer looks to be the sort that would appreciate a hint of whiskey. Trying to understand customers was a big part of the business, in Arche's experience. Some times it went wrong, but you learned from that too.

Three measures of the vodka go into the mixing container first. "Not many requests for this particular one, if you don't mind me remarking," she says conversationally as she pours. In reality, she is quite pleased; she had traded a genuine bottle of Whyren's Reserve for this particular drink's showcase ingredient simply out of the principle of being prepared for any kind of customer, and it had apparently paid off.

Ignoring the whiskey for the moment, she turns around again, replacing the vodka and reaching up on tiptoes to the highest shelf, and grasps a decanter of enchanted crystal full of the red liquid that is the drink's namesake. Three measures of this follow the vodka into the metal mixing container. This she picks up and swirls lightly, just enough to scatter the two liquids through each other, and pours the mixture into a clear goblet. Now she drizzles a mere half-measure of the whiskey across the top of the drink, spreading the flavor of it ever so lightly through the drink as it seeps in. Finally, a garnish of a pristine white flower with a dark dark green stem. It does not change the flavor, merely appearance, and if left in the drink long enough, a small amount of the liquid will be drawn up through the stem to give its ivory petals a pinkish hue.

Arche places the drink in front of the customer, a cheerful expression on her face. "Here you are. Let me know if it's not to your satisfaction."

[Grey]

Grey eased up when the barmaid not only said shhe would serve him, but did not seem scared of him either. Many people wre not afriad of him or his kind, but the majority was. Not that Grey could not symphasize with them, beeing in the same room as someone who required your life-blood for sustenance could hardly be calming, but being shunned out of ignorance and fear of so many was in truth what drove most vampires to be the blood-thirsty monsters so many knew. But it was not so here, and that made Grey smile.

"Naw, guess not. You might call it... an aquired taste" He replied half-jokingly to the barmaids comment. He was beginning to like this place. He discreetly checked out the barmaid when she turned away, reaching for one of the required bottles, but quickly knocked the thought out of his head. Just because she did not run away screaming at the sight of him did not mean that he stood a chance, and even if he did, well, chances were that she was already taken. Most people worth looking at and, more importantly, speaking with were. She was probably nto his type either, a thing that was likely mutual

"Cheers love, like the looks of it and I'll let you know about the rest" He picked up the glass and took a swig, his eyes widening in surprise and he lengthened his drought. This was good stuff! "Good stuff" He exclaimed when the glas left his lips, not making an effort to hide that he was impressed. "I'm gonna need some more 'a these. How much I owe ye for this one?" This, Grey had just decided, would be his frequenting establishment, still depending on the prices of course. But if the prices were not too high, and if they would accept a 'suckhead' for a repeat customer, there were tips waiting in the future

[Arche]

"You might call it... an acquired taste." Arche grins at a that one. Acquired taste indeed! That's one way to put it, all right. Arche wonders vaguely whether fangs would add to her looks or not, but ultimately decides that becoming a vampire isn't something you just go and do for cosmetic reasons.

Arche beams at his compliment, extremely pleased he had enjoyed it. The dash of whiskey had been a good call. She smooths down her skirt absently. Today, she is wearing a simple single-piece thing of sheer, plain white silk, the skirt of which is long enough that it's not indecent. Dressing like this might seem like a bad idea considering that drunk men are not the most proper and prudent group of people to be dealing with, but Arche isn't worried. The way Arche runs the place, many of her best regular patrons have come to think of her as a sister; it's like having a big family in which someone's always ready to lend a hand if there's trouble. Indeed, Arche rarely felt the need to call in a bouncer for the same reason. She's not defenseless herself, of course, but that's another story.

Anyways, back on topic. "The first one's on the house; welcome to the Rose!" she jauntily replies to his question about the drink's price. Arche brings enough customers through to practically give beer away and still turn a profit, but mixed drinks were what she was really in the business to make. Arche points up behind the bar at a simple sign, which reads "Beer $1, Mixed Drinks $4." In a day and age where some places charge double digits for a cocktail, this seems more than reasonable to Arche. Simple rates also make it feel easier for people to order more, and low prices make for larger tips Earning a good tip is a lot more satisfying than merely selling a drink anyways. Dollars seem to fly all right as currency, but Arche has scales and exchange rate charts on hand for almost any currency people bring in.

"I can open up a tab for you if you give me your name," Arche asks, and having already swiftly made up a second Bloody Mist, she places it in front of him.

[Darien Szark]

"Well, if this place isn't full."

Darien let out a laugh. He wakled into the bar, his sword sheathed on his back, as he pushed his glasses up on his nose, the purple scarf and lime green turtleneck suiting him rather well. He surveyed the room, taking in all the sights there were to see.

Drinking a Bloody Mist? Vampire. No ill will toward him, though. He's minding his own buisiness. Huge irish guy over there. Well, either irish or scottish. Either way, he's kind of cute, but not my type. Looks like a nice enough guy, though. Hmmm....bartender is a bit skinny for my taste. Damn. Ah, well, I'll get sloshed, anyway.

And so, he plopped down in a stool next to the large irish or scottish man, and unstrapped his shield from his arm, setting it on the floow under the stool, and wated for the woman to come over, rather than call out to her.

"Hello, friend. Life is treating you well, Da?"

[Grey]

Grey listened as the bar-maid told him of the very simple prices. He was definitly a repeat customer now, they knew how to treat their costumers in the true spirit of a pub here. That was the difference betwene a pub and a bar, and in Grey's mind there were no other places of drinking, even if they claimed to be something else, trying to sound more exclusive or what-not. A bar was a place of drinking, pure and simple, you came there to drink and nothing else. It was, like so many other things, a buisness of profit. A pub, whilst also focusing on the drinking, had a social aspect to it that you did not find in bar, it was a palce of drinking, yes, but also a place of laughter, enjoyment and socializing. Grey hated bars, especially those that claimed to be pubs. He was therefor happy to find that this place was actually a pub.

"Uhm, yeah.... About that" Grey seemed a little nervous when the subject of his name came up. It was a sensitive subject, but he also knew that if he only gave his cover-name, there was a chance of someone abusing that and driking for his money "Tell you what, love. If you can promise me that if I tell you my name, that no one else will now, then I'll tell you. It's... not a thing most people know, and I'd like to keep it like that" A few people knew his name, Gregory Moore, though Grey had managed to keep the number of people who knew it so low that those who knew could be counted on one hand. It made things simple. But the reason he did not like people to know his name was because that the mere mention of it reminded him of his time as a human, the childhood that had made him a blood-thirsty murderer, 'blood-thirsty' later becoming the operative word. It was only within the last fifty years that he had become more 'human' and less predator. He was roughly 210 years old, time as human included

[Arche]

The bartender or barmaid is not a person charged solely with the provision of drinks for customers, just as a real tavern or pub does not exist solely as a place to buy drinks. A tavern is a place of people. It is a microcosm of the community in which it exists, and elements of all walks of life meet under one roof in friendliness or at least a truce. Some might say that a pub is a place where all the elements of human interaction are distilled. Concentrated. Magnified. Brought to life and allowed to swirl between and through patrons and staff alike. It is in this poignant atmosphere of connections and commiseration, information flows like veins of precious metal in rock, except without the rock. The bartender sits in the center of this web of ebbing and flowing information, and its sanctity is placed in his or her hands. It is not uncommon for secrets to enter the hearing of the bartender that would ruin many lives were the right people to learn of it, and other secrets that would make lives better for others.

It is thus that our noble purveyor of drinks is placed in a position of power of sorts. At first, it might be letting one little secret slip, thinking only of helping someone out. Then another that decides things in favor of one faction or another. Inevitably, nobler intentions give way to selfish aims, and a 'tender can become corrupt. People who do this are the most despicable tradesmen, in Arche's eyes. It is not the right of an outside holder of information to arbitrate the flow of society in such a way for any reason. It is because of her pride as a professional and humility as a single individual that any sensitive information that just so happens to be passed into her care remains under the strictest confidentiality.

"Your secret is safe with me; under neither duress, pain, or the threat of death shall I betray the confidence of my patrons," Arche replies to the customer, still smiling amiably but now with a spark burning in her gaze, as if daring someone to suggest that she wouldn't ride out torture to protect her peoples' privacies. This glow fades quickly though, and naught but a grin remains as she continues, "However, if you like, any name you'll answer to will do, and I'll ask no questions." This particular man didn't seem the type to give a random name and disappear never to be seen again, so she would trust him that much.

[Grey]

" 'S good t' hear" Grey responded, smiling a smile that looked like it was on the verge of cracking up with laughter, which also happened to be the case. "The most important part in a good pub is a good bartender. Everythin' else comes after that" He finished the first cocktail, the one that had been on the house, and then leaned in over the barcounter, motioning for Arche to come closer. "Gregory" He would whisper in he ear, keeping his voice as low as he could, but on a level where he was certain she would still hear it "Gregory Moore"

He leaned back, smiling. Grey was not much of a people's person usually, but the time he spent in the wilderness, urban as well as natural, had honed his instincts to a razor-fine edge, and he had an excellent judgement when it came to most things, especially people. He was certain he could trust her, though it was quite unlike him to give up his name so easily still. But perhaps that was what he needed, to give up his name to someone he did not know and not be hurt by them in return "And what's your name, if you don't mind my askin'?" Grey leaned back, smiling in a way that suggested deep inner calm. He was beginning to feel at home in this place