duskofthegods_logs | Look who finally left the temple

Entry tags:

heather stone

Look who finally left the temple

Who: Heather... and YOU
Where: Market place
When: I'm open.
Warnings: Heather is a blanket warning and I'm sorry not sorry.

There is a decided lack of drink around here. So, Heather has decided to go talk to the people in the marketplaces, to see if someone has some stashed somewhere that they'd be willing to share.

She, however, is finding it very hard to communicate with the people of Vernos Bay who keep giving her shiny rocks until her pockets are overflowing. She doesn't want rocks, she wants booze. There's not even a good cuppa around here!

So, come find her, and she might not hate you.

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Steph deals with the people of Vernos Bay on a regular basis. Apparently they have no problem with there being nothing but instant coffee, and she feels obligated to help her high strung bapriesta with sales. Right now she has the store closed down so the both of them can take a fricken break.

So naturally she recognizes an outside when she sees one, and feels obliged to say hello.

"Hey! You're the rock lady, right?" Rock lady, earth god, either or. She's got an armful of rocks, she really can't complain.

How is there nothing to drink in this blasted place? Where's Dionysus when you need him?

She nods her head in absent gratitude, tucking yet another rock into her overfull pockets. It's like people are happy to see her, but she can't get a drink.

Heather sighs. "Earth Goddess, yes." She says, toying with the rock that dangles from a chain around her neck. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Steph," she explains with a smile, "I'm in charge of coffee around here." She really only wanted to introduce herself, but...

"You look a little lost?"

Heather wrinkles her nose. She's never understood the fascination with coffee, but then, she's looking for something a bit different to drink.

"Heather, darling." She says, offering a hand to shake. "And, frankly, I'm finding it to be dry living. Not something I'm used to."

Whatever, Heather, coffee is Steph's life.

"Dry?" That confuses her for a minute. It's been snowing almost nonstop, and they're in a bay city. Then it clicks.

"Oh! You're looking for a bar?"

Heather is, frankly, coming to realize that she is the only immortal here. The others are from places where people don't live forever. That's not good.

"If I must, but a place to procure alcohol is definitely needed." She's too classy for a bar.

Steph snorts a laugh. What a snob.

"Beggars can't be choosers, isn't that what they say?" She's not even sure the liquor stores are open, with things in the state they are. Or if they are open, how good the liquor is. There's whiskey for Irish coffees, but she hasn't tried it straight.

"I think there's one just a couple of blocks down the road. They're not that uncommon."

When 1700 you reach, a snob you will be. /Yoda

"Unfortunately, it's been a long time since I was a beggar and I've lost my taste for it." She admits.

"Is there? Thank you, I'll have to try there." Because she needs something.

"Really? Weird." Because people usually so love being beggars. Steph should really stop making fun of Heather in her head. She should, but she won't.

"C'mon, I'll show you. You can probably even dump some of those rocks as trade." She heads off in the proper direction, assuming the siren song of alcohol with compel Heather to follow her.

Look, drinking is how she copes, and there's no other immortal people here. So, she's alone, and now a Goddess - even if she wanted the position - and that requires at least one drunken episode to get through.

Heather follows the young girl through the crowd. She's stopped several times, once by a blacksmith, who offers her a knife. She actually stops and examines it. Because she enjoys weapons. When he insists she keep it, she puts it in a beuatifully tooled leather sheathe that he has. Then, she silently follows the girl.

Steph doesn't mind waiting when the knife makes an appearance. It's a decent blade, and kind of makes Steph think she'd like to get some throwing practice in later. Projectiles are just fun. She doesn't question the sheath just now. Different strokes for different folks, she guesses, and honestly, she just can't be bothered. Worry about armed strangers when there's an actual problem, not before.

"Here we are," she announces as they reach the bar, which is actually a pub. It's a little classier than your usual hole-in-the-wall, but not by a whole lot. She waves the bored hostess away with a smile and heads for the bar itself. At this hour there are only two other patrons around, and they're more interested in talking to each other than the equally bored bartender. Steph slides into a seat and waits for Heather to do the same.

"Mind if I stick around for a drink? I don't have anything else going on right now."

Heather dislikes bars. Well, bars for other people. There are certain watering holes in Paris, and New York, where she can deign to be seen.

Heather sighs and slides into a seat. No wine, it looks like, and their selection of Scotch is a bit... lacking.

Sigh. Beggars can't be choosers.

"No, of course not, darling." She says, with a shrug, after placing her order. She looks at her companion. "Ar you old enough to drink?" She asks, curious.

The question surprises her, less because she thinks she looks old enough to drink and more because Heather looks young enough not to particularly care.

"Yeah, I'm 21. Old enough in any country." Most only want you to be 18, which she really feels should be the sticking point in this weird place.

"Hey, do you have coffee?" she asks the bartender, and on his affirmative orders an Irish coffee.

"Pretty sure that's gonna end up being my favorite drink ever." She is a proud coffee addict.

Looks can be deceiving. She actually follows the laws for the most part. She's got an ID that places her at twenty-two, just so that when she's in New York, she can drink.

It's very nice since her French ID says she's only nineteen.

"Scotch, neat, leave the bottle." She says to the bartender. He does, and she sips the aromatic liquid in the tumbler. This is much better than she'd been expecting but not as good as Glenfiddich. But then, very little is.

Very deceiving indeed. Steph watches, vaguely impressed as Heather drinks straight from the bottle. She's been trying more stuff since she got out from under the stupid dome cutting Gotham off from the rest of the world, but she hasn't quite gotten a taste for straight liquor.

When her coffee comes - very quickly, being instant, she glares into the cup for a moment.

"Hey, coffee. Suck less." This may seem rude, but the drink does ripple some in response to the reprimand. Her frown vanishes and she takes a sip.

"Wish I knew why that works."

"Did you just command your coffee?" Heather asks, pouring herself another glass of Scotch. Because that's certainly impressive, though, she had told the earth to stop rumbling.

She sips the liquid, wondering if she can get something a bit better. Like Stoli Elit. That would be nice. A nice vodka to drink herself stupid with.

“I did. I was just being grumpy the first time I did it, but it really works.” She takes another long sip of her drink and sighs happily.

“Life without coffee just isn’t worth living.”

Heather snorts into her drink. She pours herself a second, and then a third. She needs to get drunk. "I'm more fond of tea, myself." Blasphemous, she knows.

[ Steph snorts a laugh, though she’s a little concerned by just how much liquor Heather is downing. Should she be worried about the woman dropping dead? ]

How European of you.

People keep avoiding him for some reason. Dodging into doorways, watching him with wide eyes. On occasion someone will toss a handful of sweets at him as if they're stones and they want him to go away. It's pretty off putting, if he'll be honest. But he's still too curious to be in much of a foul mood.

He does spot her though and gives her a charming enough smile.

"Hallo. How's it going?" Rather a banal attempt to start a conversation but he could use a jot of banality if it got him somewhere interesting.

She still is on the hunt for something, anything to drink. Wine, moonshine, sour grapes, something!

Seeing the God of Dreams out and about, she nods to him. "Poorly. These poor people have no alcohol to make dealing with things easier." Of course, that means that she hasn't got anything either.

"How are you, Morpheus?"

"Do they not? That's not what I heard." But he supposed who he talked to could be wrong. He blows out a breath. "As for myself I am thoroughly bored. Bored enough to learn how to become a lyreist, but alas, no captive audience."

"Well, if you know of someplace, please do share, darling." Because she needs to get blind drunk to deal with being a goddess now.

"A lyre? I haven't heard one of those in -" She checks herself. "Well, a while. Why the lyre?"

"Someone named Elliot is in charge of that." A shrug. "At least as far as I understand it. And didn't Morpheus play the lyre? I'm pretty sure he did." He scratches the back of his neck. "At least he did when I met him and he certainly wouldn't make a liar out of me." He is proud of that pun. Why do you ask?

She raises an eyebrow at him. "You met Morpheus?" She's old, but not quite that old. She lets the pun pass. She is not going to get into that.

"You haven't?" He raises his eyebrows even further. "As it happens yes, once or twice. We're not old friends. More like passing acquaintances."

"No. I... am not quite old enough for that." She says, instead of what she wants to say. She's met some people of legend - thank you Khan of Khan's court - but she hasn't met Morpheus of all people.

"Who says you need to be old? I could meet any number of heroes and legends and myths and personages and not age--oh-- m ore than a day at most." Are you intrigued. You should be. He may, in fact, be doing this on purpose.

She arches an eyebrow at him. "And how do you propose to do such a thing?" She asks, curious. Yes, he's younger than her but that's not saying much.

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Look who finally left the temple

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