mogget_cat | OOM: New Orleans with Hannibal and Jim

An optimist might say the day upon the other side of the door is balmy, but only because it's a little too early in the afternoon for it to be called sultry.

And only a little too early. Already halfway down its trek across the sky, the sun's great heat is partially mitigated by the sea-scented breeze off the Gulf and the shade of decorated balconies. Groups of people walk along Bourbon Street in front of the small alleyway in which the door from Milliways appears. The alley entrance is somewhat sheltered from the street by a fire-escape so none notice three dapper gentlemen arriving from nowhere. Faint conversations and laughter and the mingling strains of lively music reach them, and the varied smells of a port city known for its cuisine.

Yrael's green eyes glance up at the roof-edges for a moment as they enter, a half-smile on his face, before he turns to his guests. "Welcome to New Orleans."

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"Of course," Hannibal says. "Some aspects might come in handy eventually."

Yrael snorts lightly. "I'm not surprised the princeling didn't mention it. Free Magic is not the benign, socially-acceptable magic of the Charter. It is chaotic, and often misrepresented as evil by those who do not understand it."

Chaos is not evil. The breaking down of order is not evil. Entropy is not evil. It just is.

That Free Magic is the natural magic of the world, the magic from which the Charter was woven, tends to be forgotten.

"We might speak more about it over supper, perhaps," he suggests, glancing at the nearby tower of the St. Louis cathedral by Jackson Square, ostensibly to check the time on the clock there. "We should probably begin making our way that direction, in any case. The restaurant is a few blocks east of here, and we'll have the crowd to contend with between here and there."

Non-benign. Not socially acceptable. Misrepresented (?) as evil. Chaos.

All his very favourite things.

Jim taps his fingertips on his leg in a rhythm that's by now second nature and nods, glad he's wearing shades. Then he allows his focus to be distracted by a particularly beautiful mutant boy dancing by, whom he smirks at and receives a grin from in return.

'Good idea,' he says absently, and pulls his focus back.

'I could definitely do with a drink.'

Hannibal looks up at the highest floats, smiling at the colourful display. "Yes," he says. "Let's."

"Drinks will be most welcome in this heat." Yrael grins at them, and turns to begin leading the way through the crowd. He is good at insinuating himself through gaps in the crowd, moving with unconscious, catlike grace even in this form. He is aware that he is leading two humans who may have more difficulty making their way through, however, and makes sure they do not lose him in the ever-shifting rush of people. His occasional "excuse me" and "pardon me"s are perfectly polite, but their tone has an edge of insistence to them that helps encourage people to step aside.

Yes, drinks will be nice. So will the luxury of space, when they are no longer threading their way through the crush of people.

Jim hates or loves crowds like this depending on his mood, and the part he's playing. If he were in a good suit on a London street, he'd ice his way through people who are used to stepping aside as a matter of course. But he's not, he's in a New Orleans carnival in casual clothes, so he grins and becomes part of it, melting into bodies like he's always been one of them.

He pickpockets a couple of people just for the hell of it; one a guy who spills a few drops of his beer on his arm - this wallet gets tossed in the first trashcan he passes; the next from a man of his general height, colouring and build, who's ID he steals before dropping the wallet on the floor. You never know, it might come in handy.

And the music's good, people chuck leis around his neck, a girl kisses him on the cheek. It's fine. It's New Orleans.

Hannibal follows third, slipping smoothly through the crowd while it is still parted from Yrael and Jim.

He cheerfully thanks everybody who gives him a lei, beads, or a kiss; but when somebody reaches into his pocket, the wrist in question gets slapped sharply.

Leis and beads and kisses are in greater supply than thieves, but sheer, generic people are in greater supply than either. The going isn't always easy, however skilled Yrael is at weaving between living obstacles. At one point, a thick, impenetrable knot of tourists all in the same lurid orange shirts block the trio's way forward, so Yrael is forced to lead them along to the side of it, to the very edges of the parade way as a large group of brilliantly-colorful, corseted dancers are passing.

As Yrael is trying to urge a particularly recalcitrant parade-goer to step forward and thus clear them a path, a dancer in a lime-green wig, sparkly green make-up, dark blue opera gloves, purple corset and silvery, splintery skirt seemingly made of tinsel and silver ribbons catches Yrael's wrist and tries to tug him out into the dance.

But the Bright Shiner doesn't exactly want to be pulled into the whirling mass of colorful dancers while trying to escort his guests to dinner, and pulls his hand back sharply to free it. The dancer holds on tight and is pulled forward, stumbling awkwardly - but purposefully - into Yrael.

Who then laughs in surprise. "Well done. Full marks," Yrael says cheerfully, placing a light kiss on the dancer's cheek before gripping their hand and twirling them back out into the passing group of their fellow dancers. The dancer has no choice but to go on with the parade or risk blowing their cover.

"We're almost there," Yrael assures Jim and Hannibal, folding shut and pocketing the confiscated knife. Thankfully his shirt and vest were cut only slightly, and in a place on his side where it wouldn't show very much.

Jim's eyes are hard behind his shades, and he fingers the knife in his own pocket. He wouldn't have been so charitable to such a person, and it angers him that they'd try such a thing.

If you're going to be so blatant, have the decency to be good enough not to get caught.

'Good,' he says to Yrael, simply because when his mood dips crowds are the last place he wants to be. But food should bounce him back up again, and if it doesn't then music certainly will.

"One of those," Hannibal says. "You once told me you informally train them at times. Did they know you'd be here?"

He follows the other two, smoothly sliding through the remaining dancers.

"Belladonna sets me as a test for those students of her guild who may or may not be worth further training," Yrael grins over his shoulder at his guests. "If they show promise, I may let them pass. If not, they don't."

Yrael gently insists that a couple - very much enamored of one another and not inclined to pay attention to the outside world - take a slight step to the side, and leads Jim and Hannibal through the resulting gap.

"They could be reasonably certain I would be somewhere enjoying the festival, though I was expecting an attempt from the usual places - rooftops, deserted alleys, the cathedral tower. They came from an unexpected quarter, in an attempt that relied upon being an expected part of the parade experience. And I respect that. Had I been human, their attempt may have succeeded. The blade is only big enough to nick or wound unless applied with specific precision; it was treated with some sort of venom, I expect, that would only come to bear some time after the blade was used. Long enough for the assassin to continue on with their part in the parade before making their getaway."

'Neat.'

The costumes and make-up would help, too. He can't help thinking that Sherlock would enjoy solving such a murder and makes a mental note to consider setting one up for him back in London, if there's time.

He brushes off a woman approaching with yet another lei - bored of them now - and says, 'will you let that one pass?' to Yrael.

"I don't suppose the student knew you wouldn't die?" Hannibal asks, patting the cheek of a sweet dark young thing making bedroom eyes at him as they slide by.

"I will let that one pass. They had clearly done their research before making their attempt. Likely, they inquired after other students who had been sent to me and survived," Yrael grins. Someone in the crowd recognizes the albino young man, delaying the trio's progress for the time it takes for a cheerful hug with much back-slapping and many promises to catch up some day soon.

He leads them on, to the edges of the crowd near the row of buildings. The smells of spices and good creole cooking mingle with the smells of the city.

"They would know that I am hard to kill, at the very least, and that I am fully capable of retaliating to failed attacks. They knew I would be participating in the festival, as well, and utilized the public space and the crowd to both mask their approach and prevent any immediate retaliation from me. They knew that someone being so obviously killed in a parade crowd by someone so colorfully attired would be both bad form for an assassin and would make their escape difficult, so they chose a smaller blade, and I presume a venom that would take some time to fully manifest."

"It did not work, of course, but the attempt was well made. I should like to see them complete their studies." Yrael smiles, opening an etched glass door of a 19th century French-Creole style building with a gentle gust of cool, spiced air. The etching on the glass declares this to be Restaurant August. He gestures for his guests to enter, for they have arrived.

Within, all is golden. Through a door to their left is one of the main dining room, three walls a golden damask and the last unfinished brick, with crystal chandeliers hanging down from the high ceilings. To their right is a richly wood-paneled bar, and in front of them is another dining room, paneled in warm mahogany. A wrought-iron railing edges the stairs and balcony, behind which intricately-carved wooden screens shield private dining spaces from view.

Edited Date: 2016-06-28 02:50 pm (UTC)

Jim takes his shades off and surveys the place. It's nice. Typically New Orleans. He makes a mental note to stop by Cafe du Mond later. It had better exist here; he wants no truck with any version of New Orleans that doesn't have Cafe du Mond.

'Setting a trainee loose on you is a steep learning curve.'

He approves.

'Can I get anyone a drink?'

Edited Date: 2016-06-28 03:48 pm (UTC)

Hannibal looks around, a minute smile of approval on his face.

"Drinks would be nice, thank you," he says. "I do like the contrasts of this place.

"They are sent to me so I might judge whether or not they are worth the effort of continuing their education," Yrael grins. No need to waste time with grades or bell curves - he is strictly pass or fail.

"We have a little while before our reservation time. A drink would be much appreciated, yes, thank you," Yrael steps into the bar area with them. "A Sazerac for me, I think."

He likes to taste individual establishments' takes on the local classic.

Edited Date: 2016-06-28 07:27 pm (UTC)

'Hannibal?'

He hadn't considered a Sazerac. He hasn't had one of them for years, which obviously means his memory needs upgrading on the issue.

"I'll take one as well," Hannibal says. "It's a fitting drink for this place."

"It is," Yrael agrees, grinning as they make there way towards the bar. "Practically part of the authentic New Orleans experience."

Like music and kisses and thrown beads and pickpockets and attempted murder.

The bartender smiles and greets them with genteel Southern charm. "Having a good afternoon, gentlemen? It's hot out there, but we've got plenty of ways to cool off in here. What can I make for you?"

And just for the pure hell of it - and because he practiced recently in Eric's Louisiana, and it's good to keep his hand in - he responds exactly in kind, with a cultured New Orleans tone as if he's lived here...maybe not his whole life, but perhaps since starting at Tulane, for example.

'Just fine, thank you. I've got no complaints about the heat, out there or in here.'

Cultured with a side of flirt, obviously. He can't help it.

Well. Doesn't want to help it.

'We'll take three Sazeracs, and you have whatever you want on me.'

Hannibal smiles quietly, maroon eyes taking in the cultures interior of the place while giving nothing away.

Not even amusement at Jim's linguistic antics.

"Tha's very kind of you, sir, very kind," chuckles the bartender with more than the perfunctory warmth of someone who makes their living getting good tips. They move to fetch three chilled glasses and begin swirling them with absinthe and filling the lined glasses with ice. "This heat'll can make anyone right parched, even those of us who're used to it."

"One just learns not to notice it," Yrael runs his fingers over the shining green beads around his neck, amused. He has never bothered with a local accent for himself, as he is so obviously Not From Around These Parts. That kind of minor mystery - where is he even from, is he actually a mutant? - helps draw audiences on curiosity as well as a straightforward love of music and having a good time. Besides, even not-so-observant New Orleanites might catch something off about a faked accent if the particular slants and omissions and elongations of vowels aren't represented authentically. A skilled few might even be able tell exactly whereabouts in Louisiana a person is from by their accent, and would be quick to spot discrepancies - but Jim's accent is good, a believable blend of locales.

From elsewhere in the building come the sounds of dinner conversation, the occasional clinks of cutlery and wine glasses. The bar features more muted conversation from the few occupied tables. In another age, the room would have been also wreathed in cigar smoke. And it was, at one time, the faint memories of tobacco leaving their trace in the grain of the wood despite modern cleanliness and layers of polish.

The bartender adds Sazerac rye whiskey and Peychaud's bitters and three sugar cubes to a mixer and stirs them together until the sugar is dissolved completely. Then, the ice is discarded and the cocktail poured into the absinthe-lined glasses, and a delicate curl of lemon peel is added to the rim of each glass with a delicate hand.

"Enjoy, gentlemen," smiles the bartender, offering up the finished cocktails.

'Mmmhmm.'

He tips them a wink - and a twenty - and turns away with his drink. He has no intention of keeping up the accent for the whole evening, he just mixes things up because he can. Why be boring?

He keeps an eye on the crowds moving past the windows, the other people in the bar, the staff, the sounds of diners, but he looks perfectly relaxed leaning against the bar. Being on another world is a novelty he's starting to enjoy, and he's curious about what's actually different.

'How many mutants are there are at the bar, either of you know?'

There's X, obviously. He doesn't think he's met any others.

"Have you met Noriko Ashida, or her inimical roommate Sooraya Qadir?" Hannibal says, pinking up his drink and inhaling the fumes with a pleased smile.