Eliot Waugh (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
eliotwaugh) wrote2020-01-01 11:30 am
eliotwaugh) wrote2020-01-01 11:30 am
Entry tags:
Say When (A New Year's Brunch)
Eliot had been warned by various people that New Year's often brings some kind of supernatural mischief to Darrow, and this news had only made him more determined to stick to his plan. No power of god or man or eldritch entity place-spirit or army of fish people will prevent him from throwing a damn party.
It made sense, really, and part of him wishes he'd done something like this before now. He needn't frame it as a sort of surrender to this imprisonment, but rather just indulging in something frivolous because, as far as his understanding of the metaphysics goes, none of this really counts. So why shouldn't he enjoy it? He's been here long enough to decorate the apartment some, and it really is a marvel the amount of things available through Nile. There's more comfortable furniture, potted plants, and a series of apothecary cabinets and display cases for magical components that give the whole place the air of some eccentric explorer's gallery of curiosities.
He's even managed to get enough appliances that the little kitchen is decently functional, and has spent a few days stocking up and preparing for what he hopes will a successful brunch. He has enough eggs to feed an army. There will be copious crepes. There will be mimosas for days.
Eliot's used to working through a wicked hangover this time of year, so he built that into consideration in his prep time. Thanks to the night's adventure, though, he spends his downtime sober and scrubbing mer-blood off of himself, and still feels a bit frazzled by the time the first guests arrive.
[It's time for brunch! Brunch is a state of mind, not an actual timeframe, so please feel free to have your pups show up whenever in the day, honestly. Tag in, tag around, chase the memory of merman horror away with a mimosa, air your grievances and dirty laundry in the neutral ground of Eliot's apartment. This is a safe space. For Drama.]
It made sense, really, and part of him wishes he'd done something like this before now. He needn't frame it as a sort of surrender to this imprisonment, but rather just indulging in something frivolous because, as far as his understanding of the metaphysics goes, none of this really counts. So why shouldn't he enjoy it? He's been here long enough to decorate the apartment some, and it really is a marvel the amount of things available through Nile. There's more comfortable furniture, potted plants, and a series of apothecary cabinets and display cases for magical components that give the whole place the air of some eccentric explorer's gallery of curiosities.
He's even managed to get enough appliances that the little kitchen is decently functional, and has spent a few days stocking up and preparing for what he hopes will a successful brunch. He has enough eggs to feed an army. There will be copious crepes. There will be mimosas for days.
Eliot's used to working through a wicked hangover this time of year, so he built that into consideration in his prep time. Thanks to the night's adventure, though, he spends his downtime sober and scrubbing mer-blood off of himself, and still feels a bit frazzled by the time the first guests arrive.
[It's time for brunch! Brunch is a state of mind, not an actual timeframe, so please feel free to have your pups show up whenever in the day, honestly. Tag in, tag around, chase the memory of merman horror away with a mimosa, air your grievances and dirty laundry in the neutral ground of Eliot's apartment. This is a safe space. For Drama.]
no subject
There are stories he can tell, stories he's not even sure Greta knows, and if he's honest, he doesn't know if he knows them all either. The details are still fuzzy in some of them, memories he can't quite grasp, but he knows enough to be able to at least tell her why he's so bloody tall.
"Lugh was grandson of Balor," he says, the grin fading a touch. "A Fomorian. Giants. T'be honest, I don't remember all the shifts. It was so fuckin' long ago..." He trails off and shrugs his broad shoulders. For a moment, he looks almost sad, trying to reach for things that are long gone, lost to a past he knows he's never going to be able to fully grasp.
"I remember they tried to drown me. A transition. I remember bein' Suibhne, king of the Dál nAraidi, and a curse. Wandering for a long, long fuckin' time, mad with it all." He doesn't mention Eorann or Moira. He'll not mention them, not now, perhaps not ever. "And I remember Mother Church movin' in and those of us who were left bein' turned into somethin' else. Fairies. Demoted gods and goddesses of the Tuatha Dé Danann."
no subject
She notes the shift in Sweeney's expression, and lays her hand on his arm for a moment in quiet sympathy. It's only natural to forget pieces of your past — goodness knows there's plenty she doesn't remember, and she's had far less time in which to lose things — but it must be unnerving, to know that what you don't remember might be important.
"I don't think any of the stories I was told as a child included all that," she muses. With a little more deliberate lightness, she adds, "Certainly not enough for me to expect you to be so enormous."
"I'd only just heard there was a leprechaun in the city, at first," she says, this more for Anne's benefit. Sweeney knows this part of the story just as well as Greta does. "I didn't actually meet him until I'd been leaving out offerings for a little while."