NationStates Jolt Archive

"The UN has a perfectly good Fight Room on one of the upper floors if you must get physical," he added disapprovingly, slipping free replacements to Adaine and Otterby. "I urge you to adjourn there forthwith."

"Where's this fight room Neville", asked Otterby with a malevolent glint in his eye. "I feel a sudden urge to get even in the most painful way imaginable".;)

Sir Albert wakes up and winks to Neville...happy that a pint of the usual will appear shortly. Feeling a little generous he pays for a pint for Dicey, as she always seems to be in here too.

"Genetic predisposition? I wonder if that is anything similar to the avatar fusion process?" Kenji appeared to be vaguely interested in the matter, which for a near-robotic man such as that paladin, meant he was on the verge of mania.

Serph merely took in the scene silently, though he was particularly interested in the location of the fighting room. He was an honorable man, for a paladin, but he was also something else. And "something else" was known for being insatiable.

"I did obey my orders, sir, but they just ignored me."

"That's alright, LePep," the dragon said. "I was afraid that your stealth training would render you invisible to their senses. Not to worry, though. They've come back here. Looks like no one is any the worse for wear. I think that, from this point on, it's better if we let them handle things on their own. I'd like you and the boys back up here at the bar, though. If they're not careful--and their happiness police are starting to get involved, which isn't a good sign--we may need you to help control the collateral damage.

"Return here. Observe but do not engage. Prevent third-party casualties and minimize collateral damage."

The dragon went back to his other conference call. He had thanked the Krioval deligation for their contact. Heavy hitters or no, they seemed civilized enough, and that was plenty fine for Gurgle's purposes. In the meantime, the wiley dragon had managed to get ahold of two bottles of that wonderful brandy that the guests were commenting on. Though it was but a drop on his pallette, a bottleful was certainly enough for him to familiarize himself with the beverage.

Carefully, the dragon poured the liquid onto the back of his tongue and, in one graceful gulp, brought it to its final resting place.

Guido Varbinski, the Dancing Bananalandian delegate, took three deep breaths, and slowly opened the door into the UN strangers bar...his first thought: "This really does put the strange in strangers bar...."


OOC: Thought i'd finally mosey on over and give this a whirl.

Anthony Stilgram, the Caratian representative, doesn't quite like the looks of what he sees inside, especially after Mr. Varbinski's response.

But why the heck not go in?

Avoiding the gaze of anyone who happened to look, he sits down and orders a glass of whiskey.

Sir Albert grins at the sight of a dancing delegate, jumps up, locksteps up to the poor chap and takes him for a convoluted Bahgumian quickstep around the bar, followed by a neat little jitterbug and rolling of the arm jive throw to land the man from banananananananaland squarely at the bar. Somewhere during this natty dance routine Sir Albert had dropped a barrel of whisky next to the Caratian delegate as he felt he may just need it.

"By eck, tha's not danced fer donkeys years, reet grand that was, anyone fer a Waltz or a slow foxtrot?"

"Sir Albert, I would be honoured", said Otterby with a flourish. Placing his Guinness jar upon the nearest table, he swept up a rose from a nearby jug and placed it between his teeth before leading the slightly alarmed gentleman in a spirited Compadrian waltz.

Oh, but that stuff was good!

For a moment that seemed to last an eternity, Gurgle found himself stretched out across the Divide of the Dimensions, at one not just with his own universe, but with several of the Higher Planes. And, in that moment, the day-to-day concerns that a diplomat might have seemed somehow small and inconsequential in the greater scheme of things. The theme of the Universe began to play itself out for him, and the Dragon listened.

It was then that he found himself returning to the Strangers' Bar, where a tune had been struck up for the Dancing Deligate.

The music had taken the deligate directly in front of the dragon, and the joy of oneness with All simply overwhelmed the creature. Rising elegantly on his back legs and spreading his wings to their full eighty-foot spread, the Dragon gazed delightedly upon the deligate.

"May I have the distinct privalege and honor of the next dance, my dear fellow deligate?" he asked.

--------------------------

OOC: I remember hearing a classical piece where the basses and cellos did the can-can. This is a similar moment.

"I think they're dancing," Shinji said, looking toward Serph, whose expression was one of total confusion. "I think it has something to do with alcohol intake."

"...?"

"They're affected a bit faster than we are. Still, that doesn't mean we can't..."

The barrel of whiskey was quite a surprise to Anthony. Luckily, he has a straw.
"Why, I'd be honored to dance with you!" he shouts at nobody in particular. He staggers up, jumps onto a chair, and proclaims himself Emperor of Floor Tiles.

Delighted at this turn of events -- dancing was so much more civilised than fighting -- Neville vaulted the bar with a smooth jete and progressed in a series of Nureyev-esque leaps to Hodgelett's side.

"Cherie, I believe you are promised to me for the supper-dance," he wheedled. "Will your chaperon permit you to waltz in public?"

It belatedly occurred to him that Hodgelett might resent the intimacy of his having carried her unresisting form to its present comfortable nest.

"If not, of course, I can always ask Violet," he added reassuringly. "I realise you may not yet be sufficiently recovered to be whirled in dizzying circles while clutched helplessly in the close embrace of a fevered swain."

He hoped that Hodgelett would appreciate the consideration he was showing in offering her an excuse to refuse the dance.

Meanwhile ... Dicey Riley advanced with predatory purpose on Sir Albert. Otterby, she considered, was no competition. No competition at all. That rose between the teeth thing was so passe.

She snatched an orchid from a nearby floral arrangement and tucked it, with deliberate insecurity, in her cleavage.

Bast, with a feline awareness that when humans were stumbling around, it behooved creatures with sensitive tails to make themselves scarce, took shelter in Neville's accustomed place behind the bar.

Violet, with an eye to the main chance, continued making Hodgelett her remedial coffee and skipped the Bar's mood music to a faster track. The more they danced, the more they'd drink.

If it were possible to drink more than the denizens of the Strangers' Bar already drank, of course. Violet let an idle thought toy with the concept of Infinity Plus One.

Sir Albert smiles as his offer is taken up by Otterby, though spotting the rose he decides to slowly turn the waltz to a more fetching tango as he craftily worked hisself towards the bar for a top up, neatly sidestepping a strange floral arrangement which look for all the world to be an orchard in a pair of breasts and depositing Otterby in front of a fresh guinness. 'delightful dancing old bean'.

Slurping his pint back and enjoying the break out of mass dancing, he looks for somewhere to have a good old jive, shame he hadn't seen Dicey around.....

Otterby was now quite elated, downing his fresh Guinness in a trice, he lept to his feet with a twinkle in his footsteps and leaped and bounded across the bar with the grace of a young otter cub.

"Oh what a glorious evening," he cried to the onlookers, "to dance, to experience such elation, to seize the hour, carpe diem my friends".

He alighted again and swung up to the bar and ordered a fresh drink. As he sipped it, he continued to express his emotions at his total suffusion with happiness.

"Oh my dear friends, how you cannot understand what pleasure this levity brings me. Truly, I should only believe in a God that would know how to dance. Who now will join me? For a foxtrot, for a waltz? for tango? Who wishes to join me on the dance floor here?

It seemed Hodgelett was faced with yet another conundrum, she enjoyed dancing, even if Neville's approach had been a little eager, but her brain was not enamoured to the prospect of swirling around. She decided on a compromise.
Placing her hand in Neville's for support, she stood up saying "just nothing too fast and energetic."
She also cast a slightly anxious glance at the blanket-covered files by the bar. No one had tripped yet, why should anyone later?

Otterby was now quite elated, downing his fresh Guinness in a trice, he lept to his feet with a twinkle in his footsteps and leaped and bounded across the bar with the grace of a young otter cub.

"Oh what a glorious evening," he cried to the onlookers, "to dance, to experience such elation, to seize the hour, carpe diem my friends".

He alighted again and swung up to the bar and ordered a fresh drink. As he sipped it, he continued to express his emotions at his total suffusion with happiness.

"Oh my dear friends, how you cannot understand what pleasure this levity brings me. Truly, I should only believe in a God that would know how to dance. Who now will join me? For a foxtrot, for a waltz? for tango? Who wishes to join me on the dance floor here?


"Could I please have the honor, Mr. Otterby," asked the dragon, still extremely happy and a bit tipsy from that marvelous beverage that he had been drinking, and still standing, wings spread, on his hind legs.

He decided that Mr. Anthony didn't have to worry about him coming after the man about the dragon's barrel of whiskey. Gurgle wasn't what you'd call a stereotypical dragon. He'd been known to share.

He raised his leg into the air and twirled like a ballerina, somehow managing not to upset a single object in the bar while passing the outstretched leg over both the bar itself and over Otterby.

Dastardly Stench']"Could I please have the honor, Mr. Otterby," asked the dragon, still extremely happy and a bit tipsy from that marvelous beverage that he had been drinking, and still standing, wings spread, on his hind legs.

He decided that Mr. Anthony didn't have to worry about him coming after the man about the dragon's barrel of whiskey. Gurgle wasn't what you'd call a stereotypical dragon. He'd been known to share.

He raised his leg into the air and twirled like a ballerina, somehow managing not to upset a single object in the bar while passing the outstretched leg over both the bar itself and over Otterby.

Otterby marvelled at Gurgle's poise and grace, as he executed a dainty pirouette on claw point whilst extending his wings in a vast umbrella like fan around and across the cleared space where they danced.

"My word Gurgle", Otterby added, slightly out of breath, "where did you learn to dance with such extraordinary delicacy"?

*Adaine watched the dragon dance in amazement, this was even more confonding than the bartender drinking his coffee and giving him a new one*

...Placing her hand in Neville's for support, she stood up saying "just nothing too fast and energetic." ,,,

"I am putty in your hands. You are porcelain in mine," Neville assured Hodgelett.

And may you never discover my feet of clay, he added silently, mixing metaphors with far less skill than he mixed drinks.

Clasping the Randomean's left hand tenderly, he placed her right softly on his shoulder and gently eased an arm about her waist. With a little manoeuvering he was able to lure her head to rest on his shoulder, the ideal position for him to murmur fondly into her ear.

It was not so much a dance as a rhythmic movement -- a movement, Neville noticed with puzzlement, that seemed to be taking them back to a very specific spot at the bar. Ah, but no, it was surely just a coincidence; his little flower was safe in his arms and together they were moving as one across the pink clouds that, in his mind, had replaced the floor.

Neville gave himself up to the subtle flowing that could have been described as glacial were it not for the volcanic passion that propelled it.

------------------------------------------------------

It was a very different passion that propelled Dicey. Ignore her, would he? For Otterby! Or, if not for Otterby, then for some feeble form of alcohol that couldn't possibly measure up to the pyrotechnic joys of Ardchoille uisquebaugh!

Had she been mistaken? Was Sir Albert the man she thought him or (given his reaction to the otter-worshipping Compadrian) merely another of the various aquatic, carnivorous mammals of the genus Lutra and allied genera, related to the minks and weasels and having webbed feet and dense, dark brown fur?

Withdrawing the orchid from her cleavage, she oozed up beside Sir Albert and pouted seductively, stroking the flamboyant flower against her lower lip. Slowly she extended the tip of her tongue, moistened her lips and purred the invitation any red-blooded delegate would sell his own and half a dozen others' security secrets to hear: "My shout, I think, Sir Albert?"

The dragon had, doubtless been a surprise. However, a swift drink of scotch had mellowed his shock. Now Guido Verbinski sat slouched on the stool face out from the bar, watching as two drunken delegates swirled past. Defending the Banning Slavery resolution was growing diffictult, and Guido wished he could just get right up with everyone else and point out its flaws...but no, he represented it's author, and he did what he had to.

Guess thats why he was in a bar.

He looked at the shot glass in his hand, etched with the UN logo. He chuckled breifly at the notion, then chugged back the shot,, and continued to watch the dancers as the eerily apt, and far more irritating, "Dancing Queen" by ABBA came on over the speakers.

Otterby marvelled at Gurgle's poise and grace, as he executed a dainty pirouette on claw point whilst extending his wings in a vast umbrella like fan around and across the cleared space where they danced.

"My word Gurgle", Otterby added, slightly out of breath, "where did you learn to dance with such extraordinary delicacy"?

"When one is at onnnnnne with the universe," the dragon replied, his voice sounding far away, "one can learnnn from the winnnd, from the water." The air around the dragon began to smell like fine East Indian incense with a hint of poppy.

And then, something subtly changed, and the dragon found himself somewhat back to normal. With great dignity, he re-folded his wings and sat down on his tail before he could damage something. "That was refreshing," he said. "Thank you, Mr. Otterby."

Whatever was in that brandy, it the world needed more of it.

The Chief Paladin regarded the dragon with a mixture of admiration and indifference. "Will you be visiting the Guild, then?"

Through the entranceway came a very large man, dark skinned, with straight hair down just past his shoulders. His eyes lit up when he saw the Kriovalian paladins. Serph perked up noticeably at the new arrival. "Valkai." The word was tinged with the slightest hint of emotion - a veritable flood for the Chief Paladin.

"Serph." The big man's voice boomed, though the intonation rose at the end.

"I see you've decided to keep it," Serph said, lightly touching the underside of the other paladin's chin. "Good."

"More intimidating that way. Anyway, the trip was hell, as usual. Now I know why you've practically stopped talking to people you don't know. Speaking of which..."

"This is Gurgle the Dragon." He turned toward Gurgle. "Lord Gurgle, this is Valkai Andros, currently Guild Director and eventual successor to the Andros tribe."

"My Lord," Valkai intoned, bowing to the prescribed angle for meeting of a high-ranking foreign dignitary.

..."Dancing Queen" by ABBA came on over the speakers.

Otterby couldn't resist breaking into song upon hearing this and with a somewhat tuneless tenor, belted it out:

"You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life
See that girl, watch that scene, dig in the dancing queen

Friday night and the lights are low
Looking out for the place to go
Where they play the right music, getting in the swing
You come in to look for a king"

Takes swig of Guinness.

"Anybody could be that guy
Night is young and the music’s high
With a bit of rock music, everything is fine
You’re in the mood for a dance
And when you get the chance...

You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen (voice breaks here).
Dancing queen, feel the beat from the tambourine
You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life
See that girl, watch that scene, dig in the dancing queen

You’re a teaser, you turn ’em on
Leave them burning and then you’re gone
Looking out for another, anyone will do
You’re in the mood for a dance
And when you get the chance...

You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen
Dancing queen, feel the beat from the tambourine
You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life
See that girl, watch that scene, dig in the dancing queen."

~~ A gentleman of moderate height and no discernable features to make him memorable wanders in, locates an empty table in a secluded corner of the bar. He selects a chair, shifts it over a bit in order to get a better view and with a nod of his head calls over a member of the wait-staff. ~~

I take a quaff of your finest Yamüy Marsh O'Dochartaigh Rum ... hmmm ... 1992 if you have it.

~~ When it arrives he settles back into the shadows to observe his fellow bar patrons in their natural habitat. ~~

Gurgle watches in horror as four fart fairies join Otterby for the "harmony parts."

He has no power to stop them. They're at the bar legally, and they're off shift now.

Otterby finishes and listens to the sounds of applause echoing round the Strangers Bar.

ooc: laughing so hard!

ic: Hodgelett winced slightly as the solitary applause echoed around the bar.
"I think a gremlin's got into the jukebox." It seemed her fears were realised as the jukebox took great joy in selecting a disk and blaring out 'Agadoo'.

OOC: Sorry Randomea, but I couldn't resist continuing the Leonard Otterby singing extravaganza.

"Come on everyone, sing along now", said Otterby, clapping his hands exultantly:

"Ag-a-doo-doo-doo, push pineapple, shake the tree
Aga-doo-doo-doo, push pineapple, grind coffee
To the left, to the right, jump up and down and to the knees
Come and dance every night, sing with a hula melody

I met a hula mistress somewhere in Waikiki
Well she was sellin' pineapple, playin' ukulele
And when I went to the girl, come on and teach me to sway
She laughed and whispered to me, yes come tonight to the bay

The lovely beach, in the sky the moon of Kauai
Around calypso sarong we'll all be singin' this song

Ag-a-doo-doo-doo, push pineapple, shake the tree
Aga-doo-doo-doo, push pineapple, grind coffee
To the left, to the right, jump up and down and to the knees
Come and dance every night, sing with a hula melody

Aga-doo-doo-doo, push pineapple, shake the tree
Aga-doo-doo-doo, push pineapple, grind coffee
To the left, to the right, jump up and down and to the knees
Come and dance every night, sing with a hula melody

And down on the shore they gather romance
She showed me much more, not only to dance...

Aga-doo-doo-doo, push pineapple, shake the tree
Aga-doo-doo-doo, push pineapple, grind coffee
To the left, to the right, jump up and down and to the knees
Come and dance every night, sing with a hula melody

Aga-doo-doo-doo, push pineapple, shake the tree
Aga-doo-doo-doo, push pineapple, grind coffee
To the left, to the right, jump up and down and to the knees
Come and dance every night, sing with a hula melody

The lovely beach, in the sky the moon of Kauai
Around calypso sarong we'll all be singin' this song

Ag-a-doo-doo-doo, push pineapple, shake the tree
Aga-doo-doo-doo, push pineapple, grind coffee
To the left, to the right, jump up and down"

Seeing the pleading expressions on the faces of the other customers at the Bar and realising that his boss was on the verge of destroying his professional reputation, Anthony Holt took out the dart gun he'd got from VL all those months ago and puffed a tranquilising dart into Otterby's swaying and crooning form. Mercifully the effects were instantaneous.

To finish things off, he then took out a shotgun and used it to prevent the gremlin from ever selecting records for, at the very least, a considerable amount of time.

The shotung blast knocked Guido out of his thoughts and back into reality. The compadiran delegate lay unconscious on a table, and another delegate had withdrawn a compact shotgun and blown away the jukebox.

"Hey Mac" he said casually, "if ya don't like the song, theres a selection button on there."

He knocked back another shot of scotch and awaited a reply.

"I was shooting at the Gremlin", replied Holt. "And he", pointing to Otterby's unconcious form, "was threatening public health and safety, not to mention his career (read: my career) with his singing".

The Chief Paladin regarded the dragon with a mixture of admiration and indifference. "Will you be visiting the Guild, then?"

Through the entranceway came a very large man, dark skinned, with straight hair down just past his shoulders. His eyes lit up when he saw the Kriovalian paladins. Serph perked up noticeably at the new arrival. "Valkai." The word was tinged with the slightest hint of emotion - a veritable flood for the Chief Paladin.

"Serph." The big man's voice boomed, though the intonation rose at the end.

"I see you've decided to keep it," Serph said, lightly touching the underside of the other paladin's chin. "Good."

"More intimidating that way. Anyway, the trip was hell, as usual. Now I know why you've practically stopped talking to people you don't know. Speaking of which..."

"This is Gurgle the Dragon." He turned toward Gurgle. "Lord Gurgle, this is Valkai Andros, currently Guild Director and eventual successor to the Andros tribe."

"My Lord," Valkai intoned, bowing to the prescribed angle for meeting of a high-ranking foreign dignitary.

"Please, I am not a Lord," the dragon replied, bowing his head just a bit lower than his large (well, for a human, anyway) new friend in a gesture of respect, "just an Ambassador Aromatus, serving dutifully while others search for the rest of my species. If you must refer to me by title, the appropriate term is 'excellency,' as it is for all dignitaries.

"I would relish the opportunity to visit your nation with an appropriate delegation. It isn't often that nations that deal on both sides of the magical divide can come together in peace and friendship, and the occasions when this can hopefully begin are special ones indeed.

"Forgive me, Mr. Valkai, but I am somewhat new to your system of reference. How should I address you, my good, kind sir?"

It was then that the dragon's eye strayed back to where Otterby had been singing. He cringed. When the poor man had been rendered unconscious, the fart fairies who had been hamming it up with him started trying to pick up some of the slack.

Suddenly, the tune had developed a saxophone solo--or, at least, so it might appear to the untrained ear.

"Eh...what's that love? My shout? don't mind if I do, a pint of Bahgumiam blue m'dear", slurred Sir Albert, as Dicey's seductive tones finally distracted him from his search for a jive partner

By eck thought Sir Albert...a lass who buys the rounds in, if only she'd offered to dance too..oh well.....

OOD: Dammit, Compadria, are you telling me that the Acme Weapons Detection and Reintegration System that operates on every door is on the fritz again? That shotgun should have been turned into a string of sausages before Holt could get aholt of it. We will have A Word with the Building Management.
------------------------------

IC: Dicey cast a sharp glance at Violet; one of those girl-to-girl ones that said The fish has taken the bait, let me play him.

"I can see that poor Violet is just run off her feet," Dicey continued. "It'll be a while before she gets to us. Perhaps while we wait for her to catch up with the orders we could pass the time getting a little ... exercise, Sir Albert?"

She hadn't spent her formative years watching old British Carry On comedies for nothing. The word 'exercise' carried a freight that only Hattie Jaques could have handled. But, having waited a beat for the obvious interpretation, Dicey then gestured with innocent invitation towards the dancers and made clear that she had nothing but Terpsichorean togetherness on her mind. Yet.

Dastardly Stench']"Please, I am not a Lord," the dragon replied, bowing his head just a bit lower than his large (well, for a human, anyway) new friend in a gesture of respect, "just an Ambassador Aromatus, serving dutifully while others search for the rest of my species. If you must refer to me by title, the appropriate term is 'excellency,' as it is for all dignitaries.

Valkai dipped forward again. "Excellency."

"I would relish the opportunity to visit your nation with an appropriate delegation. It isn't often that nations that deal on both sides of the magical divide can come together in peace and friendship, and the occasions when this can hopefully begin are special ones indeed.

"Forgive me, Mr. Valkai, but I am somewhat new to your system of reference. How should I address you, my good, kind sir?"

The large paladin shrugged. "Valkai. It's what most people call me. I suppose my title is 'Director' if you feel the need for formality."

To finish things off, he then took out a shotgun and used it to prevent the gremlin from ever selecting records for, at the very least, a considerable amount of time.

Valkai moved faster than his frame would have suggested was possible. He and Serph collapsed to the ground, with the Guild Director effectively covering the Chief Paladin while breaking the other man's fall simultaneously. Their gazes met centimeters apart.

"You move fast," Serph whispered, knowing that nobody nearby should be able to hear.

"Any excuse to be on top," the bigger man whispered in return.

"You can get off me any time, Valkai."

"Only after your safety is assured."

"I'm safe from everything but getting my ribs crushed. Get up." There was a hint of mirth on Serph's voice, but also a sense of urgency.

Valkai hefted the Chief Paladin to his feet without the slightest display of exertion. "It appears that the music was not to everybody's taste..."

Dastardly Stench']It was then that the dragon's eye strayed back to where Otterby had been singing. He cringed. When the poor man had been rendered unconscious, the fart fairies who had been hamming it up with him started trying to pick up some of the slack.

Suddenly, the tune had developed a saxophone solo--or, at least, so it might appear to the untrained ear.

"...the current selection is also most unusual. And since when does this bar allow shotguns?"

'exercise?, 'old on m'dear", Sir Albert gets out his dictionary and looks through the section on old, unused Bahgumian words....'oh....no, no, no...' shuddered the perpetually inebriated one "ah 'aven't even got a pair of lycra leggings, so ah'll not be doing that ta muchly".

With that Sir Albert meandered towards the dance floor. pausing to look at that strange expression in Diceys eyes and deciding that perhaps she needs his pint of Bagumian blue more than he does, besides he could always fall back on his emergency four pint hip flask....

"Nahthen...where did ah put them cuban heeled jive shoes...."

OOD: Dammit, Compadria, are you telling me that the Acme Weapons Detection and Reintegration System that operates on every door is on the fritz again? That shotgun should have been turned into a string of sausages before Holt could get aholt of it. We will have A Word with the Building Management.
We'll send someone up to take care of it immediatly.

Ken Scott
VP, Building Maintence Department
UN Building Management

OOD: Dammit, Compadria, are you telling me that the Acme Weapons Detection and Reintegration System that operates on every door is on the fritz again? That shotgun should have been turned into a string of sausages before Holt could get aholt of it. We will have A Word with the Building Management.

Oh it worked, but the sausages were going at such high speed and from such close range that they splattered into the inner mechanisms, gumming them up and consequently wrecking it. Sorry.

ooc: I think the system needs tweaking, the shotgun looks very nice in its..er...cartoon form, but seems to still be functionable as a weapon.

'OOD:'?

I've now given myself images of the revolver used in 'who framed Roger Rabbit?'

ic: Hodgelett watched Dicey's coquettish attempts to seduce Sir Albert over Neville's shoulder. If there hadn't been any magic dampeners the icy look in Dicey's eyes would have frozen him to the floor.
Subtley moving towards the Bahgumian representative Hodgelett 'accidentally' bumped into him. "Oh I'm sorry Sir Albert. But why are you dancing alone when there are fair ladies forced to await a gentleman, such as yourself, to ask them for a turn across the floor?"

Guido knocked back yet another scotch, and watched as the shotgun toting man walked away, then looked over as a a bunch of delegates near the dragon all toppled over. Just on his right, a female delgate, predatory in her nature, seemd to be trying to attract the attentions of a solo-dancer he had heard reffered to as Sir Albert. He didn't like nobles or titles, of course, that was just history.

OOC: Dancing Bananaland was formerly ruled by Eastern Earl, which was a bizarre mix of feudal and communism designed specifically to keep the ruler (the Duke of Earl) in power.

~~After nursing his glass of rum, he tossed the remainder back, licked his lips lighly and headed for the exit. "Much to tame", he told his inner-child which seem to molify it.~~

'ayyy ooop lass, be careful of me pint' said Sir Albert, as he deftly reached out and steadied Hodgelett. ' a dance dear lass, ah'd be delighted, lovely to be asked....ere, dicey, be grand and 'old me pint, there's a goodun'....

With a flourish, Sir Albert whisked Hodgelett on to the floor, the strains of Johnny B.Goode thudding over the sound system, as he launched into a jive. Of course, being a gentleman, he started with single time steps, before really getting carried away and dancing a full syncopated rythm with Hodgelett thrown into a variety of double spins, spanish arms with twists and even a natty little chicken walk past Dicey so that he could have a quick slurp of that pint she was holding for him.....

ooc: how did I guess that was going to happen? :rolleyes: :p

"I'm going to kill him," said Dicey conversationally, as she watched Sir Albert dance with Hodgelett.

"Not if I get my hands on him first," said Neville, as he watched Hodgelett dance with Sir Albert. "Besides, if you let me have first go, he'll be in hospital, and then you can visit him while he's flat on his back."

"And helpless."

"Well, I was thinking 'and in need of womanly sympathy', but whatever floats your boat."

Morosely they watched the jiving duo.

"I could just throw his ruddy drink over him next time he comes by," Dicey offered.

"Yes, but you might hit Hodgelett." Dicey seemed about to make some comment, but Neville interrupted, "Anyway, why waste a good drink? Particularly one as good as this one's going to be." He shook something into the Bahgumian's pint.

"Isn't that a little unethical for a Barlord?" Dicey enquired.

"Well, thank you for that contribution, Ms Ethics 2006! And I'll have you know it's entirely ethical. I'm just ... er ... acting for the Greater Good. As a service to the wider community. A happy Bar needs a happy Barlord. Anything I might have done just then -- and, mind you, I'm not admitting that I did do anything! -- was done purely for the morale of the United Nations as a whole. Just think of the diplomatic implications if already-depressed delegates were being served by someone sunk in a cloud of gloom."

"You could go on with drivel like that for hours, couldn't you?" Dicey said admiringly. "You're wasted on the Bar, Neville. You should be in politics."

"Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it," he quoted dryly. "Barlording is politics in its highest form. But for now, let's just see what happens."

Ugh. He took me up on it. I so detest formal titles. Wish I could devote my attention to one thing here. Too bad we've got a human running around with a firearm. My hide can probably stand up to it, but it's a bloody niusance. Half the bar is doing duck-and cover maneuvers. Well...there is one thing I can do about it...

The dragon thought of "marking" the gun, but then thought better of it.

The poor fool had actually shot a gremlin.

Slight misnomer there. Just, the dragon had learned early, as there's no such thing as one human, there is also no such thing as one gremlin. Gremlins came in clans. And anybody who seriously harmed one would face the wrath of the entire clan. That was why, though he had some humorous escapades, the dragon had been careful to avoid injuring any of the gremlins that he had found in the bar. Instead, he had made them conspicuous and let the gnomes and the fart fairies tend to the clean-up. The human would be in for it now.

Don't ask how, but the Jukebox was still working. It was all gummed up with what, in its proper place, would have been several links of delicious smoked sausage, but somehow still produced sound.

Still, there was a loose end to tie up. The dragon got out his cell phone. If the bar security wasn't going to act, he would.

"Lepep, the gun," he said. In a moment, the man appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, with the firearm in his posession. "I trust the wielder was not harmed."

"No, sir!" Lepep hissed.

"Excellent work. Remove the firing pin," the dragon commanded. "Put it on the bar. That will be all."

"There is no firing pin, sir. The stump that was left appears to have been...partially eaten."

"Oh, joy. It's starting already."

In a moment, the weapon was disarmed and in the posession of those who could properly care for it--and the SBDs had disappeared. If not for a hint of scent in the air, it might have been as if they had never actually existed. Seeing this, the dragon turned to the heap on the floor that his fellow diplomats had become.

"You're safe now, gentlemen," he said, moving his prehensile tail to a place where they could easily grab it. "May I offer you some assistance in returning to your feet?"

His next feat of magic--and that was what it was going to take--would be to get some of that comp--comp--whatever the heck they were called!--brandy into the fart fairies before the entire bar became aware of their "instrumental talents." And he had to save some so that it could be reverse-magicianeered. This was going to be a trying evening.

So much to do. So little time.

ooc: Oh it worked, but the sausages were going at such high speed and from such close range that they splattered into the inner mechanisms, gumming them up and consequently wrecking it. Sorry.
Doesn't that imply the gnome was unhurt? Maybe it just really really liked 'agadoo'...

As Sir Albert and Hodgelett twirled and sashayed past Dicey, a dark and foreboding presence made herself known to Dicey. 'Of course you know we can't allow you to, ahem, spike Sir Alberts drink, although we are impressed aren't we ladies?'.....the sinister turn of events became even more unsettling as a further four Bahgumian Mothers in Law silently appeared from the shadows around Dicey....

'very impressed, we could have use for such talent, we would happily help harness and train such a wonderful mind....we could even arrange for Sir Albert to have a visit from the glorious leader's mother in law *cough splutter...poor darling little princess, don't know what she sees in him...cough, spit* to, how shall we say, discuss the errors of his ways this evening?'

Otterby awoke from his slumber and looked at the dancing couples with mild surprise.

"Good grief, what's going on", he looked at Holt, "Anthony, what have I done"?

"Oh well sir," said Holt with a laconic tone that barely masked the heavy schadenfreude present in his voice. "I think you'd best ask your fellow revellers that question, I'm sure they've a few interesting tales to tell. Like say, the fact that you danced with Sir Albert".

.....at which point Sir Albert & Hodgelett twirl past Otterby as a merry little polka strikes up. Ay Ooop if it ain't the tango dancer, ere Neville buy the nifty little dancer a pint shouts Sir Albert loudly as he moves up the dancefloor.....

Otterby stares at Sir Albert jealously and orders a Guinness to quash his feelings.

*Adaine stares open mouthed at this "dancing", what is going on?*

ooc: you don't want to know. Let's spice things up shall we? :p

ic: Hodgelett was slightly anxious over what possible plots Neville could have been hatching while she'd been swept off into some rather fast dances. Too fast dances on the vestiges of what she supposed was a hangover.
Not all the swirling room was caused by Sir Albert it seemed and as they paused for a moment Hodgelett felt distinctly dizzy.
"Excuse me Sir Albert, I think I need a little air, it's a little hot in here."
Unfortunately she didn't make it to either a window or a chair before fainting on the floor.

"Oh dear," the dragon said as Flatulla took another sip of that wonderful brandy. "This will never do. We can't have the patrons popping off onto the floor, especially in front of all those mothers-in-law. We'll just have to give her something to wake up for." He just hoped that he had enough left when it was all over for his countrymen to copy. It would be a dire shame if the stuff, which wasn't made anymore, ran out completely. It was absolutely magical.

As the scent of fine perfume began to permiate the air, especially near Flatulla, the dragon brought the open bottle over using his long, prehensile tail and held it gently under Hodgelett's nose.

Sir Albert 'BUMPS' into Dicey as Hodgelett faints before him, almost tripping over the ultra fast emergency rescue dragon which suddenly appeared with smelling thingies.

Sir Albert 'BUMPS' into Dicey as Hodgelett faints before him, almost tripping over the ultra fast emergency rescue dragon which suddenly appeared with smelling thingies.

The dragon, which has been at the bar for a long, long time, gets its tail out of the way before Sir Albert can hurt himself. Fortunately, the Compendrian Brandy that has had such a wonderful affect on the dragon and several other bar patrons is not spilled...yet.

Still, the dragon can't help but wonder if Hodgelett would take another nip of the bug that bit her. As he thinks about the potential consequences, the bottle

BUMPs

into a nearby table.

OOC: Compendrian?

'Dicey! You gave Hodgelett Sir Albert's glass!" accused Neville, his eyes wild.

"Nonsense! I was watching it all the time ... except when the Mothers-In-Law distracted me. You really want to do something about them, Neville. Nobody else is allowed to have security guards in the Bar. That's why we installed the poker-machine room, so the delegates'd have somewhere to park them. . . Neville?"

Neville was gone, moaning and wringing his hands ineffectively beside Hodgelett's unconscious (though still incredibly alluring) form. Dicey swept him with a contemptuous glance, sizzled another at Sir Albert -- nobody BUMPS Dicey Riley, me lad, except when she wants it, which is a matter we'll shortly discuss -- and turned to the task of getting things sorted out.

"Right!" she told the MiLs, addressing them one by one. "For your information: your daughter-in-law has absolutely no dust on the top of her cupboards, your daughter-in-law makes better apple crumble than you do and she knows about the 'secret' teaspoonful of lemon-juice, yours does so know how to make a decent cup of tea, yours has to be tight with money because your son drinks all the cash, and your daughter-in-law is raising three normal sons who will be grateful to her for teaching them how to iron shirts, turn on washing-machines and even fold fitted sheets properly. So put that in your pipes and smoke it."

Not waiting to see how they reacted (that, after all, would be god-moding, which magical personnel never do), Dicey turned to the hovering Violet.

"A jug of iced water, I think?"

"Absolutely. Chucked over Neville. I'm on it."

First, though, kindly Violet took time to mix a restorative for Hodgelett; if Neville had stuck to his usual Mickey Finn ingredients, this should counter the kicked-in-the-head-by-a-mule aftertaste. Funny, she mused, as she trotted over to the star-crossed lovers (well, "lovers' in Neville's case) how Mickey Finns were such a recurring motif in their story. Hadn't it been Hodgelett's inspired suggestion about administering one that had first made Neville realise that this was the woman for him?

Or not, as the case may be. Violet was not entirely au fait with the annals of the Bar. But it made a good tale.

Dicey was not paying heed to any good tales, not even Gurgle's.

"Sir Albert, I Want A Word With You."

Dennis Fox walked into the Bar. He sat down on one of the few open stools. "I'll have a Gin and Tonic on the rocks," He told the bartender. He looked around at the place. 'Not too bad,' He thought to himself.

'Not too bad,' He thought to himself.

Sundry bodied and disembodied patrons of the Bar laughed hollowly.

"Little does he know ..." they chorused, in unheard but harmonious unity.

Meanwhile, Neville having waved Violet away distractedly as he tried to force some rescue remedy between Hodgelett's ruby-reds, it was left to the nubile bar-person to attend to Mr Fox's order.

Which she did, with despatch and a wink. Then sped back to attend to the upturning of the ice-jug, which she had forgotten.

OOC: Compendrian?

OOC: Whatever! ;)

IC:

Seeing that the staff had arisen to tend to Hodgelett's ills, the dragon withdrew his offering. Good. There was a chance that the stuff might make it home after all.

OOC:

You guys know that you're doing a horrid job of foiling the dragon's evil plan. (Thought it might make a great recurring theme to have the dragon try to steal a sample of the stuff only to have it run out every time before he can...)

(Oh, well...)

Bausch slouched into the bar, dabbing the foul-smelling liquid Zarazarawatsit had thrown at him from his face. He was in the mood for a gin and tonic and a cigar - pah, what was he thinking? It'd take stronger stuff before he figured out how in Wena's Queendom this "Jevianistic" economic policy worked. "A double Scotch," he mouthed to Neville. He sat down, and removed the silver cigar holder from his inside pocket. McXiminez slid up to him.

"Ugh, Biggles, you look dreadful? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

And he did. His hair was kempt; his face lacked that cold sweaty clamour, that burning scarlet tinge, that pasty, jowelly smear. His eyes were bright, and from the way his pupils were dancing - Bausch turned his head, and back again - he was able to focus on distant objects. He looked down to his hands: that faint tremble was sadly amiss. He was almost...

"Sober?" hissed Bausch.

"Yarrr," nodded McXiminez slowly.

"My word. Whatever's wrong?" Bausch tapped the stool, for McXiminez to sit. He remained standing - not swaying, nor tottering, nor "accidentally completely not on purpose honestly yarrr" toppling into the woman who passed behind him. He really was stinkingly sober.

"Fired."

"No, surely not. I would have heard."

"Yarrr, fired. The visitor he come fired me. Told this ol' scurvy dog to pack up his bags and head off home, arrr."

Neville was peeling the "No Groping" sign off the bar. So it was true.

"But...why? I mean..." Bausch looked round, anxiously. "Who fired you?"

"The visitor."

"But, who is that?"

"Or, I dunno, arrr. The visitor, he said he was."

"That makes no sense."

When in a firmer state of intoxication, McXiminez wore many distinguishing marks. Pale skin, with a bright, almost embarrassed, hue; a slight shake; boggling eyes; wildly flailing arms (although the extent to which this was a medical misfortune, or simply a convenient excuse to stick his arm up the Thessadorian ambassador's dress, was to remain the subject of intense debate, and not a little detailed scientific analysis - the results were "inconclusive" - for many a year). Bar the last - Bausch's arms instead chose to drop like lead, his cigar falling with them - this was precisely the appearance his superior took on when he realized that "visitor" instead meant "vizier".

"Fuck."

He scuffled around for a moment, as though he had misplaced his drink, when in fact it remained clenched in his left hand, and then drank it, swiftly. He fixed McXiminez with as hard a stare as he could muster.

"The Vizier?"

"Yarrr, that's the chap!" said McXiminez, slapping his wooden leg eagerly. "Oh, look, there he is," he added, before shuffling back.

Bausch retrieved his forehead from the counter as the heavily-cloaked figure took a seat next to him. Neville hovered expectantly. Although Bausch had never been sure that he was capable of emotions, he grimaced at what might just have been a moment of ravenous glee flicker over the bartender's face.

"Alcohol, Moltan? Really." The Grand Vizier removed his hood. "A water will be adequate for me, barman."

"Should I add to Ambassador Bausch's tab, sir?"

Bausch looked up again. Oh, no doubt this time - the fucker was enjoying this. Neville didn't look him in the eye.

"No. That particular account will be being settled very shortly."

The mothers in law listened to Dicey and then spontaneously applauded her, possibly the only time in recorded history that a group of MILs have been observed by outsiders to actually have been impressed. Sir Albert never one to waste a distractable moment, grabbed a pint from the bar and headed back to the safety of his table, muttering that he should have learnt by now that anything other than drinking only led to trouble.

'see, ah told thee she was good' commented the head of the Bahgum MIL security detail, as they headed to regroup in a classic Bahgumian MIL muttering skulk in the background formation. They would have gone to the international security squad room, except that for some reason the other nation's security squads seemed somewhat ill at ease, fidgety and nervous when the Mothers in Law were in there.

Hodgelett's return to consciousness was a mixture of a throbbing head and a strange clapping noise. When she opened her eyes she assumed she must be dreaming in a coma for there was Neville soiling his pristine trousers on the floor in front of her and a bunch of MIL applauding Dicey.
With a groan she closed her eyes again.

ooc: sorry, been busy.
I actually went and checked what happened in the bar all those months ago...it was interesting as we experienced Findornian tartan boxers, a bewinged ambassador, a fez-ed wizard, robotised-man and a bucket of water...whatever happened to Walther Brandl?

Neville was experiencing the strange "two places at once'' dislocation that can sometimes overtake a Barlord who has just had a jug of iced water upended over him by a junior member of the staff, particularly when accompanied by the explanation, "Well, cold water works with dogs!"

His heart and soul were over by Hodgelett's lusciously recumbent form, soiling, as previously mentioned, the pristine KNEES OF his trousers without a thought of fashion faux-pas.

But his professional self was here at the Bar, where a Client was under attack by a Boss. The fact that the Client in question was the, er, unforgettable Moltan Bausch, whose cause as an eminently qualified human sacrifice Neville had eagerly promoted to several of the more literal religions, despite his private uneasiness about the word 'human', made no difference. When the chips were down, you didn't pull the rug from under their feet. Or something along those metaphorical lines.

Besides, this particular Boss had actually believed that the Bar would charge for water. Neville found he could work up quite a good Huff over this barbaric misconception.

"I was joking, of course, sir," he told the Vizier. "I would never charge a valued customer for a mere glass of water -- and all our customers are valued customers," he added hurriedly, foreseeing a question about just how a hardworking Ambassador could ever become a valued customer of a grogshop.

"It would be a great pity to see Ambassador Bausch's account closed," he added. "He has pulled off some remarkable strokes of diplomacy on this very spot." And my lips are sealed on who and how and with what, though I have to admit the 'stroke' part was always remarkable, he continued mentally.

"But, I suppose, if he is needed at home for some higher responsibility, we will have to make adjustments." Yeah; like, re-draw the entire budget. Hope that reference to 'higher' wasn't too apt; do they still hang 'em in Gruenberg?

Neville essayed a comradely, conspiratorial grin at Bausch. It was not a success.

OOC: If Gurgle can duplicate Zamundan brandy, by whatever means, he'll be performing a public service. Nectar of the gods, that stuff; look what it did to the Krioval contingent. Think what it'd do to your economy.

Immortal and divine, great Bacchus, God of Wine,
Create me by adoption your own son,
In the hope that you'll comply
That my throat is never dry ...

OOC:

You're no fun, Ardie. This was concieved as one of those running gags, like the one where the lad kept ordering the beer but never got to drink it. Nonetheless, if you feel that this is not appropriate, who am I to dispute your authority as thread starter and Barlord?

IC:

At last! A moment to spare. The Kriovals had yet to rise from their protective positions, Dicey's health concerns were being tended to and the other little messes would take care of themselves. Not only that, but it seemed that there were no new pending diplomatic issues! Hallelieuya! All that was left was...to ship off what remained of that delicious brandy and have its delicious and mystical properties returned to the world at large. That this may have been a monstrous theft of a cultural trademark seemed secondary.

Slowly, carefully, the dragon retracted his tail, carrying the bottle with it. Twice, it nearly bumped into tables and once the fatigue almost caused him to drop it--if you think that it's easy for a dragon to hold its tail off the ground at full extension, you're crazy. Gently, he recapped the bottle and lifted it toward the diplomatic pouch that he wore around his neck. Among other things, the pouch contained a magic portal that could be used to transfer small items to and from his home nation in the Magical Realm. At last, he opened the pouch and prepared to place the bottle gently inside of it.

Sanitago Quitz entered into the bar. As the Timor Leste diplomat for the United Nations already this little while as he tried to present three draft proposals he had found out that there was already something like it. However, as Timor Leste Island diplomat he would try to show Timor Leste Island as he wanted it shown as kind and compassionate and he knew one day his proposals would see the light of day.

Sitting at the bar far away from anyone else he ordered himself a shot of brandy and when it arrived sat back to relax.

OOC: Authority I ain't. Thread starter I ain't, either *bows to UN Old Gods who began the Bar*. Let's get your gag back on track, then.

IC: "Gurgle's pinching the Zamundan brandy!"

Violet's shout rang out across the Bar's usual hubbub.

"No he's not," Neville said hurriedly, taking a few seconds' leave from the tense Bausch situation. "He's ... ah ... preserving it from harm. I ... um ... asked him to."

Violet's glance flicked from one to the other.

"You're Up To Something," she said flatly. "Whatever it is, it won't work. The Building Management knows what you're like."

"I'll, erm, explain later," Neville said hurriedly, sotto voce. "I've got a Situation over here right now."

That should buy them a few minutes' grace. Long enough, anyway, for him or Gurgle to come up with something believable.

ooc: indeed, we might have persuaded two of the old old Bar regulars to return. East Hackney was so amused by the fact that Dicey Reilly still haunted the bar that a return was severely tempting.

Hmm and I guess I need to do something.

ic: returning to consciousness for the second time, Hodgelett remained staring at the ceiling as a large scaly tail passed over her line of sight. Deciding that trying to understand anything would be a greater disaster than normal she instead watched the pretty lights overhead, which could have been fartfaeries or just dancing lights in her head.

What we're up to, the dragon thought, is making sure that the world is not deprived of this miraculous elixir. I wonder how he knows. Still, I'm sure that he wants more of this stuff to sell at his bar. I don't blame him. He'd make a killing.

Still, there were witnesses about, and no one knew about the miniportal in his pouch. Best to show some good faith--even if it was bogus good faith.

The dragon slowly set the brandy down on a nearby table.

"In case anyone doubts Mr. Neville's word, I'll just set it here, so that others can see I've no intention of making off with the stuff. In fact, my offer to Miss Hodgelet, a nip of the bug that bit her, still stands."

I need a plan. I've got to talk with Mr. Neville in private. If we're going to form a conspiracy, we'd best...conspire...together.

Sir Albert noting that Hodgelett was still somewhat prone, thought he ought to get up and help the poor lass. Unfortunately for her (or maybe fortunatley indeed), a randomly placed unowned glass of Zamundan brandy caught his attention on the way over.

'by eck tha's grand stuff, ere, Nevile old bean, a glass of Bahgumian Blue for comparison'....

Alfred Sweynsson and his wife, Lady Elizabeth, enter the room. They are both wearing penguin costumes, with the head-pieces thrown back to reveal their faces, and somewhat disgruntled expressions. They stalk across to the bar itself, as well as they can whilst thus clad, and order a large whiskey each. While they are waiting for these to be served, Alfred turns to Elizabeth and mutters
"National costume. National _ bloody _costume..." in an aggrieved tone.
"I know, dear, and I quite agree," she replies. "I gather that the Firstthane was a bit annoyed by the amount of work that you put into re-drafting and promoting that 'murder & manslaughter' proposal when it hadn't been approved by the Wardrobe... His sister told me, unofficially, that it's only until you manage to get another of our government's own proposals passed..."
"Even so," he groans, and might have continued to complain had their drinks not been delivered at that point...

The dragon heads outside to "get some air." He makes sure that the bottle of brandy is being saved for his return. Then, he waits for Neville, whom he has a sneaking suspicion is going to show up.

Mina wandered through the great oak doors to find an enchanting little bar. Not quite sure why she was there or what she expected, she took a seat and ordered a glass of wine.

How did I get here, I'm an actress for crying out loud, who would have thought I'd end up in the UN.

"Oh never mind that dear, we're all actors and actresses of one variety or another, I mean just look at Bausch over there. You can get more thespian gestures, dramatic interpretation and drama from him in a single hours debating than from the latest top-play to be doing the rounds of the circuit. We're all constructed for appeal after all, I mean take my nation's "may the blessings of our otters be upon you" toast, it's pure gumption pushed by the Tourism Ministry to make us seem more cuddly. Jesus, that makes me need a drink".

He leaned across the bar and made the necessary request to Neville. A smooth, foaming Guinness 39 was soon sitting on the table in front of him.

"Anyways, being a gentleman (I hope) would you mind a drink of your own, Ms, I'm sorry I didn't quite catch your name the first time round"?

Mina, Mina Bristol. Thank you, I've only just arrived as I'm sure you can tell. Our country is miniscule, no one is really interested in politics so I volunteered for the position. What do we do here?

Debate and have NatSov's and IntFed's fight bitter turf wars with one another. That's the rub of it essentially, it's all done very high-mindedly, but at the end of the day that's what it amounts to.

Midori Kasigi-Nero breezes into the bar wearing her green Kirisuban Airforce uniform not long returned from her eventful trip to Psyker Bearserkers. She remembered to leave the ceremonal dagger and her pistol behind this time.

by now her bump is showing and she sits at the bar sipping at a cup of green tea leaving her peaked cap beside her tea revealing her asian looks and dark hair that was in a bun for the moment.

Mina could feel the attention shifting to this woman and became painfully aware of her crumpled gray traveling clothes and how completely plain she looked in gray. She took a deep breath and sipped her wine.

Midori realises that she's attracted some attention and she looks round to see a friendly face.

"Otterby san, its been a while since we last met" she says in accented but perfect common and nodding to Mina.

Midori smiles at Leonard Otterby and replies softly "I'm fine and so are the twins. i had quite an eventful misson but a bit of tedium is also good as well.

Whose your honourable friend?"

Debate and have NatSov's and IntFed's fight bitter turf wars with one another. That's the rub of it essentially, it's all done very high-mindedly, but at the end of the day that's what it amounts to.

Sir Albert shakes his head and stops drinking long enough to comment, "mainly what Bahgum does is drink, sometimes write a proposal and often despair at how serious it has become outside of the bar, when one has been here a while the topics kind of repeat".

Hodgelett realised she'd been lying on the floor a while now so slowly she got to her feet, made her excuses and went home.

Midori smiles at Leonard Otterby and replies softly "I'm fine and so are the twins. i had quite an eventful misson but a bit of tedium is also good as well.

Whose your honourable friend?"

"Well, she's a new face around here, looking for a kind face and some new friends to guide her through the bewildering world of international diplomacy. Definitely not me then, but maybe you Midori? I think you pretty much fit the bill when it comes to those qualities".

Sir Albert shakes his head and stops drinking long enough to comment, "mainly what Bahgum does is drink, sometimes write a proposal and often despair at how serious it has become outside of the bar, when one has been here a while the topics kind of repeat".

"Well my dear Sir Albert, we always have the pleasures of the dance-floor when it all gets a bit too solemn for our liking".

"As the Kirisuban deputy ambassador I'm sure that I qualify" Midori replies as she sips at her tea.

She turns to Mina bowing and introducing herself.

"my full title is Samurai-Captain Midori Kasigi-Nero, but most people call me Midori. it would be my pleasure to help out a newcomer to the crazy world of the NSUN"

Gurgle continued to get some air outside the grand barroom doors.

No Neville.

The dragon could be patient, but not infinitely so. He wasn't going to stay out here forever.

A barrel rolled gently over the dragon's foot.

"Damn. Sorry," Neville gasped. "I don't think anyone noticed. It says 'Guinness' on the outside, but it's not."

He waggled his eyebrows significantly.

"Meh," said a third voice.

Neville started; he'd thought they were alone.

Brother Tim's pet goat stopped her operations on the hydrangeas. "Meh?" she said again.

The Barlord tried the effect of an innocent smile. He had a healthy respect for the intelligence of Findhornian goats -- after all, they were officially citizens, there must be something about them.

The goat turned on him that cynically knowing regard that goats reserve for humans who are not currently supplying food. She made Neville nervous. So did Violet, for similar reasons, if you ruled out the food aspect.

"Look, I've got to get back," he twittered. "There's something brewing, I can feel it. I'm sure you'll know what to do with ... that." He cast a worshipful glance at the barrel as he turned to go.

Darting back into the Bar, Neville realised that the dragon hadn't made any pun about 'brewing'. Was it possible Gurgle was nervous too? But it wasn't as if they were doing anything wrong, precisely.

Ambassador Christelle Zyryanov (http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Christelle_Zyryanov) walked into the bar, looked around, ran her hand wearily through her darkish blond hair, wrinkled her nose at the sight of the leather chairs, then walked up the bar.

"Grapefruit tea, please," she said politely. "Strong. Hot."

She crossed her legs, and sighed. I should have come here much earlier. The General Assembly was turning into a madhouse. What with that Evansontorian delegate trying to ban income tax everywhere, and the Androssian wanting to demolish her country's education system. I'm starting to actually sympathise with those damn sovereignists...

"Thanks," she said as she was handed a cup, and took a long swallow of the burning liquid, apparently too weary to care about how hot it was.

Tommo the Stout pokes his head in through the door, his eyes widening as he discovers the bar. He steps in with one foot, holding the door open as his head disappears into the hall again. "Hey guys! There's a bar in here!"

A gleeful Tommo enters the bar, the grin clear on his face as he makes his way through the room. He takes a seat at the bar and taps his knuckles on it. Noticing a delegate from the GA Floor, Miss Zyryanov. He turns to her offering a jovial nod and smile. "I've been going to the bar in the hotel across the street for a week!"

Only within the last week, had Norderia gotten its office in the UN Building. Before then, the government had been paying for room service in the hotel.... And of course a daily fee, but that was a drop in the pond.

Tommo the Stout extends a hand. "Tommo the Stout, Ambassador from Norderia."

Great. An entire barrel of that brandy. Oh well. Neville probably didn't realize that it was too big to fit through the interdimensional warp in the pouch on Gurgle's neck.

Then, it started rolling. Before the poor dragon could get to it, it had crashed into a wall and sprung a slow but notable leak. "Oh, great," the dragon said. "What's next? A magic bean stalk?"

He should have known better than to ask. The goat, somehow aware of Gurgle's gentle nature--and QUITE unfazed by his size--walked straight up to the barrel and began availing itself of the object's contents.

Gurgle tried to prevent it, but, once again, he was too late. The moment the goat got a drought of that brandy, its magic took hold. Its eyes lit up like stars, and a look of deep peace came over it.

"I say, old chap," it said before the dragon's tail could close around it, "did you know that new ideas that threaten existing paradygms in turn themselves become existing paradygms, only to be threatened by new ideas? It just occurred to me!"

The tail drew back. What the heck. It was completely sentient now, and was probably going to stay that way for the rest of its life.

"A violent description of the evolution of philosophical thought," he replied, "but not one without its merits."

"Oh," the goat said, sobering slightly, "right. Fits within an existing paradygm already, does it? Oh well. I'd best be off, then."

As the dragon watched, the goat walked down the alleyway and found a cheap watch that someone had discarded. "I say, this is right shiny," it said. "Looks delicious!" It bent down and snapped it up.

It sounded like a small earthquake, but Gurgle recognised the magical tingle by now. The brandy had really affected that goat somehow. "Oh, my word!" it exclaimed. "I think I'm going to have to--."

There was a soft popping sound, and, when it was over, a fine rolex watch fell onto the pavement--a rolex watch that Gurgle was never going to touch.

"Well," the goat said, "that was interesting." He sauntered off, leaving Gurgle to try and find a small decantor to use in his work.

...and to do something about the magic bean stalk that had taken root in the gutter behind the barrel.

Christelle turned to the newcomer, and smiled as she shook his hand.

"Christelle Zyryanov, Ariddia. Yes, it's a big building, but this seems to be the place to know about. I haven't come here often myself, though."

She paused long enough to take another sip of her hot tea.
"I was getting a bit of a headache back in the GA," she explained.

Tommo shakes her hand firmly and heartily. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

He takes a seat on a stool beside her and orders a drink.
"Tea, earl grey, hot."
He has a private laugh, wondering if the barkeep might pick up on the reference. He turns to Miss Zyryanov once again and nods in agreement.
"Many of the fine delegates have good intentions, but I feel that they have come to the wrong organization for dealing with such matters as, say, the rights of home schools. A fine bunch, but stuck very much in their own country."

"Indeed!" Christelle nodded, warming to the topic. "I've never really seen myself as a sovereignist, but I do think a balance is needed. So many delegates seem... ignorant of the culture and customs of foreign countries. A one-size-fits-all policy just doesn't work on specifics like home schooling."

She stopped, and gave a quick smile.
"But you already know that. And I wouldn't want to turn the bar into a second General Assembly. Not when we're both trying to get away from it for a while."

Ambassador Tommo recoils a bit when the direction of the conversation is changed. He nods vigorously in agreement. Norderia was neither NatSov or IntFed, but a balance of the two. Dichotomies were rare in Norderia, its diplomats weren't monochromats. Miss Zyryanov seemed to understand this, and so he agreed to move to a more peacable social conversation.

Tommo the Stout had done homework on most of the nations in the UN, and takes opportunities where possible to illustrate the fact. He begins in French, "Pardon me for asking, but what party do you represent in Ariddia?"

Politics is what they had in common, thus far. Getting away from the General Assembly was one thing, but the topic of politics? It was all there was left, for now.

Christelle smiled at the question.
"The Party. Or that's the way it sometimes feels. Democratic Communist Party. There hasn't been all that much Opposition since... Well, long before I was born." She took a sip of her tea. "I'm surprised the MDA still takes part in elections. That's... Movement for a Democratic Alternative," she explained. "They want to bring us back to capitalism."

She put down her cup.
"Your French is quite good. What party do you represent, then? I'm ashamed to say I'm not entirely up to date on Norderian politics."


(OOC: Since it's 2am over here, I'm going to get some sleep. Good night! ;))

Tommo bows at the neck when his French is complimented, accepting it gracefully.

"The important one, of course. Socialist Norderia, 'The SN.' And it's nothing to be ashamed of, scarcely anything exciting happens at home. You should have seen the speed at which I accepted the nomination for UN Ambassador. I was out of my office and into the Parliament Building faster than I thought possible for a man of my girth." He wasn't huge, but he was certainly large. A man of 2 meters height, and a waist band of more than half of that.

A beeper goes off in his pocket. "Aye, me." He checks it and looks hurriedly at the bartender. "I'll take that tea to go, good sir." He then turns to the Representative and frowns. "Duty calls. I'm sure I'll see you again soon, Miss Zyryanov."

With that, he hustles out of the bar, tea in a paper cup.

A lean, muscular Latin man eyed the Norderian consul curiously as the former approached the bar, bearing a giggling cutie with tremendous upper-body -- er, "strength" -- on one arm. With a mind to impress his companion, he wet his pinky and shoved it in the Nordic's ear as he hurried past, and continued on to seize two barstools adjacent to the Ariddian ambassador. "Arrogant Bastard Ale for myself and my little friend here," he shouted as he wiped his finger on his flashy Enyce shirt and offered his free hand to Zyryanov.

"They call me the Destructor from Del Fuego, Mexico, but you can call me Manuelo," he said. "I'm the president of Omigodtheykilledkenny. I get to have my own wiki article (http://ns.goobergunch.net/wiki/index.php/Manuelo_Fernanda), live in a bachelor pad on the top floor of Frowning Street, ride around town in a stretch Hummer, fly all over in a private jet, veto stuff, terrorize other nations with exploding penguins and Ashlee Simpson concerts, and launch tactical nukes! It's fucking awesome!" he boasted. "Don't usually kick it here very often; it ain't nothin', though: UN shit bores the hell outta me. Gotta admit though, you guys got a sick view." Momentarily he turned from the ambassador and gazed obscenely at his Little Friend's headlights, briefly glancing up at her and returning her giggle. He turned back.

"Oh, sorry, Ambassador. This is my date, the Thessadorian ambassador. She's widely known around here for her excellent, erm, posture." The Thessadorian cooed and offered her dainty hand.

Quickly Fernanda switched to the topic he had overheard the diplomat discussing with the the Stout guy. "Politics, huh? Democratic Communist Party? Man, Jack's told me horror stories 'bout the corrupt politics here, but you're an actual commie?! Most the reds where I come from are in jail; they blow too much shit up -- mad violence in Paradise City, my hometown," he said.

"I'm a member of the God-fearing Freedom-loving Conservative Patriot Party in my country," he said. "I beat the president for the Pansy-ass ... Liberal ... Hippy Whatchamacallit Party in the election last year. He was a veteran with all these ribbons and shit; we won by smearing the guy's war record. Had to do it, y'know. He was a traitor! He hated porn!

"Funny story how I got into politics, y'know, 'cause I ain't usually into all that political shit. The president at the time made a speech against porn, and that pissed me off, so I started protesting outside Frowning Street. It was a big story, 'cause I'm a celebrity, and then one day these guys in suits come up to me and say they are some big corporate guys for the Conservatives and they wanted me to run for president. I tell 'em no, I'm cool, but they wouldn't shut up about it; they were telling me about the perks I get and all the cool stuff I get to do, and all I had to do was whatever they wanted. I still say no, and then they hold up this videotape and say it's of me with Paris Hilton and they were gonna give it to the press if I didn't work for them. So, y'know, I laugh right in their face and tell 'em that tape would only make me more of a hero. But then they're all, You get to meet some really hot chicks on the campaign trail! So I told 'em yes. Corporate guys don't bother me too much, though, not after I broke the head business dude's nose," he bragged, cracking his knuckles. He smiled at her, testing to see if the story had impressed her any, but all he got in return was a seemingly horrified gaze. "Er, can I buy you a drink?" he asked.

The look on the Thessadorian's face, meanwhile, had turned from boredom to annoyance to frustration that her powerful friend was paying so much attention to another girl. Just then, the beers were set in front of her and the president.

"Excuse me," the Destructor begged Zyryanov's pardon as he cracked the cap off his bottle and whirled around as he held it aloft. "To Ambassador Riley's good health!" he announced, hoping to garner sympathy for the Kennyite delegate's hospitalization (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=11111911&postcount=69) earlier that day. Immediately he had to shield his face as the glasses and bottles flew at him, shattering against the bar and floor as the assembled envoys jeered the rather unpopular Riley.

"Be right back," growled the Destructor as he pulled off his shirt. "Time to kick some UN ass!" With that, he flew toward the nearest UN rep and proceeded to wail upon his face as the other delegates leapt from their chairs, shouting in protest.

With all the pell-mell going on behind them, the Thessadorian turned to the Ariddian, thinking she'd try her French on her. All that came out was, "My boobs are big, yes?"

Stephanie Fulton entered the bar.

A long time had passed since her last appearance here. For a while she hadn't even really existed. The whole UN building had changed, Hannah office on the 29th floor was overrun by strange creatures.

But the Bar was still here. As was Neville. She remembered the first time she heard his name, long after Enn's first arrival.

The Dragon was here as well. Hodgelett was around, and Violet was serving drinks. There was Midori, and... Sir Albert! Stephanie was sure she'd only just seen him in the UNOG Bar. Still it was good seeing a familiar face from a long time ago. There were so many who weren't around any longer... Desdemona, The Rep of Komokom, Lydia, Mathieu, the list went on...

"Neville! I'm back! Enn's international trade has returned! Get everyone here an Ennish Shandy!"

Christelle shook Fernanda's hand, keeping her expression neutral.

"Yes, I've heard of you, Mr. President," she said, then watched his antics with growing bemusement. She ducked as several of the bar's patrons showed their appreciation for the Kennyite by tossing open bottles and half-full glasses, then sighed as she noticed the amount of liquid that had splashed over her in the process.

"Euh... oui, en effet," she said in response to the Thessadorian's unexpected comment. I suppose nothing should surprise me here any more... "Excusez moi," she added with a polite, perfectly diplomatic smile, "mais je dois aller me changer."

If I can actually find somewhere to get changed... she thought with a sigh, as she stood and hastily moved away from the bar.

Why, Stephanie wondered, are they all wasting their Ennish Shandies on a Kennyite? Surely they don't want to waste all that good drink?

"Euh... oui, en effet," she said in response to the Thessadorian's unexpected comment. I suppose nothing should surprise me here any more... "Excusez moi," she added with a polite, perfectly diplomatic smile, "mais je dois aller me changer."

If I can actually find somewhere to get changed... she thought with a sigh, as she stood and hastily moved away from the bar.

ooc: there's a cupboard of emergency equipment, ask Violet Bracket for a hand, she's a very nice person....normally. Oh, and there's the Ladies of course.

Bob stormed into the bar (forgetting that technically he never left after his last visit) grabbed an Ennish Shandy from Neville, downed in a single gulp and said, "Keep them coming, Neville."

"Sir Albert, drop your trousers!"

Dicey had chosen her moment carefully. She had all the exits blocked -- by clumps of mothers-in-law trying to work out the missing stitches in the doctored crochet patterns she had thrown among them, by drunken dancing delegates all too eager to partner the light-footed Bahgumian, by plum-vowelled aristocrats who would call him "my man", despite his knighthood. Outside roamed mobs of creditors, landlords, fathers of nubile daughters and citizens here on one-day bus trips who wanted to shake Sir Albert by the hand and tell him about Our Darren who was just so interested in the UN.

Meanwhile the Kennyite kommotion had Neville occupied and Violet, having witnessed the Ardchoillean's aeons of (relatively) single-minded devotion, would do nothing to thwart her aims. It was seize-the-day time. Dicey seized.

But, as always, she found it difficult to read her beloved's reaction. The eyes were flickering under the cloth cap, but was it fear? Or was it just inability to remember where he'd put his glass down? Was the red face a blush of passion, a shade of shame or merely the Bar's unpredictable lighting? Nonetheless, she was committed now. Dicey summoned the memory of her great-grandmother, that renowned merchant of negotiable affection, and Carried On.

"Perhaps I should have made myself clearer. Sir Albert, my government demands that you drop your trousers!"

Aha, that one got through! She could swear the ash on the end of the durry stuck immovably to the lower lip had trembled. She moved closer and put one tiny hand confidingly on his sleeve, her sensitive fingers caressing the rough fabric of his diplomatic uniform.

"It's purely in the interests of transparency, Sir Albert," she pleaded, the other hand snaking up to adjust his already perfect neck attire. "As you know, our citizens support in every way your wonderful proposal for the establishment of the WTFA, and all we can say is, About time, too!

"Being, as we are, a nation of people in robes, we have been repeatedlyrobbed of ferreting fame by trouser-tampering troglodytes who have not hesitated to employ the most appalling tactics to assure ascendancy!

"We, on the other hand, have always used trousers so honest and straightforward they complied with regulations as yet unwritten. We have worn them solely for the pursuit of the sacred art, never sullying their perfection with everyday wear and tear. Oh, Sir Albert, I cannot begin to tell you how devotedly the people of Ardchoille have read your proposal, every jot and tittle, every comma and ellipsis, even the Ps and Qs, drawing breaths of deepest admiration" -- breathing in, she demonstrated just how deep -- "for the mind that created those glowing sentences.

"But, Sir Albert, have you considered how your enemies will react? How they will try to blacken your unsullied fame, even to the point of suggesting that your own trousers are not above suspicion? That is why, Sir Albert, I urge you to permit me to examine those famous strides. If your modesty is offended by the request, I am sure there would be no objection were we to move to a committee-room ... a warm, well-appointed committee-room ..."

Her fingers teased and tickled their way around his neck. "You know, some people even wear their ties loose so the ferrets can pop out the back of the player's collar for a breath of air," she whispered. "Perhaps we should check that as well ..."

Dicey noticed a certain lack of Bahgumian responsiveness. She quickly reviewed her approach ... Ah! Of course!

"When I said 'committee-rooms', Sir Albert, I hope you didn't misread my intentions? I assure you, committee-rooms I said and committee-rooms I meant. Allow me to introduce my fellow committee members ... This is Lovely Becky Cooper and this is Maggie Merryone ..."

A blonde and a brunette Ardchoillean appeared as if by magic (it was, in fact, by magic; you get that around witches) and curtsied to the Bahgumian diplomat, then took up station decoratively on either side of red-headed Dicey.

"So, Sir Albert, shall we adjourn?" Dicey cooed. Becky produced a clipboard and pen and Maggie unrolled a tape-measure.

Two tall and slim hooded figures slowly enter the bar, and sit down at the first empty table they see. Pushing back their hoods in unison, the two young witches quickly size up their surroundings. The dark haired one immediately notices a nice looking young man at an adjacent table and smiles at him hoping he is unattached. 'Access to males is going to be one of the best perks of this job,' she thinks to herself in anticipation, 'and I'd really like to get to know that one better, but will have to offload Kirin killjoy first.'

"Panyer, what do you think is happening over there," whispers her blonde companion, while glancing over at the scene between a group of women and one henpecked looking man. Panyer irritably flicked an errant lock of hair out of her eyes and gave the group only the barest of looks before returning her glance to the nice looking male who seems to be either daydreaming or ignoring her. "Who cares," she answered, "I'd rather look at him than them." "We weren't sent here to ogle the other representatives," snaps Kirin. "I know why we were sent here," Panyer snaps back, "but there is no reason we can't do our jobs and have a bit of fun too, and if you get in my way, I swear you'll regret it. Remember I know about your lactose allergy, brought a nice vial of concentrated bats milk, and unless you want to spend most of your time here indisposed, I suggest you mind your own business."

Kirin looked at the determined expression on Panyer's face and bit off the retort on the tip of her tongue. Panyer didn't make threats, she made promises, and Kirin had no doubt she would do exactly what she said. Of all the members of The Preservers, why by Selene did Queen Ramolla have to choose Panyer as joint UN representative? 'I really need a drink,' thought Kirin miserably.

Sir Albert looked up from wondering where he'd placed his pint glass to see confused mothers in law near the door and that strange Dicey lass in front of him asking him to drop his trousers.

Thinking it over, he remembered that 'trousers' was the international term for 'trolleys'. '

'Ah'll be doing no such thing Dicey, ah's geet five pairs of ferrets down theer and only two more days to go before ah breaks t'Bahgumian multiple ferret down your trolleys endurance record. Anyroad, tha don't need to worry about's me sporting trolleys, they are up on display above t'bar'.

Sir Albert motions in the general direction of the bar, and sure, enough, nailed up above the bar was a pair of somewhat baggy cloth trousers, with a length of string around each ankle. A small brass fixing below reads 'Ferreting trousers of the 10 times national champion of Bahgum, Sir Albert'.

'Go inspect em, lass, it's nice tha's concerned', with that he looks at the skinny blonde and the even thinner brunette who had somehow appeared before him and frowns. Most people might be concerned when folk suddenly appear from nowhere, but Sir Albert generally blames the Bahgumian blue brandy. 'ere lasses, come sit at me table and 'ave a pie each, can't ave you stood up in a state of near starvation, tha's too skinny for words'.

Midori looks over at the newcomers with interest as she sips her tea relaxing.

hoods were so mysterious..

Sir Albert looked up from wondering where he'd placed his pint glass to see confused mothers in law near the door and that strange Dicey lass in front of him asking him to drop his trousers.

Thinking it over, he remembered that 'trousers' was the international term for 'trolleys'. '

'Ah'll be doing no such thing Dicey, ah's geet five pairs of ferrets down theer and only two more days to go before ah breaks t'Bahgumian multiple ferret down your trolleys endurance record. Anyroad, tha don't need to worry about's me sporting trolleys, they are up on display above t'bar'.

Sir Albert motions in the general direction of the bar, and sure, enough, nailed up above the bar was a pair of somewhat baggy cloth trousers, with a length of string around each ankle. A small brass fixing below reads 'Ferreting trousers of the 10 times national champion of Bahgum, Sir Albert'.

'Go inspect em, lass, it's nice tha's concerned', with that he looks at the skinny blonde and the even thinner brunette who had somehow appeared before him and frowns. Most people might be concerned when folk suddenly appear from nowhere, but Sir Albert generally blames the Bahgumian blue brandy. 'ere lasses, come sit at me table and 'ave a pie each, can't ave you stood up in a state of near starvation, tha's too skinny for words'.

Before they can be off to their inspections, the door to the bar bursts open and everything stops.

It's the neighbors' goat, now fully transformed after imbibing his portion of Bahgumain Blue. His body is not altered, per se, but the affects on his mind are quite plain.

His garb is straight out of an Elton John concert--white top hat, red-and-white cape, electrified spectacles, the works. There's a boom box strapped to his back, and, as its loud, beat-filled music fills the air around him, he raps to the song, swaying in time to the beat.

And the Man came up to me,
Said, 'what you gonna do me?'
It's thrilling!
I'm willing!
So the spirit came into me.

Now the world is spread before me,
The ladies they adore me.
It's clear,
I'm here
To see what you can pour me.

Outside, Gurgle had found a way to make the beanstalk wilt (yes, THAT way), improvised a container and gotten a few samples of the contents of Neville's barrel off to the other side of the interdimensional divide. The only problem was the affects that it was going to have on the few creatures that had sampled it in the meantime.

Already, there was a butterfly pearched on the barrel with a four-foot wingspan and a pastel pattern on its wings. Now, she wore spectacles and a cap, through which its antennae protruded, and spoke in the most graceous, uplifting way with Gurgle and all those who came to see her.

Gurgle could only direct her into the bar for safe keeping as he broke out his interdimensional cell phone and called for a clean-up team.

The beat went on, and so did the goat.

*Adaine had no idea that he was being watched thanks to Gurgle's singing goat and Dicey wanting Sir Albert to take his trousers off*

It's been a hard day. Our UN representative has been repeatedly accused of plagiarism, an act our nation finds reprensible. The charges seem to be misguided, but it is still causing a great deal of turmoil back home.

What commitees should we go to, to help look into the matter?

-Mathias of the Free Land of Discoraversalism

It always amazed Lydia how the old place never seemed to change, the patrons however was another matter entirely. New faces were abound has she entered the bar but it was good to see none of the usual shenanigans had gone away. Drunken delegates were still be seen, others attempting to impress their colleagues with their latest conquests be it personal or otherwise and then there was Neville who with usual style had somehow maintained a semblance of order having a discussion with someone at the bar.

“Hello Neville” said Lydia in a rather nonchalant way. She knew he was not expecting her and besides she could hardly not say hello, though the small piece of paper she’d been fondling in her pocket was an extra reason adding extra delight.

“Dear God, Miss Cornwall! Lydia! I certainly was not expecting you today. Great to have you home.”

“Thanks dear Neville, I see you’ve managed to keep the old place just about together?” she mocked. If there was one thing Neville knew about it was keeping the bar together. She could remembered well many of Neville’s challenges.

“I see you’ve not outgrown your cheeky streak miss” he replied. “It always made your uncle laugh you know.”

“Oh really? Well talking of Jerry I’ve got a little something for you, besides it would be great if you could point out a few old faces for me. I’d like to catch up if I can?”

Neville accepted the note with unsurprising zeal. She could only hope whatever those two were concocting now would be drinkable! Some of their past ‘imports’ had proven quite interesting in more ways than one.

“Miss, well I need to make a quick call if you’ll excuse me” the delight at having read the note obvious.

“Your old friend Stephanie is over there with a good bottle of Ennish shandy and I think Bod Fiddle is lurking around there too, never one to let a free drink pass. Sir Albert I’m sure would be more than happy to see you and last time I saw him he was with Dicey doing well, lets not try to speculate too much. It’s Sir Albert.”

"Lydia! Come on over, have a drink! Oh, and Neville, be a dear and send a bottle or two up to the Most Glorious Hack's office - international trade issue, I'm sure you understand.

"Now Lydia, what's been going on with you? There's so few of us old hands remaining, we may as well stick together."

"Lydia! Come on over, have a drink! Oh, and Neville, be a dear and send a bottle or two up to the Most Glorious Hack's office - international trade issue, I'm sure you understand.

"Now Lydia, what's been going on with you? There's so few of us old hands remaining, we may as well stick together."
What a joy thought Lydia at meeting Stephanie again. It seemed to her such a long time had passed since they last spoke, but Stephanie’s genuinely warm response made her feel right at home.

“Nothing better than catching up with an old friend is there and I agree we do seem to be a little thin on the ground don’t we” replied Lydia with genuine affection while watching her friend pour an entire pint of shandy. This might be a long day…

“Where to begin? To say the least matters at home have been rather a turmoil recently. We had a whole political debacle about resigning from the UN. The government opposition took the spate of bad resolutions from a few months ago to raise their profile and make it their main agenda to put me out of a job! Well perhaps not me directly but rather the government I represent. Matters had gotten so bad the government had to face a vote of no confidence which we won, but with the skin of our teeth.”

“Needless to say I had to go home and provide a different perspective. To try and talk some sense in to people but fortunately we never actually resigned. Unfortunately it did cause an hiatus of sorts, but in hindsight that appeared to have worked in our favour. The proclaimers of doom and gloom appear to have been temporarily silenced as their prophecies never came true.”

“You know what? I never thought I’d get involved in domestic politics. Never thought it quite had the spice or personality of the politics round here, but then home pressures can so easily find it’s way to us here. Something you certainly know about.”

Lydia thought it was probably a good time to shut up after all that information. Besides she really did not want her friend to start faking Narcolepsy to get away from her!

“So enough of me, what’s been happening with you? How are matters back home for you?”

"Well, Enn's been a bit quiet of late. Hannah's still back there, no doubt stirring up trouble, she always preferred domestic politics to this, though she's talked about a move to regional policy. Lady Faren's coming to see the UN in about a week's time.

"For some reason, never made clear to me, we pulled out of the UN for a bit. Then, without a moment's notice, we're back in, and I roll up to my office to find some religious fanatic's done it over with loads of stuff about some 'flame' thingy. Hannah's old office has been deemed off limits for unknown reasons.

"So... well, that's me. Still here, still trying to make sense of the new ambassadors and delegates. The Ennish shandy is as popular as ever, so Enn's economy remains in the black.

"Oh, a word of warning, that dragon over there has some sort of gas problem. Not a good idea to stand too close."

*snip*[OOC: Lady Cornwall seems to have ignored my president's kind overture (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=11141484&postcount=208). I'm so insulted! :p]

[OOC: Lady Cornwall seems to have ignored my president's kind overture (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=11141484&postcount=208). I'm so insulted! :p]
OOC: Firstly thanks for the welcome message and apologies for late acknowledgement! I’ve just been a little busy trying to catch up with what’s been happening around the old place. A trip to the basement will follow very shortly. :)

As for your esteemed president, she did hear muffled screams of her name and spotted someone being dragged off by security, but with all the kicking and arm flaying it was hard to make out who it was. Perhaps if and when he returns from the UN jail he might try again? I do wish him luck however, I understand the UN gnomes and building security often spend time together. :D

"Well, Enn's been a bit quiet of late. Hannah's still back there, no doubt stirring up trouble, she always preferred domestic politics to this, though she's talked about a move to regional policy. Lady Faren's coming to see the UN in about a week's time.

"For some reason, never made clear to me, we pulled out of the UN for a bit. Then, without a moment's notice, we're back in, and I roll up to my office to find some religious fanatic's done it over with loads of stuff about some 'flame' thingy. Hannah's old office has been deemed off limits for unknown reasons.

"So... well, that's me. Still here, still trying to make sense of the new ambassadors and delegates. The Ennish shandy is as popular as ever, so Enn's economy remains in the black.

"Oh, a word of warning, that dragon over there has some sort of gas problem. Not a good idea to stand too close."

“Thanks for the warning! Anyway want to try something new?” asked Lydia with cheeky grin producing a tiny bottle with an opaque blue substance.

“I found this little alcoholic gem in the tiniest of stores in Triilier, tucked away not far from the government buildings. I must have walked past it hundreds of times, but never saw it until a few days ago. I’ve not actually tried it myself, but I understand it suppose to be quite good. Care for a little adventure?”

"Oh, a word of warning, that dragon over there has some sort of gas problem. Not a good idea to stand too close."

OOC:

What dragon over where? Didn't you read the posts? Gurgle has left the building...for some air... :) :) :)

IC:

In contrast to the goat, the butterfly, whose wingspan was now a good fifteen feet, flew placidly through the door and over to the bar.

"Oh, good, kind Mister Neville," she said, "my friend the dragon has told me that you're the absolute best barlord in all the land, and that you can find anything that a thirsty little girl might need. Might it be possible that you would have some pure clover nectar? It is the rarest of finds, and only the best of the best would be able to find some. Please, Mister Neville?"

Midori had seen a lot of things in this bar and a singing goat and a giant butterfly really took the biscuit.

Still there was no point in getting upset over it. she continued to drink her tea pausing when she felt a kick .

the pain showed briefly in her face before it passed.

"Oh my, I suppose I mistook that bizarre dragon-shaped cloud of gases as the actual Dragon. Still, something to keep in mind for when Gurgle returns."

The door opened and the dragon re-emerged, fumes wafting slowly from the base of his tail. He had been busy doing weeding duties with a small plague of magic beanstalks. His gun was still smoking.

As he surveyed the bar, he noticed that there had been some changes in the brief time that he was out. New ambassadors had arrived: a thesbian, two witches and...a hit man. Perhaps "hit man" was a bit of a stretch, but he was certainly hitting anyone in sight. Midori-chan was also back, and now noticably with child. The dragon didn't really have time for that, though. He needed to find his two new friends before real trouble started. Though they were sentient, neither had been so for any length of time. This inexperience could lead to trouble. The dragon hoped to extinguish these fires before they could flare.

Hodgelett returned, looking much more refreshed and trailing a small stream of sawdust, holding a fax from a certain Findorian monk. Walking up to the bar she beckoned the Violet, "Brother Timothy requests his goat receive an extra ration of carrots for his birthday. The goat's of course. And a mochaccino please."
Spotting Midori across the room she sat in the comfy chair opposite. "Good day Midori-san, how is everything faring with Kirisubo and of course yourself? Nothing unexpected I hope."

Tommo the Stout, giant, long-haired, long-beareded, Viking extraordinaire (extraordinary because he wears a suit instead of... A bear skin vest) backs into the bar with a hand cart loaded down with a couple cases of Norderian vodka and Powderlandic chocolates. His forehead is shiny with traces of sweat (the building is twenty degrees warmer than his office) and he doesn't look very pleased. He pulls the load up to the bar, grabs a handful of peanuts, eats them, and turns around, heading back to the doors from whence he came. Without so much as a word or a look to the other representatives and ambassadors present, he exits, continuing on his journey from the 34th floor via elevator to the 13th (The Strangers bar: The Stout had had a thought on the ride down. Peanuts.) and onward again to the 10th to deliver the lost goods of precious value to the Ariddian Ambassador Zyryanov. It will be a long time before The Stout bets on a Resolution flopping hard. Sure, the Repeal of BS-HT failed, but not nearly as badly as UNSA1, which the terms of the bet called for.

At the very least, The Stout could grab some product of grapefruit in the Ariddian Office for the journey back to the 34th floor. Perhaps all was not lost.

Miguel Kramdem sneaks into the bar, seemingly unnoticed.

He appears rushed as he orders a drink. He stares into his drink but listens intently to the conversations around him. He stands up and walks around the room, moving from one conversation to the next.

It becomes clear he is seeking something. In fact, several other members of his delegation have been wandering the city on similar errands. Eventually Miguel finds a suitable candidate. He sidles up and listens to a heated debate.

Ambassador Christelle Zyryanov walked into the bar with a smile on her face and looking remarkably pleased with herself, about twenty minutes after Ambassador Tommo the Stout had been seen leaving it. This was turning out to be a good day. Not only had that silly repeal been defeated, but it had obtained just enough votes for her to win her bet. And those chocolates really were delicious. She just hoped her aide, Ms. Kim, didn't eat too many while she had her back turned.

"Grapefruit tea, please," she asked politely as she settled herself at the bar.

Poor old Stout... she thought with a lingering smile. Well, I hope he enjoys that bottle of grapefruit vodka. She had given him one of the best she had; somehow, seeing him puffed and sweating in her office, it would not have seemed fair to let him leave with nothing...

John McKay walked back into the Strangers Bar' It had been a long time since he had been away.. He looked around and saw Gurgle, Midori and the twins.. and apparently a giant butterfly.. he paused once again... he had been away from the Bar for too long and he had to remember that strange things happen here all the time...

He ordered a glass of milk and sat back.. Gurgle it seemed made his way to some new entrants into the bar and Midori was sitting down coping with the pregancy

On his way back to the bar, Gurgle notices that Midori-Chan has re-emerged, and that her middle is already starting to swell with the miracle of new life that is within it. Though humans are often proud of this accomplishment, simple though it is, Midori seems to be merely comfortable. The dragon makes a mental note to try some camomile tea with her in the near future as he asks how things have been while they were separated. Word has reached him that the Kirisoban-Stenchian friendship that they struck up is beginning to blossom back at home.

As he wends his way through the bar, the dragon passes Enn and Lyda, who seem comfortable in the bar even though he has not met them. He decides that they are experienced hands, and that it would be good to strike up a conversation. Setting his ensourcelled undertail to "Vanilla and Roasted Cinnamon," the cent of which soon filled the air around him, he stopped a moment to pay them a polite "hello."

OOC: Gas problem, eh?

IC:

"Good evening, ladies," he said. "Though I personally haven't seen you in the building, I couldn't help but notice that you seem quite comfortable in your surroundings. Might I make your acquaintance? I'm Gurgle, the representative of the Dominion of Dastardly Stench."

Dastardly Stench']The dragon makes a mental note to try some camomile tea with her in the near future as he asks how things have been while they were separated.

Miguel Kramdem slowly follows the dragon's footstep, staying far enough back not to draw attention to himself, but close enough to catch anything the dragon says. He wonders to himself, how long do dragons live anyway?

the Blues Brothers Band enters the bar in an attempt to escape the ever-pursuing illinois police department. Staying well clear of Gurgle and the mysterious Miguel Kramdem, they begin to set up on the dusty, old stage. Being on of the few nations that can fit into a car, this stage suddenly becomes their home, they order drinks and wait. They are waiting for Jake and Elwood to arrive, but once again it seems that those two are too busy with the police to actually perform. Will things never change?

Hodgelett returned, looking much more refreshed and trailing a small stream of sawdust, holding a fax from a certain Findorian monk. Walking up to the bar she beckoned the Violet, "Brother Timothy requests his goat receive an extra ration of carrots for his birthday. The goat's of course. And a mochaccino please."
Spotting Midori across the room she sat in the comfy chair opposite. "Good day Midori-san, how is everything faring with Kirisubo and of course yourself? Nothing unexpected I hope."

Midori smiled as she sipped at her tea, wearing her uniform jacket loose because of the bump and a maternity uniform skirt.

"things are good so far Hodgelett san" she replies looking a little pale "and some mornings are better than others"

she moves off the tall stool and sits in a wooden backed chair beside Hodgelett to make things easier for her.

Edward Jones, formerly the Minister of UN Affairs for the Federation, currently on vacation from his new job selling automobiles, walked calmly into the bar and went for his favorite spot. After seating himself and relaxing a bit, he wondered what he might have to drink. An Ennish Shandy in honor of Lady Faren, perhaps.

Mathieu Vergniaud, as was his custom, trudged into the Bar for a glass of wine before retiring to bed. His weary gaze took in the usual denizens - how odd that the sight of a dragon no longer seemed worthy of comment! - as he pulled up a stool. As he ordered a drink, one aspect of the view belatedly clamoured for his attention. He looked back.

Lydia!

He felt his face flush and he hurriedly turned his head away, thoughts in turmoil. After all this time... He considered approaching her, but the sight of her surrounded by so many others drained the confidence from him and he remained fixed in his seat, hunched over the glass. Pathetic, he admonished himself, and supped morosely from the wine.

Lydia's lilting laugh rose above the general hubbub. Mathieu grimaced and prayed fervently for the ground to swallow him whole.

Stephanie trudged into the Bar, and immediately saw herself vanish. Hmm. It had definitely happened before, her entering the Bar without leaving, but not for some time. Hopefully she hadn't left Lydia in too much of a lurch.

Casting about, she saw a few more familiar faces. Edward had sat in a quiet spot, and Mathieu was rather forlornly gazing at Lydia.

"Neville, I call for a toast to Lady Yssandra Faren. Enn's former representative, and my direct superior, has recently died (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=11231414#post11231414). She was always ready to let people know what she thought of them directly, and will be missed."

Edward followed Stephanie Fulton with his eyes as she entered the bar. When she proposed a toast, he was first on his feet. "I'll drink to that," he said solemnly.

"Here here," said the dragon as he eased his head up to the bar. Finding his friend the butterfly, who had now taken the name of "Miss Daisy" and was starting to do the "southern belle" thing, he sought to inquire about the proceedings.

"So," he said, "how is the bar treating you?"

"Oh, it's simply mahhh-velous," she said, taking a drag from a mug of nectar. "That man neville is simply too kind, too generous. Did you know that he custom blended the nectar of four different kinds of flowers just for li'l ol' me? I'm confinced that the man is an angel in disguise!"

"He's certainly very good at what he does," the dragon replied. "Tell you what--think you're up to a lateral move?"

"Well...what ever do you have in mind, Mistah Dragon? Sounds like you just might tickle a girl's fancy."

"I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine, a wonderful, strong woman named Midori," he said. Oh, bother. Now, he was doing it, too. "She's a human, and she has a little human growing inside of her."

"A little one? I'd often wondered how you folk...do that," she said. "We butterflies, of course--."

"Yes, I understand," the dragon broke in.

"Well...if she's a friend of yours, Mistah Dragon, then she must be a good person indeed, and I'd be very happy to make her acquaintance."

"Good. She's sitting over there."

As the dragon watched, Miss Daisy scooped up her mug of nectar and took to the air, coming down on a table not far from Midori-chan, but not so close as to startle the woman.

"Forgive me for being so blunt, Miss Midori," she said, "but mah friend the dragon can't say enough good about you, and he tells me that you're just the most wonderful kind of person, and I thought that perhaps you might feel inclined to favor a poor li'l girl with your company."

As the dragon continued toward Midori-chan, on his way to the goat (who had stopped his rap and was busily injesting some carrots--no doubt, Neville had been busy again), he came across a gentleman sitting soddenly at the bar. The dragon's person-identifier said that the man's name was Mathieu Vergniaud, and that he liked an occasional drink before turning in for the night. Still, the dragon couldn't help but be moved by the sadness, the lack of confidence, shown on the man's face. To soothe the atmosphere, he let loose a small burst of Lemon & Pine.

"I say, dear chap," he said, "why the long face? Is there anything that a diplomat could do to lift another's spirits? After all, we are all here to promote international well-being..."

-----------------------

OOC: the goat and the butterfly are NPC's. Others may use them as they see fit.

Midori smiled at the butterfly and replies "off course you can join me" also bowing to Gurgle seeing he was busy with the singing goat.

"I'm Midori Kasigi-Nero and Gurgle san is a very good judge of character" she adds sipping at her tea.

"may i also introduce Hodgelett san from Randomea"

Candour was certainly how Lydia remembered Lady Faren and how typical of her to end her life with maximum impact. “To Lady Faren!” came the reply turning her attention and raising her glass to the assembled diplomats.

It took no time at all for her to notice Mathieu amongst the mire of patrons. The hair and unmistakable posture so imprinted on her mind, a result of many stolen glances while seemingly attending to official duties. The feelings of their first night in the Strangers Bar flooding back. If only matters at home at not intervened, if only duty did not always get in the way.

She sat down with sigh. “If only he would notice” she thought. If only she could find her usual Cornwall resolve, but as was always the case when Mathieu appeared it quickly, disappeared.

Sounds of patrons cheering Lady Faren quickly brought her attention back to other events in the bar. Lady Faren’s fortitude had earned her respect and here she was sitting like a little girl in class staring at the head boy. “That’s it” she thought and in a gesture to the late Lady Farren’s fortitude walked straight over to Mathieu’s table, though she wondered if Lady Farren ever felt anxiety on the level she was now experiencing.

“Hello Mathieu, what a surprise”

Gah, what a surprise! Could have chosen something less obvious!

Ambassador Lopez skittered into the bar, his glasses askew and constantly looking over his shoulder. He then found an empty seat near the corner and sank down into it, breathless.

"I'm drunk enough arguing about copyrights," he gasped tiredly. "Do you have any herbal tea or anything?"

Juhani Viljakainen (Pronounced yoo-HAN-ee veel-ee-ah-KIE[as in "pie"]-nehn), an impeccably dressed Minister Plenipotentiary (or as most prefer, Envoy) of Tommo the Stout enters the bar shortly after the announcement of Lady Faren's death.

He wears a black suit and a white shirt, a straight deep purple tie, and shineless leather shoes. The Norderian government doesn't have much money to throw around, but they are always sure that their representatives look respectable to the ever-scrutinizing international eye. His hair is a dark brown, to the point where it is often mistook for black. It's cropped short and unparted. A pair of very narrow and thin, silver framed glasses rest on his nose bridge.

He had never personally met Lady Faren, but he was certainly familiar with her, as was he with most of the well-known delegates through the news and conversations with Tommo the Stout, as well as a few visits to the floor of the General Assembly since arriving. Juhani had been a consul in (Whatever city the UN Building happens to be) for six months before being assigned to Tommo the Stout's staff.

He was remarkably young, having only within the last few years breeched the three decade mark. Whereas Tommo the Stout was remarkably vocal and animated, Mr. Viljakainen was remarkably stoic and reserved. He was often overlooked or dismissed because of his soft-spoken and generally atonal speech. One could imagine he was the quiet, passionless kid in school, rather easily. He was easily overlooked in the presence of the Stout; the latter was easily a foot taller than him, and much wider -- not to mention louder and hairier.

Two weeks ago, Mr. Viljakainen was appointed by PM Hietala and approved by Parliament to replace a retiring Marco Salli who formerly held the Stout's second-in-command station. Since then, he has stuck mainly to the shadows, so to speak, quietly learning the ropes of the most unusual organization between chores for the Stout. And it was this that brought him to the strangers bar now.

The Stout had been pitching a fit about losing so much perfectly good vodka and the delicious chocolates from Powderland to the Ariddian Ambassador when Juhani left the office on the 34th floor. It was here that he saw Ms. Zyryanov, sitting with her tea, looking satisfied with herself. Juhani approached the bar and pointed a finger at the pot of coffee, wordlessly requesting a cup. He glances subtley at the Ambassador several seats down before turning, the small of his back leaning against the countertop. His eyes survey the room.

The young man was a master of perception, considerably apt at reading people. He notices the frequently sought-after Representative of Telidia, Lydia approach the Ecopoeian -- Mr. Vergniaud; Mathieu, was it? -- and force out a line that seemed less-than-genuine. The slightest smile appeared on the Envoy's lips before he turned to gaze about at the others, taking in who was present, who was doing what, and with who. His keen memory took down the notes, a notepad and pen being rather conspicuous.

His coffee is placed behind him. He turns for a moment to offer it attention enough to pour cream, and add a touch of sugar before turning once again to observe the room.

“Hello Mathieu, what a surprise”
Mathieu froze, then composed himself and turned towards the voice, adopting a suave posture. His trailing hand sent his glass flying, wine splashing darkly over his pale trousers.

"Shit! I mean... hello, Lydia! I, uh, excuse me, um..."

The alert bartender handed him a cloth, which Mathieu accepted with an embarrassed mumble. Lydia stood awkwardly before him as he rubbed at his crotch. He stopped, looked at Lydia and cringed. The cloth was thrown aside.

Christ. Kill me now.

"Ah, shall we sit? How about another table?"

Lydia assented with a smile and Mathieu led her to a strategically private booth. As he sat, his knee banged against the table leg. A series of Gallic profanities were stifled with a wince.

"Are you OK?"

"Nngf. I mean, yes. So..."

His voice trailed away. Their eyes met. He felt suddenly giddy. An urge to move his hand to hers gripped Mathieu. His hand inched forward.

"What can I get you two?"

The bartender's friendly inquiry shattered the moment and Mathieu's hand skulked back. Lydia coughed, her face slightly flushed, and gestured that Mathieu should choose. The bartender was sent away in search of Paristani Syrah.

"So... how have you been, Lydia. It's, ah, been so long!"

Small talk ensued, the timid patter of two people unable to express their deeper thoughts for fear of the other not sharing them. Despite this timidity, however, both eventually found their nerves settling. Stories were exchanged, smiles gave way to laughter, a second bottle of wine helped loosen tongues and emotions.

"I may well be leaving the UN fairly soon," Mathieu confessed. Lydia flinched.

"Why so?"

"Well... there's been some talk of Ecopoeia leaving, but even if it doesn't, our involvement is being scaled down. Lata will stay on, most likely. To be honest, I think I've had enough. I don't really have the stomach for the fight any more, I guess."

Lydia frowned and sipped slightly unsteadily from her near-empty glass.

"What will you do?" Her eyes were locked with his, and this time it was her hand that itched to reach for his.

"I don't know. Return to Ecopoeia, I suppose. My sister recently started a winery, she's offered me a stake in the business. Wine's becoming a big thing back home, there's a good future in it."

Neither looked away. Say something, you fool. But no words came.

The doors suddenly open with a thud against the frames, and Sir Albert staggers in form his recent fact finding expedtion aboard a pirate ship sampling the rum and grog. Clapping his hands around the shoulders of the first two folks he sees, in what he hopes is a friendly manner, but really more to help his balance, he shouts over Neville.

'ere, Neville owd chap, cheer up, ahs geet a feeling bar takings are baht to go on t'up again....and get these two a quadruple Bahgumian blue brandy apiece, looks like they need a drink'...he winks to Mathieuand Lydia, gently steering them ot his table, so that he can let go of their shoulders.

"A pleasure to meet you Madam Butterfly, what country do you hail from? A one newly joined the UN perhaps as I have never heard of a nation of sentient butterflies before...although I have fond memories of winged persons. My first day as delegate involved helping a man who suddenly sprouted wings in this very bar."
Perhaps it was the concept of a country that confused her, or the idea that perhaps flightless humans were in fact the caterpillar form of another being which she had never seen. Either way, Miss Daisy started to talk about the countryside in general with great enthusiasm, including favourite caccooning grounds.

After the toast, Edward watched Mathieu and Lydia over his Imperial Brandy from Clearwater. Those two had been dancing around one another for some time, but not dancing together. Shaking his head, Edward took another swig of the brandy, and an amused smile crept across his face as the chap from Bahgum accosted them. This should be interesting.

Leaning against the bar with a bottle of Arrogant Bastard Ale in hand, Riley spied the romantic developments unfolding before him, a mischievous smile crossing his lips as he pondered whether to inform his boss about them. As though overcome with temporary insanity, he pulled out his razor and dialed Frowning Street.

"You any idea idea what time it is out here, do you, Riley?" came the belligerent voice on the other end.

"What do you care, Mr. President? Knowing you, you ain't sleeping, anyway."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"You're with a 'guest' right now, aren't you?"

"Yeah. And?"

"Well, speaking of amorous conquests, the Ecopoeian deputy's back in the saddle, and you'll never guess who he's been mackin' on tonight ...."

"Don't tell me ...."

"None other than Ms. Lydia Cornwall."

There were such ugly obscenities on the other end that Riley quickly ended the call. He didn't dare report all the accolades the late Lady Faren had received from her former barmates.

He smiled to himself as he thought about how quickly news of Faren's death had reached the bar. Sure, it'd only happened mere feet away from where he stood, but whenever a major event happened in an Old Guard nation, the Strangers' Bar patrons always seemed to be the first to know about it. From the moment that Gruenberg and Omigodtheykilledkenny were first admitted to the exclusive dungeon, and Ecopoeia's Varia Yefremova pondered (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=9860551#post9860551) aloud whether the organization might consider "inviting nations of a non-sociopathic bent in the future"; to the otaku's terrified announcement (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=10060904#post10060904) of revolting kittens in their homeland; to King James' tragic death (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=10074296#post10074296); to Yefremova's promotion (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=10151596#post10151596); to Bausch's termination (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=11006015#post11006015) -- this bar was a veritable metropolitan newsroom.

Momentarily he wondered whether he ought to request the Strangers' Bat beat should he ever venture again into journalism (if you could call his former stint as Fox News contributor "journalism"), but he couldn't dwell on that now. He was about to trigger another such international event -- one that may mean the end of the world as everyone now knew it. He had to do it, he kept telling himself; the future of mankind was at stake. He was the only one who could save them. The only one -- for only he knew what could potentially transpire if he didn't. Dammit Riley, quit stalling, he told himself.

Finally, he took a last manly swig off his Bastard and wiped his mouth on his arm. He approached Bast, who was lying peacefully on the counter and purring to himself, quickly seized the animal and sprinted toward a side exit.

Alarmed, he suddenly realized which nation his feline captive was from. "Aw, damn," he muttered to the creature. "You ain't one of them magic kitties, are you?"

Midori relaxed while listening to madame Butterfly and finally spotting what was going on between Matthieu and Lydia.

sometimes love needed a helping hand and Sir Albert was playing cupid for now.

Stephanie saw Bast being snatched by some ne'er-do-well (she recognised his face, but would be hard pressed to name him). After thinking for a few moments, she decided not to intervene.

After all, she concluded, it's not like Ardchoillean cats can't take care of themselves now, can they? That one will be in for a surprise.

Juhani watched from his place at the bar, starting on his second cup of coffee. He mentally took notes of anything significant. Significant included the Kennyite running past him with a cat in his arms.

On second thought... Perhaps it only fell under the category of unusual, at least until Viljakainen knew better. It soon became apparent that the Ecopoeian and the Telidian were the center of a lot of subtle attention. Juhani caught many a member slipping gazes in their direction. Especially obvious was Mr. Riley's phone call. Soon, the tug of Norderian Hospitality drove Juhani to reach for his own phone in his pocket. He pressed two buttons and then held the piece to his ear. He turns around to face away from the crowd. After a couple of seconds, he began to speak in the Norderian native language, Naijaar, more commonly referred to in English as "Norderian."

"Miljne ke tel haniera, Tommo. Norosse e kalvjana unt deserelech, tan teljistai Mathieu unt Lydia. Korlnje Ecopoeia unt Tel-... Ja. Emaajerva tekeejani, Im dainen." He spoke quietly, muttering the words to keep anyone who might be versed in the language to understand what he was speaking of, unless they could also read his lips through the mirror behind the rows of bottles behind the bar. "Ja. Gelje."*

He pushed a button and the call ended. With a sip of his coffee, he turned around and faced the crowd once again.

================
* Come to the bar, Tommo. Have a drink and be loud, Mathieu and Lydia might appreciate it. From Ecopoeia and Tel-... Yes. Special circumstances, I think. Yes. Thanks."
================

Within five minutes of Juhani Viljakainen's call to the office upstairs, Tommo the Stout came into the bar, toting the Grapefruit Vodka he had received as a consolation prize from Ambassador Zyryanov. The seal was broken, and about as much as would be needed for a single drink was gone from the bottle. Tommo was dressed in a manner that would draw attention -- The 2 meter tall man with long blond hair tied in a ponytail behind his head, and a blond beard that continued to grow (braided, reaching about 3 inches beneath his chin) was dressed in his usual suit coat, shirt, and tie, but in place of his pants was the Norderian equivalent of a kilt. For all intents and purposes, it was more or less the same thing. Black and purple plaid, pleated, and down to his knees. Coming up to his mid-calf were a pair of flat-finish leather boots, with a gray/brown fur folding over the top and coming back down a couple of inches. Very traditional, if a little archaic (but the man throws axes, so it suits him well). He has a look around the room and spots the Telidian and the Ecopoeian. Then, he finds a relatively empty area away from them -- some place where people's attention would be drawn away from them and at least one exit. He steps over once a suitable place is found and begins to talk as he walks.

"My friends of the United Nations," he calls, holding the bottle up high. "This is some fantastic drink." He points to the bar with his free hand. "Those are some glasses." He reaches his table and sets the bottle down loudly onto it. "This is a table, and surrounding it are chairs." He stands on one of said chairs. Immediately, Juhani cringes and hopes that the man doesn't try jumping to get down from the chair, wearing that kilt. "In celebration of whatever moves you, come drink with me! I challenge anyone here! I will not leave this bar without finishing this bottle, and I stand here to declare that I can drink any one of you under the table!" Seems a likely truth, the man is huge. But it might serve a noble challenge for anyone to follow up on.

As if hearing Juhani's thoughts, Tommo the Stout steps carefully off the chair. He was well aware that as is traditional, he was wearing nothing beneath the kilt. He throws his arms in the air. "Come, for the spirit of spontaneous joy, laughter, and friendly competition! And for some damn fine Grapefruit Vodka! Bring me an audience, and bask in the moment!"

He was a very charismatic speaker, charming and jovial. At the very least, he was loud and would make for a challenging drinking opponent.

Juhani watches the room intently.

'ere that sounds like fun, as long as it's not water tha's asking t'drink, stuff makes me feel odd', wih that Sir Albert of Bahgum takes up a chair and tops up his pint glass, not quite sure if he the drinking competition that started last year in the bar was still going, but, to be safe, uses his left hand and a pint glass to keep that option open......

Draped elegantly over the Kennyite delegate's shoulder, Bast examined an index-claw: yep, sharp. Teeth? Fine. Hind legs? In position and ready to eviscerate, sah! Right, everything in perfect working order. Time to ...

But, hey, you had to admire the little beggar's temerity. It wasn't everyone who could work up that much speed while hoicking a slightly-larger-than-human magical cat about. He wasn't even using a firemen's carry, either, and Bast had automatically gone into that boneless, super-heavy state that felines adopt when being taken somewhere against their wishes.

So here was this Riley lunatic running off with him for purposes unknown -- although, given the Kennyite reputation, might it be for purposes known? Oh, surely not; there was absolutely no basis for assuming that his present mode of transport was that way inclined.

I might just go along with this for a while, Bast thought. It could be interesting.

Particularly if his captor was under 21, or notably artistic, in which case the vital connection at the base of the brain could still be made and the crazy delegate could begin developing magical powers himself. Exposure to magical creatures did that to homo sapiens -- witness all but 10% of Ardchoille's humans -- and then, of course, he'd be an untrained magician.

And wouldn't that be entertaining, Bast thought. Might even get the willowy High Priest of the First Coven to rise up from his couch. Might wrench Dicey from this nutty obsession with Sir Albert. Might lead Violet the Barmaid to pour Bailey's Irish Cream into Bast's saucer when he got back.

No rescues, okay? he sent to Dicey. Opportunity knocks but once.

Their arrival was long overdue, what with revolution and war and the general disorganization of the NSUN bureaucracy, but they were here finally. The elder one looked around, the expression on her face unfazed by the motly assortment of patrons in various classifications of gender, species and degree of sobriety. Her eyes fell upon the Shrine of the Manifestation, the oddly ornate birdhouse-like object mounted on a pole at one end of the bar. It seemed like ages since the Kawaiians had erected it, but fortunately it appeared in good shape. A little dusty maybe, but intact and, more importantly, still spiritually protected by the elaborate rope and paper wards circling it, marking it as a little spot of holy territory in this strange, heathen place. "Ah, there it is," she said in a firm voice belying her advanced years. "Come in, dear, we mustn't keep the Cute One waiting."

In strode two women, or rather, one woman and one girl, both dressed in identical outfits--modest white long-sleeved blouses and full-length red skirts, both elaboratedly embroidered with numerous charms and other religious symbols. On their heads were matching headpieces in the form of red cat-ears, and affixed to their waists and trailing behind were faux red plush cat tails. The outfits were unmistakeable--these were nekomusume-preistesses, the famed "shrine maidens" of the Eternal Kawaii.

The elder one looked in her 70s, small and wrinkled, but with a brisk step in her walk and alert, clear eyes like a hawk's. One look would be enough to tell even the most enebriated patron this was a no-nonsense customer. In contrast, the younger one was an essay in cuteness. Probably about 14, with wide eyes that stared at the strange assortment of beings before her like someone who'd just stepped off on an alien planet. "Are you sure about this, Gramma?" she asked politely but a little nervously.

"Certainly, my dear," the elder nekomusume replied. "Duty calls."

She strode over to the bar, holding the younger priestess's hand. Looking over it, she spotted Neville, and cleared her throat. Holding out a sheet of paper to the bartender, she bowed respectfully and said simply, "You are the caretaker of this establishment, sir? We're here to set up our booth. We were told one had been prepared before the Shrine."

Midori waddles back to the bar to get some food to go with her tea.

She asks Violet for a tuna salad and another herbal tea and watches the nekomusume with interest as they inspect the shrine.

Talk about unfriendliness--the man had never even replied. After an insufferable silence, the man finally got the excuse that he had needed--a woman (they were calling her "Lydia" and him "Mathew," or some variant) came along and swept the man off his feet. As if to make sure that things built to a cresendo, Mr. Neville showed up.

Oh well. The dragon wasn't really about getting recognition, anyway. He was about getting things accomplished, and it looked as though the man was in a better mood already. Job done/no need to waste more effort.

Now, Gurgle could try turning his mind to another problem: how to put the genie (or, in this case, the goat) back into the bottle. That brandy hadn't just altered him, it had utterly transformed him. The results were unprecedented, and there were some that the patrons of the bar had yet to experience. Thankfully, the goat hadn't eaten any artifacts...yet. The worst part of it was that the dragon hadn't the first clue as to how he was going to solve the problem--or even how the problem could be solved.

Then, a rather large (for a human, anyway) gentleman in a tie and kilt hopped up on a table and began to solicit drinking partners.

The dragon had dealt with men such as this before--and the results were always good. Men such as this--strong, dashing men who were not intimidated by others' appearances--made for the dragon's best friends and working partners. How could the dragon resist?

He reached his prehensile tail over to the table, picked up one of the glasses, and, in his friendliest voice, said, "I must relinquish your challenge, my good sir, but I will drink with a man of your presence any day. Please pour me a stout round, if you will!"

Mathieu froze, then composed himself and turned towards the voice, adopting a suave posture. His trailing hand sent his glass flying, wine splashing darkly over his pale trousers.

"Shit! I mean... hello, Lydia! I, uh, excuse me, um..."

The alert bartender handed him a cloth, which Mathieu accepted with an embarrassed mumble. Lydia stood awkwardly before him as he rubbed at his crotch. He stopped, looked at Lydia and cringed. The cloth was thrown aside.

Christ. Kill me now.

"Ah, shall we sit? How about another table?"

Lydia assented with a smile and Mathieu led her to a strategically private booth. As he sat, his knee banged against the table leg. A series of Gallic profanities were stifled with a wince.

"Are you OK?"

"Nngf. I mean, yes. So..."

His voice trailed away. Their eyes met. He felt suddenly giddy. An urge to move his hand to hers gripped Mathieu. His hand inched forward.

"What can I get you two?"

The bartender's friendly inquiry shattered the moment and Mathieu's hand skulked back. Lydia coughed, her face slightly flushed, and gestured that Mathieu should choose. The bartender was sent away in search of Paristani Syrah.

"So... how have you been, Lydia. It's, ah, been so long!"

Small talk ensued, the timid patter of two people unable to express their deeper thoughts for fear of the other not sharing them. Despite this timidity, however, both eventually found their nerves settling. Stories were exchanged, smiles gave way to laughter, a second bottle of wine helped loosen tongues and emotions.

"I may well be leaving the UN fairly soon," Mathieu confessed. Lydia flinched.

"Why so?"

"Well... there's been some talk of Ecopoeia leaving, but even if it doesn't, our involvement is being scaled down. Lata will stay on, most likely. To be honest, I think I've had enough. I don't really have the stomach for the fight any more, I guess."

Lydia frowned and sipped slightly unsteadily from her near-empty glass.

"What will you do?" Her eyes were locked with his, and this time it was her hand that itched to reach for his.

"I don't know. Return to Ecopoeia, I suppose. My sister recently started a winery, she's offered me a stake in the business. Wine's becoming a big thing back home, there's a good future in it."

Neither looked away. Say something, you fool. But no words came.

Lydia’s sense of relief for the unexpected aid from the Norderian corner could only be tempered by the shock she now felt. She wanted to touch him, to tell him somehow how much she will miss him. How much she will miss walking past him in the corridors. Miss hearing his voice in debates, but above all miss the feeling of hope that somehow in the mire delegates she had found someone she was very fond of. Someone she felt could be more than just a friend or colleague.

It took her a moment to compose herself and trying not to add tension to what might be their last time together decided to hide the disappointment she now felt in her. No point in making him feel guilty.

“Wine no less. I’ve heard about Ecopoeia’s exports. In fact my boss has become rather partial to some of your vintages. Would your sister mind if I came to sample some for him? ”

She wanted to shout “don’t go!” She wanted to him to kiss her. To fall into his embrace and loose herself in a world where only they existed and in that last sentence she placed so much hope. Hope he would give her some sign he felt as she did.

OOC: anyone else hearing a thousand swoonsome violins?

Apologies, Dastardly, I missed your earlier post about speaking to Mathieu.

Anyway, post will follow when I have some more time. And I've worked out who's doing what in the vicinity of the lovelorn twosome - I really should check this thread more often!

I need a drink! I've been arguing for the last hour why the 40-hr. work week is necessary, but the delegation from Gruenberg doesn't seem to listen to reason. I fear they're going to bring the respectable nations of the UN down.

I need a drink! I've been arguing for the last hour why the 40-hr. work week is necessary, but the delegation from Gruenberg doesn't seem to listen to reason. I fear they're going to bring the respectable nations of the UN down.
"This is generally regarded as a place to calm down, not to carry on the fight.

So, in the interests of working together, what say I buy you a drink?" asked Lennto, doing his best to smile as he extracted his wallet from his pocket.

After waiting for what seems like days for Jake and Elwood to show up, the Band decides to start packing up and moving the country to somplace else. Suddenly, in walks Oz Blues (brother to Buster, somehow ended up in Australia) After a long day reviewing the "40-hour week" discussion he just wants to rock. Taking the mike he sees the sweet couple and decides to begin with a classic.

"We're so glad to see so many of you lovely people here tonight. I'll be taking requests in a moment but for now I'd like to start with a favourite of mine. We do sincerly hope you all enjoy the show and please remember people that no matter who you are and what you do to live, drive and survive there are still things that make us all the the same, you, me, everybody..."

And so the band, now complete, launches into "Everybody Needs Somebody To Love"

Tommo the Stout looks over to the dragon and feels secretly relieved that the gentle...dragon wasn't accepting his diversionary challenge. He knew if there was anyone who could drink him under the table, it would be the dragon. The Stout twists off the cap of the bottle, letting it drop to the tabletop. First, the dragon's glass is filled. He then takes a shot glass and fills it to the brim with the Ariddian specialty.

"Aye, to presence and creatures of fortitude! May the mighty always have a place of honor at the table of heroes!"

The man represented a country of near-pacifists, but he himself would have been a part of the warrior class in the days of old. He was an expert handler of the hand axe, both for practical and martial uses. The country may not have liked or partaken in war very oft, if at all, but they knew that it was a natural fascination. Might and heroics were often praised, but honor was held in the highest regard. The country's annual Bärgtüg, an Outdoorsmen type Olympic game, was a celebrated event. Tommo the Stout had been an axe throwing champion once upon a time (the axes he used during his last championship hang in his office). The Romantic stories of heroics and great, honorable warriors were the favorites of children at bedtime, and "men of fortitude" as the term reads, were often the subjects of Norderian films.

With his toast said, he raised the glass in the air and downed the shot without changing his facial expression. He slams the shotglass down on the table and looks about the room. "Come, all! Celebrate your heroes, long since passed! Drink to the name of your mightiest!"

At this, he pours one more glass and holds it up high, standing up from his chair. "To the man whose name I am honored to possess -- Tommo, the man who alone braved the winter of Norderia and slept by the fire on the shore that today stands between the great North Sea and my home town Kjar, capital of Norderia!"

He downs the shot and awaits the next toast.

=====================

Juhani Viljakainen finishes his second cup of coffee. He places the empty cup on the bar and reaches into his pocket. From that he draws his wallet, and from that he draws a bill in the local currency. He places it on the counter and puts the wallet back into his pocket. After a brief glance at Mathieu and Lydia, he walks toward the exit of the bar. As quietly and inconspicuously as the man had entered, he left again.

While Tommo the Stout was a large, animated man with a warrior's style, Juhani was the quiet, withdrawn person. And as he was of the darker-haired, darker-eyed half of Norderia, he seemed to be almost sinister. The man had a stoicism about him that could rival the dwarves of Ausserland. Were he in a movie, it is with some certainty that people would think him the one with a secret. Indeed, his methods were often unconventional, in that emotions and loyalties were not meant to interfere with interactions. He knew that everyone had a reason for something, and he sought to find a way of using that to get through the political world. His integrity was as solid as the ground in Norderia at winter, though.

It was because of his nature that he had no difficulty blending in and being overlooked. Overlooked people were often underestimated, and underestimation could be turned to an advantage. And so he slipped out, noticed only by people with an eye toward him.

Midori waddles back to the bar to get some food to go with her tea.

She asks Violet for a tuna salad and another herbal tea and watches the nekomusume with interest as they inspect the shrine.
Hodgelett returned from the powder room to see Midori leaning on the bar. "Honestly! I think Violet is more than capable of taking table orders. And you deserve all the comfort of The Rocking-chair. No buts - sit." After settling her in with a good view of the band, the Shrine centre-left and a smoke-extractor above Hodgelett retreated to Dicey's side.
"Who's the big guy?" 'drunk' being a pointless word in the Strangers Bar.

Holding out a sheet of paper to the bartender, she bowed respectfully and said simply, "You are the caretaker of this establishment, sir? We're here to set up our booth. We were told one had been prepared before the Shrine."

Neville bowed to Fate. He had been hoping for a longer period of harmless fantasy scanning the pages of the Acme Catalogue (http://home.nc.rr.com/tuco/looney/acme/acme.html), but having a sheet of notepaper suddenly obscure the object of one's desires does rather spoil the moment.

He wouldn't have had peace much longer, anyway: that infernal band would be starting up soon. Grimly he resolved to Have Words with someone about that, if he could only figure out whom to blame. But that wasn't the fault of this pair, was it?

He smiled weakly at the two -- nuns? -- and tried hard not to think about anything to do with The Cute ... about anything to do with what happened last time.

"Of course, go right ahead, make yourselves comfortable," he invited, waving a hand at the birdhouse-like object perched down one end of the bar.

Here's another fine mess you've got us into, Ollie, he added mentally, voicing the traditional Barlord's prayer to ward off slapstick comedians and other mischievous spirits; but aloud he said merely, "I'll send something over -- does the young lady like sundaes? And will the Otaku be in any time soon?"

... After settling her in with a good view of the band, the Shrine centre-left and a smoke-extractor above Hodgelett retreated to Dicey's side.
"Who's the big guy?" 'drunk' being a pointless word in the Strangers Bar.
Dicey, meanwhile, had seized on Hodgelett's arrival to pour her well-lubricated heart out.

" . . . I really thought, this time, I thought, Hodgelett," she snuffled. "When I got up close to Sir Albert, I was sure I felt, you know, some stirring of interest on his part? And then it turned out he had ferrets! Ferrets down his trousers! I mean, I know all men are bastards, but I really thought, this time ..." she hiccuped mournfully.

This was fortunate, as the break in the monologue allowed her time to register Hodgelett's query. She turned somewhat uncertainly to eye the man.

"I dunno, haven't met him yet. Looks a bit like Billy Connolly, doesn'e? Goddess, Hodgelett, you're never drooling over that, are you? Although I suppose he does have a certain unpolished appeal. Reminds me a bit of that time in ..."

Dicey was well launched. The story would have flowed to its conclusion if she hadn't suddenly turned automatically to the ever-present Bast for confirmation. "Bast, tell Hodgelett about -- oh, I forgot. Bast's gone off knocking on doors," she explained, focussing carefully on her hearer. "I think that's what he said, anyway. 'Sfunny, I thought you only had to do that if there was an election, and there isn't one on right now. Maybe he's trying to interfere in someone else's election. Thass very diplomatic of him," she said approvingly, and slid gently to the floor.

From where Alfred Sweynsson was sitting he could see into a storeroom behind the bar. Catching Neville's attention, and pointing in that direction, he enquired -
"Excuse me, but is that (http://mfrost.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/david_k.jpg) one of your staff, or is it an interloper? Might it be something to do with the Compadrian delegation?"

A slap of sandals, a swirl of robes and a glimpse of tartan boxers -- Brother Tim hurtled into the bar, his innocent face creased in concern.

"I came as quickly as I could," he panted, downing the glass Neville slid towards him without even noticing. "I just heard what happened. It's terrible, terrible!"

"It was," the Barlord agreed. "She was so young, too."

"WAS? You mean she's ... dead?"

Neville nodded sadly. "I think we might close the Bar for the funeral. She was very well respected."

"Well ... thank you, Neville. That's very kind of you. Very. I'm sure she'd appreciate it. I ... I'm having trouble taking it in. If I ever get my hands on the fiend who did it, I'll ..."

"No, no, there wasn't any foul play," Neville assured him. "That's what everyone thought at first, but it was her heart. It just ... stopped."

"It was probably the shock, though." Brother Tim glowered for a moment, but grief defeated anger. His face crumpled. "Neville, could I please just see her poor body? Please?" he begged. "I won't make any trouble, I just want to say ... goodbye." His voice broke on the last word; desperately he snatched a paper towel from pile beside the peanut bowl.

"Well ... I don't know if they'll allow it, but I suppose there's no harm in asking," the Barlord answered, nonplussed. "Forgive me, Tim, I hadn't realised that you were so close. I'm really sorry you had to find out this way. Did you even know she was sick?"

"Sick? She wasn't sick! When I left she was practically bouncing with health! She ... she looked at me with her big brown eyes, and she rubbed her head against me ever so gently and waggled her little tail ... she even nibbled my boxers the way she always did! I haven't even mended them yet!" He broke into another fit of sobbing.

"Her tail? She nibbled your boxers?" Neville was grieved for Tim, but he couldn't help a small smile escaping at the picture the young monk had painted. "Well, who'd have thought it? Whenever I saw her with the rest of the delegation she always seemed so dignified, you know? So cool? Well, who'd have thought Lady Faren ..."

"Lady Faren?"

"C'mon, Tim, we were just talking about her. Lady Faren. Your friend who's dead."

"Lady Faren's dead? Not Pansy? You mean, Pansy's alive? My little goat's alive?"

Tim followed the direction of Neville's eyes. Pansy was, indeed, alive.

... His garb is straight out of an Elton John concert--white top hat, red-and-white cape, electrified spectacles, the works. There's a boom box strapped to his back, and, as its loud, beat-filled music fills the air around him, he raps to the song, swaying in time to the beat.

"PANSY!" Tim hurtled across the room, but slowed as he drew nearer.

"Pansy? Pansy, when did you start cross-dressing?"

The goat fluttered her eyelashes.

Hodgelett returned from the powder room to see Midori leaning on the bar. "Honestly! I think Violet is more than capable of taking table orders. And you deserve all the comfort of The Rocking-chair. No buts - sit." After settling her in with a good view of the band, the Shrine centre-left and a smoke-extractor above Hodgelett retreated to Dicey's side.
"Who's the big guy?" 'drunk' being a pointless word in the Strangers Bar.

Midori didn't protest as she waddled over to the rocking chair with a cup of tea in hand. the salad would be there soon enough.

"I've never seen him before Hodgelet san" she answers as she settles down to her tea listening to the band

Sir Albert ambled up to the bar, a drink in each hand. He always felt best with a balanced view on the world. It seemed his acceptance of the drinking challenge had been politely ignored, oddly, this happened almost everytime Sir Albert took up such challenges, maybe because it was widely known that he was still officially drinking from a challenge which started over 15 years ago.
'ere me two lovely ladies', he slurred as he casually swayed near Dicey and Hodgelett, 'this ere bad, ah've nay seen a band in ere before, reckon there'll be dancing?'

Meanwhile the Bahgumain Mother in Law squad skulked in the background, the appearance of a band in the UN strangers bar was just what the Grand High MIL was looking for, it was about time her 'ladies' had something different to secure. The recent endless low profile nosey lurk drills had been starting to irritate.

Midori looked up at Hodgelett, Dicey and Albert said "Welcome Sir Albert, i've seen the karioke used before but never a full band performing but I don't feel up to dancing today"

noticing the mother in laws back again she wondered what they would try and do this time...

<snip> Catching Neville's attention, and pointing in that direction, he enquired -
"Excuse me, but is that (http://mfrost.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/david_k.jpg) one of your staff, or is it an interloper? Might it be something to do with the Compadrian delegation?"

Trapped by Brother Tim's evident need, Neville could do nothing. He was able only to cast a fleeting glance in the direction Sweynsson indicated, but that glance was enough to make his stomach drop faster than a decent workers' rights resolution.

He couldn't see clearly, but it looked as if the otter might be clasping one of the last remaining bottles of Zamundian brandy. Neville waggled his eyebrows fiercely at the regulars, hoping someone would intervene before the damned stuff worked its offbeat magic on yet another animal.

Surely, the last thing Compadria needed would be one of its gods appearing in the flesh? If they were gods ... oh, why wouldn't somebody think of the otters?

The young nekomusume's cat-ears perked at Neville's suggestion of ice cream, but one look from the elder was enough to squash those hopes. "Later, dear," the old cat-eared priestess said, "Now we have work to do." Looking at Neville, she said firmly, "Green tea, thank you." A gracious request, though in the iron-fist-in-the-velvet-glove manner.

She turned and looked at the Shrine, and tsked. "Hasn't been dusted in weeks." Turning to the young girl, she added, "That's your first assignment, miko-kun. Tidy it up, while I see about the booth. And I shall have some words with your uncle; clearly dealing with all these...foreigners...has caused him to neglect his higher duties."

The young priestess bowed quickly, saying, "Yes, Gramma". She then hopped to it, pulling up a chair and getting a feather duster from the large bag of oddments she had dragged in with them. While she dusted, the older nekomusume began pulling out all manner of strange implements, notions and charms, and began setting them up on a small table next to the bar in front of the Shrine. Apparently she meant to set up shop; though what sort of "shop" a Kawaiian nun intended to run in the Strangers' Bar was anyone's guess.

After a few minutes her arrangements appeared complete, and she turned to Neville again. Accepting his offered pot of green tea and two china cups, she bowed and said, "I wish to speak with the Nuncio of the Eternal Kawaii. How might I get in touch with him here, sir?"

As the younger nekomusume dusted, she caught sight of the small and undeniably cute otter apparently absconding with some of Neville's stock. Naturally, this evoked a squeal of delight from the young girl, who dropped her feather-duster and pointed, saying excitedly, "Gramma!! Is that the Manifestation!?!?!?"

Lydia’s sense of relief for the unexpected aid from the Norderian corner could only be tempered by the shock she now felt. She wanted to touch him, to tell him somehow how much she will miss him. How much she will miss walking past him in the corridors. Miss hearing his voice in debates, but above all miss the feeling of hope that somehow in the mire delegates she had found someone she was very fond of. Someone she felt could be more than just a friend or colleague.

It took her a moment to compose herself and trying not to add tension to what might be their last time together decided to hide the disappointment she now felt in her. No point in making him feel guilty.

“Wine no less. I’ve heard about Ecopoeia’s exports. In fact my boss has become rather partial to some of your vintages. Would your sister mind if I came to sample some for him? ”

She wanted to shout “don’t go!” She wanted to him to kiss her. To fall into his embrace and loose herself in a world where only they existed and in that last sentence she placed so much hope. Hope he would give her some sign he felt as she did.
Mathieu's stomach lurched. What does she mean by that? Was it just casual, or was she suggesting that she wanted to see him? He smiled weakly at her, unsteadily topping up her glass.

"I, um, well... yes. Yes, I'm sure that wouldn't be a problem. Perhaps I could take you on a tour, show you around the place."

As Lydia somewhat stiffly muttered something about how she would enjoy a tour, Mathieu mused on his unfortunate transformation. Not so long ago, he'd been moderately successful with women. No casanova, granted, but he'd grown accustomed to having plenty of options. That said, Ecopoeia was a sexually liberated nation, and he'd spent the best part of two years in the halls of the UN. But that wasn't the whole story; his decline had begun some time before taking on the position of Deputy Speaker. Politics had put fire in his belly and, gradually, women had become less important in his life. Now, however, his passion for politics had cooled. And somewhere along the line, he'd lost his confidence.

Lydia was looking at him with some concern. Damn. He'd drifted off for too long. He coughed and reached for his drink...

...which was sent tumbling by his unsteady hand, wine sloshing onto the table and heading towards Lydia's left side...

...as he rose abruptly from the table to reach across and pull her away from the crimson tide, inwardly cursing his clumsiness...

...while she, too, rose to move out of the wine's path...

...and the glass rolled off the table and fell to the floor...

...and, somehow, his left hand was clutching her right arm, his right hand resting gently on her left side...

...and she looked up at him...

...and he looked back at her...

...and wine splashed against her now empty seat...

...and the glass dissolved into a thousand shards as it hit the floor, sharp tinkling sounds cutting through the hubbub around the table...

...and her hands now touched him...

...and he didn't let go.

Tommo the Stout quickly looked over to the couple at the sound of glass breaking and the sound of people standing up quickly. After but a moment of confusion, the events sunk in and he made an attempt to cover it all up. If the two were going to be honest, the audience would have to be paying attention elsewhere.

And nobody had yet called the name of a hero to drink to since he had. For several seconds, he stood back from the table, a shotglass of Ariddian grapefruit vodka held high aloft, looking between the various officials both doing their own thing and watching him with aloof interest. This was the most noise he'd made in the bar and admittedly, he wouldn't have had Juhani not phoned him. He understood the hesitant behavior of the others.

After his moment of quietly watching the romantic (and tragic, perhaps?) events unfolding before him, he again vied for the attentions of those in the bar. "Surely Norderia is not the only land with a hero to name?" He turns to the people who had been dropping glances his direction -- Hodgelett, Midori, Dicey, Sir Albert -- and then toward others who might not have been paying him any attention at all.

He took a shot in the meantime. He was nowhere near being affected by alcohol, but if he was going to be standing up there making an ass of himself for the sake of a subtle (subtle in purpose, if not practice) diversion, he might as well push himself a little closer to tipsy on the liquor scale.

Indeed. If Envoy Viljakainen had a notion, it was not a bad idea to play along, and so he kept up the charade, looking for heroes to toast to. If those two continue to be obvious, I'm going to toast to them myself...

Mathieu's stomach lurched. What does she mean by that? Was it just casual, or was she suggesting that she wanted to see him? He smiled weakly at her, unsteadily topping up her glass.

"I, um, well... yes. Yes, I'm sure that wouldn't be a problem. Perhaps I could take you on a tour, show you around the place."

As Lydia somewhat stiffly muttered something about how she would enjoy a tour, Mathieu mused on his unfortunate transformation. Not so long ago, he'd been moderately successful with women. No casanova, granted, but he'd grown accustomed to having plenty of options. That said, Ecopoeia was a sexually liberated nation, and he'd spent the best part of two years in the halls of the UN. But that wasn't the whole story; his decline had begun some time before taking on the position of Deputy Speaker. Politics had put fire in his belly and, gradually, women had become less important in his life. Now, however, his passion for politics had cooled. And somewhere along the line, he'd lost his confidence.

Lydia was looking at him with some concern. Damn. He'd drifted off for too long. He coughed and reached for his drink...

...which was sent tumbling by his unsteady hand, wine sloshing onto the table and heading towards Lydia's left side...

...as he rose abruptly from the table to reach across and pull her away from the crimson tide, inwardly cursing his clumsiness...

...while she, too, rose to move out of the wine's path...

...and the glass rolled off the table and fell to the floor...

...and, somehow, his left hand was clutching her right arm, his right hand resting gently on her left side...

...and she looked up at him...

...and he looked back at her...

...and wine splashed against her now empty seat...

...and the glass dissolved into a thousand shards as it hit the floor, sharp tinkling sounds cutting through the hubbub around the table...

...and her hands now touched him...

...and he didn't let go.

Breaking glass was not the sound Lydia now heard, but rather the pounding of a steam train forcing its way from her chest and to her head. For a moment she felt dizzy and then inwardly started to giggle to herself. It was so ironic that in this moment she would act like a teenager. Here she was, dealing day to day with world leaders not to mention whole planets and she can’t even say “Mathieu I like you”. With this realisation the inner giggle began to turn to an outward chuckle. A chuckle turned to laughter and soon she laughed with such expression it brought tears to her eyes.

Mathieu meanwhile, still holding the young Telidian's hand, looked at her with a bemused expression. She could see he thought she had taken leave of her senses, but somehow this made the whole situation even more comical. Both of them work in place where talking is what they do for a living and neither of them could really talk to each other.

She wasn’t sure whether Mathieu suddenly joining her in laughter had a similar realisation or because he felt uncomfortable with her unexpected reaction. Whatever his reasons were she didn’t care and nor did he. The levity releasing months of hidden fears.

It took little time for them to embrace. In their shared moment of madness each holding the other tightly, laughter slowly fading. She could smell his hair and felt his hand move up her back. All the confusion now seemed a distant memory. Affirmed by a kiss marking a new beginning.

If those two continue to be obvious, I'm going to toast to them myself...

The Ambassador smiled. He held another shot aloft and reverted to speaking Naijaar. "Morlo kuunbrai!" he called. "It's about time!"

He took a step nearer them and had a clever thought. "To unity!" he called. If romance in the UN doesn't scream unity, then a drink for it damn well should. He downs the shot and moves back to his table, holding the bottle up to offer others a drink. Juhani sure could call them when he saw them.

I dont quite know whats going on in here but I will say hello any way


I am the UN delegate for a region called the eurasian republic. I currently carry 27 endorsements and have been delegate now for 209 days more or less since the day our founder was deleted.

I dont quite know whats going on in here but I will say hello any way


I am the UN delegate for a region called the eurasian republic. I currently carry 27 endorsements and have been delegate now for 209 days more or less since the day our founder was deleted.

(OOC: This is the Stranger's bar, where much of the more casual RP occurs. This is where the UN officers can come to have a drink and mingle. Many a strange thing happens in here. We try to avoid discussing the Proposals and Resolutions in here -- there are threads for those -- so we can concentrate on developing our characters and flushing out motivations and under the table deals and such.

Just a few of the common roleplaying rules apply -- don't do anything that forces an action on somebody (also known as God-moding). For example, don't say, "Manussan Ambassador beats Tommo the Stout to a bloody pulp and throws him out of a window." For one, that's stupid, and we'll ignore you, and beyond that, it is forcing an action on someone. In a forum roleplay like this, fighting is generally frowned upon anyway, because it would end up like ping-pong with a million tiny posts diluting the actual roleplaying happening.

Have fun with it.)

OOC: Further Strangers Bar stuff: If you kill anyone, Neville or Violet will use the appropriate Acme machine to switch to another timeline where it didn't happen and people will probably think quite nasty things about you.

Don't bring weapons into the Bar. This is for your own protection. The Acme detector at the entrances turns weapons into something inappropriate, and often the something is very inappropriate, and causes considerable embarrassment to the carrier. Or it gets loose and ... situations develop. (Frying pans are an exception to this rule.)

Please park your bodyguards in the area set aside for them outside, where there are nice poker machines with lots of pretty lights to keep them amused. (This doesn't seem to work with the Bahgumian Mother-In-Law squad, and Neville privately suspects that those knitting-needles and crochet hooks are weapons in every sense of the word, but the Acme machine doesn't do anything about them and the Bar crowd is used to them by now.)

Explicit sex is out, under the PG-13 rule. What took place with the Green Tentacled Thing and that unlucky delegate was not explicit and, quite possibly, not sex.

Fights: As the Norderian delegate said, no fights. There are spats, arguments and food-flings. There has been the occasional all-in melee, but the days are long gone since we actually had a bar-room brawl. Perish the thought. (It's probably the lack of Celts. VL's Prince Byron went home to be King and the Nic Mac Fleegle haven't been seen in ages.)

Singing: Depends who's doing it. You take your chances. A good ducking reflex is advisable.

Smoking: It's your (delegate's) funeral. Just not directly under the smoke-detectors, please, and try not to set off the sprinklers.

Dining: Elegant dining is available, thanks to the recent extensions. The chef's name is Darryl and his preferred style of cuisine is Australian Fusion, which is, basically, bung it in if it tastes good and there's no reason you can't put a French sauce on a Thai main, or tomato sauce on everything, including icecream, if that's the way your tastes go.

Espionage, subversion, bribery, corruption, rumour-mongering, misuse of magical powers and similar activities are enthusiastically encouraged, but are not mandatory.

Like a crazed soccer fan with his T-shirt over his head Jason ran into the Bar shouting "QUORUM". He continued shouting and running around like a crazy man until finally running into someone, or something before falling into the ground and looking up into saying whatever he hit but with the shirt still over his head he had some trouble seeing .. oh.. er.. excuse me." Jason said.

[OOC coda: After a few embarrassed exchanges with regulars, Lydia & Mathieu sidle out of the Bar to... who knows what? That's another tale for another time, perhaps.

Christ. This story was about eighteen months in the making...]

[OOC coda: After a few embarrassed exchanges with regulars, Lydia & Mathieu sidle out of the Bar to... who knows what? That's another tale for another time, perhaps.

Christ. This story was about eighteen months in the making...]

(OOC: -dances cuz he successfully forced his way in- WHEEE!)

well in that case I will have a Gin and Tonic please slice no ice


thank you kindly

Kaigan Miromuta, the Kirisuban ambassador enters the bar wearing his familiar blue army uniform and peaked cap.

"Neville, can I have a green tea and a half pizza with cheese and tomato on it?" he asks sitting on the stool beside the newcomer.

he looks over to where Midori is relxing in the rocking chair and knows he'll lose her soon once her maternity leave starts.

the oriental man sighs as he thinks about the workload in front of him.

"A hero, then," the dragon responded to the challenge. "I give you Midori-san of Kirisobu, who is now near to going through the toughest battle that a woman can endure--she is with child. I will note that the legends of the ancient Norsemen grant instant access to Valhalla to any woman who dies in the act of birthing. Let us hope that it never comes to that."

The dragon raised his glass. "To Midori-san!"

Dastardly Stench']"A hero, then," the dragon responded to the challenge. "I give you Midori-san of Kirisobu, who is now near to going through the toughest battle that a woman can endure--she is with child. I will note that the legends of the ancient Norsemen grant instant access to Valhalla to any woman who dies in the act of birthing. Let us hope that it never comes to that."

The dragon raised his glass. "To Midori-san!"

Tommo the Stout turned to the dragon with a smirk on his face. He was well acquainted with the myths of the Norsemen. He pours himself a sixth shotglass of the fine Ariddian vodka and holds it aloft.

"To Midori-san, and her forthcoming motherhood!" Down the hatch.

He didn't know who Midori was, but he didn't expect to know many of the heroes that he was asking to hear about.

An idea strikes him. He sets the shotglass down and reaches into a coat pocket for his cell phone. Then, he presses two buttons and holds it to his ear.

"Juhani! Lobranjai taetailejan e kaipo kielo. Ja, pva? Ahhhhh ja, ja! Gud."

The Stout hangs up and pockets the phone. He pours another drink. "Envoy Viljakainen wishes me to drink for him to Jaro and Kieva. Warriors a millenia past. Kieva, a mighty man invading from the south and Jaro the mighty man defending Norderia. They met in battle, where despite being outnumbered, Kieva had slain Jaro before falling himself. The souls of bravery and honor, both of them!" The man was not above denouncing men from the other side simply because they opposed him. Kieva had had integrity and prowess in war. He had even felled Jaro, and such was the feat only a hero was capable of. He drank his shot and after the wince from 7 shots within just a few minutes, put the bottle aside. "I better not have anymore. I'll take shots of soda for any more heroes, take no disrespect."

====================
Translates roughly into "Juhani! Respectfully toast a hero! Yes, who? Ahhhhh yes, yes! Good!"

Midori sits up in her rocking chair as the salad arrives and as she hears her name.

She sips her tea and replies "Soda's probally better anyway for you" and turns to face Tommo.

"Samurai-Captain Midori Kasigi-Nero as your service" she adds softly

Jason finally got the t-shirt off his face and looked up to what he had hit... It was some tall cupboard type thing... a piece of furniture. He looked around to see if anyone was taking notice and it seemed no one was taking notice. That was good, he's have been rather of embarrassed if they had been.

He was alight and seemed to be back to a normal . He approached the bar and ordered a Forhey's work had been hectic. Preparing for the UN floor debate of Freedom of Scientific Research... and it wasn't long until the alcholic beverage appeared infront of him from the dedicated bar staff.. A strange sound seemed to eminate from directly in front of him .. sort of like a klaxon but it did not seem to come from anywhere. That was until a blue "police box" just appeared on top of the bar. His beer was gone.

A man and 2 companions of his stepped out of the box... "Forhey's ... I can see why the Bazalonians like this, but I prefer Guinness 39." The man had the beer in his hand and his female companion (Rose Tyler). "Doctor, where are we?"

"Where' in the United Nations Strangers bar of course" he said as he hoped down. from the bar and the male companion jumped down (Cpt Jack). Sounds like my kind of place."

"So... Where're in New York?" suggested Rose

"New York does not exist where we are... We are in the NSVerse."

"Uh.. Doctor theres a dinosaur here." Rose said noticing Gurgle...

"Gurgle... been a while old friend... oh and Rose he's a Dragon.. not a dinosaur."

Oz Blues decides that he's had enough signing for a while (in truth he just wants a drink). He instructs the band to keep playing, beginning with the "Peter Gunn Theme".

He places an order at the bar for three fried chickens and a coke and then walks over to Tommo the Stout. "He my friend, I am Oz Blues, in my country i am a hero of sorts. Is it too late to accept your challenge?"

nice G & T now do you do food also I am starving

Midori and Kaigan both look at the TARDIS and a different doctor and companions getting out.

the last time it had been the third Doctor and Sarah-Jane. This Doctor was younger wearing a leather jacket, trousers and a jumper. not as stylish as the other incarnation but still smartly dressed as the same.

Kaigan wondered if the Doctor would recognise him and Midori since they had talked last time. The last time he was here Midori wasn't pregnant.

Midori eats her salad while she listens to the 'Peter Gunn Theme'.

While Kaigan waits on his pizza to arrive his tea arrives and he sips at it noticing a new face beside him.

"they do food alright as well as every drink imaginable" he comments "welcome to the strangers bar"

"Doctors shouldn't make a habit of returning too often you know," Hodgelett admonished while attempting to prop Dicey's voluptous body onto a stall and against the bar. "If you're looking for something to fix, Brother Timothy's goat and the butterfly yonder are quite definitely sentient. Not that such a thing is bad, just Brother Tim seems a little upset." She broke off to add "Neville, better pour Brother Tim a whiskey."

"It's been a while for me." said the Doctor with a smile as Jason sat there at the counter looking at where the TARDIS was and where his beer should have been. He noticed the doctor and the otherstwo come out of the TARDIS but he was still aching for a beer but he was still shocked. He stood there motionless just staring at the TARDIS.

Meanwhile Captain Jack and Rose started to look around. Rose started a conversation with the butterfly while Captain Jack started one with the goat.

The Doctor started looking around for people he knew and spotted the Kirisubo couple."Kaigan-(insert appropriate 3-letter ending) and Midori-san", he'd noticed Midori was pregnant. "And congratulations are in order I see... perhaps a new Samuria-Captain in the works?"

(OOC: I've got something for the Doctor in the works)

Oz Blues decides that he's had enough signing for a while (in truth he just wants a drink). He instructs the band to keep playing, beginning with the "Peter Gunn Theme".

He places an order at the bar for three fried chickens and a coke and then walks over to Tommo the Stout. "He my friend, I am Oz Blues, in my country i am a hero of sorts. Is it too late to accept your challenge?"

Tommo the Stout turns from his toast to Midori and company to Oz. After having a bit more than half a dozen shots, he was not as stoic and poker-faced as he might normally have been.

"I took seven shots for toasts already. I'm doing more in cola, but I have work to do and I cannot afford to be any more than tipsy. But do tell me, Mr. Blues, is your country so devoid of heroes in present and in history that you must present yourself as one?"

It was considered (in Norderia, anyway) rather shameful to praise one's self. As Socrates said, no wise person would ever call him- or herself wise. There was self-acknowledgement, for people who were smart enough to know that they had done something extraordinary, but to throw one's own name into the mix when others were taking drinks in honor of heroes was self-congratulatory, and left a bad taste in the Ambassador's mouth.

"You may drink for whom you please, and if you can take 7 shots of this vodka within 5 minutes whilst retaining a certain level of cogency (as I suspect I have, though I have no mirror), then another challenge on another day of liesure may be in order. Then, good man, we can drink until one of us cannot drink any more. Consider it a qualifying round."

Tommo the Stout turns from his toast to Midori and company to Oz. After having a bit more than half a dozen shots, he was not as stoic and poker-faced as he might normally have been.

"I took seven shots for toasts already. I'm doing more in cola, but I have work to do and I cannot afford to be any more than tipsy. But do tell me, Mr. Blues, is your country so devoid of heroes in present and in history that you must present yourself as one?"

It was considered (in Norderia, anyway) rather shameful to praise one's self. As Socrates said, no wise person would ever call him- or herself wise. There was self-acknowledgement, for people who were smart enough to know that they had done something extraordinary, but to throw one's own name into the mix when others were taking drinks in honor of heroes was self-congratulatory, and left a bad taste in the Ambassador's mouth.

"You may drink for whom you please, and if you can take 7 shots of this vodka within 5 minutes whilst retaining a certain level of cogency (as I suspect I have, though I have no mirror), then another challenge on another day of liesure may be in order. Then, good man, we can drink until one of us cannot drink any more. Consider it a qualifying round."


Oz takes out a bottle of bourbon from the inside of his jacket. "It's not vodka but I'm sure it'll do for this challenge." He lines up seven shots and sits at the table.

"Now mister Tommo the Stout, in my country we are all about the music." He downs the first shot. "My people exist as nomadic bands that travel the world, bringing music to everybody." Down goes the second shot. "The leaders of those bands are our heroes, we praise them for their musical success." This was followed by the third shot. "I am a decendant of the Blues family, the royal line of my nation." Fourth shot. "I am the current leader of the Blues Brothers Band, one of the longest running bands in history." Fifth shot. "I agree that calling myself a hero may be sinfully prideful but it is something that comes with the job." He knocks back the sixth shot, leaving one left. He picks up the final shot and hold it high.

"So instead I would toast my distant ancestors, Jake and Elwood, who have been missing for some time. May they find their way home and not into prison." Oz stands and drinks down the final shot. "I also find myself agreeing that seven shots in under five minutes is more than enough. Good day to you Tommo the Stout, I think I shall be staying here for some time, when you're ready I'll be more than happy to drink you under the table."

With that Oz walks back to the bar, slightly weaving on the way. He angrily demands how long it takes to cook three fried chickens. Before the bartender can even answer, Oz returns to the stage and grabs the mike.

"Since it seems that my dinner is going to take a while, I might as well keep singing. This next song is from another hero of our land, ladies and gentleman, it's time to Shake Your Tailfeather!"

"Well I heard about the fellow you've been dancing with
All over the neighbourhood
So why didn't you ask me baby
Or didn't you think I could?..."

"Doctor san, its twins actually a boy and a girl" Midori replies "and they'll be born in a few months time. Pazu-Lenny was so surprised when we found out "

She looks happy despite feeling like a whale as she relaxes with her tuna salad in the rocking chair.

Kaigan adds "we're still on the floor that shouldn't exist but then again the NSUN building was always strange"

OOC: For "Pansy" in preceding posts please read "Petunia" throughout, as in post way, wa-a-ay back. The continuity department has been dismembered.

IC: ". . . when did you start cross-dressing?"

The goat fluttered her eyelashes.

"I'm (tap, tap) not (tap, tap) crossdressing," she intoned, the words issuing in complex counter-rhythm to the sound of her hooves as a prelude to a burst of song:

"Oh, I'm ... puttin' on my top hat,
Tying up my white tie,
Brushing off my tails.

I'm ... doodin' up my shirt front,
Puttin' in the shirt studs,
Polishing my nails."

Brother Tim interrupted before she got to the point of proclaiming the Strangers' Bar "an atmosphere that simply reeks with class".

"Petunia, stop that singing!" he said sternly. "If you've been the gift of speech, for Herself's sake, use it."

"Wella wella wella, I can't do nothin' with the blues I've got but sing, sing, s-i-i-ing; I guess the only thing that keeps me from a-blowing' my top is to sing, sing sing!" the goat answered, tears filling her warm brown eyes.

Soft-hearted Violet rushed to put an arm around her neck. "Can't you see what the matter is, you idiot?" she demanded fiercely. "The poor thing hasn't been given the gift of speech; she's got the gift of song -- if you can call it that."

"Willkomm, et bienvenue, welcome," the goat agreed, "Im Kabaret, au Cabaret, to Cabaret."

"Dear Goddess!" Brother Tim absently consumed the uisquebaugh Neville had thoughtfully supplied and considered the matter. "Wouldn't Glennis apHywyl love to get her hands on you!" he mused aloud. "You know what she's like, come Eistedddfffodddd time. She'd have you in the Abbey choir in two shakes of a -- er, goat's tail."

The thought of the obsessive, rainbow-haired choirmistress was enough to make most Findhornians run for cover, but Petunia looked both eager and wistful: "Through pleasures and palaces, where-e'er I may roam, be it ever so hu-u-mble, there's no place like home."

"Awww, she's homesick," said Violet.

"Show me the way to go home, I'm tired and I wanna go to bed ..." Petunia confirmed.

"I had a little drink about an hour ago, an' it's gone right to my head," chimed in a small, otterly voice outside; but the others disregarded the interruption.

"Well, if she wants to go home, I guess we'll have to send her," Brother Tim decided. "But I'll really miss you, Petunia. I hope you've made the right decision."

Arming himself with a large mug of coffee and a determined expression, he set about the task of reviving Dicey. Drunk or sober, the red-headed witch should be able to manage a simple transportation spell.

The door to the Kenny suite was knocked open and in bound Jack Riley with an enormous cat over his shoulder. "What's up, Ryan? Kenny rules," he quickly said to the receptionist as he rushed by.

"WHOOOOOOO!!!! KENNY RULES!!!!!!!" replied the frat boy, before returning to his Internet smut.

Riley reached the door to his office and spotted Brown, his deputy, idling in the hall outside the Stripper Commandos' lounge. "George!!" he called out.

"What?" Brown asked impatiently.

"Get in here!" Riley snapped as he crossed his doorway.

Brown complied, and as he entered the office, he asked the first question that would naturally come to anyone's mind when he saw someone heaving a giant feline onto his desk: "Got any tree-fiddys? The bouncer won't let me into the lounge without money."

"Focus, George! We have bigger problems!"

"What's with the cat?"

"What cat?" Riley asked innocently.

"Well, isn't that Bast on your desk?" He pointed to the beast indignantly cleaning itself.

"Oh, right. Yes."

"You doing a favor for Dicey or something?"

"Why, yes. I have just liberated this animal from the clutches of the insurgency."

"'Liberated'?" pondered Brown. "You mean you stole him?"

"Aye," Riley admitted.

"Dude, you can't keep kidnapping members of foreign delegations! That incident with the Kawaiian Nuncio nearly sparked a war! And here, you can't fuck with the Ardchoilleans! They have powers!"

"Don't you understand, George? With revolution imminent, I had no choice!"

"Revolution?"

"The Kitty Cat Apocalypse!"

"The what?"

"The moment when all the cats of the world finally rise up to take down their human masters!"

Brown only started at his superior.

"It's in Revelations!!"

"Uhhh ... you know, Jack, the pills are right there in your medicine cabinet, and you only have to take one of them a day; it's not so hard ..."

Oh, sure, George, doubt me, mock me, deny the inevitable, until one morning you wake up to find your cat aiming your own 357 Magnum at your face!"

"Sir, I don't own a cat ..."

"Well, then, your neighbor's cat! Whatever!"

"And, uhh, you think Bast is part of this?"

"Of course he was part of it! A big part of it!"

"You think he's one of the leaders?"

"Was. Was one of their leaders, but now, he's with us! He'll prove a tremendous asset for those of us on the side of good."

"'Tremendous asset,' huh? Well, have you tried asking Bast what he knows of this kitty cat revolt?"

Riley had to laugh at this insanity. "Bast can't understand what I'm saying! He's a cat, for Christ's sake!"

<<Of course he's just a cat,>> a voice said. <<What nonsense that fool talks! Fancy thinking cats can talk! Even Ardchoillean cats (which are not, of course, Felis domesticus, but Felis felinus ardchoilleae, an entirely different, though related, species).>>

The voice may have been in Riley's head. Or it may not. It may have been in Brown's head. Or it may not. It may not even have been heard; but, nonetheless, it existed, thus solving in one stroke the philosophical problem that has obsessed many an idle thinker for centuries.

One curious detail: it seemed to lack the usual direction-clues of a voice produced by the action of air against vocal cords.

Nonetheless, it surely couldn't have come from the cat, which was continuing with its ablutions. It had just reached a stage that no self-aware being would perform in mixed, or, indeed, any, company (unless, of course, it was being paid or blackmailed into doing so, but that concept belongs to another storyline entirely. Possibly one involving that Cluichistani organisation. Anyway, back to our tail).

Just checking, sent Bast, tight-beam. Anyone keeping an eye on things?

Squeeeeeek! came the reassuring response.

"I wish you both the most happiest of joys, twins, amazing. Well, at least that would provide you some protection from those infamous NSUN Office Raids." commenting to the Kurisuban couple.

Meanwhile Jason's mobile phone chimed with an SMS notifiying him that the resolution had passed with a large majority. And that John McKay and Johanna where coming down to celebrate.

Midori could see that the Doctor had misunderstood.

"Doctor san, Kaigan san isn't the father. My Husband Pazu-Lenny is but I'll pass on your best wishes to him.

the last time you were here Sarah-Jane was with you and it looks like a lots happened since then"

Kaigan's phone goes off, his mobile playing Kimigayo.

"excuse me Doctor san" he says and talks to Raiko, his secretary in Kirisuban.

She tells him that another proposal is up for vote and what it involves.

Kaigan nods his head as he listens to his secretary.

"come on down and you can show the both of us it" he tells her and puts the phone back into his jacket pocket.

they would see the current proposal soon enough.

Bazalonia']Jason finally got the t-shirt off his face and looked up to what he had hit... It was some tall cupboard type thing... a piece of furniture. He looked around to see if anyone was taking notice and it seemed no one was taking notice. That was good, he's have been rather of embarrassed if they had been.

No one had taken notice, since the young nekomusume who should have seen the crazed, t-shirt-over-the-head-wearing Jason run headlong into the Shrine of the Manifestation had her attention distracted by the liquor-stealing otter. Nothing unusual about that. However, when the young shrine maiden turned back, having seen the otter make off with its questionably-gotten booty, she let out another squeal--this time of shock, not delight.

No, the Shrine was still intact, fortunately. Kawaiian ceremonial woodcraftsmanship is a fine art, and as ornate and delicate-looking a structure the Shrine appeared to be, it was undamaged. However, one of the ceremonial ropes ringing it was knocked loose, and it dangled mournfully, robbed of its existential purpose.

The elder nekomusume looked up at the disturbed Shrine. Unlike her younger counterpart, the old shrine maiden's expression betrayed no emotion, not even when the young girl began bowing profusely and wailing, "I'm sorry, Gramma! I'm sorry!"

"There, my dear," the old nekomusume said. "Don't blame yourself--it's a miracle the Shrine is still in one piece with all this mayhem going about it." She sighed, and added more to herself, "...probably overdue for its ritual renewal anyways...another thing I shall have to discuss with your uncle."

"Oh, dear," the dragon said. His friend Bast, who had saved him from a magical near-meltdown, was being dragged off for parts unknown! Instantly, the dragon reached out its tail and tripped the miscreant who was doing the dragging!

This, however, did NOT dislodge the large, sentient cat--the cat seemed to dig its claws into the miscreant, as if it WANTED to be kidnapped. Instead, it only managed to jar loose a bottle of Arrogant Bastard Ale.

OOC:

Pun intended.

IC:

The bottle rolled down the floor and stopped right in front of Jezzebelle the goat. At this point, the top popped off of the bottle and a small stream of the stuff squirted right into the goat's mouth.

The affects were immediate. The starry eyes, the extravagant clothes--all of it disappeared. The goat returned to normal. The monk was overjoyed.

"Hmmmmmm," the dragon said. "An antidote!"

OOC:

Activities involving the Kennyite carried out with permission.

Raiko Sakura, the kirisubans secretary entered the bar with a folder under her arm.

she was dressed in a black knee length skirt, a white vest top and a black jacket and her long black hair was in a pony tail.

she bows when she sees Kaigan and Midori.

"Kaigan sama, Midori sama this is the current proposal at vote" she says to them handing Midori the file.

"an standard emergency phone number" Midori remarks before passing it to Kaigan "its practically toothless and a waste of space"

Jason still at the bar and note quite sure what to do about his now long gone beer. Overheard the conversation of the Kirisuboans

"Hmmm.. If that's up for vote already where are ... Johanna and John? I'll be back in a moment." and Jason left with a puzzled look on his face.

The Doctor had apologised for his mis-understanding and commented something about Pazu-Lenny and Midori never quite seeing eye to eye at the UN.

Midori smiles and replies "Doctor san most of time we don't agree but we manage to keep work and home life separated and Pazu-Lenny knows that"

Kaigan looked over the proposal and agreed with Midori.

Shaking his head he says "Doctor san, do you want something from the bar? I need a drink to deal with this vote."

Between refusing men offering her money to dance for them, Cmdr. Chiang overheard the political discussion from the Kirisuban and Bazalonian representatives. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat; she could feel her thong riding up. Why the heck did these idiots have to disturb her with work on her lunch break?

"Excuse me, gentlemen," she interjected. "Oh, and Midori-san," she added sheepishly. "Would you mind taking your bullshit back to the General Assembly floor, where it belongs?"

She eyed one of the men. "There's a lapdance in it for you, Doctor," she offered.

Midori looked at the Kennyite Yabanjin as if she'd fallen out off a tree.

looking at her name badge she replied confidently "Ms Chiang didn't anybody tell you its rude to eavesdrop? secondly this is the Strangers Bar and political talk happens here all the time since a lot of people don't have offices."

then she sipped more of her green tea as if nothing had happened.

Tommo the Stout sees the bud and decides quickly to nip it.

He slams his fist onto a table and yells, rather loudly, his skin reddening, "Do not talk about the Resolutions!" To add some punctuation to the command, he takes a shot, surprised for a moment, but remembering quickly that he was doing shots of soda now, to stay reasonably sober. The exclamation point comes when he places the glass down onto the table, hard.

A large, formally dressed (for a Norderian, anyway) man yelling was always the way rooms became quiet in the movies. Perhaps talk of Resolutions would cease with it, nevermind his opinion, or whether or not it was allowed.

It was odd, though, a Norderian on par with a Kennyite. It was but by the grace of nobody that he didn't know she was a Kennyite (though the inkling was there, considering her behavior).

[Cmdr. Chiang raises her glass of Jameson, and toasts the Stout:]

"To the honorable Norderian ambassador! May all future agreements between our nations be reasonable, civil, respectable -- and rare!"

[She downs the whiskey.]

"Guinness 39 would be great, thanks Midori-san. Well, it seems you and Pazu-Lenny have things well organised between you."

Kaigan returns with a Guinness 39, a pizza and a beer for himself.

after giving the doctor his Guinness he sits down to his pizza.

Midori smiles and replies "given our differing political views it made sense to have that arrangement although soon i'll need to train up a deputy to cover me for at least a year.

I hope the foreign office sends a good candidate"

"Very wise, You wouldn't want to leave Kirisubo an Ambassador short would you?" said the doctor with a cheeky smile.

The doctor drank his Guiness 39 and while he did that engaged in small talk with Midori and Kaigan before out of no where he made a comment...

"Hmm.. I wonder where that Bazalonian went. Probably should have been back by now."

"maybe he went back to the chamber" Kaigan suggests switching to Kirisuban "because of the new vote. I already know how i'll be voting on the proposal"

Midori smiled knowing that speaking in their own language would frustrate others listening in and didn't care. eavesdropping was bad manners anyway.

ooc: the TARDIS' telepathic curcuits would mean than the Doctor, Rose and Captain Jack could understand Kirisuban so it won't affect the RP too much.

Raiko's task completed she goes to the bar and gets a cup of green tea and a cheese salad from Neville and sits a couple of seats down from Commander Chiang with the empty file beside her.

Midori's mobile phone goes off playing 'the ride of the Valkeries' and she answers while the Doctor is busy with Kaigan.

She nods as she talks in her own tongue and gets up from the seat, leaving the bar.

###

at the UN portal in another part of the building Midori waits for for someone.

She dosen't have to wait long as a Kirisuban woman emerges from it, the person who would cover her maternity leave.

The other young woman bows to her not looking that much different from Midori and they chat as they return to the bar the newcomer carrying a small case. the rest of her luggage would arrive soon.

"this is the strangers bar" Midori tells the new girl "expect anything and everything here"

ooc : Yukiko Uehara wears a dark red trouser suit with a white blouse. she's slightly taller than Midori, slightly built and should turn a few heads since she's quite a looker :)

The doctor bowed a little to Midori as she left, most likely to finally getting her replacement while she is on maternity leave.

"Possibily," he said to Kaigan "but I'd like to go and see if I can find him. It will also give me the chance to have a look around the NSUN. It's been a while since I've done that."

Kaigan gave the Doctor directions to the debating chamber from the bar.

"its hard to miss the chamber since its the biggest room in the whole building and you can always ask a gnome if you get lost" he says.

"Since your friends look like they're busy here they'll be fine. Enjoy yourself as well as the debate"

Rose was fascinated with the butterfly and was talking to it with inane useless questions that always seemed to come out of her mouth. She was talking with the goat before it got 'cured'. And Captain Jack was trying to chat up the Barstaff, both female and male members of the Barstaff

"They do look they are having a good time, don't they. Thank you so much for that. And I hope that who-ever is coming to replace Midori-san while on maternity leave won't muck things up too much." the doctor said before adding "fairwell Kaigan-san" in Kirsuban and bowing.

He headed off to the debating chamber, it wasn't long before he was there. He listened for a second and looked around. It was a normal debating chamber and was exactly people passionately arguing over the minutest of detail. some of them having no idea, others just saying the proposal was toothless but then it seemed most of the good ones would be. He watched and waited and looked around.

There was nothing amiss that he could detect but still there where no Bazalonians there. He enjoyed watching the specticle that was the NSUN debating chamber but left. He found a Gnome and asked "Excuse me, my dear fellow, do you by any chance know where Bazalonian UN Mission is?"

Under Brother Tim's ministrations, Dicey roused from her slumbers and proved quite capable of sending the goat Petunia back to Findhorn. Indeed, her tetchy mood prompted her to send the goat Pansy back as well, extracting her with some difficulty from a previous timeline (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=9599544&postcount=2592).

She had turned to the unaccountable goat Jezzebelle and was beginning the incantation for the third time when Brother Tim flung himself across the little animal's shoulders.

"Don't send her to Findhorn, Dicey," he implored. "She's not a Findhorn goat! They won't get on with her!"

The magic shuddered to a halt and the little goat nibbled Brother Tim's hand.

"I always say, a house isn't a home until it's got a goat," the young monk said happily. "C'mon, Jezzebelle, I'll show you round the courtyard."

"I thought it was cats they said that about -- you know, the house and home thing?" Dicey said uncertainly, watching the couple totter unevenly onto the cobblestones.

"It is, Dicey," Neville agreed. "And speaking of Cats ..."

"Ah, yes. Don't worry about Bast, Neville, he can look after himself," Dicey said abstractedly. "Didn't I just see a Kennyite ... ah."

Cdr Chiang's lunchbreak was going to hell in a handbasket. Now there was this red-headed barfly squeezing in beside her.

"Look, I'll keep this short," Dicey promised. "That lunatic delegate of yours, Riley, has kidnapped my co-delegate. It may be an entirely reasonable thing to have done and have the nod of every Kennyite politician from the President on up. On the other hand, it may be Riley acting entirely on his rednecked psychotic ownsome. So I'm just letting you know, right? It's not anything formal, it's just chat in a bar, you just happened to overhear it, okay?"

Then, while Cdr Chiang was still, presumably, taking in what she'd heard, "And don't worry about eavesdropping. Everybody does it. How else would we find out what our bosses are up to?"

Dicey sloped away in surprisingly good form, considering the amount of alcohol she'd taken on board. Perhaps doing magic burnt it up, mused Neville, who had been watching the exchange with his usual unrestrained curiosity.

Midori leads Yukiko to the bar and orders a two cup of green tea for herself and a coffee for Yukiko also introducing Yukiko to Neville.

when they return to the rocking chair Midori introduces Yukiko to Kaigan and Raiko whose at the bar getting her lunch as well.

Midori finishes of her salad while Yukiko gets some of Kaigan's pizza as he tells her about the bars facilities starting with the food.

"thay can make practically anything here and get you any kind of drink as well" he tells his future deputy ambassador before telling her about the weapons detector and the usual does and don't of the bar.

[Posting as Omigodtheykilledkenny (www.nationstates.net/omigodtheykilledkenny).]

<<Of course he's just a cat,>> a voice said. <<What nonsense that fool talks! Fancy thinking cats can talk! Even Ardchoillean cats (which are not, of course, Felis domesticus, but Felis felinus ardchoilleae, an entirely different, though related, species).>>"Shh." Riley quieted Brown. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?" Brown demanded.

"That voice."

"What voice?"

"The voice! Didn't you hear it?"

"You're hearing voices now?"

"No, I'm not hearing voices!" Riley raged. "I think that cat just said he couldn't talk!"

"How the hell could he say he can't talk if he can't talk?!"

"Ask the cat!" Riley insisted. "He said it!"

"I'll go get your pills," Brown offered, and disappeared into the bathroom.

By the time he returned with the pill bottle, Riley was crouched on the floor, grasping the edge of his desk, so that he was eye-level with the feline. He had begun to "communicate" with him in the "language" of the only talking cat he could think of (save Garfield, who scared the fuck out of him), Henrietta Pussycat, the puppeteered kitten from "Mister Roger's Neighborhood":

"Meow meow know meow plan meow meow Apolcalypse meow meow meow?" Riley asked in a squeaky voice.

Brown set the pills down on Riley's desk. "I'm outta here," he snapped, storming out of the office.

"Meow meow meow 357 Magnum meow Katyusha rockets meow meow shoulder-fired missiles meow meow meow antiaircraft gun meow meow kitty-cat revolt meow attack your oppressors meow meow magic meow Hey sexy meow-meow-ma, wanna kill all hu-meow-mans?" Riley continued to question his detainee.

Bast glared at him as though he were Max Barry in lipstick and a frilly pink tutu.

"Look, I'll keep this short," Dicey promised. "That lunatic delegate of yours, Riley, has kidnapped my co-delegate. It may be an entirely reasonable thing to have done and have the nod of every Kennyite politician from the President on up. On the other hand, it may be Riley acting entirely on his rednecked psychotic ownsome. So I'm just letting you know, right? It's not anything formal, it's just chat in a bar, you just happened to overhear it, okay?"

Then, while Cdr Chiang was still, presumably, taking in what she'd heard, "And don't worry about eavesdropping. Everybody does it. How else would we find out what our bosses are up to?"

Dicey sloped away in surprisingly good form, ...Brown sidled up to the commander just as Dicey left. Chiang glared after the witch as though she were Max Barry trying to out-do J. Edgar Hoover in a Drag Contest. She took note of Brown, and gestured toward the Ardchoillean co-president.

"She's craaaaaazy," she whispered scandalously.

It took some convincing, but Miss Daisy was eventually persuaded to take a sip of Arrogant Bastard Ale. There was no way to tell how much of the magic of the original brew remained with her, but she made no effort to resist or to fly away as Gurgle escorted her back through the door and, once back in the real world of NationStates, set her free again.

All that is known is that, from that time on, each year, on July 20th, a few morning cloak butterflies would arrive at that precise location and stop to refresh themselves at the buttercups that inexplicably grew through a small crack in the asphault at that streetcorner.

"Oh, before you do can I have a look at recent records of Bazalonia's Affair in the UN." added the Doctor.

The Doctor was lead to where the records of voting and such where held and was given copies of the voting of the more recent proposals before given directions to the Bazalonian UN office. The office was vacant no one was there. It was neat and tidy just a single piece of paper and a pen on John McKay's desk, the door to his office was open.

It was a note containing thanks to the UN Mission of Jey, thanking them for what they had done for "Freedom of Scientific Research". However the letter was only half written. The Air Conditioner was on cooling and was turned up really high... almost like the office was boiling.. but now it was freezing.

The only thing that seemed out of order was the letter...

(OOC: I've sent Compadria a TG about the otter...)

The dragon's cell phone rang. He reached into the pouch he wore on a strap around his neck, pulled it out and answered it.

"Gurgle of Stench...it's in? What's in? You've got wha--OHHHHH! THAT! Yes! Certainly! Send some right over! I'll make the arrangements. Sure...thanks. Bye." He returned the phone to the pouch.

"Neville," the dragon began, smiling broadly, "can we speak in private? I've got a little surprise for you! I promise that you won't be disappointed!"

OOC (sort of):

Everybody STAND BACK! We're about to witness the arrival of the first ever bottle of...

AROMATIC BLUE!!!!!

Now...I'm sure you've heard the gossip. There are some who claim that this is a ripoff of Zumandian Brandy, but the guys at the vineyards of Dastardly Stench (The Fertilized Fields) have ASSURED me that it's ORIGINAL. Also, they tell me that neither it nor any of its predecessor prototypes were EVER referred to as "Blue Air," and that the rumors that its magic, unlike the Zumandian variety, is unpredictable (that they haven't quite gotten all the quirks out of the process) are merely rumors and that there's no evidence to support them!

So...everybody enjoy. :) :) :)

The main door opens, and in walks a being, about eight feet tall, who looks very much like a bear (of the 'brown' type) but who is evidently quite at ease walking on two legs. He is wearing clothes -- a formal 'evening suit', complete with top hat -- and carrying a briefcase. He strolls across to the bar, gazing casually around at the room's other occupants as he does so.

"Greetings", he says to Neville. "My name is Borrin o Redwood. I am sent here to observe how this 'United Nations' works by my homeland, the Republic of Bears Armed, although we have not yet joined this organisation. A large white rabbit whom I met in the foyer tells me that this bar is the best place for meeting people and finding out what is going on. I presume that as I am only an observer, not an actual ambassador for a member-nation, you will want me to pay for any purchases instead of just running a slate: Will this be enough to establish a reasonable line of credit?" He pulls a linen bag from out of his case, opens it, and tips a small heap of gold nuggets onto the bar...

Raiko's not far away from this exchange and looks over at the bear towering over her (which wasn't hard because she was only 5' tall!).

The young oriental woman smiles and moves over to Nevile and Mr Redwood.

"hello" she says "my names Raiko"

The doctor started to open the drawers in the office looking for the resolution mentioned and found a copy of it in the drawer. He looked over some of the records that had been given to him and also found a copy of the resolution in the papers.

Comparing the passed version to the version in his desk... there was a notible abscence of the version that was passed, the clause mandating that any scientist wishing to conduct research in an illegal area must be allowed to move with their immediate family to another UN member nation that has legalised that research if they are accepted into that nation.. interesting..

After packing the room back up again the Doctor left the office and found another UN Gnome... "Where is the central hub for the Air-conditioning?" he asked

The young oriental woman smiles and moves over to Nevile and Mr Redwood.

"Hello," she says, "my name's Raiko."

"Hello," Borrin replies. "Might I enquire the name of the nation that you represent here, and whether it has any policies about rights for intelliegnt beings who aren't 'humans'?"



(OOC: It's "o Redwood", the "o" being a shortened form of "of" and [in this context] indicating that the following word is his clan's name...)

"i'm the secretary and researcher for the Empire of kirisubo" Raiko replies "and we already view sentient beings such as your honourable self as having the rights and responsibilities granted by our laws and traditions.

Whats your nation like?"

Gurgle sidles up to Raiko and Borin with a bottle of Aromatic Blue for Neville to notice. He does not, however, interrupt the conversation in progress. In time, he is certain, Borin will see the diplomatic pouch that the dragon wears around his neck, surmise that he is, indeed, a diplomat and that his nation recognises sentients of all species, and, hopefully, strike up a conversation.

He would also like to converse with Raiko in greater depth. After the charming and eloquent conversations he has had with her fellow Kirisoban, Midori-san, he would like very much to find out if Raiko is as congenial.

The old lady had a curious eye for just about everyone already assembled in the bar as she entered. It had been at least ten years, she thought, since she had last seen the place -- when she had been dispatched to the United Nations as a special envoy to meet with an ad-hoc commission on elder care. And to get out of then-President Grady's hair.

She was former Omigodtheykilledkenny First Lady June Radey, wife to the late President Joseph Radey, a constant source of grief for every man who had the misfortune to succeed her husband (including the current president), and now the ambassador to Ardchoille. Amusedly the woman scanned the bar, which had come to be populated by a large flatulent dragon, an oversized butterfly, a beer-snatching otter, a cross-dressing goat, a talking bear, a pair of nuns fussing over a dusty old shrine, and a very pregnant Samurai lady. Easily she spotted her prey: Ardchoillean Co-President Dicey Reilly (did she get the damn spelling right?), seated at the bar with a drink.

"Oh, Madame Co-President!" she quacked excitedly as she clutched her purse to her side and hurried toward the witch, who appeared to be looking for an out. Too late, for Amb. Radey had already seized a barstool adjacent hers.

"The president has sent me (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=11400157&postcount=159) to discuss this funny little situation (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=11393390&postcount=3965) between our countries," she said officially. "Dealt with a good many situations in my time; I used to be first lady, you know! Oh, yes, there was this one instance when the first lady of Lois-Must-Die had worn too much makeup to a state dinner in Paradise City; all the heat! It was melting right off her face! I had to take her to the bathroom, but the media people had already caught her on camera. Oh, it was awful! It was caked on so thick, not even cold cream could get it off ..."

Ten minutes later, Radey's captive was staring into her drink, while the ambassador rattled on: "Bast! That's your cat's name? Funny name for a cat, don't you think? Oh, former First Lady Jeanne Grey had a lovely Siamese cat; she named it Lois; I asked her what possessed her to give her cat such a name, and I find out when she said Lois' brother's name was Lane. Ah, 'Superman.' We didn't need no hunky Christopher Reid to picture the Man of Steel back then! Of course there was that TV series back in the Fifties ..."

Twenty minutes later, Dicey's eyes were glassed over as she glowered dully at the OMGTKK envoy. If she had any questions about Riley, Radey hadn't heard them: "... Attractive young thing like you needs a husband! You got one of those? Now I know they got some handsome young men in Ardchoille! The boy who delivers FedEx packages to the embassy! Oh, you should meet him; I can arrange it. I think he's some young wizard--"

Just then a group of paramilitary strippers kicked open the side door, and spirited a struggling Jack Riley toward the front entrance*, all the while the UN diplomat shrieking: "The Revolution! It's coming! You can't silence me! I know the truth, and it will all be told! Get off me, you sexy, sexy Nazis! Let me go!"

Bast was nowhere to be seen.

Immediately Cmdr. Chiang put her drink down and rose to assist her officers, but seeing they had it all under control, sat back down and ordered a fresher on her Jameson.

None of it had even fazed Mrs. Radey, who babbled on undefeated: "And that's when Joe decided to sell all my shoes for a suitcase nuke! I still know the detonation code: It's 5678120045 ... no, 56782200 ... wait, that's not right ... 568433 ..."

* They had detained him at his eighth-floor office, but had taken him up to the 13th floor to drag him through the bar for some reason.

"Hi Gurgle san" Raiko says when she sees the dragon slip in beside her.

The doctor found his way down to the central hub of the Airconditioning in the bowls of the NSUN.

There was a gnome down there doing some work on the airconidtion system.

The door opened and a man dressed all in black entered the room. He was all alone and seem to be in thoughts. He then looked around for a moment and found a seat somewhere in the corner were he sat down to observe this place.

He was the Bezadian ambassador.

The doctor found his way down to the central hub of the Airconditioning in the bowls of the NSUN.

There was a gnome down there doing some work on the airconidtion system.
OOC: Can someone RP this gnome for me? Please TG me or find me on of the NS IRC channels I am in. So we can talk and discuss what's happening. Thanks

She was former Omigodtheykilledkenny First Lady June Radey, wife to the late President Joseph Radey, a constant source of grief for every man who had the misfortune to succeed her husband (including the current president), and now the ambassador to Ardchoille. Amusedly the woman scanned the bar, which had come to be populated by a large flatulent dragon, an oversized butterfly, a beer-snatching otter, a cross-dressing goat, a talking bear, a pair of nuns fussing over a dusty old shrine, and a very pregnant Samurai lady. Easily she spotted her prey: Ardchoillean Co-President Dicey Reilly (did she get the damn spelling right?), seated at the bar with a drink.


OOC: Where have you been, dahlink? The goat, the butterfly and the Samurai Lady had all left the bar at the time of the post partly quoted above...and the dragon is not large, as dragons go. :) :) :)

"Hi Gurgle san" Raiko says when she sees the dragon slip in beside her.

"Why, hello, Raiko-san," the dragon replied. "Might you do me the distinct courtesy of introducing your new compatriot?"

"Gurgle san may I introduce Mr Borrin O'Redwood whose here to see how the NSUN works.

Mr O'Redwood, Gurgle san represents the realm of Dastardly Stench" Raiko replies.

"Gurgle san may I introduce Mr Borrin O'Redwood whose here to see how the NSUN works.

Mr O'Redwood, Gurgle san represents the realm of Dastardly Stench" Raiko replies.

"I am pleased to meet you, Gurgle," Borrin replies, "and thank you for the introduction Miss Raiko. To answer the question that you asked just now, from which I must confess to having been momentarily distracted by these surroundings and their other occupants, my homeland is a fairly quiet land. We Bears are its only sapient residents, although there's a species of nonsapient humanoid that we call the 'goldilocks' also native, but almost all of the other nations in the region where it's located -- the 'International Democratic Union' -- are inhabited by humans. We've only opened up contact with our neighbours quite recently, but they have been quite accepting of the fact that we are of a different species from themselves and I have been sent here to find out how typical such an enlightened attitude is of this U.N.'s members."

_________________________________________________

In the nearby room that's set aside for bodyguards two more Bears, who are both wearing black leather jackets -- with designs on their back whose main components look as they're probably letters from some alphabet with which the other people there are unfamiliar -- and (despite being indoors) mirrored sunglasses, are looking around with an air of defiance.

(OOC: Is there a large-screen television there for watching sporting events? Bears Armed has a team in the Summer Olympics...)

Oozing out a little Springtime Pine & Apple, the dragon enters the conversation.

"I've had no problems with my fellow ambassadores. By and large, they're an educated and enlightened bunch, more interested in getting their nations' business transacted than in who's doing the transacting. I've run into a few who were surprised to see me, but I've always managed to come to terms with them. I drank with the viking-like gentleman on top of the table over there, and showered one surprised local with gifts until he either gave in or choked on his chocolates, I'm not sure which. We non-humanoids aren't the biggest surprise the bar has, after all. One delegation includes men who are, in fact, avatars for higher-order creatures--I wouldn't be surprised if they were, in fact, demigods. We set up an exchange of embassies. In fact, I'm due to take a leave and visit their country any day now. I've only got one small item of business with Neville, in fact, preventing me. I do wish that he would get a moment--he provides such a high quality of service that he's almost always busy! It can be bloody damned annoying at times!"

Raiko smiles and says to Borrin "you'll find that the NSUN is very accepting of species which arn't human"

Curious she asks "whats a goldilock?"

ooc: there is indeed a large screen tv when needed, a stage, a jukebox (slightly battered), a couple of small tvs running worldwide news, a pingball machine, a very battered karoke machine courtesy of Cybertoria...I believe that is all. Of course...rp it and it will appear. ;)

ic: Hodgelett finally stopped pacing to and fro while taking a phonecall from some Bronco De Licio, before standing in front of the Shrine sending a quick message on her gadget with comments on the Sexual Freedom draft.
Easing herself down onto a stoll she commented to nobody in particular "it's about time someone made some practical work shoes that both look nice and can take being walked upon all day..."

Midori, Kaigan and Yukiko leave the bar Midori having finished her lunch.

Yukiko would have a lot to learn in a short time...

None of it had even fazed Mrs. Radey, who babbled on undefeated: "And that's when Joe decided to sell all my shoes for a suitcase nuke! I still know the detonation code: It's 5678120045 ... no, 56782200 ... wait, that's not right ... 568433 ..."

Dicey's eyes, which had been registering "VACANT" for the past half-hour, suddenly clicked to "ENGAGED".

"Oh, I just know what you mean," she said with warm enthusiasm. "It's so annoying when you can't remember something like that, and it's right on the tip of your tongue. I know, I was like that about the PIN on my mobile, I just couldn't remember it no matter how hard I tried. But look, I found out a trick that really, really works. Honestly, it's like magic, and it's so easy. I'll show you, if you like, it won't take a minute, come over here where we can kick our shoes off ..."

Her arm around the well-restrained waist of the Kennyite, Dicey led the Ambassador towards one of the more secluded booths, signalling to Violet for something extremely alcoholic and totally innocent-looking, ASAP.

If she was going to keep up this level of italicised emphasis, she needed a little fuel.

Besides, it should help her get around the conditioning against doing magic in public that the members of her coven thought they had successfully installed during her last visit home.

... I've only got one small item of business with Neville, in fact, preventing me.

Neville, who had been exchanging views with Hodgelett on the stubbornness of shoemakers, whose craft was surely sufficiently developed to make shoes with six-inch heels and one-eighth-inch diamente straps sturdy enough to comply with the UN's workplace safety regulations, but who unaccountably refused to share the result of their research with the public, found his attention straying to Gurgle.

This was unprecedented. Never, in any conversation with Hodgelett, in any stage of inebriation, emotional confusion or temporal instability, had his attention strayed from the woman of his dreams. Not far, anyway; it usually wandered only as far as her neckline (Neville favoured the sweetheart one, though the keyhole one had its attractions, too).

Gurgle's neckline, by contrast, was not such as to attract the wandering eye, consisting as it did of his diplomatic pouch. But he clutched with desperate ardour a most engaging bottle, a bottle for which kings would gamble away their kingdoms, for which queens would betray their honour, for which ... for which Barlords would stop talking to the woman of their dreams and sidle over, to mutter from the corner of their mouth, "You got some o' da ... stuff?"

The exchange was completed within seconds. A clawed forearm crossed the bar, a sinewy wrist flexed, the bottle disappeared. This was not something to to deal with in the public bar. This was something to discuss in the civilised, leather-padded, velvet-draped, money-scented surroundings of the Gentlemen's (and Womyn's) Club that occupied an obscure pocket of the Bar's many halls, corridors and broom-cupboards.

"Vegemite!" Neville whispered to Gurgle, that being the password of the day, and signalled to Violet to cover for him.

Violet was not unwilling, in general terms, but drew the line at romancing Hodgelett. Instead they settled into a happy sisterly game of, "and you just won't believe what he did next!"

Deputy Amb. Jessie McArthur, quite satisfied with her first floor speech and in the mood to celebrate, stumbles in the bar, staggering back and forth and wildly waving around her Arrogant Bastard Ale bottle. Halfway to the counter, she raises her arms triumphantly into the air, shouting something to the effect: "WHOOOOOO!!!! ITALICIZED EMPHASIS!!!!" -- and collapses over a table.

Raiko rolls her eyes and says to Gurgle "I'll better check on her. I do know some first aid but she'd be more comfortable in the rocking chair"

She leaves her lunch and looks at the passed out Jessie and says "I will need a hand to lift the honourable amabassador"

Using its prehensile tail, the dragon easily and comfortably lifts the ambassador from her chair (he had some training at this during his days as a paramedic/transport in the mountains).

"Where would you like her moved to?"

It was a small favor, but well worth the goodwill that it would foster. When it was done, Gurgle intended to take advantage of the back room...and see if he could arrange for a rather large vegimite sandwich.

"Gurgle san, the rocking chair will suffice" Raiko answered gently "its the safest place for her"

Having received an urgent page at the General Assembly, Sammy entered the bar, to find his unconscious deputy in the arms of a preying dragon.

"Aw, fuck!" he exclaimed, swiftly weaving between the tables and chairs toward the strange creature to rescue her. Heroically he freed the woman from the beast's avaricious grasp, and sat her down in nearby chair. "C'mon, Jess, snap out of it!" he commanded, lightly slapping her cheek. He looked up to spot the Gruenbergers (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=11472888&postcount=21) observing the scene from the table next to them.

"Oh, hello, Your Highness," he said weakly.

Jessie emerged from her slumber, lazily pushing away her concerned superior's arms. "Get off me, punk!" she protested with intoxicated indignance, grasping her forehead and gazing at the bottle containing the substance that had nearly killed her. "Whoa," she marveled. "This stuff's AWESOME!"

Just then, a mob of overgrown adolescent male Kennyites appeared at the entrance to the establishment, and excitedly greeted the former Playmate™ seated next to Sammy with hormonal hooting and hollaring. "Show us your boobs!" yelled one of them. Jess was only too happy to oblige, wearily rising from her chair and pushing up her rack to accentuate her proud cleavage -- before Sammy suddenly jumped in front of her.

"All right guys, that's enough!" he snapped. "Get out of here!"

The men groaned and called him a loser and moved on.

Sammy sat Jessie back down in her chair, and pondered the predicament he faced with her. He needed to keep her busy, and away from the General Assembly as much as possible, but so far nothing had worked: not the horny fans he had hired to chase her down, not the fake gigs at sporting events -- and his most recent Arrogant Bastard Ale scheme had proven extremely dangerous.

Triumphantly he regarded the fashionable young royal sitting with the Gruenbergers. Amb. Woltzten was a notorious partier, and heavy on the club scene; perhaps the two might hit it off ... and keep each other occupied? He placed a hand on his deputy's shoulder and designated the Holy Heir. "Jess, have you met Princess Jianna?" he asked.

Jessie regarded the Royal Brat suspiciously, but was willing to go through the motions of what any popular girl is supposed to do when she meets a potential rival: "Omigod!! I love your outfit!!" she squealed.

Raiko sighed and returned to her lunch.

"no good deed goes unpunished Gurgle san" she says as she sips more of her tea

A somewhat elderly gentleman in a monsatic robes walks into the bar, accompanied by a very attactive lady wearing a tux. "I think that having to bear the trauma of having to go into the general assembly and make a statement is grounds enough to celebrate and have a drink Amber," he commented to the lady. "Heck, this calls for a celebration! Waiter, two Jhonnie Walker Blue's straight up, for me and my new naval aide."

As the waiter was taking the bottle from the shelf, the lady looked around the bar. "Isn't that some of the current deligates from the Antartic Oasis?"

"It is?" The Meddling Monk replied, "Damm it all, I've been on the wrong continent all these years. Are all the nations on your continent run by such lovely women? I will definitely have to introduce them to you in this case. You wouldn't happen to know their names by any chance?"

Raiko sighed and returned to her lunch.

"no good deed goes unpunished Gurgle san" she says as she sips more of her tea

"That's OK," the dragon replied wanly, noticing arrival or The Throng Who Worshiped the Thong, "he's already starting to get his. Damned bloody nuisance getting her out of my tail without hurting him, though. He should be more careful when he's trying to punch holes in my most impenetrable scales. He could harm himself."

Actually, it was such a relief to be rid of the misinformed young man that the dragon didn't even hold any malace towards him. He merely excused himself from Raiko and made his way--being careful not to harm anyone--to the back room, which he was surprised to find he could not only fit into but comfortably walk all the way over to. Once there, he sat down, filled the air with the scent of Hickory and Cedar, and waited for Neville to arrive.

Raiko smiles and says to Borrin "you'll find that the NSUN is very accepting of species which arn't human"

Curious she asks "whats a goldilock?"

"A female 'goldilocks' looks quite a lot like a female human, although they don't reach anything like the same size - an adult one is typically only about so high" (Borrin indicated a level about three-&-a-half feet off of the ground) " - and, as their name suggests, they've got long fur of a golden or honeyish colour on their scalps. Some of the males are slightly larger than the females and similarly have longish hair -- and facial hair, too -- although its colour is more variable, but most of them are significantly shorter than that because they have relatively short legs and those ones tend to combine facial hair with bare scalps. They're all only about as intelligent as raccoons or monkeys... Some of our people keep them as pets, especially the females because those are generally more docile and cleanlier as well as more likely to wander into the areas where we live, but although they can normally be housetrained (more-or-less) and can often be taught a variety of tricks they're rarely if ever completely reliable and even if they don't actually go feral after a while they still tend to break or steal things..."

______________________________________________

OOC: Think of them as being basically a slight improvement on Jonathan Swift's "Yahoos", with some elements loosely adapted from Fairy Tales (or Disney cartoons)... I'm still waiting to get any of the daily issues about national animals... ;)

"I see" Raiko replies "you keep them as pets the same way we tame foxes.

I still have the vixen that I grew up with but when I went here I couldn't take Kokatso with me. she's with my parents now"

Jessie regarded the Royal Brat suspiciously, but was willing to go through the motions of what any popular girl is supposed to do when she meets a potential rival: "Omigod!! I love your outfit!!" she squealed.
Jianna looked Jessie up and down coolly, appraising her options like some Terminator running through its available scenarios. Launch into a "there's only room for one scatter-brained blonde pretty-girl in this bar!" speech? Flip her off and strut away? Go for the kidneys?

"Oh wow, thanks, yours is great too!!!"

You fucking slag.

And so they launched into it, the mundane tones of their conversation layered thickly over the sharp daggers of what they were really saying.

"I like what you've done with your hair."

What, did a bird make its nest on your head?

"Yours is really great too."

What, did a bird die on your head?

"I'm Jessie MacArthur - call me Jess."

Say my name, bitch!

"Nice to meet you, Jessie. I'm Princess Jianna Woltzten - Jianna though, really."

I'll call you what the hell I want.

"I've heard Gruenberg is a really interesting place."

Ooh, a princess - pity you're the Princess of Shitholetopia.

"It gets a bit meh in the summer, you know? But then, I suppose it's better than being cold all the time."

Because that tan is so not real.

"Oh, Paradise City isn't too bad. You should come visit some time - I'll show you around."

I'll show you the fucking sole of my boot.

"Oh, that'd be cool!!"

I'd rather drown in molten lava than spend a night with you.

I guess maybe some time you could show me the big cities in Gruenberg, too.

"So I can see what sort of second-rate trash heap you live in."

Jianna raised an eyebrow. "Uh, you just mixed your..."

"You saying I'm stupid? Oh it is on, sister!"

She leapt at Jianna, knocking her to the floor, and began pulling at her hair, screaming, "Now who's the little princess, huh!?"

Lennto looked anxiously at Pyandran. "Shouldn't we break them up?"

Pyandran returned a solemn gaze. "Lurs, in times like this, there's only one thing to do. Break out the giant vat of jelly."

"Oh I wondered what that was doing in McXiminez's room..."

"Incidentally, that was the 4,000th notable incident in the bar. Drinks on me."