Post by Max Kameren on Oct 17, 2020 23:57:38 GMT -5
November, Sometime in the Future.
There was only one small, very specific part of Magical Paris that Max knew well enough to not get lost. It was an alleyway, really; the length from one floo point to the iron door in the narrowest part of the alley’s path. His family members’ names preceded them, and in the larger city his name and face still ran the risk of being recognized. If even it was as ‘that poor bastard plastered across the UK tabloids ten years ago’, the mystery of his disappearance was enough for send one of those very reporters sniffing around. For his wife’s sake, and Merlin knew for his boys’ sake, it was safer to keep to themselves, happy and safe on their little island home.
But this day was a special occasion. The remaining echo of a favored holiday’s jovial past, and one of the rare evenings in Max’s remade life that he got to celebrate the past that brought him here. It was the fourth Thursday in November.
Max rapped on the speakeasy’s metal door with his three-fingered hand, pulling up the collar of his coat against the wind whipping through the alley. He felt an aura on the other side perk up and approached, and shortly after put a face to it when a small window on the door slid open. “Temps inhabituel que nous avons ce soir.”
“On ne peut jamais faire confiance aux nuages,” Max responded, eyes darting back down the alley when he realized he didn’t feel the aura he was searching for beyond the door, “vous devez toujours porter un parapluie.”
The code had been spoken to the guard’s satisfaction, and the door loosened in its frame with a rusted clunk. Max ducked into the entryway, greeting the guard with a curt nod before proceeding through a heavy velvet curtain into the lounge.
La Serrure Cassée was a pub with a low ceiling, lower lights, and patrons who valued their privacy. At the center of the speakeasy was an ancient mahogany bar, where the old barkeep polished some of the ornate art-nouveau carving along its wooden edge. No one sat at the bar; instead the patrons whose auras Max could sense hid at private tables behind more velvet curtains. It suited Max’s needs perfectly. He could spend an evening here, anonymous, without fear of leading someone home to Ushant. The security-conscious companion joining him tonight had agreed, upon their first visit.
“Ça va, Barnabe?” Max asked, his voice low as he approached the bar. When the old man made eye contact with the taller wizard instinctively his bony fingers reached for a bottle of scotch. “Est notre table dressée?”
Barnabe grunted his affirmations, pouring Max a drink and sliding it across the bar to his waiting hand. “Oui, mais ton ami best en retard.”
“Il sera bientôt, j’en suis sûr.” Max took a sip of his glass, crossing the bar in the direction of the only table he felt no presence occupying. “Je saurai quand il sera. Merci, Barnabe.”
Through the curtain Max settled into a chair, nursing his scotch until a small smirk tweaked at his lips. He felt a familiar aura blink into existence and meander the same route through the speakeasy, until a rustling of the curtains behind him made Max turn his head with a nostalgic smile.
“Happy thanksgiving, Alex.”
Translations:
"Unusual weather we're having tonight."
"One can never trust the clouds, you must always carry an umbrella."
"How are you, Barnabe? Is our table set?"
"Yes, but your friend is late."
"He'll be here shortly, I'm sure. I'll know when he will be. Thanks, Barnabe."
There was only one small, very specific part of Magical Paris that Max knew well enough to not get lost. It was an alleyway, really; the length from one floo point to the iron door in the narrowest part of the alley’s path. His family members’ names preceded them, and in the larger city his name and face still ran the risk of being recognized. If even it was as ‘that poor bastard plastered across the UK tabloids ten years ago’, the mystery of his disappearance was enough for send one of those very reporters sniffing around. For his wife’s sake, and Merlin knew for his boys’ sake, it was safer to keep to themselves, happy and safe on their little island home.
But this day was a special occasion. The remaining echo of a favored holiday’s jovial past, and one of the rare evenings in Max’s remade life that he got to celebrate the past that brought him here. It was the fourth Thursday in November.
Max rapped on the speakeasy’s metal door with his three-fingered hand, pulling up the collar of his coat against the wind whipping through the alley. He felt an aura on the other side perk up and approached, and shortly after put a face to it when a small window on the door slid open. “Temps inhabituel que nous avons ce soir.”
“On ne peut jamais faire confiance aux nuages,” Max responded, eyes darting back down the alley when he realized he didn’t feel the aura he was searching for beyond the door, “vous devez toujours porter un parapluie.”
The code had been spoken to the guard’s satisfaction, and the door loosened in its frame with a rusted clunk. Max ducked into the entryway, greeting the guard with a curt nod before proceeding through a heavy velvet curtain into the lounge.
La Serrure Cassée was a pub with a low ceiling, lower lights, and patrons who valued their privacy. At the center of the speakeasy was an ancient mahogany bar, where the old barkeep polished some of the ornate art-nouveau carving along its wooden edge. No one sat at the bar; instead the patrons whose auras Max could sense hid at private tables behind more velvet curtains. It suited Max’s needs perfectly. He could spend an evening here, anonymous, without fear of leading someone home to Ushant. The security-conscious companion joining him tonight had agreed, upon their first visit.
“Ça va, Barnabe?” Max asked, his voice low as he approached the bar. When the old man made eye contact with the taller wizard instinctively his bony fingers reached for a bottle of scotch. “Est notre table dressée?”
Barnabe grunted his affirmations, pouring Max a drink and sliding it across the bar to his waiting hand. “Oui, mais ton ami best en retard.”
“Il sera bientôt, j’en suis sûr.” Max took a sip of his glass, crossing the bar in the direction of the only table he felt no presence occupying. “Je saurai quand il sera. Merci, Barnabe.”
Through the curtain Max settled into a chair, nursing his scotch until a small smirk tweaked at his lips. He felt a familiar aura blink into existence and meander the same route through the speakeasy, until a rustling of the curtains behind him made Max turn his head with a nostalgic smile.
“Happy thanksgiving, Alex.”
Translations:
"Unusual weather we're having tonight."
"One can never trust the clouds, you must always carry an umbrella."
"How are you, Barnabe? Is our table set?"
"Yes, but your friend is late."
"He'll be here shortly, I'm sure. I'll know when he will be. Thanks, Barnabe."
