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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"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.

The bartender is glad of the tip, and thanks Jim for it with a bright smile. They may linger for a moment in case they are needed, but the bartender soon must move away to serve other customers.

Yrael makes a sound of assent in his throat, tasting his drink with a pleased smile. "I know Noriko of the blue hair, but not her roommate. And there is... one by the name of Charles Xavier, I have heard. A telepath. I have seen others, but do not know them personally."

"There have been a few others I have known, in the past, but they no longer visit," he adds, with some regret. He takes another sip of his Sazerac.

'I obviously need to widen my social circle.'

What fun. His enthusiasm for the idea is truly remarkable.

'I haven't met anyone with blue hair, and I don't think I'd enjoy meeting a telepath.'

He rather doubts a telepath would enjoy meeting him, either.

"You wouldn't," Hannibal says, sipping his Sazerac, "and I say that without any telepathy of my own."

"I don't think the mutants who come to the bar are all from the same... version of this world. Or even if they are from the same version, they may be from different places in their timelines."

""Are there any other telepaths in the bar?" Yrael asks, idly curious, "or is Xavier the only one so cursed?"

'I haven't met any,' he says to Yrael, and smirks.

'I imagine they wouldn't have much fun in your head.'

Or maybe too much fun? But on balance, he can't see any person of ordinary morals revelling in anything they might find in these three minds.

There's a sharp grin at Hannibal's commentl.

'I always knew you were clever.'

"I do think he had no fun at all," Hannibal says, looking smug.

Yrael grins toothily at Jim. If a telepath could find their way into his head, they would find the doors suddenly locked behind them.

"I suspect in-born telepathy is like the Sight, wherein it happens whether or not the person wills it, at first, until they learn to control and focus the ability. I would hope he would be able to read when there are signs up on a property saying Trespassers will live to regret it."

If only briefly.

"What about mutants interests you?" Yrael inquires, curious as to why Jim asked.

'They have powers that could be useful,' he says, with a shrug.

He's not going to stand here and pretend he doesn't only see people for what use they might be. Not in this company.

'And if they're not useful, they can be difficult opponents. A new kind of challenge. Look at X.'

He likes X! And would love to come up with a way to beat her. But not yet. Not without reason.

"Mere mortals aren't worthy opponents, sometimes," says Hannibal, nodding. "That's why it's interesting to face dragons."

"And Life isn't that interesting without a worthy challenge," Yrael murmurs into his drink.

They've spoken before on the subject. Of cultivating challenges and those who might be of use. The feeling passes over the Bright Shiner once again, of wondering what could have been had he found Milliways and its people centuries earlier.

"Though sometimes you might have to go out of your way to cultivate a worthy opponent."

Jim raises his eyebrows as if to say, obviously.

'I believe you've both met Sherlock.'

The living, breathing, epitome of Jim forcing someone to oppose him for the sheer fun of it. And there's a glance at Hannibal.

'Knowing Milliways, you might mean an actual dragon.'

Fucking place.

"Yes, I met him," Hannibal says. "And Yrael might even have met Will?"

He smiles.

"No, the Dragon in my world is metaphorical -- but no less dangerous and challenging."