roksdottir-blog

[roksdottir-blog]

reedhan:

Reed stood there a moment and let slip a, “Um…” Before he darted his eyes toward the line that forming. Numbers ran through his head while looking at them, percentages — people that were human, people that didn’t ask questions, people that would become another statistic in this town of normally explained casualties. They were all here, in a bar, and what was going on outside to them must be some elaborate trick. Sometimes he forgot the majority of the population were human and that many of them didn’t suspect a thing. A part of him wished he could go back to that, to the naivety that the complexities of this world weren’t any more than what he knew before. Turning his head to look back at her, posture straightening, he asked, “What’s your name?” 

Her smile tickled his spine, made him shift from foot to foot until he had the urge to drum his fingers along the wiped down bar top. She was pleasant and charming enough to be a bartender and make decent tips, had a distinct way of talking, but it seemed oddly transparent. Of course, he thought, authority was generally unwelcomed — officers tended to drive away business and lure a different crowd that liked to gossip. He got to thinking about the call and being sent all the way out here, during a bloody snowstorm. “I don’t think my colleagues would do that…” He told her, confident with himself that they really wouldn’t, voice loud enough to be heard over the crowd that danced obnoxiously behind him. Patrons closer to the bar were knocking on the tabletop and making their voices heard, demanding a refill. Reed looked at them then the bartender, wondering why there was only one in a place like this. “I’m not really a rookie,” He explained like it were some big, important detail. It really wasn’t but to him, his work meant everything. 

Looking towards where the outline of the backdoor was, Reed was very tempted to go visit the owner or wait for until she came up. Shifting from foot to foot again, Reed took a seat on one of the stools diagonal of the bartender then became still — not sure where to place his arms. He wasn’t exactly relaxed but he wanted to at least look it. “I don’t need anything,” Reed then answered and smiled kindly, “I can’t drink when I’m working.” There was an eerie stillness that overcame him as soon as he sat down, a prick in his side and Reed leaned away from it as subtly as possible, with one arm down by his side and the other propped up on the bar. 

Glasses clinked then shattered, small shrieks with the combination of a lot of footsteps shuffling around atypical of what sounded like dancing. One part of the bar’s lights flickered on, dimly. Reed’s head jerked that direction, curious, and blinked before he could make out anything well enough. Darkness swallowed them all again very quickly and blood-curdling scream erupted into the blackness immediately after. 

When the police officer let out an um, Ro briefly turned her back to stifle a roll of her eyes. He didn’t even know why he was here—he was called on a wild goose chase. Turning back, she finished wiping the glass in time for her to ask her name. “Ro,” she said, not minding giving that up; she’d taken the moniker on for that reason. Something else of hers she didn’t mind giving up, these days. The officer looked like a deer in headlights and she almost felt bad for him. Then again, it was easy for Ro to intimidate people—even when she didn’t mean it. At the Empty Glass, intimidation wasn’t her primary game... after all, there were paying customers, and while a great many of them enjoyed Ro’s hardass sass and cutting jokes, she was more the jester than the punisher here. Making people only mildly uncomfortable was the idea—enough so they laugh and buy another pint, not never come back.

She nodded her head, ponytail moving with the gesture as he explained his coworkers wouldn’t do that. “No, I imagine not,” she sighed almost sadly. “Seems the lot of you could use a laugh, from what I can tell. Maybe the next company outing should be here,” she added with a wink. Patrons knocked on the bar and haggled for her attention, to which Ro shouted and held up a single finger of authority, “Pipe down! You want handcuffs that aren’t fuzzy? Give us a second and I’ll get you your shots as soon as I can.” With a smile of near-humility, Ro returned her attentions to the officer. “Never said you were a rookie. Though, naturally, a draught while your working would be frowned on. Even in most bars.” Though, not here. Ro had a pint or two, or a shot or two, but never abused the policy. Sloppy wasn’t cute.

At least he settled in after that, found a stool, however uneasy, and Ro was able to assuage some of the raucousness of folks demanding their liquor. After the barside cleared out a bit with some less-flair, more-efficient bartending, Ro felt like she could breathe. It wasn’t that the Empty Glass was understaffed today—more like they hadn’t expected a blizzard and an extended stay of the normal crowd, which had only grown over time, in addition to their restlessness. It was in the middle of a pour, and this thought, that she heard the scream. Eyes snatched up immediately, beer forgotten, as she unsheathed a blade she kept on her thigh, palming it, aware and ready—and hungry for whatever conflict might come.

Blackout / Ro & Reed

[roksdottir-blog]

reedhan:

Standing by the door, he pulled out his flashlight and switched it on. Doing so alerted people to look at him and Reed wanted to hide for some reason — he felt awkward. When people averted their gaze, he let out a puff of breath and relaxed his shoulders enough to regain his composure. He needed to look stoic, he needed to look like the kind of adult that always knew what was going on and how to handle it. He needed to look like a professional adult that knew how to adult in a roomful of adults.

The crowd, still, was not put off by the loss of power but…enabled by it? Someone had shouted about this being a half-assed rave experience to which Reed had turned his head and looked confusedly at whoever said that. Why are you here?, he asked himself before refocusing his attention on the bar that was just ahead. Once there, he pulled out his police badge — careful not to mistake it for his one used for forensic purposes — and held it out for the blonde bartender to have a look at, “I’m Officer Han, I was called out to this location.” A pause. He didn’t recognize her.

Then again, he hadn’t exactly been a fan of bars until very recently and couldn’t remember ever visiting this particular place when he did venture out. The most he knew about the Empty Glass was its reputation at the station among his peers. “Would you know why?” He asked her politely then turned halfway around and glided his flashlight across the sea of bodies jam packed in here like sardines. If there was any level of distress, it wasn’t very visible — or it was disguised by the people who danced, consumed drinks and ate what was left of appetizers. He wondered if it had been a prank. Then when he turned his head to look back at her, “Are you the manager— Or owner of this establishment?”

Ro was in the middle of trying to pour 3 draft beers and mix a whiskey sour at the same time when some asshole came up to the bar with a sour expression. He introduced himself as Officer Han—great—and she put up a single finger to wait because clearly she couldn’t drop everything without flooding the back of the bar. After she turned off the taps and slid the beers to where they belonged and gave the whiskey to left end of the bar, she wiped her hands on a towel and then focused her gaze on him with a fixed and practiced precision. Her icy blue eyes flickered over him: young, but that wasn’t unheard of. A posture indicating he was in charge but insecure about it. She straightened her back and leaned in to his police badge to confirm he was who he said he was.

“Okay, Officer Han.” She leaned more comfortably on the bartop and then skimmed a view of the inhabitants. What she didn’t see was a dead body, nor people over capacity, nor enough noise with power cut to warrant a noise complaint—especially one that would drag him out in a blizzard of this proportion. Ro quirked a brow high on her head and said, “Have no idea why. You sure this isn’t a buddy of yours telling you to have a good time rather than work your ass off in a blizzard you shouldn’t be out in?” she asked back, her mouth hitched up at the corner in faint amusement. “No illegal cock fighting in the basement, I can assure you,” she added with a snort. 

“Nah, I’m—” she paused; was she a manager anymore, or just a bartender? “The owner’s in the back tending to lights to get this place stable enough to house these folks long enough till they can get back on the roads again.” She almost gave Miranda’s name, but thought better of it. Ro still didn’t know why he was here. Picking up a towel, she started drying some of the glasses she knew they’d need soon enough. A line was starting to form at the bar. “What exactly is this in reference to? I’m going to need to continue my job here before we wind up with a drunken and unruly riot on our hands,” she said, kicking her chin toward the line, “Though if that happens, I’m sure it’ll be good of you to help settle that down,” she added with a faux cordial smile.

“Did you want a beer? On the house.”

Blackout / Ro & Reed

[roksdottir-blog]

liesanders:

Leaning forward when she did, Lysander’s patient but impassive facial expression shifted into that of cool amusement. His smirk was small but noticeable to the trained eye while he listened to her, ignoring the want to tilt his head at her and study her for his own entertainment. “Brísingamen, you said?” He asked redundantly, tone faintly sarcastic but inquisitive all the same — wanting to come across as a naive jeweler and businessman. He wondered when he should mention that he read a lot, knew of the universe’s greatest mysteries and that he indeed knew of this necklace she was speaking of. Then he thought about being gullible, playing into her whims — coming across as prey was a favoured method, sometimes convenient like playing the part of a drop dead werewolf that only served to befuddle the hunter who captured him weeks ago. Other times it was far from not.

Then he pushed back slowly, idly played with the sterling necklace before tucking that away into the display and stood. “I am the only shop around that holds such a beauty,” He assured her with a quirked eyebrow when he ambled down the length of the counter then to a separate section. His self-righteous smirk from before transformed into a rather confident grin, verging on the edge of arrogant but Lysander was very proud of himself. 

The shop was divided into odd groups, categorized by rarity and (unknown) ability. All of which were one of kinds, no piece looked like another in his possession. Any witch and warlock could wander into here and sense which pieces were graced with fleeting spells and charms, but the casual passerby wouldn’t have such fortunate luck. Steal the heart of a dearly loved one? Well, he had medallions blessed with affections. Brilliant cognitive ability? A shield of invisibility or invincibility? Sure, it was all there and much more, albeit weakly and lending on temporary. All his magic had expiration dates. Some spells were stronger than others, enough to last a couple of weeks or a month if the user was lucky, but others barely more than the minimum of his most effective spells. 

The prices, however, now those were all fun to Lysander. Nothing had a set price, it was all adjustable — on his terms, of course. Behave pleasantly, he might just be courteous and fulfill his end of the deal by giving his customer the advertised discount. Rub Lysander the wrong way and it would be the opposite — people would pay for double the originally offered price, the advertised sale having a reverse effect where they paid fifty percent more on top of the set price rather than the other way around. Really, though, it was like clicking the I’m feeling lucky option on Google and hoping he wouldn’t pull the wool over anyone’s eyes. Either way, it was all very expensive. And he still always pulled the wool over people’s eyes.

This woman before him now? That depended. So far, he was neutral, convinced he had the upper-hand. He had magic, glamour to convince her he did truly own such a one-of-a-kind. It was all a matter of if she had the money for something as rare as what she was asking for. “Here she is, the torc of goddess Freyja,” He told her grandly with a warm voice, sweeping his arm across the display case and as he did so, casted a mirage on a blank and rather ordinary necklace to turn it into a thing of marvelous beauty. The gesture here was to make it look as convincing and as spectacularly revealing as possible. Grinning wider with his blue eyes trained on her as if to entrance her, he asked, “Now who did you hear this rumour from?”

If he wanted to come across as naiive, he was doing a poor job of it—from the impassive facial expression to the smirk to the faint sarcastic tone—no, it was clear he was having a game at her, but that was alright, because Ro was having a go right back. This veiled amusement was worth venturing out into the snow for, or it could be. He taunted her with her own words, the emphasis on the wrong syllables. “BREE-sing-ah-men,” she corrected, understanding it might be difficult for more modern folks who had been used to hearing it with the emphasis on the second syllable and who had mistaken it for everything under the sun including a girdle—as if Freyja had been Hippolyta! Or some fiercer Aphrodite. People loved to misunderstand and that was amusing in and of itself. He caught himself in his own lie with only shop around—a phrase inferring other shops farther could have one also, but there was only one, not a multiplicity. She kept all of these quiet ascertainments to herself, her face all the while constructed with the keen interest of a viable buyer.

She followed the proud man peacocking his way down the length of the counter to another section of his shop. He gestured grandly to a display case. She herself used a lot of glamour, but using it does not beget recognizing it. The trouble with glamour, though, is it required the projection to be accurate. So while Ro may have perceived this necklace to be not the ordinary thing beneath, what he had projected was spectacular—a thing of diamonds, of precious stones befitting a goddess in a setting much the same. The trouble was the same trouble of those in search of a Grail; things of age were different. Ro knew the look of viking-era jewelry first hand, having owned her fair share of torcs and traditional ‘bead necklaces,’ which weren’t, in fact, necklaces at all, but strings suspended between two brooches on an apron-like dress. Neither shape was what was shown to her, but she didn’t let on. She didn’t let on that diamonds were a modern fad, that to her era the precious things were glass and amber, things taken for granted now. That Freyja herself wept tears of amber, and such associated, so would her torc hold. 

Instead, Ro seemed entranced with it, her eyes softening at the edges as he’d want them to, as his eyes pierced her cleanly, looking for the soft spot at her neck to tear her open, no doubt. She put her hand on the counter, a subtle message of reaching without actually reaching, a clear sign of interest. She gracefully looked down as he grinned at her, as if she had found quite a boon. “I can’t divulge my sources,” Ro replied, seeming uncomfortable, laughing a little nervously. She leaned her elbows on the countertop and looked at the necklace, her mouth opening just a little, that same sign of deep interest, as she asked, “How much for this?” and flicked her hair long blonde hair back, vaguely flirtatiously. She wondered what kind of a racket he had going on here; what this man, clearly not-so-well-meaning, might have in mind for his intentions. Even if they were bad—well, he was keeping company with a monster, so she wasn’t going to judge him outright. Maybe he had information. Maybe something she could work with—but how useful they could be to one another remained to be seen. So as to not appear too eager, her icy blue eyes flickered to another necklace on the wall, and she bit her lip, considering it. “That one is nice, too... can you tell me about each of them?”

Stranger See, Stranger Do | Lysander & Astrid

[roksdottir-blog]

I will be wild. I will be brutal. I will encircle you and conquer you. I will be more powerful than your boats and your swords and your blood lust. I will be inevitable.

Iphigenia, from A Memory of Wind by Rachel Swirsky.

[roksdottir-blog]

Would you rather be the only sane person in the world, or have omniscience for five minutes and be forever stranded with knowing that you knew the answers to everything but have forgotten them?

Neither seem particularly terrible. Once and outsider, always an outsider, and if you��re the sane among those not, then you seem the one out of range. It is just another form of madness. And I think we all know the answers but can’t remember them—it feels no different to me than any other day.

[roksdottir-blog]

The gods have already written my story:  V i c t o r y   o r   V a l h a l l a .

[roksdottir-blog]

how to be a monster: 1. learn the taste of dirt and pain. 2. teach it to others till your knuckles bleed. 3. see if that makes it easier to breathe.

rinse and repeat, Amrita C. (via unwrittenarias)

[roksdottir-blog]

French food was something that had grown on Ro over the many years. It had, originally, been difficult for her to branch out from Norwegian fare and that still remained her favourite... but, in acquiescence, the French did do magic with butter and some of their fish dishes left little to be desired. Ro still loved fish best of all, with redder meats still seeming some sort of delicacy. She only purchased—if she purchased—humanely raised and slaughtered meat. To eat another life was not to be taken lightly, in her opinion. The blonde preferred to do it herself, as she had always done. Which meant predominantly eating fish and vegetarian meals when she went out. People these days with their hamburgers and their refried steaks, not even sure where the animal came from. It felt shameful. So even though she stepped into the usual absurdity of YM&O, she couldn’t suspend disbelief long enough to order beef. Some things she adapted to easily over the years... this sort of meat-eating just wasn’t one of them. Ro ASL’d her request for a standard: bourride with lemon aioli. Halibut made even better with lemon, fennel, carrot, and orange peel.

Ro looked down at her table as she waited for her food; she was a patient person who didn’t mind dining alone, though she wished that couple a few tables over would send their children to the ball pit for preoccupation. As much as Ro loved YM&O, her dislike of being interrupted by prepubescent minions made it difficult to frequent it too often. The corners of her mouth bent down in an arc as she waited, comfortable in the silence and the absurdity. After all, Ro belonged to Gods that people now called mythology. ‘Absurd’ wasn’t exactly too far-fetched after a millennium of life. That was about the time that her solitude and silence were broken abruptly. She sensed someone coming near her and snapped her head up before the stranger had finished approaching; a hand went to the dagger she kept on her thigh, covered by a scarf tied at her waist, because restaurants never had metal detectors. Her hand rested there, but her piercing blue eyes waited; she didn’t like to make assumptions. At first, the stranger prattled on about things that didn’t make sense to her—about YM&O’s “original location,” and about being here before. Of course she’d been here before. What kind of a comment was that.

But when he dropped his voice, she turned her head to the side, assessing him before she spoke. Narrowing her eyes, she looked through him, trying to see if she could get a read off of him, something in his facial muscles, his clothes, his nervous tics to tell if he was conning her. Ashford River was her home; she had come to learn that this place was called Ashkent Creek and that a disturbance in the wyrd had brought her here, but she didn’t understand it. It was enough for her to be intrigued, at the least. “Perhaps you’d better have a seat,” Ro said, but the tone wasn’t a question, more like the voice of someone who was used to being listened to. She didn’t know if he was mid-meal or waiting, as she was, but it didn’t much matter if he was desperate enough as he seemed. He’d join her. She kept her hand on her dagger until she had more information, but at least Ro was open to hearing about it. “Did wyrd move everyone?” she asked, not expecting him to have that answer, but not knowing what answers he did have. Or, because of how his tone had dropped, who knew what, and what was safe—or not—to say.

Regulars || Astrid & Lark

Entering Yours, Mime, & Ours, one of his favorite restaurants, Lark looked around, noticing it barely occupied. The people of Ashkent Creek didn’t seem to like mimes as much as the people of Ashford River did, which didn’t make sense to Lark. Even if they didn’t like mimes, the restaurant had the best French food, not that he had really tried anywhere else, but that was always what he heard whenever his Auntie took him to the place while it was back in its own universe. Then even if they didn’t like French food, this was the place where Lark learned ASL as a child. He grew up signing it to the waitstaff, making him selfishly wish that the ones that he knew hadn’t retired or moved onto better jobs, since maybe he would have known some people here that were from Ashford River, as well.

Lark gave a polite smile, signing thank you to the waiter when they came to see him. They sat him in small section. He looked around, seeing a few people who just gazed at the menu with confusion. However, there was one woman who stood out among the others. She seemed comfortable at her table, only a few seats away from him. Maybe it was her demeanor, but she seemed to know this place, as if she had been here before. He knew that it was a long shot. Maybe she had simply come to enjoy the food there, but he couldn’t stop the hope from building up in his chest from thinking that it wasn’t just his imagination. The hope that there was someone else from Ashford was enough to make him rise from his seat and cross the room.

Approaching her, Lark bit at his lip. “Hello, excuse me,” he said, knowing that he shouldn’t go up to strangers. His parents and well, everyone he generally met warned him about stranger danger, but he just needed to know someone else from Ashford River, anyone else that he could speak to about his home. “Uh, this might sound odd, but, well, you seem very comfortable here. I-I was wondering if maybe you visited this restaurant when it was in its original location. If not, that’s fine. You just seem like you’ve been here before. I’ve been here before, too. I was visited it in its original location, too, which is why I was wondering, since you don’t really meet a lot of people from…” He lowered his voice a bit in case she didn’t want people to know. “Well, from Ashford River.” He bit at his lip harder, shifting a bit awkwardly. Maybe if he didn’t feel so lonely, he wouldn’t have bothered, but right now, he just prayed that maybe she was, also, from his universe. His siblings were amazing, but it wasn’t the same for some reason, even though they were just as lost as he was. Maybe it was because he tried to be brave around them, but he just wanted someone to share in his plight of being not from around here.

@roksdottir

[roksdottir-blog]

People who have monsters recognize each other. They know each other without even saying a word.

Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Last Night I Sang To The Monster

[roksdottir-blog]

reedhan:

[user goes idle to google this] Indeed there is! “The 5 Love Languages,” by Gary Chapman though I don’t think it’s as literal as a language. There is also a website dedicated to these five. [user provides link]

My primary “love language” is Quality Time and Words of Affirmation. They scored about the same. 

Love language sounds so awk

I hope that is useful information to pass on to your beloved. Thank me later.

[roksdottir-blog]

Fuck if I know, honestly. There’s probably a book for that. 

[roksdottir-blog]

It’s not meant to be. It’s just an observation. If anything, I find it frustrating. People don’t like to get over themselves. Would rather retain the social contract of whatever people like them are doing. People are cowards. Fear versus love, fear wins. Every time. Survival is stronger than bonding.

[roksdottir-blog]

Why do religions that support love cause so many wars?

Because people have trouble comprehending outside of themselves. They think that the way they love is the only way to love, so they don’t identify other love languages being spoken. I think that’s the root of it, anyway.

[roksdottir-blog]

It’s true. We’re all dead in the end. One of the stranger things I’ve noticed over time is that we no longer honour the dead. We shove them in the ground (disgusting, embalmed like that, boxed in) and forget about them. Which is so odd? Because isn’t the goal glory and fame, leaving something to remember you by when you go? But so few are remembered and it leaves folks chasing the unattainable. There’s no small glory any more, not in hearth or home.

problematicexorcist:

It’s better than that, yeah, but folks still do that sometimes too. People don’t have much respect for the dead these days. Or the graveyard employees that have to clean up after them.

Wild guess, but you’re one of those graveyard employees, are you not? People should have more respect for the dead. After all, most everyone ends up dead sooner or later.

[roksdottir-blog]

Which is worse, failing or never trying?

Never trying, of course. Failing is inevitable—just not acceptable.

[roksdottir-blog]

liesanders:

Then he sauntered towards the door with a bell chime hung over top, stood there for a while observing the disaster unfold with his hands folded behind his back. He whistled as if to say everyone outside was simply shit out of luck before turning away and going to sit back on his cushion.

At least he was warm and somewhat preoccupied, fiddling with jewelry he already made when the bell sounded and he jerked his head up. Eyes trained on what his hands were doing, covering up that he just been using magic in his alone time, Lysander smoothly greeted, “Welcome to Stone’s Philosophy! We currently have a sale for buy one, get one half off on anything you see in the store.” Then he lifted his head with the sterling silver necklace in its original form before he began toying with it. “How can I assist you today?”

He was flattered anyone would make this journey to his shop in the midst of a snowstorm while fending off ravenous snow beings. His expectations for what this meeting held were astronomically high.

It might have been a blizzard, but Ro had been born to blizzards, so this wasn’t shit on her history. It amused her endlessly to see how people fretted in the snow, how acclimated people had become to their niceties. To be fair, Ro had her share of niceties now, but she also had smoked salmon and filet cuts in the freezer and beef jerky and pickled vegetables and stocked soups by matter of habit. You could take the girl out of the fjord, but you can’t take the fjord out of the girl. It was hard to get good fermented shark nowadays, though, short of travelling back to Iceland for a tour. That being said, there were a few things a girl had needs for, snow be damned: her babies needed fresh fertilizer and a gentle sun lamp. The cold snap was doing nothing for their health.

She parked her car and went through the snow to the place she always went, but when she opened the door, Ro wasn’t greeted with the smell of botanicals and a slightly elevated temperature underpinned with notes of fertile dirt and lily; instead, she was greeted by jewelry. Furrowing her brow, Ro realized this must be one of the things lost to the wyrd. Which was a damn shame, considering she’d need to find another store that boasted as much quality as the one she’d known. But Ro was out, and she was here, and there was much to explore—so she did. Not one to put a man out for hospitality, she released a sigh and then brightened her expression. At least she didn’t have to evade and kill snowmen in here, so that was a bonus point.

“Oh, I’m just browsing,” Ro said, but her tone was playful. She realized that, to most people, coming out in a storm like this to a jewelry store must seem somewhat vital, like she needed something—because she had needed something, just not jewelry. Tapping her lip thoughtfully, she turned to face the man and put her elbows on the counter in front of him so her icy blue eyes could meet his. “I’m looking for something—rare.” Now she had half a mind to fuck with him; she could think of one thing she’d want from a jewelry store, but didn’t believe the item even existed, such lore it came from. “I heard a rumour you had Brísingamen here... but that would just be a rumour, wouldn’t it?” she asked, her tone serious and curious both. That just might be something worth having gone out in a snow storm of ravenous beasts for, surely.

Stranger See, Stranger Do | Lysander & Astrid

[roksdottir-blog]

Blackout / Ro & Reed

Location: The Empty Glass Date: February 1st, 2017 Availability: @reedhan

It was about 9pm and the bar was as hopping as it always was, even for a Wednesday—ain’t nobody wanting to miss Miranda’s Coyote Ugly moments in them little shorts, nor the mouth she had on her yelling into the megaphone. There was still tension between Ro and her boss, ever since she showed up to her shift last Saturday and got told she didn’t work there. That was a fun conversation. After Ro had recited almost everything there was to know about this hell hole of a bar as well as the recipes to a few proprietary cocktails—and hiked up her shirt to expose her stomach—Miranda had waved dismissively and said, Well, guess we’ll need the help on a Saturday anyway, and walked away looking over the shoulder at Ro as if she’d grown two new heads. It was weird, the same kind of weird that meant Ro didn’t recognize half the regulars any more. It was weird as in wyrd—something was definitely messing with the universal web of existence. She just hadn’t sorted out what yet.

She had barely wiped down the bar and gotten to making some cocktail called the Witch’s Heart—that always made her laugh, made her think of Gullveig—made with apple vodka, grenadine, and topped with Viniq. Whatever floats boats, Ro thought with a shrug and gave the martini to the girl with the outstretched hand like an impatient maw. At least she tipped. That’s about when the power flickered; the storm outside must be getting bad. With a sigh, Ro exchanged a look with Miranda: they both knew they had to stay open. If the power went, it was probably too difficult to drive. Miranda went to go get flashlights, lanterns, and to place candles in strategic locations that wouldn’t burn the place down; Ro had to deal with the clientele. “Alright, listen up!” Ro said, using the megaphone into the darkness. “We haven’t closed during hurricanes and we aren’t gonna close for a blackout, so park your asses and get settled, we don’t know how long we’ll be here.” 

She gestured to a stack of folded papers she just threw onto one end of the bar. “These are the delivery menus. If you get hungry, pray someone delivers. Meanwhile, we still aren’t serving water, so don’t ask. You want it bad, go outside and shove your tongue in a blizzard. Now—who wants 2-for-1 shots?” she finished, clicking off the megaphone and waiting to deal with the onslaught of people. Ro tucked her blonde hair behind her ears, anything that fell out of her braids, and focused on the crowd. This was gonna get messy. Bring it, she thought to herself, and fixed and half-cocked smile to her face.