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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Dragons were literal in the Old Kingdom, though they were not as humans remember them," Yrael remarks. With human lives so short, tales of ancient days become warped and exaggerated. A millenia-long game of telephone, leading to much being lost or misinterpreted.

"I believe I have met Sherlock - there was a man who smelled of your London, Jim - and listened to him play his violin. I invited him to use my harpsichord, should he wish to."

"And I have met Will Graham, and Winston. Will Graham spoke of fishing, though I did not see him do so," or else Yrael would have stolen his fish, "and we discussed having complicated friendships."

As you do.

Yrael and Will Graham disagreed on cats and dogs the way Yrael and Sherlock disagreed on the nature of music. But Free Magic by its very nature is opinionated and forever ready to disagree if necessary, and neither meeting ended on bad terms.

Jim chuckles, remembering a conversation.

'Yes, he said the two of you had differing opinions. Don't feel maligned, he disagrees with almost everyone, about everything.'

That's his boy.

'I told him you weren't always a cat, so don't be surprised if he knows you if you meet again. As for metaphorical dragons, Hannibal-'

He pulls a face. True danger is difficult to come by, in his world. But he and Hannibal operate very differently. He hasn't pretended to be respectable since he was a teenager.

"Fun to hunt," Hannibal says, "especially with the right hunting companion."

"Not at all. I enjoyed the discussion," Yrael chuckles into his drink. He would never feel maligned for someone disagreeing with him. He might get angry if the subject under discussion affected him or those he considers to be his, but not maligned, and for the most part he loves it best when his opposite puts up a good fight. Or a good persuasive argument. Those are enjoyable, too, in their more civilized way. If someone can convince Yrael to hold an opinion he previously rejected, they probably deserve a drink at the very least. He is habitually stubborn, as his siblings could attest.

"Some metaphorical dragons can cause just as much havoc as literal dragons, with as much malice and cunning, and with more artistry and purpose," Yrael murmurs.

'Very true. Ideas have more power than reality.'

It's a game he's currently playing. And it's so much fun.

'It's much harder for them to fight something they can't grasp.'

"The malice and cunning," Hannibal say, sipping his drink, "engender fear and attention, which he feeds on. Following the trail of that attention, we will find the Dragon."

Sip.

"And then, we will fight."

Yrael grins a toothy, almost wistful, smile. "Mind versus mind, strength versus strength. There is a certain satisfaction to both."

His favorite moment is when the opponent realizes they will lose. The look in their eyes is delicious.

"That struggle is the very heart of Free Magic. The strength of one's mind, one's will, set against the will of another. Bending weaker minds and bodies to further one's own purposes."

Most other people are metaphorical tools, anyway, why not make it literal?

Jim prefers knowing they'll fail before even starting the game. Well, 'prefers'...its just always the way of it. But he'll admit to enjoying that moment when they realise the world's about to collapse around their ears. That's always fun.

'But if they're always weaker, where's the challenge?'

This is the heart of his problem, always. And he eyes Hannibal.

'Do you already know you'll win?'

"We don't," Hannibal says. "It's just very, very likely. But we will have to risk, and give, everything before we do. What challenge would it be without a challenge? That would be boring."

"Even if they are weaker, they may find strength in numbers, or if they cannot win through strength, they may win by trickery," Yrael murmurs, those green cat-eyes serving as his own proof. Surely no one would think he chose to be unable to change them, whatever form he wears. "Even the strongest will can be overpowered or undermined, if the circumstances are right. Nothing is ever assured."

Not even for him.

Not even for the Destroyer.

"Complacency, indulgence, unconcern - those are... understandable, yes, but they are also traps one's mind sets for oneself."

Jim's gaze flicks between the two of them.

Of course they're right, logically. He just doesn't feel they're right. He sets his plans before anyone knows anything, and then sits back to watch people dance. No one's been able to counter them because they don't know what's happening until it's too late.

Maybe he should give people a chance. It might make things more interesting.

But for now, he just shrugs.

'Are we eating?'

"Oh yes, we should be seated soon," Hannibal says. "I can't wait to try some of the things on their menu."

Yrael looks over towards the hostess' desk and offers a warm smile - bordering on charming, but he is careful not to overstep - when he catches the woman's gaze. She comes over with a polite smile.

"Yessir, can I help you?" she asks.

"Yes, thank you. We have a reservation for a private dining room set for eight o'clock; could you do us a favor and check to see if our table is ready? The reservation's under the name 'White.'"

Because of course it is.

"Certainly, sir," she replies. "Give me one moment and I'll check."

A few words with her colleague and a couple of taps of a keyboard back at her station result in the hostess returning with a more assured smile.

"Sirs, your table is ready. The chefs had just sent word. If you'd be so kind as to follow me?"

'Private dining room?'

Nice! He's into it. Good choice, Yrael.

(Jim's smile at the hostess is not careful not to overstep, but this is probably not a surprise to anyone.)

"Excellent," Hannibal says, poised to follow. "I can't wait to experience what they have to offer."

"Restaurant August has provided me with enjoyable meals without fail," Yrael assures them, "though any good meal can be made better by company."

The hostess is good enough to politely ignore any inappropriate smiles from diners, leading the three of them through to one of the private dining rooms thoroughly divorced from the main dining areas. Like much of the restaurant, the room is wreathed in golds and creams and warm brown tones. The sliding doors are dark wood and glass etched in a golden lattice pattern, allowing for privacy and shutting out the sounds of the larger dining rooms behind them and the kitchens somewhere down a hall to the side. The lone table is set for three, the leather of their chairs dark in contrast to the honey-toned wood of the dining table.

The hostess smiles and invites them to sit, pouring ice water for each of them. "Chef Augustin will be with you shortly. Please enjoy your evening."

Jim thanks her with another inappropriate smile - if she's going to ignore them, that's what she gets - and waits until they're alone before eyeing up the room properly.

'Nice. A man could get up to all sorts in here.'

Not that he's saying he should, or will. He's just saying.

"Most suitable," Hannibal says, after thanking the hostess. "A place to pay a meal the attention it deserves."

"Yes," Yrael grins, wryly, taking a seat with idle grace. "I prefer to limit unwanted distractions and interruptions, when the option is available."

Out in the main dining room, it's noisy and more crowded. The smells of the food would mix with those of the people, and there's sure to be at least one person with too much cologne or perfume, and someone is likely to recognize the locally famous musician and interrupt the meal, perhaps even with good intentions, or someone will mutter some unkind remark about mutants thinking they're as good as actual people just within earshot, which would necessitate a small change of plans later in the evening....

"Better to enjoy one's time on one's own terms, as much as that is possible."

However outside the lines of typical civilization they may be, none of them are at complete liberty.

Unfortunately true, as much as he likes to think otherwise. Intelligence services and the police are so boringly dogged in some respects.

He would also quite like someone to start making rude remarks, because that sort of thing definitely can't go unpunished. But in the absence of people being rude, he'll settle for drinking more alcohol and letting the food experts ruminate over what's on offer.

"Some interruptions need not be tolerated," Hannibal agrees, looking around. "And we are all willing to pay the necessary price."

Shortly after the hostess leaves them to get settled, the head chef emerges from the side hallway leading to the kitchens. A pale-eyed and weathered man with salt-and-pepper hair, Chef Augustin Mouton greets them with robust good cheer, introducing himself and welcoming the three of them as one might greet guests invited into one's own home.

There are many culinary delights to choose from, it turns out, as Chef Augustin introduces the list of that day's catches from the Gulf that might in turn catch their interest and suit their tastes: grouper and pompano, flounder and snapper, tunny and striped bass, scallops and oysters. The easy availability and sheer variety of fresh fish to be had in New Orleans is not the least of Yrael's favorite things about the city.

"We came wanting to introduce a friend to the delights of the local cuisine," Yrael tells the chef, who smiles understandingly.

Edited Date: 2016-07-22 09:43 pm (UTC)

Jim eyes the chef with his head leant back against his seat. His name reminds him of someone, which is enough for him to take a dislike to the man. Not a serious one, just less receptive to his manner than he was with the hostess and bartender.

'Do you have jambalaya on?' he asks lazily, taking a drink.

'Or is not ordering fish enough to get me strung up?'

His two companions might do it, perhaps. There's probably something less refined about a Creole dish versus fresh fish, but Jim's never cared much for what he's supposed to do.

"I, on the other hand, would quite like to try some striped mullet, if you have any," Hannibal says, smiling politely at the chef.

"Oh, there is always jambalaya, sir," The chef assures Jim with an easy and friendly smile. He doesn't say that it wouldn't be a Creole restaurant if they didn't have jambalaya. The chef had simply listed the special options first, for the favored guests of the chef's own private dining room, rather than what tourists could find at any restaurant in the city.

But don't get him wrong. Never fear, the fish will also be cooked in fine Creole tradition. There is no versus. Not in the heart of New Orleans. His eyes just... may or may not be silently judging Felix White's friend from behind his friendly and professional smile. "Or crawfish etouffee if you'd like, as they are in season. Our etouffee is one of our most popular dishes. With the mild Spring, has been a very good year for getting fresh crawfish sourced locally."

"We do indeed have mullet, sir," the chef then replies to Hannibal. "Caught today, brought fresh from the market. A wonderful choice."

"I thought I saw some particularly healthy mullets earlier, on the way here," Yrael says mildly, sipping his drink.

The chef protests, shaking his head. "Oh, sir, if they're still out at the market at this time of evening, they're sure not worth having, however they might look."

"You're probably right," Yrael admits, smiling. "You can't go wrong with pompano, so I think I will have that, this evening."

"Excellent choice, sir," smiles Chef Augustin. "I thought perhaps Oysters Bienville, a recipe invented here in this very city, nearly a century ago, and salad of roast heirloom beets and carrots, to start with?"