ᴍᴀᴅ sᴡᴇᴇɴᴇʏ ( ʙᴜɪʟᴇ sʜᴜɪʙʜɴᴇ ) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
buile) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2017-09-09 01:45 pm
buile) wrote in maskormenacelogs2017-09-09 01:45 pm
Entry tags:
closed.
WHO: Mad Sweeney and Sookie Stackhouse.
WHERE: Merlotte's Bar & Grill, De Chima.
WHEN: Time is a flat circle.
WHAT: A brush with the fey.
WARNINGS: Mad Sweeney.
Somewhere in America, there's bar. All over, in fact. And Mad Sweeney never made the pact to himself that he would try and patronise them all, but it's not unlikely he's making some good headway.
When he first steps into Merlotte's, he regrets it, just a bit. What with this being an imPort establishment, and that imPort being all political now, it's probably just a class above what he prefers, with clean floors and full plates. Equally, though, it's part of why he's here, an inevitable curiousity that has him stepping the rest of the way inside, door complaining on its hinges behind him. He is striking, head and shoulders above most, wiry red hair and beard, and an invisible cloud of stale cigarette smoke that will probably need cleansing from the air with freshener and burning sage.
It's after dinner service, the hour winding right down. Some late rain has cut through the odd after-summer humidity and is striking off the windows. He wanders through without stopping at the serving counter or the bar or a table, a doggish disregard of convention while he scouts out the place.
WHERE: Merlotte's Bar & Grill, De Chima.
WHEN: Time is a flat circle.
WHAT: A brush with the fey.
WARNINGS: Mad Sweeney.
Somewhere in America, there's bar. All over, in fact. And Mad Sweeney never made the pact to himself that he would try and patronise them all, but it's not unlikely he's making some good headway.
When he first steps into Merlotte's, he regrets it, just a bit. What with this being an imPort establishment, and that imPort being all political now, it's probably just a class above what he prefers, with clean floors and full plates. Equally, though, it's part of why he's here, an inevitable curiousity that has him stepping the rest of the way inside, door complaining on its hinges behind him. He is striking, head and shoulders above most, wiry red hair and beard, and an invisible cloud of stale cigarette smoke that will probably need cleansing from the air with freshener and burning sage.
It's after dinner service, the hour winding right down. Some late rain has cut through the odd after-summer humidity and is striking off the windows. He wanders through without stopping at the serving counter or the bar or a table, a doggish disregard of convention while he scouts out the place.